by Tim Ellis
‘Oh, that would be Mister Higham. He started the company with Alan Doyle in 1998, but Mister Doyle died in 2002. Mrs Lazarakis has only been here just over a year; and Mister Elliott five years.’
‘Thank you, Natalie. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Oh!’
‘Yes?’
‘When in 2002 did Alan Doyle die?’
‘It was before I came to work here, but I think it was in the July of that year. He owned a boat, which was moored at Poole Marina in Dorset, so I was told. It blew up and killed him, his wife and three children – a terrible accident.’
‘Is there a company brochure we can take away with us?’
‘Of course.’ She pointed to an occasional table surrounded by matching minimalist steel and wood chairs. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Does it include a photograph of Mister Higham?’
‘No, sorry. Mister Higham is a bit sensitive about having his photograph taken. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photograph of him.’
As they were walking out Lake said, ‘Aren’t you going to arrest Jeffrey Higham?’
‘For what?’
‘Murder for one.’
‘On what evidence?’
‘Well . . .’
‘This follows on from our previous conversation, doesn’t it, Lake? You’ve never had to work for anything in your life, have you?’
‘I have. I had to . . .’
‘I’ll bet you were daddy’s little girl. He made sure you had everything you wanted even before you thought to ask for it, didn’t he?’
‘No. I . . .’
‘It’s no good trying to lie to me. I can see right through you from a mile off. You only declined the Mercedes sports car because you’d named that wreck you judder around in Monty. I mean, who gives a car a name? Spoilt brats, that’s who. You’d better start putting in the work, otherwise I’m going to drop you like a stone, Lake. And if I did, you’d hardly make a ripple.’
‘Monty’s immune to insults.’
‘If we arrested Higham now, he’d be out before we had time to sit down and interview him. The phone call from Vickers that was put through to Robert Bryson’s extension is not evidence. We couldn’t even present it as evidence in court, because we didn’t get a search warrant. Although Higham fits our profile, in that he was here at the time Vickers called last night, and he owned the company when Albert Flagg was murdered, we have no evidence he answered Bryson’s extension and spoke to Vickers. We also have no evidence that Higham and Flagg knew each other, or were connected in any way. At the moment we have some dots, now we need to put the work in and connect those dots up with evidence that will stand up in a court of law. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sir.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I hope so, because you’re nearly at the end of the rope, Lake.’
He walked up the street a little way while Lake got into the car.
‘Hello, Mister Dark.’
‘Hello, Hendrik. Where are you?’
‘We’re just leaving Edward Singer’s address.’
‘On your way to Blackpool?’
‘Yes.’
‘I asked you to see if you could find any connection between Angela Vickers and Robert Bryson.’
‘Yes.’
‘Delete Robert Bryson, insert Jeffrey Higham who’s the owner of Whitchurch Architectural Partnership.’
‘Okay.’
‘Also, take a look into the deaths of Alan Doyle, his wife and three children in a boat explosion in Poole Marina in Dorset in July of 2002. He was co-founder and co-owner of Whitchurch with Higham.’
‘Will do.’
‘Has Dixie got her bikini with her?’
‘I wish.’
He sauntered back to the SUV and climbed in.
‘Who were you calling?’
‘The speaking clock.’
‘I could have told you the time.’
***
He parked across the road from Alexander, Bowler & Druitt – Solicitors on Strines Road in Marple. Albert Flagg had obviously been replaced by someone called Bowler. And when they reached the doorway to the premises, a brass plaque informed them that the new solicitor was Amanda Bowler LL.B.
There was no one in the outer office, but there was a shiny brass bell.
Dark signalled for Lake to ring it.
She did.
They heard footsteps approaching.
A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair tied up in a bun, fake diamond-encrusted glasses and sloping shoulders appeared. ‘Sorry. I was in the kitchen cleaning up. How may I help?’
He showed his Warrant Card. ‘Detective Inspector Dark and Detective Constable Lake from Manchester Serious Crime Division. We’d like to speak to someone about the late Albert Flagg.’
‘Dear me!’ The woman paled and shook her head. ‘Poor Albert. I’d only been here six months after completing my legal secretaries diploma. Albert was a lovely man, and his poor wife and child. They moved away, you know?’
‘Yes, we know.’
‘I wasn’t here when he was run down by that BMW, but I heard all about it the next morning. Such a shame. I couldn’t stop crying for a week.’
‘Is there someone we can talk to?’
‘You mean, someone other than me?’
‘Yes. Although, you were employed here then, weren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The investigating detective looked into Mister Flagg’s cases, but she failed to include a list of those cases in the file.’
‘And you’re wondering if we still have that list?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m the very person you need to be speaking to then, because I was the one who compiled the list, summarised the cases and then typed it all up.’ She moved to her desk and logged back into her computer. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that I’m a very organised person. As soon as I arrived I began storing my files in folders by month and year, and even though we’ve upgraded the computers and software twice since 2002, all my old files are still accessible. Yes, here we are – Albert Flagg’s cases.’ The laser printer began whirring. She swivelled in her chair and removed the sheet of paper from the printer. ‘The list went back six months and incorporated his closed and current cases.’ She passed him the piece of paper.
