Confused, he rose, making his way cautiously to the window. Teasing the curtain gently to one side, he peered out – but whoever had deposited the letter had already gone. There was no one in the immediate vicinity, nor any car that they might be concealed behind. Confident there was no immediate cause for alarm, he hurried into the hallway, where an envelope lay on the mat. Greedily, he scooped it up. Odds on there would be cash inside.
He was disappointed, however, to find that it was exceptionally thin and light. In fact, there barely seemed to be anything in it all. Irritated, he ripped open the seal and ferreted inside. At first, he found nothing, but then, right in the corner, his fingers alighted on something. Something hard and metallic. Once more his spirits rose – perhaps it was a gold ring, or a valuable keepsake, some heirloom being donated to pay off debt. Turning the envelope upside down, he tipped it into his hand, fixing his expectant eyes upon it.
And now excitement turned to confusion. Because nestled in his sweaty palm was not a valuable trinket, or a nugget of gold, but a single, shiny bullet.
Chapter 39
‘What is all this stuff?’
DC Malik was standing in front of the spacious wardrobe, Helen hovering just behind her. The forensics and pathology teams were busy in Amar Goj’s office, so Helen and her officers had retreated to the main house. Goj’s shell-shocked wife and relatives were currently closeted away with a Family Liaison Officer in the living room, leaving Helen’s team free to roam the house. They had investigated the main bedroom and were now standing in the guest room, which appeared to be little more than a collection of wardrobes stuffed full of clothes.
‘The spoils of fraud,’ Helen murmured, taking in the rows of jackets, knitwear, trousers and shirts, beneath which nestled countless shoe boxes.
Kneeling down, Malik’s gloved hand teased open one of the boxes, to be confronted with a box-fresh pair of Gucci trainers.
‘What size are they?’
Malik plucked one out and looked inside.
‘Nine.’
‘OK,’ Helen responded, pleased. ‘It’s unlikely that Goj kept the trainers or the hoodie he was wearing on the night of the arson attack, but have a thorough look anyway. Failing that, any receipts, any proof of purchase for those items, would be extremely useful. Obviously, those items are our top priority, but I would also like a full inventory of everything that’s here.’
Already Malik was pulling a face, looking pained.
‘I know, I know,’ Helen responded. ‘It’ll take you all morning, but I’d like to get a sense of what he’s got, how much he must have spent to accumulate all this …’
‘Unusual for a bloke to be such a clothes horse,’ Malik said, blowing out her cheeks. ‘He must have been seriously into his fashion.’
‘Except most of the clothes haven’t even been touched. Look, the majority of them still have the tags on and some of the shoes boxes haven’t been opened …’
‘Money to burn …’
‘But to what end?’
They stood in silence. There was something sobering, tragic, even, at the sight of Goj’s pristine clothes, prizes that he had apparently ruined his life to amass.
‘Anyway, if you’re OK, I’m going to leave you in charge and head off.’
Malik turned to Helen, surprised, though pleased by the vote of confidence.
‘Call me if you turn up anything interesting,’ Helen continued, ‘otherwise, I’ll see you back at base.’
‘Sure thing. See you later …’
Malik was clearly curious as to where Helen was going, but didn’t want to ask. Helen was glad of her discretion; she didn’t intend to advertise her destination and wouldn’t do so unless it turned up anything useful. There was no point distressing his grieving relatives further.
Descending the stairs, Helen heard hushed, faltering voices in the living room. The grief, the anguish of the family was plain, even through the walls, and Helen didn’t linger, hurrying down the stairs towards the front door. It had been a terrible scene – the irascible, protective Arsha suddenly reduced to a tear-stricken wreck. She had begged Helen to be allowed to see inside the shed, to learn what had happened to her husband, but there was no way Helen could allow her to see him like that, rigid and cold, an empty pill bottle clutched in his hand. Nor could she allow Arsha to disturb the scene. It was possible that Amar had been murdered – though on the face of it, everything pointed to suicide. This was a man who had worked hard to create an image of himself as a successful, respectable member of society, who in the space of twenty-four hours had found himself suspended from work, pending slow, excruciating exposure, and a key suspect in an ongoing police investigation, the subject of close interest from the Major Incident Team. If he was guilty of both offences, as Helen heavily suspected he was, then surely this double whammy, this pincer movement of catastrophe, was more than enough to push him over the edge. That he had done so alone, without anyone close to him having the slightest inkling of what he was contemplating, was evidenced by the shocked, hysterical reaction to his death.
Closing the front door gently behind her, Helen hurried down the path and out onto the street. The family would no doubt provide some useful background information, but Helen strongly suspected that Amar Goj was a man who liked to keep his secrets close, hence her urgent departure now. Climbing onto her Kawasaki, Helen fired up the ignition, but even as she did so, she couldn’t resist one last look back at the house.
On arrival, it had appeared to be the opulent status symbol of a popular, well-heeled family. Now it felt very different, now it was a house of grief, pain and death. In the last couple of days events had spiralled out of control, leaving this once happy family unit shattered, unable to understand the calamity that had befallen them. Helen feared there was worse to come, that there would be more slingshots to absorb and, now, right on cue, Arsha Goj appeared in the living-room window, her eyes locking onto Helen’s. When they had first met, there had been hostility, resistance, even pride there. Now this spirited matriarch, this freshly minted widow, stood staring out at the world hollow and empty, her face a picture of perfect desolation.
