Back-Slash

by Bill Kitson

  ‘Simple enough. I found the real vendor and bought him a square meal; then I put the proposition to him. I told him I was doing research for a new TV programme. I gave him £100 to take over his pitch for a week. In addition he gets the takings. He’ll be upset when the week’s over, because I’m selling more than he does.’

  ‘What have you been able to find out?’

  ‘It’s going to be dead easy getting in. I reckon five minutes from start to finish. All these big buildings have gone in for numerically coded locks. Somebody must have done a great selling job on them, because they fondly believe they represent good security. Getting round them is a doddle.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘I chose the easiest way. Learning the code.’

  ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘I started with the street door. I waited for the first person to arrive in the morning. I was sheltering in their doorway as it was raining. I asked him for the time. Then I pretended to adjust my watch whilst he was punching the numbers in. Just to be on the safe side I did the same routine a little later the next morning and that confirmed they don’t change the code. Probably because they’re too dim to remember a new one. Security, I tell you, it’s a joke. They’re so confident the doors will keep intruders out they haven’t even bothered with motion-sensitive burglar alarms. I’m surprised their insurance company allows them to get away with it. Mind you, being solicitors and accountants, they probably own the insurance company.’

  ‘What about the internal door?’

  ‘I had a bit more trouble with that, but in the end I got lucky. I bought one of those cheap desk-top shredders, parcelled it up and addressed it for the attention of the office manager. Then I posed as a delivery man and waited in the corridor until one of the staff came back from lunch. I waited for her to punch the numbers in then delivered my package. As soon as I could, I wrote the number down.’ Marshall chuckled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I have this picture of the office manager tearing her hair out trying to find out who bought a shredder without going through the usual ordering process.’

  ‘You said lucky. I think that was clever. When do we go in?’ Barry asked.

  ‘This evening would be best, Saturday night in Leeds? Who’s going to pay attention to us? The police will have enough on their plate with the druggies and drunks and the boisterous clubbers to worry about anything else. Unless an alarm goes off. And it won’t, because we’ve got the numbers to disable it. With nobody at work tomorrow, we can take all night over the job if we want.’

  ‘I’ll have to move the car at some stage. The car park we’re in closes at 7 p.m.’

  ‘Just be sure not to park within range of a CCTV camera.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘One more thing, can you call at a chemist’s before they close?’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘We need a packet of surgical gloves. We don’t want to leave fingerprints all over the place.’

  ‘That makes sense. I’ll stop and get them whilst you take Lisa the coffee I promised her, that way you get out of sight. No point pushing our luck.’

  Shortly before 8 p.m. Marshall and Barry Dickinson left Lisa in the car, which was parked in a dimly lit side street, and wandered towards the main road. By the time they reached the precinct it had started to rain. ‘We’re lucky with the weather. Nobody will be rushing outdoors in this.’ Marshall glanced to the right and the left. The street was deserted. ‘Follow me and once we’re inside don’t move until I give the word.’

  He stepped up to the door. Barry heard the electronic tones as Marshall pressed the numbers on the keypad. The door yielded obediently to his touch. ‘Come on.’ Their first objective had been achieved in less than thirty seconds.

  Marshall ensured the door was fully closed and they heard the lock engage. ‘We don’t want any zealous copper finding the door unlocked,’ he explained. ‘Right, now follow me to the stairs.’

  Marshall opened the door to the stairwell. Once it had swung to behind them he flicked his torch on. ‘We can’t be seen from outside. The stairs are in the middle of the building but I’ll have to switch it off when we get to the first floor.’

  Less than two minutes later they were standing outside the glass door leading to their objective. Marshall switched on his torch to see the numerical display. It illuminated the name of the company picked out in gold lettering; Hobbs & Hirst Solicitors. Hobbs & Hirst, whose senior partner had been murdered six weeks ago. The company that had also employed his secretary and mistress, Lesley Robertson. Hobbs & Hirst; where Anna Marshall had worked.

