by Bill Kitson
‘I’ve no idea where Susan is.’ Macaulay’s reply was barely audible, in contrast to the strong statement which came from the connecting doorway to the adjoining room.
‘Why do you want to know about my daughter?’
The detectives glanced to their left, from where the interruption had come. Standing in the doorway was an elderly, powerfully built man with steel-grey hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck. He was leaning on a walking stick for support, and Clara noticed that the hand grasping the stick trembled from time to time. Parkinson’s disease, she wondered.
The man looked like an older version of Peter Macaulay. Despite his age, his voice was strong, his tone the sort that defies contradiction.
Nash opted for shock tactics. ‘What I’d really like to know is whether it was you, your son, or the pair of you acting together, who murdered your daughter and buried her beneath a slab of concrete at Ivy Cottage?’
Both father and son were clearly shocked and horrified by the allegation. Christopher recovered first, albeit marginally, and his voice was much less hectoring when he replied. ‘We were obviously sad to learn of such dreadful things happening in one of our properties, but I fail to see how we can help. I was given to understand that the victims were killed by the father, who had become deranged. Is that not true?’
‘The family certainly were,’ Nash told them. ‘However, we have not thus far identified the remains found buried under concrete in the garage. We believe the victim had been placed there several years ago, certainly during the time you’ve owned the property. I am curious as to why you failed to contact us in the light of events at one of the properties belonging to your company. That would have been the natural thing to do, especially given the horrific nature of what happened to the family. Or, could it have been that you were hoping that during our investigation the presence of another body would remain unnoticed?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. It was nothing of the sort,’ the old man snapped angrily. ‘We were unaware that the property was one of ours until a few days ago, by which time it was far too late.’
‘You didn’t know that you owned Ivy Cottage? That’s not exactly a very good way to run a business, is it?’
‘The cottage is part of a portfolio of more than fifty such houses that are owned by one of our subsidiary companies, Macaulay Property Holdings. Neither of us has any involvement in the management of that company. Our finance director, Ms Carlson, oversees the portfolio, and the lettings agency we employ see to the day-to-day affairs of the houses, maintenance, that sort of thing. Ms Carlson was abroad when the bodies were found. As soon as she returned, she informed us, but as I said, things had all moved on by then, and we believed everything had been cleared up.’
‘So you can’t help us with the identity of the woman in the workshop,’ Nash spoke softly, as if thinking aloud, ‘which means that you can’t either confirm or deny categorically whether the remains are those of your daughter,’ he paused, ‘or of Linda Wilson.’
For a moment, Clara thought that Christopher Macaulay was about to collapse. He swayed like a boxer who has taken a heavy punch, his hand reached for the wall to steady himself, but then recovered sufficiently to reply. His voice, however, had lost all its previous strength and bluster. ‘As I said earlier, Inspector Nash, we can’t help you. We have no idea who the woman is, but I very much doubt if it is either of those you have mentioned.’
‘If you have no idea where either your daughter or Linda Wilson is, you can’t confirm whether they’re alive or dead, is that correct?’
‘It is.’
‘You don’t seem very good at keeping track of the women around you, do you? As you can’t help us eliminate either possibility, I’d like a DNA sample from both of you. If we fail to get a familial match, that will confirm that your daughter may still be alive, which I feel sure will please you immensely.’
Even Clara winced at the biting sarcasm in Nash’s voice. She thought the demand would be impossible to refuse, but Christopher was made of sterner stuff.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector Nash,’ Macaulay said after a while, ‘that isn’t going to happen. You have to accept our assurance that the unfortunate woman is not my daughter.’
They were pulling out of the car park when Clara’s mobile bleeped. She read the text from Pearce. ‘Dean Wilson’s at home until late this afternoon,’ she reported.
‘OK, we’ll head there now.’
Driving towards Helmsdale, Nash asked Clara what she thought about the men they had just interviewed.
‘Giving my opinion of Christopher Macaulay would involve use of language I’d prefer to avoid, and you wouldn’t want to hear,’ Clara said.
Nash laughed. ‘I don’t shock that easily, but he doesn’t exactly go out of his way to charm people, does he? What about Peter Macaulay, apart from his obvious nervousness?’
‘Difficult to say; he never uttered a word whilst his father was in the room.’
‘I noticed that and it intrigued me. Maybe he’s another that Christopher has cowed into submission.’
‘He looked appalled by your suggestion that his sister might be the workshop woman; appalled or terrified. Apart from that, I thought he was a bit pathetic.’
‘There was an expression on Christopher Macaulay’s face that I can only describe as shifty when I mentioned his daughter, and Peter looked positively sick with fear or guilt, I’m not sure which. I don’t know what went on in that family, but if I had to guess, it’s all to do with Duncan Macaulay’s will and the revoking of the trust. Christopher Macaulay must have been mortified at being completely ignored in his father’s will. Whether there’s something even more sinister than possibly cheating his daughter that we haven’t discovered yet, only time will tell.’
chapter fourteen
After what Naomi had done for him, Dean Wilson began to entertain a wild idea that perhaps she would agree to a date, that she might even consider seeing him on a regular basis. As often as he thought of it, he dismissed the notion. Naomi had merely been kind, as he guessed was part of her nature. What use would a bright, intelligent and pretty young girl have for someone like him? A girl who was university-educated, from a wealthy family, consorting with a mere squaddie? And one whose family name was blackened by what his sister had done. There were more preposterous ideas around, but not many. Even if Naomi had wanted to get to know him better, the knowledge of what had happened in the past would always come between them.
