He stacked up the rest of the statements and as he squared them up he noticed the top one also had pencilled in a cheque which had not been paid in. Number 446792 for three pounds fifteen-shillings and four-pence. Why the hell wasn’t there a cheque for ten thousand that shouldn’t be there?
Josephine came into the room and put a cup of coffee on the desk. “It’s sugared. I’m going to bed, Bob. Please don’t be too long.”
“I won’t,” he answered, without conviction.
She sighed, then left.
He drank some coffee, replaced the cup on the saucer, and fell asleep. In the short time he stayed asleep, he had a vivid dream of which he had no memory when he awoke other than it had been.
Something was niggling his mind. He tried to make out what, couldn’t, and shrugged his shoulders. He drank the rest of the coffee and stood up. Bed. Nothing in the world was so important as bed. He squeezed past the desk and had opened the door when he remembered what had niggled his mind: the numbers of the two missing cheques for small amounts had both ended in a 2. A coincidence? But this was a coincidence on top of a discrepancy. He shut the door and went back to the desk. He searched through the bank statements and found a third one on which was recorded a small cheque not paid in: the end number was again 2. He went through the rest of the accounts for the current year and found a fourth missing cheque that ended in 2.
Excitement banished tiredness. These similarities weren’t all coincidences, these meant something. There had been two hijackings in the past year and there were four small missing cheques for the same period. Yet how could cheques for such small amounts have any meaning when one was searching for tens of thousands of pounds?
He pushed all the other papers to one side in an untidy heap and put the four statements together. As he studied them, he lit his pipe. He had just blown out the match when he realised that on each statement a cheque for several thousands of pounds had been drawn and these large cheques all ended in a 7.
He began to pace the floor, even though he could only go two paces in each direction: the movement helped him think.
You drew a very small cheque and sent it off and it wasn’t paid in… You drew a very large cheque and sent it off and it was paid in… He stopped pacing and looked at the dates. A cheque for thirty-five shillings had been made out in the second week of July and not paid in: a cheque for three thousand eight hundred-odd pounds had been put through the bank on July the fourteenth: a cheque for just over four thousand eight hundred had been put through on August the twentieth: a cheque for two pounds two and six had been made out on August the sixteenth.
He paced the floor once more. How did the two sets of cheques tie up? What was the significance of the fact that the small cheques all ended in a 2 and the large ones in a 7?
He brought his own chequebook out of his pocket and examined the unused cheques in it. The numbers were in computer-style figures and he realised how easy it would be for a skilled forger to change a 2 into a 7. That told him how Sharman had been able to sell the stolen whisky without any record of the sales appearing in the accounts.
Chapter 14
Fusil stood by the side of Kywood’s desk in the latter’s office and spread out the four bank statements. “These record the small cheques never cashed by the payees in this year and also the large cheques which were cashed. The way the whole thing was worked was this. Two or three weeks before organising a hijacking, Sharman drew two cheques on the main account of the parent firm: one was for a very small amount, one was for a large amount that came within the normal monthly order from MacLaren. The cheques did not correspond to their stubs. The one ending in a two was made out to MacLaren, the two at the end of the number was changed to a seven, and the forged stamp of MacLaren’s bank was used to make it seem the cheque had been paid into that bank in the normal way. The cheque ending in the seven was made out to a third party for the same amount and was paid into the third party’s bank. When that was returned to Sharman in the normal course of events by Sharman’s bank, he pulled it out and destroyed it. D’you see what we’re left with?”
“I think so,” replied Kywood doubtfully.
Fusil used four pieces of paper to represent two cheques and their stubs. “The two stub is made out for thirty-five shillings, the two cheque is made out to MacLaren: the two on the cheque is changed into a seven and the stamp of MacLaren’s bank is forged. The seven stub is made out to MacLaren and the seven cheque is made out to the third party. Sharman is the third party, of course, and pays the cheque into a cover account at another bank. All that remains now is to forge MacLaren’s monthly statement. The amount of whisky corresponding to the cheque drawn is introduced into the warehouse — after the export labels have been soaked off and ordinary ones stuck on — and from then on it’s shipped to the shops and sold in the ordinary way. The shops remit the money for the sale to the parent company. In Sharman’s books, he has paid out so many thousands of pounds for so many bottles of whisky and the money received from the shops is what is to be expected on the sale of these bottles. This is repeated, which disposes of all the stolen whisky. The bank statements — no longer listing payees since computerisation — are O. K. because all they show are that a few cheques for very small amounts have not been cashed and this is something that often happens. The used cheques match the stubs and the bank statements, the numbers of bottles handled both by the warehouse and the shops agree with the figures of stocks in and out.”
Kywood stared at the slips of paper Fusil had used in demonstration. He ran the palm of his hand over his sleek black hair. “The one thing that can’t be hidden is the difference between the faked monthly account from MacLaren Distilleries and the true copy in MacLaren’s hands.”
“Quite, but who’s ever going to think of checking one against the other until it’s known for certain that Sharman has rigged the books and this was how he did it… And all enquiries merely went to show he hadn’t rigged a thing.”
