by SL Beaumont
“Please,” Greenwood replied. He had a wise, weathered face and reminded Kat of a school headmaster.
“Detectives, this way,” she said, holding out her arm to indicate the meeting room’s direction.
“Do we get to see you perform your coffee juggling trick again?” DS Jackson murmured as he walked past her.
Kat rolled her eyes at his back. “Everyone’s a comedian,” she muttered and thought she heard him give a low chuckle.
She followed the visitors through into the meeting room where Stephenson was waiting. The spacious room contained a long wooden conference table and eight chairs. At the centre of the table sat a tray with a pitcher of water and several glasses. A wall-mounted screen dominated one end of the room above a long, low cabinet. The windows on the far side of the room commanded a picturesque view along the river towards Tower Bridge.
“Gentlemen, good morning,” Stephenson said, stepping forward and shaking their hands.
“Charles,” DI Greenwood said. “It’s been a while. How’s business?”
“Very good. Yourself?”
“Busy, which sadly doesn’t say a lot about the state of business in this country,” DI Greenwood said.
“Indeed.”
“In fact, we’re completely backed up investigating other financial crime cases at present, but fortunately I’m able to engage independent experts, such as you, to help fill the gap,” Greenwood continued.
They all sat down at one end of the long boardroom table.
“Kat, I should explain, DI Greenwood is head of the Met’s new Financial Crimes Unit. Hugo, Kat Munro is one of my best analysts.”
Kat smiled. Stephenson had managed to get the firm registered on the police database of forensic experts and had been touting their expertise to the country’s various police forces and the Serious Fraud Office. Hence, she wasn’t surprised that the two men sitting opposite her were police officers. She hadn’t realised that their firm’s services had actually been engaged to work with the new Financial Crimes Unit. No wonder Stephenson was looking so smug; this was something of a coup. Many of the larger accounting firms with specialist forensic units had been chasing the business. It was interesting that Stephenson had succeeded as a relative newcomer. She wondered how he’d pulled it off.
“Let me introduce DS Adam Jackson. Adam is heading up the homicide investigation.” DI Greenwood’s smile was warm as his eyes flicked across the table to Kat, resting momentarily on her left hand before looking away. DS Jackson’s stare was assessing, but once again, his gaze never left her face. Kat moved her left hand to rest in her lap and sat forward, picking up her pen with her right.
“Homicide?” Stephenson’s smug expression was replaced with one of concern.
“You may have seen in the news a few days ago that a security guard was found dead at the offices of Capital Investment Partners and one of the directors was missing,” DI Greenwood began. “We’ve had our eye on CIP for a while, nothing major, just a couple of anomalies that the firm easily clarified. But when the missing director, Henry Smyth, also turned up dead yesterday, we decided to reopen our case and look deeper into the company. One death is tragic, but two unexplained deaths related to a firm that has been on our watch list warrants further examination, which is where Adam’s investigation and mine intersect.”
“The security guard’s death is being treated as suspicious. He was found in the lobby atrium of the CIP office, having fallen from the second floor. We know Smyth accessed the building that same evening before he disappeared. And now he’s been found dead at his apartment in central London,” Adam explained. “An apparent suicide.”
“Ah,” Stephenson said.
“So how can we help? We don’t usually work on murder cases. I’m assuming that you would like us to look into the firm’s business affairs or those of Henry Smyth?” Kat asked.
“Both,” Greenwood replied. “We would like a high-level independent review of CIP’s business, using only publicly available information. We need a legitimate reason to take another look at them, but we don’t want to show our hand at this stage. I’m not convinced that the directors have been completely forthcoming with everything that they’ve told us to date.”
Adam cleared his throat. “For the record, I’m not sure what bean-counters can tell us that I couldn’t find out from half an hour in an interrogation room with each of them.”
Kat raised her eyebrows at the remark.
Greenwood laughed. “You’ll have to excuse Adam. CID detectives don’t usually have the pleasure of working with specialists in forensic accounting. Charles, I thought you could explain what it is that you do better than me.”
Stephenson beamed. “Of course.” The door opened, and the receptionist, a plump middle-aged woman, entered carrying a tray of coffee, which she rested on a side table before placing a cup in front of each person. Kat let her pen drop and sat back. This would take a while, especially once Charles warmed up. She murmured her thanks for the coffee and took a sip, savouring the caffeine hit that she’d missed out on earlier.
Stephenson looked thoughtful and stroked his chin for a moment before speaking. “Forensic accountants are the detectives of the financial world, DS Jackson. The word ‘forensic’ means being suitable for use in a court of law, so we apply rigorous processes to gather and analyse data. We are highly skilled in the areas of information technology and computer analysis. We have a deep understanding of accounting, tax, banking, and financial systems. We are familiar with legal concepts and proceedings, as we are often called upon to give evidence in court as expert witnesses.
“Our job is to sift through company records, business financials, and supplier relationships, looking for anomalies that investigators like you can examine and use to provide prosecutors with ample information to build a strong case. A forensic accountant is a chess player in this business; it’s all about attention to detail and thinking several moves ahead of the criminals.
