Acts & Monuments

by Alan Kane Fraser

  “Exactly. And the times match. Remember there was that gap on the dressing table, like something had been removed? He might know something about that. Something that might help us.”

  “From where I’m sitting, we don’t need any help, Bones. Malford’s found dead in his own flat with a syringe in his arm. There’s no sign of a struggle, so I’m pretty certain toxicology will say that he’s died of an overdose. There’s no crime here, Bones. Let the coroner sort it out; we’ve got enough to do. Case closed.” He turned away and went back to his typing.

  “But he was the last person to see Malford alive,” Gemma said. “Surely that’s got to be worth taking a statement?”

  Molloy sighed heavily. “OK. I suppose we can take a statement.”

  Gemma clenched her fist and just about managed to suppress a cry of “Yes!”

  “But, Bones, that’s all we’re doing. We’re taking a statement – like we did with the little old lady from the flat opposite. We’re not interviewing him under caution; we’re not digging around. We’ll just see what he says and pass it on to the coroner. I don’t want you doing your Columbo routine. Understood?”

  “Absolutely. And, thanks, I really appreciate this.”

  “Do you actually know where he’s living at the moment?”

  “Yeah. I’ve checked and we’ve got a current address. He’s moved back to Chelmsley. He’s living in a flat at The SHYPP.”

  “Great. We can pop over tomorrow morning and catch him before he goes out.”

  “Oh, I’m in court tomorrow – for that assault outside The King’s Head. Can we go now?”

  “I’ve got to get this done,” he said, pointing to his computer screen. “It’s for the DV case. The one we agreed to prioritise. We can see Furst later in the week.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he snapped. “I’ve been trying to get this one through the CPS for weeks – I promised her lawyer I’d get it out today.”

  It was a lie, but Gemma didn’t know that. And she had indeed insisted that they prioritise the domestic violence case. So, having won the larger war, she decided it wasn’t worth trying to win a smaller battle too.

  Sixteen

  That Friday morning, Barry arrived at the office with a nauseous feeling sitting awkwardly in his stomach. The reason for his nervousness was the fact that today was the deadline for the submission of expressions of interest in the VR trawl. But there was something else lingering in the folds of his discomfort: a sense that there was something that he did not want revealed. It meant that, when he had made himself a coffee and settled down at his desk, the sudden ringing of his phone no longer felt innocent. Instead, it seemed to be sounding an alarm. He looked at the caller ID and a tide of dismay crashed over him. It was Sally.

  Barry took a deep breath and grabbed the phone quickly before it diverted to voicemail. Then, putting on his most amiable telephone voice, he prepared to placate the inevitable wrath of Sally Hedges.

  “Good morning. Monument Housing Association. Barry Todd speaking. How can I help?”

  But there was no wrath. There was no anger. There wasn’t even any of her usual brand of cruel sarcasm.

  “Barry? It’s Sally. Sally Hedges. I’m afraid I’ve got some sad news. It appears we’ve had a death last night, at The SHYPP. It’s Shana Backley – one of the tenants.”

  “A death?” Barry was stunned. “But how? I mean, what happened?”

  “Well, we don’t know the details yet, but it looks like an overdose.”

  *

  Gemma made sure that Molloy was ready to head off to The SHYPP as soon as he got in. She was keen to make sure that they caught Adam Furst before he went out. But, as they turned into the car park, they were both surprised to find it a patchwork of ambulances, police cars and flashing lights.

  “Bloody hell! What’s going on here?” said Molloy. “Is that Bongo’s car?”

  They found a parking space and got out of the car, just as PC Ali Khan came out and headed toward them.

  “Hiya Bongo. What are you doing here?” Molloy asked.

  “Hiya Fatty. I could ask you the same question.”

  Gemma felt the need to intervene. “We’re here to talk to Adam Furst. It’s about a case we’re investigating.”

  “Oh yes? Not a drug overdose is it, by any chance?”