Chapter 40
He sprinted down the street, his feet pounding the pavement. It felt good to be away from the house, away from those complex, troubling emotions, working his body hard on his daily lunchtime run. Martin Hill had always been a keen jogger, it had been his survival mechanism in the past when he needed some time to himself, and even now that his life was more settled, he still craved the hit of endorphins and the adrenaline.
He always pushed himself hard, constantly trying to better his time. He’d had a set route of late, a punishing circuit of the city, but on each outing he managed to shave a few seconds off his personal best. Today, however, he was off the pace. He was working hard, his Nike Airs hammering the concrete, but he was distracted, out of sorts, his mind not on the task. Morning sex, followed by a long run, would pretty much be his perfect day usually, but his coupling with Lilah had been dissatisfactory and frustrating, despite his inevitable climax.
Lilah had said all the right things, done all the right things, but through it all he’d sensed that she wasn’t really present. It was as if she was imagining herself elsewhere, thinking of something else, someone else. Was it possible that, despite everything, she was considering leaving him? It would be a bold move, hardly seemed creditable really, given how tentative and cautious Lilah normally was. But it was a feeling Martin couldn’t shake.
He knew it was possible that he was overreacting, that he was being paranoid. Being robbed of your parents at a young age, being brought up by an aunt who didn’t want you, was liable to make you suspicious, even paranoid. But that didn’t mean he was wrong, that he was imagining things. He had trusted his instincts before and had been proven right. Once more his gut was telling him that trouble lay ahead and he knew from experience that forewarned was forearmed.
Darting off the main street, he hurried down Butler’
s Passage, a small cut-through in the heart of Portswood. The alleyway wasn’t well known – he always had it to himself – so he powered down it now, trying to claw back some of the lost seconds. Even being close to his personal best would be an achievement today. He ached to cut loose, to hit top speed, to drive the demons away … but even here, he was destined to be disappointed, suddenly grinding to a halt, swallowing a silent curse as he did so.
Someone was blocking his way. His first reaction was territorial, this alley had always been his little secret, his private thoroughfare, but this was swiftly followed by a wave of annoyance and impatience. The woman in front of him had clearly been struggling up the alleyway with shopping, overloaded, one of the Sainsbury’s bags having split, spilling tins of soup and canned fish onto the ground. Even now she was cursing, bending down to scoop them up. Martin’s overriding instinct was to try to step around her and be on his way, but it would be virtually impossible to do so without knocking her over, so instead he slowed. And as he did so, he noticed something else – this unfortunate woman was incredibly pretty. Blonde hair cut in a neat bob, sharp cheekbones and full pink lips. She was looking at him, offering an embarrassed smile that had the least noble part of his brain firing.
‘I don’t suppose you could give me a hand, could you? I’m such a klutz …’
Even before spoke, he found himself bending down to retrieve an errant tin of tomato soup.
‘No problem at all, I’m not in a rush.’
Smiling, he set about scooping up the rest of the tins, keen to make a good impression. Then, having completed his task, he straightened up to hand her back her groceries. As he did so, he was surprised to find that she had moved close to him, much closer than he was expecting. For a wild moment, he thought that intimacy was in the offing, that this was one of his fantasies come true, but then something strange happened. With a look of intense concentration on her face, the woman stepped forward and punched him in the stomach.
Stunned, Martin stared at her, the cans tumbling from his grasp. Now she withdrew her hand and suddenly, with piercing clarity, Martin noticed three things. First, an intense pain in his belly. Second, that the woman was wearing gloves, despite the cloying heat of the day. And third, that she appeared to have a knife in her hand, a knife that was covered in blood.
Now she lunged again, her blade sliding into his chest. Martin was rocked back, the air punched from his lungs, but there was no respite. The knife slid out, then arrowed towards him again. Desperately, hopeless, he flung out an arm, but the knife sped past, plunging into his heart.
Now everything seemed to stop. The knife was raised, ready to land again, but before it could do so, Martin Hill crumpled to the ground, suddenly consumed by darkness.
Chapter 41
‘Dead?’
The word hung in the air, dull, disbelieving.
‘I’m afraid so. His body was found at his home earlier this morning. We believe Mr Goj took his own life.’
Dr Alex Blythe’s face was a curious mixture of shock and anger, as if he somehow blamed Helen for his patient’s death.
‘That’s partly why I’m here,’ Helen continued quickly. ‘It appears he took an overdose of antidepressants, perhaps as much as a whole bottle, medication that was prescribed by you …’
Another body blow, the psychiatrist’s face was a shade paler now. He was, Helen guessed, around thirty-five years old, but he looked much younger today. She wondered privately whether this was the first time one of his clients had taken his own life.
‘Can I ask how long he’d been seeing you?’
‘Around six months or so. That’s when I prescribed the Naltrexone. I would have assumed they’d be long gone by now …’
‘You hadn’t given him a repeat prescription?’
‘No, he said he didn’t need them anymore. We were making progress. Slowly, but progress nevertheless.’
‘And what was his condition?’
Helen knew she was on shaky ground here. Immediately, she noticed the psychiatrist stiffen.
‘Look, inspector, doctor–patient confidentiality pertains even after death …’
‘And I respect that, Dr Blythe, but Mr Goj is a key suspect in an ongoing police investigation, so it’s important we get a clear picture of what kind of man he was, what might have driven him to take his own life.’
‘Can I ask what crime you suspect him of?’
‘Attempted murder.’
This time, