Authors: Elizabeth Corley
Half a dozen searchers crowded the invalid’s room, and Fenwick went to stand by her protectively. He looked down into her infinitely weary blue eyes and asked his first question almost as a statement.
‘We’ve missed something. In here.’
Blink.
An abstract version of Hunt the Thimble followed, which left Fenwick and his officers staring in confusion at a blank wall to the right of Mrs Fish’s bed. He tapped it firmly with his knuckle – solid. Someone started at the other end, about ten feet away. When they were less than four feet apart, the tone of their knocking changed.
‘It’s hollow behind here, sir.’
They searched fruitlessly for a concealed way into whatever lay behind the innocent magnolia wall. With Mrs Fish’s permission, Fenwick called for the saw. Mrs Fish was wheeled up to the farthest corner, away from the noise and dust, and then the circular saw bit into plaster. Five minutes later, the officer wielding the machine completed his final incision and rammed his shoulder into the oblong of wall he’d carved out. There was a creak, and one of the corners fell inwards. Two more attempts later they were staring into a dusty black hole, big enough for a man to step into.
Fenwick took a heavy-duty torch and shone it into the swirling dust. The beam flitted off metal shelving and fireproof boxes. He called for a photographer to record the scene before anyone else was allowed to move forward. Then he and Cooper stepped into the void. Ten metal boxes were stacked neatly on shelving in a room about the size of a large broom cupboard.
On the third side was a safe that would have graced a small bank.
Fenwick shone the light up to the ceiling and found an entrance: a loft ladder attached to a hatch directly above his head. With a delicate gloved finger he hooked it down, then climbed up, trying not to obliterate any prints. The hatch opened easily at first, then caught on a rug that had been concealing it. He thrust it to one side and climbed up into Fish’s bedroom closet.
The officers numbered every exhibit in the secret room, photographed them, then sealed the boxes with police evidence tape and wrapped them in plastic.
‘Those are going to be opened in the presence of the Superintendent, and not before,’ Fenwick told Cooper, who looked bemused. ‘I’m guessing, but I think we’ll find financial records from Wainwright’s in those boxes, and I don’t want
anything
to happen to break the chain of evidence that links them to this house rather than Wainwright’s. That organisation has too much influence in this county for us to give them any excuse to interfere with this investigation and what we find.’
Before he left, Fenwick had the nurse witness Mrs Fish’s acceptance that she had authorised his search. The safe, suitably sealed, was being lifted out as Fenwick said his last goodbye to her. A little plaster dust had settled into her hair, and her face was grey-white, with the look of a death mask. Her eyes barely moved as he thanked her, and her hand in his was as light as a feather. He knew that he would never see her again.
Fenwick’s hunch about the boxes proved to be correct. When they were opened back at the station he discovered photocopied financial ledgers from Wainwright’s, starting from 1983. In 1992, the ledgers became Excel spreadsheets, and then, only that January, changed again into a new computer-printed format. The thousands of columns of figures meant nothing to Fenwick, and he stared at them with a sinking heart.
‘We’re going to need a specialist, sir,’ he said to the Superintendent, who had stayed to witness the whole thing.
‘A forensic accountant, you mean? I’ll talk to the ACC. He’ll be able to recommend somebody.’
‘I’m sure he could sir, but the best man to contact is someone who spoke at that conference I went to earlier this year, the one chaired by Commander Cator. Could you find some way of getting the ACC to recommend him?’
The Superintendent looked incredulous. ‘You ask a lot, Chief Inspector, but leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’
Ten minutes later, Fenwick was called back to the evidence room. A locksmith had managed to open the safe. When he arrived, it seemed that half the station was crammed into the evidence room, staring over the shoulder of a little man in overalls who was pulling open the door of the safe even as Fenwick entered the room.
‘Thank you. Leave that inside, sir, if you please; you can go now. And you lot,’ Cooper glared at the loiterers, furious that Fenwick should find them here, ‘back to work.’
He pulled on thin latex gloves and bent his bulky frame to lift out the contents of the safe.
