Without a cigarette to calm her nerves, Annette Barbary fiddled anxiously with an empty packet of Nicorette as Munro and West took their seats.
‘Now then,’ said Munro, with a reassuring smile. ‘Will I call you Annette, or do you prefer Mrs Barbary?’
‘Annette’s fine.’
‘Good. I understand you’re not wanting a solicitor, Annette, is that correct?’
‘Aye.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
‘Positive. To be honest, if you locked me up it’d be a relief.’
‘And why’s that?’
Annette stared at Munro, and then West, as her eyes misted over.
‘Is it your husband?’ said West. ‘Is it something to do with him?’
‘It’s everything to do with him,’ said Annette, pulling up her sleeves to reveal the purple and yellow bruises on her forearms. ‘They’re not tattoos, hen.’
West, having experienced first-hand the trauma of being involved in an abusive relationship, one which had driven her off the rails and into a bottomless bottle of vodka, regarded her with a look of empathy.
‘How long has this been going on?’ she said.
‘Since we wed, pretty much.’
‘And you never thought to report it? Or call the police?’
‘I’m not keen on hospital food,’ said Annette cynically.
‘I see. So, if your husband happened to… go away, it would be…’
‘It’d be a miracle.’
Munro stood, reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly pressed white handkerchief.
‘You and Mr Tamarin,’ he said, handing it to Annette, ‘are you in some kind of…’
‘We’re not involved, Inspector, if that’s what you’re thinking. We’re companions. Friends.’
‘Friends?’ said Munro. ‘And is Mr Tamarin a good friend?’
‘Aye. He’s the kind of friend who can hear you when you’re not speaking, if you know what I mean.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Munro. ‘You’re very lucky.’
‘I am, that. He’s helped me through a lot, has Alex, he’s helped me cope. He listens, and he doesn’t judge. Do you know… do you know what it’s like to sit in the same room as somebody else and not flinch every time he raises his hand? Or stands up? Or… or just looks at you?’
West shot Munro a sideways glance and lowered her head.
‘So, did you and Mr Tamarin come up with this plan together?’ she said, doodling on her notepad. ‘To fleece the business account?’
‘No, no,’ said Annette. ‘That was Alex, really. He started it. Kind of.’
‘Care to elaborate?’
Annette dabbed the corners of her eyes and stared at West.
‘I knew how much the company was spending,’ she said, ‘and I knew what our profits were. When I checked the returns Alex had filed I could see how he’d reduced our tax liability, but something didn’t add up.’
‘You mean, he’d got his calculations wrong?’ said Munro.
‘No, no, it wasn’t the figures. He’d sent me a copy of our books, Inspector, copies which he’d amended so everything would tally should the taxman come calling, and there were entries for invoices to his company.’
‘And how was that odd? I mean, obviously you had to pay the man for his services?’
‘Aye, of course. But I paid him cash, once a year. Not by monthly subscription.’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Munro, ‘entering invoices is one thing, having them paid is quite another.’
‘Alex was holding blank cheques. A full book of signed blank cheques, for the tax, and the VAT, and so on.’
‘I see. So, what did you do?’
‘I had it out with him, of course. I asked him what the hell he was playing at. At first he said I wouldn’t understand, that it was too complicated, but I knew exactly what he was doing and I threatened to tell Jack.’
‘So, he admitted…’
‘Did he heck,’ said Annette. ‘He laughed in my face. He said he’d get a pat on the back for saving Jack a few quid, whereas I… well, there’s no telling what might have happened to me.’
‘Go on,’ said West. ‘What happened next?’
‘I suggested that instead of topping-up his fee with a wee bit here and there, that we should do it properly, and split it, fifty-fifty.’
‘And he was up for that?’
‘Oh, aye. He couldn’t wait,’ said Annette. ‘I got the impression he wanted to get back at Jack for something, it was like something had happened between them.’
‘And you’ve no idea what that might be?’