  ‘We’re in.’ Marshall opened the door. They moved cautiously into the large reception area. ‘Where do we start?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Moran’s office, I think. From memory, it should be this way,’ Marshall pointed to the right. ‘His files would be the ones most likely to contain what we’re looking for.’ As they passed through the outer office Barry pointed to a four-drawer filing cabinet on the wall near the desk. ‘That might be worth checking as well.’

  ‘I agree,’ Marshall replied. ‘In fact, I think we should look everywhere until we find what we came for. After all, they can only lock us up once.’

  There were three filing cabinets across one wall of Moran’s office, but their contents proved disappointing. There were only a few suspense files hanging from the rails, a fact that briefly puzzled the searchers. Marshall relocked the cabinets with the keys obligingly left in the locks. ‘Security, hah, what did I tell you?’

  The filing cabinet in Lesley Robertson’s office proved similarly unrewarding. It also contained only a few files. ‘I bet Moran’s office has been reallocated to a new partner,’ Barry whispered. ‘All his files would be taken out to make way for the new man. I shouldn’t wonder if they’ve been placed in the filing system in the general office.’

  ‘That sounds logical. But why are you whispering?’ Marshall grinned.

  They entered the general office, a large, open plan room to the left of reception. Barry groaned as he saw a bank of a dozen filing cabinets lined up against the wall opposite them. A similar row lined the wall to their right. ‘It’s a good thing we’ve got all weekend,’ he remarked.

  ‘The only good thing is that this office is in the middle of the building with no windows. That means we can switch the lights on without being seen from outside.’ Marshall pressed the switch and they stood blinking for a moment at the brightness of a dozen fluorescent lights.

  ‘Where shall we start?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Let’s do it the simple way. Start at the far end, take a cabinet each, then work our way round the room.’

  They’d anticipated an element of risk, been nervous about it. What they now experienced was tedium. Each file had to be examined, each cabinet cross-checked, before they could move on to the next. Occasional distractions delayed their task, but provided lighter moments. Finding documents dating back over a century was one. Another came from the salacious but highly entertaining evidence in a libel case concerning a judge, a prostitute and various items of household equipment produced in evidence.

  By the time they’d searched the first bank of cabinets it was after midnight, and they were still only halfway through their task. They set about the second set of cabinets with weary determination. ‘These legal papers with their weird and wonderful phrases and antiquated wording are making me go cross-eyed.’ Barry complained.

  ‘Me too. If you want to make the task a bit more exciting let’s start at the left-hand set of cabinets and work to the right this time.’

  It was twenty minutes after they recommenced searching that Marshall came across a file labelled CBC. Curiosity caused him to remove it from the drawer. He looked inside and took it to the nearest desk. ‘Corps Building Corporation. That name rings a bell,’ he muttered.

  He turned over a few of the papers, without finding anything to enlighten him. As he went to lift it of
f the desk, one of the suspension hooks caught against the coils of the phone cable. Marshall pulled, and the receiver came clattering off its rest. Several of the file’s documents cascaded on to the floor. ‘Shush!’ Barry’s chiding merged with Marshall’s own, ‘Damn and blast!’

  He replaced the receiver and bent to pick up the documents. A name on the heading of one of the sheets caught his eye. He scanned the rest of the page. He groped behind him until he found the chair, sat down and reopened the file. It was five minutes before Barry realized that he’d neither moved, uttered a sound, nor replaced the file. ‘Alan?’ he said. ‘Have you found something?’

  There was a long moment of silence. ‘Have you seen a file for Coningsby Developments?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in here, I think.’ Barry delved into a drawer, found the folder and passed it to Marshall.

  He flicked through the contents, then settled on one document. He stared at it for some time. ‘I’ve found it. I’ve found out why Anna was murdered. Why all the others were killed. Why they framed me, and why they want to kill me now. The problem is I’m still trying to make sense of it. I need time. It’s too complicated to take in at one go. I also need to check something Brown said. Before we leave, I’m going to use their photocopier. I want to make a copy of everything in this file.’

