Rafferty could only hope that Faye would pass along the information.
Chapter 25: Jealousy
Wednesday 22nd June, 08:45
It was easy to find Tim Fowler, but much harder to get in to see him. His office was on the twenty-second floor of a tightly guarded skyscraper in the square mile, no doubt located there solely for its proximity to the London Stock Exchange. Morton had to threaten the front desk with the inconvenience of having police loitering outside while he sent someone for a search warrant. They caved when Morton refused to leave, and he was escorted up to Tim’s office accompanied by a security guard.
Tim was a tall man. He was greying, balding, and had what Sarah would have called “a dad bod”. At Morton’s appearance, he waved off the security guard and invited Morton to sit down.
The office was sparse, with a huge oak table and six computer monitors dominating the room. Behind Tim’s desk, floor-to-ceiling windows showed off a panoramic view of the London skyline.
Unlike Mark, who pretended to work in finance, Tim really was a trader. But like Mark, he was in software too. Tim was a small margin trader, making tens of thousands of trades per minute, nickel and diming buyers and sellers at minimal risk.
‘It’s called front-running,’ Tim explained. ‘I watch for market movements – that is to say, people buying or selling any given stock. If someone is buying up a company, I buy the cheapest shares before they do and then sell them on to them for a tiny profit.’
‘And how do you get in before them?’ Morton asked.
‘Two ways,’ Tim said, holding up two fingers as if lecturing a child. ‘First, our trades are all automated. Nobody can work faster than a computer, and we have the best system money can buy.’
‘And second?’
‘Physical proximity. When you’re trying to make a trade a thousandth of a second faster than the next guy, being within a hundred yards of the London Stock Exchange means you can beat the guy who’s half a mile away. Ordinary traders who don’t operate out of the city never get a chance.’
‘I bet you’d hate a Tobin tax, then,’ Morton said, referring to the recurring idea that trades should be taxed to prevent exactly this kind of behaviour.
Tim laughed. ‘You’re not wrong. I’d either go bust or relocate to another jurisdiction, along with everyone else. It’ll never happen.’
‘And if it did?’
‘Que sera, sera. I’m making hay while the sun is shining. If the gravy train stops, I’ve got enough stashed away to ride out the storm.’
I bet you have, Morton thought.
‘And what about Mark? Does some of this lucre trickle down to the companies providing ancillary services?’
‘Mark was small-time,’ Tim said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Berryman are behind the curve on the tech.’
‘Aren’t you one of their clients?’ Morton asked.
‘Sort of. I threw Mark a bone and hired him to work on a prototype system for us. It’s all in a sandbox that we’ll never use. He’s just not up to running our systems. I can get better guys for less money by outsourcing. And the best quants and programmers are never going to be found somewhere like Berryman.’
‘Where would they be, then?’
‘I’ve got them locked up downstairs,’ Tim joked. His face creased up as a he cracked a smile. There were well-worn crow’s feet around his eyes and equally deep furrows on his forehead. ‘Two hundred grand a year golden handcuffs, all the tech they could ever want, and stock options for those smart enough to push me for more. It sounds like a lot, but we’d pay ten times that to keep them around. Do me a favour, don’t tell them that.’
‘How did you and Mark meet?’
‘Work. He was in his first week with Berryman when he came knocking. He was old-school. No bullshit phone calls, email proposals, or calling my people. Nope, he pretended to be delivering my lunch and barged right into this office. That took balls of steel.’
‘So, you hired him?’
‘Nah. I threw him out. Security tossed his ass in less than two minutes. He stood outside until close of business, just waiting for me. I thought I was in for a fight. Some guys just can’t handle rejection. I took a couple of our security team down with me, just in case.’
‘And?’
‘And he pitched me again. Begged for five minutes. Poor bastard was soaking wet. It was December, and he was standing there in a cheap polyester suit, so desperate to land a client that he’d freeze half to death just to try one more time. I had to respect that. Any man willing to work that hard is worth taking a chance on.’
‘It sounds like he owed you a lot,’ Morton said.