When his phone rang, his heart skipped a beat. To say he was disappointed to find the police were intending to visit was a huge understatement.
If their visit to Wilson Macaulay Industries had been difficult, the meeting with Dean Wilson was equally trying; but for totally different reasons. Having to explain to the young soldier that they needed to collect his DNA because his sister could be a murder victim was a daunting task. Not for the first time, Clara was thankful that it fell to Nash rather than her to explain.
‘This isn’t about you, or at least not directly,’ Nash began after Clara introduced him. ‘I want to talk about your sister.’
Clara had an odd feeling of déjà vu as Nash asked virtually the same questions as he had when meeting Peter Macaulay. And for a second time, the questions had been greeted with a guarded, defensive expression.
Apparently, Nash had also noticed it for he hastened to reassure Wilson. ‘I didn’t intend to talk about the fraud, not in the first instance, but we might as well clear one thing up. You don’t believe Linda stole that money, do you?’
‘I have never thought she did’ – Wilson’s face reflected his anger – ‘and I got into one or two scraps because of it. I’d joined my regiment by then, and although the army like their squaddies to fight, they prefer them not to fight each other, so I was lucky not to get kicked out.’
Wilson leaned forward, anxious to put his point across. ‘I know about all the evidence, the paper trail, the fact that Linda was the only one with access; the only
one with the right computer codes, and all the other stuff. The relationship with that bloke and her being seen on the continent and in the Cayman Islands; none of that tallies with my sister.
‘She was nine when I was born, and my mother died when I was seven, by which time Linda was sixteen. I didn’t realize it at the time, in fact it’s only recently that I’ve thought about it, but how many sixteen-year-olds can you think of who can be bothered with a noisy, quarrelsome, energetic seven-year-old brat? Not many, I guess. Most would be off enjoying themselves and would leave the kid to his own devices. Not so Linda, she became more of a mother to me than a sister, and after father died, even more so. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to buy this flat for us from the money she got for the sale of our parents’ house. That would have been the ideal chance for her to free herself of the responsibility of a spotty, petulant, moody teenager.’
Wilson paused, looking around him reflectively, sadness in his eyes as he checked out the familiar scene. ‘Linda furnished this place, chose the wallpaper, the lampshades, everything. She gave up her social life for me. She was really good-looking, but more than that, she was a good businesswoman and a very caring person. That’s who I remember. I don’t recognize the money-grubbing fraudster and cheat portrayed in the press.’
If Nash had been hoping for a reaction from Wilson, Clara thought he’d got it and far more besides.
‘Do you have a photo of Linda I could see?’ Nash asked.
Wilson pointed to the picture frame on the windowsill. ‘That one was taken of her with me when I joined up.’
Both detectives looked carefully at the photo. The young couple did look alike, and if Wilson was a handsome young man, his sister was an equally attractive woman. More to the point, however, their inspection of the image convinced them that Linda was the woman whose portrait was in Neil Ormondroyd’s study, and who he had taken such intimate snaps of.
‘Were you aware that she was in a relationship?’ Nash asked.
Clara noticed that Nash had made the question appear like a statement, as if they were already aware of the fact.
‘I suspected as much, and in a way that was the only explanation of Linda running away that made any sense to me. She would never have done it for the money alone; never have cheated so many people unless she was being influenced by someone else. I suppose she might just have done it because she was under the spell of some man or other – frightened of losing him. I assume you’re talking about that bloke Mark Tankard. He vanished at the same time, didn’t he?’
‘You said you suspected as much; did Linda tell you anything about the man she was seeing?’
‘No, not directly, but I knew there had to be someone. On my leave before she vanished, Linda was different. She was livelier, really light-hearted; happier than I’d seen her for years. On several occasions I heard her singing around the flat. That had never happened before.’
‘If she didn’t tell you the name of the man she was seeing, you’ve only those press reports and the coincidence of them both vanishing at the same time to believe that it was Tankard?’
‘It must have been him, surely.’ Wilson frowned. ‘Who else could it have been? If it wasn’t him, why did she run off with him?’
‘If she did,’ Nash said quietly.
There was a long silence as Wilson tried to puzzle out Nash’s last remark. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, eventually. ‘Are you suggesting she didn’t run away with Tankard after all? Do you mean that she went with someone else? If that’s the case, where’s Tankard?’
‘I’ve no idea where Tankard is. I’ve no real idea where Linda is, only a half-formed theory. What I do know beyond all doubt is that Linda was indeed seeing someone, and the man wasn’t Tankard.’
‘Who was it?’
