Exit Stage Left (Kempston Hardwick Mysteries Book 1)

by Adam Croft

  4.2 The shareholders agree that, upon the occasion of the death of any shareholder, the shares in the Company held by the deceased should be evenly distributed between the remaining shareholders.

  ‘That is to say, Mr Allen, that upon the death of Dave Spencer, you stood to gain the remaining fifty-percent of shares in Wellington Pharmaceuticals, becoming the sole shareholder.’

  Patrick Allen simply laughed. ‘Let me ask you something, Mr Hardwick. What is double bugger all?’

  Hardwick had anticipated this response. ‘That question assumes that the recent downturn in fortunes at Wellington Pharmaceuticals was irrevocable, Mr Allen. If you don't mind, I should like to ask you a few questions about why the company had performed so poorly recently.’

  ‘If I knew that I wouldn't be sat here struggling to pay my bloody mortgage, would I?’

  Hardwick ignored the question. ‘Mr Allen, would you mind if I had a more in-depth look at your company accounts?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody well would!’ Patrick Allen shouted, rousing the attention of the one other drinker in the pub. He then lowered his voice. ‘Look, all isn't as it seems. Yes, the company was losing money, but it wasn't down to any downturn in fortunes. Not directly, anyway. Look, you have to believe me when I say that I had nothing to do with Dave's death.’

  Hardwick said nothing, but gave Patrick Allen a look which requested that he continue.

  ‘The company had some problems, but not what you might think. Dave was a useless business partner, if you must know. Yeah, in the early days he used to put a lot of money in and helped the company get off the ground, but in recent years he was on the take more than anything. He tried to cover it up, but the fact is that he was nowhere near as shrewd a businessman as he thought he was. Holes that big in a set of company accounts are pretty bloody obvious if you're the one running the company from day to day.’

  ‘What sort of holes?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Well, more plugs than holes. I'd noticed quite a drop in the profit margins in recent months. Seems that a lot of money was going out to one particular supplier, a new internet marketing company that Dave had hired to try and increase our presence on the web.’

  ‘And presumably there was no noticeable increase in business to offset the costs?’

  ‘Well, no. But there's a jolly good reason for that.’

  Hardwick cocked his head to the side slightly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was Dave who had all the dealings with the company. Said he wanted to get more involved and this new marketing project should be his little baby. Net Marketing Solutions Ltd, they were called. We were paying three grand a month to Net Marketing Solutions at one point and seemed to be getting nothing for it. No increase in business through the website whatsoever. It was at that point that I did a bit of background research on them. True enough, they had a flashy website with details of previous customers, so I decided to phone a few of them and see what their experiences with the company were. I called two: an online gardening tools supplier and a drama consultant, neither of whom had ever heard of Net Marketing Solutions. Well, at this point I started to get a little worried so I went onto the Companies House website and searched for Net Marketing Solutions Ltd. The registered office was a faceless forwarding address in Regent Street, so I downloaded the shareholders' information. Guess who is the sole shareholder of Net Marketing Solutions?’

  ‘Who?’ Hardwick asked, humouring the man.

  ‘One Marianne Spencer. Basically, Dave'd been siphoning off tens of thousands of pounds to himself under the umbrella of this marketing company. Turns out he paid two hundred quid to get a flashy website made and twenty quid a month for a forwarding address, but the stupid sod didn't realise his name would be publicly accessible to anyone willing to pay a couple of pounds.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Spencer wasn't quite so clever after all,’ Hardwick said. ‘Did you confront him about it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He claimed that he knew nothing about it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Blimey, only a few days ago. Last Thursday, I think it was.’

  10

  ‘So what's the theory?’ Ellis said. ‘Charlie Sparks was on the take and knew he'd been found out so decided to top himself? Or that squeaky-clean Patrick Allen decided enough was enough and he'd bump his business partner off?’

  ‘I’m glad you said that, Ellis,’ Hardwick said, rubbing his chin. ‘There's certainly something more than a little creepy about Patrick Allen. He doesn't strike me as the sort of man who's quite as squeaky-clean as he claims to be.’

