by Janet Neel
He looked at his watch, and signalled for the bill. ‘We’d better get on — I’m coming to the funeral anyway because the wife is second cousin to the daughter-in-law. I’ll take you to the station, then to the Grand after. The Department of Industry people are staying there, as I expect you know?’
McLeish decided resignedly that Davidson had been talking, but confirmed that he had indeed known, adding quellingly that he had hoped he would have a chance to talk to the senior man in charge of the investigation. Brady confirmed his worst fears by suppressing a grin, as he opined that this was a sound and well-conceived plan. They drove sedately to the small church where William Fireman, son, father and grandfather, was to be buried.
In the course of his ten years as a policeman, McLeish had attended a lot of funerals, but he found himself most painfully affected by this one. It was a dull heavy day, more like December than November. The congregation was subdued and shocked, and in the front pews the dead man’s daughter and sister wept steadily. His mother, a tiny shrunken creature with flying white hair, huddled into a thick blue coat now much too large for her, was totally disoriented, either as a result of extreme old age or shock. She kept asking fretfully and anxiously for Bill, and being reminded in embarrassed undertones that he was gone, granny, after which she would relapse into worried mutterings. It was both heart-breaking and deeply unnerving, and McLeish could only sympathize when the daughter, out of tension and misery, slapped one of the children a little too hard, and the child’s wails were added to the general turmoil.
He looked, unconsciously, for some distraction and his eye lit on Peter Hampton sitting just behind the family pews, pale and sombre in a well-cut dark grey suit and black tie. He leaned forward just at that moment with an easy all-in-one movement to put a comforting hand on the old woman’s shoulder, and McLeish considered him carefully. He had been in London the night that Fireman died. In fact, the only reason he had not been sought to identify the body was that Fireman’s business card had carried only the Yorkshire address, not the London office. Looking round the congregation carefully, he noted William Blackett with a long-nosed, bad-tempered blonde in a mink coat, presumably his wife, and decided that Blackett probably needed the odd Scandinavian tart, even if she did come from Stokeon- Trent. Sir James sat in the pew beside her, accompanied by the Rolls Royce version of Mrs Blackett, older, taller, thinner, more elegant, in a beautifully cut black cloth coat. Michael Currie and his wife were in the pew behind with a small grey man who was presumably the solicitor Board member, and the Finlays. He caught the eye of Barry Richards, the personnel man who had identified the body, and nodded to him. He wondered dispassionately, remembering the savagely disfigured head, whether he was on a complete wild-goose chase while somewhere in London a psychotic thief or a drug addict went free, and decided in a sudden access of energy that he must do some proper work on this case, and either lay his vague uneasiness or turn it into a real suspicion. Nothing else would do justice to a man of whom the vicar was now speaking with a regret whose genuineness echoed round the church. No one but he thought there was any doubt about the way Fireman had died, so he would get no more than grudging help, given the overload of work that is the lot of every policeman in the Met; but he would do this one single-handed if he had to.
The whole congregation followed the coffin to the grave, while McLeish stood quietly right at the back. Brady and his wife were up by the grave, as family, with Peter Hampton close to them. The final, painful words were said, and Fireman’s mother, huddled in her wheelchair and now weeping, was wheeled away by a solid grandson, trailed by his wife and small daughter. Brady and his wife, she mopping away tears, joined him, then Peter Hampton came over. McLeish, emotions on edge from the funeral, felt Brady’s wife start slightly, and just caught the long, considering, oddly hostile exchange of looks between her and Hampton. He glanced at Brady, who was studiously gazing into the middle distance, and considered Hampton again, realizing that he had missed a trick. There was something between him and Brady’s wife which Brady was hoping very hard not to have to challenge.
‘Hello Julie.’ Brady’s wife and McLeish turned towards the speaker who bent to kiss her.
‘Simon. Didn’t know you’d be here. John, this is Simon Ketterick, he’s another cousin of mine, and that makes him a cousin of Jennifer’s too.’
