Harry’s voice could be heard plaintively requesting calm. ‘It’s all right for you, isn’t it?’ Kiara retorted, off-camera. ‘You’re set fair whatever happens, with your stake in the business.’
‘All you need to do is have a baby, Kiki,’ Harry chuckled. ‘And make sure he’s a boy.’
‘Piss off, Harry,’ she replied amiably.
The lens swung to her, sitting on a typist’s chair, chewing a biro and resting her bare feet on the boardroom table in front of her.
‘Get your feet off the table, Kiki, and stop swearing,’ Mrs Roy said, gesturing at the camera. ‘We’re being filmed, in case you hadn’t noticed and I don’t want the great British public thinking my children have been brought up as chavs. In fact,’ she said turning to the camera getting up and approaching the lens. ‘I think we will have this whole section removed if you don’t mind.’ The scene cut, and what followed next was much less interesting footage of the production line.
Gillard rubbed his chin as he thought about what he’d seen. He turned the sound down, and absentmindedly watched thousands of jars waddling and jostling along a conveyor until being packed into boxes by a bevy of cheerful, white-hatted women. He was just about to fast forward through it when he noticed the work rate step up. Conversation ceased, everyone looked to the front, and then a wheelchair emerged on the extreme right of the shot. The camera panned towards it. Gillard recognised the elderly man in the chair. Dr Roy, in the flesh. He was a tiny, shrunken figure, with beady eyes and protruding false teeth. He was wearing an Indian tunic, loose dhotiyu trousers and a Gandhi cap. He began pointing at the line with his stick, and Prisha, who was pushing the chair, bent down to listen to his comments. Gillard turned the sound up, and replayed the whole scene. He couldn’t hear anything that was said, but one thing was clear. The staff were terrified of this man.
He next found some raw close-up footage of Dr Roy just staring at the camera, face on. The interviewer was asking questions, about the company, how he met his wife and so on. Dr Roy’s gaze gradually became intense and hostile, the bottom plate of his dentures rattling in and out like a cobra’s tongue. Finally he shouted out something, unintelligible except for the word ‘idiot’.
‘I’m sorry?’ the interviewer asked.
Prisha, off camera, said: ‘He wants you to do your tie up.’
‘Oh, all right. What’s he saying now?’
‘He says you have no respect and are a disgrace.’ She paused to listen to the next phrase. ‘I’m sorry, he is cancelling the interview.’
The scene ended.
* * *
It was early on Friday afternoon when Rob Townsend called Gillard from the digital forensics lab. ‘We’ve pretty much finished going through all the Roy family phones. That is Mrs Roy, her three children, Philippa Boswell the PA and Morag Fairburn.’
‘We still don’t have Deepak Tripathi’s phone, do we?’
‘No. It’s a big blank in the middle of our connections map, though since we’ve got the number, we should have basic data from the network provider by the end of the day. As you would expect there is a vast amount of data to crunch, and we haven’t even started on any of the image or video files. A lot of the text messages are in Gujarati, and we’ve put a sampling of them through Google translate, but not found anything incriminating or unusual.’
‘Thanks for that, Rob,’ Gillard said. ‘I’m not sure at this stage that we want you to spend hundreds more hours examining the phones. What I’m really looking for is evidence for the poisoning. Did any of these phones show an Internet search on poisons or thallium?’
‘No. There was a bit about DNA testing on Prisha Roy’s phone, and of course plenty of hits on the various news stories about the murder. In fact, apart from webmail and the company’s own website, the biggest number of Internet visits was for share prices.’
‘Well, it’s pretty natural that as shareholders they would want to know how the company share price is doing.’
‘Ah, but it wasn’t the Empire of Spice share price that they were looking at most often. It was food delivery company Nosh2U. In fact between the three Roy children, there were over 1,500 hits in a week on that share price, sometimes as many as ten times in an hour in the case of Prisha Roy.’
‘They must all have shares in it.’
‘It’s been one of the best performing stocks on the market this year. My dad bought a hundred shares in it, and never stops going on about how much money he’s made.’
