by Anne Penketh
“Yes. It was a few years ago,” Clayton said.
“I didn’t know it was the treasurer, but they caught someone in admin fiddling the books. I think it was his lifestyle that set off the alarm bells. He went on expensive holidays, had a year-round tan, the sort of thing you don’t see round Norwich. I heard his wife left him after he got found out.”
“But he wasn’t prosecuted, was he?”
“I don’t think so. It was all a bit hush-hush. That’s why the rumours went all round the orchestra. I think they made him pay the money back.”
Chapter Forty-one
Clayton strode purposefully towards Julie’s desk. She was talking on her phone but hung up when he approached.
“The babysitter,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Everything alright at home?” he asked.
“Ollie’s got flu, so I was asking her to take him to the doctor in case it gets worse. Nothing she can’t handle though,” she said with a shrug.
“Good. Look, can you find out more on Burridge?” he asked, and went on to tell her about the accountant and his grudge against Proctor and the NFO. “Talk to family members, friends if you can find them, and I want you to go to Cley and have a discreet chat with his neighbours. Do you need help? I can ask Bullard,” said Clayton.
“Oh no, that’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’ll manage.”
“I’ve got a couple of people to see here, starting with Proctor,” he said.
* * *
A smiling Proctor threw open the door and patted Clayton on the back.
“Thank you for letting me know about the arrests,” he said. “I heard all about it on the radio this morning. Have you got time for a coffee? Let me ask Marian.”
“I’d love one, if it’s no trouble,” said Clayton, moving across to the French window, where Proctor gestured to a seat. Marian Proctor came in and shook his hand.
“Congratulations, Inspector,” she said. “We’re so pleased you caught those criminals, though it’s terribly upsetting to think that musicians from our own orchestra could be capable of such awful deeds. I suppose it must be the drugs.”
“Apparently it’s really easy to get addicted to those opioids,” said Clayton. He turned to Proctor. “And of course, you had a lucky escape. But that’s not why I’m here.”
He took out his notebook and looked expectantly at Proctor. “What can you tell me about Adam Burridge?”
“Adam Burridge? Burridge, did you say?” Proctor looked flummoxed.
“The NFO treasurer who was cooking the books. Allegedly,” said Clayton.
“Ah, that was the name, was it?” said Proctor. “Yes, of course. Ghastly man.”
“How so?”
“How long have you got?” said Proctor with a mirthless laugh.
“Are you aware that Burridge is related to Chris Mercer, the one who assaulted you along with Mark Braithwaite? He’s his uncle,” Clayton said.
“Now, that’s a turn up for the books,” said Proctor. “I certainly didn’t know that. Are they all criminals in that family? I see the flute’s name is Fiske-Mercer. Is he related to the Tory peer?”
Clayton nodded, beginning to get impatient. “Could you tell me what happened?”
At that point, Marian Proctor came in with a tray of coffees and biscuits which she set on the table. She waited while they helped themselves before returning to the kitchen.
Proctor picked up a chocolate digestive and bit into the biscuit, scattering crumbs on the parquet floor. “You do know that the NFO is a registered charity, don’t you? Hence the importance of fundraisers. We use the money from those to pay for soloists and things like that. And the conductor’s salary, of course.” He smiled.
“Right.”
“Anyway, Burridge told me that we couldn’t have Dorfmeister. We’d planned to fly the baritone in from Vienna to do the Schumann Liederkreis. Burridge said we didn’t have the funds. I knew we’d saved money by bringing a pianist from London, and I also knew that our last two fundraisers had been particularly successful. So I hit the roof. I was incandescent,” said Proctor. His eyebrows knitted together in a frown.
“So, what did you do?” Clayton asked.
“I rang the society president, a chap called Jeremy Westmacott, but
he was at a football match that evening and told me to put my complaint in an email. Which I did, of course.” Proctor frowned again.
“And do you think Burridge might have blamed you for his ignominious departure?” asked Clayton.
