He switched off his torch and put it on the floor then took a hefty armful of ledgers from Prasanna.
‘I’ll need a better light to read by, and I don’t want these torch beams to be any more visible from the front of the building than they already are.’ He jerked his head towards a door on the opposite side of the room to where they had come in. ‘See where that leads, Nadar.’
Nadar was soon back. ‘It’s a storeroom, sir. But there’s not much space to spread out,’ he added doubtfully.
‘It will have to do. Balance my torch on top of these books. I’ll go back there and make a start. You two keep searching this room and bring me anything else you think might be relevant.’
The storeroom was indeed cramped, and it was hot and airless. However, it had its own door leading to the outside at the back of the building. He dumped the ledgers on the floor, managed to unlock the door and left it ajar. With some difficulty, he squatted down in a space where he could fit between stacks of crates and boxes. He was grateful that none of his old colleagues were there to see him. If the sight amused Prasanna and Nadar, hopefully they were still sufficiently in awe of their boss not to show it.
The first ledger he opened contained accounts for the year 1926. Isobel Moncrieff had said that her husband died in 1930, so he would still have been in charge then. Time and humidity had faded and browned the ink making it a chore to read, but as he turned the pages, de Silva noted that the business had showed a healthy profit in those days. He worked his way through the rest of the ledgers in the pile. There was nothing later than 1929 and mostly the figures told the same story although profits dipped a little in the last year or so. Presumably, that had been due to Victor Moncrieff’s illness.
Painfully, he hauled himself to his feet and poked his head around the door to the office. ‘I’ve finished with these. You can put them back. They only go up to 1929. Have you found some for later years?’
Nadar came to fetch the ledgers. ‘Yes, sir. There’s more carrying on from then and some bank statements. I’ll fetch them for you.’
As he went through the new batch of ledgers and the bank statements, De Silva soon realised that it was a different story from the autumn of 1930 when Donald Moncrieff took over. The plantation’s income dwindled, and the amount of money taken out rose.
Prasanna’s head appeared around the door. ‘Sir!’ he whispered urgently. ‘I think I can hear someone coming towards the front of the building. What shall we do?’
‘We should be safe as long as he stays at the front, but we mustn’t be found in here.’ He glanced through the open door behind him. In the darkness outside, he made out something that looked like a tall bamboo screen about ten feet wide.
‘Put this lot back quickly and try to make it look as if nothing’s been disturbed then come in through here and shut the office door. We’ll leave by this one and pull it to behind us – quietly, mind.’
He pointed to the screen outside. ‘We’ll have to hide behind that until he’s gone. I need to look through the rest of the ledgers. Thank goodness I locked the main office door behind me. Off you go.’
Once outside and behind the screen, it immediately became apparent what it was put there for. De Silva’s nose wrinkled at the smell, but he supposed that rudimentary sanitary arrangements were an inevitable part of a workplace like this. After a few moments, a torch beam wavered around the side of the building. His mouth dry, de Silva felt Nadar stiffen beside him. Presumably, the owner of the torch was the nightwatchman doing his rounds. Were they to be discovered, three uniformed policemen, standing in a row by a latrine on a remote plantation in the middle of the night, would require some explaining.
Fortunately, the nightwatchman didn’t try the unlocked storeroom door and walked on to the corner of the building where, to de Silva’s dismay, he sat down on a rough stool, his back resting against the corrugated iron wall. Whistling tunelessly, he pulled something from his pocket and put it in his mouth. There was a smell of tobacco, combined with a faint aroma of spices. The man was chewing betel and he looked to be settling down for a while. No doubt this was a regular resting place where he wouldn’t be seen shirking his duties.
De Silva shifted his weight from one foot to the other to ease the prickling sensation that had built up. The bamboo screen was not high enough to conceal them unless they stooped a little, or in Prasanna’s case a lot, so his back had started to ache as well. He longed to move about more freely, but the chance of the nightwatchman hearing him was too great. How he envied Prasanna and Nadar the flexibility of their young muscles and bones. He tried to concentrate on the beauty of the moonlight as it filtered through the bamboo screen, transforming its humble weave into a thing of patterned, silvery elegance. The warm air pulsed with the throb of insects, punctuated from time to time by a cough from the nightwatchman and the sound of spitting.
