Murder on the Hill (11 page)

“Perhaps he’ll come around,” Cordi said before biting off a piece of toast.

Cordi had given me a clean T-shirt, another one of her old band shirts. This time a Sisters of Mercy tour shirt. At some point I’d have to go shopping and get some of my own threads, but for now I was happy with what Cordi had provided for me. I liked the retro look.

As soon as nine a.m. came around, Cordi called the accountant and made an appointment for us to go see him at eleven.

With a couple of hours to kill, I gave Cordi another computer lesson. This time how to browse the web. It didn’t take long for her to find YouTube and cat videos.

Cordi’s face was a mess after crying with laughter at clips of Grump Cat and all the other popular videos.

The doorbell rang, interrupting her entertainment.

“I’ll get it,” I said.

“Take the gun,” Cordi replied, sliding the stage prop over to me.

It weighed more than I expected, and I wondered just how much of a stage prop it was.

Still, even if it was real, it wasn’t loaded, but an unsuspecting goon wouldn’t know that. Not that a goon would kindly ring on the doorbell. Cordi wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I placed it in the back of my jeans waistband like the gangsters on TV.

I approached the front door and peered through the spyhole.

At first I couldn’t see anyone, and then a shape moved into view. Alex!

“I’ll be right there,” I said through the door, unlocking the new locks and deadbolts the locksmith had installed. I’d broken into mansions with lesser security. I suspected this was Aunt Maggie’s influence.

“Who is it?” Cordi said from the hallway.

I opened the door, and Alex breezed in with a smile on his face and three cups of coffee on a cardboard tray.

“Oh, it’s you,” Cordi said with derision as she turned and headed back into the kitchen.

“Good morning to you too,” Alex replied, calling out after her.

“Hey,” I said, trying to be all casual. There was just something about him that made me feel like an inexperienced girl. All butterflies and awkwardness.

“Hey yourself. How you doing?” He looked over my shoulder, and his eyebrows squeezed together. “Why’s there a stuffed weasel on the floor?”

“I tried to hit Cordi with it,” I said. “You coming through, or staying here?”

“We could stay here,” he said, lowering his voice and flashing me a mischievous smile.

“Unless you want to feel the wrong end of a weasel, I suggest you go through to the kitchen. Besides, what are you doing here?” Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind spending some time alone with Alex, but I just didn’t know much about him. Given Cordi’s reaction to him, I had to take that as a sign that he was bad news—gorgeousness and charm aside.

“An update on Bellman.”

Cordi appeared in the hallway with an eager look on her face.

“What do you know?”

“Whoa, let’s have coffee first. It’s too early to discuss murder without being sufficiently caffeinated.”

Cordi sighed, and we followed her into the kitchen that was quickly becoming the command centre for operations. Even Monty had remained. I suspected that even though his eyes were closed, the beast was fully awake and listening to every word.

“Well?” Cordi said. “We were just heading out. What have you come to tell us? To leave the case now that your boys are on it? Just so typical of you and your buddies, running roughshod over—”

“Blunt force trauma,” Alex said, interrupting Cordi. “A single blow to the back of his head with a large round implement. He was found dead in his living room, his back to the door while watching TV. He probably didn’t even know about it. But whoever did it left no DNA, no trace of any fibres.”

“Security camera footage?” I asked hopefully.

“Nope. He didn’t replace the tape after sending you the recordings from the break-in.”

Cordi scribbled some notes on a piece of paper. “So why are you telling us?”

“Because we’ve no leads on this. It’s outside of my remit and the homicide department need all the help they can get after the recent gangland killings.”

“The what?” I asked.

“Nothing to do with Ivanov, don’t worry. Two rival East End gangs fighting over territory. Drug related. Four were killed at the beginning of the week. The chief’s breathing down their necks to get on top of it before it gets out of control. An old jeweller with no known enemies or suspects isn’t high on their list of priorities.”

“So you want us to do the police’s work for them?” Cordi asked. “What’s in it for us? It’s not like Mr. Bellman is going to be able to pay us as per our original agreement.”

“There’s a ten grand reward for information leading to the arrest of his killer,” Alex said.

Cordi looked at me. I looked at her. We both looked at Alex and together said, “We’re in.”

