Authors: Bill Kitson
‘Do you believe Linda Wilson was involved in the fraud?’
Diane didn’t pause, even momentarily, before answering Nash’s question. ‘I didn’t believe it at the time, I’m even more certain now that she wasn’t involved. Somehow, it came as no surprise when you told us she’d been murdered. I could never equate the cold-blooded theft with the woman I’d worked with. I couldn’t believe the theory that she went along with it because she was besotted with that man Tankard. In fact I thought she was involved in a relationship with someone else.’
‘Neil Ormondroyd, perhaps?’
Diane looked surprised, the first sign of emotion Nash had detected in her. ‘How did you find that out? Even I wasn’t sure. And apart from her brother I was perhaps closer to Linda than anyone.’
‘What did you make of Tankard?’
Her reply surprised them. ‘Actually, I only met him once. He wasn’t a direct employee of Bishopton Investments. He worked on a commission-only basis. As such, I believe he didn’t report into their offices, except with sales. We rarely saw him.’
‘We have next to no information about him. Can you describe him for us?’
‘That’s not as easy as it sounds. Like I said, I only met him once. He looked like a typical salesman, if you get my meaning? He was medium height, certainly not tall, average build, dressed well, a bit flashy. His hair was brown, little ponytail at the nape of the neck, goatee beard, but I can’t tell you what colour his eyes were, because he wore sunglasses. About the only distinctive thing about him was his voice.’
‘Distinctive? In what way?’
‘It was a high, falsetto voice. It made him sound effeminate which was totally at odds with his appearance.’
Nash thanked her, and stood up to leave. ‘One thing I ought to ask,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘Is it Mrs Carlson, or Ms?’
Diane shook her head. ‘Definitely not Mrs,’ she remarked, showing some feeling for the first time. ‘I’ve never had time or inclination to become involved with anyone. My work is what interests me. Relationships are messy, more trouble than they’re worth. You know where you stand with facts and figures.’
After they had returned to the CID suite, Clara asked Nash what he thought about their meeting and Ms Carlson.
‘About the only thing of interest was her description of Tankard. That’s the only one we have, and it’s about as much use as a chocolate teapot. If you wanted to disguise yourself, I can’t think of a better way than a beard, long hair and sunglasses. Added to that, her description of his voice made it sound as if he was trying to disguise that as well.’
‘Why would he need to disguise his voice?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea. As for my opinion of Diane Carlson, I’d be interested to know what happened to make her fight shy of relationships.’
‘You don’t buy into the cold, hard accountant line?’
‘Not for a minute. I think she’s repressing her feelings, but that they’re present, under the surface, a bit like a volcano waiting to explode.’
‘It all sounds unnatural to me. She’s still young and not exactly hideous. In fact if she lost the glasses and wore her hair loose, I’d say she was a very attractive woman.’
Nash smiled. ‘If I’d said that you’d accuse me of fancying her.’
‘You don’t?’
‘To be honest, I haven’t given it any thought. Perhaps I’m getting old.’ He seemed quite offended by Clara’s laughter, which merely increased her amusement.
Viv entered the room and Nash changed the subject quickly. ‘Did Tom have any success with the mystery of Peter Macaulay’s car?’
‘He was busy, so I checked out the electoral roll for the address where it was parked and then handed it over to Tom. Her name is Hope Morgan. But Tom’s having problems. He can’t find her on any other records.’
‘That in itself doesn’t mean a lot,’ Clara pointed out. ‘She might have been born overseas. Or recently married, or changed her name for other reasons.’
‘I think we’ll have to investigate the woman, if only for elimination purposes,’ Nash told them. ‘In the meantime, Clara, I think you’d better explain what’s going on to Viv.’
The phone rang. Pearce picked it up and listened. ‘OK, Jack, I’ll tell him.’
He replaced the receiver. ‘Dean Wilson is waiting downstairs to see you. He reckons he’s found some information that might be important. He’s got Naomi Macaulay with him.’
After greeting the visitors, Nash asked Wilson what he’d found. ‘It wasn’t me that found it,’ Wilson said. ‘It was nosy Naomi.’
