by David Barry
‘But why would he do that?’
‘So that he could retain the royalties personally, and it wouldn’t have to go through the company.’
‘But that doesn’t make any sense. If he received one-hundred per cent royalties, he’d be taxed on the full amount; whereas if he put it through the company - ’
Warren mimed tipping a hat low over his eyes. ‘Well, you’re the private eyes, you tell me. And the police asked all these sorts of questions back then. If you ask me, the longer this goes on, the less likely anyone is of finding a motive.’ He suddenly tapped the side of his nose and smirked. ‘And maybe it wasn’t him who was the target. Maybe it was his wife. Or the son.’
‘What!’ Bill exclaimed. ‘Why would a killer target a ten-year-old kid?’
Warren snorted. ‘Ah hah! Maybe he was going to be the next Harry Potter, and the old one paid to have him eliminated.’
He laughed loudly, a laugh that rumbled revoltingly with phlegm. I thought it was time we left, and I was just about to stand up when Warren said, ‘Seriously though, I found it odd why the police didn’t follow up on Tim’s mysterious visitor just a week or so before he died.’
My ears pricked up and I leant forward on the edge of my seat. ‘Any idea who this might have been, Ed?’
‘Not a clue. And no one else in the firm did either. Maybe Tim’s life was being threatened and this visitor was a cop or a detective. If he was a cop, he must have been an important one, because I watched him leave, sitting in the back seat of a Mercedes like Lord Muck.’
‘Nothing unusual in that, is there?’ Bill commented. ‘A certain rank of detective would almost certainly be driven by a subordinate.’
Warren shook his head slowly. ‘Ah-ah. This was different. I noticed his driver was more of a chauffeur than a detective. Wearing something dark and navy. More like the sort of driver who runs a Scotland Yard commissioner about.’
‘So after the murders,’ I said, ‘when the police came to question you, did they ask about this visitor?’
‘Yes, and I gave them as much information as I could. Even told them about him looking like a high-ranking police officer.’
‘And what did they say to that?
‘Nothing. They just made a note of everything I said, and sort of glossed over it. Most of their questions concerned the running of the company, trying to find out if any of the staff knew of anything untoward going on. But nobody did.
Whoever this unknown visitor was, the police knew about it, because he came back with them. I can’t be absolutely certain, but as they were leaving, I went to my office window, which looked out over the car park, and I saw the Merc parked near the entrance, a long way from the building. It was too far away to see who was inside it. But the detective chief inspector who questioned me, instead of getting into the car he arrived in with his colleague, walked over to the Merc and climbed into the back seat.’
‘Didn’t this strike you as peculiar?’
‘Not really. Because, like I said, I thought the mysterious visitor was a copper come about Tim receiving death threats. If it was him who returned - and I can’t really be sure - I thought maybe he was a senior officer who wanted an update from his colleagues.’
‘It’s still very odd.’
‘If you want answers, try the paranormal,’ Warren sniggered, rolling his hands palms down over an imaginary ball.
‘Psychic help,’ Bill said sniffily. ‘As reliable as a punctured condom.’
Warren shrugged hugely. ‘Well, there you are. Heaven and earth, Horatio, and all that.’
I was just about to rise prior to leaving, but there was one more thing I needed to know. ‘Did the media ever mention this mysterious visitor?’
Warren gazed rheumy-eyed into the distance before answering. ‘Now you come to mention it, I don’t think they did. Not the papers or TV, or any of the press conferences the police gave.’
So that was why there was nothing about it in the file Alice had given us. She probably had no knowledge of the visitor, especially if the police had kept it to themselves. Ed Warren and some of the other staff who worked at the software company would have been the only ones to have known. And once they told the police about it, they wouldn’t have seen any reason to mention it again. But I decided to probe a little further.
‘Didn’t it strike you as odd, this strange visitor, being airbrushed out of the picture following the murders?’
