Headline Murder

by Peter Bartram

  But it would strengthen the evidence that the original source of the funds was corrupt.

  Susan had said that nominee companies were fronts for wealthy men. She’d also said that Luxembourg lawyers didn’t have to say who owned the funds they fronted. So that would be another cut-off for Cross. If anyone ever discovered his Mulholland & Steer account, he could always claim that the funds were passing through it to Luxembourg on behalf of a business associate. It would be a thin excuse but nobody would be able to disprove it, because the Luxembourg lawyer wouldn’t be talking.

  But who were Traverser Nominees? I’d assumed they must be a front for Cross’s funds. But perhaps they weren’t. Could they belong to somebody else? Perhaps somebody that Cross was paying for unknown services rendered?

  I drummed my fingers on the desk in frustration.

  I had thought the letter would unlock the secret of the whole story. But it just seemed to have added more mysteries. There seemed to be no way in which I could penetrate the chain of secrecy that stretched from Switzerland to London to Luxembourg. But a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

  I stared at the letter harder as if there were some hidden message in its words. There wasn’t. The words were the hidden message. I shifted the pieces of the letter around on my desk like a jigsaw puzzle as though they might reveal another picture. Of course, they didn’t. They just looked like torn-up pieces of letter in the wrong order.

  And then I saw it. I thumped the edge of my desk in triumph.

  There was a hidden meaning. It was in one of the names. I summoned up my schoolboy French. The word was Traverser. It was a French verb. It meant “to go through”. But it also had a second meaning.

  “To cross”.

  Cross had used a French translation of his name as the title of his nominee company. No doubt, he thought he’d been extra clever. The obvious translation for Cross would be croix, the noun meaning “a cross” rather than the verb meaning “to cross”. The usage he’d chosen was more obscure. But not obscure enough. The man had created a complex chain of cut-offs but given himself away in the choice of name for his nominee company.

  At first, I thought it was stupidity. But Cross wasn’t a stupid man. It was arrogance. Sheer bloody-minded arrogance. He thought he was so clever that he could get away with it. That nobody could touch him. But now I knew I could. I collected the pieces of the letter and put them with the envelope in my pocket. I stood up and wove my way across the newsroom towards the door. On the way, I passed Susan making her way back to the tea room, no doubt in search of another bun.

  I seized her shoulders and planted a big kiss on her cheek. “You’re a genius,” I said.

  She grinned and her chins wobbled with delight. “Does this mean we’re engaged, honeybunch?”

  I could hear the rest of the newsroom laughing as I went through the door.

  Chapter 16

  As I drove up Dyke Road Avenue towards Cross’s house, I tried to clear my mind.

  I felt like a poker player staking all his chips on a weak hand in the hope that his opponent held even lower cards.

  I didn’t know everything. But I thought I could shock Cross into believing I knew more than I did.

  My main worry was that I wouldn’t find Cross at home. I hadn’t wanted to call ahead because I didn’t want to alert him that I’d have some awkward questions for him to answer.

  When I pulled the MGB onto his driveway, Cross was getting into his car, dressed for the office. He was wearing a grey pin-striped suit and a brown trilby hat that made him look like a bookie’s runner. I parked the MGB in front of his Humber so that he couldn’t leave. He leapt out of his car with a furious look on his face. His eyes were wide with anger. He strode towards me waving his arms about.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I took my time getting out of the MGB. Closed the door carefully. I made a big performance with my keys of locking it. He stomped up until his nose was two inches from mine. I could smell the last cigarette on his breath.

  “Get that car off my drive,” he screamed.

  “Can’t be too careful with all these crooks about, Derek,” I said.

  “Don’t you Derek me. It’s Councillor Cross to you.”

  “Councillor Cross,” I said. “Not for much longer, I suspect.”

  “I don’t care what you suspect, now get that car out of the way before I call the police.”

  “I don’t think you’ll want to do that.”

  “Don’t you. And why not?”

  “Because I want to talk to you about Beaupassin & Cie.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  He was good. I had to admit it. He responded with barely a flicker of the eyes or a change in his voice. But I’d seen the muscles tense slightly around his neck.

  I said: “I expect you’ve heard of Mulholland & Steer, the private bankers in Leadenhall Street. You have an account there.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What’s that got to do with you? I can bank where I like.”

  “True,” I said. “And you also seem to have money at a nominee company in Luxembourg. Traverser Nominees. A clever translation of ‘cross’ into French. But not quite clever enough. It points the company straight at you.”

  Now the colour had drained from Cross’s face. He had the complexion of the uncooked tripe – pale and pock-marked – my mum used to boil up for supper on Friday nights. His eyes darted from side to side. He was worried. But he was also calculating. He was wondering how much I knew. Whether it would be enough to sink him. Whether he could talk his way out.

  It was time for me to stake the pot on my final cards.

  “I know everything, Cross,” I said. “I know how Septimus Darke sent money from his Swiss bank to your account at Mulholland & Steer and how you passed it to your nominee company in Luxembourg. I’ve got evidence for the full trail. And I’m going to write a story about it. But what that story says largely depends on what you tell me.”

