by Tim Ellis
‘I understand, Inspector. I’ll have to call an emergency council meeting. The members will need to prepare their armour, and get ready to pull up the drawbridge. It’ll only be a matter of time before the piranhas begin circling in the moat outside, and the enemy set up camp on the opposite bank.’
Parish thought the Town Clerk was being a bit over-dramatic, but then what did he know? He did know what the press was like, and piranha was probably an apt description. Not only would the council be put under the microscope, so would he. He was on borrowed time now.
There was a knock on the door. A thin woman with lank, black hair, a pasty complexion and nervous eyes opened the door and stuck her head through the gap.
‘Ah, Susan, please come in. This is Detective Inspector Parish and Constable Richards.’
Parish nodded in greeting.
The Town Clerk’s voice dropped an octave lower. ‘You’ve heard about Martin?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Parish thought she didn’t look too upset.
‘I know this will be a difficult time for everyone, but I’d like you to co-operate fully with Inspector Parish. You have my authority to show him whatever financial information he wants to see.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Anything, Sir?’
‘Anything,’ he reiterated.
Parish stood up and extended his hand. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Traynor.’
‘You’re welcome, Inspector. I hope this doesn’t turn out to be as bad as you forecast.’
They followed Susan Tollhurst out and into the lift. She pressed for the second floor.
‘What is it you want, Inspector?’ she asked.
Parish had a feeling of déjà vu. ‘A man, who is now dead, called Brian Ridpath was paid £2,000 at the beginning of each month. I want to know why. He used to work for the council as a school caretaker, but then he retired.’
‘£2,000?’
‘Yes.’
‘And we pay it to him? Are you sure it isn’t the Local Government Pension Scheme?’
‘It had Redbridge Council on his bank statement.’
‘Oh.’
The lift doors opened on the second floor. They stepped out and went through an access-controlled security door. Once inside the Finance Department, Susan told three people with worried expressions, who were waiting for her, that she’d see them later, then directed Parish and Richards into two easy chairs in her office.
‘Right,’ she said, sitting behind her desk, ‘let’s see what’s going on.’
Susan Tollhurst typed in her password, and then her pasty face began to turn ghostly white. ‘Oh no!’
Parish shuffled forward in his chair. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I suspect that Mr bloody Squires has activated the self-destruct button.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All the council’s accounts are being deleted.’
‘Can’t you stop it?’
She banged various keys on her keyboard. ‘Apparently not. The program wants a password.’
Parish felt as though he was a horse racing in the Grand National, and Becher’s Brook had just claimed another victim. After falling at every fence, and picking himself up to carry on, he now realised that the fences had all been sabotaged.
‘Backup?’ he asked.
Susan’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes.’ Then they clouded over again. ‘Oh!’
‘What?’
‘The back-up server is kept in Mr Squires’ office. He maintained a week’s worth of backup tapes there, which is far enough from here to be safe.’ She stood up. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘This isn’t going very well is it, Sir?’ Richards said once Susan Tollhurst had left the room.
‘That’s an understatement.’
‘What do forensic accountants do?’
‘They follow the money.’
‘Is everything on computer, or do they keep paper records as well?’
‘I don’t know, but examining paper-based accounts is bound to be more time-consuming than looking at computer-based accounts. We won’t get any quick answers, and I expect there’ll be another murder soon.’
Susan Tollhurst returned. ‘No back-up tapes. Mr Squires took them down to the basement, put them in a waste paper bin and set fire to them.’
‘Is that it then?’ Parish asked, disgusted that evidence could be destroyed so easily.
Susan smiled for the first time, and then started tapping her keyboard again. ‘Off-site back-up,’ she said. ‘Every night, all our computer accounts data is transferred to a massive storage facility in the Nevada… I don’t understand…’
‘What now?’ Parish asked expecting the worst.
‘According to this, we have no account with them.’ She threw herself back in her chair. ‘He was a bastard right to the end. He’s deleted our account. We have no live data, and we have no backup either.’