‘A Bishopton solicitor called Neil Ormondroyd. We were fairly sure, because he had a lot of photos of Linda. We thought it was her, because of her likeness to you, but that photo proved it.’
‘Ormondroyd? Isn’t that the man who was murdered a week or so ago?’
‘Correct, and if my half-formed theory is correct, his murder might have been because of his relationship with Linda.’ Nash paused, and when he spoke again his tone was gentle, as if he was trying to soften the impact of the unpalatable suggestion he was about to make. ‘We’re also seeking to establish the identity of another murder victim. A woman whose remains were found in a workshop in Gorton.’
Wilson stared at Nash, and from Nash to Mironova, and they could see the dawning horror on his face. ‘You think that was Linda? That she was….’
‘Hold on, Dean. The only reason I believe it could be her is that our pathologist says the body was put there sometime within the last five years or thereabouts. We’re following up on anyone who went missing during that time frame. The reason we’re here is to take a DNA sample in order to eliminate Linda from our enquiries. I haven’t a shred of evidence to support my theory. For all I know, Linda could be sunning herself on a beach in South America, or living with a tribe in the Amazon rain forests, or with the Inuit people in the Arctic.’
Nash’s absurd suggestions worked, and Wilson relaxed sufficiently to smile faintly. ‘I think you can safely rule the last two out,’ he told them. ‘Linda disliked rain and positively detested snow.’
Once they had the DNA swab and left the flat, Clara asked, ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘Literally? Back to the office. With the enquiry stalled in other directions, I think you and I should request the Bishopton Investment Group file from the archives and study it in depth.’
Their study of the fraud at Bishopton Investments told them little that they did not already know, except for the mechanics of how the embezzlers had accessed funds and channelled them abroad. Nash read the pertinent paragraphs before passing the document to Mironova.
SUMMARY OF THE INVESTIGATION AT BISHOPTON INVESTMENT GROUP
The software at B.I.G. was corrupted by someone with a high level of technical skill and knowledge of the relevant computer access codes. We enlisted the help of Jonathan Farrell, chief technical and senior operations officer at Security Solutions (Helmsdale), who provide and install computer software security programs. After inspection and analysis of activity on each computer terminal, he identified the point in the LAN (Local Area Network) where the amendments that allowed the diversion of funds were input. The terminal was in finance director Linda Wilson’s office, and the login ID and password were hers. He was also able to pinpoint the date and time the changes were made, and we checked the whereabouts of the only other people within the company able to access that part of the system. They were the managing director, Peter Macaulay, who was in Birmingham at a trade exhibition held at the NEC all that week, and Linda Wilson’s assistant, Diane Carlson, who was on holiday in Spain. Our conclusion is that Linda Wilson alone had the means and opportunity to alter the software.
A copy of Farrell’s report is attached, but to précis the contents, it appears the corruption enabled the diversion of amounts ranging from ten per cent to sixty-five per cent of the profit on genuine share transactions. It also enabled funds from the sale of worthless shares sold to gullible members of the public by the salesman, Mark Tankard, to be transferred direct to the fraudsters’ accounts in the Cayman Islands. The money reached its ultimate destination via a number of different routes, passing through as many as seven different banks en route. We believe this was done to avoid arousing suspicion of money laundering activity.
With regard to the worthless shares, the companies recommended by Tankard to investors did exist. However, the share certificates were fakes, their certificate numbers relating to shares that have never been issued. B.I.G. never purchased shares in those companies, but when investors checked the share prices they were able to see the progress of their supposed investments. In line with the sophisticated nature of the rest of the fraud, dividends in respect of the phantom shareholdings were paid out from the general f
unds at B.I.G. to keep the investors happy whilst the capital was being transferred to the offshore account.
Farrell concluded his report by commenting that in his opinion the software at B.I.G. was open to the sort of abuse that happened, and he was surprised that a company handling such large amounts of money didn’t have better protection in place.
The report concluded with the investigating team’s efforts to locate Linda Wilson and Mark Tankard. It listed the CCTV footage showing Linda Wilson boarding a ferry in Hull, gave the dates, hotels and even the room numbers where she had stayed in Amsterdam and Paris, the flights she had taken to reach the Cayman Islands and confirmation that the number on the passport she had produced in each location tallied with the one issued to her by the Passport Office.
The final paragraph gave some indication of the frustration felt by the detectives investigating the case.
With regard to Mark Tankard we can find no trace of this man. All the references and identification he provided when applying for the post at Bishopton Investments were forgeries; even the National Insurance number referred to someone who had died some years previously. No photograph of him exists, and even the description provided by Peter Macaulay and Diane Carlson is less than comprehensive. Apparently, he worked from home, a rented flat in Bishopton, and was rarely seen at the company’s offices. The flat was leased from Macaulay Property Holdings, and the person who signed that lease on behalf of the company was Linda Wilson.
‘What do you make of all that?’ Nash asked Mironova when she had finished reading the report.
‘It’s fairly damning for Linda Wilson. It also doesn’t say much for the way Bishopton Investments was run. What puzzles me is how this Tankard character was able to operate with complete freedom, and even how he got to work there when all his credentials were so obviously false.’