‘He didn’t owe me shit. He introduced me to the love of my life. Without him, I’d still be doing coke off a pocket-money prostitute every night. Now, I get to spend my days with Laura.’
He sounded sincere. Morton bit his lip. Sometimes, part of the job meant shattering a happy illusion. ‘Then, you didn’t know they were cheating on you? Mark and Laura, that is.’
Tim’s eyes widened. His face reddened, and then, before Morton could duck, Tim lobbed his mug of coffee in his direction. ‘Get out! Get out, get out, get out!’
Morton stood up, calmly removed his jacket, and pulled a tissue from the inside pocket to dab up the coffee. ‘Mr Fowler, you’re upset, so I’ll give you one chance to apologise and offer to pay for my dry cleaning. If you’re not smart enough to take that chance, I will arrest you for assaulting a police officer in the course of his duty. Do you understand me?’
Tim slumped in his chair. ‘I’m sorry. I just... I love her. She’s all I ever wanted. I gave her everything: a home, nice clothes, holidays to exotic places. Who am I kidding? It was never me she wanted. It was just my money. It’s always the goddamned same!’ Tim thumped his desk, causing everything on it to leap half an inch in the air.
‘This isn’t the first time for you, is it?’
‘No. Every goddamned time. Every woman.’
Morton almost felt sorry for him, until he remembered that Tim Fowler was a banker. He wanted to ask, ‘Have you thought about dating a woman your own age?’
Instead, he said, ‘What was your relationship with Faye like?’
‘Non-existent. Laura mentioned her a few times, but I only met her the once.’
‘When was that?’
‘Sunday before last.’
‘The twelfth?’
‘That’s it. We all had dinner on Mark’s boat. It was a double date, or it was supposed to be. I can’t believe they sat next to me all night, lying to me the whole time.’
‘And when did you leave the boat that night?’
‘About nine, I think. I was the first to leave. I had to be up early on Monday for a conference call with our investors. I left just after Faye said she was heading to bed. She claimed she was tired and not used to being out of prison just yet, but I think she found all the banking talk a bit boring, to be honest.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Mark and Laura were going to finish off the open bottles of wine, then call it a night.’
‘Do you know what time Laura came home that night?’ Morton asked.
‘Sorry, no. She was there when I woke up. I guess she came in after I turned in for the night. That was about eleven.’
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Fowler.’ Morton paused. He couldn’t leave without giving the man some sort of heads-up. ‘Mr Fowler? One bit of unsolicited general advice. Whenever you find out a partner has cheated on you, get tested. Just to be safe.’
Chapter 26: The Doppelgänger
Wednesday 22nd June, 13:00
Four suspects, four possible killers.
There was Faye, the butter-wouldn’t-melt girlfriend. There was Laura, the mistress spurned. And there was Tim, the friend betrayed. Each had their name and photograph plastered on the wall in the Incident Room. Mayberry had scrawled motives next to each.
Finally, there was the brother who didn’t appear to
have a motive.
‘But why would the brother kill Mark?’ Ayala asked.
Rafferty slapped a handful of photocopies on the table. ‘I think I can answer that.’
Morton leant forward in his chair and snatched up the set of photocopies. The first was marked ‘Life Insurance’. Morton whistled.
‘That’s right, a hundred and fifty thousand. The brother gets the lot,’ Rafferty said.
‘And, presumably, the boat?’ Morton said.
‘We’ve got no sign of a will yet. It’s a good bet that Jake gets everything, and he needs it, too. Look at the second printout.’
The second printout was a credit report on Jake Sanders. ‘Four hundred? I’ve seen bankrupts with better scores than that. What did he do, crash a bank?’
‘Close,’ Rafferty said. ‘He took out a payday loan. Just one. A measly hundred quid at that. Then he borrowed from someone else to pay the first loan. And again. And again. Before he knew it, he was up to his eyeballs in debt.’
‘Rollovers. That explains it. Not a lavish lifestyle then?’