‘Thank you . . .?’
‘You can call me Harriet . . . Harriet Fairchild.’
‘Tell me Harriet, were Whitchurch Architectural Partnership involved in any of Mister Flagg’s cases?’
‘Mmmm! That name jangles some bells.’ She moved back to her computer and began typing. ‘Of course! Mister Flagg was responsible for oversight of their property contracts from 1991 until his death, but I don’t think we’ve had any dealings with them since, which I suppose isn’t that strange. After Mister Flagg’s death it was six months before we took on Mrs Bowler, so we had no one to deal with his existing cases, or any new ones for that matter. Mrs Bowler had to build up that side of the business again.’
‘Don’t Alexander or Druitt dabble in property law?’
‘Oh no! Each solicitor has their own speciality. Mister Alexander’s is employment law, and Mister Druitt deals with all aspects of personal injury.’
‘Is it possible to identify what legal services Mister Flagg provided for the Whitchurch Partnership?’
‘Of course, we still have the original contract. The Whitchurch Architectural Partnership were, and still are, an all-in-one service who employ and supply all the separate disciplines in integrated teams. They bid for private and public design-build contracts, and if these contracts were awarded Albert would examine them to ensure that Whitchurch were legally protected.’
‘Is it possible to look at all the work that Albert carried out for Whitchurch?’
Harriet thought for a handful of seconds. ‘I suppose we could identify everything Mister Flagg did for them through billing,
but when you say “everything”, we’re talking about eleven years’ worth of billing. The Whitchurch Architectural Partnership was founded by Jeffrey Higham and Alan Doyle in 1988, Albert was appointed to represent their interests in July, 1991, which he did until his death in 2002. Can I ask, why you want to know about Whitchurch and Mister Flagg’s relationship with them? I thought you’d simply come in here for a list of Albert’s cases.’
‘We’re re-examining Albert Flagg’s death as part of a current ongoing investigation into the murder of his son – Toby – in the early hours of Tuesday morning . . .’
‘Oh God! You mean that was Albert’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Albert’s wife and son moved away to . . . Chester, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, but Toby returned here three months ago.’
‘And you think . . .?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share any detailed information with you, Harriet.’
‘I understand. So, you’re taking another look at Albert’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Whitchurch are involved?’
‘If you could just provide me with a list of work that Albert carried out for Whitchurch, I’d be grateful?’
‘Sorry. Yes. It’ll take me a couple of hours. Can you come back this afternoon?’
‘Instead of that, could you fax it over to me?’ He passed her a business card, which had his fax number on it.
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks for your help, Harriet.’
‘What about Mrs Flagg?’
‘She died of cancer seven months ago.’
‘Dear me!’
They left.
Sitting in the car Lake said, ‘Do you think Albert Flagg found something out about Jeffrey Higham’s business dealings that got him killed?’
‘I suppose it’s possible, but then why did it take eleven years for him to find out?’
‘Maybe it didn’t come to light until then.’
‘We’re not there yet, Lake. There’s work still to be done. Speculation is fine up to a point, but it’s no replacement for getting your hands dirty.’
‘And what about Alan Doyle? An explosion on a boat seems a bit suspicious, especially around the same time as Albert Flagg was killed. I bet that was no accident either. I think Doyle and his whole family were murdered. Whatever Flagg found out, he must have spoken to Doyle about it, Doyle spoke to Higham, and then Higham had to kill both of them. Doyle’s wife and children were simply collateral damage.’
‘It sounds like you’ve solved the case. We may as well call it a day and go home. We’ll take tomorrow off as a day of rest, but on Monday morning you can go and tell Henn what happened. He’ll order the arrest of Higham. The judge and jury will send him to prison for life without parole. You’ll be the toast of the SCD. They’ll write an article about how you single-handedly cracked the fifteen year-old case in three days that eluded the very best detectives Manchester had to offer. Everybody will be singing your praises, they’ll promote you to DS and organise a ceremony. Afterwards, your father and siblings will hug you with tears in their eyes.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘It’ll be a sight to behold.’
‘Will you come to the ceremony?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
Chapter Fifteen
Mrs Eleanor Bluebell was the Senior Librarian at Marple Library in Memorial Park, Marple, and it was no accident that she resembled Cerberus, the monstrous three-headed hound guarding the gates of Hell.
Dark could imagine that noise had been banished in Marple Library.
‘Yes?’ she barked.
He held up his Warrant Card, but it seemed to have lost most of its power in the glare of her bloodshot eyes. ‘Detective Inspector Dark and Detective Constable Lake. We’re investigating the body found in the lock.’
‘And?’
He withdrew the library card from his coat pocket, which seemed to make more of an impression on her.
‘Ah! One of our older cards. You should have said you were a member, Mister Dark.’
‘I’m not.’