Gillard thanked him and hung up. He spent a few minutes before the end-of-day incident room meeting doing his own internet searches on Nosh2U, which showed it was the fastest growing of the app-based food delivery services. The shares had indeed trebled in eighteen months. Could this have a bearing on Mrs Roy’s murder? He could think of no obvious link, but he’d ask the next time he interviewed any of the Roys.
* * *
After five days, the hated mobile incident room was put back on a low loader. With a large contingent of detectives now working on the case, Gillard needed the extra space that Mount Browne allowed. He picked the largest room they had, one which was often used for press conferences, and brought in the entire team. That included DS Shireen Corey-Williams, DI Mulholland, Research Intelligence Officer Rob Townsend along with detective constables Colin Hodges and Carl Hoskins.
When they were all settled he began: ‘I telephoned Vikram Vaj, chairman of the Empire of Spice Board of Trustees yesterday, to ask about this legal codicil, and this morning he emailed me this document.’ He held up his phone for the others to see. ‘The original is apparently written on what they call onion-skin paper and is in a safe along with the recipes for all their pickles and preservatives. But this is a photocopy. What do you make of it?’
‘Is that in Hindi?’ Shireen asked.
‘No,’ Gillard said. ‘It’s in Gujarati. Looking through the other pages, my rough Google translation says that 30 per cent of the assets in the trust are reserved for the first son born to any of the three Roy children, and 10 per cent to the second. It goes on to stipulate that to qualify the child must be born in wedlock and brought up as a Hindu. The money will be his once he attains majority, but will be owned by the relevant parent until that time.’
‘The relevant parent?’ Shireen asked.
‘The husband, not surprisingly. In the case of divorce, it would revert to the custodial parent. Which I suppose might mean the woman, though I wouldn’t put money on it.’
‘Are there any sons?’ Claire asked.
‘Not yet. Prisha has a daughter, aged eleven. But according to this—’
‘—girls don’t count?’ Claire suggested.
‘You got it.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Shireen said, getting out her calculator. ‘Assuming the assets are just the EoS shares, that’s over £10 million for a firstborn son, based on current share prices.’
‘Christ on a pogo stick,’ muttered Colin Hodges, scratching his beard. ‘That’s serious money.’
‘Harry may have enough money already,’ Shireen said. ‘But what about Prisha? If she gives birth before Harry’s new wife, her wealth goes from £600,000—’
‘Oh, just £600,000, poor duck,’ Hoskins said. ‘I hope there’s a food bank nearby.’
‘—right up to £10 million,’ Shireen said.
‘I haven’t read all of the codicil,’ Gillard said. ‘But there is a whole section on expected behaviour, self-discipline, and piety, would you believe.’
‘A bet you a pound to a penny that there are yet more restrictions on women’s behaviour,’ Claire said.
‘I’ll read it, boss, and get back to you,’ Shireen said. ‘If you think it’s really necessary, given the suspect has been charged.’
‘Okay, about that.’ Gillard addressed the whole room. ‘As you know, we’ve charged Jason Waddington with the offence. However, I don’t want us to sit back on our laurels. It’s possible that he knows a member of the family, and somehow was persuaded or pa
id to do the deed.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Hoskins said.
‘Nothing concrete as yet, just a hunch.’ He realised he was running out of lies to tell his investigative team. They thought the case was all over, but it was really just beginning.
* * *
It was 6.30 p.m. when Gillard pulled up outside the Richmond upon Thames home of the Roy family. The door was opened by a slim young man in a leather jacket, with designer stubble and thick-framed purple glasses. Loud Indian music could be heard in the background.
‘Ah, you must be the famous sleuth,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I’m Zayan, glad to meet you.’ He had a firm handshake.
‘And you I have just seen on a demo video showing kids how to cook,’ Gillard said.
‘Ah yes, that was great fun. The kids loved it.’
Gillard then explained that Kiara had granted him permission to look through Mrs Roy’s bedroom and bathroom.
