DEAD MONEY

by TERESA HUNTER

  “That’ll be a weight off your mind.”

  “It will indeed,”

  “Can I see it?”

  “No.”

  “Have you found all the money?”

  “No...to that as well.”

  “How much have you found?”

  “About a third of it.”

  “That leaves £2 billion short. Can I write the story?”

  “If you feel you have enough to go on.”

  “Without seeing the report?”

  “I can’t let you have it. But don’t forget, a big chunk of the hole will be markets.”

  “Dwindling share prices, soaring gilts...”

  “Exactly, they hammered the fund.”

  “We know Kelly took nearly a billion out in those transfers.”

  “We don’t know where it went. We’ve no evidence they pocketed it themselves.”

  “They started around the time Tom Kelly bought his first nightclub.”

  “That’s quite a stretch, quite an accusation to make without proof.”

  “I saw the club. Pitcher took me.”

  “He took you to that cage fight, didn’t he? I did wonder.”

  “You knew about it?”

  “Big controversy. Church, politicians, all up in arms. They’ll ban it before long.”

  “He took me to a brothel, too.”

  “To a what?”

  “It was a police raid. Sandy it was awful.”

  “Yes.Damn,” he said, as I heard his mobile go.

  “You’d better go...”

  I put the phone down, and emailed Ludgate to tell him there was a good story on its way.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he replied.

  Thank God Pitcher had kept it out of the Scottish press. Male editors were prone to panic. Even in this age of equality, they could become very nervous about placing female staff in physical danger. The last thing I needed was to be removed from this story by any old-fashioned sense of chivalry.

  Chapter 43

  10.30am Saturday, November 17,

  The London Eye

  They were already at the London Eye waiting for me. Sandy was dressed in the same tan leather jacket he had worn at Tarbert. He was bending down, talking to the smallest child, a wisp of his hair flapping loose, as I walked towards them.

  “Hi,” I called out. He straightened at the sound of my voice. Our eyes locked for just a fraction longer than was respectable, before he came towards me, kissed me on the cheek and then stepped back to introduce the children.

  Sarah, the baby, at six, who I could see was besotted by her father, never let go of his hand. In the other, she held a scruffy rabbit. Next was Blair, Philip’s age, I guessed. He was the image of Sandy, fair and blue-eyed, and looked full of mischief. His wings had not yet been clipped. Laura, at 12, was the self-appointed mother of the family, while James, a shy, self-conscious 14-year-old, blushed crimson every time I spoke to him.

  Sandy had already bought tickets. Holding Sarah’s hand tightly, he linked his other arm through mine and we stepped aboard. I relaxed as soon as I felt his touch, and was glad to be with them all, even if the Eye was one of my least favourite attractions. An exhilarating, exciting ride, it is not. It moves tamely and sedately like a barge on the river.

  Laura, as the oldest female of the family, decided to befriend me.

  “Have you been on the wheel before?” she asked, as we began to move.

  “Yes, but not for a while,” I replied.

  “Oh, I’ve been on lots. My father has an office in London, we are very frequent visitors, quite a home from home.” I smiled at her child-like attempt to impress me.

  “Dad, where’s that?” Blair asked, racing from one side of the pod to the other. “And where’s that?”

  I looked across the city I loved. The early mist had not yet cleared the river, so visibility was less than perfect.

  “That’s the gherkin,” his father replied.

  “And that?”

  “The Post Office tower.”

  “Which park is that?”

  “Regent’s.”

  “That’s where the Queen lives, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I smiled at Sandy’s patience with the children.

  “We’ve been to Buckingham Palace, haven’t we Dad?” Laura was eager to display her worldly sophistication.

  “What do you think, James?” I asked, trying to include him, but he looked right through me.

  “Can’t hear you,” Sandy said, pointing to his ear. Of course, James was plugged into ear-phones.

