Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5)

by Sean Campbell

  Paperwork had congealed into a messy lump on the counter. Whatever information Mark Sanders’ correspondence had once contained, it was now garbled beyond comprehension. The textiles had fared even worse. The sofa was a giant lump of algae, and the bedding at the rear of the boat was as sodden as everything else. The pillow alone seemed to have soaked up several litres of the Grand Union. There were tiny insects everywhere. Ayala didn’t have the time or inclination to try to return those to the water.

  The storm had broken many of the panels in the boat, which revealed that the electronics, the water tank, and several parts of what Ayala presumed were the engine had all been hidden away neatly. There was also a lot of empty space concealed behind the woodwork. Could there have been enough space to stash a body? Ayala wondered.

  The worst part was the split cartridges in the bathroom. Two or three weeks’ worth of human excrement had flooded from the storage and pooled over the shower.

  Ayala sprinted off the boat and dashed for the cover of the nearest boat. He heaved, retched, and deposited his overpriced brunch on the towpath.

  Ayala cursed his back luck. He always got given the shit jobs.

  Chapter 37: Not My Job

  Saturday 25th June, 12:01

  Auger and Co were by far Jake’s most lucrative client. They were a temp agency, one of the largest in the City of London. On any given day, they would have a thousand temporary employees allocated to almost as many locations, and every single one of them would be logging their hours so they could get paid.

  Most of the paperwork they had was in-house. Their hours were logged electronically, and payments including taxes, liens, and the like were dealt with by the computer. Then there were the adjustments – extra hours, travel and other expenses, holiday and sick pay for those not on zero hours contracts.

  It was a complex system, and only Jake Sanders had oversight of everything going on. It was his job to reconcile the costs, authorise the payments, and ensure that Auger and Co stayed within the law while paying minimal National Insurance. The total salary bill then left their bank account as a single payment via BACS. All of which gave Jake Sanders the access he needed to pilfer thousands of pounds a month to pay non-existent employees.

  It wasn’t a complicated fraud. He included dummy employees on the BACS transfer and routed them through dummy accounts that he’d opened with a variety of different banks, and ultimately paid himself for non-existent work. Morton had dispatched Mayberry to the Fraud Squad to find out just how extensive the theft was.

  In the meantime, Morton wanted to find out what the clients knew. He didn’t want to get involved with a fraud case. They were boring, and they involved far more paperwork than Morton cared to read, but if it was the underlying factor in a murder, then he had to take his investigation as he found it.

  Auger and Co were based just north of Moorgate Underground Station in a fashionable office by Finsbury Square Garden. It took forever to find somewhere to park, as all the roads were double-yellows, and Morton refused to get caught out again.

  He’d called ahead to make an appointment with Monsieur Jacque Auger. The boss didn’t usually work Saturdays, and had only reluctantly agreed when Morton said the magic words “murder enquiry”.

  Auger was waiting for Morton in the lobby. ‘You are late.’

  Morton almost laughed. ‘Good thing I’m not here for a job, then. Mr Auger, I presume.’

  ‘My time is valuable, Monsieur Morton. I allotted you half an hour.’ Auger made a show of checking his watch. ‘You have six minutes remaining of that time.’

  The apology for his tardiness that had been on Morton’s lips disappeared. ‘This will take as long as it takes. As part of my murder enquiry, I am investigating a number of financial irregularities. This meeting is a courtesy, one which I do not have to extend to you. If you’d prefer that I return on Monday morning with a search warrant and a team of forensic accountants, then I can.’

  Auger’s haughty demeanour dissipated. ‘Financial irregularities? What financial irregularities? Shall we sit?’

  Auger motioned for Morton to sit in the lobby. There was nobody else there except for the receptionist on the front desk, who made herself scarce when Auger motioned for her to scoot.

  ‘Can I confirm that your firm uses Jake Sanders as payroll processor?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘Have you been happy with his service?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Until thirty seconds ago, absolutely. His payroll-processor-on-a-boat service was charming.’

  ‘How long have you been using him?’

  ‘Three years.’