  Cross slumped against his car. He put his hand on the door to steady himself. His mouth worked up and down but no sounds came out. His breathing was shallow and fast. Red blotches had appeared on his neck. He looked as though he might be about to throw up. He fumbled in his pocket. Pulled out a paisley pattern handkerchief, mopped his brow, wiped his mouth. He looked like a man about to collapse. But that wouldn’t suit me. I needed more information from him. I knew enough to frighten him. Not enough to sink him. And, most important of all, not enough to write the story I had in mind.

  As these thoughts ran through my mind, the front door of the house opened and a woman stepped briskly out. Geraldine Cross was tall with a slim but shapely figure. She had blonde hair cut so that it just brushed her shoulders. She had high cheek bones and a wide mouth. In most cases, such a woman would be regarded as warm and sensual. But she had the eyes of an ice maiden. She was wearing a calf-length dress with a sort of floral pattern than involved roses and leaves. The chiffon scarf round her neck trailed behind her as she stormed across the drive.

  She marched up to Cross and said: “Why are you still here?”

  Before he had time to answer, she turned to me and said: “Who are you?”

  I said: “I’m Colin Crampton, Mrs Cross. I’m the crime correspondent of the Evening Chronicle. We’ve spoken on the telephone a couple of times.”

  She said: “Crime correspondent? Is my husband in some kind of trouble?”

  I said: “I have a few facts that I need to check with him.”

  “And what facts might they be?” she said.

  “Facts about money he’s received from Switzerland and sent to a company he owns in Luxembourg.”

  She laughed and it sounded like ice cubes tumbling into a glass. “That’s nonsense. The only thing Derek knows about that country is Radio Luxembourg. And he’s so inept with machines he can’t even tune into the station on the wireless.”

  Cross moved towards us and laid a hand on his wife’s arm. Her eyes
flashed at him as though he’d just goosed her in the middle of Brighton promenade.

  “It’s all a misunderstanding, Gerry. I can clear it up.”

  “I think you better, Derek,” she said. She brushed his hand off her arm as though it were a fly. “I hope this isn’t going to involve a woman, again. You know what the consequences will be.”

  It was time for me to take firm control. If I didn’t get a grip, the situation was going to degenerate into a domestic spat.

  I said: “Would it be possible to talk about this indoors?”

  The Crosses looked at me as though I’d just suggested setting fire to the house and roasting a few chestnuts in the flames.

  I noticed a furtive movement in the next-door garden. So I added in a loud voice: “I’m sure the neighbours aren’t interested in listening to what we have to say about these very personal matters.”

  As if on cue, the woman’s head I’d just glimpsed popped up over a hedge and said: “Morning, Gerry. Morning, Derek. Everything all right?”

  Gerry said: “Perfectly, Mrs Turnbull.”

  Under her breath, she muttered: “Nosy old cow.”

  Like a troop commander, Geraldine commanded: “Derek, lock the car and bring your briefcase inside.”

  Derek did as he was told. We trooped into the house.

  The hall was an impressive room with a polished wooden floor. There were oak doors off to other rooms and a curving staircase with a carved wooden pineapple on top of the newel post. An old-fashioned barometer hung on the wall. I gave it a tap as I passed. The pressure fell. There was an elephant’s-foot umbrella stand in the corner. I thought: Somewhere in Africa a three-legged elephant is hobbling around just so the Crosses have a handy place for their brollies. Of course, it was a ridiculous idea but this story was taking some bizarre turns.

  Gerry led our little procession – Derek second, me bringing up the rear – though the hall and into a long sitting room. This room was a clash of his and her tastes. I reckoned she’d contributed the chintzy sofas and chairs and the Louis Quinze-style occasional tables and cabinets. He’d contributed the tubular steel and glass bar at the end of the room. I had a good look as I walked past. It was well stocked with single malt whiskies and the kind of exotic liqueurs in primary colours that nobody ever seems to drink.

  We sat down. I chose an armchair. Cross sat on the sofa. Gerry made a point of choosing a winged chair so she didn’t have to sit next to him.

  A high-pitched voice said: “Silly bugger.”

  I looked round. A cage with a blue budgerigar hung in the corner of the room.

  “Bertie,” Derek said. “Our pride and joy.”

  “Your pride a joy,” Gerry said.

  “I’ve taught him to speak,” Derek said.

  “Inane profanities,” Gerry said.

  “Silly bugger.”

  Bertie set to work sharpening his beak on a cuttlefish bone. I turned back from the budgie and got their attention by pulling out my notebook and licking the tip of my pencil. A little of the colour had returned to Cross’s face. I was pleased. I didn’t want him falling to pieces before I’d drained him of useful information.

  He said: “Gerry dear, I’m sure Mr Crampton won’t want to bother you with this, so please don’t let us hold you up if you were planning to go shopping.”

  She said: “I think I’ll wait and hear what this money from Switzerland that now appears to be in Luxembourg is all about before I go shopping. It might change my view about how much I can afford to spend.”