“That’s certainly what I heard, yes. Between you and me, I think he should have been fired, but Jeremy didn’t want to make waves, so they looked into the situation and Burridge left. I did hear that subsequently he was disciplined by the accountancy regulatory body, so I was satisfied that he’d been punished.” Proctor picked up his coffee cup. “Is yours cold? Do you want a fresh cup?”
Clayton shook his head. “I’m fine thanks.”
“They made him pay back the money, you know,” Proctor said.
“How much?”
“It ran into the thousands. He’d practically emptied the orchestra’s savings account.” He put his cup down and sat back, shaking his head. “So there you have it.”
“OK. Bearing in mind what you just told me, do you think it’s possible that Burridge might have felt so strongly about what happened that he put Fiske-Mercer up to the attack on you? I mean, the flautist already had a grudge against you, didn’t he, after you fired him?”
Proctor passed a hand over his bald patch. He said nothing for a few moments. “He might have done, I suppose. Yes, well, I hadn’t thought of that.” He stared out into the garden. “Do you think,” he went on, “that he might have had a hand in the other events as well? He obviously had an axe to grind against the orchestra after that, once word got out.”
Chapter Forty-two
Under the wooden beams of a pub near the castle, Clayton pulled up a stool and waited in the quietest corner he could find.
Nigel Henderson appeared about five minutes later, wearing a dark, slim-fit suit. They shook hands.
“Thanks for seeing me. Did you choose this pub on purpose?” Clayton asked with a grin. “I’d always thought this place was called the Gardener’s Arms.”
“Officially, yes, but it’s known as the ‘Murderers.’ You’re not from around here, are you? I thought you might appreciate that,” he said. “Actually, it’s the closest one to my work. What can I get you?”
“What do you recommend? I’d like a bitter,” said Clayton, “but I’ll get my own.”
“Don’t worry. It’s on me. I’m so glad you’ve got Kristina’s killers. We should at least celebrate that.”
“Well, that’s actually what I wanted to see you about tonight,” said Clayton.
He waited while Henderson ordered at the bar, hoping it was too early for the sports crowds. He had a feeling that this would be a noisy place later on. At least there’d be no danger of bumping into Luke Martin here.
“Try this,” said Henderson. “A pint of Dark Horse. It’s from a local brewery.”
Clayton grinned. “Cheers,” he said, raising the glass and taking a swig. “Not bad. What have you got?”
“Doom Bar,” said Henderson. “Anyway, congratulations again. For a while there, I was starting to worry that you’d never find the killers.” He loosened his tie. Clayton noticed the top button of his shirt was undone. Was that the latest style too?
“It could be that we’ve still not completely wrapped up the case, I’m afraid. And I’m here to talk to you in your capacity as an accountant — off the record, of course.”
“Why, have you got a problem with filling out your tax form?” Henderson asked.
So this guy has a sense of humour after all.
Clayton shook his head, smiling. “No, nothing like that. I’m wondering whether you’ve come across an accountant named Adam Burridge. I have an idea that there’s probably not a lot of you in Norwich.”
<
br /> “Burridge? He’s not in Norwich anymore, is he?” Henderson said. “I heard he moved out to Cley.”
“Do you know why he moved?”
“I think because he realised that he didn’t have a lot of friends left here.”
“So you heard about him leaving the NFO under a cloud?” Clayton asked.
“Yes, of course. We weren’t in the same firm, but as you say, there aren’t a lot of us in Norwich. He pissed people off because he wouldn’t shut up about the orchestra. He was always telling anyone who’d listen how unfairly he’d been treated. I knew differently of course, because of Kristina.”
“OK. But why did he think he’d been treated unfairly?”
“I heard that someone in the orchestra made an anonymous complaint to the ACCA about him, and they investigated him for dishonesty and financial mismanagement. What I know is that these days he works as a consultant. So I guess they threw him out of the professional body.”
Clayton was listening so intently he almost fell off his stool. Someone had switched on the TV, and he was having to lean forward to hear. It was hot in the pub and he shrugged off his jacket with one hand.
