‘Let me have a look,’ Flanagan said, holding out her hand.
Murray brought the folder over. She took it from him and dropped it onto the desk with a thud.
‘There was nothing untoward,’ Murray repeated. ‘Not as far as I could see, anyway.’
‘That’s fine,’ Flanagan said. ‘I just want to satisfy my curiosity.’
She pointedly looked to the door and thanked him. Murray took the hint and left. Alone, she opened the folder, slid out the slab of printed paper.
A current account in each of the Garricks’ names, an ISA each, a reserve account for tax, as well as a general savings account belonging to Henry Garrick.
Flanagan hesitated for a moment, wondering what she was doing. What did she hope to find? She put her head in her hands and said, ‘Give it up.’ She had nothing to gain from digging a deeper hole for herself. Even so, she turned over a page and began.
She started with the tax-free Individual Savings Accounts. Only a few transactions a year. Into each account had been deposited the maximum annual allowance on the 6th of April for the last two years, and Flanagan assumed every year before that. A string of small monthly additions as the miserable interest accrued. Nothing she didn’t expect to see. Next Flanagan looked at Henry Garrick’s own savings account. Again, a series of deposits, no withdrawals. A better rate of interest, presumably in return for not touching the balance.
Now the current accounts. Flanagan started with Henry Garrick’s, tracing the tip of her pen down the columns of debits and credits.
A modest monthly amount from Garrick Motors Ltd; his salary from the limited company. Flanagan took a highlighter from the penholder on her desk, coloured each deposit a bright yellow. Then she ran a quick tally in her head; as she expected, the rough total came out well below the individual tax-free allowance. Henry Garrick would pay nothing on this money, and any more that was paid as a dividend would be charged at a lower rate. Plus it avoided National Insurance. She took an orange highlighter, found the additional payments into the account from Garrick Motors Ltd. A couple of thousand here, five thousand there. In every case, a dividend would be paid a few days before a larger outlay. A holiday company in one case, a jeweller in another.
Flanagan marvelled at the sums moving back and forth, the thousands of pounds passed around like loose change, felt the sour envy in her belly she’d felt standing in Roberta Garrick’s walk-in wardrobe a week ago. She banished the feeling just as she had seven days before.
Despite the apparent excess of Henry Garrick’s finances, they had a solid foundation. For every dividend taken, a percentage was also moved to the tax reserve to be paid when Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs came calling for their due. All very sensible and responsible. Taking whatever steps were necessary to minimise the tax obligation, and ensuring there was always enough to cover what couldn’t be avoided. Murray had been quite right: no sign of financial distress. Quite the opposite, in fact. Even the monthly tithe to the church was generous, somewhat above the ten per cent convention demanded.
But something caught Flanagan’s eye as she ran her finger down the series of orange highlighted dividend payments, turning pages as she went: beginning five months ago – one month after Henry Garrick’s car accident – a string of dividend credits followed by payments to another company.
Manx-Hibernian Investments Ltd.
Flanagan made another tally in her head. Not far off one hundred thousand bouncing through the account over less than half a year, even allowing for the percentage that had been set aside for tax. She highlighted the outgoing money in green then turned to Roberta Garrick’s current account.
Not dissimilar to her husband’s. She took the same salary from the car dealership – she probably had a token title of secretary or treasurer, and probably took over as director after the accident – and the same kinds of dividends. A similar amount to her husband’s paid out in tithe to the church. Flanagan took her time, not leaping ahead to the discovery she sought, highlighting the same transactions in the same colours. Then she moved back five months to a substantial dividend payment, £17,500. Two days later the same amount, minus a percentage moved to the tax reserve, paid out to another company.
Manx-Hibernian Investments Ltd.
Flanagan made another total. Just over a hundred thousand. She checked the total she’d scribbled in the top corner of Henry Garrick’s account. Almost exactly two hundred thousand going to what appeared to be an account on the Isle of Man.
She lifted the telephone handset and dialled Purdy’s extension.
43
Roberta snapped awake, sprawled on top of the sheets. Falling, still falling, she grabbed the edge of the bed to quell the sensation. Her chest heaving, terror ripping through her.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Oh God.’
She did not remember coming upstairs or lying down. She’d watched the news while she ate breakfast and drank coffee. After that? She recalled feeling weary, but not the decision to climb the stairs and sleep.
And what had woken her?
The thin glimmer of a dream remained in her mind. Peter’s hands on her, touching her, kneading at her body while his eyes bulged and his face turned purple. The smell of his dying while he still clung to her. Perhaps the dream had scared her awake. She hoped it was that and not the other.
But then she heard it.
The high keening cry. The calling, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.
Roberta pulled a pillow over her head, pressed it to her ears, tried to block out the cries. But they cut through, pierced her brain, so high, so loud, always, always, always crying. Never peace, never quiet.
‘Stop,’ she said, her lips pressed against the mattress. ‘Please stop.’
But it did not stop. Calling for her, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, the name she hated more than any other. Like needles in her skin, burning hot until she screamed into the bed, the pillow still wrapped tight around her head.