‘Surely you have paper records?’
‘Yes, but it will take months to reconstruct the accounts. We’re two months from the end of the financial year. It’s a disaster of epic proportions.’
‘We have computer specialists,’ Parish said. ‘Maybe they’ll be able to recover the live accounts.’ He took out his mobile and phoned forensics. ‘Toadstone, just the very man.’
‘You’re not my favourite person at the moment, Inspector. That flat was heaving. I’m sure I’ve got fleas or something.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that, Toadstone, but it needed doing. On that, have you sifted through all that paper yet and summarised it for me?’
‘You’ve obviously not picked up your emails yet?’
‘I’ve been rather busy this morning. Listen, I’m at Redbridge Council and there’s a team of forensic accountants on their way here.’
‘Yeah, I heard you’d requested the ‘A’ team… ‘A’ Accountants.’
‘Very droll. Well, as I was saying, the Finance Director committed suicide earlier, but before he departed the world he deleted the live accounts and all the backups. Have you got anyone there that can recover deleted data?’
‘Pocahontas.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘That’s her online ID. She thinks she’s the reincarnation of a virgin Indian princess called Pocahontas. Personally, I have my doubts.’
‘Whether she’s a virgin, or an Indian princess?’
Toadstone chuckled. ‘Both.’
‘I can imagine. Is she available now?’
‘Just a mo…’ The phone went quiet for about a minute, ‘Yeah. She’s on her way. Should be there in about thirty minutes.’
‘Thanks Toadstone, and for the email.’
‘I won’t say it was a pleasure, but hey, that’s what I’m here for. Oh, and while I’ve got your attention, I’ve sent you an email about the security disc from the Flint murder. You wanted us to magic up a face. Our techie did what he could, but the face is completely in shadow. Seems your killer knew what he was doing.’
‘Another dead end. Thank your techie for trying anyway.’
‘Will do.’
Parish disconnected the call. He’d thought for a long time that people in forensics were educated idiots, but maybe he was being unkind. He went back into the office and interrupted a conversation about shoes.
‘Susan, I’ve got someone from our forensics department, who specialises in recovering deleted data from hard drives, coming over.’ He realised then that he’d forgotten to ask Toadstone what Pocahontas’ proper name was. ‘Because she works for the government on top secret missions, she’s only known as Pocahontas.’
‘Really?’ Richards said.
‘No, I just don’t know what her real name is.’
Susan picked up her phone. ‘I’ll let reception know to expect an American Indian in a dress then, Inspector.’
‘Good idea. I would also suggest you stop people from trying to use the financial software, if there’s anything left of it.’
She made the phone call to reception, and then stood u
p.
‘While you’re out there, can I access my email account on your computer?’
‘Of course.’
‘He sat in her warm seat, logged on to Yahoo and his email account. He had forty-three new emails, but was only interested in Toadstone’s analysis of Brian Ridpath’s paperwork. He printed two copies off and gave one to Richards.
Chapter Sixteen
‘I’ve never heard of Beech Tree Orphanage,’ Richards said.
Toadstone had been efficient. The papers in Brian Ridpath’s flat contained 70% junk mail and 30% other. A summary of the ‘other’ paperwork was mostly about financial matters. It seemed that not only did he have £130,000 in the bank, but he also had savings of £50,000 in the form of a building society account, and within the papers themselves £20,000 in cash. There was a letter from a cousin in Australia asking him if he wanted to be a partner in a sheep ranch and the deeds to a detached house in Surrey that had been left to him by a childless sister two years ago. Hidden amongst all the paper was one mention of a place called Beech Tree Orphanage. Reference to the orphanage was contained in a letter addressed to Mr Ridpath from a Mr Henry Easterby of the council asking him if he would like to claim personal items from his locker in the caretaker’s lodge before they were disposed of.