‘OK. You know we’re all going through hell, don’t you? Poor Mrs Roy – everyone loved her. She taught me to cook, with patience and care, and built me a new career. A light has gone off in all our lives.’ He walked on a little, then said, ‘We live in a terrible world. No one feels safe any more.’
Zayan pointed him towards the rather grand main staircase and explained that Mrs Roy’s bedroom was on the first landing on the right-hand side. He passed a reception room where a photo shoot looked to be taking place. ‘She’s been working on this new dress range for months, so make sure you say you like it,’ Zayan whispered.
Kiara was wearing a long figure-hugging silver dress and standing against a black paper backdrop. Another woman, wielding a tripod-mounted camera and flash gun, was taking pictures. Kiara spotted Gillard and called a stop while she came out to talk. ‘Just shooting my new gala range,’ she said by way of explanation.
‘Beautiful dress,’ Gillard said. He meant it.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said, doing a quick twirl. ‘Not everyone does.’
‘Why not?
‘Well, take my sister for example. She said: “Kiki, for God’s sake, you look like a Kit Kat.”’ She laughed, scratching the back of one hand where tender glossy skin stretched across her seared knuckles. Perhaps one burn can mask another.
‘Not kind,’ Gillard said as he ascended the stairs.
‘Don’t you pay any attention to her, Kiki,’ Zayan said, as he led Gillard. ‘She has a cruel streak.’
Mrs Roy’s bedroom was a sumptuous room with two sets of bay windows looking down over the rear into a very large and well-tended garden. The room was dominated by an ornate king-sized four poster bed; in each of the pillars was a carved teak elephant with a stylised howdah supporting the canopy. On a dressing table stood an enlarged sepia portrait, clearly decades old, of a very upright skinny Indian lady with winged glasses. Her stern and haughty expression followed him around the room. There were also smaller pictures of Mrs Roy with the same woman, who was sitting in a wheelchair. Presumably Mrs Roy’s mother.
There was a matching double wardrobe, and beyond it an en suite bathroom with dressing room. The dressing room contained two wooden head mounts on which almost identical chestnut-coloured wigs were draped. There was a startling array of hair products, only a few of which he recognised. However he spotted a couple of hairbrushes, in which numerous hairs were trapped. Looking closely he saw that those hairs also exhibited the same dark pigmentation at the root as Dr Delahaye had noticed. Gillard bagged the brushes, then made a beeline for the bathroom cabinet and, donning latex gloves, opened it carefully. It was indeed full of herbal remedies, some of which by their labels appeared to be of Indian origin. He swept them all into an evidence bag, and sealed it. This was something for the pathologist to look through.
Gillard swabbed the cistern, the dressing table, and a coffee table. He was wondering if mother, like daughter, took cocaine. If so, perhaps the coke was contaminated. He looked up to see Zayan watching him from the doorway, arms folded.
‘Found anything interesting?’
Gillard shrugged noncommittally. ‘Are you related to the family?’ he asked.
‘No, though I’ve been here so long, I’m beginning to feel like part of it. I introduced Harry to Sonali, who is a distant cousin of mine, back in 2014. So from being an Empire of Spice demo chef, I was suddenly go-between between two powerful families, then finally I ended up as the wedding planner. The whole thing is turning out to be a nightmare, let me tell you. The original wedding date was in two weeks’ time. That was the auspicious time – these things still matter to the older generation,’ he said conspiratorially, rolling his eyes. ‘In theory, the next date when the planets are suitably aligned won’t be until early December, and for God’s sake, you can’t have a wedding colliding with Diwali, let alone Christmas, can you?’
‘I suppose not. Was it going to be a real society wedding?’
‘Oh God, yes. Sonali’s family is very wealthy, part of the dynasty that own India’s biggest mobile phone company, and they’re keen for it to go ahead. She’s a bit of a handful, to be honest, but her mother, oh my God, is an absolute nightmare.’ Zayan flickered his eyelids. ‘The late Dr Roy set very strict rules in his will, which Mrs Roy adhered to. So I’ve had to do research on familial compatibility, the Vedic star charts of the intended, the introduction and then negotiations between the two families about the dowry. Normally all that precedes the first formal meeting of bride and groom, but in this case I arranged for Harry to meet her in India.’