  Morton whistled. In three years, Jake would have handled hundreds of thousands of transactions on behalf of Auger and Co. ‘I believe Mr Sanders has been skimming from your accounts with fraudulent transactions. Our investigation is underway, and we would like to get a complete copy of your records to reconcile with those recovered from Mr Sanders.’

  ‘You’ll have them by five o’clock,’ Auger promised. ‘I shall deliver them to you personally. Do you know how much he might have stolen?’

  ‘I really can’t say, Monsieur Auger. Were there no red flags that money might have been going missing?’

  ‘Non. We have been profitable, very profitable. If he was stealing, he was subtle. Our payroll bill hasn’t changed much since we hired him, though I can’t say I’ve been keeping a close eye on it.’

  ‘That chimes with our assessment of the situation,’ Morton said. ‘From what we can tell so far, he stole inconsequential amounts. He was well-versed to hide the fraud by only giving you the total spend for each payroll cycle. Only Jake himself had a copy of the breakdown of that total, so he knew he could hide the theft. I have a team investigating as we speak.’

  ‘Very well. I am afraid our six minutes are up. I have a meeting to get to. Will you keep me apprised?’ Auger said.

  ‘Of course.’

  Chapter 38: By the Numbers

  Mayberry had always loved numbers. Numbers weren’t like people. They never lied.

  The Fraud Squad was divided into four teams, one of which was tasked with the sort of generic theft Jake Sanders had orchestrated.

  Jake Sanders’ numbers were telling a very different story from the one Jake had told. The theft could not have been more straightforward. Fake transactions, tiny payments. He stole little and often, never trying to score big in any one hit. The methodology struck Mayberry as being at odds with murder. Jake had been careful enough to steal a little at a time, and killing to claim life insurance seemed to be on the other end of the scale. Murder was messy, bloody, and cold, and Jake didn’t seem the type of man capable of murder. Everything Mayberry had seen said Jake was more at home with an Excel spreadsheet and a pile of old receipts than anything involving people.

  Nor was Jake particularly clever. He hadn’t done much to hide his fraud. There was a paper trail that led nowhere, and only he could have ordered the payments. He seemed to be relying on his clients assuming that any missing funds had to be nothing more than a rounding error.

  ‘H-how much d-did he steal?’ Mayberry asked of DCI Manuel de Granados, the head of the team.

  Granados was an older gentleman, virtually bald, with a handlebar moustache that Einstein would have envied. He squinted up at the projector screen, where all of Jake’s Excel files were open.

  ‘Twenty clients, and six or seven hundred pounds’ worth of fraudulent transactions per payroll cycle per client, by the looks of the last few months. Let’s call that an even fourteen thousand a month on the low end. Most of the fraudulent transactions are very low value. Look at line 134.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘Travel reimbursement, employee 1345. There is no employee 1345 in the list for that client.’

  ‘It’s only eight p-pounds!’

  ‘Eight quid is small enough that you’d never bother to question it. And that’s one of the smallest transactions. He’s got some that are low three figures and a handful of paymen
ts in the four-figure range. That’s as greedy as he got. It doesn’t take many of those to add up. I haven’t averaged out the fraud yet – can’t until we identify all the dodgy transactions – but it’s going to be low- to mid-six figures a year in total.’

  ‘H-half a m-million pounds?’ Mayberry said, dumbstruck.

  ‘At the top end. It could be a lot less.’

  Suddenly, a hundred and fifty thousand pounds in life insurance didn’t seem like it was worth killing for.

  ***

  ‘Fabby!’ Faye screamed as Rafferty walked through the front door. She was smiling from ear to ear, and leapt off the sofa to let the cat out of the carry basket. She swept the cat up in her arms and clutched her tight, as if she’d never expected to see her again. ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘She was at Battersea Dogs and Cats Home,’ Rafferty said. ‘The lady who pulled you both from the canal dropped her off there after you were taken to hospital.’

  ‘Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ Faye gushed.