After what seemed like hours, but clearly wasn’t, the watchman got to his feet. For a moment he hesitated, looking over at the bamboo screen. De Silva tensed; what if he decided to come over to relieve himself? Fortunately, he was either lazy or the possessor of a sensitive nose, for he ambled over to a tree that was much closer to the office and used that instead. As he walked away around the side of the office and out of sight, de Silva allowed himself to straighten up. He pulled his shoulders back and exhaled a long breath. ‘Well done, both of you,’ he said in an undertone. ‘We’ll wait a few minutes to be sure he’s really gone then get back to the job.’
Back inside the storeroom, another half hour of looking through ledgers didn’t change de Silva’s impression of the plantation’s financial health. It looked like Peter Flint had been telling the truth when he said the business had a long way to go to recover. De Silva had just finished reading the accounts for the previous year when Prasanna came in from the main office. ‘We’ve found a key to the safe, sir. It was taped to the back of a drawer.’
De Silva handed him the previous year’s accounts. ‘Take these and I’ll come and look.’
Inside the safe, there were more account ledgers. De Silva studied them with interest. They covered the period from 1932 up to the present date but showed profits over and above the ones recorded in the ledgers he had already seen. The new profits went into two bank accounts, both of them numbered rather than named. In view of the incriminating nature of it all, he was surprised that Peter Flint had left the key to the safe in his office, but perhaps over time he had grown confident that it wouldn’t be discovered. He looked up.
‘Excellent work. I think we’ve found what we need.’
‘Do you think Peter Flint’s stealing from the business, sir?’ asked Prasanna.
‘It certainly looks as if that’s the case. I’m also considering the possibility that there’s something between him and Marina Moncrieff. They may have been siphoning money off to keep it out of her husband’s hands.’
The look of concentration on Nadar’s face made him supress a smile. ‘That would mean they expect him to come back, sir, wouldn’t it?’ he said at last. ‘So they can’t be guilty of his murder.’
‘Or only one of them thinks he’ll return,’ said Prasanna.
De Silva nodded. ‘Either might be the case. But we still need an explanation for why there are two numbered accounts. Any ideas?’
‘Mr Moncrieff’s stepmother, sir?’ asked Prasanna after a short pause.
‘Good. Go on.’
‘The second account might be hers, with the first one belonging to Peter Flint and Marina Moncrieff.’
‘That leaves us with the question of whether they’re all implicated in Donald Moncrieff’s murder, or one or more of the three are simply unwitting beneficiaries of it. Now that we’ve tracked down Isobel Moncrieff’s former companion, she may have something revealing to say about the relationship between the four of them.’ He yawned. ‘We’ll take a last look around the office, then we’d better lock up and get out of here before anyone stirs.’
Chapter 10
Half an hour later, after checking that everything was back in the place where they had found it, de Silva led the way to the Morris. He was glad that the nightwatchman hadn’t proved to be particularly assiduous in his duties. He wouldn’t have relished spending any more time hiding in the insalubrious area behind the bamboo screen, still less being found out.
A light breeze had got up. The leaves of the banana trees beyond the clearing swayed gently, making a sound like water trickling over stones. The moon was high now, its ghostly light clearly illuminating their faces. As the Morris came into sight, he felt the sense of relief he always did when leaving her unattended in a remote place. With wild animals at large, especially inquisitive monkeys, one could never be sure. The noise of the engine turning over sounded alarmingly loud in the stillness. A bird shot up out of the undergrowth, squawking indignantly then flapped away into a tree. De Silva’s heart thudded. He must have been more apprehensive than he’d realised that their expedition would go awry.