“I thought you might be,” Alex said, smiling. “You two seeing the accountant today?”

Cordi checked her watch. “We’re leaving now, in fact.”

“Good, you’ll get the jump on homicide. They’re still working up a list of suspects.”

“Wait, didn’t you give them the background on the case?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Sometimes things go missing. Sometimes, other people get an advantage. I suggest you take it if you want that cash.”

We packed our stuff and headed out. Cordi got into her car and fired up the engine. Before I got into the passenger side, I turned to Alex and reached out and gripped his arm. “Thanks for this, for helping us out, giving us the heads-up.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said with that ridiculously sexy smile of his. “Go, before Cordi leaves without you. And let me know how you get on.”

“Will do, and thanks again, Alex, we appreciate it.”

I know I did. I doubted Cordi would ever truly say she appreciated something Alex did. As I got into her car and she drove off, I watched him shrink in the mirror, all the while trying to deny my attraction to him, reasoning that if Cordi felt the way she did about him, that I ought to stay far away.

And then there was Cole.

Cordi turned on the radio as we headed for the accountant, and I sat back, listening to an old Led Zeppelin song, trying to forget about mysterious men and focussing on how we were going to get that ten grand reward.

CHAPTER 12

We found the building where we were supposed to meet with Gareth Smythe-Johnson, Mr. Bellman’s accountant. The place was huge and looked like a centuries-old hotel with its tall façade and many windows.

“Impressive,” I said as we walked under a royal blue canopy and through a pair of double glass doors. I was fully expecting a doorman dressed all fancy to greet us, but there was no one apart from a teenage-looking boy sitting behind an oval desk within the ornate reception.

“I’ll check us in,” Cordi said.

A pair of leather armchairs were to the left. Two businesswomen were sitting opposite each other, a bundle of folders and papers on the table between them. Cordi’s shoes clacked against the marble floor as she approached the glass and stone desk.

Behind the receptionist, a brushed-metal plaque attached to the wall had etched into its surface the names and floor numbers of its varied business residents.

While Cordi was explaining we had a meeting with Mr. Smythe-Johnson, I scanned down the list of businesses. I found the accountant’s name on floor thirteen. I ignored the ominous superstition.

I wasn’t very superstitious. It’s hard to be when you don’t have any trust in anything. I always expect everything to go to crap, so when it does, I don’t think it has any bearing on some spiritual force ordering my life’s events.

Although with Cordi, I could be convinced that there were such things as guardian angels.

“Third door down on the thirteenth,” the boy said, handing Cordi a pair of visitor’s passes. “I’ll call up to let Mr. Smythe-Johnson know you’re on the way.”

“Thank you, Stephen,” Cordi said, spotting his name on the badge on his suit jacket.

We entered the lift and pressed thirteen on the control panel. I said to Cordi, “So how are we playing this?”

“Well, from what Alex said, it seems Mr. Smythe-Johnson wouldn’t yet know about Mr. Bellman’s death, so let’s not fill him in on too much information. We’ll ask about their dispute and see if it looks like he’s lying.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll follow your lead.”

The lift stopped at the right floor and we exited, following the receptionist’s directions until we found a mahogany door with the accountant’s name written in gold lettering. I knocked twice and waited.

“C-c-come in,” a nasally voice stuttered.

We opened the door and entered.

Mr. Smythe-Johnson was sitting, leaning back in his leather executive chair. His greying, brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. A sheen of sweat made his flabby face glossy. His eyes were narrow and beady. With a pronounced overbite and large teeth, he had the look of a fat rat about him.

His shirt and tie were tight around his large neck, making it look like it was on the verge of strangling him. The buttons on his suit jacket strained to hold back the expansion of his pot belly.

Perhaps noticing my scrutiny, he leaned forward, hiding his gut, resting his elbows on the desk. Indicating two standard-issue office chairs opposite, he smiled. “P-p-please, take a seat,” he stuttered. At first I thought it was due to nervousness or a guilty conscience, but it appeared it was his natural speech pattern.

Cordi sat first.

I shut the door behind me and scanned the room. I suppose it was habit. Whenever I was in these kinds of places, I always looked for two things: a filing cabinet or safe, and the nearest exit. One could never be too careful or prepared in my old line of work.