  And then she hugged Rafferty. Voluntarily. The girl who hated to be touched, who recoiled from physical contact, who seemed to be away in her own little world, voluntarily hugged Rafferty.

  Rafferty smiled, hugged her back, and said, ‘You’re welcome.’

  Chapter 39: Return to Normal

  Monday 27th June, 07:30

  ‘Faye! Wake up.’ Rafferty nudged her sleeping house guest gently.

  ‘W-what day is it?’ Faye stammered.

  ‘It’s Monday morning. I’ve got to go to work. There’s breakfast on the kitchen counter for you. I’ve left my spare keys there for you, too. Why don’t you go down to the Job Centre today and sign on?’

  Faye looked confused. ‘Sign on for what?’

  ‘Jobseekers allowance,’ Rafferty said, exasperated. ‘You need to get back on your feet, and you need a job to do that. I’m not chucking you out or anything, so don’t worry too much. Just go and see them, okay? You know where it is?’

  Faye waved her off. ‘I’ll find it.’

  Rafferty watched as Faye sank back down under the covers and out of sight. Sometimes, Faye seemed so mature, so normal, and at others, she was just an overgrown teenager with no sense of responsibility. Four years inside had really done a number on her. She didn’t cook, clean, or contribute, and yet didn’t seem to feel at all ashamed about eating Rafferty’s food, sleeping on Rafferty’s sofa, and watching Rafferty’s TV.

  It wasn’t like Rafferty hadn’t dealt with living with someone like that before. Her big brother had been just the same – when he was fifteen. With a bit of luck, Faye would adjust, and fast. She couldn’t stay forever, no matter how little Rafferty wanted to turf her out onto the street. If only she’d start pulling her weight while she was there.

  Chapter 40: Get on with It

  The Monday morning fry-up in The Feathers was a time-honoured tradition. Whenever Morton didn’t have an urgent enquiry to make – and the investigation into Mark’s death could certainly wait an hour – he liked to start the day right: with bacon, sausages, eggs, beans, and toast, but no black pudding. It was all the stuff that Sarah had long-since emptied from their cupboards in favour of wheatgrass and spirulina. Sometimes his wife just couldn’t appreciate how delicious cholesterol could be.

  The man sitting opposite him had no such encumbrance. Kieran O’Connor was a free man – at least, as free as any man who worked ninety hours a week could be. Lawyers often joked they were married to the law, and for Kieran, it was true. He was a workaholic with a penchant for fine suits. Even now, with baked beans and buttered mushrooms to contend with, he was wearing a three-piece suit. It was bespoke, of course, probably Savile Row or Italian. The man was a walking contradiction: working class Dublin lad, barrister, fry-up before work, three-piece suit, friends with the boys in blue, Notting Hill mansion.

  As long as he carried on buying the breakfasts, Morton would always consider him a friend.

  ‘So, anyway,’ Kieran said as he chewed over a mouthful of bacon, ‘if you don’t pick him up now, I’ll look like an eejit. His clients know, we know, and the press knows. Sooner or later, when he thinks the heat is off, he’ll hide any remaining evidence, and we need to be seen to be doing something.’

  Morton held up his hands in surrender. ‘You win. Can I at least finish my breakfast first?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ***

  Brodie was looking smug when Mayberry found him in his office on Monday morning.

  ‘H-how’d it g-go?’

  ‘It was hell. You owe me, laddie.’

  Brodie shoved a folder in his direction. Mayberry opened it to find printouts of thirty-odd slips.

  ‘T-that’s all?’

  Brodie glared at him. ‘What do you mean, “That’s all”? I worked all weekend to get you those, laddie. You had cross-cut shredded paper, and I gave you meaningful data. The proper response is “thank you”, laddie.’

  ‘T-thank you.’

  ‘You don’t need more, anyway. I think it’s enough. Look at them – they’re all losers. I compared the slips we could recover from the shredding pile with the winning slips from the same time frame. He made the same bet every time.’

  ‘W-what bet?’

  ‘He bet on the favourite. His system was to go for the most popular option, no matter whether it was first to score in a footie match or the three-thirty at Kempton. I ran the numbers. He was losing money hand over fist. The bookies always price in a healthy margin on the odds-on favourite. He must have been losing ten to twenty percent a day.’

