DCI Ryan 06 Cragside

by L. J. Ross

  “And?” Ryan wasn’t one to waste words.

  “Henderson made a large withdrawal last week, which roughly matches the amount paid into Victor Swann’s current account shortly afterward.”

  They had arrived outside the rental cottage but Ryan and Anna remained seated in the car until the conversation ended.

  “Frank? Tell the lab to put a rush on testing the DNA sample belonging to Martin Henderson.”

  “MacKenzie’s already told them to do that very thing.”

  Ryan smiled appreciatively.

  “Quick off the mark.”

  “We’re looking at the bloke’s paperwork now,” Phillips continued. “He’s got some company listed as his former employer but, funnily enough, I don’t see anything listed on Companies House. The contact details he’s given don’t match up either.”

  “You think he’s fudged the details on his CV to get the job?”

  “Aye, that’s what I reckon. Schmoozed his way into it because they’re a rich old couple and he wants to get his sticky fingers on some of their dosh. I wonder what he’s been fiddling, while their backs have been turned.”

  Ryan weighed their options as he stared out the windscreen at the ornamental gardens.

  “We’ll give it a few more hours to see if anything else comes through from Faulkner or the bank but, first thing tomorrow morning, we’re bringing him in.”

  Phillips gave a satisfied grunt.

  “I’ll be up with the larks.”

  “In the meantime, I want eyes on him throughout the night. I saw him tearing out of the estate driveway less than fifteen minutes ago and I don’t trust him not to rabbit off the estate and hole himself up on the Costa del Sol.”

  “Consider it done.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Martin Henderson swerved his car to the side of the road, drawing an angry peal of abuse and a loud honk from the unfortunate driver behind. Ignoring them, he craned his neck to see if Ryan was following him but the road was empty.

  He turned back to the wheel and closed his eyes.

  It was not supposed to be like this.

  When he’d taken the job at Cragside, it had been with only one goal in mind and that was to make money. He didn’t care how he did it, although he preferred fast jobs rather than the cons that took months or years. He wasn’t a spring chicken and he had plans to retire after one last big flurry.

  Henderson was long past feeling guilty about his profession; if you grew up poor enough, hungry enough, you started to feel like you were entitled to the kind of wealth other people had at their fingertips.

  Money makes money, his school teacher had said. Work hard and you’ll get there in the end.

  Henderson sneered at the memory.

  Spend his life scrimping and saving, begging for chances, working his fingers to the bone? There had to be an easier way.

  Eventually, he’d found it.

  Or, perhaps, it had found him.

  Either way, he’d taken to crime like a duck to water. In the early days, he’d worked alone but he had since learned to appreciate the benefits of having a business partner.

  Conscious that he was keeping them waiting, Henderson looked at the clock on the dashboard and checked the rear-view mirror one last time.

  Time to plan his exit strategy.

  * * *

  Dusk was falling as Ryan made his way through the trees to pay his last visit of the evening. His shoes crunched lightly against the pathway while he listened to nightjars churring in the trees and foxes rustling somewhere in the shadows. As the iron bridge came into view, he could see the police boundary line had been removed and he knew that Faulkner’s team had completed their work. He paused for a moment to look down into the burn below, imagining how Alice Chapman must have felt in the moments before she was thrown.

  Terrified.

  Ryan’s knuckles gleamed white against the iron railing as he imagined gripping Henderson’s scrawny neck and he thrust away from the edge with a sharp sound of annoyance. In the morning, he would squeeze the estate manager, metaphorically speaking of course, and it was a cheerful thought.

  Ryan turned away and carried on toward the main house, looking up at its high walls with a kind of reverence.

  What mysteries did those walls conceal?

  Cragside had spent over a hundred years hidden among the trees like a mythical elven castle and now it was a living museum for an unconventional old couple with more money than they could spend in one lifetime. At first, he’d wondered why—why live in the past, when the world was striding forward?

  During the last four months spent living on the estate, he’d come to appreciate that there was a comforting nostalgia to life at Cragside. Those who lived inside its otherworldly bubble could pretend the horrors and afflictions of modern life did not affect them.

  But they were wrong.

  A killer walked among them now, bursting the protective bubble and dragging them all brutishly back to reality. He walked among them without conscience and Ryan recognised the type because he had seen it many times before. It was cold-blooded, motivated only by self-interest and not by any of the animalistic urges or psychosexual disorders that had defined a man like The Hacker.

  For Martin Henderson, it was purely business.

  As Ryan reached up to tug the old brass bell beside the front door, he had to wonder which was worse: a person who killed violently because their victim represented something important to them; or a person who killed coldly and dispassionately because their victim represented nothing at all except a means to an end.

  * * *

  When Cassandra Gilbert opened the door, it looked as if she had aged ten years since he had first met her at the party on Saturday night. Her eyes were tired and, although she had been unwell, he suspected that her insomnia had nothing to do with a flu virus. “Mrs Gilbert, I’m sorry to disturb you but I wonder if I might have a word in private?”

