Carol hated that Vanessa read her so well. Maybe Tony’s gift of empathy had an element of heredity, she thought wryly. ‘If the police haven’t found him, it can’t be that straightforward,’ she said, hedging on a commitment.
‘They don’t know what I know,’ Vanessa said. ‘I didn’t tell them everything. Because I knew you’d be doing my legwork. Harrison Gardner has a ready-made bolthole. And it’s not in some distant tax haven without an extradition treaty. It’s right here in the UK.’
‘Why would he stay in the UK when the police are looking for him? That makes no sense.’
‘Because they won’t find any tracks when they investigate flight manifests or passport controls. He’s not the sort of criminal who knows people who can fit him up with a fake ID. He’ll have to bide his time before he can make his exit . . . ’
In spite of herself, Carol was intrigued. ‘So how has he done it? And how do you know so much about it?’
‘We were having a little drink one evening and he was talking about tax shelters. He told me he’d set up a trust in the name of his son when the boy was just a baby. He deliberately failed to mention its existence to the boy or his mother, just salted money away whenever he had any to spare. He used some of it to buy a cottage in Northumberland in the name of the trust, he told me. One of those picture postcard coastal villages that’s been hollowed out by holiday homes, where there aren’t enough locals left to pay much attention to who comes and goes. He told me he’d go there on his own every few weeks for a night or two. Shouldn’t be too hard to find for someone with your talents. A holiday cottage that never has any holiday lets.’
It wasn’t much to go on. ‘And that’s it? That’s the crucial information you held back from the Serious Fraud Office? It’s a lot of maybes.’ Carol repaid Vanessa’s sneer with one of her own.
‘Are you going to do it?’
The one thing Carol wanted in her life right now was a bridge back to Tony. He’d said he wasn’t asking her to help Vanessa, but if that was going to protect him from the dark side of the media and the internet trolls who loved to hate, surely he’d have to accept she’d done the right thing? That she’d made the first down-payment on the debt she owed him? ‘There’s not much chance of success, based on what you’ve given me. But I’ll take a look.’
‘Good girl. There’s more. I just didn’t want to give you enough for you to go after the cash on your own account.’
Carol shook her head scornfully ‘You are a piece of work. I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything you have to sell.’
Vanessa raised one shoulder in a tiny shrug. ‘Everybody wants more than they have. Why should you be any different? The son is seventeen now. So you know roughly when the trust bought the property. He told me it had a view of Holy Island, so that narrows it down.’ She stood up and pulled a file of papers from her bag. ‘I made copies of all the statements and correspondence. I don’t see anything of any use there. But you might. Call me when you’ve got some news.’ She dropped the folder on a side table as she passed. ‘Make it soon, though. I’m not a patient woman. But you probably worked that out for yourself.’
9
Most murders are spontaneous. They usually involve drink or drugs and they’re solved by the first police officer on the scene. The most challenging homicides are the ones that have been planned in advance. It’s not the killing itself that is the hard part, at least not in practical terms. There are many relatively easy ways to kill another human being. The hard part is disposing successfully of the body so that it doesn’t turn up like Banquo’s ghost, pointing an accusing finger at the killer.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
For once, Paula and her partner had sat down to breakfast with Torin, their teenage ward. Between the irregular demands of Elinor’s job as an A&E consultant, Paula’s unpredictable hours and Torin’s weekend lie-ins, they seldom managed a communal breakfast more than once a week. Paula celebrated by making scrambled eggs and mushrooms for everyone. Torin manned the toaster, producing a pile of perfectly browned granary slices dripping in butter. In the background, the radio muttered and Elinor quizzed Torin about the progress of his A level studies in Politics, History and Philosophy.
‘We’re doing free will just now,’ Torin said, dumping a plate of toast on the table. ‘It doesn’t actually exist, really.’
‘What do you mean? Of course it exists,’ Elinor protested.
‘Well, does it? Why do you make the choices you do?’
‘Because they seem best to me in the circumstances.’
‘Exactly. So you’ve not got free will, because you make your choices according to the situation and according to who you—’
‘Ssh, quiet a minute, please,’ Paula cut in. ‘Let me listen to this.’
‘ . . . at a former girls’ home in Bradesden, on the outskirts of Bradfield,’ the slightly breathless radio reporter announced. ‘According to police sources, there could be as many as thirty sets of human remains in unmarked graves. The home, run by a Catholic order of nuns, was closed down just over five years ago. The convent and the grounds were sold to a property development company whose workers made the gruesome discovery yesterday when they began to clear the grounds. More on our main bulletin in half an hour.’
‘Crikey,’ Elinor said.
‘Wow. Killer nuns,’ Torin mumbled through a mouthful of toast. ‘I thought that only happened in crap horror movies. Will you get sent out on that, Paula?’
She shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t think so.’ She poured a cup of tea. ‘It’s not really the
