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by M. J. Arlidge

  ‘A company that he in fact owned.’

  He nodded.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  Blake looked sick now.

  ‘We’ve no idea, but it could be five years, ten, maybe more.’

  ‘And what sort of sums are involved?’

  ‘Well, it was a few hundred here, a few hundred there, but – if it’s as bad as we fear – then it might be upwards of a million pounds.’

  Helen sat back in her chair. She’d thought that Goj’s lavish display last night was a one-off to celebrate his daughter’s wedding, but perhaps his largesse, his wealth, ran far deeper than that. Blake didn’t meet her eye and she could well understand why. Such a massive fraud would be a huge blot on the hospital’s reputation, not to mention his own. But she wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘And how did you come to learn of this fraud?’

  ‘It came to light following an internal audit. After the PPE fiasco during Covid, we did a route-and-branch investigation into our procurement systems – which is when some anomalies were spotted.’

  ‘Who by?’

  There was another long pause, then: ‘Alison Burris.’

  Helen lean forward, her mind suddenly whirring. ‘When she spotted these “anomalies”, the seemingly fake supplier, whom would she have taken her concerns to?’

  ‘To her boss, to Amar Goj, of course.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Nothing, that was the problem. She raised the issue a few weeks ago and tried to follow it up with him several times thereafter. Amar said he was dealing with it, would raise it with the Board, but … he did nothing. In the end, I’m afraid Alison came to the conclusion that he was stalling, deliberately soft-pedalling the enquiry.’

  ‘And did she say anything to you? Or any other member of senior management?’

  ‘No – well, not to my face at least.’

  ‘So how do you know about this?’

  ‘She sent me an email, outlining her concerns.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t do anything,’ he replied, before quickly clarifying. ‘I didn’t have time to. She was killed only a couple of hours after she sent it.’

  Blake stared at his feet, looking exhausted, as if he had nothing more to give. But in truth, this was just the beginning for both of them. Blake was facing a protracted, damaging, public examination of his leadership – a long, dark road. For Helen, by contrast, things were looking up.

  Finally, she had a possible motive for Alison Burris’s murder.

  Chapter 35

  ‘Look at the photos.’

  Hudson drummed his fingers on the stills that lay on the table between them.

  ‘This is what you did to that poor woman.’

  Reluctantly, Lee Moffat stole a look. There were five photos in total, three wide shots of Alison Burris lying crumpled on the ground, the others close-ups of the stab wounds. Two angry, pink, puckered holes, staring up at him.

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Lee, we’re going around in circles here. Burris was killed because someone wanted her BMW, right?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Do you know of any other operations in Southampton that are lifting cars to order?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘That would be so brazen, dragging a woman from her car—’

  ‘I’ve never done that shit.’

  ‘That would have no qualms about stabbing someone in order to take what was wanted. There is no one else, Lee. You have the motive, you have the weapons and now we can link you to the McManus crime scene—’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘So where were you? You keep protesting your innocence but you won’t tell me your whereabouts on the night of the twelfth …’

  ‘I was out, all right?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just out.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘Not good enough. What about the second?’

  ‘The same. I’m always out nights …’

  ‘Well, that’s convenient. And you’ve no memory of where you were?’

  Moffat shook his head, but couldn’t meet his eye.

  ‘This was two nights ago. Is your memory really that bad …?’

  ‘Must be the drugs. What can I say?’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘Believe what you want. I ain’t bothered …’

  It was said defiantly, dismissively, in the hope that it would take the wind from Hudson’s sails. But Joseph Hudson regarded Moffat for a second, then leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

  ‘Would you like to know a little secret, Lee? Something the wider world doesn’t know?’

  Moffat shrugged, feigning disinterest.

  ‘Declan McManus’s condition is improving.’

  A small, but marked reaction from the suspect.

  ‘I spoke to the hospital first thing this morning. He’s been in an induced coma since the attack, but later today they are going to attempt to bring him out of it. He’ll be weak, of course, and in pain, but the doctors have assured me that he should be able to talk. And I’m sure he’ll have plenty to say …’ He fixed Moffat with a stare. ‘He’ll know who wanted him out of the way. Who doused him in petrol. Who set him alight. And I’m betting he’s going to point the finger directly at you.’

  Moffat stared back at Hudson, his anger clear.

  ‘You may think you can dodge this one, Lee, but you can’t. Make no mistake, we will place you at the yard, we will prove that you were responsible for killing Alison Burris and for the attempted murder of Declan McManus—’

  ‘So charge me.’

  The words shot out from the suspect, angry, defiant. ‘Go ahead. If you’re so sure you can pin this on me, then do it now. I’m ready for you.’

  Hudson hesitated, surprised by this aggressive counter-attack, and Moffat was quick to take advantage.

  ‘But if you can’t, if you haven’t got the balls, then you’d best get my coat …’

  His eyes locked onto Hudson’s, challenging, triumphant, as he leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Because we’re done here.’

