The Man Who Vanished

by Roz Goldie

  * * *

  When the police contacted Sir John Colliers, he was beyond the point where he could pretend to be cordial. He was red in the face when he answered the front door, clutching a writ in his hand. Cressida’s solicitor had served divorce papers that very morning.

  Practised in this procedure, Jessica Joyce had knocked on the door, waited for Colliers to appear – knowing him by sight – and confirmed his identity.

  “You are Sir John Colliers?” she spoke in a confident and cheerful voice.

  “Yes,” he replied without the slightest suspicion of what was to come next.

  “These papers are for you, Sir John.” She handed him an envelope and turned away before he could read the contents. She was driving away by the time he had discovered the writ for divorce.

  Shocked beyond the point of reason, Colliers sat down on the front doorstep. How could this be? Where was Cressida? Now angered, he rose to his feet, went inside and slammed the door shut.

  His wife was nowhere to be found. She had taken most of her possessions from her room over the preceding week, without him noticing. He could not understand it. Where could she have gone? “That bloody Beightin woman! She will know,” he talked out loud as he walked about in an empty house.

  It was as he was about to telephone Margaret Beightin that the plain clothes police called.

  “We felt you might prefer to speak to us at your home rather than in the station, Sir John,” Inspector Dunlop spoke in an even non-committal voice.

  Unaware of any reason why he police would want to speak to him, he invited them in but with less than good grace. “This is not a good time. Tell me how I can help you.” Colliers was straining to be civil.

  Inspector Dunlop was accompanied by a tall, blonde policewoman of at least six feet two. Silent, she overshadowed Colliers as he ushered them into the ornately decorated living room.

  “We are interested in some paintings that you acquired and were selling through the Stewart Gallery. In particular, four pictures – one by John by Luke and three by William Conor.” Dunlop noticed a tiny spasm at the corner of Colliers’ right eye. He must be nervous. “Can you tell us about their provenance please?”

  “I shudder to think that I have been the subject of fraud, Inspector.” Colliers had made his first mistake. “As President of the RAS, I have a reputation, you know.” His attempts at seeming unconcerned did not hide an underlying anxiety.

  “And why would you assume that these works are not genuine?” Dunlop asked with a hint of suspicion evident in his voice.

  “Your identity cards show that you are from the Fraud Squad, so I assumed – that’s all.”

  “Might you not just as easily have assumed they were stolen?” The tall, blonde DS Riley asked in an even voice.

  “Heavens, no!” Colliers was affecting a righteous tone. “I had documentation showing the provenance of each painting.”

  “Sir John, you are correct in assuming that we are here about counterfeit – the John Luke and William Conor pieces are not authentic.” Dunlop was watching for any other signs of anxiety, but Colliers was now cool and collected. “Can you tell me where they came from – that is who sold them to you?”

  “With pleasure, Inspector! I have been duped – and this will be a huge embarrassment to me.” He felt safe in disclosing Richards’ name and any details that would deflect police attention away from him. He was calculating that he would not suffer overall loss as long as the le Brocquy sold. He even considered taking the fake pictures back and passing them on through an auction room in the future. “I bought the pieces from a man called Leo Richards.”

  The tall, blonde woman was taking notes, scribbling down details, but also eyeing Dunlop. He was a man who had seen just about every trick in the book when it came to the darker side of the art scene.

  Dunlop nodded approvingly, “Good, we can follow that up, Sir John.” He waited for a few seconds, and continued, “And how did you meet this Leo Richards?”

  Colliers was on unsure ground now, as he had no credible excuse for buying art works from a stranger on the word of Frederick Stewart. Nevertheless, he was angry with Stewart. He had been happy to put him at the centre of any police suspicions.

  “Through the Stewart Gallery as a matter of fact. I have known Frederick Stewart for many years.” He said no more, hoping to redirect any doubt away from himself.

  “And do you have contact details – for Mr Richards or details concerning your financial transactions?”

  Colliers was visibly startled. “Is that really necessary?” He had gone pale, and Dunlop decided to give him plenty of rope with which to hang himself.

  “I hope not, Sir John, but if we have difficulty finding Mr Richards, that may be our only means of pursuing the matter.” He tried to sound as official as possible, but wanted to leave Colliers without any doubt that the matter would be pursued.

  “I can give you the contact details that I have, but you might find that Frederick Stewart is better placed to help you. I don’t do a lot of administration. Aesthetics is my thing.”

  Dunlop did not believe a word of it. He was irked that Colliers thought him a fool, but simply cleared his throat, shooting a sideways glance at Riley. He wanted to say ‘and making a considerable profit’ but made do with, “I shall speak to Mr Stewart and if needs be, I will get back to you.”

  The two Fraud Squad Officers took their leave politely, but without the due respect Sir John Colliers felt appropriate. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but they were somehow sneering and insubordinate. Colliers was angry. Dunlop and Riley were professionals and shared their observations, agreeing this was going to be a complicated investigation.

  Colliers’ anger turned to coldness. He must remain above suspicion. Enraged that Cressida had taken into her mind to leave him – thus demeaning his public standing – and mindful of her recently rekindled friendship with Lady Margaret Beightin, he calculated that she was somehow the author of both his misfortunes.

  He was not aware that Margaret knew it was he, who was ringing when she turned off the answer-phone and left the receiver in place.

  “Pig!” Margaret muttered under her breath. “Now, you will get what you rightly deserve!”

  Frustration boiled in Collier’s mind. He had to find out where Cressida was and put a stop to her flights of fancy. He would just have to sit it out as regards that interfering Beightin woman – she had too much clout to be brought to heel.

  * * *

  DCI Emily Brown was delighted to meet the handsome, young Italian, who arrived with instructions from Jack Summers. He had brought evidence that might be relevant to the murder of Eliza Taunter and new information. The theft of Mrs Stock’s jewellery was petty, but possibly also tied into the murder.

  “Thank you, Doctor Tebaldi. You may have hit on something very important. I am impressed that you had the presence of mind to avoid getting your fingerprints on this boarding card.” She did not add that she was impressed with his solicitous treatment of the elderly Mrs Stock.

  She took a liking to this man – more than a liking. She repressed the desire to ask him for a date – being some years his senior – but it was tempting!

  He left the police station and spent the rest of the day between his academic duties, visiting his grandparents and starting into renovating a bedroom for them, with the help of an electrician.

  Although Nico was busy, he eventually did make time to check out the recorders in Eliza’s office and kitchen. The more modern one was filled with practice presentations and lectures. It was clear that she liked the sound of her own voice – literally. As the human voice is heard by the speaker through his or her jaw bone, no one hears what they actually sound like – and therefore, many people don’t like the sound of their own voice. Eliza Taunter was one of those rare exceptions. He saved these onto files in a large folder and emailed them to Jack – to his personal email, as requested.

  The second, older MP3 model had some similar
recordings – some of which were out-of-date by comparison with the office material, but many of which were recent. The last one was strange – and there was so much interference that he was not sure if it was accidentally taken during a television or DVD movie. He could hear Eliza’s voice to start off and then it changed – with a shrill female voice screeching at what seemed to be an intruder – then crashing noises, screams and then silence.

  He went over this material again, wondering if Jack could get someone more technical to have a listen and took both recorders back to College Road with him.

  “I think it might be accidental – like she forgot to switch it off or mistakenly switched it on when she was watching a movie. Even so, since she met such a grisly end, you might find it important.” Having not heard this last recording until half ten at night, he felt he’d been rather selfish – he’d spent the evening working on what was now his home – previously the murder scene.

  “Nico, I think you should take both the recorders into DCI Brown. Police forensics can probably do a lot with those recordings. Can you do that tomorrow?” Jack tried to sound less than overbearing. “I know you have a lot on. And since I’m on leave, I can give you a hand with some of the donkey-work – the least I can do when I’m giving you orders about the recordings.”

  * * *

  Councillor Cobbles was an inarticulate man preferring bluster to logic. He was barely literate. He was capable of making himself clear, but was far from an able orator. So, it fell to the party’s constituency worker to put together a speech. Marty Miller was a bright and enthusiastic party member, who enjoyed writing speeches. He’d been tasked by the party leader, one Manus Simms to put something together that Cobbles could deliver. He sighed, thinking to himself that thus was some ask!

  “Keep the words small – nothing fancy. I’m a plain-spoken man,” Cobbles instructed.

  “Will do,” Marty Miller replied, knowing that he could pull out the template for all Conservative Catholic Party Speeches – with its emphasis on how highly the party placed strong family values. “What are the best points about this alley scheme anyway?”

  “It is a development which has involved residents in an improvement scheme. It has attracted local media attention and has been assessed as unique by the judges and a model for others to copy.” He hated Wild Fern Alley but a presentation of such high profile was something he’d been aiming for all his political career. Although he thought he had blown his chances and particularly with Marianne Kelly, he now had an opportunity to score political points and get a huge amount of positive publicity. Even some national media were due at City Hall. Brendan Cobbles could get to be the next mayor through this exposure!

  Marty Miller prepared a gushing speech, as an endorsement of Wild Fern Alley and Cobbles read it through gritted teeth. The whole thing was very last minute, but extremely important to Miller’s future career as well as that of Cobbles. However, as he read the speech, it occurred to Miller that ‘strong family values’ was verging on the homophobic and might need toning down.

  * * *

  Simon and Cal had not been residents for long, but were utterly committed multi-taskers, and the soul of diplomacy with outsiders as the residents had started calling anyone but themselves. Backing Thaddeus on all occasions, they frequently calmed the volatile Marianne, who was increasingly given to verbal excesses in the presence of Cobbles or Shappie in particular.

  They were now full committee members and looked forward to the event with some trepidation. Marianne had fulminated with rage when Cobbles’ name was mentioned.

  “That parcel of shit! He is going to present the award?” she railed. “He has done nothing but stir up trouble for us – and those dead rats. You know I have him on camera?”

  “Now, Marianne. It is the award we all need to think about,” Simon spoke in a slow and quiet voice. “Isn’t this what you wanted? And he will have to eat his words!” He rubbed his hands and saw Marianne settling down.