‘I never gave it much thought. What with worrying about redundancy and all that. I hated the idea of starting over, even though I was only thirty-two.’
I tried not to catch flies with my mouth. Now only forty three, and he didn’t look a day under sixty. I exchanged a look with Bill, and we both knew the meeting was well and truly over. There was nothing more to be gained by talking to Ed Warren. It was time to leave and let him get back to hitting the bottle.
Chapter 9
After we left Ed Warren’s house we found a pub called the Albert Arms on Kingston Hill where we both had a pint of Young’s Special and ordered brie and bacon sandwiches. While we waited for the food to arrive, I phoned the office and asked Nicky to get a list of the games produced by Delphic Digital, then to telephone some games retailers to find out how well they sold. I told her to expect us back in the office, if we didn’t hit any major traffic snarl-ups, around four-thirty.
Feeling refreshed after our beer and sandwiches, we had another brainstorming session in the car. We both agreed in our suspicions that Bayne was involved in something criminal, but why a high-ranking police officer visited him prior to the murder was anyone’s guess. We kept asking ourselves the same damned questions, going round in circles and getting nowhere fast. The build up of traffic when we came off Westway and drove through Camden Town, meant we were getting somewhere - but slowly. We got back to the office at quarter-to-five.
I gave Nicky a brief rundown on the information we’d gleaned so far, then asked her about the games. She read off a list of names, bizarre-sounding futuristic geek games, none of which meant anything to a couple of dinosaurs like Bill and me.
‘Most of these games got excellent reviews,’ she said. ‘But - ’ She paused and tapped the top of her notebook with her pen, and looked at us with a twinkle in her eye, indulging in creating a dramatic effect.
‘But what?’ I said impatiently.
‘None of them sold very well. Most of the stores stopped stocking them, and much of the stock they did have they got rid of, selling them at a loss. Even online sales at Amazon were poor.’
‘Thanks, Nicky.’ Bill said. ‘At least that tells us he made his fortune in another way. And one that wasn’t legit, which is probably why he wound up dead, with his wife and son as collateral damage.’
Nicky, her pen gripped tightly in anger, said, ‘How could anyone cold-bloodedly kill two innocent...’ She stopped as she thought about it and I saw her shiver.
‘It’s worse for the living,’ I said. ‘Never able to get over...or come to terms with it. It’s the cruellest blow, left without an answer. Always left wondering why.’
Bill, perhaps thinking I’d been dragged back to my father’s suicide, patted my shoulder. ‘Cheer up, Freddie. If we can get some answers for our client, it might ease her pain.’
I forced a grin, shaking off our morbid thoughts, and looked at Nicky. ‘You went to drama school and became an actress for a while. How’s your Scottish accent?’
She frowned, wondering where this was leading. ‘I think it’s OK. Why?’
‘In the file Alice gave us, there’s the name of the hotel her family stayed in the night before the murder. I’d like you to find out if a Peter Chapmays is also registered for that same night.’
‘So why do I need to have a Scottish accent?’
‘Well, they’ll need to go back eleven years. I think you’ll ge
t more co-operation if you say you’re a detective inspector from Strathclyde police investigating a cold case; that tragic murder from two-thousand and two.’
Nicky nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, that makes sense. I could do a reasonable Morningside dialect.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Edinburgh. Sort of a posh Scottish accent. As in mae gels are the crème de la crème.’
I laughed. ‘Whatever. But try not to camp up the Maggie Smith. If that’s possible. And if they say they’ll call you back, tell them you’re on the road, give them your mobile number, and say you need the information urgently.’
‘Will do.’
Nicky sat behind her desk, got the hotel number from a Google search on her computer, then dialled the number on her mobile. It was answered almost immediately and we watched her performing. Her Scottish accent might not have fooled a genuine native, but it sounded convincing enough to English ears like mine.
‘Hello. I wonder if you can help me please. My name is Detective Inspector Barbara Watson from Strathclyde Police, D Division, Glasgow.’