‘I wasn’t being nosy. I was looking for somewhere to hang my clothes.’ She blushed slightly. ‘It seemed pointless carrying them to and from York all the time. I’ve moved out from home,’ she explained. ‘I told my father and mother I was seeing Dean, and they went ballistic. There was a terrible row. The pair of them went on and on at me for hours until I told them to stuff it. Told them to stuff their money and give it to the chapel. Dad even got my grandfather involved. I sometimes think the gypsies must have swapped the real Naomi for one of their own babies. I have nothing in common with the rest of my family. I even have red
hair like a lot of gypsies.’
Nash hastened to change the subject. ‘What was it you found?’
Wilson took up the story. ‘A few months after Linda … disappeared, I was sorting things out at the flat, and in the spare room I found some cardboard boxes. They were tucked away at the bottom of the wardrobe. I looked inside and all that was in them was a load of computer printout sheets. They meant absolutely nothing to me; just ream upon ream of numbers. I’d forgotten all about them until Naomi mentioned them. Do you think they could have anything to do with why she was killed?’
‘Impossible to say until we can get an expert to look at them. Have you brought them with you?’
‘No, they’re a bit heavy to bring on the bus.’
‘In that case, I’ll let you know when I’ve arranged something and either send the expert over to your place or collect the boxes and bring them here.’
The hotel was part of a chain that provided comfortable low-cost accommodation. As such, it was ideal for both private and business users.
For Patricia Wain, who spent most of her working life as an auditor away from home, it suited her purpose ideally. Her room was comfortable, and once she had eaten her evening meal, she would be undisturbed, checking the results of her day’s work on her laptop, sending an interim report to the client and preparing for the following day’s tasks.
The location was unimportant. She could have been in any one of a dozen cities, the hotel would be the same and so would the work. At one time, location had been a problem, which was why she had left the security of her role within one of the major financial institutions to work independently. At least that gave her the chance to pick and choose her clients.
Sitting in the restaurant, Patricia remembered the events that had decided her move. It might have been something in the way the tables were set out, or possibly the waiter’s Eastern European accent that made the memory come flooding back. She remembered the cafe in the small market square of the town in Kazakhstan where she had dined. Two days after returning home, she had seen footage on the television news of the same cafe; destroyed by a bomb attack. That had been the last straw. She had almost made her mind up to resign before then. As an internal auditor, Patricia’s first task on entering a bank branch was to inspect the insurance policy, which should be kept in
the manager’s safe. In response to Patricia’s request on meeting the manager of the bank branch in Kazakhstan, he had laughed and produced an efficient-looking machine pistol from under his desk.
‘This is the only insurance I need,’ he asserted confidently.
Although shaken, Patricia was proud of her response. ‘And how will that protect you against fraud, or staff dishonesty?’
Despite this, Kazakhstan had been the end of the road for her. She knew there was no mention in her job description of either bombs or guns; nor did her salary contain an element of danger money.
Patricia’s thoughts returned to the present. The decision to strike out on her own had proved successful, more so than she could have imagined. She silently thanked the politicians who had drafted the Financial Services Act. The provisions of that piece of legislation had toughened the banking sector’s requirements, resulting in a huge volume of work for Patricia and others like her. Admittedly, the large institutions had their own internal audit teams in place, but that was neither a practical nor financially viable option for many smaller companies who were crying out for the services of independent auditors. That accounted for much of the work in Patricia’s full diary. However, there was one case in particular where she knew other, less straightforward reasons might be behind the urgent demand for her services.
The head of the company concerned had voiced his unease, but had admitted that he had no solid evidence on which to base his suspicion of malpractice somewhere within his organization. Patricia’s challenge was to find out if he was wrong, or, if his suspicions were correct, to identify where the problem was. So convinced was he that something was amiss, that he wasn’t prepared to wait for a spot check to be carried out at some point in the future by quality assurance managers from the banking authorities. Patricia remembered his words, and recalled the note of near-panic in his voice. ‘I need to have it sorted beforehand. The company must be seen to be proactive in this. We cannot afford to be otherwise. I am prepared to pay over the odds if you
will promise me this can be your very next job.’
The lure of a substantial bonus, added to the lucrative rate for the work, had decided her. As soon as she finished the audit she was currently carrying out, she would head north. If she put in some overtime during the evening, that would shorten the time-scale even further.
