A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8

by Dalgliesh, J M

  The lorry approached the building, coming to a stop. A man got out from the driver's side but she couldn't see his face; the vehicle obscuring the camera's view. Moments later he hammered on the shutter and within seconds it was raised. Two men greeted the driver. They were familiar with one another, sharing a joke and a few smiles. Two of the men walked around to the rear and opened the truck, setting about unloading crates stacked in the rear. The third man ducked back inside, returning with a sack truck. They made swift work of unloading, the driver furtively looking around with regular frequency. At one point he appeared to stare directly at the camera but from the distance that he was being filmed his features were not distinguishable. He wore jeans and a hooded jumper, the hood up over the top of a baseball cap. He was white and Cassie assessed him to be around five foot ten inches tall.

  The men didn't stand on ceremony; as soon as the lorry was unloaded the doors were shut and the shutter dropped before the driver had a chance to bid them goodbye. Not that he seemed to mind. The driver got back into the cab and a cloud of smoke blew from the exhaust and the lights came on. Illuminated by the rear lights, the camera zoomed in on the licence plate. It was clear. Cassie made a note of it. Nothing else happened of note and the footage ended as the lorry drove away, out of shot. She closed the file down and clicked on another. It was another video file, this one filmed three weeks after the one she'd just viewed. The location was different this time and filmed earlier in the night shortly after eleven o'clock.

  The footage was focussed on a building but not an industrial location. This place looked more like a shop front with a large glass window with gold stencilled writing. The angle the footage was recorded at made it difficult for her to read the signage, though. She was about to abandon this one and select another, but then an exterior light came on and there was movement from within. Two figures stepped out of the shadows and into view beneath the light. The first she didn't recognise but the second was unmistakably David Fysh, the businessman she and Tom had spoken with. The two men shook hands, broad smiles on both their faces. They parted company, Fysh locking the door to the building they'd just left, before turning to watch the other man leave, calling after him and sharing a joke. Fysh laughed, presumably at his joke or the response. His companion got into a car. Cassie paused the recording to make a note of the registration, then she clicked play and watched Fysh walk away. The camera, footage shaking, tracked him until he got into a blue Land Rover Discovery parked nearby. The vehicle moved off, and as it approached the cameraman the footage abruptly turned to the interior of a car, the flash of passing headlights indicated the car's passing. The recording ended.

  Cassie turned to her own computer and accessed the police national database, typing in the lorry's licence plate from the first video. She hit return and waited. The results came up within seconds. The lorry was registered to a business in Thetford, QualM. Opening a new search, she put in the second registration number she'd noted down. The car was also registered to the same company. She opened a Google search page and entered the company name. The company was a meat wholesaler but the website was basic to say the least and appeared tailored towards industrial clients as opposed to the general public. The addresses for both the business and the registered keepers of the vehicles were identical. She sat back in her chair, putting an elbow on the arm and resting her chin on her hand. Certain that she'd never had dealings with the firm before, the name seemed familiar but she couldn't place it. Resolving to figure it out later, she checked to see when each of the files was created, sorting them and arranging them into date order. There were nine files in total, all in MP4 format and the first was created seven months earlier, the last, five months ago.

  Playing the first file, she found it was another recorded at the industrial building with a very similar turn of events, although the vehicle used was different. The driver could have been the same man but it was impossible to tell. This video was filmed in May on a rainy night and none of the people involved were recognisable. She closed it down and went to the last. This one was different. The camera was placed in the footwell of a car, angled up so that the passenger seat was clearly visible. The man in the driver's seat, she assumed, was Gavin Felgate although his face wasn't on camera. A man appeared at the passenger side door, looking through the window and was beckoned in.