‘Wait.’ Fenwick disappeared then came back with a
photographer
. Cooper raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
The contents of the safe were photographed and then spread out on a long trestle table: a strong box without a key; two thick manila envelopes; and a small leather-covered book filled with page after page of numbers arranged in neat columns. Fenwick recognised Fish’s handwriting and felt a surge of intuitive adrenaline as he flicked through the pages. He removed the small silver key he’d found in Fish’s wallet from its evidence bag and slipped it into the lock of the strong box. There was a gentle ‘click’ and the lid sprang open. Inside there was a diamond engagement ring and a lock of brown hair tied with green ribbon. No sign of tape number 10.
In one manila envelope he found copies of Fish’s will and other personal documents; nothing unusual or suspicious. The second envelope contained a passport in the name of William Herring but with Arthur Fish’s photograph in it; a driving licence in the same name; an open first-class air ticket to Sydney; and £1,000,000 in bearer bonds.
‘His escape kit.’
He picked up the air ticket. It had been issued on
twenty-first
February that year. Immediately after Alan Wainwright’s body had been found.
Fenwick stared at Fish’s photograph in the false passport and tapped it gently with his finger.
‘What scared you so much that you forced yourself through the danger of buying false documents, and contemplated leaving the wife you loved so much? Sydney’s a long, long way away. Did you think you’d be safe there?’
Cooper was down on his knees again, reaching into the safe.
‘Here, there’s something at the back. Gotcha!’
He leant back heavily, his face red from the effort, and handed Fenwick a black velvet-wrapped bundle.
‘I can guess what this is,’ Fenwick said as he unwrapped it carefully. A 9mm pistol glinted softly in the electric light. A box of ammunition fell to the table. Fenwick shook his head at the passport photograph.
‘So you’d even bought a gun. Fat lot of good that did you. There’s no point having it locked up. Here, Cooper, it’s not loaded. We need to log this and get it fully checked.’
The phone rang in the evidence room.
‘It’s for you, sir. The ACC’s going to be with Superintendent Quinlan here in Harlden at about six o’clock. When he arrives, they want you to join them.’
A new, more concentrated, regime had settled within the finance department at Wainwright Enterprises since Arthur Fish’s demise. Neil Yarrell had moved swiftly to fill the vacuum, installing an ambitious young man with new-born twins and a massive mortgage as deputy financial controller. Superficially, at least, things had returned to normal.
When the phone rang in Neil Yarrell’s office, he looked up irritably, annoyed at the interruption.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Yarrell, it’s Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick here, Harlden CID.’
‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’
‘I was wondering whether you could tell me how your late financial controller came to have one million pounds in bearer bonds in a secret safe at his home?’
Yarrell stared at the handset in disbelief. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. A dreadful sinking feeling dragged at his stomach, and his throat was suddenly dry.
‘Mr Yarrell, do you have a comment?’
The finance director swallowed in an attempt to find his voice.
‘I have …’ The words came out as a high-pitched squeak. He coughed and swallowed again. ‘I have no idea. Please don’t waste my time, Chief Inspector. How should I know what Fish got up to in his spare time. He had enough of it.’
‘Really, and there was I led to believe by your managing director that he was over-worked. Never mind. I’m sure the ledgers and accounts we found hidden with the bonds will help to explain how he came to be a millionaire. They are on their way to our experts right now.’
As soon as he had replaced the handset, Yarrell rushed to the marbled executive bathroom and was violently sick. As he bent over the bowl, he felt the blood drumming in his ears. Only one thing troubled him more than the news he had just received from Fenwick, and that was the imminent prospect of the call he was going to have to make to James FitzGerald. He doubled over and was ill again.
News of the find at Fish’s house spread through Harlden Division as Fenwick waited for the summons. By supper time it was the subject of open speculation in the canteen.
‘It’ll be a nightmare, mark my words.’ DI Blite was, as always, an instant expert. ‘These financial cases – terrible to bring to trial, expensive, lengthy and rarely successful.’ He chuckled maliciously. ‘Old Fenwick’s done it this time. He still has a high-profile unsolved murder on his hands and he goes and rakes all this up. He will
not
be popular.’