Kywood fidgeted with his nose. “What’s your next move?”
“We’ve got to have sufficient proof to arrest him before he begins to suspect we’re finally on to him. If we don’t, he’ll either cut and run or destroy all existing evidence. The difference between the monthly statements will show something was up, but legally it won’t be enough proof. A good defence counsel could make hash of that.”
“Get hold of his books, the used cheques…”
“Asking for them will immediately alert him — don’t forget we’ve had them once and cleared them. What we’ve got to do is discover where he hid the bottles of whisky that weren’t immediately introduced into the warehouse and what bank and name he used for the cover account.”
Kywood sucked his lips. “That’s a hell of a tall order.”
“Tall, or not, that’s the task.”
“You don’t think…” Kywood became silent.
Fusil did not admit, except to himself, that his real aim and object was to be able to wrap up everything so that he could present Sharman with all the facts in one go and so prove Sharman wasn’t the cleverest man in town.
*
Kerr entered the Westminster Bank in Patton Street and went along to the far counter where he spoke to the cashier. He asked to see the manager.
“I’m sorry,” replied the cashier, “he’s with a customer and won’t be free for a long time. Can the assistant manager help?”
“I’m sure he can.”
While he waited, Kerr turned and watched the customer at the nearest counter. He was dressed in clothes that no self-respecting second-hand dealer would deign to touch, but in return for his cheque he was given a bundle of ten-pound notes. He stuffed the notes into the top pocket of his torn and badly stained jacket and slouched out. What racket was he in? Wondered Kerr cynically.
The cashier came back and directed Kerr to the office, next door to the manager’s room, which was reached directly from the general area. Kerr went into the room. Chambers, a young man full of
self-confidence, but not bumptiousness, followed almost immediately. He shook hands, then sat down behind the table.
“How can we help you, Constable?”
“We’re searching for an account that was probably opened around two years ago and into which infrequent but pretty big sums of money have been paid. We don’t know the name the person will have given, but we can give you a list of the approximate dates and amounts.” Kerr took a duplicated list from his coat pocket and passed it across.
Chambers looked quickly through it. “You’re presenting us with a bit of a job — still, these are large enough sums to be immediately identifiable. It’ll take quite some time, though.”
“Can I leave it with you and you ring the station if you have any luck?”
“Sure, I’ll do that. What’s your telephone number?”
Kerr gave the number, thanked the other, then left. He walked a couple of hundred yards along the street, the main shopping street in Ribstowe, and entered Barclays Bank. The manager proved to be an ill-tempered man who didn’t see why any of his staff should waste their precious time merely to assist the police. In reply Kerr, exhibiting a degree of tact that would have astounded many, said how grateful they would be for the help and how it was only the public’s assistance that enabled the police to do their job and help keep the country safe for honest people.
Back outside on the pavement, Kerr took a list of banks and their addresses from his pocket. If he met with no success with all the banks in Fortrow, Fusil was going to ask for the county force’s cooperation to check on all county banks. It was a job that was going to keep a lot of people employed for a long time.
A clock struck the half hour: half past twelve. He looked along the street and saw a number 92 bus approaching the nearby stop. A 92 went past Helen’s office. Even D.C.s, he thought as he ran to the stop, had to eat if they weren’t to starve to death.
*
A green Fortrow Urban District Council van, with canvas body and towing a trailer, was parked in the road a hundred yards down from the entrance to Sharman’s warehouse. Rowan, wearing ragged and dirty clothes, slowly swept the rubbish along in the gutter. He’d never before had such a menial job and was quite certain he’d been picked for it because of a personal enmity on the part of either Fusil or Braddon. In the body of the truck, hidden by the canvas, Detective Sergeant Walsh, camera ready on his lap, kept watch through a spy hole. He also hated the job since the day had that kind of raw damp that gradually dug into a man’s body.
A van came down the road and turned through the gateway of the warehouse. The driver hooted twice and Sharman came out of the office. He waved at the van driver and walked across the forecourt to unlock the doors of the warehouse.
Walsh took two photographs of Sharman as he unlocked the doors. He took two of the van driver as the latter leaned out to speak to Sharman.
Rowan swept the messy mixture of leaves, dirt, and rotting paper, close to the trailer. He unclipped a shovel, scooped up some of the dirt, and emptied it into the trailer. Careless that the job was only half done, he closed the trailer lid, clipped the shovel back on, went to the rear of the truck and threw the broom inside. “All right?” he demanded.
“Not yet. We’ve still got to nail the woman.”
“To hell with her, Sarge. We can always say she wasn’t around.”
“You get back to sweeping the gutters. I’ll tell you when work stops.”
Rowan swore.
*
Fusil had lunch at the canteen. He arrived late and there was no choice of main dish: it was sausages and mash or go hungry. The sausages had a rind of congealed fat and the mash was lumpy with lumps that looked most un-potato-like. Fusil noticed neither of these facts being almost unaware of what he was eating.