He pulled out of the layby and set off, glad to leave the plantation buildings behind. The Morris’s headlights were still off, but in the moonlight he took the risk of driving a little faster than he had on the way down. From the passenger seat beside him, Prasanna watched the road, warning him when he saw potholes. Steady breathing from the back indicated that Nadar had gone to sleep.
They passed a side turning that de Silva had noticed on the way down. He’d known not to take it, but he’d wondered where it went then assumed it was probably an estate road leading to more tea terraces.
A few hundred yards further on, Prasanna leant forward in his seat and stiffened. ‘There’s something big ahead of us in the middle of the road, sir.’
‘Yes, I can just about make it out. A truck? If it is, it’s a very large one and out here at an odd time.’ He twisted to look back over his shoulder. ‘I’ll back up to that side turning. I doubt it would be able to pass us, and anyway, I’d rather not be seen. We don’t want to have to answer any questions, do we?’ Although it might be a bit late for that, he thought ruefully. In case they were stopped, he cast about for a plausible explanation of what they were doing at the plantation at such an unearthly hour.
In the dim light, reversing was much harder than driving forwards. He took it slowly, wincing at every bump and scrape on the rough road. A grumbling ache had started in his neck and shoulders. ‘How are we doing, Prasanna?’
‘Pretty well, sir. It’s not coming too fast—’ Prasanna broke off and let out a sudden exclamation.
De Silva scowled. ‘Don’t do that, Sergeant. I need to concentrate.’
‘It’s not a truck, sir,’ said Prasanna in an agitated voice.
‘Then what is it?’ De Silva braked and turned to look. The shape that had in the distance looked like a single object had divided and spread out to fill the road and a wide strip of land on either side. He saw saplings and bushes bend like grass under it as it moved slowly but inexorably towards the Morris. Behind him, Nadar regained consciousness. ‘Elephants, sir!’
‘I can see them.’
He put his foot on the accelerator; he’d have to go faster than he’d planned. Right now, the elephants looked to be ambling along steadily, but they might take it into their heads to speed up at any moment. If alarmed, they might charge and the Morris, and quite probably the three of them with her, would have no more chance of escaping unscathed than those saplings.
Despite his best efforts, the Morris veered perilously close to one side of the road. He only just managed to straighten her in time to stop the rear wheel going into the ditch. He glanced at the elephants. They were close now, and he saw that there were eight of them: six adults, one of them a bull, and two young ones. His huge ears flapping, the bull turned to face the Morris. His trunk snaked into the air and he trumpeted. De Silva held his breath. If the bull charged now, there was no hope of avoiding him.
‘Should we get out and run, sir?’ asked Nadar nervously.
‘Not yet.’ De Silva went back to edging along the road. He had a theory that with wild animals, it was best to move slowly. Speed was likely to increase their natural inclination to attack anything they saw as a threat.
The bull seemed calmer, but protective still, using his enormous bulk as a barrier between the Morris and his family. He laid his trunk over the back of the female nearest to him. In any other situation, de Silva would have been touched by the display of affection.
Putting a more reassuring distance between the Morris and the elephants, they reached the side turning. De Silva overshot it then turned the Morris in facing forwards. The sky was already lightening in the east and he certainly didn’t want to return to the plantation buildings. Equally, unless the elephants moved well out of the way, trying to get past them was madness. He would just have to hope that this track led to somewhere where they could get off the Moncrieffs’ land and back to the public road.
As the darkness rapidly retreated, the tea terraces emerged in all their emerald beauty, lush and sparkling after a spell in the cooler air of the night. A thin line of gold appeared on the horizon. In an hour or so, workers would be up and starting their day. It would be most unfortunate if a carload of policemen was stuck in the midst of all the activity with no plausible explanation as to what they were doing there.
The track wound on for about half a mile then they rounded a bend and saw that it dropped down a little slope. At the bottom stood a bungalow. It was a simple building and the scrap of garden dividing it from the track looked untended, but it seemed more substantial than anything that would be used to house the plantation’s workers. Perhaps it was where Peter Flint lived.