Her jowls sagged. ‘You’re not?’
‘No.’
‘And yet here you are in possession of a library card – stolen?’
‘It belonged to the dead man. I’d like you to tell me everything you can about that card, please.’
‘You would, would you?’
‘I would. If that’s not too much to ask?’
She ran the bar scanner over the card without diverting her stare. ‘Mmmm! Mrs Miranda Flagg. I thought you said it belonged to the dead man found in the lock?’
Lake’s eyes opened wide. ‘Miranda Flagg! Are you sure?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, young lady. Of course, I’m sure. The barcode reader is never wrong. It may get confused from time to time, but it’s never wrong.’
‘Miranda Flagg was the dead man’s mother.’ He was slightly thrown. The card had the surname FLAGG handwritten in the space provided on the reverse. All along he’d assumed the card belonged to Albert Flagg, not his wife. Why would Albert secure his wife’s library card in a safe deposit box in Manchester?
‘Does the dead man’s mother know you have her library card?’
‘She’s dead as well. She died seven months ago.’
‘And nobody thought to cancel her membership card?’
Under different circumstances he might have entered into a lengthy discussion about library rules and corpses cancelling their membership cards, but he was not in the mood. ‘We’re investigating a murder, Mrs Bluebell. That membership card is police evidence, as is Miranda Flagg’s library account. Can you print off Mrs Flagg’s record of borrowing from the library?’
She held up the card. ‘This, is the property of Marple Library. It may be police evidence for now, but I don’t want you to forget where it ultimately belongs.’
‘When we have no further use for it, I’ll make sure the card is returned to the library.’
‘In which case, I shall provide you with the information you request. But be in no doubt that I shall hold you to that promise, Inspector Dark.’
Like someone who’d performed the task a million times before, she swiped the card through the reader, brought up Mrs Flagg’s account and sent the details to the printer. ‘I see Mrs Flagg’s last visit to the library was in January of last year.’
His brow furrowed. ‘She was here last year?’
‘That’s what her account states, which as you know is never wrong.’
If that was the case, then Mrs Flagg must have also accessed the safe deposit box at Montague’s in January of last year. He was confused, which wasn’t odd in and of itself, but he thought he’d had a clear understanding of the events surrounding the safe deposit box: Albert Flagg had purchased the box in perpetuity – the day before his death – on Wednesday, June 13, 2002 and left his library card there for safekeeping. It all seemed predictably straightforward.
Now though, he’d discovered that the library card actually belonged to Miranda Flagg, and that she’d accessed the safety deposit box in January of last year. How many more times had she accessed the box between 2002 and her death? It also raised the question of what Albert Flagg had originally deposited into the box – was it his wife’s library card, which he now doubted? Or was it something else entirely, which they knew nothing about, and Miranda Flagg had removed? Would the library card, and Miranda Flagg’s book borrowing record, provide them with the answers they were searching for? Or, was it simply a red herring that had been left in the box to replace what Albert Flagg had really left there?
He should have realised when he found the safe deposit box key at Toby Flagg’s apartment. The key, like the letter, must have been in Miranda Flagg’s possessions, which meant that she’d had the key since her husband’s death. Albert had either told her what it was for, and what he’d put in the box, or she’d found out by herself.
Mrs Bluebell handed him the sheet of pape
r containing the record of Mrs Flagg’s book borrowing.
‘Thank you.’ He held his hand out for the library card.
She passed it to him between thumb and forefinger.
He had to wrench it from her grip before he could slip it back into his coat pocket, and then he turned to Lake. ‘Call Montague’s Safe Deposit Storage and ask them how many times Miranda Flagg accessed box EB54 and when?’
‘Of course,’ Lake said. ‘Mrs Flagg had the key. It must have been in her possessions with the note.’
‘You might also ask them whether they have any CCTV records of those visits.’
Lake pulled out her phone.
Mrs Bluebell let out a growl that seemed to be accompanied by the stench of sulphur. ‘I hope you’re not planning to use that evil device in here? There are signs on the walls and doors as you enter that state: All mobile phones are to be de-activated. Please leave the library if you need to use the device.’
‘I’ll go outside and make the call,’ Lake said.
He nodded. ‘A good idea.’
After she’d left, he found a free chair and table, and sat down to look at the list of books that Miranda Flagg had borrowed since taking out her library membership on August 14, 1995. There was a smattering of books that she’d borrowed between 1995 and 2016, but on January 23 of last year she took out fourteen books and returned them all on March 29, 2016.:
Fall of Man in Wilmslow, David Lagercrantz;
The ABC Murders, Agatha Christie;
The Diamond Hunters, Wilbur Smith;
The Exile, James Patterson;
The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood;
The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien;
The Island of the Day Before, Umberto Eco;
The Night Manager, John le Carré;
The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway;
The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell;
The Return Journey, Maeve Binchy;
The Talisman Ring, Georgette Heyer;
The Vicar of Nibbleswicke, Roald Dahl;
The Wasp Factory, Iain Banks.