***
Tremayne raised himself from his bed. Although the air conditioning in his room had kept him cool, he had slept no more than three hours, and he still felt exhausted. Outside the sun was blazing, not a cloud in the sky. On the television – it had the BBC on cable – the temperature was showing as 35 degrees centigrade outside.
After a shower to refresh him, Tremayne dressed in the suit he had brought from England. He left the room and headed down for breakfast. Inspector Ong, a man in his late forties, was waiting for him.
‘It’s a long time since your Richard Grantley left Singapore. It’s an old case to us, and he didn’t murder anyone, just cheated a few,’ Ong said.
‘A few?’ Tremayne said as he sat down for his breakfast. It was either local or English. He chose English. The night before he had eaten in the restaurant, local Chinese food. It had come with chopsticks, which he had rejected in favour of a fork and spoon.
‘I’m not sure we're going to be of much help to you. We closed the investigation into the man a long time ago. We can visit where he lived and worked, check our files, but that’s about it.’
‘Does anyone remember his disappearance?’
‘I was with Fraud back then. I was new in the police force, still in uniform. We investigated the man, found out that he was playing a tricky game. He took advantage of changing tax laws around the world, shifted the money from one to another as a situation presented itself, hid it in various bank accounts in dubious jurisdictions, played the markets with other people’s money, win on some, lose on others.’
‘How much money had people deposited with him?’ Tremayne asked. Even with the air conditioning blasting in the dining room, the heat was starting to get to him again.
‘It’s difficult to be accurate, but we reckon he had control of upwards of fifteen million dollars.’
‘How much was found afterwards?’
‘The three hundred thousand dollars in cash, nine hundred thousand dollars in local debt. Eventually, the local creditors accepted what was on offer.’
‘Does a criminal offence stand against Grantley?’
‘Legally, yes. But if the man’s dead it's unimportant. And even if he were still alive, we’d not bother with extradition. He’s not the first swindler we’ve had to deal with.’
The two men left the hotel, Tremayne momentarily pulling back as the first direct blast of the heat hit him. In the car, Ong driving, its air conditioner pumping out steam, they moved through the traffic with ease. Tremayne had to admit to the beauty of the place, the cleanliness, the people going about their business, the general calm of a bustling city. He knew that Jean would love it.
Access had been granted to Grantley’s former apartment, a three-bedroom fifteenth-floor place of exquisite beauty, a view out to Sentosa Island.
‘He lived well,’ Tremayne said.
‘The villains always do.’
‘His office?’
‘A ten-minute drive.’
Tremayne had dispensed with his jacket, loosened his tie. He felt marginally better, and he could feel that his knee responded to the heat. The pain that it had been giving him had reduced enough for him able to apply equal weight on it as his other leg. He had to admit to enjoying himself, the chance to do a little sightseeing, buy a gift for Jean, something silly for Clare.
Tremayne entered the former offices of Richard Grantley, now the premises of an insurance broker. The view, like at the apartment was outstanding, although the offices, luxurious though they were, were functional. At the reception desk, a young Chinese woman, a Singaporean national, asked why they were there, responding politely when told the reason.
Tremayne and Ong sat down, the woman bringing them both a cold drink.
‘Anything yet?’ Ong asked. He was a similar height to Tremayne, sixteen years in the force, hopeful of promotion in the next six months. Tremayne liked the man: helpful, knowledgeable, interested in his wellbeing. He knew that Clare would not be having such a pleasant experience. He intended to phone her, knowing that it would be late at night where she was, but an older woman came out from the offices to the rear of reception.
‘Please come in,’ she said. ‘I’m the manager.’
In the woman’s office, Tremayne explained to her why they were there, what they were looking for; a needle in a haystack was increasingly his thought, but not what he said.
Back outside the manager’s office, the three of them stood, looking around. Tremayne moved away, looking here and there, not sure if he would find anything.
‘Over here,’ he shouted to Ong. ‘On the wall.’
‘It was here when we moved in,’ the manager said. ‘We left it where it was. I’ve been there myself.’
Tremayne took out his phone, took a photo, attempted to send it to Clare.
‘Let me,’ the manager said. ‘I’ll do it for you.’
Clare, roused from her sleep, took one look and phoned. ‘It’s Stonehenge in the background,’ she said.
‘Grantley left it when he took off,’ Tremayne said. ‘You’ve seen the burial mound in the foreground?’
‘You can’t miss it. Does this mean that it’s not Clive and Liz, not Des Wetherell?’
‘It means I need to spend more time here with Inspector Ong. How about you? Any luck?’
‘Luck is not a word I’d use. Let me deal with here, you deal with what you’ve found,’ Clare said. She tried to go back to sleep, but could not. She opened her laptop and entered the events of the previous day into it.