‘No. If something had happened, then it must have been before my time, and frankly, whatever it was, I’m better off not knowing.’
Munro, well aware that the criminal mind was capable of concocting convoluted ways of extracting large sums of money from blue-chip companies with millions at their disposal, was struggling to justify the logic behind fleecing a paving company for a few hundred pounds.
‘Forgive me, Annette,’ he said, frowning as he crossed his arms, ‘but what kind of sums are we talking about here? Is there really that much money in laying a few bricks on the ground?’
The years lifted as Annette, for the first time in ages, broke into a broad smile.
‘You have no idea, have you, Inspector?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘See here, the cost for block-paving an average-sized driveway is about three thousand pounds, plus materials, and Jack could do a couple a week. That’s about eight grand a week. Thirty grand a month, give or take.’
‘Are you joking me?’ said Munro, his cheeks billowing with disbelief. ‘Dear God, you must have had some unforgettable nights out on that lot.’
‘Dream on,’ said Annette morosely. ‘The only time I get to go out is to empty the bins.’
‘What about your supplier?’ said West. ‘I should tell you, we know the outfit listed on your books doesn’t exist.’
‘I ditched them when Alex found a fella up near Woodfield who got us what we needed, no questions asked. So the profits just kept going up and up.’
‘By Jiminy,’ said Munro, ‘I must look into this, I’ll be needing a hobby once I retire. But what about your husband Jack? Did he not catch on, I mean, did he not even look at the books?’
‘Jack’s not great at reading, Inspector. Or writing, for that matter.’
‘And all the cash went into Tamarin’s account under the guise of these false invoices?’
‘Aye. It did.’
‘So, what was the plan?’ said West. ‘I mean, you’d have to be stupid to stick around here after doing that.’
‘Florida,’ said Annette. ‘Lakeland, or Clermont.’
‘And Tamarin was going with you?’
Annette nodded.
‘Well, I’ve got to hand it to you,’ said Munro, ‘if it wasn’t for Hamlyn lying dead on the beach, you’d have got away with it. Pity.’
West, noticing Annette’s adverse reaction, regarded her with a curious tilt of the head.
‘Tommy Hamlyn,’ she said. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘Hamlyn? No, I don’t think so.’
Munro, intrigued as to why Annette had dropped her smile in favour of her less than flattering dour expression, leaned forward, clasped his hands on the desk, and fixed her with his ice-blue eyes.
‘Somebody used your landline to call Tommy Hamlyn several times before he died, Annette,’ he said softly. ‘Now, was it yourself?’
‘I’ve just said, I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Was it your son Joey, perhaps? Could he have made the calls?’
‘No, no. I’d have known about it.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Jack,’ said Annette, her shoulders sagging, ‘he’s made it quite clear that Joey’s not welcome in the house. Besides, I’m at home all the time, and he has been working with Jack the last few days.’
‘You must have a sixth sense, Annette,’ said Munro
, ‘because I’ve not said when Tommy Hamlyn died, or when the calls from your phone were made; so how do you know it was during the last few days?’
Annette crushed the empty packet in her hands as the tears welled in her eyes.
‘We know about the email,’ said West. ‘The email on your computer. From Talion. Has your husband seen it?’
‘No! God, no! He’d kill me if…’
‘If what? Do you know who this Talion is?’
‘No! I’ve no idea!’
‘Then why not show it to him?’
‘Because I thought whoever it was, was telling me that this Hamlyn fella knew what me and Alex were up to, I thought…’
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ said West. ‘You called Hamlyn.’
Annette, having spent the best part of ten years taking the blame for misdemeanours she knew nothing about, relented, her face wrinkling like a prune as she tried to suppress the tears.
‘I did,’ she said, nodding. ‘It was me. I called him.’
‘But if you’d never heard of him,’ said West, ‘how could you possibly know his number?’
‘Jack,’ said Annette, ‘he’s a wee address book he keeps in the safe. It’s the first place I looked.’