  Ryan had been trained to observe body language. Right now, with her shoulders hunched in defeat and her eyes downcast, he knew immediately that Cassandra understood why he had come.

  “Do we—do we have to talk about it?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid we do.”

  As he stepped inside the hallway, he made a discreet survey.

  “Is your husband at home this evening?”

  “Lionel is reading in the library,” she told him. “We could sit in one of the other rooms?”

  She raised hopeful eyes.

  “Yes, that would be fine.”

  He followed her through to a smaller morning room and waited as she turned on a couple of side lamps, bathing the room in a sepia light.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  She stood beside the door, fiddling with her wedding ring.

  “No, thank you. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  She nodded and closed the door with a soft click.

  Ryan waited until she had seated herself in one of the chintzy armchairs and then took one opposite, noticing for the first time how much of an anachronism she looked amid the Victorian décor when dressed in her normal clothing. Today, she wore classy beige linen slacks and a cream silk shirt over comfortable-looking sandals, rather than a heavy taffeta dress and bustle.

  There was a short pause during which the mantel clock chimed seven-thirty.

  “What did you want to speak to me about?”

  Ryan prepared to bite the bullet.

  “I suspect you know what I’ve come to talk about, Cassandra. We found some intimate photographs of you while conducting a search of Victor’s home and possessions.”

  She looked down at her hands and Ryan felt no better than the ungentlemanly cad he’d played in The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Duchess. It was unchivalrous to question a lady’s private affairs, especially when the lady in question was old enough to be his grandmother.

  Unfortunately, his work was peppered with uncomfortable moments like these.

  “Oh?
” Her voice quivered. “What kind of photographs?”

  “Cassandra,” his voice held a warning, now. “Lying to the police is a serious matter. Remember, I was aware of these photographs two days ago but I’m only asking you about them now because they may have some bearing on our investigation.”

  She realised she had underestimated him.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “I hadn’t realised.”

  “Unless the evidence pertains to an investigation, it isn’t any of my business.”

  “Thank you,” she said again. “If I tell you what happened, will you tell my husband?”

  Sticky ground, he thought.

  “Unless the information you give me will require you to give evidence at trial, I see no need for your husband to become aware of it.” He paused and waited until she looked him in the eye. “This is an informal discussion but please understand that whatever you do tell me may later be used in evidence.”

  He recited the standard caution.

  “I understand,” she nodded, clearly gathering her courage. “You—you know I married Lionel back in 1998. I was a widow after my husband died and left me with two children. It was a struggle for many years,” she remembered, looking down at the glistening jewels on her fingers and feeling nauseous.

  “I managed to bring the kids up and give them a decent life,” she continued. “You’re too young to know what it’s like when your children leave home and start their own families, but you feel bereft. It’s a lonely life, if you haven’t anybody to share it with. In my early sixties, it was getting so bad, I took a part-time job at a golf club because I thought it would help to fill the time. That’s where I met Lionel.”

  Ryan said nothing and his face betrayed no emotion but she read his thoughts all the same.

  “I know how it looks,” she said. “Lionel can be overbearing. He’s spent a lifetime being in charge and he finds it difficult to let go, especially now his health is failing. But believe me, inspector, he can be charming when he wants to be.”

  “But?”

  She smiled slightly.

  “You’re a perceptive one, aren’t you? Lionel spoiled me and he’s been so good to my children, considering his usual outlook toward people wanting a ‘free ride’. I’ll always be grateful to him for that. But there’s never been any physical chemistry between us; we married for companionship.”

  “It often happens.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “We get along very well and always have. I’m used to his moods and, I suppose, he’s used to mine. But I’m still a woman and, especially back then, I still had needs.”

  She looked up, as if she were expecting him to comment, but Ryan merely listened.

  “Victor was Lionel’s valet long before he met me. Victor had been with him for years. I don’t know how it happened, really, but we became friends. Gradually, that developed into…more than friends,” she finished, lamely.

  “And he took photographs of your, ah, time together?”

  “Yes,” she nodded miserably. “You must think me a very stupid woman.”

  “I think nothing of the kind,” Ryan assured her.

  All he saw seated before him was a nice, lonely woman who had been taken in by a man who made her feel desirable. It happened every day and the roles might just as easily have been reversed.

  “Anyway, this was years ago and at one time I was even thinking of leaving Lionel to run away with Victor.” She laughed briefly at the folly of her younger self. “Then I found out that Lionel had cancer. It looked very bad—stage three bowel cancer. He needed an operation, chemotherapy, a lot of care and he wears a colostomy bag now. I couldn’t leave him, so I called it all off.”

  “Victor took it badly?”

  “At first, but he recovered soon enough,” she said bitterly. “Within a couple of months, he was threatening to tell Lionel everything unless I gave him some money. I thought the stress might have killed Lionel, so I paid him off.”