Finally, she said, ‘All right.’
She threw the pillow aside and sat upright on the bed. The crying did not abate as she got to her feet, it only intensified, little gasps between each shriek. Roberta went to the double bedroom doors, paused there, knowing the cries would be louder still when she opened them. And they were, so fierce that she had to clasp her hands over her ears.
Out on the landing, the cries echoed through the hallway. She knew the source: the bedroom next to hers, the child’s room, where her cot had been, the colourful painted walls, the toys, the drawers and wardrobe full of pretty clothes. The squealing, the Mummy, Mummy, Mummy came from in there.
‘All right,’ Roberta said, unable to hear her own voice above the crying. ‘All right!’
She threw open the bedroom door, let it swing back and slam against the chest of drawers. No cot, no colourful painted walls, no pretty clothes. The room had long since been redecorated, but no amount of paint or carpeting would quiet the child who still lived here.
‘All right, I’ll do it,’ she said.
The crying ceased, and she felt the pressure in her head ease. She took her hands away from her ears.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said.
She turned, left the bedroom, and went back to her own. The antique chest, the clean rectangle of wallpaper above it. Roberta went to the chest, opened the top drawer, reached inside. The picture frame cold and hard in her hands. She lifted it up, back to the wall, found the hook, guided the string onto it.
The child stared down at her, that sweet smile on its face, the baby teeth showing. Dimples and blonde curls. The loveliest girl, everyone said, such a wee angel. But they didn’t have to listen to it scream, tend to it day and night, feel it bound to her, tying her up, keeping her captive, promising to do so for years to come.
Roberta went to the bed, sat on its edge, keeping her eyes on the photograph. Always watching, it was, always knowing. Even when it was closed in the drawer, it could see.
She closed her eyes, remembered the sensation of thrashing,
struggling beneath her hand, and cold, the water up to her chin. Then stillness, a rushing in her ears, then under, tasting salt, then up, screaming help, help me, help my baby . . .
Roberta shivered, opened her eyes, got to her feet. Quiet now. Her bare feet padded across the carpet, out onto the wooden boards of the stairs, down to the kitchen.
Lunch, she thought. What will I have?
44
‘Look,’ Flanagan said, spreading the printed bank records across Purdy’s desk.
‘What?’ Purdy said.
He sat in his chair, Flanagan standing at his side, leaning over the sheets of paper.
‘This,’ she said, pointing to the first orange highlighted debit, then the green highlighted credit above it. ‘And this.’
‘Money going in and out,’ Purdy said. ‘So what? They had plenty of it to throw around, didn’t they?’
‘But look,’ Flanagan said, pointing at another credit, another debit. ‘These start three weeks after Henry Garrick has his car accident. Dividends from the company coming in then going straight out again. I make it two hundred grand in total over a space of five months. All going to this Isle of Man investment fund.’
‘So?’ Purdy asked. ‘It’s a tax dodge. All these rich bastards are at it. It’s a shitty move, but there’s nothing illegal about it.’
‘But don’t you see?’ She stabbed at more debits. ‘The tax has already been set aside. There’s nothing to be dodged. I checked with HMRC, and the percentage due on these dividends matches what was moved to the reserve account. Why would you set up a tax dodge when you’ve already put aside the tax to be paid?’
Purdy was silent for a few moments, then said, ‘Maybe it’s just some savings being put away.’
‘There are plenty of savings accounts they could use without going to the Isle of Man. Look, they’ve got three or four already. Why have this?’
Purdy shook his head. ‘I still don’t see what you’re getting at. Why would Roberta Garrick need to spirit away two hundred grand? She’s got ten times that in assets as it stands, plus the money the dealership brings in, and the stock they’re holding. There’s no need for her to move money away; she’s already set up for life.’
‘That’s right,’ Flanagan said. ‘She’s got all the money she could ever need, and the lifestyle to go with it. But what if she needs to run? What if she was planning all this five months ago, what if she needed enough put away in case something went wrong?’
‘An escape fund?’ Purdy said.
‘Exactly. Two hundred thousand would be enough for her to make a start somewhere else if she couldn’t stay here. Maybe she thinks having this money in the Isle of Man gives her some protection. Particularly if it’s been bouncing from there to somewhere else. If we can see where the money goes from there, we might be able to figure out what she was planning.’
Purdy sat silent for a moment as he thought, then he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t buy it.’
‘Get a RIPA order, sir, get access to the Isle of Man account. Then we’ll know for sure.’
‘I can’t get the order, I’m still involved in the case. It has to come from a superintendent who’s not attached to the investigation.’
‘McFadden,’ Flanagan said. ‘He can do it. I can put the request in today.’
‘No you can’t,’ Purdy said. ‘It’s not your case.’
‘Then you ask him.’
‘He’ll want to know on whose behalf. When I tell him it’s for you, he’ll refuse it. And he’ll bloody well be right, too. This is none of your concern. If Conn wants to make the request, that’ll be up to him.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Flanagan slapped the desk, walked around it. ‘I know there’s something there, and you know it too.’