  As it always does, the wheel seemed to take an age to complete its journey, and the children’s interest was beginning to wane before we were even halfway round. Sarah was sucking her thumb and her eyes were drooping, tired from the previous evening’s journey. I watched her little rabbit slip from her fingers onto the floor. When the wheel stopped, as the crowd moved out, she left it lying there. I picked it up and called after her, but she was evacuating the car with her father, and did not turn round when I called, so I slipped it into my bag, for safe-keeping.

  Sandy, though, looked back over his shoulder and smiled.

  “She’ll love you forever for that,” he whispered in my ear, as I caught up with them. I hoped so.

  “Dad, you said we could go to the Imperial War Museum next.” Blair raced behind his father’s long strides, taking two for every one.

  “Oh no…I don’t want to go to some gory war museum full of dead bodies,” Laura objected. Sandy raised his eyes to me as if to say ‘help’.

  “Actually, it isn’t, Laura,” I offered. “It’s very interesting, and there is a section about women and war. It’s more like a history museum, all about families and how they survived. You’ll like it.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Well, if you don’t, you and I can leave and go to the Globe, which is nearby. That’s Shakespeare’s theatre.”

  “Robbie Burns is better than Shakespeare,” Sarah said. “Isn’t that right dad? My teacher says so.”

  There was more than a glint of amusement in Sandy’s eyes, as they met mine. He, too, was relaxing and enjoying the lazy morning. We wandered along the embankment among the pavement artists, book sellers and street theatre.

  “Edinburgh has far better street art than this, doesn’t it Dad?” Little Sarah wouldn’t give up, and couldn’t resist another put-down for my ears.

  We sat for a while at a table outside the National Film Theatre. The children had cokes and Sandy and I coffees. The air was chill, but the sun was warming up. River traffic was building. Pleasure craft, tourist boats and tugs glided past. The mist was lifting and a blue sky trying to break.

  We finished our drinks and were getting up to leave, when Sarah started to scream, piercingly. Her father crouched down and put his arms comfortingly round her.

  “What is it, Sarah, what’s wrong?”

  “I hate London, I want to go home. I hate it here. I want my mummy,” she screamed, opening tearful eyes and looking, pointedly, at me. “I want my mummy, I want my mummy,” I watched Sandy’s face fall.

  “She’s lost her rabbit, that’s all that’s wrong,” Blair wasn’t having any histrionics from his sister ruin his day

  Laura took charge, pulling chairs out to look under the table for the stuffed animal.

  “Silly rabbit,” I said, pulling it from my bag, and handing it to the small child. “He got lost.”

  She stopped crying immediately, and grabbed the battered toy. Thumb went in and she sucked hard for a few moments, as if contemplating her next move.

  Then, she began to scold her beloved friend.

  “Naughty rabbit… you’re a very, very naughty rabbit… naughty rabbit.”

  But, as we began to walk in the direction of the museum, I felt a little hand creep into mine, and for the rest of the day Sarah didn’t let go.

  As I predicted, the girls loved the imperial war museum as much as their brot
hers, particularly the scenes of family life in the shelters. The boys were fascinated by the trenches. We grabbed a sandwich at the canteen before heading back to the river, where all the children agreed they wanted to visit the London dungeons.

  Sandy went in first with Blair, followed by Laura and James with me and Sarah coming up the rear. At first, we were all laughing at the gore displayed in the scenes before us, but I was unprepared for how realistic the suffering quickly became. The museum was packed and we walked through in a tight queue. People squashed up against us, front and behind. It was dark and close and suddenly I found myself not feeling at all well. A wave of nausea swept over me.

  The figures didn’t seem like plaster casts any more. They moaned, as their torturers whipped and crucified them; tore them in two on racks, or squeezed their thumbs. I couldn’t breathe and broke out into an uncomfortable sweat. As soon as I saw the exit, I made a run for it.

  I must have looked queer, because Sandy came straight over.

  “Are you OK? You look like a ghost,” he said.

  I tried to nod my head affirmatively.