“Let me give you an example, DS Jackson. You may recall the case of City Build Construction last year. The Board of Directors engaged us after they became suspicious of the activities of the Chief Financial Officer. We did a deep dive into their records going back five years and discovered a number of fraudulent transactions. A case was built on the information in conjunction with the Serious Fraud Office, and we provided the expert witness testimony to the court. The CFO was ultimately convicted of embezzling £1.5 million from the company.”
Kat smirked as DS Jackson held his hands up. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I appreciate as well as anyone that you need properly gathered evidence to make any charges stick,” he said.
DI Greenwood nodded. “Thanks, Charles. Now, Kat, if you can begin your analysis of the firm using any information that’s in the public domain. And then look into the financials of Henry Smyth.”
“Okay,” she said, scribbling a couple of notes on the pad in front of her.
“We’ll get Smyth’s bank accounts to you once we have access to them,” DS Jackson said, looking across the table at Kat. He glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting the deceased’s parents at his apartment in half an hour. They have something they’d like to discuss. Would you like to come? It might give you a better feel for the type of people we’re dealing with.”
Kat looked at Stephenson, who was already nodding, eager to do whatever was necessary to secure the business.
DI Greenwood stood and extended his hand to Stephenson. “Great to be working with you again, Charles.”
“Likewise,” Stephenson replied, pushing back his chair and rising. He accepted Greenwood’s handshake. “We must have lunch soon.”
“I’ll just grab my bag and meet you in the foyer,” Kat said to DS Jackson as they filed from the meeting room. He nodded and followed DI Greenwood through the reception area and down the stairs.
Stephenson couldn’t keep the grin off his face as they walked back into the office. “I don’t need to explain to you what an enormous opp
ortunity this is for our firm,” he said. “Do whatever they ask. You can have Nathan and Shamira, but let me know if you need more resources.” Kat nodded. “Well then, get to work.” Stephenson strode towards his corner office, bouncing on his toes as he walked.
“He is such a buffoon,” Shamira said, watching as Stephenson passed while Kat dropped her notepad on the desk. “But those two in your meeting weren’t. Nate wants to know who the guy in the leather jacket is.” She fanned herself with several sheets of paper.
“Nate wants to know, or you do?”
“Both, I think he and I just might come to blows,” Shamira replied, pulling a face at Nathan.
“Bring it on, girl,” Nathan said.
“I don’t think he’s your type,” Kat said with a smirk.
“Someone’s called dibs already,” Nathan stage-whispered to Shamira.
Kat laughed. “Those two are police detectives. We’ve got a new assignment, with none other than the Financial Crimes Unit.”
“Ooh,” Shamira said. “No wonder Stevenson is looking so pleased with himself."
Kat scooped up her bag and threw the long strap over her head and across her body. “I’m heading out with them now. I’ll fill you in on the details later. In the meantime, pull up what you can on Capital Investment Partners.”
Chapter 3
DS Jackson rocked from one foot to the other as he waited for Kat in the foyer and watched Greenwood get in the back of the car they’d arrived in earlier. He glanced at his watch. How long did it take to grab a bag? He pulled out his phone and scanned through his emails, looking up when he heard Kat approaching, the heels of her shoes echoing on the marble floor. He studied her as she exchanged pleasantries with the security guard, smiling at something the older man said. She was tall with an athletic build and had thick auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders. She had a pretty face, with a light dusting of freckles across her nose. His eyes flicked to her hand. He was dying to know her story. He’d known immediately when that stupid cyclist had almost crashed into her that it was false. He’d come across plenty of amputees in his time. Still, he’d been struck by how naturally she moved her limb, as well as her fierce independence. He knew he couldn’t ask about it; he would have to wait until she offered.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, DS Jackson,” she said, still smiling as she joined him. It was a genuine smile that went from the soft curve of her lips to her eyes.
“No problem. And call me Adam,” he said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He walked towards the revolving doors exiting ahead of her, guessing correctly that she would repel any act of chivalry.
Out on the street, Adam raised his hand and hailed a black cab from a queue further down the road. It eased to a stop, and he opened the door, climbing in the back ahead of Kat, who followed pulling it shut behind her. Adam gave the driver the address of Henry Smyth’s apartment and sat back, turning his body on the bench seat to look at Kat.
She sat straight, stiff almost, looking out of the side window as they merged with the traffic along the Embankment. He studied her, surprised at the sudden display of tension when it hit him that her rigid posture wasn’t from nerves. She was in some discomfort. She was holding her left elbow and shoulder away from the seat.
“Were you hurt this morning?” he asked.
Kat swung her head around as he spoke and looked him in the eye. She lifted her prosthetic hand from her lap and turned it over. “This?”
Adam raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, my hand was chopped off when I hit the wall earlier, but it’s okay now, I heal quickly.” She held his gaze for a moment before looking out of the window again. The taxi turned and crossed London Bridge.
“That’s a relief; we wouldn’t want you bleeding all over the cab,” he replied, refusing to allow her to embarrass him. He’d seen similar flippant reactions from former army colleagues, injured in Afghanistan. He guessed that any further inquiry into her well-being would be rebuffed.