  Chapter 36

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you in. You’ll have to come back later …’

  Arsha Goj stood in the doorway, blocking Helen’s entry. The proud matriarch was determined to protect her husband, her family, to keep bad news from hearth and home. But Helen wasn’t going to be denied, not today.

  ‘As I said, this is a serious police matter,’ Helen responded, sliding her warrant card back into her pocket.

  ‘So serious that you interrupt our daughter’s engagement party, that you come to our home again this morning, waking up half the street with your banging …’

  Helen didn’t know whether to be angered or amused by Arsha’s inference that she was simply a nuisance, an inconvenient intrusion to be shooed away, rather than a police officer executing her duties.

  ‘We have relatives staying with us—’

  ‘And once again, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I do need to talk to your husband.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’m happy to come back later today with a warrant,’ Helen continued, ignoring the question. ‘But then I’ll have to bring the whole team with me, which will create a lot more disruption, be much more visible …’

  Helen was pleased to see a crease of concern cloud Arsha’s expression.

  ‘So why don’t we just do this now? Half an hour tops, then I’ll be on my way.’

  This was a lie – Helen had no idea how long she’d need to question Goj – but it seemed to cut some ice with his wife. She was clearly worried about Helen’s presence and the thought that this might all be done and dusted before the rest of the street took note was clearly appealing.

  ‘Thirty minutes and no more,’ she said sternly, as if she was the one in charge.

  Smil
ing politely, Helen wiped her feet and stepped inside.

  A minute later, Helen was striding down the garden path. She had been intrigued by the interior of the elegant five-bedroom house, one of the largest she’d seen in Bevois Mount, noting that it had been completely redecorated recently, perhaps in anticipation of visitors during the wedding celebrations, but a proper interrogation of Goj’s lifestyle and spending would have to wait. Now she had more pressing concerns.

  Goj’s theft, his long-term defrauding of the children’s hospital, seemed nailed on, Helen realizing now why he had had to pass himself off as a COO to justify his impressive income. What was less clear was his role in the attack on Declan McManus and his potential involvement in the murder of Alison Burris. For the first crime he appeared to have no motive, and the second seemed wildly out of character, Goj appearing to be a thief, rather than a killer. He certainly had no criminal record, no past offences to speak of and Helen was keen to confront him with these anomalies. You could tell a lot about someone’s innocence or guilt by the way they reacted to a direct accusation.

  Helen had expected to find Amar sitting at the breakfast table holding court, sucking up the approbation from last night’s lavish party, but perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised when Arsha told her that actually her husband was closeted away in his garden office. This was presumably where he lived out his double life, where he plotted, covered and concealed, keeping the money flowing in with an ever-growing number of fake invoices. If, as seemed likely, his back really was up against the wall, if he was staring down the barrel of an internal enquiry and possible criminal proceedings, then he would presumably have retreated here to try and plot his next move.

  Rapping on the shed door, Helen took a deep breath. She was excited but also tense – this could go easily, with a swift collapse or confession, or could be long and hard, lies and obfuscations frustrating their investigation. The next few minutes would decide which.

  There was no movement inside – Helen could picture Amar cowering, alarmed by the aggressive knocking – so Helen tried again. Still there was no response, so now she tried the handle. It turned easily, the door was not locked, and as she pushed forward, she announced:

  ‘Mr Goj? It’s DI Helen Grace, I’m coming in …’

  Except she wasn’t. She was pushing against the door, but it wasn’t moving. This made no sense, the catch was up now, meaning that there must be some kind of obstacle inside. Had Amar barricaded himself in? Had he spotted her coming and made defensive preparations? It seemed absurd, ridiculous, but still …

  ‘Amar, this isn’t helping. Obstructing a police officer in the execution of her duties is a criminal offence …’

  She put her shoulder to the door, but still it didn’t yield, so stepping back, she took a short run at it, cannoning into the warm wood. Now the door did shift slightly and, carefully, Helen poked her head into the gap. She had expected to see a startled Amar backed into the corner, but instead she saw that it was Amar himself who was blocking the entrance, lying prone on the floor just inside the door.

  Redoubling her efforts, Helen eased the door open a fraction more, then slid inside the shed. Quickly, she crouched down by the prostrate figure.

  ‘Amar? Amar, it’s DI Grace. Can you hear me?’

  No response. Craning over him, Helen took in his blank expression, his glazed eyes.

  ‘Amar, please …’

  Her heart was beating sixteen to the dozen, but her training now kicked in, Helen placing two fingers on Amar’s carotid artery in search of a pulse. But there was nothing, no vital signs at all.

  Amar Goj was dead.

  Chapter 37

  She watched the dumb show, with a sinking heart. From her office on the tenth floor, DCI Grace Simmons had a perfect view of the main entrance at Southampton Central. All human life came in and out of those doors – police officers, victims of crime, offenders, social workers, press – and many a drama had played out below, in full view of the building’s occupants.