‘Not just here because I’m family, though. I dealt with old Bill every day, they don’t come like that any more. I work for Alutex who are a supplier, you see. Cotton thread,’ he explained to McLeish.
‘You remember I was telling you, John? Simon, John McLeish here has come from the Met because Bill was killed down there.’
‘You’re a policeman too?’ Ketterick took a step back involuntarily, and converted it into a joke by throwing up both hands in mock horror, but he had, McLeish noted, been momentarily totally taken aback. He considered the man with interest as he remembered that he too had been in London, meeting with William Blackett, on the day of the murder.
‘I thought Bill was mugged,’ William Blackett who had appeared from nowhere boomed at him, and several people looked round. McLeish agreed that that seemed the most likely solution, but that he was completing his enquiries in Yorkshire. He was watching Ketterick as he spoke, and intercepted an obviously warning look from William Blackett, which alerted all his policeman’s instincts.
‘Any suspects yet?’ Ketterick asked, feeling McLeish’s attention on him.
‘Early days still. I think the family are waiting for us to go.’
The group made its way slowly past the family, McLeish fading into the background while Ketterick and William Blackett stopped to speak to the dead man’s sister, a carelessly dressed plump woman, volubly chatty, and Julie Brady stopped to greet a young woman of her own age, obviously a daughter-in-law to the late William Fireman. At the gate, just beyond the family, Simon Ketterick paused to look back, caught McLeish’s eye and looked away hastily. As he watched stolidly, Peter Hampton emerged from the group and stopped to speak to Julie Brady, the blond head bent close to hers, then touched her shoulder for a second in farewell — a gesture so easy and yet so intimate that he might as well have kissed her. McLeish found he was holding his breath, and he looked round cautiously for Brady who was firmly turning his back on the whole scene, rocking slightly on his heels as he talked to William Blackett.
Two hours later, as the car drew up in front of the Grand, McLeish’s new vision of Peter Hampton was brought sharply into focus when he saw him with Francesca. She had her back to the road and was facing Hampton, urgently explaining something to him, hands flying and dark hair standing up in spikes. He was looking down at her, amused and concentrated, and the spark between them caught other eyes than McLeish’s own.
‘I’d watch that one,’ Brady said sourly, pulling the handbrake on. ‘An eye for the women — they do say that’s why his wife left. Look at him chatting up that girl.’
‘That girl is Francesca Wilson, one of the Department of Industry team. It could be business.’
‘He’s still giving it the personal touch, isn’t he?’ Brady observed, unanswerably.
McLeish decided to move away from a subject that was difficult for them both. ‘I need a bit of help with this case, Mike. For want of any of the other obvious motives, I’m looking at money. Can you get to see a few bank statements for me? I know it takes time, which you haven’t got any more than I have, but I’d be obliged.’
‘You’re right we’re short of time. But for you, John, I’ll do it. Give me a list.’
‘Thanks,’ McLeish said gratefully. ‘It’ll be a short one I hope, but as you know it’s the long lists that sometimes get the results.’
They talked on for a bit in the hotel bar, sharing gossip, and McLeish noticed how much Brady cheered up in the company of an old acquaintance. He refused a second beer, and said abruptly that it was time he went back to taking some exercise, he felt rotten now he no longer played rugby and Julie was complaining
he was getting fat. McLeish, who had remained exactly the same shape as in the days when he was playing in international trials, sympathized and recommended running.
‘Yup, I’ll try that. Must get home, or she’ll complain about keeping supper.’ He hesitated. ‘Difficult being a detective’s wife. She doesn’t really understand it; she thinks I could organize myself better, or hire some more people to help.’ He looked helplessly at McLeish, who started to laugh, leaving Brady with nothing to do but join in.
‘Did me good,’ he observed, when they had both stopped being amused by the vision of a police force where you could hire extra help when things got busy. ‘Ah well, it’ll pass. Good to have seen you, John — my sergeant will take you round tomorrow, but you let me know anything else you want and I’ll get it.’