  The newcomer got into the car. He was in his forties, slim and with receding sandy hair that was parted to the right. It was raining outside, drumming on the roof and windows, and the man sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as the two men greeted one another. They were amicable but the newcomer appeared tense, glancing around outside of the vehicle. The two men talked briefly before the one out of shot asked flatly, "Do you have it?" The second man reached into his back pocket and took out a white envelope. It looked thick and he reluctantly handed it across. The envelope remained in shot and was opened. Inside was a wedge of notes and the man in the driver's seat thumbed through it quickly before moving to his left and off camera. "That'll do." The sandy-haired man was hesitant. "Is there something else?" He shook his head. "Good. Then I'll see you in a couple of weeks." They seemed to make eye contact, held it for a moment before the man in view nodded, cracked open the door and got out, slamming the door before disappearing into the rain again.

  The driver waited thirty seconds or so before reaching for the camera and pulling it out of the footwell. There was a fleeting glimpse of the operator. Cassie ran the footage back and paused it. It was definitely Gavin Felgate. She wasn't certain but the man who'd just handed Felgate an envelope of used notes might have been the same one recorded leaving the restaurant with David Fysh.

  "Morning."

  She turned to see Eric, beckoning him over. He hung up his coat and crossed the ops room, eyeing her suspiciously.

  "You look dreadful …" He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. "Have you been here all night?"

  "Never mind that," she said. "Have you ever come across a company called QualM?"

  Eric focussed, his brow furrowing. "No, not that I recall. Why?"

  "We need to find out what their connection is with David Fysh and his catering business. From what I can see they are meat wholesalers."

  "That sounds like an obvious connection."

  "But why would Gavin Felgate be clandestinely recording them making deliveries late at night and, for that matter, taking large cash payments from an associate of Fysh's." She pointed to the screen. Eric came to stand behind her and she replayed the clip of what looked like a pay-off.

  Eric watched in silence until it was complete. "Who is this guy?"

  Cassie shrugged. "I should imagine he has some connection with this QualM but, as a minimum, he met with Fysh at what I suspect will turn out to be one of his businesses. What their relationship is, mind you," she shook her head, "I have no idea."

  "When were these recorded?"

  "Over a couple of months – early to mid-summer." Cassie thought about it. "Do we have access to Felgate's bank accounts yet?"

  "We do, yes, but I haven't been through them yet."

  "Make a start, would you? See if there are any random cash deposits coming in. We certainly didn't find evidence of Felgate hoarding cash in shoe boxes or anything when we searched his house. The money had to go somewhere."

  "Will do," Eric said, pulling out the chair before his desk and turning on the monitor.

  "How did it go last night, with Becca, I mean?" Cassie asked, changing her tone. Eric looked at her, his lips parted slightly as he made to speak and then he didn't. "That bad, huh?"

  He looked glum. "She's really crabby when she's pregnant."

  Cassie chuckled. "Yeah, I'm sure that's what it was." She turned back to the screen, planning to go through each of the videos in turn to see what else might be in them. First, she needed more coffee. Looking to save the battery, she locked the computer. Connor had already reset the passwords, so there would be no issue returning to it. The lock screen image
was a photograph that caught her attention. It was a picture of three boys hanging out in the sunshine, smiling at the camera. She figured one of them must be Felgate's son; the quality of the image as well as the style of the boys' clothing indicated it wasn't a recent picture. She stifled another yawn, closing the lid of the laptop.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Peter Barnard was a man who'd recently turned forty but looked a decade older. Perhaps it was the thinning blond hair, rapidly in retreat from his forehead, his slim frame and almost skeletal features with the pronounced cheekbones that gave him the appearance of a man older than his years. His suit jacket was off the shelf and a poor fit, a cheaper and far inferior copy of a tailored tweed blazer. Cassie Knight, fresh from a quick shower, if not a fresh set of clothes lifted her coffee cup, inhaling the aroma as deeply as she could without appearing to do so; anything to get the smell of Barnard's business premises out of her nostrils. It didn't work; the stench of what was, quite frankly, rotting meat lingered as badly as that of a three-day old corpse. Thankfully, it was November and not August otherwise it would no doubt have been worse.