  Today’s performance was muted, but still provoked a reaction. Lee Moffat, the suspect DS Hudson had pulled in last night, had just been released without charge. Hudson was convinced there was more to learn about Moffat’s involvement in a couple of recent murders, but they didn’t have enough to hold him, let alone charge him, so they’d had to let him go. Moffat was making the most of this, dawdling on the main steps, enjoying a smoke whilst taking phone calls, no doubt crowing to his mates. It made Simmons’s blood boil – the casual, innate confidence of seasoned criminals always did.

  Breaking away, Simmons returned to her desk, but there was little solace to be found here. Every day she got the local and national newspapers delivered to her office, determined to keep abreast of the press’s latest preoccupations and machinations. The headlines seldom offered cause for optimism and so it proved yet again today. The front page of the early edition of the Southampton Evening News was particularly loaded and personal, the banner headline asking: Has DI Grace lost the plot?

  Flicking it open, Simmons scanned the accompanying articles, but she could have guessed the contents. The local rag, which was trusted by its readers, had of late been conducting a sustained campaign against Helen, and Hampshire Police in general, questioning their competence in the face of a marked rise in crime. And whilst the accusations they made didn’t worry Simmons unduly – she was sure Helen would make progress in time – she was concerned about the effect on public morale, on their willingness to engage with the police. Without the eyes and ears of the local population, their ability to fight crime and keep the public safe would be severely compromised, something they could ill afford at the moment.

  Slumping down in her seat, Simmons shoved the papers away, determined to get stuck into her groaning in-tray, but in truth she had no energy, no drive this morning. She had felt increasingly like that, general fatigue exacerbated by a growing feeling of disquiet. Until recently, she had never once doubted her methods, her instincts, but now she was plagued by doubts. The public were worried, the press troublesome and Chief Superintendent Peters openly concerned. Worse still, there did seem to be problems at Southampton Central, within Helen’s Major Incident Team specifically, problems which, for now, Helen seemed determined to keep to herself. She would never have admitted this to anyone else, but to Simmons it seemed for the first time as if perhaps they were being overwhelmed, as if they had lost their grip on the city.

  If this was the case, then it was not Helen’s fault, but hers. Ultimately, she was in charge of operations and, had she been ten years younger, would’ve worked night and day to turn the ship around. That was still her instinct, but reality was biting. She was well into her sixties and able to provide only fitful leadership, given her health problems and general sense of exhaustion. She now regretted being coaxed into taking the job at Southampton Central – she should have stuck to her original plan to retire. She regretted not having been more honest with her superiors, and indeed with Helen, when offered the post. She had lied about her health, shielding them from her personal problems, in order to help them. Or so she’d thought. Now it appeared a selfish, cowardly act which only served to hinder Helen’s efforts, leaving her old friend to do Simmons’s job as well as her own.

  The sensible thing to do would be to step aside, to make way for a younger, more vital presence. But to do so now, amidst the storm of criticism and scrutiny, would look like an admission that the ship was sinking, inadvertently making a bad situation much worse. The alternative then was to stay, to dig in and try to make a difference, but did she have the energy, the life force to do that? Some days it was hard enough just to get out of bed.

  How she missed her late husband then, cheerily chiding her for her lethargy, forcing her to face the new day. Now she was alone, exhausted and dispirited, torn as to what to do for the best. She used to pride herself on her resolve, her clarity of thought, her ability to predict the future and bend it to her will. Now she had none of that foresight,
none of that vision.

  Now all she could see was a situation that was rapidly spiralling out of control.

  Chapter 38

  So much poverty, so many desperate people. Looking at the long list of names on his spreadsheet, it did genuinely seem as if the world was going to hell in a handcart. Well, if it was, so be it. So much the better for him.

  Running a grubby finger down the columns of figures, Gary Bleecher did a quick mental calculation. Some of his clients would default on their repayments, no question, but if even 70 per cent of them paid what they owed him, then he would still turn a very tidy profit. That was the way of things – when times were tough, it was the man with cash who was king. He was no Rockefeller, but he had means and, what’s more, a reputation for accepting any new client, regardless of their circumstances. This meant he had a constant line of customers, a dozen enquiries every day. Some tried to put on a proud front, confident that new funds, fresh employment, were just around the corner. Others begged or even cried, but it made no difference. You could tell straight away that they were all desperate, hence why they were willing to accept a scandalous rate of interest on their loan.

  The newspapers moaned about the downturn, the politicians vowed to turn it around, but Gary hoped this wouldn’t happen any time soon. There were only two thriving industries these days – debt and crime. He was in the vanguard of the first and on the fringes of the second, occasionally having to use force to remind people of their financial responsibilities. Yes, people looked down at him, calling him a parasite, a lowlife, scum, but they could go hang. He was the one lining his pockets, the guy who would come out on top in the end.

  Staring at his computer screen, Gary was startled from his thoughts by the noise of the letterbox snapping shut. Curious, he angled a glance towards the front door. The postmen around here were so lazy, they never made it to his house until early afternoon, meaning that this was something special, hand-delivered to his home. Unusual for someone to drop and run, usually they wanted a face-to-face meet, either to beg for more time or to ensure the money found its way into the right hands.