‘And you thought, if you could speak to him, you’d find out exactly what he knew?’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
West, rarely one for showing her feelings, unless it involved hunger, leaned back and offered Annette the kind of sympathetic smile normally reserved for mourners at a funeral.
‘The day you made those calls,’ she said, ‘your husband was in Tarbolton, right?’
‘Working. Aye. Gallowhill Drive.’
‘And Joey was with him?’
‘So he says.’
‘And he got back around nine, can you verify that?’
‘Sounds about right,’ said Annette, ‘but I’m not a clock-watcher, the days are long enough as it is.’
‘So, he got home, had his dinner, and he went to bed?’
Annette shuffled uneasily in her seat, glanced at the floor and coughed as she cleared her throat.
‘You’ve no need to cover for Jack, anymore,’ said Munro. ‘Annette, if there’s something you know, then now’s the time to tell us.’
‘He didn’t go to bed. He went out.’
‘What time?’ said West.
‘Straight after he’d eaten.’
‘And came back?’
‘Late.’
‘Any ideas where he went?’
‘I can only guess, but judging by the smell on his breath, it was probably the Black Bull.’
‘That’s his local, is it?’
‘Only since he started seeing somebody else.’
‘So, he was having an affair?’ said Munro. ‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Jack’s not one for wearing perfume,’ said Annette. ‘It’s probably some gullible wee lassie half his age, falling for his banter, just like I did.’
Munro stood, tucked his chair beneath the desk, and slowly paced the periphery of the interview room, his head bowed with the weight of his thoughts.
‘I’m curious,’ he said, as if speaking to himself. ‘You see, when we spoke to your husband, he told us he’d not seen Hamlyn in ten years, so why does his name suddenly pop-up in this email? Why is this Talion fellow warning you that Hamlyn’s up to something?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Annette, ‘you have to believe me, I really don’t know.’
‘So, the email is the reason you and Tamarin were leaving so suddenly?’
‘Exactly,’ said Annette. ‘I’m no fool, Inspector, I wasn’t going to hang about with Jack on the warpath.’
‘Right enough,’ said Munro. ‘I cannae blame you for that, but, let’s... just for moment, let’s pretend that this email actually has nothing to do with you, at all.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Let’s assume it’s about something else entirely, so, does your husband have any other business interests?’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m asking you, Annette. Let’s face it, nothing is out of the realms of possibility as far as Jack Barbary’s concerned.’
‘No, there’s nothing. Nothing I know about, anyway.’
‘Okay,’ said West, ‘well, did anyone ever drop by the house? Pop in for a cuppa? Friends of his, maybe?’
‘Friends?’ said Annette. ‘You should know better, hen. Jack doesn’t have any friends, just enemies.’
‘So, no-one ever came round?’
‘No-one except the postman. Oh, come to think of it, there was this one fella, but I was never introduced.’
‘And did he visit regularly?’
‘Aye, I suppose so,’ said Annette. ‘Not the same time, or the same day, but once a week, I reckon, maybe two.’
‘And you never…’
‘No! How many times? Jack would take him down to the workshop and five minutes later, that was him away.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not too short, but not too tall. Youngish looking, thick black hair. Always smartly dressed, you know, slacks and a polo shirt, that kind of thing.’
West glanced at Munro and smiled.
‘Tommy Hamlyn,’ she said. ‘Trust me, that’s Tommy Hamlyn.’
Munro, having completed a circuit of the room, perched himself on the edge of the desk and sat with his hands clasped in his lap.
‘Are you okay, Annette?’ he said. ‘Would you like a break, or a glass of water, perhaps?’
‘Not just now, thanks. A wee cigarette soon, I’m gasping.’
‘Okay. We’ll press on and I’ll try to keep it brief. Last night you left your house around nine-thirty, is that correct?’
Annette, her eyes darting between Munro and West, hesitated before answering.