McLeish thanked him, and invited him and his wife to come and stay a weekend in London in his flat. His view of Brady’s troubles was reinforced by his obvious pleasure at the invitation, and his prompt acceptance. ‘That’s kind of you, John. She loves going to London, but the hotels are so pricey I can’t swing it. Look forward to it. I’ll be off, then.’ Brady was looking past him as he spoke. ‘Your young lady is on her way over.’
He took himself off with a quick, knowing grin just before Francesca and Peter Hampton arrived, and paused by McLeish.
‘I know you have a meeting,’ McLeish said to her, finding himself childishly needing to indicate to Hampton the terms on which he stood with Francesca.
‘And I have a Board meeting after that,’ Hampton agreed amicably, taking the statement as addressed to both of them. ‘Can we have a drink afterwards?’ he asked Francesca as if McLeish were not there at all, and she blushed.
‘Give you lunch tomorrow, then, if tonight is difficult,’ he said easily. ‘Will we be seeing you again, Inspector, or were you just here for the funeral?’ It was a neat attempt to relegate McLeish to the ranks of licensed plodder, and he felt pretty wooden as he replied that he had a few more enquiries to complete. Mercifully Francesca appeared to be too preoccupied with some inward anxiety to notice this by-play.
‘Well, Frannie,’ Hampton said, annoying McLeish mightily with his use of a diminutive which he had only heard her brothers use. ‘Time we went. Don’t look so anxious, girl — we all know the Department isn’t here in force to bring us news we want to hear.’
He put a hand on her arm with the easy physical confidence of the man who has always had success with women, and she smiled at him, visibly relaxing. McLeish, the sudden temper which had been both an asset and a major liability on the rugby field momentarily overcoming him, heard himself reminding her that he hoped to see her after the meeting. Hampton’s eyes widened, and he had the satisfactory certainty of realizing he had startled the man.
‘You a suspect too, Frannie?’
‘I don’t think so. I know Inspector McLeish from another case.’ Ouch, McLeish thought, flattened by this minimal acknowledgement, but she caught his expression and smiled apologetically. Unfeminine in this as in many other respects, he observed, and rattled rather than pleased by two men squabbling over her. He watched them go, and went off himself to ring Davidson in London and see how he was doing with the sub-postmaster shooting case. It was an hour and a half before he appeared in the bar again, since he did not want Francesca or Hampton to think he had been patiently waiting for them. To his relief he found Francesca, with her Departmental colleagues, in a state of over-excitement, rather flushed and in the middle of her second drink. She greeted him with such open pleasure that he nearly kissed her, but thought better of it.
‘Goodness, that was a difficult meeting,’ she said in explanation. ‘You’ve met Henry Blackshaw and Martin Bailey briefly, I understand? I’m going to organize dinner. Have you eaten, John?’
‘Not yet.’ He caught a very considering look from Henry Blackshaw who dispatched Francesca and Martin Bailey to negotiate a table, and McLeish seized his chance. ‘You know that we are interesting ourselves in the affairs of Britex inasmuch as they might have a bearing on the murder of William Fireman?’
Henry, refusing to be hurried, ordered another drink for them both, admiring the patience with which the policeman simply sat without fidgeting or talking, waiting for him to respond. ‘I’m in a difficult position, lad,’ he said, at last. ‘We have to respect a confidence. I understand one of my predecessors found a very clever tax fraud in one company where assistance was being considered, but he was told that nothing could be said to the Inland Revenue.’
‘This is a murder investigation.’
‘I understand that.’
Both men fell silent, working out where their respective loyalties and duties lay, and at this complicated moment Francesca returned with Martin announcing triumphantly the availability of a table if they came now. McLeish, with only a fractional hesitation, said he would settle for a sandwich at the bar, but Francesca’s quick ear had caught the pause.
‘Why aren’t you joining us, John?’
‘He’s investigating the Britex people, Francesca. It will not do for him to be seen too much with us, or people will think we are breaking confidences.’
‘But Henry … I mean, even in present circumstances?’
