breaking into a smile and walking jauntily out of frame, to reveal behind him in the shadowy space of the aircraft’s cockpit a second figure, a dark outline only, handling the controls.
Kathy woke to find herself alone in bed, the smell of toast and coffee coming from the other room. She found Leon propped against the door of the kitchenette, flicking through a paper he must have gone out to buy. The computer was alive and he looked as if he’d been up for some time.
‘Hi,’ he said, not looking up from the page. ‘Want some coffee? Your horoscope says you’re going to be doing some travelling.’
Kathy wasn’t sure, but she thought she detected a note of hopefulness in his voice.
They were making progress. She could sense it in the animated murmuring around the room as they waited for Brock to start the team meeting the following morning. As they each gave their reports it was apparent that everyone had something to offer, some suggestive little bit of fresh information, though where it all led Kathy still couldn’t make out.
First it was reported that Sandy Clarke had been asked for a new DNA swab, and this request had apparently been met with something like panic. ‘Went white as a sheet,’ the officer said with satisfaction. ‘Then demanded to know why, and when I said routine elimination he wouldn’t believe me, then said he’d refuse and call his lawyer, then finally apologised and did the doings. Something to hide, I reckon.’
Kathy described her conversation with Jennifer Mathieson, and her assessment of Clarke’s attitude to women. ‘But she reckons that they couldn’t have been having an affair without the office inquisition getting wind of it, so either they were very discreet, or it had only just started.’
It had not been possible to identify Clarke’s car on the tapes retained from security cameras in the streets near his offices for Saturday the twelfth of May. Statements made by his staff had confirmed that he was present throughout the day, supervising the team preparing for the presentation to the Chinese on the following Monday, although it was also said that Clarke had been absent for extended periods during the morning; he was mainly in his own office, according to his statement, working on correspondence and other paperwork. It would have been quite possible for him to have gone up to the Verge apartment during this time, or even to have left the building, if he had avoided the routes covered by the cameras.
But it was the group working under Tony, the Fraud Squad officer, who had the most intriguing material to offer. Tony stroked his notes with loving fingers and eased his neck a little in his stiff white shirt collar, with his customary air of an undertaker presenting his estimate of funeral expenses. ‘We haven’t been able to get access to his personal accounts as yet, chief. We should progress that today, with any luck. But a couple of things have come up that may be of interest.’
He cleared his throat, for theatrical effect Kathy guessed, as if he were about to offer a special on the oak casket.
‘We ran his name through the accounts we have had access to, and came up with two payments from him of ten thousand quid each, to the account of Verge’s daughter Charlotte, in July and August of this year.’
‘Mmm…’ Brock scratched his beard ruminatively. ‘Understandable. Helping out the daughter of his old partner. She’s had extra expenses lately with the new house, and a baby on the way.’
‘True enough. Or the money might be intended for Charles. But it does raise the whole interesting question of who’s entitled to what out of the Verge Practice. Talking to the accountants, it appears that on May the twelfth ownership of the firm was shared between the three equity partners, Charles Verge and Miki Norinaga and Sandy Clarke, in the ratio 45:25:30. Now only one of them is left.’
‘What about Charles and Miki’s successors?’
‘The firm had an insurance policy to cover the sudden death of a partner. But Miki left everything to Charles, assuming he outlived her, and so Charles now theoretically owns over two-thirds of the business. If he were to turn up dead, his estate-principally his daughter Charlotte- would have his share paid out by the insurance company. But he hasn’t been declared dead, so his assets are in limbo. Either way, dead or alive, Sandy Clarke effectively controls the firm one hundred per cent.’
Brock shrugged doubtfully. ‘By all accounts business has been terrible since the murder. If you’re suggesting Clarke had a financial motive to murder his partners, it hasn’t turned out to be a very smart move.’