  “Yes, it is actually” said Gemma, slightly unnerved by Khan’s prescience. “Why?”

  “Because they had one here last night. Apparently, Fursty spiked her.”

  “Spiked her?” Gemma asked.

  Molloy sighed. “Happens in prison all the time, Bones. Basically, its injecting someone with drugs – usually heroin – either against their will or without their knowledge. It’s a way of getting them hooked.”

  “But how can you do that?”

  “Well, in prison you can get some heavies to hold them down. In a place like this, they usually just get them plastered so they can’t fight back or they tell them it’s something harmless – like sugared water,” Molloy explained, apparently oblivious to the implications of what he was saying. “And that’s what’s happened here?”

  “According to the CCTV footage – and a witness,” Khan said. “Furst goes into the flat with two full bottles of what looks like Jim Beam. Comes out later with one empty bottle. Leaves the other bottle in there.”

  “Jim Beam?” A slow-dawning realisation finally began to find its way onto Molloy’s face.

  “Well, not quite. Actually, it’s nothing more intoxicating than cold tea. That’s obviously the one he’s been drinking from whilst she’s had the hard stuff. Looks like he’s given her a shot while she’s on the brink of passing out, but got his quantities all wrong. Poor girl.”

  “Have you got him?” asked Gemma, her voice betraying a sense of desperation.

  “You’re joking, aren’t you? He’s long gone. We won’t see him for a bit.”

  Rathbone and Molloy looked at each other. “Shit,” they said in unison.

  There was going to be some explaining to do back at the station.

  *

  At about the time that Rathbone and Molloy were heading back to the station in stony silence, Marilyn, The SHYPP’s part-time accounts clerk, was picking up the phone to call Barry in a considerably more convivial frame of mind.

  “Oh, hi Marilyn. How are you?”

  “Oh fine, thanks, Barry. Busy, you know, but I can’t complain.”

  “Glad to hear it! Anyway, how can I help?”

  “It’s about this invoice you sent through earlier in the week.”

  Barry’s heart skipped a beat. This was The Call. He felt sick. He wanted to confess – to blurt out, “It was me! It was me! It was all me! I did it!” But then he realised that Marilyn hadn’t actually accused him of anything yet. He reminded himself that nothing could be traced back to him and that, even if it could, he hadn’t actually stolen anything. In short, there wasn’t really anything to admit to yet. Not really.

  “Oh, well, I don’t have much to do with that, I’m afraid… But, obviously, I’ll try and help if I can. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, you’ve sent through the quarterly invoice, which Sally has checked, and everything seems to be in order. It’s just that the payment details have changed. Is that right?”

  “Yes, yes. We’ve consolidated our bank accounts a bit. We sent a letter out about it; didn’t you get it?”

  “Well, Sally did say that she’d been sent something, but she can’t put her hand on it at the moment. You know what her desk’s like. And she’s rather busy this morning, with the police…”

  “Yes, she phoned earlier… Very sad.”

  “So your account details are changing? Oh, well that’s a relief. I was a bit worried. You’ve got to be so careful nowadays.”

  Barry didn’t know quite ho
w to respond. He settled for something non-committal. “Yes, I know.”

  “I don’t suppose you could confirm the details for me could you – if I read back what’s on here? It’s just that the police are using Sally’s office for interviews so I can’t get in to check myself, and I’m supposed to finish at lunchtime today.”

  “Well, I don’t actually have the new details to hand at the moment…”

  “No, I understand. It’s just that, as the letter’s come from Saleema, I don’t want to phone her… just in case… y’know…” Marilyn left a rather awkward pause by way of explanation.

  “Oh no, I understand. No, don’t bother Saleema with it. You’re quite right, there.”

  “I mean, I’m not accusing her of anything, obviously…”

  “Not at all, no,” Barry said. “But you’re right to want to check.”

  “It’s just that it’s quite unusual for payment details to change. And Saleema… well, she’s new to this, so I don’t really know her. I’d be asking her to vouch for her own work, so we both thought it best to check with you. Just as a precaution.”