‘Flanagan—’
She paced a circle around the office. ‘You just can’t be bothered with it, can you? It’s one more headache you can do without in your last week, isn’t that right?’
‘Flanagan—’
‘You’ve got an easy answer, and you’re going to let Conn tidy it all up, just so you—’
Purdy shot to his feet. ‘DCI Flanagan, shut your mouth!’
The ferocity of his voice stopped her pacing. She froze, staring at him.
‘Just who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?’
‘Sir, I—’
‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that,’ Purdy said, his cheeks florid. ‘A week from now, when I’m out of this shitty job, you can talk to me however you want. But this week, now, you will address me with respect. Do I make myself clear?’
Flanagan looked to the floor. ‘Yes, sir. I apologise, sir.’
He nodded and said, ‘Get out.’
She approached the desk, went to gather up the sheets of bank records.
‘Leave them,’ Purdy said. ‘I’ll let Conn go through it all. If he thinks it’s worth following up on, he can. I won’t say you’ve been chasing it. He’ll not bother his arse if your name comes into it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go and do something useful.’
Flanagan waited in the reception area of the General of Register Office.
Something useful, Purdy had said. She had gone back to her office and tried to apply herself to the reports being readied for the Public Prosecution Service, but her mind would not leave Roberta Garrick and the dead she had left in her wake. The Manx-Hibernian account still nagged at her. She wasted more time googling the investment firm, scouring social media, none of it leading anywhere.
There was still one thing, though.
So Flanagan had driven to Belfast city centre, parked, walked to the General of Register Office, and presented her warrant card. She had given Roberta Garrick’s full name, place and date of birth, then taken a seat to wait.
Less than ten minutes passed before the clerk came back with a C4-sized envelope. Flanagan thanked him and left the building, walked the five minutes back to her car, behind the Central Library. Huddles of red-brick buildings hemming in narrow streets, once bustling with industry, now mostly abandoned, some in redevelopment.
Once in the driver’s seat, she checked the rear-view mirror.
Two young men, baseball caps, hoodies, tracksuit bottoms.
She locked the doors. Hijackings had become commonplace in the city, young thugs taking cars – usually from women – simply to race them around the estates before burning them out on some patch of waste ground.
Flanagan turned her attention back to the envelope and slid out the A4 sheet of pink and purple within. She studied the birth certificate. All was in order. Born Roberta Bailey in Magherafelt Hospital, 15th July 1980. The mother, Maisie Bailey, née Russell, the father Derek Bailey. Nothing untoward.
She glanced back to the rear-view mirror. The two young men separated, each approaching at either side of the row of parked cars behind her. She looked in her side mirrors, made eye contact with one of them. He didn’t look away.
Flanagan set the envelope and the birth certificate on the passenger seat. Her right hand unclipped her holster, the other took her mobile phone from her bag. She dialled DS Murray’s number, brought the phone to her ear.
The young men reached the car, and they each tried the door handles. The one at the driver’s side tapped the window with the blade of a knife. Flanagan drew her Glock 17, let him see it. She smiled as he sprinted away towards the city centre, his friend still at the other side of the car, staring after him. He looked down into the car, saw the pistol, and followed the other, the soles of his trainers blurring as he ran.
Murray answered, and Flanagan holstered her weapon.
‘Are you at your desk?’ she asked.
‘Give me a second, ma’am.’ A few seconds of rustling and fumbling. ‘I am now. What do you need?’
‘Call up the electoral register,’ she said.
She listened to a minute’s worth of mouse-clicking and key-tapping, along with a few mutt
ered curses, before Murray said, ‘Right, got it.’
‘Bailey, Derek,’ she said, ‘and Bailey, Maisie. Magherafelt area.’
More key-tapping, then a pause. ‘Bailey,’ Murray said. ‘That’s Roberta Garrick’s maiden name.’
‘That’s right,’ Flanagan said.
‘This is DCI Conn’s case,’ Murray said. ‘I’m not sure I should be doing this for you, ma’am.’
‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ Flanagan said.
Another pause, then the key-tapping resumed. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ve got an address in Moneymore. Are you ready?’
Flanagan pulled the notepad and pen from her bag, juggled them and the phone as she got the cap off the pen and found a new page to write on. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, and wrote down the house number, the road, the postcode.
When she thanked him, Murray asked, ‘What’s going on, ma’am?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Flanagan said as she started her engine.
45
The police arrived at Roberta Garrick’s home at five in the afternoon. A small group of them led by a middle-aged man who introduced himself as DCI Brian Conn.
‘Where’s DCI Flanagan?’ Roberta had asked.
‘She’s no longer working on this case,’ Conn had said, and she could see that he suppressed a smirk. In truth, she had to do the same.
The scene of her husband’s death had to be reopened, Conn told her, and a cursory search undertaken. He hoped she would understand, and apologised for the intrusion. She had graciously offered to make tea for Conn and the three other officers, and they accepted.
Murray was not among them, she noted. A pity, she thought. Murray was much easier on the eye than the group Conn brought with him.
So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) Page 21