‘He certainly wanted to keep up appearances. He’s got one nice suit, one nice tie, and one nice pair of cufflinks, all to show off to potential clients. But no money. Jake Sanders was in dire straits, and Mark’s death solves all of his money worries.’
‘Nice work, Rafferty. Before we bring him in, does anyone else have anything to add?’
Mayberry silently raised a hand. ‘W-what if they k-killed the wrong M-Mark?’
‘What do you mean?’ Morton said.
‘H-here.’ Mayberry turned to his laptop and plugged it back into the projector screen. He showed the team a Facebook profile.
‘Mark Sanders. Another Mark?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Is this Mark rich?’ Morton asked, thinking of the ransom demand for one hundred thousand pounds.
‘Y-yes. He’s a b-banker who l-lives on a yacht.’
Another Mark, one who also lived on a boat, and also worked in banking. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
‘How far is this Mark’s yacht from the nearest place our Mark moored up The Guilty Pleasure?’
‘J-just over a mile.’ Mayberry pointed at Google maps, showing the short skip between Limehouse Basin and St Katherine Docks.
It was plausible. Kidnapping a rich banker with a yacht could feasibly yield a ransom of that size. But what kind of moron would confuse a private yacht with a narrowboat?
Chapter 27: The Brother
Thursday 23rd June, 10:00
‘How often it comes down to money,’ Ayala lamented.
He and Rafferty had been dispatched to bring Jake Sanders in for questioning. The boss had procured a search warrant for Jake’s boat. Anything and everything financial was theirs for the taking. Technically they weren’t yet ready to arrest Jake Sanders, so they’d have to rely on him coming in for an interview voluntarily.
His boat wasn’t at his home mooring.
‘Odd,’ Rafferty said. ‘He’s not a continuous cruiser.’
‘Then how do we find him?’
‘I’ve got a friend at the Canal and River Trust. They keep track of which boat numbers are where. Let me give him a call. What was his boat called, again? Something stupid, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. The Mobile Office.’
***
A short phone call later, Rafferty and Ayala were on their way to find The Mobile Office in Uxbridge.
‘Where did your friend say he was?’ Ayala asked as Rafferty drove down the A40.
‘Just past Bridge 185, whatever that means.’
‘Stick it in the Sat Nav.’
They did, and were soon turning onto the A4020. By the time they found somewhere to park, it had begun to rain cats and dogs. The towpaths were deserted, the embankments muddy, and soon Ayala and Rafferty were drenched.
The boat looked much as Morton had described her: a little over half the size of The Guilty Pleasure, with the ramshackle appearance of an old boat that had been repaired one too many times.
Rafferty rapped smartly on the window and then called out: ‘Jake Sanders! This is the police. We have a warrant to search your boat. Please exit the boat immediately.’
Her call was met with silence. ‘Open her up,’ she said, nodding to Ayala.
Ayala looked at her in disbelief. ‘With what?’
‘The tyre iron that’s in my boot. Catch.’ She threw her keys at him so fast, he nearly fumbled them. Thankfully, the keys didn’t end up in the canal.
Ayala disappeared at a jog and reappeared a few minutes later with sweat on his brow and a tyre iron under his arm.
They smashed the door open in one swing, splintering it terribly. Inside was musty, like an old library in which the roof had leaked.
‘Crack open that window, Bertie boy.’ Rafferty nodded towards the window to his left, behind Jake’s desk.
‘So, what are we looking for?’ Ayala looked around the cabin.
‘Correspondence, mostly. We know he’s borrowed money, and he still owes it. If his financials are as bad as they seem, he’s got motive. We just need the paper trail to prove it.’
There was paperwork everywhere.
‘How was Jake struggling so much? He’s got loads of clients, this boat is cheaper than living in a flat, and he must be making a killing selling low-cost services to London clients. Something doesn’t add up here,’ Ayala said. ‘What does a payroll processor do, anyway?’
Rafferty looked up from rifling through a filing cabinet. She had been boxing up everything and labelling it neatly. ‘Process payroll, I presume. Why don’t you Google it?’