Blite was right. At that moment Fenwick was standing to attention in front of the ACC in Superintendent Quinlan’s office. He was in black-tie and it was obvious he was on his way to a function somewhere, which would explain his rare visit to the Division.
‘What the devil d’you think you’re playing at, Fenwick? You’re asked to deal with the fatal mugging of a respectable
businessman; instead, you go and half demolish his house and come back with some cock-and-bull request for a forensic accountant to investigate supposed financial irregularities at Wainwright’s! Are you mad?’
The question was not entirely rhetorical. Had Harper-Brown ever considered what his worst nightmare might be, it would not have been too different from the situation he now faced. Wainwright Enterprises was the financial lung of half the county, directly or indirectly bringing employment to thousands and donating small fortunes to local charities. The Wainwright family – now just Colin, Julia, Sally and Alexander – were still closely associated with the power of the family firm and held positions in the key local charities, on the council and, Harper-Brown remembered with a sudden chill, within his own Lodge. His anger intensified. Why was it always this bloody man who created problems where none should realistically exist?
‘A forensic accountant is out of the question. You’ve no grounds for suspicion.’ He raised a pre-emptory hand as Fenwick drew breath to interrupt. ‘Arthur Fish was the victim of a mugging that went wrong, that’s—’
‘His wallet wasn’t taken, sir; he’d been terrified for weeks before he was killed; he was followed on the night he died; and the prostitute he met was murdered within hours of his visit.’
‘Let me
finish
. His state of mind is only speculation, and the secretary who told you about it was incompetent and has since been dismissed!’
Fenwick swallowed hard. The ACC was uncannily well informed and it hadn’t been by him.
‘But the Brighton police found two thousand pounds in used twenty-pound notes hidden in Francis Fielding’s flat. There is a strong possibility that he was hired to kill Fish.’
‘That’s hardly compelling.’
‘Arthur Fish had a million pounds in bearer bonds in his safe, sir, along with false identity papers and a gun. Hardly the possessions of an innocent man!’
Harper-Brown was for once shocked into silence by the news of the contents of Arthur Fish’s safe. Fenwick couldn’t tell whether it was the news of the falsified documents, or of a
million pounds in bearer bonds just sitting there that had shocked him more. When he eventually spoke his words had their usual effect on Fenwick who tightened his jaw to avoid feelings of disappointment from showing on his face.
‘I don’t need to tell you, Chief Inspector, that these are very delicate matters. I have already had Neil Yarrell on the phone from Wainwright’s and you should anticipate an attempt by him to have all materials relating to the company returned.’
‘I think, technically, those papers were the property of Arthur Fish, sir. He was the financial controller.’
‘That is a moot point, as you well know. Stolen company property – which is what those documents probably are – should be returned to the owner on recovery.’
‘Unless required as evidence in a reportable crime, sir.’
‘Don’t tell me the law, Chief Inspector!’
‘No, sir. There are rumours, though, sir, and not just about Wainwright’s either. Kemp and Doggett are not well regarded in Harlden.’
This made the ACC look up.
‘Really? Why?’
‘Hints of something not quite right – you know, just talk at the golf club, but it’s persistent.’
The ACC hummed tunelessly under his breath and tapped the side of his chin with a finely sharpened pencil. Fenwick could almost see the cogs in his mind clicking into place. If there
were
rumours and he did nothing then there would be talk about police bias. That wouldn’t do at all.
‘Very well. You can have one week … I know it’s not long enough for a full investigation, but it should be sufficient to see whether a more detailed and specialist inquiry is needed. And I want the report to come to me directly, Fenwick. Understood?’
When Fenwick called to ask for the name of the accountant who’d spoken during his seminar, Commander Cator just laughed at him. A week was no good to anybody, he explained impatiently.
‘I realise that, sir, but at least give me an hour of your time to talk through this case.’
It was the best that Fenwick could negotiate, and a meeting was arranged for the following morning in London.