  Cross said: “I need a drink.” He got up and walked over to the bar, poured himself three fingers of scotch. He didn’t offer me one. He took a large slug of the drink and came back to his seat.

  He said: “I think I can provide a perfectly satisfactory explanation about these financial movements.”

  Gerry said: “This I’ve got to hear.”

  I said: “I’m listening.”

  “Silly bugger.”

  Cross said: “If you’d give me a week or two, I’ll get my accountant to prepare some information for you.”

  “I’ve got a deadline to meet. That won’t satisfy me,” I said.

  “Nor me,” Gerry added.

  I said: “I’m going to write this story anyway. Best you give me your spin on events before I do.”

  Cross slumped back on his seat. He spoke in a whisper: “You’re right that the payment was from Septimus Darke. It was a consultancy fee for property advice I’ve provided on his proposed casino development.”

  “Speak up,” Gerry commanded.

  “Silly bugger.”

  “What sort of advice?” I said.

  “Advice about possible sites, planning regulations. That sort of thing.”

  “And you didn’t think that created a conflict of interest with your post as chairman of the Planning Committee?”

  He said: “I adopt the highest standards of professional probity in everything I do.”

  I said: “But that doesn’t include declaring a financial interest in the project at the Planning Committee. That’s a criminal offence.”

  “Surely not that harsh. A mere administrative oversight.”

  “Silly bugger.”

  Cross drank another slug of his scotch.

  “Tell me why you sent the money to Luxembourg,” I said.

  “I’d like to know that as well,” Gerry said.

  “I thought it would be useful to build a fund of money which I could use to develop my business interests on the continent.”

  “And which you’ve kept hidden from me,” Gerry said.

  “And which you haven’t declared to the Inland Revenue,” I said. “Was that another administrative oversight?”

  “I’ll speak to my accountant about it today,” Cross said.

  “How long have you had this Luxembourg account?” Gerry said.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “No, tell me now.”

  Cross looked at his glass. Realised he’d drunk the whisky. Thought about getting another, glanced at Gerry, decided against.

  “Four years,” he said.

  “And how much money is in it?” I asked.

  “That’s my business.”

  “It won’t be when the Inland Revenue prosecute you for tax evasion.”

  “I want to know as well,” Gerry said.

  Cross pulled out the paisley handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

  “Silly bugger.”

  “Just over twenty-three thousand pounds,” Cross said.

  I said: “Has all of that money come from Darke?”

  “Most of it.”

  “Most?”

  “All of it.”

  Cross decided he needed another drink. He started to get up.

  “Sit down,” Gerry said. Her voice had a crack like a riding crop. “You don’t need more whisky.”

  “So what has Darke been paying you for?” I asked.

  “I’ve been advising him on his property interests for nearly four years.”

  “Without once declaring your conflict of interest to the council.”

  “No.”

  I said: “Did you advise Darke that the Krazy Kat site could be suitable for a casino?”

  “I might have done.”

  “Did you or didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you aware that Arnold Trumper had turned down Darke’s offer to buy the property?”

  “Yes.”

  “Arnold Trumper has disappeared. Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “I think you do.”

  “I don’t. I swear it.”

  “Silly bugger.”

  “You know that Trumper’s assistant has been murdered?”

  Cross’s hand flew to his mouth. For a minute I thought he was going to throw up.

  “Don’t dare be sick on the shag pile,” Gerry commanded.

  Cross swallowed hard.

  “Darke will inevitably be a suspect,�
� I said. “You understand now why your dealings with Darke won’t look good in the eyes of the police.”

  I hardly heard his whispered reply. “Police?”

  I closed my notebook. “Well, no doubt the police will ask you how much you knew about Darke’s business affairs.”

  “Affairs?”

  “I can imagine they’ll be round here to interview you like whippets after a hare when they’ve read my article. They’ll want to talk to you about corruption. If Darke has intimidated Trumper – or worse – you’ll be implicated in that as well. And the boys from the Inland Revenue won’t be far behind to go through your books and bank accounts.”

  “I don’t want the police here.” Gerry had decided it was time she joined the conversation.

  “Perhaps there’s a way they don’t have to come,” I said.

  “A way?” The first hint of hope crept into Cross’s voice.

  “It would mean your complete co-operation,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “My target is Darke. If I can’t get him I’ll have you instead. But if you can hand me the evidence that will put Darke in jail for a good long period, I’m prepared to delay writing my front-page story until you’ve been able to make – how shall I put it? – travel arrangements.”

  Cross looked like a drowning man who’s been handed a lifebelt but told he’s got to blow it up himself. I watched as a lifetime’s worth of emotions chased across his face. Hope. Disappointment. Fear. Anger.

  And, finally, resignation.

  He looked at Gerry: “We could go to Spain,” he said. “Start again. Perhaps rent villas to tourists. A new life.”

  Her eyes looked like frozen pools. “You can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. You can rent furnaces to the Devil for all I care. I’m staying here. I’m not ruining my life because you’ve been greedy and stupid.”

  Cross’s face hardened. “Damn you,” he said.