Dead and Gone

by Bill Kitson

Dean wasn’t sure he agreed with Naomi’s glowing tribute, not at all certain he recognized himself in her description, but he wasn’t about to argue. After they paid the bill, which Naomi insisted they should share, Dean asked, ‘What time is the last bus?’

  Naomi didn’t even glance at the clock. ‘It’ll have gone by now.’

  ‘Do you want me to walk you to the taxi rank? I could ride out to your place with you if you like, to make sure you get home safely.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ Naomi’s reply was a little evasive.

  They left the restaurant and walked hand-in-hand down the market place. Halfway down, they reached the taxi rank, where three drivers were standing talking, leaning on one of the cars. Dean stopped walking, but Naomi continued past the rank. He caught her up in a few strides. ‘I thought you wanted a taxi home?’

  ‘No, Dean. It was you that mentioned taxis.’

  ‘But where will you stay?’

  ‘I thought I’d stay at yours. If that’s OK?’

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of inviting them.’

  ‘Of course it’s OK, but won’t they worry?’

  ‘I don’t think so. They’re not expecting me home tonight anyway. So, is it OK?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘I have one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The bed in your spare room is very uncomfortable. I’d prefer to try yours.’

  ‘All right, I’ll sleep in the spare room.’

  Naomi shook her head slightly and sighed gently. ‘Dean, if you’re going to talk nonsense, I’ll go back and get a taxi.’

  At last the message sank in. Dean stopped dead. ‘Naomi,’ his voice was gentle, a caressing whisper in the dark, ‘are you certain about this? It isn’t the wine talking?’

  She patted her shoulder bag. ‘I hadn’t drunk any wine when I left York, which was when I put my toothbrush, a spare T-shirt and underwear in here. I don’t normally wander around carrying those. I take it you do have some toothpaste?’

  Naomi woke late next morning. The sun was streaming through the bedroom window. Alongside her, she could hear Dean’s breathing, slow and deep, regular and comforting. She stretched lazily before turning her head to look at her lover. Last night had been wonderful, all she could have hoped for. Regrets there might be, but they would come later; if at all.

  She glanced at his bedroom clock and wondered whether to get up or wait for him to wake. She was tempted to force the issue and was actually on the point of reaching out to caress his chest, wanting the feel of his body, when she heard the doorbell sound. Dean slept on, so Naomi shook him gently. ‘Dean, someone’s at the door.’

  His only response was to roll over onto his back and begin to snore. She shook him again, slightly more vigorously. The snoring increased in volume. The doorbell sounded a second time. Naomi muttered something impolite. She flung the covers back. ‘Lazy bugger,’ she said as she reached for his dressing gown hanging on the back of the bedroom door.

  The vinyl flooring of the hall was cold on her bare feet as she struggled with the unfamiliar lock. She opened the door to find a man and woman standing in front of it. The woman was a complete stranger, but after a second, she recognized the man. ‘Inspector Nash!’ Her blush was scarlet enough to put her flame-coloured hair to shame.

  ‘Hello, Naomi,’ Nash said easily. ‘Is Dean about? This is Detective Sergeant Mironova, by the way.’

  ‘He’s still asleep.’ Naomi’s cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

  ‘May we come in? Don’t rush to disturb him, though.’ As Clara closed the door, he told Naomi, ‘I’m glad you’re here. I take it you and Dean are what I believe is termed “an item” these days?’

  ‘I … er … yes,’ Naomi stammered. This was awful. Far worse than she could have dreamed; even in her worst nightmare.

  ‘I hoped that might be the case. I’m afraid we’ve come on an errand that’s not very pleasant. I think he might need as much love and support as he can get over the next few days and weeks.’

  As Nash finished speaking, Dean emerged from the bedroom, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a broad smile. ‘Naomi, have you nicked my dressing gown?’ As he finished the sentence, he saw the visitors eyeing him curiously. ‘Oh, Lord!’ He did a swift about-turn and vanished into the bedroom, to emerge minutes later wearing a pair of jeans and tugging a T-shirt over his head.

  Clara noticed the soldier’s expression; recognized it immediately from her own experience. Her fiancé David was a serving officer, and whenever he saw or heard of a fellow soldier being killed in Afghanistan, the combination of pain and anger was unmistakeable. Wilson’s expression was just the same, and she knew that Nash didn’t need to explain. Dean already knew what they were there to tell him. Which wouldn’t make it any the easier for him to accept.

  Nash watched Wilson sit down on the settee alongside Naomi; saw the protective way she took his hand, gripping it tightly.

  ‘I think you’ve guessed why we’re here,’ Nash said. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that our pathologist has confirmed that the sample you gave us shows a close familial link to the DNA recovered from the remains found in the workshop, via both parental strands. There is no doubt that the body is that of your sister Linda. I’m most terribly sorry. We will do everything in our power to track down her killer and prosecute him – or her. I cannot promise results after all this time, but we will do our level best.’

  ‘I think about the only consolation is that Naomi was there to comfort him,’ Nash told Clara as they left the flat.

  ‘Yes, but even so, I think we should keep our eye on him, and if we do get close to identifying whoever murdered Linda Wilson, we’d better make sure we arrest them before Dean gets within striking distance. Going by the look on his face when you confirmed the findings, if the killer had been in that room, we’d have Dean under arrest for murder by now.’

  ‘I suppose that’s understandable, but I think Naomi will be an enormous help keeping him on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Yes,’ Clara agreed, ‘by the sound of it she’s completely different to her mother, who was …’ her voice trailed off.

  ‘What is it? What have you thought of?’

  ‘That message scrawled on Ormondroyd’s blotter. The name was Sam, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Except that it isn’t a name. It’s a set of initials. SAM: Susan Arabella Macaulay. That was who Ormondroyd was thinking about. His long-lost flame, the mother of his child.’

  ‘Brilliant, Clara, but I don’t think it gets us any further forward with the investigation, except to prevent us looking for someone who doesn’t exist.’

  chapter sixteen

  Next morning, Nash and Mironova went straight to the offices of Wilson Macaulay Industries. This time, they weren’t made to wait. As the receptionist saw them enter the building, she picked up the phone, and within a couple of minutes an anxious-looking secretary ushered them into the boardroom.

  There were three people seated at the oblong table. All three had folders open in front of them. Peter Macaulay invited them to sit down and his father introduced the other occupant of the room. ‘This is Diane Carlson, our finance director.’

  Clara guessed the woman was in her early thirties. She was wearing a pinstriped suit, her blonde hair drawn back tightly, and had glasses perched on the end of her nose. She acknowledged their presence with a polite nod, but seemed more preoccupied with the papers she was studying.

  Nash wasted no time. ‘We have identified the remains found at your holiday cottage. The dead woman is Linda Wilson, your co-director. From the decomposed state of the body, our pathologist estimates she has been there since around the time of her disappearance. Cause of death was by garrotte, and the force was so excessive that she was almost decapitated.’ Nash paused before adding, ‘The way she was killed is identical to the murder of Nei
l Ormondroyd. Putting all the facts at our disposal has raised some very interesting questions.’

  Clara knew that her brief was to watch the men for their reaction to the news, but to begin with she was equally intrigued by Diane Carlson’s demeanour. The finance director seemed so little concerned at the fate of her predecessor, or the link to the death of the company’s erstwhile solicitor, that Mironova was at a loss as to whether Nash’s announcement wasn’t news to her; or whether she simply didn’t care.

  ‘What questions?’ Christopher Macaulay demanded. ‘Surely it must be patently obvious, Inspector. Linda Wilson and her fellow conspirator fell out over the money they stole. He killed her and disposed of her body so he could keep all of the ill-gotten gains. Greed: one of the deadly sins.’

  ‘Yes, that remains a possibility,’ Nash conceded. ‘However, if that is so patently obvious to you, perhaps you can explain how the man Tankard managed to get access to that workshop? And also, as you’re such a good detective, could you explain why he apparently murdered Ormondroyd? It seems contradictory that having vanished with the money he should then return and draw attention to himself.’

  ‘That might not have been him. It could be pure coincidence,’ Peter Macaulay ventured.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Macaulay, but the wounds are such that it is virtually certain they were inflicted by the same killer. So, returning to my original statement, there are several distinct possibilities. One, I agree, is that Linda Wilson was complicit in the fraud and was murdered from greed. However, the far more likely theory is that she was merely a convenient scapegoat. Her disappearance gave the real thief chance to get away, cover his or her tracks, and hope that Linda’s body would never be found. If that is the case, and the real fraudster is still at large, my guess is that Ormondroyd somehow stumbled on the truth and had to be silenced. If I’m right, the principal suspects are in this room.’

  ‘That is a ridiculous statement.’ Christopher Macaulay reacted angrily. ‘Why would any of us steal from our own company? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘A lot of things don’t make sense at present. However, stealing from one’s own company is by no means uncommon, and there are plenty of reasons for that. It could be an addiction to drugs, or being blackmailed over an illicit relationship. Are any of you guilty of that?’

  Peter Macaulay’s suntanned face turned grey. Well, well, well, Clara thought, so that’s why he visits Helmsdale. But does that in itself make him a thief and a murderer? Try as she might, she couldn’t see Peter Macaulay in that role.

  ‘This is leading nowhere.’ Christopher Macaulay had regained his composure. ‘Is there any other reason for your visit, Nash, apart from insulting us?’

  ‘Yes, there is. I want to know where each of you were when Neil Ormondroyd was murdered.’

  All three claimed to be at home during the period in question. Nash looked at them in turn. ‘And I take it you have someone who can vouch for that?’

  If Peter Macaulay had looked sick before, he looked positively ill now, Clara thought.

  ‘This is only the beginning of the inquiry,’ Nash warned them. ‘Over the next few days and weeks we will be examining the business affairs of Bishopton Investments again, and also those of all the companies within the Wilson Macaulay Industries group, plus the personal lives of anyone with any possible connection to the missing money.’

  On arriving back at Helmsdale, Clara asked, ‘What did you make of all that? I thought Peter Macaulay was going to throw up when you mentioned blackmail and illicit affairs. I think that confirms my theory as to why he was parked in that cul-de-sac.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t make him a killer. There could be far more unpleasant things come to light when we start looking under the rocks. First, we need to find out what exactly went wrong at Bishopton Investments.’

  ‘How do you suggest we go about that? Everyone concerned seems to be either dead or gone.’

  ‘We could do worse than talk to the man who compiled the report on the fraud. The man from that software security firm, whatever they’re called.’

  Clara searched the file until she found the relevant section. ‘The company is called Software Solutions (Helmsdale) Ltd and the man who signed off the report is their CEO, Jonathan Farrell.’

  ‘Get him on the phone and tell him what we want. Ask when it will be convenient for me to visit him. I think I’d better take Viv along. If he starts spouting technical jargon I’ll need an interpreter. At least with Viv in the room, we’ve someone who knows the difference between a gigabyte and a download when they trip over one.’

  If Nash and Pearce had any preconceived notions about Farrell, the computer specialist’s appearance destroyed them. Nash guessed his age as being somewhere in his mid to late thirties. His sober suit and tie, neatly trimmed hair and clean-shaven face gave him more the appearance of a banker or accountant than a geek. ‘I understand this is to do with Bishopton Investments?’ Farrell asked, after Nash and Pearce identified themselves.

  ‘Yes, I read the outline of a report compiled by you after they went into receivership. Can I ask who commissioned that report?’

  ‘Officially, the police requested it, but it was Peter Macaulay who persuaded me to take it on. I’d only recently started this business and I was hoping to sell one of our security packages to Wilson Macaulay Industries. I’d just done a demonstration, only a couple of weeks earlier, which I suppose is why my name was top of Peter Macaulay’s list. They needed someone independent, and luckily for me, they chose my company.’