“D Division, Glasgow.” Nice touch. I exchanged a look with Bill, who smiled and nodded approval. Nicky’s improvisation skills were impressive.
‘Eleven years ago, on Thursday the 18th of July, a Mr Timothy Bayne and family stayed at your hotel, which was the night before they were tragically murdered, gunned down near Loch Lomond.’ There was a brief pause, and then Nicky said, ‘You do?’
She caught my eye, raised her eyebrows, and I could tell the person on the other end admitted remembering the incident.
‘Yes, it was a terrible tragedy,’ Nicky continued in a soft lilting dialect. ‘And I know my colleagues will have spoken to staff at your hotel back when it happened, but new evidence has come to light. Is it possible for you to find out the name of someone who may have checked in the same day as the Bayne family?. Of course, I’m not suggesting this person may have had anything to do with the murders. We may just want to eliminate him from our enquiries.’
Nicky was cooking on gas now and I could see she was enjoying this.
‘You can? No I don’t mind holding. The name of the person is Peter Chapmays and it was a Thursday. July eighteen. Yes, thank you. I’d be most grateful. I’ll hang on while you look it up.’
Nicky waited, but this time she didn’t look at us. She stared at her computer monitor and a tremor of excitement ran through the room as we waited for the information to be keyed into the hotel’s system. Eventually, Nicky made eye contact with us as she listened intently to the information she was given.
‘Thank you, yes, that’s very useful. I know it’s a long time ago, but any chance you could describe this person for me?’ Pause. ‘Just a rough age would be helpful.’
I stared at Nicky’s notebook and read the message upside down. She had written “40-ish”.
‘And what address did he give in the hotel register?’ Scribbling in her notebook furiously, Nicky pulled a face and shook her head. ‘No, that’s terrific. Thank you for that. That’s been most helpful.’
As soon as she hung up, Bill said, ‘I assume that address is the same as the false one we were given at Tech-Intelligence.’
‘That’s right. Coach Road and an SE1 address. Which doesn’t exist.’
‘That was quite a performance, Nicky,’ I said. ‘Well done. At least we know the killer stayed at that hotel, using the same name as before.’
Nicky chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully before removing it to say, ‘Wonder if they have CCTV at that hotel.’
‘It’s a strong possibility,’ I replied. ‘But I doubt they would hand something like that over to anyone other than the police. In any case, ordinary tapes going back eleven years. I would have thought they’d have been wiped years ago.’
Bill looked at me. ‘You would think the cops would have checked the CCTV at the time.’
‘What if,’ I said, thinking aloud, ‘they questioned the staff to see if there were any motor cyclists who checked in that night? And maybe there weren’t, so they didn’t bother checking the CCTV.’
‘How fucking stupid can you be, to overlook a thing like that?’
‘I suppose they fixated on the bike theory, like the Yorkshire police did with the Geordie tape.’
‘At least we know this Chapmays character’s the killer, whoever he is. And we know he stayed at the hotel, and drove north with his motor bike in the back of his van. This is evidence now, not speculation.’
‘But if this man’s got a false ID,’ Nicky said, ‘where does that leave you?’
Silence. Struck dumb as we considered the problem. Bill was the first to break it.
‘Well, we’ve made some progress. More than the police did, that’s for sure. So at least we’ll have some news to give Alice.’
Bang on cue, the telephone rang on Nicky’s desk.. She picked it up and said, ‘Weston and Turner,’ followed by, ‘Hello, Alice. Yes, Freddie and Bill have made progress and have some news to report. I’ll hand you over to Freddie and he can tell you what’s happened.’