“But Kristina wasn’t in the orchestra when the scandal happened, was she?”
“No, you’re right. She heard about it from the old timers. And she was quite close to Proctor. I understand he’s the one who blew the whistle on Burridge.”
“I see,” Clayton said. “So Burridge must have blamed Proctor for the complaint.”
“I imagine so. Possibly. But he couldn’t have known for sure that Proctor was behind it,” said Henderson.
“Tell me, why didn’t you mention Burridge to us earlier? Didn’t it occur to you that he might have had something to do with Kristina’s death?”
Henderson frowned. He picked up his drink and took a long sip, then shook his head slowly. “Why would I? It was so long ago, I never even thought of a connection. If I had, of course I’d have mentioned it.”
“OK. So when I tell you that Burridge is Chris Mercer’s uncle, do you think there might be a connection? Because one hypothesis is that after Mercer was fired by Proctor, Burridge saw his chance to get even with Proctor and the orchestra. So he could be the one who put Mercer up to killing your girlfriend. And that may not be all.”
“Seriously?” Henderson stared at Clayton.
“Honestly, after what you’ve just told me about him ranting on about the orchestra, I’m thinking that Mercer’s firing gave him an opportunity to use him as his instrument, if you’ll forgive the pun.”
“My God,” said Henderson. They finished their drinks in silence, eyes on the TV, which was broadcasting rolling news. The arrest of Braithwaite and Mercer for the Norwich serial killings was running on a ticker at the bottom of the screen.
Clayton picked up his jacket and got to his feet. Henderson helped him drape it over his injured shoulder.
“Thanks for your help,” Clayton said.
“No problem,” said Henderson. “But what does Burridge himself say about all this?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
Chapter Forty-three
Clayton threw the car keys onto Julie’s desk.
“Morning,” he said. “You’re going back to Cley. We’re off to see Adam Burridge.” Pointing to his sling, he added, “And you’re driving.”
She grinned. “Just as well I’ve still got my coat on then.”
They got into a marked car and sat in the car park while Clayton briefed her on his conversations with Proctor and Henderson.
“I also spoke to Jeremy Westmacott, the orchestra president, last night and he confirmed that Burridge took a cool nine thousand quid out of the society’s accounts,” said Clayton.
“Why didn’t they report it?” she asked, starting the car.
“Not clear really, but they got him to pay the money back. What interests me most is that he was investigated by his professional body after someone from the orchestra made an anonymous complaint.”
“You mean Proctor?” she asked.
“That’s what I thought too. I can imagine that Burridge would blame him,” said Clayton. “Anyway, he was forced to leave Norwich and that’s when he moved to Cley. What did you find out there?”
“You know what villagers are like. They’re pretty close. But one shopkeeper told me that Burridge bought a big place a few years back, so they assumed he’d come into some money. I checked and his sister died four years ago. He and Mercer must have hit the jackpot.”
“Oh. So the sister was the wealthy one then, not Lord Fiske-Mercer?”
“That’s right,” she said. “Burridge was living in the cottage until he bought the new place. I went round to have a look and it’s quite a pile.”
“Right. But coming into money wouldn’t do anything for his broken reputation, would it?”
“If he was worried about his reputation, he should have behaved himself, shouldn’t he? He’s only got himself to blame,” Julie retorted.
She waited at the junction with the Holt road. “It’s a long time to carry a grudge, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but remember Proctor dismissing Mercer earlier this year? That would have stirred up Burridge’s resentment again, wouldn’t it?”
“Sounds like an unstable family. The mother’s an alcoholic, the son’s a drug addict, and the brother . . . well,” said Julie.
“Maybe there’s something in his background,” Clayton mused. They sped on in silence while he contemplated the flat landscape.
Julie took the coast road towards Cley. “Nice day,” she said. “I always feel that we’re playing truant when we come out to the coast.”