  ‘Why didn’t the police use their own experts?’ Pearce asked.

  ‘I believe it was a combination of reasons, but mainly availability and cost. Macaulay knew he could get me to do the report without charging, in return for them promising to install my software on a trial basis. I believe the lead officer in the case jumped at the idea.’

  ‘Seems as if nothing changes,’ Nash observed wryly. ‘I can see the benefit of getting an independent opinion, but the work involved must have been both costly and time-consuming, especially for such a young company.’

  ‘Actually, it was neither as long a job or as expensive as I feared. The reason for that, sadly, is that Bishopton Investments’ software was woefully inadequate. They had little more protection than you would find pre-installed on any PC or laptop you can buy on the high street.’ Farrell paused, before continuing. ‘As it turned out, agreeing to give my services for free was one of the smartest moves of my career. Peter Macaulay was very grateful and they installed the full package throughout their group. He talked to other company directors too, and word soon got about. Within a year of doing that favour, I’d been forced to employ extra staff because of all the new clients who were asking for our services. Some of them really big outfits, too. I’m talking about companies like Good Buys Supermarkets and Shires Financial Services, Dales Sports, Helm Construction and a lot more besides. I’m not sure any of those accounts would have come our way but for the work I did for nothing. It was a cheaper and far more effective form of advertising than any other I could have used.’

  Farrell looked from one to the other of the detectives. ‘I can understand the frustration you and your colleagues must feel in being unable to bring the case to court, but I’m curious as to why you’re taking such an interest in the fraud again.’

  ‘There have been one or two new developments,’ Nash told him, without specifying details. ‘You stated in your report that it was Linda Wilson who had stolen the money from Bishopton Investments. Are you one hundred per cent certain that she was the guilty party? Or, could someone else have used her computer to commit the fraud?’

  Farrell frowned in an effort to recall the details. ‘I seem to think that at the time I was fairly convinced it had to have been her. Bear in mind, I can only report on what I find; a bit like your job, I suppose.’ He smiled. ‘However, I don’t think I’d be prepared to say it was a cast-iron certainty. The trouble with computer fraud is that it is impersonal. Th
at’s why identity theft is so easy. It is possible that someone else used her identity to log in and gain access to the parts of the system that allowed them to steal the money. As I told you at the beginning, Bishopton’s software was pretty basic.’

  Nash decided to confide in the computer expert. ‘The reason we’re reopening the inquiry is that we’ve identified human remains found at a cottage in Gorton as being those of Linda Wilson. Far from living a life of luxury in some tropical paradise, Linda was brutally murdered and buried under a slab of concrete only a few miles away from her home. What we can’t yet decide is whether she was party to the fraud and suffered because her partner in crime got greedy, or whether she was innocent. That was the reason I asked if you were sure it was Linda who stole the money. Because if it wasn’t her, who else could it have been? Who else could have accessed that information using Linda Wilson’s login name and password?’

  Farrell thought for some time before answering. ‘It’s possible that any number of people could have done it. Any of the other directors, certainly. Then there’s Linda Wilson’s assistant, Diane Carlson. Although she wasn’t a director then, she would have been able to get into the system easily enough. And she’s about the only person to have benefitted from the fraud. By that, I mean she was promoted to take Linda Wilson’s place and is now finance director of the whole Wilson Macaulay group.’

  ‘Not quite the only person to have done well out of it,’ Nash pointed out. ‘You did OK as a result of your report.’

  ‘Agreed, but I certainly couldn’t have predicted the outcome beforehand. Going back to your question, I suppose the likeliest candidate has to be the bloke who disappeared at the same time as Linda Wilson. Tankard, wasn’t that his name? My guess is that if you find him, you’ll find the money and find your murderer.’

  ‘Do you have a copy of the full report? All we have on file is a summary. There’s none of the technical detail, like login codes et cetera.’

  ‘I thought you’d ask that, so I downloaded a copy.’ Farrell passed Nash a CD.