DEAD MONEY

by TERESA HUNTER

  “Do you want me to read it?” he repeated. I nodded. He took out a silver envelope opener from his case and carefully slit the seal. An inscrutable hood fell over his eyes as he read. When he finished, he handed the letter to me. It began.

  ‘Dear Ms Lighthorn,

  I am glad we had the chance to meet before my end. Oh yes, I know I am going to die soon, and I welcome the time coming. I have been too much alone since my beloved Robert passed.

  Before I die, I need to make certain facts known, to make sure suspicion does not fall elsewhere in my family.

  Your friend Strachan was murdered. I was the one who arranged the contract to silence him and to make it look like suicide.

  Strachan was getting close. He had to be silenced. It was easy to arrange. We thought to catch him alone. The assassins were disturbed. All witnesses had to be silenced. This is my confession. I murdered the Strachan family.

  Mary Kelly.’

  “Do you believe it?” I asked Crabb, looking up.

  “It is not the job of solicitors, or dare I say it journalists, to believe or disbelieve. That will be up to the police and the courts.”

  He was right. “I must tell Pitcher,”

  “Indeed you must,” he replied, as Marsha appeared with the tea.

  Chapter 56

  4.30pm Friday, December 7,

  Tarbert

  I didn’t have to wait long. Pitcher called round about tea-time. I showed him Mary Kelly’s letter. He shrugged.

  “D’you think she could have been behind it all along?” I asked, noticing again how tired he looked. He sat beside me on the settee with Marsha in an armchair at his other side.

  “I’m sure she wasn’t.” He locked his fingers together and stretched them, until his knuckles cracked. “Kelly’s started to talk, now, as well as McSherry. Both desperate not to go down for the murders.”

  “Who was behind it all?” Marsha asked.

  “It all started a long time ago, didn’t it?” I said.

  “That’s right,” he nodded. “The brewery was in serious decline...”

  “Mary Kelly said it had always been a struggle,” I said.

  “Jack would have done anything to save it while his mother was alive?” Marsha speculated.

  “Exactly. He needed a lucrative side-line. Tom and McSherry had been badgering him for some money to open a night club. He decided to give them a whirl.”

  “With the first tranche of money out of the pension fund?” I suggested.

  “It looks that way. He probably hoped to put the money back in time.”

  “The club was a success?”

  “Hugely, Marsha. More than any of them had expected. So it made sense to continue investing in them.”

  “While developing other side-lines in drugs and prostitution?” I said.

  “Both legal in other countries. Jack probably justified it on the grounds that his ancestors had worked one prohibition. It was only a matter of time, before these were legalised in Scotland. Where was the harm?”

  “And business boomed,” Marsha said.

  “Indeed. Before long, it was the brewery, not the entertainments empire which was the sideline.”

  “And they never put the money back,” I said.

  “What about the trafficking?” Marsha asked. “How did they get involved with that?”

  Pitcher cracked his knuckles again. “Just a natural progression. They needed girls for prostitution, and there was a never- ending supply of people desperate to enter the country.”

  “How deep was Jack in all this?” I asked.

  “He admits only to raiding the pension fraud, and making loans available to his son. Nothing else.”

  “The murders? The Strachan family? Livingstone? Black?”

  “Both Jack and McSherry are adamant that was all the work of Tom. They say a red mist of rage descended, the minute the empire started to be threatened....”

  “By Strachan?”

  He nodded.

  “D’you buy it?”

  “I doubt we’ll ever prove otherwise.”

  “Why the Strachan children?”

  Pitcher cleared his throat.

  “You were right. Almost certainly an accident. Tom probably ordered the killing, thinking the family were away. Do you remember they returned home early? Local muscle entered the house, killed Strachan, then panicked, when they found they were not alone.”

  “You picked them up in Oslo, didn’t you? What are they saying?” I asked.

  “Nothing. But McSherry is fingering them for this, Livingstone and Black and your attack in the brewery. The Norwegian authorities are being very co-operative. We’re bringing them back in a few days and putting them before an identity parade. I’m certain Mrs Livingstone will identify them, as the two men who came to the door posing as police officers.”

  “Will I have to take part?” I asked.

  “Not at this stage.”

  Something in his tone told me he wanted to spare me the ordeal of confronting my attackers.

  Yet it still didn’t all add up.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Why kill Ken in the first place? He couldn’t prove anything. Yes, he was an annoying thorn in their side. But no one was listening to him.”

  Pitcher stood and walked towards the fire, standing with his back to us for a few moments. His trousers were uncharacteristically creased, long overdue a good press.

