Dead and Gone

by Bill Kitson

  ‘I see what you mean. It does seem out of character.’

  ‘Perhaps they were from different years,’ Pearce suggested.

  Clara walked across and glanced at the statements. ‘No, that isn’t it. Some of these are from around the same time as the ones in his study. So why separate them?’

  She began turning the statements over, examining them one by one. As she was looking at them, Nash’s mobile rang. He identified himself and listened to the caller, eventually saying, ‘Thanks for that, will you email the exact details to me?’

  He ended the call. ‘That was forensics. They’ve got a result from the writing on the blotter. Apparently there was one word, written several times, and below it a short phrase. The word was the name “Sam” and the phrase was, “Must find Sam”, although who Sam is, and why Ormondroyd was trying to find him, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Perhaps this bloke Sam is the killer,’ Viv suggested. ‘Maybe he found Ormondroyd before Ormondroyd could find him.’

  ‘Nip down and ask Mrs Lane if she knows who Sam is, or if the name means anything to her. She might have heard Ormondroyd talking about him.’

  Pearce was away several minutes. ‘She was on the phone to the Law Society,’ he explained. ‘They’re going to appoint someone to supervise the winding-up of the business. She doesn’t know of anyone called Sam, and certainly never heard Ormondroyd refer to him. She can think of no reason why he would have the name scrawled on his pad.’

  Mironova returned to her study of the credit card statements. ‘I don’t know if this means anything,’ she told Nash, ‘but I have spotted one difference between these statements and the ones at his house.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘All these have had the whole balance paid off, whereas the ones at his house were obviously covering times when cash flow was at its worst, because he only paid off the minimum amount. I guess he wouldn’t want to leave them here, in case Mrs Lane or a client caught sight of them, and jumped to the worst possible conclusion.’

  ‘That sounds logical, and I suppose that means it’s another dead end. Back to work, then.’

  As Clara reached the final statement, the one covering the previous month’s transactions, she noticed another sheet of paper. She turned it over, and found it was an invoice. ‘I wonder what this is about?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘It’s an invoice from a company called In Confidence.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘It doesn’t specify. It just states “to services rendered”. There’s no indication of what those services were.’

  ‘Give me their phone number and the invoice number and I’ll ask them.’

  ‘That’s another odd thing. There is no phone number on the invoice. In fact there isn’t even an address. I thought you had to put the address on invoices.’

  ‘I think you do. Without that, where would you send payment? This all looks very strange.’ Nash inspected the invoice. ‘Whatever they did for Ormondroyd, it was quite expensive. £500 plus VAT can buy you an awful lot, even these days. And the other intriguing part is that the invoice is addressed to Ormondroyd personally, so this was a private transaction rather than a business one.’

  ‘Do me a favour, Viv, get hold of Tom Pratt and ask him to try and locate this In Confidence firm. I want to know who they are, where they are, and what they did for Ormondroyd.’

  The detectives could find nothing else remotely pertinent to their inquiry, but when Nash returned the keys to Mrs Lane, he warned her that they might want to conduct a further search, and that she should ensure that neither she nor the locum solicitor removed anything from the room.

  It was much later, as Nash was preparing his evening meal, that he remembered something they had missed. He picked up his mobile and phoned Mironova to check his facts. ‘Remember that electrical lead Viv found at Ormondroyd’s house? I didn’t spot a laptop in his office, did you? So, where is it? Mrs Lane says she couldn’t face going into his office, so I don’t think she took it for safe keeping, which leaves only one other possibility.’

  ‘Won’t SOCO have taken it?’

  ‘There was nothing on the list they sent me.’

  ‘So you think the killer might have removed it and the B.I.G. file after he murdered Ormondroyd?’

  ‘I don’t know. All we have at present is speculation. A few hard facts would be a real step forward.’

  chapter thirteen

  Pearce had left in his second attempt to discover the owner of Ivy Cottage. Nash turned to Mironova. ‘Busy?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really, why?’