She finished her meal and headed for her room, oblivious of another diner who left immediately after her. A diner who followed her, taking the stairs instead of the lift, and arrived on the same floor at the same time. She didn’t see the man standing at the top of the stairwell, watching as she struggled with the key card. Once she’d closed and locked the door she was unable to see the man walk swiftly down the corridor, pause outside her door, noting the room number, before continuing to another room at the far end.
Patricia switched on her laptop, closed the curtains and began work. She was soon engrossed in the maze of figures onscreen and failed to notice the passage of time. It was over an hour later before something disturbed her concentration. She looked up, mildly annoyed because she had been making such good progress. It had been a sound, faint but definite. She looked round in time to see the door handle moving slowly back to horizontal. Patricia knew the door to be locked. But someone had definitely tried it.
Although she dismissed the incident and returned to work, her nerves were on edge. Eventually, as time passed, she forgot about the attempted intrusion. She had almost reached the end of the work she had to do, when she heard the sound once more; saw the door handle move again. She leapt to her feet, intending to fling the door open and challenge whoever was out there, and had actually taken a couple of angry strides towards the door when common sense prevailed. She was alone, and unlike the manager in Kazakhstan, unarmed. The lack of such an insurance policy decided her next move. She rang reception.
The duty receptionist promised to look into the matter and again at 1.15 a.m. when Patricia’s sleep was disturbed, at which
point she abandoned all hope of getting any rest. She took breakfast early, and told the duty manager that if the incident was repeated during the final night of her stay she would insist on the involvement of the police.
Although she expressed her views calmly and forcefully, Patricia was unsure whether the manager viewed them as anything more than the imagination of a mildly hysterical female. She was also unconvinced that he had taken her threat of police involvement seriously.
When the following evening passed without any repetition of the disturbing incidents, Patricia had all but forgotten the attempts to enter her room by the time she closed her laptop and went to bed. She had finished her report, and all that remained to do was present her findings the following day.
Exhaustion caused her to drop off within minutes of snuggling down under the covers. Before sleep overtook her, Patricia thought drowsily that it would need something in the order of a small nuclear detonation to wake her.
She was uncertain how long she’d been asleep when something roused her. Still only half-conscious, she listened for a few moments.
She sat bolt upright, her hand groping for the switch to turn on the bedside lamp, blinking in the sudden brightness. She waited, watching and listening. Eventually, so softly as to be barely audible, she was able to make out the sound of breathing: heavy breathing, laden with tones of sexual intent. Someone was standing outside her door. Someone with one goal in mind. The threat was unmistakeable.
The silence was so absolute that Patricia was able to hear the stealthy sound of footsteps retreating along the corridor. With hands that were trembling violently, she reached for the phone.
She explained the problem, her tone abrupt; the threat of police involvement explicit. When she had finished, Patricia sat trembling. This had not been a hotel guest mistaking the room or one who had taken too much to drink. This was something way more menacing.
‘Where are you?’
‘I am at railway station. Woman is waiting for train.’
‘Where is she going? Which train is she catching?’
‘She bought ticket to York. After, I do not know.’
‘So you can’t be sure if the frightening worked or not?’
‘She was scared. Scared and angry. She spoke to hotel manager and he called police.’
‘OK, here’s what I want you to do. Take the same train and try to scare her a bit more on the journey. Use your continental charm. When she gets off at York, find out which connection she takes. If she boards the train for Skipton, leave her be, because that means she’s going home and you’ve done the trick. On the other hand, if she takes the train for Netherdale, I want you to stay with her. It’ll be easy once she reaches the place she’s staying.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘The same as you did three years ago.’
‘Exactly same?’
‘Yes, exactly the same.’
‘Is all ready?’
‘It is. There will be a car waiting in the station car park. The keys will be on top of the rear wheel. I’ll send you a text with the registration number once you’re on the way.’
‘Where do I take woman?’
‘I’ll send you the address in the same text.’
‘Is place lonely, deserted?’
‘Very lonely, but you should know. You’ve been before. Why do you ask?’
‘Is better when I don’t have to use gag. I like hearing screams. It excites me.’
Ivan’s caller shuddered. There are some things it is better not to know.
