Gabriel Thompson was one of Greg's oldest friends, from his army days. Morgan Walshaw he knew pretty well, handling security for the biggest company there was: Event Horizon. Trustworthy and competent at exactly the level Greg needed. It helped that the two of them had taken a shine to each other after meeting on one of Greg's cases. They'd moved in together a few months later, living in a grand old terrace house in Stamford.
Greg phoned them as soon as he got back from his drink with Mike Wilson. They arrived together at the farmhouse as the sun was sinking behind Berry but spinney on the far shore. Gabriel helped with Christine's bath time, while Greg and Morgan tackled the menu from the Chinese take-away in Mill Street.
They wound up sitting in the conservatory with the cartons from the take-away on the big cedar table. Pink light drained away from the clouds bridging the horizon leaving a quiescent gloaming in its wake.
“I need a safeguard before I agree to this,” Morgan said after Greg had finished talking. “I appreciate there's a lot of circumstantial evidence that Townsend had Noel Broady run down, but we don't know for certain.”
“I'll get myself in on the preliminary interview,” Greg said. “If I can see he's guilty of paying someone to run Noel over, will that be enough for you?”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “I'll accept your word.”
“If he's not?” Gabriel asked archly.
“Then we collapse the deal. It'll leave a nasty smell, but at least he walks away.”
“Okay,” she said. “So what's the link between him and Tyler?”
“Hothouse set up a virtual company for Tyler to sell his action dramas and interactives. I think there's even a best-of compilation from Marina Days.”
“Compelling stuff,” Gabriel muttered.
“Yeah, anyway. This company is called Firedrake, and Mike Wilson has agreed to sell Hothouse's half share. It's only a pound New Sterling, so they don't exactly lose out. All we have to do is convince Townsend to buy it, and back-date the agreement.”
“Why?” Morgan asked.
“Tyler wasn't quite as stupid as you'd think. He was using the site to sell bootleg memox crystals of his own stuff. Any orders you place on the Firedrake site are supposed to go to the distribution company that's contracted to deal with all Hothouse's clients. Tyler, the clever little sod, rigged the site so that two thirds of the orders are redirected to a bootlegging operation that he's got an arrangement with. That way, instead of getting his half-percent royalty payment from the cover price of the genuine crystal, he gets fifty percent of the price from the bootleg. Cash only, non-taxable. Hothouse found out about it a month ago, and confronted Tyler. He claimed he knew nothing, and that some hotrod had hacked into the site and loaded the diversion instructions. As his engagement to Tamzin was starting to produce results, Hothouse overlooked it, and sorted the site out.”
“So whoever his partner in Firedrake is, they're being ripped off by Tyler,” Eleanor said. “Anyone examining the Firedrake site order log and comparing it to the legitimate distribution company's orders will see the missing sixty percent straight away. The partner in Firedrake will have a justifiable grudge against Tyler.”
“What that partner will do is have Tyler's apartment broken into, and steal a painting that is of equal worth to the missing money. Unfortunately, Tyler was at home when the burglary happened, there was a brief struggle, and he got pushed downstairs. That makes whoever received the stolen painting an accessory to murder. It'll be the physical proof Amanda needs to nail him.”
“Can you get us a painting out of the apartment?” Gabriel asked.
“I think so,” Greg said. “I reviewed the Macmillan art encyclopedia database. We got lucky, the most valuable piece Tyler owns is also the smallest one. It should be easy enough to lift it.”
“When do you want to start?” Morgan asked.
“Right away. See if you can get an appointment with Townsend tomorrow morning. Gabriel, you're going to be the accountant. You'll have to hire an office for us in Peterborough. It needs to be ready by Tuesday at the latest. Suzi will give you a hand.”
“Suzi? You're kidding!”
“No way. I'm going to bring her in as your company's secretary. She'll be perfect as the courier for the swap—Townsend won't argue with her.”
“Jesus wept. Okay, if you say so.”
“What about the Firedrake site?” Morgan asked. “Won't Townsend be suspicious of me marketing the interactives of a dead celebrity?”
“You won't be selling Tyler's products,” Greg said. “I've got Royan designing a completely new architecture for us; from midnight, Firedrake will be selling software products and obscure music acts. Once Townsend has bought in, we'll change it back.”
Gabriel gave her glass of beer a quizzical glance, then smiled softly. “Sounds good to me.”
Greg had been right about Amanda Patterson—she was a first-rate detective. As soon as Hugh Snell confirmed the McCarthy was a fake she redirected her team's effort to produce maximum results. Every art house and auctioneer in the country was squirted an immediate notification about the painting, and CID staff were told to get in touch with known fences and dealers. A reward was mentioned.
Of course, as Townsend was blissfully unaware he had anything to hide, Sotheby's in Stamford got back to Amanda less than two hours later. Richard Townsend was identified.
“Not the person who actually pushed Tyler,” she said regretfully, as she compared his picture with the genome visualization. An undercover team was assigned to keep Townsend under surveillance.
Greg watched as she turned her team to establishing the link between Tyler and Townsend. It was the accountant who tracked down the partnership in Fire-drake. After that it was plain sailing. The accountant worked well with Alison, running analysis programs through the virtual company's records. The distribution company made their order logs available.
By ten o'clock that evening they had it all worked out. Byrne Tyler was ripping off his Firedrake partner Townsend, who discovered what was happening. Knowing the money would never be paid over, a burglar was hired for a custom theft. But there had been a flaw. Byrne Tyler was awake when the break-in occurred. There must have been a struggle.
Amanda took the case to Vernon at quarter past ten. He reviewed it, and authorized the arrest warrant.