‘I haven’t either, but it would seem that despite efforts to keep it from us, we’ve found Mr Ridpath’s place of employment.’
Susan Tollhurst returned to her office. ‘I’ve sent the finance staff home until tomorrow morning. If forensic accountants are going to take possession of the paper records, and the computer records are under repair, then there’s no point in keeping them here. I’ll stay, though, to answer any questions the accountants might have.’
‘Have you ever heard of Beech Tree Orphanage?’ Parish asked her.
‘No. You might want to try Social Services on the third floor. They would probably have some record of it.’
Yes, of course, Parish thought, Diane Flint. ‘What about Henry Easterby?’
‘I think he was an administrator in Social Services, but he died years ago.’
They waited until the accountants breezed in like removal men and began putting the files into large boxes for transportation to a secret destination. Then an anorexic looking girl, dressed like a Siberian deportee in a fur hat and coat and with the complexion of an ice maiden, appeared in the door to Susan’s office.
‘Where do you want me?’ she said, to no one in particular.
‘Pocahontas?’ Parish guessed.
‘I suppose.’
Susan Tollhurst took charge. ‘Do you want something to eat first?’
‘Got any chips?’
‘We can get some.’
‘And bread, and ketchup, and beef and onion pie?’
‘I’ll arrange…’
‘And chocolate cake, and coke – not that diet crap though – and…’
Parish stood up. ‘Come on, Richards. We’re no longer needed here.’
They left the forensic accountants putting files in boxes and Susan Tollhurst taking Pocahontas’ food order like a waitress in a café.
‘Whose day are we going to wreck now, Sir?’
Parish grinned. ‘Good one, Richards.’ He looked at his watch. It was eleven twenty. ‘I need to go back to the station to update the Chief, but first we should go and take a look in Martin Squires’ office to see if there’s anything in there that will give us some answers. We’ll find out where he lives, help ourselves to his house keys and have a look in his house later this afternoon. After we’ve been up to Squires’ office we’ll go and see someone in Social Services about Beech Tree Orphanage, and then we can get some food before I die of starvation.’
‘Are we allowed to take Mr Squires’ keys and search his house without a search warrant?’
‘You asked me the same thing about Brian Ridpath’s flat. Martin Squires isn’t here to complain is he?’
‘No, but Brian Ridpath was an old drunk and Martin Squires was a Director of Finance.’
‘Are you suggesting that the rich and the poor should be treated differently, Richards? Have you abandoned your policy of fairness for all already?’
‘I was thinking that we’re more likely to get found out going into Squires’ house without permission than Ridpath’s dirty flat.’
‘When we get to Squires’ house we will, of course, knock on the door and request access, if he has a wife or a partner. If he doesn’t, we’ll use the key and rummage around in what was once his life to try and find out why he killed himself and why he destroyed the council’s financial data.’
‘You’re the Inspector.’
‘Yes I am, and don’t you forget it. Now let’s go up and search Squires’ office. The sooner we do what we have to do, the sooner I can eat. My stomach thinks you’ve put me on a diet.’
They stepped into the lift and Richards pressed the button for the sixth floor.
‘You need a good woman who will give you wholesome balanced meals. Have I mentioned that my mum is a good cook?’
‘Will you stop trying to fix me up with your mum, and stay away from my diet.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘You’re trying to change me. Stop it.’
‘Sorry.’
The hairy Mrs Deirdre Wilson was sitting at her desk, staring into space.
‘Are you sure you should be here, Mrs Wilson?’ Richards said, putting an arm around her shoulders.
‘I’m not sure of anything anymore, dear.’ Tears burst from her eyes and dripped onto the desk. ‘Why did he do it? I know he was a difficult man to work for, but he could be lovely sometimes. I just don’t understand. First Mrs Flint and now Mr Squires. We’ve all been cursed, haven’t we? I know some of the council staff are organising a séance after work to try and expunge the evil spirits from the building. There’s a secretary on the second floor who has had some experience of fighting the forces of darkness.’