  “Oh, my God! Can you imagine just how much that will gall him?” Cal chimed in.

  “True. You have a point!” Marianne almost gurgled at the thought of Cobbles having to sing their praises and endorse their application for a council grant. “I think this might turn out to be an interesting evening.”

  * * *

  Detective Inspector Dunlop and Detective Sergeant Riley had enlisted the assistance of the usual forensic accountant that the police used. Eric Peterson saw through the accounting arrangements immediately.

  “This is a fairly standard technique. The practice of moving money from British or Irish banks through overseas companies – going into Swiss bank accounts. Nowadays, the Swiss are very cooperative when it comes to criminal investigations. These old methods don’t work since the new procedure came in. These people are pretty amateur, although the sums are large enough.” He did not ask whether this was a case of tax fraud or the gains of other criminal activity.

  “Now, I think it’s time to call on Sir John Colliers again!” DI Dunlop said.

  DS Riley smiled, “Are you going to bring him in?”

  “No. Not yet. I have a feeling there is more to this than meets the eye. We can bide our time.”

  “How can we contact this Peter Saunders’ boss?” Riley was eager to press on with the case.

  “We have an address in the South of France. Once we have interviewed Colliers, we can contact the French Police. How’s your French?”

  “Average – I can get by if people speak slowly.”

  * * *

  Clive Heedon had intended to endorse Colliers in his bid for National Governor of the BBC. He had made a point of being closely associated with the President of the Royal Arts Society and even courted publicity to lay the ground. Colliers would be useful at some stage; he was sure. However, rumours were coming through that Lady Cressida was divorcing him on grounds of domestic violence. The local Sunday rag had all, but named Colliers and now, he was reliably informed by Chris Barker, social media was buzzing with the scandal.

  “Barker, I think we may have to reconsider this.” Heedon pointed to the file on his desk and the draft letter of recommendation. “I don’t think this office can be associated with brutality even if it is only rumour at this stage. It could become an embarrassment to us.”

  Barker noted how Heedon spoke in the plural when it was a matter of some difficulty, but always spoke in the first person when the issue reflected well on him.

  “That might be a judicious path of action, sir. Shall I dispose of the draft?”

  “Yes, thank you, Barker.” He turned to look out the window over the tree-lined horizon as the civil servant left the room.

  * * *

  Peter Saunders had settled comfortably into his villa and was enjoying the clement weather of the South of France. He was more curious than concerned when he asked to attend the local police station, thinking it must be connected with the break-in. These country plods had obviously not found anyone.

  * * *

  Jack had checked out the flight details from the boarding card stub that Nico had found – as had DCI Emily Brown. The seat was booked in the name Peter Saunders, and he had come by a private company landing in Newtownards airfield. His return had been to the South of France via England. The dates of travel coincided with the murder of Eliza Taunter and the stranger that Veronica Pilchard had seen leaving her house on the morning after her death.

  DCI Brown was ahead of Veronica since she had a transcript of the recording, which Nico had found on the MP3.

  Background noises interrupted a speech or lecture on plurivocity and intertextuality. Eliza sounded alarmed. “Who is it?” A male voice replied, “It’s me, Leo.”

  “No, it’s not! You are not Leo!” Eliza sounded frightened, but also enraged. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”

  “It is me, Eliza. I have just got a disguise – this is not more hair dye, Botox and contact lenses.”

  “Don’t you dare come near me!” she scr
eamed in panic.

  “Steady on and put that knife down, Eliza.” He sounded impatient. “Don’t be so bloody stupid! Arghh! Christ! Eliza, what have you done?”

  The sound of breaking crockery lasted for some seconds, followed by a blood-curdling scream, a groaning noise and a gurgling sound. Then silence fell, followed by the male voice saying, “Stupid cow – it’s your own fault!”

  The sounds that followed seemed to be a door closing and a dull moaning and then whimpering.

  CDI Brown knew that Leo Richards had disappeared. Now, she knew how. He had disguised himself and was presumably now operating under a false identity.

  * * *

  Cressida Colliers stood at the airport waiting for her friend Margaret Beightin, who was uncharacteristically late.

  Lady Margaret Beightin was normally punctual to a fault – so much so that she became very unpleasant with anyone who did her the discourtesy of keeping her waiting beyond the appointed moment that had been agreed. Cressida was worried, as she and Margaret had booked a last-minute trip to get away from John and his furious pursuit of her. He was enraged that she was suing for divorce and incandescent that news of this had leaked out.

  As the call to board the flight came over the public address system, Cressida saw a frantic-looking Margaret Beightin rushing towards the boarding gate.

  “Sorry, Cressida. There was a bit of a fuss before I got away.” She did not go into detail, as they were the last to hand in their passes and find a seat.

  “Thank goodness, you got here in time!”

  “Indeed, Pisa, here we come!” Lady Margaret Beightin grinned. “I will explain when we get settled.”

  * * *

  The hunt for Leo Richards now going under the name ‘Peter Saunders’ produced swift results and would lead to his arrest within a matter of days.