Henry grunted, sat down again on a bar stool and gazed at the carpet, quite unselfconsciously thinking out his answer. Francesca, impatient and anxious, made to speak but a glance from Henry decided her not to.
‘All right,’ Henry said, emerging from his thoughts. ‘Go away, Francesca and Martin, and start ordering — I’ll have steak medium rare and no foreign muck with it. I want another word with the Inspector here, but he still isn’t going to eat with us in a public place. Get on, girl.’
‘Chips and ketchup with the steak? Prawn cocktail first?’ she asked cheekily.
‘That’s right, lass. All t’trimmings,’ Henry confirmed, much to McLeish’s admiration. He took McLeish out to the car-park, where they sat in Henry’s old but beautifully looked-after Jaguar, and he explained that the Department had already resolved not to recommend assistance to Britex as it presently stood but instead to consider assisting a buy-out from a Receiver.
‘What that means is that we won’t be doing any more investigation into the business as it stands. We’ll be looking at a new plan, and a new set of assumptions put up to us by new people, and much of what has happened to this business in the past will be irrelevant.’
McLeish, who had understood the point instantly, nodded in acceptance, reflecting that it should, however, make it easier for him to get close to Francesca if she were not inhibited by their jobs causing a conflict of interest. Among her other outstanding qualities in his eyes was that she took her work as seriously as he did his.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Henry.
‘Motive. In my trade you try money or sex first. Sex isn’t obviously likely in this case, so I’m thinking about money.’
‘We’ve not found anything dodgy. The accounts are reasonably up to date, the last audit certificate which is nine months ago is clean – that is, there are no qualifications to it — and management accounts are up to date. There may be nasties hidden, but they are not obvious. Mind you, we’ve only had three or four days with their books and one visit to the factory.’
McLeish decided that the expert advice he needed was probably sitting with him in the car, and asked Henry to recommend the best way for an individual to steal money from a company. He realized that it might be thought an odd question to put to a distinguished accountant, but Blackshaw took the question entirely matter of factly, and settled down to bend the accumulated knowledge of a long career as an auditor and a finance director to the question.
‘The only fiddles worth doing are the ones that leave you with usable cash. You can take actual cash, but there usually isn’t much about in a manufacturing business. Or you can run an accounting fraud — you open an account for a fictitious supplier, and when there is enough of the firm’s money in that account you put it some
where safe, and you run. Or, of course, you just make a deal with a supplier whereby he gets the order and you get a backhander in used fivers. That’s the simple one, if only because lots of suppliers actually offer backhanders, and they make it easy for you to take them. I’d go for that.’
‘How does that work, exactly?’
‘Ah. Someone at the supplier end — call him Tom — suggests to someone at the customer end — call him Dick — that he should place an order with Tom’s firm rather than another, in return for which Tom will give him, personally, some cash in his hand. Dick should reply indignantly that he would take his business to another supplier, but in fact he takes the cash.’
McLeish thought about it. ‘So Tom doesn’t get any cash, he just gets the order for his firm?’
‘Depends. Tom and Dick may make a deal whereby they both get cash, so they are both stealing from their respective firms. You may well have Harry from the supplier company in the fiddle, too, because you need someone to authorize the cash.’
‘Who are all these people, come to think of it? I mean, how senior would they have to be?’
‘Well, Dick is probably the head of purchasing. Tom, at the supplier end, has to be more senior because he has to get the cash put through the supplier company’s accounts somewhere.’ Henry paused, thoughtfully. ‘No, I think Tom has to be a director, or if he isn’t, he needs Harry who is a director to cover him. Harry may or may not be taking some of the cash for himself.’
‘The head of purchasing at Britex was the late William Fireman, and there is nothing about his life to suggest he would be party to this sort of deal. I’ll get his bank account checked, of course.’
Henry considered him with some sympathy, and suggested a quick hunt through both companies’ management accounts might yield a useful result. McLeish considered this gloomily. Without access to Britex’s books, and given the general accounting expertise readily available to him, he could not see how to tackle it quickly. He decided to try for the other end.