  ‘How m-much do you think he was g-gambling?’

  ‘Two grand a day. He had to have been losing a few hundred of that.’

  ‘Almost e-exactly what he’d been stealing?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So, some of it was left?’

  ‘I think so. He stole two thousand a day from his clients, gambled it, and got about eighteen hundred back in winnings.’

  ‘W-why?’

  ‘I’ve got a theory. Let me do some digging, and then I want to talk to your boss.’

  Mayberry looked at him blankly.

  ***

  Morton arrived at the aptly-named The Mobile Office a little after nine o’clock. He was alone. It wasn’t like he needed backup to arrest an accountant, of all people. What was he going to do? Make a three-mile-an-hour getaway along the canal?

  It was moored right where it should be, at Jake’s home mooring. There were power cables running from the quayside to the boat, and it looked much like every other boat in sight: quiet, cramped, and isolated. It was a little less impressive than The Guilty Pleasure both in size and in appearance, with cracking paintwork around the windows and a much more dishevelled look to her.

  Morton banged on the door loudly. ‘Jake Sanders, open up!’

  No answer. Morton had come prepared, after the same had happened to Rafferty and Ayala.

  ‘Last chance, or I’ll bust open what’s left of this door,’ Morton called out.

  The door was in tatters, with boarding across it that had been roughly nailed in place. Evidently, Jake hadn’t replaced it since Ayala and Rafferty had been forced to let themselves in the last time.

  ‘One. Two. Three!’ Morton kicked at the door right above the lock, and it broke easily inwards. Splinters shot everywhere as the door fell apart.

  The living room was quiet. Too quiet.

  ‘Mr Sanders, if you’re there, then come out with your hands up. This is the police.’

  No reply.

  Morton edged towards the back of the living room. It wasn’t a big boat. He paused at the door to the bedroom and listened. He couldn’t hear anything inside. Morton slowly reached for the doorknob, expecting Jake to try to jump him at any moment.

  The door was locked from the inside. Jake was home.

  ‘Mr Sanders!’ Morton yelled. ‘Unlock this door!’

  Again, no reply.

  ‘One. Two. Three!’ Mort
on kicked the bedroom door the same way he’d taken out the front door, hitting it just above the lock, but it didn’t budge. He tried again, and the lock broke. The door swung inwards, revealing the tiny bedroom.

  There, on the bed, was Jake Sanders. Asleep.

  ‘Oi!’ Morton said, nudging him. ‘Wake up.’

  Jake Sanders was cold, too cold. Morton reflexively felt for a pulse but found nothing.

  Jake Sanders was dead.

  ***

  The pathologist took forever to arrive. He saw Morton loitering outside the boat.

  ‘Gone and killed another one, have you?’ Chiswick laughed. ‘What happened this time?’

  ‘Suicide. I found this.’ Morton handed Chiswick an evidence bag in which he’d placed the suicide note that he’d found clutched in the dead man’s hands.

  Chiswick read it.

  I cannot live with the guilt of what I did any longer. I brought shame upon my family and upon myself. Please know that I go to the grave knowing that I will never be unburdened. My conscience weighs heavily upon my chest. To my friends and remaining family, I apologise for all the pain and suffering that I have caused you. I do not ask for your forgiveness, only your understanding. I was in a dark place, as if a fog had descended over the world. Nothing mattered. I drifted from day to day, desperate to escape, to be free. I hope the next world will be more kind to me, and to Mark, than this world ever was. Yours truly, with what love I have left to give, Jake.

  ‘So, not murder, then. I’ll go take a look at the body.’ Chiswick bounded off in search of Jake’s corpse, whistling cheerfully as he did so.

  Chapter 41: One Down

  Monday 27th June, 13:00

  The bodies were piling up. First, there was Mark Sanders, and now his brother Jake. The media was having a field day speculating about a potential serial killer. One death on the canals would have been unusual. Two was a spectacle.