She handed me the phone and I told Alice most of everything that had gone on with our day. She seemed impressed that we had at least discovered what had happened, and commented on how the police seemed to have overlooked what now seemed obvious. She then wanted to know how we intended to proceed, and I told her we had to have another brainstorming session to see how we could discover a motive. If we find a motive, I told her, we’re halfway there. I was trying to convince myself as much as her, but I realised it sounded hollow. So I mentioned the games her father’s company sold - or, more to the point, didn’t sell. I’d been saving this revelation till last, not knowing how she might react. Implying her old man was involved in a criminal activity might go down like a lead balloon. But I was wrong. She said it had crossed her mind years ago that he may have made his money from something illegal. I asked her if she ever found out about his company’s games selling badly, and she told me she had no interest in computer games whatsoever, and didn’t ever remember playing one or taking any interest in them, in spite of it being supposedly the way her father earned his living. The only reason she thought he was involved in something unlawful, she said, was after her family was murdered and because of the way the crime was committed, carrying all the hallmarks of a professional hitman.
I asked her to think back to long before the killings. ‘Was there anything about your father’s behaviour, however insignificant it might seem, that seemed peculiar in any way?’
There was a long pause while she thought about it. Bill and Nicky looked at me intently, waiting to see my reaction to her answer.
‘Now I come to think of it,’ Alice said, ‘there was a time when I was about fourteen, and I sneaked quietly into Dad’s study when he was on the phone. When he saw me, he reacted like he’d been stung. Well, I suppose I made him jump, and he ended the call. He said “I’ve got to go,” and slammed the phone down. Then he lost his temper and shouted at me. How dare I walk into his study without knocking and that sort of thing. He over-reacted and I’ve no idea why.’
Guilt? I wondered. Caught out in some dodgy deal.
‘What did he say just before he noticed you entering? Can you remember?’
‘Nothing that seemed to make much sense. Something about control of the skimming. I had no idea what it meant. I still don’t.’
Something stirred in my brain. I had the germ of an idea, but I didn’t want to share it with her right now. I needed more time to think about it.
‘Have you any idea what it might mean, Freddie?’
‘Christ knows,’ I replied. ‘But I’ll talk it over with Bill, and we’ll see what we can come up with. Meanwhile, if you think back to any conversations - even from when you were much younger - which might throw some light on our investigations, let us know, w
ould you, Alice?’
‘Of course I will. There was one other name which might be significant.’
‘What was that?’
I heard her sigh. ‘That’s just it. I can’t remember. It was all so long ago. From when I was only eight. I guess because I was so young he probably didn’t care about speaking openly in front of me. I remember it being a strange name - like a nickname. If only I could remember what it was. Maybe it’ll come back to me. I’ll let you know if it does. I’ll call you tomorrow. And well done, Freddie - all of you - you’ve found out more in a day than the police did in eleven years.’
‘I guess we got lucky.’
‘No such thing as good or bad luck, Freddie. Either way, you become responsible for what happens. I’ve always believed, you make your own luck, good or bad.’
I knew she was referring to her father, for the way his illegal activities might have brought bad luck to the family. So I mumbled goodbye and hung up.
Bill and Nicky looked at me expectantly, waiting to be copied in on Alice’s information about her father’s conversation.
‘What does skimming mean to you, Bill?’
He shrugged. ‘Flat stones you chuck across the water, to see how many times they bounce.’
It was Nicky who verified my suspicions.
‘I think I know. I had a mate who was skimmed - if there’s such a past tense verb - skimmed at an ATM he was. Cleaned out his bank account.’ She looked at Bill and made a Tommy Cooper gesture. ‘Just like that. I think skimmers are machines positioned above ATMs that read the data on the magnetic strip of a customer’s bank card, and probably the pin number as well.’
I nodded. ‘Exactly, Nicky. That’s just what I thought it was. Alice interrupted her father on the phone when he said something like “control of the skimming” and he went absolutely ape.’
‘So he was probably involved in bank fraud,’ Bill said. ‘Would that explain a fortune of twenty million?’
‘Why not? Especially if he was heavily involved in organised crime, doing it on a massive global scale. And Alice told us how her father was always on the computer and it used to drive her mother nuts. Using online methods, that’s how these criminals keep in touch and keep their identities secret.’