  “That’s fine. I quite understand. You’re absolutely right to want to check with someone else. So, yes, I can confirm that our bank account details have changed. You can quote me on that.”

  “Great. Just one more question, if you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I got a call today from a Langley Burrell.”

  “Really?” Barry was intrigued.

  “Yes. He seemed very keen to know when we were intending to pay the invoice. It just struck me as a bit unusual. People don’t usually phone me up within a couple of days. And, with the payment details changing as well, I just wanted to check. Do you know why he’d be chasing up payment so quickly?”

  “Yes, he’s been pushing me and Saleema hard about this invoice. I think his point is that payment is actually due quarterly in arrears, but we don’t normally invoice you until three weeks or so after quarter end – because it takes Bob that long to generate a list of all the repairs – and then you take twenty-eight days to pay. So actually, you’re nearly five months in arrears by the time we get our money. You know what new people can be like; they want to be seen to make their mark in the first couple of weeks.”

  “Oh, right. I see. I didn’t know that.”

  “The thing is, you should be paying the rent at the quarter end – that’s what the management agreement says. So, technically, you’re in breach of the agreement, which means that we can end it if you don’t remedy the breach.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard mention of that before.”

  “No, it’s not the kind of thing Neville would ever have thought of doing. But Langley has his own ideas, and he’s right in one sense – it is in the agreement that breaches have to be remedied within one calendar month, or, technically, I think we can end it.”

  Marilyn quickly looked at the calendar on her wall.

  “So that means you need paying by… the end of today?”

  “Technically,” replied Barry. “Are you able to do that?”

  “Well, it’ll be tight, but we’ve not got a choice, have we?” said Marilyn. “Do you think he’s likely, this Langley Burrell, to try and end the management agreement if we don’t pay in time?”

  “I couldn’t say. But he did make a point of phoning you up. Ask Sally what she thinks – she’s dealt with him before.”

  “We’ll need to raise a CHAPS payment. It’s an extra twenty quid, but it’s worth it if it stops us losing the scheme.”

  “I’m sure Langley would appreciate that.”

  “I’ll get onto it right away. Thanks Barry.”

  “Not at all. Bye now.”

  Barry was stunned at how easy it had been. He’d not even had to lie.

  Seventeen

  That afternoon, like most Friday afternoons, dragged – at least as far as Barry was concerned. In any other context, Barry may have felt the afternoon fly by, overwhelmed as he was by the sheer volume of work that he had to get through now he was looking after Maxine’s team as well as his own. But that afternoon, work was not the focus of his thoughts.

  Instead, there was only one thought in Barry’s mind: had Sally authorised the CHAPS payment into Chris Malford’s bank account? Nothing seemed to matter as much as that, and everything that stressed or flustered the members of his teams that afternoon seemed powerless to hurt him. That question provided a helpful protective blanket that he could wrap around himself to dull the pain inflicted by the recent blows he had suffered. It was a feeling, Barry decided, that he rather liked. It felt as though, despite all the indignities, Monument had not yet defeated him. Langley could not reduce him to worry and stress and fear as he clearly intended. And therefore he hadn’t won.

  Unfortunately, as he had no online access to Chris Malford’s bank account, Barry couldn’t check the balance on it. So, instead of flying by, the afternoon crawled to its conclusion. He tried phoning Marilyn, but he just got a voicemail message saying she was now out of the office and would be back on Tuesday. He kept looking at his phone to see if he had missed any calls from Sally asking him what he was trying to pull. He popped up to the central services floor and tried to find an excuse to idly ask Saleema if she’d had any calls from The SHYPP or the bank. But, as far as he could tell, there was nothing. No one contacted him or suggested anything was amiss.

  Instead of driving home that evening, Barry decided to head over to Neville Thompson House with his master key for the wall of postboxes in the lobby. Sure enough, a brand-new debit card was waiting for him just as Barry had been promised. With it, he could check Chris Malford’s account balance. Barry wasn’t intending to withdraw any money. He just wanted to know that he had done it. That he’d got one over on Langley.