He did. ‘Huh. I never knew that was a thing. It sounds like his job is to process the wages for a company and disburse them to the employees.’
Rafferty looked at him, bewildered. ‘Why don’t they just pay their employees directly?’
‘So the internal accounts department don’t know what everyone earns. All they see is a single line item for staff wages rather than all the individual numbers. Jake must be earning a fair cop from that, so where is it?’
‘People blow money in all sorts of ways,’ she said sagely.
‘True. But can you see anything valuable here? That TV is a decade old. His laptop isn’t much newer. This boat is ready for the scrap heap. Where’s the money gone?’
‘Could be he was on drugs. Or maybe he loves the company of women he can’t afford. Hey, turn on the TV. It’s dead quiet in here, and we’ll be a while.’
Ayala did as instructed, and a spotty picture flared to life. Static hissed over the audio.
‘On second thoughts, maybe not,’ Rafferty said. ‘I’ll put something on my phone. What’re you in the mood for?’
‘Something upbeat. I’m going to go search the bedroom.’
Ayala’s nose wrinkled as he headed back towards the single berth. If the office/sitting room at the front of the boat was a little musty, it was overwhelming in the back. There was mould visible in the eaves, and the carpet looked as if it had been pulled from a skip. How Jake lived like this, Ayala didn’t know.
The bed was unmade, with clothes strewn across the top of it. Jake seemed to favour white shirts, for he had six identical garments hanging on a small rail that had been nailed above the bed. There were few personal possessions, and those that Jake did own were stuffed inside a tiny bedside unit. Ayala left those alone.
In the bottom drawer of the unit, Ayala hit pay dirt. Betting slips.
‘Rafferty! Come take a look at this.’
He showed her. There were fistfuls of receipts, all of which were recently dated.
‘He likes a flutter, then. Here, lay them out on the bed,’ Rafferty ordered.
‘Why?’
‘We need to know how much he was spending. There have to be a few hundred here. If we group up just those from the last two weeks and then add up how much he’s spent, we can guestimate how much money Jake has been throwing down the toilet.’
In silence,
they uncrumpled each betting slip, smoothing them out and either laying them face up on the bed or adding them to the growing pile of older slips. Jake seemed to be betting about a hundred quid each time, thirty or forty times a day.
‘How often do you think he won?’ Ayala said.
Rafferty used her phone to check the results of each slip in turn. ‘I don’t know. All those I’ve checked so far are winners. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t lost money and gotten rid of the slips. If he’s gambling three and a half grand a day, then he’s got to be losing at least a tenth of that on average. There’s no way he’s beating the house.’
‘Then he’s losing two grand-ish a week,’ Ayala said.
‘For a payroll processor turning over about sixty thou a year, that’s a huge shortfall. Where’s the extra coming from? He can’t have borrowed all that money. Nobody would lend him that much, would they?’
They bagged up the slips and then started to package up Jake’s desktop computer. It was password-protected, and they’d need IT to unlock it for them.
‘Rafferty, over here,’ Ayala called out. He was holding a shredder in his hands, the heavy-duty kind. It was filled to the brim with cross-cut strips of paper. ‘Does this look like the same paper the betting slips are printed on?’
‘Yep. Bag ‘em.’
Jake returned home while they were searching through the shredder. They heard the door swing on its hinges as he boarded The Mobile Office.
‘Oi!’ he yelled. ‘What’re you doing? I’m calling the police!’
Rafferty flashed her ID. ‘We are the police. I have a search warrant for this boat. We’re going to need you to come down to the station to answer a few questions.’
‘But... but... my door!’
***
Jake started out co-operative enough. He provided his PC password “so they wouldn’t break it open”. It turned out to be “SportOfQueens”, which, Rafferty thought, IT would have guessed in about ten minutes.
His accounts were digitised and neatly organised. Over the past year, Jake had turned over a little over sixty thousand pounds gross, and, after allowing for expenses and his extortionate mooring fees, was left with somewhere around fifteen thousand. Hardly a fortune for a professional living in the centre of London.
Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5) Page 8
