‘What for?’
‘Nobody ever knew. It was only a rumour that went round. Lowther’s resignation had come as a bit of a surprise, so there was some speculation about a mystery illness. You know the sort of thing. In those circumstances, people tend to assume cancer. In fact, Mr Barrington was surprised to hear that John Lowther was still alive.’
‘See if you can find out what was wrong with him, will you?’
‘That’s going to be difficult,’ said Murfin. ‘Even if the rumours are true, I don’t know what hospital he was in. I might be able to get the name of his GP in Leeds from the company’s personnel records, but you know what doctors are like …’
‘The rumour must have come from somewhere, though.’
‘Office rumours? That’s like catching feathers. People put two and two together and make them add up to whatever they want. It’s the same round here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Murfin shook his head. ‘There was
‘Does he still work there?’
‘It’s a she. And she moved to a rival firm a few months ago.’
‘But you could find her, though, if you tried.’
‘I suppose so.’ Murfin paused. ‘Diane, surely we could ask Lowther’s parents? They must know about his hospital stay.’
‘Yes, I’m going to ask them,’ said Fry. ‘But I don’t trust them to tell me the truth. I want to make sure I have an independent account.’
‘I can’t promise anything. There’s such a lot on right now.’
‘OK, Gavin. Just try, will you?’
Fry seemed to have heard herself saying that far too often recently. Was she the only one these things occurred to? Or was she obsessing too much over irrelevant details?
‘Where’s your Bulgarian?’ asked Murfin.
‘C Division. He’s assisting on the Zhivko bombing, too.’
‘Busy man.’
‘When he comes back, I’m taking him down to Foxlow. He wants to see Rose Shepherd’s house.’
‘Does he know anything about her?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Murfin answered the phone and held it out to Fry.
‘Speak of the devil,’ he said. ‘It’s Boris.’
Fry took the phone. ‘Hi, Georgi.’
‘Diane,
‘Has something come up?’
‘I have to talk to you about the assassination of Rosica Savova.’
‘The assassination of who?’
‘The woman you know as Rose Shepherd.’
27
Standing in the sitting room at Bain House, Fry thought of the heaps of flowers and cards piling up outside the Mullens’ house in Darwin Street. Last time she’d been there, teddy bears and other children’s toys had been added to the pile. There was talk of opening a memorial book at the community centre. This morning, the local papers had been full of photographs of the Mullens, tributes from people who’d known them, and poems from children at the school Jack had attended.
But there was none of that for Rose Shepherd. No one in Foxlow had left flowers at her gate. No one had talked to the papers about her. Even Eric Grice had decided against that.
‘So who was Rose Shepherd really?’ asked Fry.
‘She was a woman by the name of Rosica Savova,’ said Georgi Kotsev, staring at the grey walls. ‘She had a Bulgarian father, but her mother was an Irish national, from County Galway.’
‘She could put on an Irish accent, if she felt like it?’
‘It might have been natural. We don’t know much about her past history, so which country she spent most of her time in is unclear. But she had been working in Bulgaria for several years before she came here. Our police department has an intelligence file on her, due to her association with Simcho Nikolov and Dimitar Iliev.’
‘What crime was she involved in?’
‘None that we know of,’ said Kotsev. ‘There has never been any evidence against her. However, Savova was connected with the wrong people. That in itself causes us suspicion.’
‘Did she have a job?’
‘She worked as an advisor for an adoption agency.’
‘And you’re quite sure she and Rose Shepherd were the same person?’
‘I noticed the photographs of her in your incident room. I wasn’t entirely sure then — I had to do a little checking.’
‘I see.’
Kotsev admired the TV set and the stereo. ‘What money did she have? You’ve examined her financial affairs?’
‘We’ve been through all her bank statements. Rose Shepherd had one current account and three savings accounts.’
‘But not much cash in them, perhaps?’
‘No, but — ’
‘It’s not surprising. Rosica Savova must have lived in Bulgaria through the time of the 1996 bank collapse. That was when more than a third of our banks closed down, and much of our money simply disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
Kotsev shrugged. ‘Who knows where it went? Many say it was sent to Switzerland for a holiday and returned after a nice rest. Like a faithful dog, the money came straight back to the pockets of the people who looked after it before, and those people became suddenly wealthy again. Our beloved credit millionaires.’
‘What has that to do with Miss Shepherd?’
‘Everyone who lost their money in 1996 also lost their faith in banks. Have your people searched the house properly?’
‘What do you mean by “properly”?’ said Fry, bridling.
‘Inside the walls, under the floorboards? The chimney?’
‘Why would we do that?’
Kotsev turned slowly. ‘To find her money.’
Fry took a call on her mobile. When she’d finished, she discovered Kotsev upstairs, tapping the walls of the main bedroom.
‘Good news, Georgi. The blue Vauxhall Astra we’re looking for was seen again in Foxlow last night. This time we have a registration number, and the PNC gave us a name and address to go with it. The vehicle is registered to a Mr Darren Turnbull, of South Wingfield.’
‘Is that nearby?’
‘Not too far. But we wouldn’t get there first, Georgi.’
‘We could try.’
‘There’s no point. DI Hitchens is already on his way there.’
‘Pity.’ He tapped the wall again. ‘It sounds hollow here. But it could just be the chimney. You should get your people back to examine the structure of the house.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Georgi. It sounds like a major exercise. I can’t see how we’d justify ripping the house apart.’