‘Maybe that wasn’t the motive, chief.’ Tony’s face took on a look of cunning. ‘Maybe he had no choice.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The accountants are only now getting around to finalising the books for the last financial year, and they’ve come across something interesting. In the twelve months leading up to last May, the Verge Practice made a series of payments to a company that nobody seems to know anything about: Turnstile Quality Systems Limited. The thing that alerted the accountants was the size and number of the payments, sixteen in all, amounting to a couple of million quid. When the accountants asked the bookkeeper at VP she knew nothing about the payments, which had been authorised directly by Sandy Clarke and not entered into the monthly accounts.’
‘What does that mean, Tony?’
‘Well, this only came up yesterday evening, so we haven’t had time to do a proper check on Turnstile Quality Systems yet, but when we tried to phone them the number didn’t work, so I took a drive out to their address, in an industrial estate in Neasden, number 27 Poplar Lane. It turns out that the last building on Poplar Lane is number 25, and nobody around there has ever heard of this company. The accountants wanted to take it up with Clarke, of course, but I told them to hold off until they get the all clear from us. The possibility is that he was using a dummy company to siphon money out of his own firm.’
‘A couple of million? Surely someone would have noticed?’
‘VP authorised well over a billion in payments to contractors last year, chief, and their own profits were very healthy. The invoices were VAT exempt, apparently, so there was no discrepancy in the VAT returns. They were bound to surface eventually, of course, but by then Sandy Clarke was the only partner left to worry about it.’
They discussed what they should do next, Brock allocated tasks and the meeting broke up. As she was leaving, Kathy found that she had a text message on her phone, postponing the committee meeting until the following Monday. Her first reaction was relief that she would have time to work with the team on the Verge case, but then irritation as she realised that all the important jobs had now been allocated. She hurried over to Brock and explained the situation.
‘Oh, that’s good, Kathy,’ he said, sounding preoccupied and not overjoyed. She felt marginal, hanging around on the edges. ‘And how is the committee going? I haven’t had a chance to talk to you.’
‘Pretty hopeless. Apart from a day’s workshop on gay rights, we’ve spent the whole time quarrelling about who should be chair.’
‘Maybe you should step in and take over.’ He smiled at the idea. ‘Yes, why not? This may be your opportunity.’
‘I’d rather quit and work on the case full time. Is there anything interesting I can do today?’
‘Interesting? Well…’ he consulted the sheaf of papers on his clipboard, ‘… there’s a lot that needs doing. There’s a list of car numbers from the CCTV cameras needs checking…’ He caught the look that crossed her face and stopped. ‘Or… well, how do you fancy a trip up to Peterborough? That’s where the couple live who thought they saw Verge in Barcelona on the Monday after the murder. We haven’t reinterviewed them yet. It’s always possible they may remember something else.’
A very long shot, Kathy thought, but better that than another list. So the horoscope in the paper had been right. She hid her disappointment and took the details. After a couple of phone calls she had set up meetings with the couple and made for the door, passing Tony and his fraud team. DI Bren Gurney was with them, chuckling at a joke someone had cracked. He looked alert and cheerful in the unfamiliar company of the Fraud Squad officers, and Kathy thought, that’s where I should be, I’ve worked with SO6 before, then told herself not to be petty. She took the tube to Finchley to pick up her little red Renault and headed for the Great North Road.
Weaving among the trucks thundering north out of London on the A1 motorway, Kathy experienced a familiar sense of anticipation, of heading towards a foreign country, the one to which she and her mother had moved after her father died-the strange and intimidating Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire where, after her mother, too, had passed away, she had been taken in by her aunt and uncle. She thought guiltily that it was some time since she’d been up to see them, elderly now and frail in their little Sheffield terrace house. From Peterborough she’d be halfway there; she considered continuing north after she’d seen the McNeils, then dismissed the idea.
She followed the directions Audrey McNeil had given her, turning off the A1 at the first Peterborough sign and coming to an area of new detached houses on the outskirts of the city. From the welcome that Mrs McNeil gave her,