  "So, let's recap shall we?" Cassie said, smiling. Barnard looked uncomfortable. He had good reason to be. "What is the nature of your relationship with David Fysh?"

  Barnard shifted in his seat. When Cassie and Eric visited him at work that very morning, he'd denied knowing Fysh or having any relationship. Eric, sitting alongside her, opened a folder and passed her a clutch of photographs blown up to A4 size. Keeping her eyes fixed on Barnard, she slowly and methodically laid them out side by side in front of him. Keen to avoid her gaze, he looked away from her, analysing each picture as she put it down but he didn't comment. When Cassie placed the last one on the table – an enlarged picture of the driver making a delivery – she tapped it gently with her forefinger. The image was a little pixelated because of the enlargement but it was clearly Peter Barnard; a distinctive mole on his left cheek stood out.

  "Are you in the habit of making late-night deliveries to people you don't know?" Eric asked. Barnard's upper lip twitched as he glared at Eric but still he said nothing. Cassie took another image from Eric, laying it on top of the others; a screenshot of Fysh and Barnard shaking hands.

  "Or having meetings at a restaurant while it is closed?" she said. Barnard closed his eyes. "Pet food."

  "What?"

  "You manufacture pet food, I understand?" Cassie asked.

  "Yes."

  "Much call for pet food in restaurants these days, is there?" Cassie said with deliberate sarcastic emphasis. "I shouldn't imagine so."

  "I'm looking to expand … branch out," Barnard said flatly. "Nothing wrong with making a living. That's still allowed in this country, isn't it?"

  "Provided it's legal, yes."

  Barnard sat forward, aggressively pointing a finger at her. "That's all I'm doing, earning a crust."

  "QualM is your business, right?" Barnard nodded. "And what is it that you do?"

  He shrugged. "We have contracts with pet food companies; to manufacture and package their products. Then they are shipped into distribution centres before going into the supply chain."

  "Gather food, blend it … package it up?" she asked. Barnard nodded. "Presumably, the raw ingredients aren't as expensive as when we pick them up in our local supermarket, right?"

  "Of course not!" he scoffed. "Otherwise, a tin of dog food would cost five quid."

  "So where do you find your profit margin? Beef, pork, lamb … doesn't come cheap."

  "Well, it's not fresh, is it?"

  "I see," Cassie said, remembering the walk through the processing facility to Barnard's office. Just the thought of it seemed to rejuvenate the residue in her nose and she felt queasy. How Tamara would have coped, a vegan in such a place, she had no idea. "Unfit for human consumption is the phrase, I believe."

  "If you know, why do you ask?"

  "And it's your business; QualM?"

  Barnard nodded again, rolling his eyes. "Yes! I've already—"

  "But you were disqualified from being a director or running a business two years ago, according to Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs." She stared at him. "A fraud conviction doesn't go down well, does it? The ban extends beyond this year and into next. That would make your earning a crust illegal."

  "It's my wife's business!" Barnard said, sighing and folding his arms across his chest in defiance.

  "Convenient. However, if it's just a paperwork exercise to get around the ruling, it's still illegal but that's not our concern. Someone else will look into it in due course. In any event, I'm sure your wife will be able to explain why a pet food manufacturer is making deliveries to a business selling food into restaurants, schools and care homes."

  "Like I said," he splayed his hands wide, smiling, "we're looking to branch out."

  "You mean, your wife is?" Cassie said, reading through the notes in front of her. She didn't look up at him. "We're carrying out a search on Fysh Catering Supplies later today and no doubt they will be able to provide us with invoices and delivery notes to qualify what you were delivering. I'm sure they'll match up with your records as well."

  Barnard chewed his bottom lip, taking a deep breath.

  "And Gavin Felgate."

  "Who?"

  Cassie looked up. "Gavin Felgate, a local journalist. You knew him, didn't you?"