It was nearly lunchtime when Patricia reached the station. As she waited to board the train, she was conscious that she ought
to spend the journey planning for the meeting she was due to attend early next morning. Her client had sent her some information which was now stored on her laptop, and she knew she should use it to prepare her work schedule. However, the disturbed nights had left her too weary, and she had virtually decided to postpone her efforts. If she could get a decent night’s rest, she could set her alarm for early next morning and still have time to do the work ahead of the visit to her client.
In the event, the decision was taken out of her hands. The train was crowded, almost every compartment being packed solid with football supporters heading for York and a connecting train to an away match that evening. Patricia knew that she would not have been able to concentrate above the din they were making, even if she had been fortunate enough to obtain a seat at one of the tables. She was lucky to get a seat at all. She sank into a window seat at the very rear of the train and sighed with relief. Almost at once, alongside her, the last remaining vacant seat was taken by a man of about thirty-five to forty years of age, Patricia guessed. He was of strong build, the sort of muscular physique that would quickly run to fat if neglected, and his features had a vaguely Slavic appearance.
As yet more passengers boarded the train with little sign of them being denied access, Patricia wondered if the operating company was exceeding its maximum load limit, or indeed, if such a limit existed. She glanced round at the other occupants of the compartment. Apart from the football supporters, who were talking loudly in a language that bore a slight resemblance to English, the other passengers seemed oblivious to their surroundings, and unaware of the existence of each other. Some were sending text messages in a seemingly endless stream. Were they all to the same recipients or did they really have so many friends, Patricia wondered. Several were listening to music on iPods, their lips moving in sync with unheard lyrics. Would a lip-reader be able to tell the title of the track? Yet more passengers were staring fixedly at the screen of their tablet PC, iPad or smartphone. Only a few were reading. Momentarily curious,
Patricia recognized the covers of a vampire story, the adventures of a boy wizard, the latest Ian Rankin thriller, and, despite the efforts of the young woman to disguise it, an erotic romance.
The journey seemed interminable. It was one of those services that stopped at every station en route, and rarely got up to anything approaching express speed. The compartment had been over-warm when she entered it. As the train continued its snail-like progress it got even hotter, even stuffier. The warmth, her exhaustion and the lack of something to occupy her mind soon combined; Patricia dozed off.
She began to dream. Instead of being on the train, her dream-scape transported her to home, to the comfort of her sitting room and her favourite armchair. She snuggled deep into the soft cushions, smiling at her partner Julian. He was seated on the floor alongside her, as often happened when they were in a romantic frame of mind. He was caressing her leg, his hands gently sliding over the smooth skin of her knee. As if in response to the implicit invitation in her smile, his hand moved upward, the caress became more vigorous, matching the heat of his growing arousal.
She awoke with a start as the train jolted to a halt. At first she thought that no one had noticed that she had fallen asleep. But one man all too obviously had. The man seated next to her had seized the opportunity to pay far too much attention to her. She slapped his hand, pushing it off her knee. He smiled, and Patricia felt vaguely nauseous.
Undeterred by the rebuff, he spoke quietly. ‘Beautiful lady, I would like to know you better. To know you as a man should know a woman.’ He accompanied the words with a gesture as obscene as his smile. The accent was Eastern European, confirming her guess.
Patricia was well used to admiring glances; used to men staring at her long legs, her trim figure, sometimes even seeing the desire in their eyes. That, she could tolerate, conscious of her beauty without flaunting it, but this was altogether different. This was skin-crawlingly loathsome. ‘Well, you’re not going to,’
she snarled angrily.
‘That would be shame, for so much loveliness should be to share, not to keep hidden away. It should be like work of art in exhibition: free for many peoples to enjoy.’
‘Listen to me, buster. I share it with who I want, when I want and that certainly doesn’t include the likes of you. So keep your filthy comments, your greasy smile and your oily, sweaty hands to yourself or I’ll pull the communication cord and have you thrown off this train and arrested for molesting me. Understood?’
He shrugged, which could have been a gesture of defeat, or possibly merely one of acceptance. Either way, she was relieved when he turned slightly away from her and leaned back in his seat. Her relief was short-lived, however, for his movement caused the front of his jacket to part slightly. With fresh terror, Patricia saw what was protruding from his belt. It was the hilt of a knife, the blade protected by a leather sheath. The size of the hilt suggested that it was a large knife: a very large knife.