‘What if they didn’t like each other?’ Gillard said.
He smiled. ‘Do not underestimate the momentum of two great families in alliance. There is a great deal of pressure for husband-and-wife-to-be to find a way to get along. Of course, in the present day those pressures are much subtler than they used to be. Any groom today will certainly have seen pictures of the bride well in advance, it’s just a sensible precaution that he should find her attractive.’
‘And if she doesn’t like him?’
He shrugged. ‘Traditionally, the views of a daughter count for very little. She would have to be pretty determined, like my good friend Kiara, to stand in the way of her own wedding juggernaut. But Sonali, of course, always has her say. She apparently liked Harry’s big heart right from the very start.’
‘So what’s going to happen now?’ Gillard asked.
He gave a mock shudder. ‘I have no idea, to be honest. It won’t be happening soon. The bride’s family, God bless them, are still pushing to get it done this year, but I can’t see it happening. Harry has got all the initiative of a damp dishcloth right now. I don’t think he’s got out of bed much for a week. He stopped taking my calls, and those of his sisters, so I suppose I shouldn’t put any more pressure on. He’s probably depressed, that’s what Kiara says.’
‘Quite understandable.’
‘That’s all very well. It may be an arranged marriage, but organisationally even a love marriage has to be arranged by someone. According to my contract, infuriatingly, if it doesn’t happen, I don’t get paid.’
‘Harry’s sisters will coax him along, surely?’
He leaned closer. ‘I get the impression that Prisha would be happier if the whole thing got cancelled. She’s never been keen on the idea. It was her mother who was driving it through.’
‘Doesn’t Prisha like the bride?’
‘I’m not sure they’ve ever met. No, it’s something a bit more fundamental,’ Zayan said, his eyes flicking sideways to make sure they were not overheard.
‘Competition,’ he whispered. ‘Competition, power and cash. Understand that, and you will understand everything about this family,’ he said. Kiara’s voice could be heard downstairs, calling Zayan. He peered down the stairs, and then whispered, ‘Must go.’
‘One final thing,’ Gillard said. ‘Do you know if the family owns shares in Nosh2U, the food delivery company?’
Zayan looked heavenwards. ‘Heavens, they never stop talking about it.
How it’s going to do this, how it’s going to do that. Even Harry seems obsessed, constantly checking the share price. You’d think he had enough money, wouldn’t you?’ He began walking down the stairs. ‘There’s more to life than cash, isn’t there?’
With a final check around the bedroom, Gillard went downstairs himself, making his way quietly past the fashion show to the kitchen. It was a very large split-level galley leading down to a set of French doors into the garden. There were two very large American-style refrigerators, packed with food. He set about unloading the contents onto the adjacent counter, looking for more of the mysterious jars.
‘Would you like a snack?’
Gillard jumped at the voice right behind him, and saw Kiara, barefoot again. ‘You only had to ask.’
‘I’m sorry, I should have said. In your mother’s flat in Leatherhead, I found jars of what turned out to be urine in the fridge, and I wondered if she kept some here too.’
‘So you’re not hungry but thirsty?’ A grin cracked her face. ‘It’s all right, I’m only pulling your leg. My mother had some unusual habits. She was fond of traditional and herbal remedies. I don’t think they really did much good.’
‘So your mother had complained of ill health?’
‘Oh yes, for many years really. It was only in the last year or so that she seemed to lose so much weight and started losing her hair. It really made her anxious because she had started to do a lot more TV work and was having to wear a wig. She was desperate that nobody should realise. In some ways she was quite vain.’
‘Did she have any idea what caused the problems?’
‘Well, she had various theories, but I think we all just assumed she was working too hard and not eating enough.’ Kiara stopped and looked Gillard up and down. ‘Can I ask why you are spending time doing this? I hear you have made an arrest, a thirty-three-year-old man. I heard it on the news.’
The Body in the Snow Page 15