  Barnard hesitated, his cocky demeanour shifting slightly as he focussed on her, perhaps trying to figure out what she might already know.

  "It's not a tricky question, Mr Barnard. You either know him or you don't."

  He slowly shook his head and then tried to play the question with a straight bat. "If I did, then it isn't by name."

  Cassie bobbed her head knowingly. She glanced sideways at Eric, who picked up his mobile phone – the case holding it folded out to allow the phone to stand up of its own accord – and set it out in front of Barnard. Eric pressed play. Peter Barnard's mouth fell open as he watched himself getting into the car. Eric paused the playback.

  "So, Mr Barnard," Cassie said, "tell us about Gavin Felgate."

  He absently scratched at the top of his head before sitting back and exhaling heavily. He stared at Cassie. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

  "What was the money for?"

  He sniffed, picking at something underneath one thumbnail with the forefinger of his other hand, ignoring Cassie's scrutiny. "He lent me a few quid. I had to pay him back."

  "A few quid? I see. A guy you don't know lends you what looks like hundreds, if not thousands …" Barnard shrugged. "Here's the curious thing," Cassie said, receiving another print-out from Eric. She placed it in front of Barnard. It was a bank statement with several deposits highlighted in yellow. "Regular cash deposits at weekly intervals … similar amounts, too. They begin a couple of days after this video was recorded. Would you care to explain that?"

  Barnard's eyes drifted to the statement and up to Cassie, shaking his head. "I'd be bankrupt if I gave away that amount of money."

  "Why do you think Felgate recorded you?"

  He turned the corners of his mouth down, exaggerating his expression. "Maybe he had a fetish for balding men? Who knows?"

  "Where were you last night, Mr Barnard?"

  "At home," he said, angling his head forward so his chin almost met his chest, "watching telly with my wife."

  "Not in Heacham, then?"

  He took a deep breath. The question seemed to irritate rather than unsettle him. "Why would I be in Heacham?" Cassie stared at him, raising her eyebrows. He sighed. "No, I wasn't in Heacham. I don't recall ever going to Heacham, nor can I imagine doing so in the coming days. Satisfied?"

  Cassie pursed her lips. "No. Far from it. When was the last time you met with Gavin Felgate? And before you answer, remember we have more candid camera episodes that you haven't seen yet."

  Barnard sat in silent contemplation.

  "And I'll take this opportunity to remind you that we are investigating a murder here."


  "Well, I didn't kill anyone, for crying out loud!"

  "When did you last meet with Gavin Felgate?"

  His throat must have run dry because when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. "Ten days ago. That was when I last paid him …" his eyes darted to Cassie and away again "the last instalment of what I owed him."

  "Sticking with the loan story, are we?"

  Barnard smiled at her but his eyes remained distant and cold. He inclined his head. "That's right. You can ask him yourself."

  "I would," Cassie said flatly. "If he wasn't dead, obviously."

  * * *

  Cassie stepped out of the interview room, pulling the door to behind her. Tamara Greave came from the adjoining room, where she'd been watching the interview unfold, and the two made their way back to ops.

  "He seemed genuinely surprised to be the star of his own TV show," Tamara said.

  "Agreed. I think that came as a shock. We've no idea what the full context of the transaction was between them, though because it's not directly spoken of. It has to be a pay-off, though, surely?"

  They entered ops. Tom was there waiting for them. Tamara nodded towards Cassie.

  "Cass thinks Barnard was paying Felgate off."

  "What for?"

  "Looking at his bank account, Felgate has been receiving multiple cash payments for months," Cassie said. "Similar amounts on a regular basis, all cash deposits. Unless he was having phenomenal success at the bookies every week, we have to assume the money came from this type of thing. What if the products Barnard has been supplying to David Fysh turns out to be dodgy meat?"

  Tom perched himself on the edge of a nearby desk. "I doubt he'd get away with it in the restaurants. Maybe if they were prepping Indian food; the spices would mask the poor quality."