  “I spoke to Sister Robert earlier. She thinks Ken was on to something and getting dangerously close to blowing the whistle. The girl, Roxy, holds the key. I’m going to interview her tomorrow. Do you want to sit in?”

  I hesitated, unsure, before nodding slowly.

  “Sure you’re up to it?

  Pitcher stayed for supper. He asked for fried egg and chips, and cheered up as Marsha fussed over him. We didn’t speak of the case anymore, and they talked mainly of London. They were both ready to go home.

  After the meal, I left them and wandered up the hill to Sandy’s fresh grave. I wanted some time alone together, to say goodbye.

  Next morning, Pitcher sent a police car to drive us back to Glasgow. It was hard saying farewell to the harbour and to Tarbert. Joe appeared, as Marsha and I were getting into the car. I felt tears prick my eyes, as he squeezed my hand firmly in his big fist.

  The journey was the same road Sandy and I had taken that first weekend I visited the cottage with him. We stopped for some lunch an hour or so from the city at a country hotel. The dining-room was immaculately laid, with white tablecloths and best silver. Life continued normally elsewhere. The world kept turning.

  We approached the Stella Maris from the North, its outline visible at a distance.

  “You won’t need me,” Marsha said, as we got out the car. “I’ll take a look at the church, while I’m here.”

  Pitcher had already arrived.

  “Good journey?” he asked. I nodded.

  The receptionist led us to Sister Robert’s office. She was waiting with Roxy and her sister. The child’s face broke into a smile, as though pleased to see us, but her eyes were brimming with tears. Her sister held her hand fast.

  “It’s OK if I stay with the girls?” Sister Robert asked.

  “Of course,” said Pitcher, pulling a chair up opposite them. I sat further away, merely an observer.

  Pitcher got stuck straight in. His questions were direct, although his voice was softer than usual.

  “Roxy, we want you to tell us everything you can, that you think might be useful in our investigations. Everything about your time here, your relationship with Ken Strachan, and with the people you came into contact with.”

  She did her best, falteringly, stopping often to bite her lip, or look at her sister or Sister Robert for confirmation or support. But it was her story and she was determined to tell it.

  She began with her father, love shining from her eyes.

  “He was a brilliant chemist, wasn’t he Marietta?” her sister nodded. After their mo
ther died, there was nothing to keep them in the Ukraine. He had no future professionally. He had upset too many people with his criticism of the slow pace of reform. He saw Russia’s influence growing, and it frightened him.

  “He wanted to get us away,” Marietta said, “A new start.”

  “So, he started to investigate emigrating to another country,” Roxy took up the tale. “He grabbed the offer to come to the UK all expenses paid. He had to work for two years for the people who arranged our trip. But that would soon pass, he said.”

  “It’s what he always said,” Marietta chimed in. “He would hold our hands and smile and say, this will soon pass.”

  Roxy took up the tale again.

  “Marietta and I worked in the sewing factory, when we arrived, and he worked in a workshop behind. He never spoke of what he did, but I knew it made him unhappy, but he always said this will soon pass and a happy life was waiting for us.

  “Then there was an accident. We never saw him again. Marietta was taken away from me. I was put to work in another factory, near the church.”

  “That’s where you met Ken Strachan?” Pitcher asked, gently.

  “Yes. We became friends. I told him about my family, about the factory and my father’s death. He made some enquiries and said he believed those behind what had happened were involved in another matter he was investigating. He showed me a photograph of someone and asked if I had ever seen him near the factory.”

  “Did you recognise the picture?” Pitcher interrupted.

  “Immediately. I’d never mistake that face or the long, dark ponytail. He was often at the factory, telling the manager what to do. He was the boss.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Ken said he needed proof. He gave me a camera, and asked me to take pictures, when he came again. I did and I gave the camera to Ken. He was very excited and told me not to worry. He wanted to download the pictures and then he said, he had the proof he needed. We took a picture of ourselves, me and Ken, together to mark the occasion.”

  “But they weren’t over,” Marietta shook her head.

  Roxy bit her lip. “I saw Ken the next day, and he gave me the camera back. We neither of us thought much about it, but it was a digital camera. The pictures hadn’t been wiped. The camera disappeared from my bag. Someone had found it. Next thing I knew, I was moved to the new house. The one with locks…” a blank look shut down her eyes, as her voice tailed off.

  Sister Robert placed a protective arm around her shoulder.

  “I think that’s enough for the time being Inspector.”

  For once he had nothing to say.

  Chapter 57

  3pm Monday, December 24,

  The New Forest.

  Christmas arrived with what felt like indecent haste. I decided I wanted to spend it alone. Marsha always loved the big East End knees-up with her enormous family. Though the Khans were Muslim, you wouldn’t know it at Christmas time. They, too, loved any excuse for a big family get together.