“I know what you mean,” he replied. “It’s clear that Mercer is protecting Burridge, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do,” said Julie. She braked sharply as they drove into Cley village. The high street was deserted, and the stores selling trinkets and pottery displayed ‘Closed’ signs on their doors.
“Let’s see . . . the turnoff is somewhere along here,” she said. She edged into a lane. Clayton wondered whether they were far from the duck pond. It seemed a long time ago now, although the sling provided a constant reminder of his embarrassing fall.
She stopped outside a large, double-fronted house.
“This is it. Posh, isn’t it?” she said with a smile.
“Let’s hope he’s in, and not out huntin’, shootin’ or fishin’.”
They made their way through the front garden, which was framed by a rather picturesque flintstone wall. The imposing house had tall windows that glinted in the morning sunlight, the downstairs ones hung with long purple drapes. Clayton rang the doorbell and stood back. They heard a dog barking inside.
“Sounds like someone’s in,” he said.
The door opened a crack and Clayton recognised the black Labrador.
“Hello, Bandit,” he said. The door opened to reveal a man in his fifties dressed in a pair of corduroy trousers and a grey cardigan over a checked shirt. His hair was a thick grey thatch. The dog was now wagging his tail.
“And who might you be?” asked the man.
You know who we are. Burridge couldn’t have failed to notice the police car outside.
“I’m DI Clayton and this is DS Everett from Anglian Constabulary, Mr Burridge. We need to talk to you regarding the arrest of your nephew, Chris Fiske-Mercer.”
“Yes, I’d heard about that. Needless to say, I’m absolutely astonished by everything I’ve read in the paper. I’m sure that it will be proved that my nephew had nothing to do with the deaths. But I already told Detective Everett yesterday that I really can’t help you.”
“May we come in for a moment? I see you’re looking after his dog,” said Clayton.
“Well, somebody had to, didn’t they?” His tone was peremptory. “Look, I don’t have much time. I have a meeting in Norwich later this morning.”
He turned and they followed him into the dining room, where they sat a
t one end of a long mahogany table. Shards of morning sunshine lit up a dark sideboard behind Burridge. Above it hung an oil painting in a heavy gold frame. The bewigged nobleman in a white ruff looked down on them with a disdainful air. The eyes seemed to stare out of the portrait and meet Clayton’s gaze. An ancestor of Burridge’s?
With some difficulty, Clayton tore his eyes from the painting. He cleared his throat. “We understand that you own the cottage where your nephew’s been staying.”
“And what of it?”
“Well, we were just wondering how often you go there. I presume you visited him?”
“Of course I did. He’s my nephew. He’s like a son to me,” said Burridge. “And I’ve been back with Bandit, naturally. It’s his home too.”
“Right. Well, regarding your nephew, I’d like to ask you about the charge against him — that of attempting to murder the former NFO conductor, Mike Proctor.”
At the mention of Proctor’s name, Burridge stiffened. A muscle twitched in his jaw and his eyes darted from Clayton to Julie.
“Mr Burridge?” asked Julie, looking up from her notebook. “We’ve heard about how Proctor was responsible for you leaving the orchestra society.”
Burridge stood up abruptly. “Have you finished? I have to get to Norwich.”
“No, we haven’t,” said Clayton. “There’s also the matter of the poison pen letters which were sent to the current NFO conductor, Massimo Romano.”
“And what might this have to do with me?”
“The letters were printed on the printer that is sitting in your cottage, Mr Burridge. If you really wish to help your nephew, you might want to explain how you put him up to the attack on Mike Proctor.”
“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Burridge said, raising his voice. “Why would I do a thing like that?”
“To get your own back,” replied Julie, “because Mr Proctor humiliated you.”
Burridge made a strangled sound which came out as “paff.”
“As for the printer, Mr Mercer has been charged with harassing Mr Romano. I need you to accompany us to the station to provide us with a DNA sample, and also so that we can check your fingerprints against the ones we found on the printer.” Clayton hadn’t heard any mention of fingerprints, but it was worth a try.