Throughout the interview with Townsend, Greg had felt as if he was the one on trial. Not so far from the truth. He was the one who had brought them all together. The strain was twisting him up inside, having to wait patiently while Amanda asked questions which Townsend didn't understand, let alone have answers for. Finally, he could ask the one question that counted.
Physically, Townsend froze up. His hands gripped the armrests, sweat glistened on his brow as his mouth hung open. In his mind, horror and fright rose like ghouls to contaminate every thought.
“Guilty,” Greg said. He hoped he hadn't sagged at the release of his own tension.
“Thank you, Mr. Mandel,” Amanda said.
It was the tone which alarmed Greg. He hadn't been paying attention to the detective. Now he could sense the doubts rippling through her mind. She held his gaze steadily, and said: “I think we both need to take a break now. No doubt you'd like to consult with your solicitor, Mr. Townsend. Interview suspended.” She switched the AV deck off. “Greg, a word, please.”
“Sure.”
As they left the interview room a frantic Townsend was whispering furiously to Jodie Dobson. Amanda went straight downstairs and out into the station's car park. She rounded on Greg. “What the hell is going on?”
“You were right about him, my question confirmed that.”
“Oh, bollocks, Greg. He doesn't have a clue what's going on.”
“He's guilty. I swear it, Amanda.”
“Yeah?” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a cigarette.
“I thought they were illegal?”
“No. That's a common mistake. Usage just prohibits you from claiming National
Health Service treatment. If you choose to make yourself ill, don't expect the state to pay to make you better. So given that smoking actually makes it illegal to go to an NHS hospital, it's easy to see how confused people can get over the actual wording of the law. And it suits the government to encourage that confusion.”
“Are we talking in metaphors here?”
“I don't know, Greg. I don't know what's metaphor, what's confusion, and what's truth. But I'm bloody sure Townsend didn't have anything to do with Tyler's death. Detective's instinct, remember.”
“The evidence points straight at him.”
“Yes. With amazing clarity. Funny how that all fell together yesterday. Why yesterday? Why didn't we have it before?”
“We only discovered the painting had been taken yesterday.”
“So we did. No, actually, you did. On the third visit. What's the matter, Greg—psychic power not what it used to be?”
“It's not an exact science.”
“No, it isn't. But you're right. We're lucky to discover the painting. After all, it must have been stolen during a burglary, and that burglary must have been last Wednesday night. Because it couldn't have been taken afterward; no one else has been alone in Tyler's apartment since then, have they Greg? Alone downstairs while I was taking a stupid call from Mike bloody Wilson.”
Greg spread his arms, trying not to show how alarmed he was getting. “A few seconds.”
“How long does it take to switch something that small?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“Neither does Richard Townsend. He claims he only received that painting yesterday.”
“He claims. Do you think Alan O'Hagen can confirm that?”
“You know as well as I do I'll never get to ask that question. But my investigation only took off once every piece of the puzzle was dumped into Townsend's hands for me to find.” She dropped the half-smoked cigarette and crunched it under her foot. “What the hell happened to you, Greg? You, I thought you, of all people were trustworthy. For Christ's sake, you fought the PSP for a decade while people like me hid behind our desks. This is the world you were fighting for. Are you surprised it's not perfection? Is that it? Do you have so little faith in the police, in me, that you have to fabricate all this crap to set up an innocent man? Who the hell are you protecting, Greg?”
“Amanda, I promise you, Townsend is not innocent. He is responsible for someone's death.”
“But not Tyler. If I asked that in the interview room and he said no, what would you tell me, Greg? Would you tell me he's lying?”
“You have all the evidence you need. It will hold together in court without my testimony. He's an accessory to murder. He's responsible.”
“And you couldn't prove it? Not for the real crime. That's it, isn't it? No proof. So you set him up for this.”
Greg remained silent, wondering where all this shame he was suddenly feeling was coming from.
“Fine, Greg,” she said. “You got your man. But what about Tyler's killer. He's still walking around loose. He got away with it, with murder. Tyler might not have been the best person in the world, but surely he deserves better than us turning our backs on him?”
“Tyler wasn't murdered. It was a genuine accident. Although, if he hadn't been the person he was, it wouldn't have happened.”
“What do you mean?”
Greg slowly took his cybofax from his jacket pocket, and flipped it open. The face of Tyler's killer looked out blankly from the screen. Greg typed in a few simple instructions, altering the characteristics age-projection program. The face evolved again, but not running its standard eighteen-to-eighty cycle. This time it went back eight years. Daniel Sullivan stared out at Amanda.
“Oh, fuck,” she whispered.
“He found out that Tyler was blackmailing his sister into having sex,” Greg said. “So that night he sneaked into the Ingalo's boot. He must have got in through the cloakroom window, probably even saw them on the bed together. Tyler heard him moving around and went to investigate. Daniel pushed him. A little boy incensed at what he'd seen happen to the sister he loved.”
“And she covered for him,” Amanda said. “Turned down the air-conditioning, took the crystal from the AV deck, wiped his fingerprints, then drove him home.”
“Yeah.”
“You knew it all the minute you walked into the bungalow, didn't you?”
“That poor kid was so scared I'm just surprised no one else noticed him.”
“I need another cigarette.”
“You shouldn't. They'll kill you.” He waited to see what she'd do.
She took the packet of twenty from her pocket, and after a long moment handed them to him. “You keep them, and don't tell the health police, huh?”
“I don't have time right now. I have to organize a funeral.”
“Anyone I know?”
“My father-in-law. He died after a hit-and-run.”
Amanda paused for a moment. “Take care, Greg.”
“And you.” He got into the Ranger, and drove out of the station car park. A last glance in the rearview mirror showed him Amanda squaring her shoulders, then marching back into the station.
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The Suspect Genome (greg mandel) Page 9