Richards looked at Parish, who screwed up his eyes. ‘I think you’re in shock, Mrs Wilson,’ Richards said. ‘You should go home until you’re fully recovered.’
‘Before you go,’ Parish said. ‘Was Mr Squires married?’
‘No, he said he was too selfish to share his life with someone else. I would have married him if he’d asked.’
Richards and Parish looked at each other. ‘Do you have his home address?’ Parish said.
‘Yes, but… Oh, he’s dead, isn’t he? He won’t mind now if I give you his address.’
Richards made soothing sounds as Mrs Wilson pulled out an address book from her bag and wrote down: 5, Willow Close, Abridge.
‘I went there once, you know, to drop off some papers. He has a lovely thatched cottage. It backs onto the River Roding. He said he liked how it was so secluded. He also used to fly for a hobby, and it’s close to Stapleford Aerodrome where he kept his plane.’
‘You go home now,’ Richards said in her melting chocolate voice. ‘You need time to grieve.’
‘Yes, thank you dear. Now that Martin’s gone, there’s nothing left for me here.’
Richards went with Mrs Wilson to the lift.
‘I thought we were never going to get rid of her,’ Parish said when Richards came back. ‘And you didn’t help matters by acting like a bereavement counsellor.’
‘That’s not very nice. She was just upset.’
Parish let himself into Martin Squires’ office. ‘I’m not very nice, especially when I have multiple murders to solve. You take the left, I’ll take the right, and we’ll meet in the middle.’
They began searching the office. Parish went straight to Squires’ jacket hung up behind the door. In the pockets he found Squires’ keys and wallet, some change and a pen. He put the keys in his own pocket and then went and sat in Martin Squires’ chair. He emptied the contents of the wallet onto the desk: there was two hundred and fifty pounds in cash; membership cards for the Institute of Chartered Accountants, the Chartered Institute of Taxation, a
nd Local Government Finance Professionals (Finpro); a mobile top-up card, a Visa card and an American Express card; a photograph of a young boy with the name Billy written on the back; an NHS card and one of the old paper driving licences that had seen better days.
Next, he felt in the pockets of the overcoat, but found nothing of interest. Then he picked up the briefcase, but it had two combination locks. There was a letter opener on the desk, which he used to prise them open.
‘Well, well,’ Parish said.
Richards stopped searching the books in the bookcase and turned to look at him. ‘What?’
‘Ridpath’s file,’ he said, holding it up. ‘I had the feeling Squires had taken it when I first saw him this morning. It also proves that Martin Squires knew about the money being paid to Brian Ridpath, and that there’s a lot more to this than £2,000 a month.’
‘What does the file say?’
Parish held the file up to his ear. ‘It says we’re still searching, and that it is happy to wait until we’ve finished what we’re doing.’
‘My mum says that men aren’t very good at multi-tasking.’
‘I think I could manage to sack you while I’m searching, Richards.’
She smiled. ‘I think you’d find that very difficult, Sir.’
Inside the briefcase he also found Martin Squires’ diary, which he put on top of Ridpath’s file. He would need time to examine both items properly.
Parish rifled through Squires’ desk drawers, but found nothing else of interest, and Richards came up empty-handed as well.
‘Right, let’s go down to the Social Services department and see what they can tell us.’
‘Do you want me to carry Ridpath’s file and Mr Squires’ diary?’
‘You must think I’m stupid. I know you want to read them while we’re travelling down in the lift to Social Services, and thus prove your mum right. I’ll carry them, thank you.’
***
The Social Services department was on the third floor. A receptionist, visible through a small bullet-proof window, said they could come in and speak to the agency manager, Mr Tom Walters. She buzzed them in. Yes, they’d heard rumours of Beech Tree Orphanage, but no one knew if it still existed or where it was. Someone had heard talk that it had been demolished and turned into a multi-storey car park, a shopping mall and a theme park, even though there were no theme parks in the local area.