  I couldn’t face any of that. I opted instead for a quiet few days in the New Forest, on the river Beaulieu, staying in Buckler’s Hard. It had been my retreat in times of trouble before.

  Not that recent events were viewed as trouble by everyone. Ludgate was over the moon. We had out-scooped the world, with some of my follow-ups. There was talk of a top journalism prize.

  Pitcher cheered up significantly once he returned south, and was charging anyone he could pin anything on. Jim Sudgen was jubilant and already pressing the new trustees for a law suit against Cameron.

  My own suspicion was the rejoicing would be short-lived. It would take years before any of it came to court. There would be appeal after appeal. I could see Patterson doing a deal and being pronounced “unfit” to stand trial. He’d be sunning himself on a beach with his beloved Edna before long.

  Jack Kelly would take the rap for the pension fraud, but nothing much else. In the unlikely event he actually went down, the most he would serve was a couple of years.

  It would be very hard to pin much on Cameron’s. Their insurers would hire the best lawyers. A few scalps would be sacrificed. They would survive.

  McSherry would serve time, but for nothing like what he deserved. The killers, the hired hands, would get the stiffest sentences.

  But the scandal had forced the Government to put together a financial rescue package for the pensioners, which is what Ken had wanted all along. They would get most, but not all their money.

  “Well done, Jules,” Omar said, yawning as he leaned back on the chair in my office, after taking me and Marsha out for a-pre Christmas curry lunch. “You got them their money in the end. And you always said it couldn’t be done.”

  “But not enough, Omar.”

  “It was never going to be enough, Julia.”

  I returned to the Masterbuilders, knowing it would be hard – the last place Sandy and I had been normal and happy together. I checked in after lunch. The sun came out, so I took a stroll along the quay front. The water shimmered silver. The rigs tinkled their fairy bells on the boats moored along the way. I followed the path Sandy and I had taken that last evening, we spent here together. The boathouse was unlocked and deserted just as it had been. I opened the door, and there he was, Sandy. I saw him all over again, walking towards me, smiling, as he had done that night, before taking me into his arms. I was about to step inside, but something stopped me. I stood at the door, I don’t know for how long. And then I closed it, and turned to walk back.

  As I neared the hotel, I saw a figure standing waiting for me. He waved as I drew closer. It was Inspector Pitcher.

  “Marsha told me you were here,” he said, smiling. “Had to come and buy my partner a drink on Christmas Eve.”

  “Long way to come.”

  “It’s been a long way for us all, Julia.”

  This was the first time he had called me by my name.

  “He was killed for the pictures, wasn’t he?” I said, as we walked back towards the hotel.

  “Looks that way. We never found them. I looked again. No trace on his computer.”

  “Wiped?”

  “Who knows,” he shrugged.

  “And who cares,” he added. “It’s Christmas. Let’s celebrate. And this time,” he said, opening the door for me to enter. “I’m paying, the drinks are on me.”

  I laughed.

  THE END

  Did you Enjoy This Book?

  We hope so much that you did. Without satisfied readers no novel can thrive. You are our audience, and now hopefully our friend.

  My ambition above all is to entertain. But I hope Dead Money also raised issues you may not previously have encountered, and planted thoughts which may linger.

  For any author , the most important way of getting our books noticed, is to spread the word. This takes the help of a loyal bunch of readers.

  Honest recommendations and reviews bring stories to the attention of new readers.

  If you have enjoyed this novel I would be so grateful if you could spend just a couple of minutes leaving a review (as short as you like) on the Dead Money page on Amazon.co.uk or your favourite book store website.

  I love making new friends and hearing from old ones. Please do visit my author page. Or sign up to the Teresa Hunter Readers Club. There are no catches or costs and you will receive exclusive messages and stories. Your data will be secure and we won’t spam you. Just send news now and again.

  Thank you so much. You are fantastic.

  With warmest wishes

  Teresa

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Teresa Hunter is an award-winning journalist, enjoying a successful career with many London newspapers, including the Guardian, Telegraph and Sunday Times. She has also worked for the BBC in television.

  She is married with three children and divides her time between her home in West Cornwall and London.

  She has an MA in critical and creative writing.

  DISCLAIMER

  This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any likeness to real life persons or events is accidental and unintentional.

  With special thanks to Strathclyde police for allowing the use of their name, even though they bear no resemblane to the fictitious force in the novel.

  First published in Great Britain in 2012

  Latest edition, 2021, Amazon Kindle

  Copyright belongs entirely to the author

  All rights reserved