Had he correctly evaluated Sharman’s character? Was Sharman so cocky, so sure of himself, that he could not begin to believe himself in danger, even though Stretley, Playford, and Hicks had been picked up by the police? Would the police discover in which bank Sharman had cached the money — it surely had to be a bank because the transfer of money had been by cheque — and where had he stored the stolen whisky until it was time to bring it into the warehouse? The bank surely couldn’t be too far away — wouldn’t Sharman want to be able to get his hands on the money at short notice at any time?
Once it could be proved that Sharman had organised the hijackings and had then sold the whisky through the chain of cut-price liquor shops, was it going to be easy to prove he had murdered Finnigan? All the facts of Finnigan’s death surely went to show it was an integral part of the stolen whisky set-up, but no clues had been uncovered definitely to link the two together. No clues had been uncovered that would name Sharman the murderer.
Fusil finished the sausages and mash and pushed the plate to one side. He began to eat the anaemic-looking lemon curd tart.
All the police needed was some luck. Luck to help them uncover the bank account and luck to help them find the place where the whisky had been stored. Then Sharman could be arrested. That would wipe out the bitter memory of his amused contempt and scorn.
He finished the lemon curd tart. Life was so often ironic. Sharman had started his business in order to set up an outlet for stolen whisky: yet the business had flourished so that he could have worked honestly and still made a lot of money, if more slowly. Under different circumstances, Sharman might have ended up a rich elder of the city: another Findren.
*
Welland walked down the street, checking the numbers of the shops and offices as he went. His mind was very busy — could he join the lads next Saturday evening at the local for a few noisy pints, or would Molly put her foot down and demand he stayed at home? She was only a soft slip of a woman, but she told him what he could do and what he couldn’t. He loved her for her bossiness.
He reached number 47 and jerked his mind back to work. On the ground floor of the building were estate agents and on the first and second floors a firm of accountants. There were photographs of houses for sale in the small display window: he was perpetually amazed at the money people could afford to pay for a home. What policeman ever had any hope of saving thousands of pounds?
Behind the reception desk of the estate agents was a man of his own age, but half the size and looking as if a fresh south-wester would blow him off his feet. The clerk stopped typing and looked up.
“I’m from the borough police,” said Welland. “I gave you a ring earlier on.”
“Yes, of course.” The clerk seemed to eye Welland with a certain nervous interest. “You wanted to know of any warehouses and lock-up garages we first let about two years ago?”
“That’s right.”
“I checked through our books and all I could find were the six lock-up garages at the end of Bookers Road. We handle them exclusively.”
“Have you been able to draw up a list of renters?”
The clerk went to his desk and brought back a sheet of paper which he pushed across to Welland. “Those are the people who rent ’em now — you see five and six are taken by the same bloke. Except for them, the tenants have changed since two years back. Never had any trouble finding new tenants — and that’s even with the rent going up. I’m telling you, there’s money in lock-up garages.” The clerk spoke as if this was an exclusive, red-hot tip.
Numbers five and six were rented by J. Gresham. Welland put the tip of his thick forefinger on the name. “What d’you know about this bloke?”
The clerk shrugged his thin shoulders. “Can’t say, really. You’d have to speak to Mr. Brocker for that.”
“Right. Let’s have a word with him, then.”
“I don’t know. He’s a very busy man.”
Mr. Brocker proved not to be too busy to see Welland. He listened quietly, then took out a file from the metal cabinet behind his desk. “The letting was carried out by telephone and letter. The yearly rent is paid in advance.”
“Have you met Mr. Gresham?”
“No. As
I said, everything’s been arranged over the telephone.”
“Was there a lease?”
“Only an exchange of letters. It saves money and is all that’s necessary for this sort of letting.”
“Do you know the name of his firm?”
“Same as his, I suppose. Everything’s been done in his name.”
“Where d’you send receipts and things?”
Brocker looked at the folder. “Twelve, Madders Road.”
“Where’s that?”
“I don’t know off-hand. I’ll check in the street guide.” Brocker searched in the index of the guide, looked back at the file, checked the index again and then turned to the indicated map. His expression became perplexed. “It’s down by the cemetery at Hanham — bit of a slum. Odd place for a firm. I’d’ve thought they could find parking nearer.”
“You’ve obviously never checked before?”
“Why should I? The money was paid in advance. In any case, the letting of a lockup is hardly a very big transaction.”
“What about duplicate keys to get into them — do you hold any?”
“Yes, we do. The tenants are always losing theirs and rushing to us for help.”
“Can we have a look at numbers five and six, together with the others, if necessary?” Brocker called in the clerk and gave orders to the clerk to go along with Welland to the garages.
The walk was brief. Throughout it, the clerk eagerly questioned Welland about the case and it was clear that he would be very disappointed if they did not find at least one dead body.
The garages, made from concrete blocks and with asbestos corrugated roofing, stood at the end of a road of semi-detached houses. The up-and-over doors were painted in different colours, to try to mitigate the essential ugliness of the buildings, but it would have taken more than paint to do this. The clerk opened number six, after a short struggle with the lock, and Welland stepped inside. It was empty and the only sign of past occupation was a small oil stain on the floor towards the rear. He walked slowly round the garage. There was nothing to say whether this place had ever been used to store the stolen whisky.
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 13