  It was a few minutes after 2 a.m. when they left the building. They found Lisa in the Land Rover, almost frantic with worry. ‘I daren’t move, in case I missed you, but there’ve been sirens going, left, right and centre. I felt sure you’d be locked up by now. How did it go?’

  ‘Like a dream,’ Marshall reassured her. ‘What’s more, we got what we came for. I’ll show you when we get back.’

  As they reached the outskirts of the city they relaxed slightly. They’d committed an outrageous act of burglary and compounded this with the theft of copier paper and an envelope. There would probably be a case for them to answer in the use of copier cartridge ink. But they didn’t care.

  They spoke very little on the journey. For the most part Marshall pondered the implications of the papers. Once they left the ring road, he spoke. ‘You appreciate this isn’t by any means the end.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose so.’ Lisa was concerned what Marshall would do, now the truth about Anna’s death was emerging.

  ‘You could say it’s only the beginning,’ he told her. ‘I’ll have to think it through very carefully.’

  ‘What will you do with the information?’

  ‘I wish I knew. Once, I only wanted revenge, now I’m not so sure. It’s just another problem to sort out.’

  ‘Will those files give you all you need?’

  ‘Yes, but there are a lot of loose ends to tie up: pieces of the jigsaw to put into place.’

  ‘Have you any idea how to do it?’

  ‘Not yet. It’s far from straightforward.’

  ‘No matter what you learn, no matter how horrible it becomes, you must remember one thing?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If you do anything rash, it could land you back in Durham. This time with justification, I don’t think Anna would want that.’

  ‘Is that the police officer talking, or the concerned friend?’

  ‘The concerned friend.’

  ‘I’m glad. At one time I hadn’t a concerned friend in the world. Then, I’d have found these bastards and killed them. I’d have done it because I owed it to Anna. Now everything’s different. You’re right; I don’t think Anna would want me to put my future in jeopardy. I’ve been concentrating so hard on keeping out of the police’s way; I haven’t given a thought about what happens afterwards.’

  Barry phoned Shirley from his mobile. ‘We’ll be another half an hour. No, stop fretting, we’re OK. You get to bed. Leave the french window in the lounge unlocked. We’ll hide the Land Rover and take a short cut over Sir Maurice’s kitchen garden to the woods. If the police are still watching they won’t see us come in that way.’

  chapter twenty-two

  Barry decided he needed a few hours’ sleep before Alan told him exactly what he’d discovered. ‘I’ll try and make sense of everything. At the moment it’s pure speculation. I need to go through both sets of files. Those we’ve just got and Brown’s. I’ll tell you what I find in the morning. It’ll be easier to explain the whole thing instead of parts of it.’

  Only the repeated stimulation of more coffee kept Marshall and Lisa awake, reading the file documents over and over, whilst Marshall made copious notes. He suggested they listen to Brown’s taped confession again.

  ‘It was someone called Jones, it was part of the code, Smith or Jones. I never knew their names.’

  ‘That’s not good enough, Mr Brown. Jones tells us nothing. Tell us who paid you to kill Anna Marshall.’ Silence.

  ‘Tell us who paid you to kill Stuart Moran.’ Silence.

  ‘Tell us who paid you to kill Councillor Jeffries.’ Still silence.

  ‘If you want to be a tough guy I’ll have to do it the hard way.’

  ‘No, no, don’t do that, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you,’ the voice was close to screaming.

  ‘Go on then. Who paid you?’

  ‘His name’s Harry, Harry Rourke.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me.’ Now the voice was agitated.

  ‘He told you his name was Harry Rourke?’

  ‘As good as.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘When I asked him, he told me. ‘“Just think of me as Harry,”’ that’s what he said.’

  ‘I thought you told me that when you talked with customers you used Smith and Jones?’

  ‘That’s just our code. I always insist on another name as well, one that will help me identify them. I have more than one customer, you know.’ Now there was a little bravado returning.

  ‘How do you know this “Harry” is Harry Rourke?’