  ‘True, but I'm not sure if that equates to being a murderer. After all, surely Marianne Spencer is complicit in this too, seeing as it was her name on the company which was receiving Wellington Pharmaceuticals' cash every month.’

  ‘Ellis, have you ever tried setting up a limited company?’

  ‘Can't say I have, no.’

  ‘It's remarkably easy. Essentially, anyone can set up a company in anyone's name. A lot of company formation agents don't even request proof of ID. There was nothing to stop Charlie Sparks setting up Net Marketing Solutions Ltd in the name of his wife, Marianne Spencer.’

  ‘But surely business correspondence would come addressed to her?’

  ‘That's the beauty of it. Firstly, let's not forget that Net Marketing Solutions was a sham company and would have received very little in the way of business correspondence, seeing as it wasn't technically doing any business whatsoever. Any correspondence which was sent, of course, would have gone to the registered address of the company, which we now know was a fronting address based in London.’

  ‘Ah yes, but fronting addresses are only used to mask an address. I've looked into it. Your mail is then forwarded on to your physical address for a small fee.’

  ‘Incomplete research is the cancer of detective work, Ellis. The tiny, seemingly insignificant gaps only need overlay some vital piece of information and you'll find the holes open up to such an extent that they swallow any useful evidence we once had.’

  ‘What on earth are you on about, Kempston?’

  ‘You're quite correct that fronting address companies forward one's correspondence on, but a good number of these companies allow you to stipulate not only the address to which it is forwarded, but to which name it is addressed.’

  ‘By Jove, that's incredible. So Charlie Sparks could quite happily receive all business correspondence for Net Marketing Solutions Ltd, in his name and at his home address, albeit a few days later, without his wife, the company's sole shareholder, even knowing it existed?’

  ‘Quite. And I'd be willing to bet that all of the company's payments went into a joint bank account which either Charlie Sparks maintained or his wife had forgotten existed, thereby giving him full access to the cash.’

  ‘So what's the next step?’

  ‘Well, I think it would be prudent to pay Marianne Spencer another visit, don't you?’

  11

  Marianne Spencer looked far more like the expectedly devastated widow that morning than she did on Hardwick's and Flint's previous visit, her eyes red raw from apparent hours of sobbing. The cynic in Hardwick wondered if perhaps the tears were a knee-jerk response to the net which was now closing in on her, but he quickly shook that thought from his mind. Keep your head clear, Kempston, he told himself. Latching on to theories too quickly can be dangerous.

  The china tea set which rattled on the serving tray as Marianne Spencer trundled into the living room had clearly seen better days. It was either very well used or much neglected. Not a word was said as she carefully poured the swirling tea into each cup before adding a dash of milk and barely showing the spoon to the marbling liquid.

  ‘A lot of people say you should add the hot tea to the milk. Something to do with the milk cooling the tea that hits it rather than the tea burning the poured milk. I've never had any problems doing it this way.’

  Ellis Flint decided to ignore all talk of tea and turn instead to the questio
n of Net Marketing Solutions Ltd.

  ‘Have you ever heard of the company, Mrs Spencer?’

  Hardwick thought he noted a faint flicker of recognition in Marianne Spencer's eyes.

  ‘No. No, I can't say I have.’

  ‘Only Companies House have you listed as a director.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I don't know. I can only imagine it was one of Dave's businesses. He sometimes asked me to be named as a board member or account holder on certain things.’

  ‘And why would he do that?’

  Marianne Spencer looked expectantly at Flint for a few moments.

  ‘Oh, come on. Surely an intelligent man like you can work it out. Dave had a few different financial interests. He did quite well when he was on television a few years ago and invested most of his money wisely, as far as I'm aware. I mean, I was never really one for looking after money. That was always Dave's responsibility. But I'm fully aware that a few of his plans and ideas might not have made the taxman too happy if he'd found out about it. I presume,’ she added, ‘that we can keep that between us.’