  “I’m not good in dark places. I get claustrophobic.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have thought. After what happened...”

  “No, it’s OK, really, I’m OK now,” I continued under my breath, so the children wouldn’t hear, “Didn’t you find all that a bit sick?”

  Sarah and Laura came over and each took one of my hands.

  “Don’t be afraid Julia, it’s just make believe” Sarah said, as she gently stroked the back of the hand she was holding. “Don’t be afraid, it’s just make believe,” she repeated.

  That evening, we went to see the musical Oliver at the Palladium. At the interval Laura said, “Julia, it must have been awful growing up in London. We’re so lucky to live in Edinburgh.”

  “Did you have to go out stealing, when you were a child?” Sarah asked.

  I laughed explaining that life in London had much improved by the time I was born. As we returned to our seats for the second half, I found myself wondering just how much had truly changed, since Dickens days; and how much hadn’t changed at all.

  When the show was finished, Sandy asked if I wanted to go back with them, but I declined. This was their last night together as a family for some weeks. They needed time together.

  “Tomorrow?” I suggested, gazing deep into his eyes.

  “Not really,” he said, softly. “I have to get this lot off first thing, and then I’m flying straight back home.”

  I wanted more than anything to kiss him and the hungry look in his eyes told me he was thinking the same. Our timing was all wrong.

  “Thank you for a lovely day,” I said.

  “Yes, it’s been lovely,” he smiled.

  Had I’d known then, the circumstances which would bring us together again, I would never have let them go.

  Chapter 44

  10.30am Monday, November 19,

  Whitechapel

  “David Black,” a voice said the other end of the telephone. “I hear you’ve been trying to contact me.”

  “Ah…Mr Black. It’s Julia Lighthorn.” I took another deep breath and crossed my fingers. “I wondered if we could meet up…sometime soon…talk.”

  “Yes, that might be useful. I’m getting close to having material, I could share with you. I think we can be of use to each other.”

  “Sounds promising. When would be convenient?”

  “I’m not quite there, yet. Various pieces of the jigsaw are coming together. Next week should be good. I’ll call you Monday and sort something out, maybe Tuesday or Wednesday.”

  “I’ll make sure I’m free,” I replied, wondering what jigsaw he was putting together and which pieces were finally slotting into place.My, my things were getting interesting.

  In fact, the week passed uneventfully until Wednesday morning. Marsha was out. I read the newspapers, made a few calls, threw a three-foot high stack of press releases in the bin. Even the phones were unusually quiet, so I flicked on Sky News to see what was happening in the world. An area of Tottenham had been cordoned off by police after a shooting the previous evening. The pound was up, the market was down. A child was killed in Gaza.

  I was just fancying a coffee, when, at about 11.30am, I heard the sound of feet thumping up the stairs.

  “You’ve got visitors,” Mina shouted from our tiny reception. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Two heads popped round the door, both wearing Austrian green felt hats, with identical feathers. Sally and Timmy had come to visit.

  “Come in, come in,” I said, surprise mingling with pleasure. It was a tonic to see them and they brought with them their own special oasis of sweetness and calm.

  “Julia, we hope we’re not intruding,” Sally was slightly puffed from the climb.

  “No, no, not at all, come in, come in.”

  “Didn’t want to bother you,” Timmy began.

  “But a telephone call seemed...” Sally shook her head, and tutted.

  “And a letter…” Timmy pulled a disapproving face.

  “You said to be your eyes and ears.”

  “Eyes and ears,” Timmy echoed.

  “Come and sit down both of you. I’ll get us some tea.”

  The words were hardly out of my lips, when Mina arrived with a tea-tray, her excuse to goggle our visitors. To this veteran of cardboard city, they were as alien as visitors from Mars.

  I poured the tea as Sally and Timmy removed their hats carefully and placed them on the desk.

  “So what brings you both here?”

  “Major events,” Timmy began.