  ‘Grab a couple of coffees and come into my office. I’ve had a wild idea, and I want you to tell me it’s nonsense.’

  As Nash finished expounding his theory, his phone rang. ‘Yes, Professor?’

  ‘Ormondroyd was garrotted, in the same way as the woman found in the workshop. In other words, such a level of violence was used that he was almost decapitated.’

  ‘You think the same person killed them both?’

  ‘I can’t say that for certain, but it is possible. I should remind you that my work ends when I establish the cause of death. Identifying the killer is down to you. I believe that is what you’re paid for.’

  Immediately after Ramirez had ended the call, Nash’s phone rang again. He listened for a few moments, and then said, ‘Thanks, Viv. Collect all that information and take it through to Netherdale. Get Tom Pratt to help you collate it.’ Nash put the phone down and turned his attention back to Clara, who had been thinking about his wild idea.

  ‘I don’t believe your theory’s likely; all the evidence points the other way,’ she said.

  ‘I’d almost convinced myself of that until Viv’s call just now. He’s found out who owns the cottage at Gorton.’ He explained and saw Clara’s surprised expression.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s only one way to get confirmation for my theory, and that depends on the DNA results from the skeleton. Once they’re available, we’ll have to pay one or two visits. The one to the Macaulay family in particular should be interesting, to put it mildly.’

  ‘What shall we do whilst we’re waiting? We can hardly sit around twiddling our thumbs.’

  ‘I think we should return to Ormondroyd’s office. There’s another file which I hope hasn’t been removed; one that I particularly want to look through.’

  ‘Which one is that?’

  ‘Wilson Macaulay Industries. I’d also like to take a look at Duncan Macaulay’s will. If Ormondroyd and his father handled the Macaulays’ legal affairs, I feel sure there will be a copy of it in the office. Failing that, it should be on public record. With the amount of wealth swilling about in that family, it would have to go for probate.’

  ‘Why do you want to look at the will? Old man Macaulay must have been dead a fair while, going by what Tom told us. The will and its provisions will be ancient history by now, surely?’

  ‘Think about it, Clara. Tom said he thought Peter Macaulay’s sister went to America years ago, to study at university. She was the granddaughter of one of the richest men in the county. It seems inconceivable that he didn’t leave her a sizeable chunk of his fortune, plus in all probability a block of shares in the family business.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll go along with that, but he may not have left her anything. I still don’t see where you’re heading with it.’

  ‘So, where is she? Did she come back to claim her inheritance? Did she demand the money she was entitled to? If her return and that demand occurred shortly after the Bishopton Investments crash, her father, Christopher Macaulay, might not have been in a position to pay her.’

  ‘You don’t think he…? That’s a wild theory, even for you, Mike.’

  ‘Exactly what I thought – until Viv told me that Ivy Cottage has been owned by Macaulay Property Holdings for the past fifteen years. Who’s to say that one or other of the Macaulay clan didn’t kill her and bur
y her in the workshop, confident that as long as they owned the property her last resting place would remain undisturbed?’

  ‘Put like that, it doesn’t seem quite as wild, but what about your other candidate?’

  ‘Linda Wilson? You’ve more or less ruled that out. According to what we know, Linda was spotted on CCTV boarding the cross-Channel ferry in Hull, and later booked into hotels in Amsterdam and Paris. To do that she would have had to produce her passport, and police at the time checked the passport number recorded by the hotels, and that was a match. Likewise with the Cayman Islands. She was there at the time the missing millions were withdrawn from the bank there. She could hardly have done that if she was under six inches of concrete in Gorton village.’

  ‘Which of your two theories do you prefer?’

  Nash sighed. ‘Neither of them, I suppose. Far more likely that someone bumped off his wife or partner during their holiday, panicked and buried her in the workshop, covered her in concrete and pulled the workbench into the middle of the room. They’ve probably been sweating on the possibility of discovery for years, and the recent events will have sent their fear into hyperdrive.’