Chapter 20
Clare had not wanted to elucidate on her day with Inspector Roddy Wallace – ‘call me Inspector’ in his office in the morning, ‘Roddy’ by the time Clare had returned to the hotel at seven in the evening. The man insisted on the two of them sharing a bottle of wine, a meal, no doubt hoping for whatever else he could conjure up. His behaviour before she had given him the final brush off was verging on disciplinary, but she would not be making a complaint. He had, however, taken the hint and he had walked out of the hotel, not crawled, Clare’s knee not finding the target that he deserved.
The pathologist in Dundee was not pleased to have his professionalism questioned.
‘I stated that the man died of smoke inhalation, which is correct. I had been told that he had a history of substance abuse, he lived alone, an unusual character by all accounts. Whether he was unconscious before the fire started is not easy to determine.’
‘It was never mentioned in the report,’ Clare said. Wallace had stood to one side, sheepishly looking away, avoiding eye contact.
‘I gave the facts, the time of death estimated by the condition of the body. The fire brigade’s time of arrival and the crime scene team’s report had some bearing on giving a more exact time, but that’s it. No one suggested that the man’s death was suspicious, no one at all. As far as I was concerned, it was death by misadventure, an unfortunate set of circumstances set in motion by a man who should have known better.’
‘You weren’t aware of my presence and of Inspector Tremayne in the city? The fact that we had interviewed him the day before, and we intended to interview him again about his student days, his possible involvement in a violent act.’
‘It was never mentioned. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’
Clare duly noted the man’s comments, Wallace saying nothing. The conversation between the two of them was strained for some time after that as they went to meet the senior crime scene investigator.
Nicola Byrne – Clare had met her briefly at Yatton’s – proved to be the exception of the day. Conservatively dressed, she impressed Clare with her manner and her professionalism. She definitely didn’t like Roddy Wallace, a plus in her favour. She quickly moved Wallace out of her office, poured Clare a cup of tea. In one corner of the office, an electric kettle stood on a small refrigerator; in the other, an old hat stand.
‘Garage sale,’ Nicola Byrne said when Clare looked up at it.
‘I’m not sat
isfied with the report that Inspector Wallace submitted,’ Clare said as she sipped her tea.
‘My people were thorough. What’s your concern?’
‘There is the possibility that Monty Yatton’s death was not accidental.’
‘We found no evidence to the contrary.’
‘No sign of other persons having been in the flat?’
‘Our function was to conduct a thorough examination. We found no evidence of anyone else than the dead man. From what we could see he led a solitary life.’
‘We know of his earlier history, and there remains the possibility that he was privy to information of a damning nature, information that certain people would not want to be revealed. Could someone else have been in there?’
‘Certainly not an amateur. A professional might have been able to conceal their presence if they had taken certain precautions. It’s highly unlikely, not impossible.’
‘Will anything be served by re-examining your findings?’
‘The report stands. I can’t write up what wasn’t there.’
Clare had confidence in Nicola Byrne. She was also satisfied that the pathologist had conducted his post mortem with due diligence. The only concern was that Wallace had not pursued the possibility that the man’s death had been murder, and if the fire brigade had not arrived in time, Monty Yatton would have been reduced to a burnt cinder, the old woman downstairs as well.
If Yatton had been killed on orders, then those orders had come from someone known, from Des Wetherell, from Nigel Nicholson. The thought of the callousness of such men made her feel physically sick. She was concerned about where it was all heading, and whether Liz Fairweather on her own in Cambridge was safe.
***
Tremayne anticipated the weather the next day and had purchased a lightweight pair of trousers, a short-sleeve shirt. Whereas the dress was formal at police headquarters out on Irrawaddy Road, he thought that for the one day he would be forgiven for not wearing a jacket.
Inspector Ong made no comment on Tremayne’s attire, although he was dressed in a suit and tie. The man’s office was on the second floor of the building, a file of papers on his desk.
‘I’ve put together what we have,’ Ong said. He was drinking green tea. He offered a cup to Tremayne, who declined. His tea came with milk. He had tried the local tea, found it wanting. The food in the country was excellent, but he was missing Jean’s cooking, the potatoes, the steak, the sausages, not that she gave him them too often anymore, part of the healthy eating routine that she had imposed. Mostly, he missed Jean.
‘We need to know who could have seen that picture.’
‘Not so easy. Most of the communication that Grantley would have had would have been by phone or email, probably fax back then. We’ve no way of knowing for sure.’
‘You must have names.’
‘I remember the case, but not the details. And I was only new, not involved in the details. Most of the time I was collating information, looking through files, doing the jobs the others didn’t want to do. It wasn’t the greatest time of my life.’
‘Okay, let’s go back to the beginning. Grantley’s done a runner; he’s out of your jurisdiction. No doubt you put out an all-points for him, checked the airport, ships leaving the harbour.’
‘We did that. We know he took a flight in the name of Raymond Alston to Kuala Lumpur. After there, the trail went cold. We didn’t know at that time that his name was Richard Grantley.’
‘The man’s taken off. There must have been people around at his office.’
‘There would have been. It wasn’t a crime scene, just a place of interest.’
‘Which raises the question of how you found out about him; how he found out about you.’