  “Now don’t be melodramatic, Septimus,” his sister chided. “But there have been developments.”

  “Developments,” Timmy nodded furiously.

  “I bumped into Hilda Harris in the post office yesterday,” Sally continued. “She was paying a big cheque into her bank account. She says her job is done.”

  “It must have been severance pay,” Timmy pointed out helpfully.

  “The divorce has come through, the property has been sold and it seems,” Sally hesitated, as if wanting me to fully appreciate the importance of what she was about the reveal. “According to Mrs Harris,” she continued.

  “Hilda Harris, that is,” Timmy helpfully explained

  “He’s been cleaned right out.”

  “Taken to the cleaners were her words,” Timmy echoed. “Right out. And we’re not talking about the furniture.” For once, they were both one step ahead of me.

  “Go on,” I said.

  His sister took up the tale. “She...”

  “Edna Patterson… the wife,” Timmy interjected.

  “Edna, indeed,” his sister thanked him. “ Anyway, Mrs Patterson got a very smart lawyer, who wrangled all his money off him, poor blighter.”

  “But surely…”

  “Highly unethical in his state,” Timmy speculated.

  “Oh no,” his sister contradicted. “He was given the chance of a legal representative, and was adamant that he didn’t want one.”

  “How convenient,” I couldn’t resist. It meant Patterson had no assets to claim against, in the unlikely event we were ever able to prove…I still didn’t know what, but prove anything.

  “What’s happened to him?”

  “The very worst bit,” Timmy shuddered.

  “Well, we don’t know that for sure, Timmy,” his sister cautioned.

  “An asylum,” Timmy’s eyes rolled.

  “What?”

  “He’s gone to St Agatha’s. It’s a nursing home for people who are…” she hesitated.

  “Barking,” Timmy winked at me. He was enjoying himself.

  “Forgetful,” his sister corrected.

  We drank more tea, and exchanged pleasantries. Mina admired their hats, although I wasn’t entirely sure her compliments were genuine. Then, they headed off to the shops, with plans for catching a matinee before the train home.

  “Don’t get up to town a
ll that much anymore,” Timmy explained. “But we always enjoy it.”

  “We like to get home again, though, don’t we, Timmy?” Sally stood and straightened her hat carefully on her silver hair.

  “Yes, we do,” he said, also standing. He waited for her to finish with her own hat, and then to position his perfectly on his slightly balding head

  “Thank you so much for coming,” I showed them out.

  “We promised. Eyes and ears,” Sally winked.

  “Eyes and ears indeed.”

  Pitcher was the next to call. He was elated.

  “I’ve heard back from Cape Town. They sent some officers out to interview the forensics man.”

  “What in the middle of the desert?”

  “Yes… no… I don’t know. Anyway they made contact.”

  “And?”

  “Wiped clean.”

  “What do you mean wiped clean.”

  “The gun. There were no prints on it.”

  “Which means?”

  “Dead men can’t wipe their finger prints off a murder weapon.”

  “Gloves?”

  “No sign.”

  “Strathclyde must have known.”

  “They knew alright. He made a full report.”

  I paused, trying to take in what he was telling me.

  “So Ken and his family were murdered.”

  “It’s hard to draw any other conclusion.”

  “Why wasn’t he called to the inquest?”

  “Sent abroad shortly after filing the report. Presumed it would be put before the inquest. He’d done his job.”

  “Priceless,” I spat. “How many more times do we have to hear of police cover-ups for anything to change. I never believed those rumours about police statements being changed after that football disaster. Now I’m beginning to wonder. How can you bear working for such a corrupt force?”

  “If you’re going to insult me, I have better things to do.” He slammed down the phone. I immediately redialled his number.

  “OK I’m sorry.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Did you get anything from those men you arrested in Gallow Terrace? Anything that could lead to the Kellys?”

  “Not yet, but they’ve been charged with brothel keeping and pimping. It’s enough to hold them in custody and continue questioning.”