  ‘The other possibilities still need checking out.’

  ‘I agree, if only to discount them. By the way, Tom Pratt rang me yesterday afternoon. He’s remembered the Macaulay girl’s name. She’s called Susan, he thinks. I did a Google search of the Ivy League universities and amongst all the others, I found a Susan Macaulay who was a student at Princeton around the right date, but for some reason, the entry had a tag on it that read “All biographical detail withheld” – whatever that means.’

  ‘Maybe her family didn’t want her traced back to the UK, or having her old college friends turning up here looking for her and asking awkward questions.’

  ‘That might be the reason, but what I find far more suspicious is why nobody from the Macaulay organization has contacted us after the horrific events that took place in one of their properties. You’d have thought they’d show some level of concern, unless they have something to hide. Especially later when the other body was discovered. To be honest, it’s only their failure to get in touch with us that keeps my wild theory alive.’

  ‘Do you intend to confront them?’

  ‘I certainly mean to ask them for DNA samples, purely for elimination purposes. And I want you along with me when I do, because I can’t watch two people at once, and I’m particularly anxious to see the reaction of Peter Macaulay and his father when I make that request.’

  Their second, more focused, search of Ormondroyd’s office yielded little of value to begin with. The Wilson Macaulay folder in Neil Ormondroyd’s office contained only a couple of letters, including a curt note from Christopher Macaulay, requesting that their files be transferred to Potter and Co. of Helmsdale. ‘Macaulay was really putting the boot in by the look of it; obviously blamed Ormondroyd for the Bishopton Investment thing.’

  ‘Maybe it was more personal than that. Perhaps your theory about Naomi’s parentage is correct.’

  Nash gestured to the folder. ‘There must be more than this. Even though the legal work was transferred, Ormondroyd would have had to keep copies of anything the firm had done for Macaulay in the past. So, where is it? I hope that hasn’t been removed as well.’

  ‘I’ll ask Mrs Lane.’

  Clara returned and held up a key. ‘She said they may be in old Mr Ormondroyd’s office, the one across the landing. We only took a quick look inside the room, because it had obviously not been used for years.’

  ‘I don’t suppose by any chance the Bishopton Investment file is there as well.’

  ‘No, when I asked Mrs Lane, she said that one was definitely in this room.’

  There were several Macaulay family files. In the first of these, Clara found a document headed Deed of Trust. She scanned it briefly. You were right,’ she told Nash. ‘This is a codicil to Duncan Macaulay’s will appointing trustees on behalf of the girl. And here is the will itself. In it there is a major bequest to his granddaughter, Susan Arabella. He did leave her a stack of money and shares. In fact’ – Clara continued reading – ‘although he left money and shares to her and Peter, he seems to have ignored his son, Christopher, altogether.’

  ‘How much did he leave Susan?’

  ‘There was a thirty per cent stake in Wilson Macaulay Industries, plus a cash sum of half a million. Peter got twenty per cent and £250,000.’

  Nash whistled. ‘Well worth killing for. I’ve known less compelling motives for murder.’

  Clara continued examining the folder’s contents. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘I think this blows your theory out of the water. The trust was set up when the girl was nineteen years old. This document,’ she held up another sheet of paper, ‘revokes some of the terms of the first one.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A deed of transfer of some sort.’ Clara began to read. ‘“The trustees hereby transfer the shareholding of thirty per cent of the ordinary share capital of Wilson Macaulay Industries Ltd, a company registered in the United Kingdom”, and then it gives the registration number and address of the registered office, “in equal parts, to Christopher James Macaulay and Peter Louis Macaulay. We hereby also relinquish the trust’s interest in the sum of £500,000 being the amount bequeathed in the terms of the will of Duncan Macaulay, deceased, by the mutual consent of all parties.” I think that might explain why she didn’t return to claim her inheritance. It no longer existed.’