De Silva groaned softy. If Flint was a good manager, he’d be an early riser too. The thought had no sooner passed through his mind than a light appeared in one of the bungalow’s windows and an unseen hand drew back the curtains. Apprehensively, de Silva watched the front door, but to his relief, for the moment it remained closed.
More lights must have been turned on at the back of the house, for a buttery glow seeped around one side of the building.
‘Do either of you see somewhere where we can keep out of sight?’ he asked. ‘I think this is where Flint lives. We might have to wait until he goes off to work. After that, we’ll have to hope we can get out of here without being spotted. If anyone sees us, I’ll invent some story about coming down to ask him a few more questions and losing the way.’ It might be harder to explain why they had chosen such an early hour.
‘That tree might hide the car, sir,’ said Prasanna, pointing to a large baobab with a thick gnarled trunk to their right.
De Silva smiled. ‘You’re an optimist, Sergeant, but I can’t see anywhere better.’ He released the handbrake and let the Morris roll down the last part of the incline. ‘You’d better get out and push,’ he muttered when she stopped. ‘I’m not starting the engine now. Flint, or whoever lives here, is bound to hear it.’
Prasanna and Nadar put their shoulders to the Morris and she was soon behind the tree. It made a better hiding place than de Silva had thought it would, thanks to some low branches as well as the wide trunk. He motioned to Prasanna and Nadar to get back into the car. ‘Now, we wait,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s hope Flint’s in a hurry to get to work and not very observant.’
The minutes passed. De Silva pulled his jacket more tightly around him and turned up the collar. He stuffed his hands under his armpits to warm them. If only he had brought gloves and a hat. While they had been occupied with the elephants, he hadn’t noticed the dawn chill, but it struck him now how the cold didn’t seem to bother Prasanna and Nadar. That was the advantage of young blood and circulation, he thought enviously.
He wondered where Flint kept his car. He’d driven up to the main house the day he’d come to see what was going on, so it must be somewhere. Just then the front door opened, and he tensed. On reflection, if Flint noticed them the best course of action would be to arrest him straight away and question him about the plantation
’s financial affairs. There was enough evidence that something suspicious was going on to justify it.
He watched as Flint disappeared around the corner of the bungalow then there was the sound of an engine starting up. A moment later, his car came into sight. He stopped in front of the bungalow and went inside once more then, after a brief interval, re-emerged. This time there was someone with him: a woman. She and Flint embraced, then as she moved out of his arms, de Silva recognised her. It was Marina Moncrieff.
He checked that his Webley was ready in case he needed it and quietly got out of the car, motioning Prasanna and Nadar to follow him. They stepped around to the front of the tree and Marina and Flint saw them. She screamed as Flint grabbed her arm and pushed her behind him.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t try anything. I’m armed.’
The shadows under the tree were still quite dense, despite the fact that dawn had broken. De Silva wondered if Flint thought they were thieves. It was unlikely he was expecting a visit from the police at this hour, if at all, so it was a reasonable assumption. It was also a reasonable assumption that out here, Flint would keep a gun to protect himself, but he must take the chance that he didn’t have it with him just now. He stepped into the light and levelled his gun at the couple.
‘Don’t move. You’re both under arrest.’
Chapter 11
‘What a night of it you’ve had, dear,’ said Jane after Shanti had described events at the plantation. ‘You must be exhausted.’
‘I think I’ll try and sleep for a while when I’ve finished this.’ He forked up another mouthful of the omelette their cook had prepared. It was more a mid-morning snack than breakfast.
‘What happened after you arrested Marina and Flint?’
‘Marina seemed too shocked and distressed to speak and Flint took charge. He insisted that if the remains were those of Donald, then neither of them had anything to do with his death, nor had they suspected that the story of his disappearance might be untrue. But he couldn’t deny he was guilty of obstructing the course of justice by refusing to reveal Marina’s whereabouts.’
Cold Case in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 10) Page 11