  ‘Quite,’ Hardwick responded.

  ‘I mean, I'm sure the police have plenty of other avenues to follow at the moment, what with the suspicious circumstances surrounding my husband's death.’

  ‘Oh, I'm sure they do, Mrs Spencer,’ Hardwick said.

  ‘They? Surely you mean we?’

  ‘Do I indeed?’

  ‘Well, you're a police officer, surely.’

  ‘And whatever gave you that idea, Mrs Spencer?’ Hardwick replied coyly.

  ‘What? Well, I mean... Well, who are you then? I thought you referred to yourself as a detective.’

  ‘I did. But I didn't once mention the police.’

  ‘Is this legal? What right do you have to barge in and bombard me with a barrage of questions if you're not the police?’ Marianne Spencer was starting to become rather agitated.

  ‘We didn't barge in anywhere, Mrs Spencer. You may recall that you invited us into your house, made us a pot of tea — which, I must say, was very nice indeed — and voluntarily entered into a conversation with us regarding your husband's business interests. I don't see what could possibly be construed as illegal, do you, Ellis?’ Hardwick turned momentarily to Flint, seeking the high-ground through his rhetorical request for agreement.

  ‘This is impersonation! It's fraud! I'll have nothing more to do with it. Get out of my house!’

  12

  ‘Suspicious or predictable?’ Ellis Flint asked as they stood morosely at the end of the driveway leading to Manor Farm.

  ‘Suspiciously predictable,’ Hardwick replied. ‘Some might say predictably suspicious, too. Either way, we need to find out more about Wellington Pharmaceuticals' payments to Net Marketing Solutions. Hand over your phone, Ellis. I'll give Patrick Allen another call.’

  ‘Can't you use your own?’

  ‘My own what?’

  ‘Mobile phone!’

  ‘Don't be so daft, man. Why on earth would I want to carry one of those?’

  Ellis Flint said nothing and took his phone from his pocket and handed it to Hardwick, who seemed to be more than a little adept at using what he claimed was an unfamiliar gadget. Within seconds he had the phone to his ear and Flint could hear the faint buzzing of the ringing tone.

  ‘Mr Allen? Kempston Hardwick here. I just wondered if perhaps we might be able to have another quick chat. Yes, I know we left not long ago. Oh, she did? No, I understand. Thank you.’

  The call seemingly ended, Hardwick handed the phone back to Ellis Flint.

  ‘Well, that's interesting,’ he said, turning his head to look up at the bedroom window of Manor Farm. ‘Patrick Allen said that he had only just got off the phone to Marianne Spencer. Immediately after the door was closed to us, she was on the phone to him to warn him that we weren't police officers and that he shouldn't say any more to us.’

  ‘The cheeky mare!’ Ellis exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, no, she's well within her rights to do so. After all, we aren't police officers.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘A slight change of tack, that's all,’ Hardwick said in a staccato voice as Ellis Flint struggled to catch up with his sudden march.

  A taxi was hailed back on the high street, and Hardwick instructed the driver to take them to the Bunhill Industrial Estate, the home of Wellington Pharmaceuticals.

  ‘Are you mad, Kempston? Patrick Allen is already aware that we shouldn't be speaking to him,’ Flint cried.

  ‘And we're not. We're going to find someone else to speak to. Someone else who might have access to the company's records without having a vested interest in covering up Charlie Sparks's death.’

  On arriving at the premises of Wellington Pharmaceuticals, Hardwick and Flint made their way into the main reception area. Hardwick noted that no-one was currently occupying the reception desk — a fact he decided to take advantage of as he headed towards the lift on the other side of the room.

  ‘Where are you going? We can't just go walking around!’ Flint asked nervously.

  ‘Down to the basement, of course.’

  ‘Why the basement?’

  ‘Did you not hear Patrick Allen earlier, man? Honestly, you really must learn to listen. He referred to the accounts department being in the basement.’

  ‘I must admit I didn't pick up on that,’ Flint said.