He saw the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. “I’m surprised that you agreed to bring me,” she said. “After all, bean-counters are next to useless in a criminal investigation, right?”
“You have me there,” he conceded with a shrug. “We have different skill sets, that’s all.”
“Ooh, diplomacy. Now that’s unexpected.”
He studied her for a moment. “Don’t get too used to it. I’m a tactless Neanderthal most of the time.” A voice in his head reminded him that was exactly how his soon-to-be ex-wife described him. He stroked his bare ring finger and was startled when Kat laughed.
“Fantastic, we’re going to get along just fine,” she said, looking back at him, her smile carrying to her eyes and lighting up her face.
Adam grinned back at her, realising that he’d just passed some sort of test, and was surprised to find that he was pleased that he had.
“Is here okay?” The taxi driver’s voice came over the intercom as he pulled into a loading bay on a busy street at one end of a six-level red brick apartment building. It was a new block built to blend in with the older buildings and surrounding warehouses.
“Thanks.” Adam held a credit card against the contactless reader before opening the door and climbing out. Kat followed, slamming the door shut behind her. The taxi roared away as Adam consulted his phone and looked up at the building. “Smyth had the penthouse.”
“Very nice,” Kat said.
Adam turned a full circle, taking in the surroundings. At street level, the modern purpose-built building housed a dry cleaner, real estate agent, and a small café. Across a narrow cobbled lane, the muddy Thames swirled and wound its way towards Tower Bridge. He walked to the building’s main door and pressed the intercom for the top floor apartment. After a few seconds, a strained voice answered.
“DS Jackson, I have an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Smyth,” Adam said.
“Come in, detective.”
The door buzzed as it was unlocked remotely. Adam and Kat entered the building and waited for the lift. When the doors opened, a tall, stooped elderly gentleman with thinning grey hair, and kind but sad eyes greeted them. He shook Adam’s hand as he introduced himself.
“Alfred Smyth. I’ll take you up.”
“Good to meet you, sir. I’m sorry for your loss,” Adam replied, showing his warrant card. “This is my colleague Kat Munro.” They stepped into the lift, and the doors closed.
Kat too shook Mr. Smyth’s hand and murmured her condolences. Mr. Smyth looked tired, and a little defeated, but nodded and gave her the ghost of a smile. He tapped a card against an electronic reader, and the lift rose.
The lift opened into the apartment, and they entered a large reception room with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the river. Deep brown leather sofas and armchairs were grouped around a grand fireplace on one side of the room, and a square wooden dining table which seated eight filled the space by the windows. A small older woman, with soft white hair curling around a weary, grief-stricken face, waited for them.
“Dear, the police are here,” Mr. Smyth said. “DS Jackson and Miss Munro.”
Adam stepped forward and shook her hand. “We’re so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Smyth. I understand you have some further information for us.”
“Yes, detective, this way. I’ve made tea.” Her voice was flat, and every step seemed like an effort. She turned and walked to an opening on the right-hand side of the room. Adam indicated for Kat to follow while he trailed behind admiring Henry Smyth’s minimalist taste. The only exception appeared to be the tall bookshelves along one wall which overflowed with books.
Mr. Smyth noticed Adam’s interest. “Henry would be horrified if he could see what they did to his books,” he said, pausing and shaking his head.
“What do you mean?” Adam asked.
The older man sighed as a wave of grief washed over his face. “Henry was meticulous. There was never anything out of place. He’d been that way since he was a boy. Someone ransacked this place
before we got here. His study was the worst.”
“Ransacked? That wasn’t in the attending officer’s report. Is anything missing?” Adam asked.
“Hard to tell. We’ve tidied as best we could,” Mr. Smyth replied.
“Did you tell the police?” Kat asked.
“We’re telling you now,” Mr. Smyth said. “We don’t want to cause trouble. The firm sent someone over to pick up his laptop and any sensitive business documents, so perhaps they were a little overzealous.”
Adam raised his eyebrows. “Capital Investment Partners sent someone? Before or after the initial police response?”
“Before, I believe. We arrived as Henry’s body was being removed, and the police officers were still here gathering the things they needed. They said they had all the items and forensic data they needed and that since it wasn’t a crime scene that we were free to tidy up. No one has been since.”
They moved into a modern kitchen, all gleaming stainless steel appliances, and granite benchtops. Adam’s eyes settled for a moment on the extensive wine rack nestled beneath the windows along one wall. A teapot and white china cups with matching saucers sat on a tray at one end of the breakfast bar. Mrs. Smyth waved her hand, indicating that they should sit down. She poured the tea and offered them lemon slices, sugar, and milk from matching dishes. Adam watched as Kat perched on a stool and admired the view across the river in one direction to St Paul’s Cathedral and the other around the curve in the river to the Tower of London.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Mr. Smyth said. “You should see it all lit up at night.”
Kat murmured her agreement, and thanks for the tea. When she reached for her cup, Adam noticed Mrs. Smyth’s eyes widen a fraction before a look of sympathy settled on her face. Kat did not indicate that she saw the reaction. Given her response in the taxi, she wouldn’t take any form of pity at all well, he supposed.
“Is this Henry’s only property?” she asked.