  “When was this?”

  “Over ten years ago,” she said. “I’ve been paying him ever since. Lionel loves me, you see, and it would break his heart.”

  There were tears in her eyes now and her shoulders began to shake. Without a word, Ryan covered the distance and crouched down beside her chair.

  “Did you tell anyone, Cassandra?”

  She looked up at him with misery etched into the lines of her face.

  “Who would I tell? It would devastate and embarrass everyone concerned. I’ve carried it all these years, having to see him every day and be reminded that he was slowly bleeding me dry.”

  Ryan took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

  “Do you think Lionel knows?”

  She looked startled.

  “I—well, I paid Victor in cash from my own account. Lionel gives me a very generous allowance and never asks where I spend the money. He trusts me,” she finished, guiltily. “I don’t see how he could have found out, unless Victor told him, but I don’t think he ever did.”

  “I suppose you felt relieved when Victor died.”

  She thought of telling a polite lie but one look at Ryan’s face convinced her otherwise.

  “I couldn’t help but feel relieved. It felt like I could sleep soundly for the first time in over ten years, without the sword of Damocles hanging over my head.”

  Ryan nodded. It was natural enough.

  “I’d like you to give me copies of your bank accounts, if you have them. I will apply for them through the formal channels but you would save me and the investigation an awful lot of time if you would agree to hand them over.”

  She gave a small shrug.

  “What does it matter now? I’ve told you everything. Come with me and I’ll see what I can do.”

  They headed upstairs toward one of the smaller studies where she kept her paperwork and Ryan asked another question.

  “Cassandra, who handles the finances? I mean, the daily running of the estate.”

  “Oh, it’s quite complicated,” she said. “Lionel still keeps a tight rein on everything. Martin manages the estate and he has access to a sort of ‘kitty’ account to pay for things that crop up, but anything over a certain amount and he has to ask Lionel for approval.”

  She tapped her finger against her lip as she thought.

  “Maggie has access to a separate account for domestic expenses, so she can pay the cleaning company, the window cleaners and laundry services. I used to manage all of that, until it became too much for me and, since we travel quite a bit, it made sense to employ a housekeeper.”

  “Of course,” Ryan agreed, looking meaningfully around the gallery as they made their way to her study. “There must be an awful lot to manage. When did Maggie join you here?”

  “Oh, about five years ago,” Cassandra replied. “She’s been a godsend.”

  “How about the other staff? Does anybody else have access to ready cash?”

  “I suppose you could say all the heads of the estate have access to some money because Charlotte is signatory on an account to cover the gardeners’ wages and any outsourcing, plant buying and whatnot.”

  “What about Dave Quibble?”

  “No, I don’t think he has access to an account but he applies to Lionel for whatever funding he needs for specialist conservation of the house and grounds and he usually gets it. Lionel gave him the money so he could hire Alice to do that painting restoration,” she said unhappily.

  Ryan listened and thought that it was all fertile ground for an unscrupulous person skimming off the top.

  “I suppose you run everything past an accountant?”

  “Oh, goodness, yes!” Cassandra laughed as she unlocked one of the desk drawers in her study. “Lionel has a team of accountants he’s been using for years.”

  Ryan made a note of the name she gave him, then quickly wrote out a chit for the personal accounts paperwork she handed to him.

  “These are the most recent statements,” she told him. “I hope they help you.�
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  Ryan glanced briefly at the columns of numbers and spotted an amount matching one of the deposits in Victor Swann’s account. With any luck, he could eliminate all those payments made by Cassandra Gilbert so they could focus on the remaining cash deposits and their source.

  “Thank you,” he said, turning to leave. “You’ve done the right thing.”

  “I feel better already.”

  As he turned to leave, she called him back.

  “Chief inspector? Do you really think somebody is doing this for money?”

  He gave a brief nod.

  “Be careful, Cassandra, and remember to lock your door.”

  * * *

  Ten miles south of Cragside, Martin Henderson pulled off the motorway and drove along a darkened country road leading to one of the many scattered hamlets comprising the landscape of Northumberland. Nothing stirred in the streets; unusually, there was no village pub and people kept themselves to themselves. On the outskirts of the hamlet there was a large set of electric gates with a video monitoring system. Henderson stopped the car and got out to press the buzzer. The disembodied voice of a security guard came through the microphone and he gave his name, glancing nervously behind him as he did so.

  “For God’s sake, open the gates. I can’t hang around out here much longer, someone might see me.”

  The gates swished open on well-oiled hinges and Henderson accelerated through.

  He followed a driveway consisting of a long avenue of conifers, manicured and primped, leading to an impressive manor house at the end. At one time, it had been home to a family of local landowners but now it was the residence of an even bigger magnate.

  Henderson was shown into the house by a dead-eyed security guard who patted him down. It was the same procedure every time and he held his arms out like the docile servant he was.

  “Through there,” the man barked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the kitchen.