The Man Who Vanished
Page 20
DCI Emily Brown put together the information and hard evidence that she had.
Leo Richards’ fingerprints had to be those found in Eliza Taunter’s house after the abduction of Nico Tebaldi. Richards was now using the name Peter Saunders and could be traced to the Toulouse Area. His prints would also be among some of the evidence SOCOs found at the murder scene. If they could access prints from France, they should get a match – and this was the first course she took.
Saunders’ prints were sent to Belfast from the country plods, as he thought of them.
“We’ve got a hit!” DCO Brown squealed in delight.
Extradition would take a little longer, but the suspect would be in police custody in Toulouse gaol until that was secured.
Peter Saunders’ shock was obvious when he arrived at the local station and was charged with murder. He protested his innocence, only to be told that the matter would be settled by a British court.
* * *
News of Richards’ arrest and imminent extradition spread quickly so that the Fraud Squad was given their art fraudster on a plate.
Eager to get out of the murder charge and knowing Colliers and Stewart would ensure as much culpability as possible fell on his shoulders, Richards admitted everything about the fake paintings – but was exonerated as regards the le Brocquy.
Clive Heedon was too near to Colliers and the local art scene to stick around and resigned as Secretary of State immediately after hearing news of the Fraud Squad Collar.
* * *
In spite of the landlords’ ill-founded allegations and dirty tricks, Wild Fern Alley had won the City Flowers Award. The committee was due at the presentation in City Hall that evening. Marianne had finally agreed that when Councillor Cobbles presented the trophy, she would accept it in good grace. Cobbles had agreed to make the presentation at very short notice when a celebrity television gardener dropped out. It was unfortunate that his trusty phone was not functioning that day, as he had an important meeting he needed to cancel, but he knew his priority was the media attention and political leverage that would bring.
As Veronica would be in the City Centre with Barry Doyle, they’d all agreed she’d meet the winning party at the ceremony.
As Councillor Cobbles entered the ballroom, he looked agitated and looking at his watch, but settled at the top table quickly. As a member of the Conservative Catholic Party, he was proudly seated beside his wife and the six of his nine children.
It was to be a glittering occasion. Important local and national members of the media were assembled at the back of the room. Around the walls, more than 20 tables were elaborately set with sparkling silverware, flowers and candles.
At 7:30, all the invited persons were present at the top table, preening and smiling. Even political opponents were making a show of friendship towards Councillor Cobbles. Large quantities of Prosecco were imbibed by all, including guest families, by the time the awards were due to be made.
Despite the fact that she was an important committee member, Veronica was late. She arrived just as Councillor Cobbles was about to get to his feet to make the award presentation.
Veronica spotted him at the top table and rushed up smiling and shouting, “Darling Mitchell, I was looking for you. We were supposed to meet at our favourite restaurant this evening, to celebrate our six-week anniversary! Where were you?”
Councillor Cobbles’ wife and six children, all looked on in horror. Cobbles sputtered, trying to think of some credible explanation, but his reddened face and guilty appearance give him away – to such a degree that it seemed to some that this incident was nothing new. Mrs Cobbles lifted one of the five bunches of flowers destined for the winning team and threw it at her husband – rapidly followed by the contents of a large pitcher of iced water. She cried out, “Bastard! Not again!” She hit him across the face as the cameras snapped copious shots, including her striding away from the top table. Her children all cried and followed her out of the ballroom, screaming. The committee from Wild Fern Alley had to physically hold back Marianne from joining in the fracas. Cobbles sank into his seat, unsure whether to chance proceeding with the presentation. Veronica stared at him with a smug grin.
Rising to his feet, Manus Simms, the leader of the Conservative Catholic Party ostentatiously cleared his throat and took the microphone in his hand, “Let me assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that we are a party of family values and Councillor Cobbles will be standing down as of this evening. I am disgusted at these revelations. As I say, we are a party that puts family values first.”
“Family values, my arse!” A small, brunette-haired woman shouted from the floor. “I was in a relationship with him, and he promised he would leave his wife for me!”
“Hell, no!” A tall, blonde woman stood up shouting, “He said the same to me, you tart!” She grabbed the brunette woman by the lapel of her jacket and swung a punch.
A third woman, dressed entirely in emerald-green, stood up and screamed, “And me – he told me that too!”
As the two other women wrested on the floor, the woman in in emerald-green lunged at Manus Simms, knocking him off balance. Various men started in to defend the blonde and brunette, and others just joined in for the fun of the fight. Cameras ran and clicked for the duration of the brawl.
Police entered the ballroom to escort the squabbling parties away.
Order was quickly restored. The committee of Wild Fern Alley insisted that the show went on, which it did in the absence of Cobbles and Manus Simms. The committee and the press had so much to celebrate!
Veronica Pilchard was not embarrassed. She grinned at the committee, “I said I’d do my bit.” She winked mischievously.
“You, Veronica Pilchard, have done us a great service!” Marianne announced to the assembled table. “Manus Simms will be deselected as leader and Cobbles’ days in politics are over!”
* * *
The press had their proverbial field day. Pictures on social media went viral. The Barry Doyle Show had an exclusive on the art fraud – carefully avoiding any reference to what turned out to be the accidental death of Professor Eliza Taunter.
Sitting in the Golden Palace the following lunchtime, Veronica Pilchard and Barry Doyle were celebrating – the programme had won the Dolby Prize for tell-it-like-it-is journalism.
Barry was in splendid form and lifted a glass of champagne to toast his producer. “Veronica, we have done well. Onwards and upwards! To the next award!” He smiled with unbounded pleasure. “Now, I have some other news for you. It will surprise you, but it might also explain some things.”
He led her down the stairs and out into the back courtyard.
Harry Pilchard was in the Golden Palace and in the smoking area! Veronica could hardly believe her eyes.
* * *