The office wasn’t anything to shout about. I’d seen better. But it wasn’t tatty either.

A deep green carpet offset the cream walls. A potted plant dominated the right-hand side, and a door to the left led off to presumably another office. A window on the right wall looked out over a busy road. The same one we had come in on.

The large oak desk had the effect of creating a distance between him and us—a standard-issue power tactic.

I sat down and waited for Cordi to start the questioning.

Smythe-Johnson smoothed his tie and clasped his sausage fingers together.

“S-s-so, Ms. Silver and Ms. Hill, I understand you’re h-h-h-here on Mr. Bellman’s behalf. It’s tragic n-n-n-news about his wife. Is this about her w-w-will?”

His stutter reminded me of an old scratched record I used to listen to at one of my foster families’ homes. The father there had given me a box of Rolling Stones’ singles and one of those little portable record players.

My favourite song, ‘Paint It Black’, had a couple of scratches at the beginning of each verse that required me to jog the needle to keep it going.

It hadn’t always been like that. I suspected the father’s son did it on purpose. Eric, his name was. He took a disliking to me the day I arrived. He had jealousy issues and was a spiteful child. Fortunately, I was only there for a few months, but I can’t listen to that song anymore without my brain expecting the stutter and my hand moving to an imaginary needle.

“Not quite,” Cordi said. “Although I’m sure that’s related. As I mentioned on the phone, we’re following up on a recent break-in. Mrs. Bellman’s death may or may not be connected. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Smythe-Johnson leaned back and placed his hands on his rotund gut. “I-I-I… see.” His hands moved to touch his tie again, a sign of nervousness. He wouldn’t hold either my or Cordi’s gaze. “So what would you like t-t-to know?”

“What was the nature of your and Mr. Bellman’s recent dispute?” Cordi asked.

“D-d-dispute?”

“Yes, between you and Mr. Bellman. I’m led to believe he stopped using your services. I find it a little odd,” Cordi added, “that he’d do such a thing after, what, twenty years of you doing his accounts?”

He squirmed in his chair, looking ever more like a rat. “Tw-tw-twenty-two.” He took a breath and looked at me briefly before returning to Cordi. “It’s true. We did f-f-fall out.”

“Over what?” I asked.

“I don’t see how this helps with his b-b-break-in.”

“Just tell us, Mr. Smythe-Johnson. What happened? Did you and Mr. Bellman have an argument? Was it over money? Something to do with his wife, perhaps?” Cordi pressed.

He shook his head and stood up.

When he turned to face the window, something on his tie glinted.

He turned back to face us, and I noticed a pin on his tie. No ordinary pin. This was a little silver four-leaf clover with sharper leaf detail, just like the one the carer had worn.

This couldn’t be a coincidence. I was about to ask him about it when he noticed I was staring. He looked away from me to focus on Cordi.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing his face. “We d-d-did have an argument. But not about a will. There wasn’t one.”

“No will?” Cordi asked.

Mr. Smythe-Johnson shook his head. “She left n-n-nothing. Everything was already in Mr. Bellman’s name.”

“What about life insurance?” I asked.

“None,” he replied. “Th-th-this was the root of the argument.”

“I don’t understand,” Cordi said. “Can you explain fully?”

He paced back and forth behind the desk, nervously fiddling with that damned tie pin. I wanted to ask him about it, but didn’t want to break his concentration now that he was opening to Cordi’s questions.

“A w-w-week before the break-in, he came to see me. He emptied his ac-ac-accounts and cancelled his contract with me.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“He w-w-wouldn’t say, but I think it’s something to do with his d-d-daughter, Abigail.”

“How so?” I asked.

“The last job I did for Mr. Bellman w-w-was to process Abigail’s travel expenses from her trip to J-J-Japan.”

Both Cordi and I turned to each other like a bell just rang and we were hungry dogs.

“Was there anything out of the ordinary about that?” I asked, sensing we were on the verge of a break. The Japanese connection surely couldn’t be coincidence.

He shrugged. “W-w-well, I suppose. You see, Mr. Bellman and his d-d-daughter haven’t spoken for over ten years, so why he s-s-spent so much of his money on her trip, I’ll never know.”