‘Not so difficult. He would have been subject to regular checks, any business is in Singapore. He had been acting as an investment advisor, not breaking any laws. The tax avoidance schemes he had been promoting were not necessarily illegal, not all of them. He came to our notice three months before he absconded. The schemes were starting to concern us, some of the high-income individuals were disturbing.’
‘Any names, anyone that could have killed him if he had cheated on them?’
‘I’m coming to that. The files that I’ve given you list all the clients that he had records of; the more dubious will probably not be there, or else they’re hidden behind a false name. There are about forty names which seem to be genuine. As I was saying, the man, on the whole, was legitimate. He was running close to the wind, but whether he would have faced charges in Singapore is still open to speculation.’
‘If he had stayed?’
‘His passport would have been taken, and he would have had to answer to the courts as to what he was doing and whether it was illegal or not. A sharp lawyer would have probably got him off.’
‘But he would have been visible, and if he had been playing both ends, skimming off some of the money in his care, then those people would have been knocking on the door,’ Tremayne said.
‘Which, we believe, is why he got out of the country. Easier to disappear, change his name, distance himself from Singapore and those who wouldn’t have used an interview room to get answers.’
‘Tied to a chair, beaten out of him?’
‘Probably. You’ll not find the names of those individuals in the files I’ve given you, but then, those sorts of people don’t get involved in violence personally.’
Tremayne visited Richard Grantley’s former office one more time. The manager of the insurance broker had no problem with him taking the picture from the wall. ‘I’ve never liked it much, really. We just left it there, barely looked at it.’
The picture of the burial mound with Stonehenge in the background would be going back to Salisbury with him.
That night, at Inspector Ong’s insistence, Tremayne gave the chopsticks one more try. He managed better than he thought he would, downed more local beer than he should have. At ten the next morning he was on a flight back to London. Jean would meet him on arrival.
***
Clare woke to a dull day in Dundee, a day she was not looking forward to. Monty Yatton’s death was now playing a less critical role in the investigation, and she wondered whether the animosity she had encountered, the unfriendliness, being made to feel like a pariah, was worth it. But she would prevail, she knew that. One more piece in the puzzle, a minor piece now, but there was still the unknown element of Inspector Roddy Wallace. Why had he not been thorough in his investigation? Why had he not informed the pathologist that Yatton was indirectly involved in a murder enquiry? If Yatton had been killed, then why?
Questions that had no answers. Her first call of the morning was to the pathologist. The man was welcoming on her arrival; the day before he had been terse, but now he shook her hand and offered her tea, which she accepted.
‘No Inspector Wallace,’ he said.
‘He’s got another case to deal with.’
‘I’m sure he has. As I said before, I wasn’t aware of the victim’s significance. I’m willing to change the report, not sure how to word it though. I gave you the pathologist’s report. The man died of smoke inhalation between the times stated. He could have been asleep or in a drug-filled alcohol-laden stupor before or after the frying pan was put on the cooker. I can’t tell you that with any certainty. It’s still up to you to speak to Wallace for him to change what he’s written.’
‘I don’t think that’s likely to occur.’
Clare phoned Superintendent Moulton; Tremayne was still in the air, somewhere over the Middle East.
Moulton agreed to Clare’s suggestion. He then phoned his counterpart who agreed to conduct an internal enquiry into Wallace’s lack of diligence.
She then drove to Edinburgh Airport; her time in Scotland was at an end.
***
Events started to move fast. By the time Clare landed at Southampton Airport, Superintendent Moulton was on the phone. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘Wallace has been in
contact with one of Wetherell’s team, a Justin Ruxton. Have you heard of him?’
‘We never met him, only Nigel Nicholson. Ruxton is more junior.’
‘It seems foolish on their part to allow us to trace back from Wallace to Wetherell. It seems suspicious.’
‘Wallace?’
‘He’s on suspension pending further enquiries. They’re checking his bank accounts as well. The Dundee police are re-examining the death of Yatton, expect there to be fireworks. The pathologist, the crime scene team, forensics?’
‘They’re professional. I don’t think you’ll find fault with them. Whatever happens, my name will be mud up there.’
‘That’s why you’re staying in Salisbury. Find Grantley’s killer. If Des Wetherell is involved with Yatton’s death, then the man will be working overtime to protect his image, to distance himself.’
One phone call ended, another started.
‘Yarwood, you’ve been causing havoc up in Dundee,’ Tremayne said.
‘Is Jean with you?’
‘She met me. We’re on our way back to Salisbury on the train. Pick us up at the station. 7.20 p.m.’
‘Wallace is on suspension,’ Clare said.
‘Moulton phoned me earlier. He’s impressed, so am I.’
Clare did not comment on Tremayne’s compliment. She had to admit to feeling pleased with herself.
***
Des Wetherell was elected unopposed to the position of Deputy Secretary General of the TUC. A safe Labour seat would be his if he waited for two more years, a cabinet post assured when the people of England voted his party of choice into government.
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