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘We are,’ said Munro. ‘You see, we’ve had your house under surveillance, so…’
‘Surveillance? But why?’
‘We were keeping an eye on your husband. He was released about an hour before you left, and we wanted to make sure he made it home in one piece.’
‘That’s very kind of you, I’m sure.’
‘The thing is,’ said West, ‘when we spoke earlier, you seemed a bit confused as to whether you’d seen him or not. How’s your memory now?’
Annette took a breath and nodded.
‘I did, aye,’ she said, her speech faltering. ‘I did see him.’
‘And how was he?’
‘As you’d expect. Angry. Threatening to sue for wrongful arrest.’
‘No change there, then,’ said Munro. ‘So, what excuse did you use to leave the house? I mean, he never lets you out, and it was late. You must have come up with something credible.’
Annette clenched her fists in her lap and threw her head back, staring at the ceiling as she searched for the answer.
‘Milk,’ she said. ‘I said we needed milk. He’ll not take his tea black, so he let me go.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Ten minutes, he said. If I wasn’t back in ten minutes, he’d skelp me, good and proper.’
Munro paused, allowing a silence to fill the room which weighed like an anvil on Annette’s shoulders.
‘You know, Annette, if there’s one thing an interview with the police is guaranteed to do,’ he said, ‘it’s to give a man an appetite. You’d be surprised how many calories are burned as the mind struggles to find answers to questions that’ll not incriminate him.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Aye, it is. Tell me, was Jack hungry when he got home? Did you not have his supper waiting?’
‘I did,’ said Annette.
‘Pie and beans, by any chance?’
Annette clenched her teeth and closed her eyes as the colour drained from her cheeks.
‘Didn’t have much of an appetite, though, did he?’ said West, wishing she could open the door and let her go. ‘It was your last chance, was
n’t it? Your only chance? To get away, I mean?’
Annette simply shrugged her shoulders.
‘Listen, Mrs Barbary, I’m not sure what you’ll get for the embezzlement, but as it was half your company and, by all accounts, you weren’t paid for the work you did, it might not be that bad.’
‘And as for your husband, Annette,’ said Munro, ‘I believe the phrase justifiable homicide will ensure a degree of leniency when it comes to sentencing. Of course, we cannae actually charge you until we’ve confirmed the fingerprints on the weapons belong to you.’
‘They’re mine, Inspector. You know they are.’
‘Aye, right enough,’ said Munro. ‘So, how are you feeling?’
‘Actually, I’ve never felt better.’
Chapter 19
There were two things in life guaranteed to make Dougal feel as queasy as an agoraphobic stranded in the Australian outback; one was having to talk with anyone single, female, and vaguely attractive – symptomised by a dry mouth, red cheeks, and a burning desire to return to the womb – whilst the other was having to sit in the presence of a DCI who, despite his affable nature, at six feet three inches tall and tipping the scales at around sixteen stone, was not so much overbearing, but more the physical manifestation of the elephant in the room.
Dwarfed by his superior, he busied himself with the contents of a box file in an effort to avoid DCI Elliot’s futile attempts at idle chit-chat while he waited for Munro and West to return.
‘So, Dougal, how’s the fishing?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The fishing! You’re a keen fisherman, are you not?’
‘Oh, aye. Yes, sir, I am,’ said Dougal, ‘but I’ve not been for a while, other things to deal with, as you can guess.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Elliot. ‘Well, how about the match on Saturday? Will you be watching?’
‘No, I’m not into football, me.’
‘Fair enough. Hey, did you know the Smoking Goat has started a jazz night? Do you like jazz, Dougal?’
‘No, not really, sir. Or pubs. I’m not one for the drink.’
‘I see,’ said Elliot, sighing as he struggled to find some common ground. ‘You really are the life and soul of… hold on! The telly, now, did you see that documentary the other night about…’
Elliot’s words tailed off as Dougal, staring blankly in his direction, slowly shook his head.
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