  ‘So I see. The most pertinent points are often those which would otherwise pass you by. Never let anything pass you by, Ellis,’ said Hardwick, pressing the down arrow on the lift's outer control panel. As the doors slid open, he beckoned Ellis Flint inside.

  Upon reaching the basement, Hardwick and Flint made their way down a short, narrow corridor, the walls of which were adorned with a number of cupboards and cabinets. One open door at the end of the corridor led to the accounts department. The room was well-lit, and contained three desks, one of which seated a young man who looked up as the pair entered.

  ‘Oh, hello. Sorry, I did ask Emma at reception not to allow visitors down here today. Got an awful lot to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry. We'll be brief,” Hardwick said. “We've come about the death of one of the company's owners, Dave Spencer. We need to take a look at some records.’

  ‘I see. Do you have any ID on you?’

  As Ellis Flint shuffled nervously and started to speak, Hardwick interrupted him. ‘Well, despite the company's shortcomings, the security is certainly on top form!’ he joked, nudging Ellis to laugh along too.

  ‘Sorry?’ the young man said.

  ‘We only had to show it to the young girl on reception not thirty seconds ago.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Sorry, that explains why she let you down here. Just we've been told by Mr Allen that all visitors need to provide ID for the foreseeable future. Something to do with amateurs poking their noses in.’

  ‘Well!’ Flint began, Hardwick sensing his offence.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ Hardwick said, glaring at Flint. ‘Looks like we've got pretenders to the throne, eh? Do you have a description of these amateurs, Mr...?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Reynolds,’ the young man answered, rising to shake Hardwick's hand. ‘Billy Reynolds. I look after the accounts and records. As well as most of the computer systems. Company Dogsbody, some might say.’

  ‘I see. So, any description of the people you mentioned?’

  ‘No, afraid not. Just been told to stay vigilant. So, what can I do for you, officers?’

  ‘We want to take a look at the accounts for the past couple of years, if we may. Payments made, in particular.’

  ‘No problem at all. Anything in particular you're looking for?’

  Hardwick kept deliberately vague. He didn't want Patrick Allen getting wind of how close he may be to cracking the case.

  As they began to rifle through filing cabinets in search of the vital records, Billy Reynolds watched over them for a few minutes, seemingly unsure as to whether or not he should be allowing this and wondering how
his boss would react. In acquiescence to authority, though, he retired a few minutes later to the upper floors.

  The cupboards, and the files within them, were musty and coated with a thick layer of dust, belying their relatively young age. Computers, Hardwick noted, had a terrible habit of contributing to the never-ending flow of dust around an office. Barely fifteen minutes into their search, Hardwick slammed shut the door of the metal filing cabinet and raised a finger to his chin.

  ‘Nothing. Time for another plan of action.’ Hardwick headed towards the computer which sat proud on the desk in the middle of the room and nudged the mouse. A password prompt appeared on the screen.

  ‘Now, come on, Kempston. He didn't say anything about looking through his computer,’ Ellis reminded him.

  ‘Nonsense. You keep an eye out on the corridor. Let me know if you see or hear anything.’

  Hardwick tapped at the computer's keyboard, after which the password prompt disappeared and the computer's desktop filled the screen. He opened the accounts software and found his way through to the Supplier Payments screen. Filtering the payments by supplier, he very quickly discovered that a vast number of payments indeed had been made to Net Marketing Solutions Ltd over the previous months.

  ‘Eighty-five thousand pounds!’ Hardwick exclaimed.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Eighty-five thousand pounds! That's how much Wellington Pharmaceuticals have paid to Net Marketing Solutions Ltd, otherwise known as Marianne Spencer, over the past eighteen months. There's something very strange going on here,’ he said, as he closed down the accounts software and re-locked the computer's screen. ‘And we're going to have to take some time to work out exactly what.’

  ‘Just one thing, Kempston,’ Ellis Flint asked as he followed Hardwick down the corridor. ‘How on Earth did you know his password?’