  ‘Because he’s careless. Most customers use withheld numbers, but he didn’t bother. I used 1571 and ring-back. When the receptionist answered she said, “Broadwood Construction”. I looked them up and found out their managing director’s name is Harry Rourke.’

  Lisa switched the tape off. ‘Was he right? Is it Harry who’s been paying for the murders?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s Harry all right.’ Marshall started to laugh.

  Lisa stared at him curiously as the Dickinsons entered the kitchen. Shirley headed for the stove. ‘I’ll get some breakfast started. You two must be starving.’

  When they’d eaten Lisa demanded, ‘Now, would you mind explaining?’

  Marshall looked at his notes. ‘OK, I’ll tell you as much as I’ve been able to piece together.’ He tapped the papers. ‘A lot of it is gleaned from these. The rest is informed guesswork. There are still a few gaps.

  ‘A long time ago two men served together in the RAF. They became friends and when they left the service they kept in touch. One of them took over the running of the family business. A small building company, doing original works and some renovation. The other went to work for a much bigger concern. Somewhere along the line the two old comrades got together and hatched a plot that involved a huge risk, but would yield massive rewards.’

  ‘What sort of plot?’ Barry asked.

  ‘A fraud of gigantic proportions. If it had been discovered they would both have got long prison sentences. Set against that, the fraud must have earned them millions over the years. The small family business, which was called Corps Building Corporation, grew and prospered. It took on larger, more valuable contracts and began to tender for public works. As it got bigger, the company name was changed to Coningsby Developments. The managing director, Julian Corps, became a well-known and respected figure in the industry.

  ‘Eventually Corps was approached to stand for parliament. He was offered the candidature of a safe seat that was coming up at a by-election.’ Marshall paused. ‘I gleaned the next bit of information when I was picking up at a shoot last month. Apparently, Corps has mad
e such a good impression within his party that he’s already being talked of as a future leader.

  ‘All very laudable: except for one thing. What no one knew was that Corps hadn’t succeeded on his own merits. He succeeded because his company tendered for, and got, contracts due to influence exerted by the chairman of the local planning committee. Councillor Bob Jeffries. Who was, I have no doubt, well rewarded for his services.’

  Marshall paused, ‘I remember Corps from my own time in the construction industry. He was a nonentity without much business ability. I actually convinced myself I’d got the wrong man. Either I’d got the name wrong or it was another bloke called Corps.’

  ‘So Corps wasn’t the leading light in the fraud?’ Lisa asked. ‘Shame about that, I was going to make a feeble joke about Corps producing corpses, but maybe I’d better not.’

  Marshall groaned. ‘Definitely better not. In fact Corps was a non-starter compared to the man I’d worked for. Harry Rourke had more business acumen in his little finger than Corps had in his whole body. It just didn’t make sense that he could compete successfully with Rourke.

  ‘When I realized Corps was indeed the same man, my first thought was, how did he manage to find out which contracts were up for grabs? Let alone win them against such stiff opposition. Now I know the full story, winning them was easy. Councillor Jeffries saw to that. Finding them was just as easy, because Corps didn’t find them. He simply stole them. Or to be precise, his secret partner did. That alone wouldn’t have been enough. Corps needed somebody behind him, because he couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag, not in a business sense that is. So there had to be another figure guiding him, a sleeping partner. But one who would have been ruined if his identity became known.

  ‘The need for secrecy was essential, but Corps’s benefactor also needed security. He needed paperwork that would ensure he could claim his just deserts. However, that agreement also had to be kept totally secret.’

  Marshall stood up and began pacing round the room. ‘So they approached Stuart Moran, a junior partner in Hobbs and Hirst, and asked him to draw up an agreement to satisfy both needs. Moran came up with a deal that would ensure the eventual sale of Corps Building Corporation, later known as Coningsby Developments to a further company, Leconfield Holdings. Leconfield had two shareholders, each with a fifty per cent stake in the company. Because of the need for secrecy, Leconfield had to remain a dormant company until the time was right. That way the shareholders’ names never appeared. It didn’t have to file accounts. It just lay on the shelf gathering dust.’