  ‘It all sounds very dodgy to me. I don’t think a court would look too kindly on the trustees making such big decisions on behalf of a young girl without some very convincing reason. I also think that if she felt aggrieved and thought she’d been swindled out of her inheritance, she might well have come back to England and threatened the family with exposure. A court case, their name being dragged through the mud, would be the sort of things the strait-laced Macaulay family would have hated. Silencing her because of the trouble she might have caused could be an even stronger motive for killing her than to avoid having to pay up.’

  Nash signalled to Mironova that she should join him and told Pearce, ‘Clara and I are going out. See if you can get hold of Dean Wilson. Check if he’s going to be at home today. We’ll call around lunchtime, if that’s convenient.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Visiting Wilson Macaulay Industries.’

  ‘Have you made an appointment?’ Clara asked as they walked across the car park.

  ‘Certainly not. I don’t want either Peter Macaulay or his father forewarned about our visit. I want to gauge their genuine reaction to our questions, not some blank poker face they’ve learned to put on.’

  The receptionist in the foyer was about as unhelpful as she could be, leaving Clara to wonder if the act was part of her training. She admitted that Peter Macaulay was in. That was from necessity, as the Mercedes bearing his personalized registration number was parked directly outside the glass-fronted building. However, the woman told Nash, ‘Both Mr Christopher and Mr Peter gave strict instructions that they were not to be disturbed at all today. I suggest you phone for an appointment sometime next week.’

  Clara waited; her sympathies marginally on the side of the receptionist, who had clearly not had to deal with anyone like Nash before.

  He smiled sweetly at the woman. ‘That’s a very great shame. We’ve travelled from Helmsdale specially to talk to them. Now, I’m going to have to go back and prepare arrest warrants. I shall need your full name and home address to put on one of them.’

  As he spoke, Nash reached into his pocket and took out his Sheaffer pen and pocketbook. He waited, looking at the receptionist expectantly.

  ‘My name and address? Why do you need them?’ The receptionist looked alarmed.

  ‘The warrant.’ Nash’s smile turned into a wolfish grin. ‘For obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.’

  The bluff worked, to the extent that the receptionist asked them to take a
seat in the waiting area, saying, ‘I’ll see what I can do. I may be able to get a word with Mr Peter, if he’s not too busy.’

  ‘I do hope so, all this paperwork is such a nuisance.’

  The receptionist disappeared upstairs at haste. As they waited for the woman to reappear, they were joined in the open-plan seating area by several visitors, some of whom were carrying sample cases. Clara guessed these to be salesmen hoping for orders from the prestigious group. She wondered if the buyers set aside specific days and times to see representatives. The receptionist returned. ‘Diane Carlson, the finance director, is with Mr Peter at the moment. He will see you when they’ve finished if you’d care to wait.’

  Some fifteen minutes later, a young woman appeared. ‘Mr Nash?’ she asked.

  Nash’s voice echoed round the glass walls. Clara noticed that he was speaking much louder than normal. ‘Detective Inspector Nash, Helmsdale CID,’ he corrected her.

  ‘I’m Mr Peter’s secretary. What is the reason for your visit?’

  ‘We need to speak to both Christopher and Peter Macaulay about the bodies of a family found in one of your company’s properties. And also about the human remains under the floor of the garage to that property – another murder victim.’

  Clara saw that one or two of the visitors were staring at them, curiosity and alarm in their expressions. She turned abruptly and stared out into the car park, biting her lip to avoid laughing aloud.

  Within minutes, the secretary ushered them into a well-appointed office on the first floor. ‘Do you want me to stay and take notes, Mr Peter?’ she asked.

  Peter Macaulay, the sole occupant, rose from behind the large desk and shook hands as Nash introduced himself and Mironova. ‘No, thank you, that will be all.’

  Macaulay was still in the act of sitting down when Nash asked abruptly, ‘Where is your sister?’

  Macaulay sat down heavily. He glanced to his right, clearly alarmed by the question. Nash repeated it, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket as he spoke. He continued, ‘We know she studied at Princeton University but we’ve been unable to find any trace of her since then.’