  He assumed there would be a record of any use of the debit card, so he didn’t want to use any cashpoint that would be linked too obviously to him. Equally, he had a vague sense that bank cashpoints had more security on them, so Barry opted to find an in-store machine somewhere in Chelmsley Wood. This was where Adam Furst lived, so Barry reasoned that using a cashpoint there might help reinforce the impression in PC Rathbone’s mind that the debit card was in Adam’s possession rather than his.

  After driving around, he eventually identified a corner shop that had a “Cash Machine Inside” sign outside. Barry carefully parked down the road in order to avoid any CCTV that may have been immediately outside the shop, and made his way inside.

  The store contained an apparently random cornucopia of household items and confectionary, with which it attempted to mask an underlying anxiety at the loss of its original purpose now that no one seemed interested in buying cigarettes or newspapers anymore. The cashpoint, which seemed symptomatic of this existential crisis, sat rather forlornly at the front of the store, just opposite the till at which a teenager sat, slouched on a chair, texting, as though she, too, had been overwhelmed by the shop’s angst. She briefly sat up for a moment as Barry entered, but slumped back down when it became apparent that he only wanted to use the cashpoint.

  Barry was about to approach the machine when he noticed that there was a ceiling-mounted camera behind the girl, pointing toward it. He froze for a moment, trying to work out what to do. Eventually, after a few moments of dithering, he changed direction and headed toward the till.

  “Can I have a scratch card please?” he asked.

  “Which one?”

  Barry didn’t know. He’d never bought a scratch card in his life. He didn’t even realise there was a choice. He saw that there was a bright yellow one with a leprechaun on it, which seemed as good as any, so he opted for that.

  “Sign of the times, eh?” asked Barry, indicating the CCTV camera.

  “You what?”

  “Sign of the times – the CCTV. We never used to have cameras in corner shop
s.”

  “Yeah, we’ve only got it ’cause of that thing,” the young girl said, nodding toward the cash machine. “That’s two quid, please.”

  “Oh, right. Uh… sorry,” Barry replied, as though the request for money had taken him totally by surprise. He rummaged through his pockets trying to find some change. “I suppose it’s linked up to the local police station.”

  “You’re joking aren’t you? We only have the camera ’cause the machine company insists.”

  “Oh. Does it go through to the bank then?”

  “Nah, it’s not a proper one. It’s just a cheap one. It only records here. We just keep the footage for a few weeks. We could give it to the police if they asked – but they never have. They ain’t bothered. We had a customer come in here a few months back saying she’d had her purse lifted out of her shopping bag with her card in it. Course, ’cause she’s an old dear she’d written her PIN down too ’cause she could never remember it. Had 250 quid taken out of her account. ’Cause it happened on her way back from here and she only lives down the road, she wanted to know if they’d used our machine. My dad found the footage of them and everything. She told the police we’d caught ’em on camera. We kept the footage, but they never came round. Never heard any more about it.”

  “Oh, that’s awful,” Barry said, finding a coin and idly scratching his card. “She lost all that money.”

  “Well, she didn’t actually. She comes in here all the time. I asked her what was happening ’cause we hadn’t heard anything from the police, and she said that ’cause she’d got a crime number the bank just gave her the money back. But they didn’t try and get the guys who’d done it. Told ’er it wasn’t worth it for 250 quid. I think it’s disgusting. Might as well not bother with the camera if they’re not going to use it.”

  “Quite. That’s terrible,” said Barry. But, as he did so, a thought occurred to him; a thought that had first begun to form in his mind the previous week in Chris Malford’s flat. In the absence of any conception of an all-seeing God, CCTV had become the moral police force of a secular nation. Like God in His seat of judgement, the ubiquity of CCTV would ensure that our sins were caught on camera and that we would, ultimately, face a day of reckoning.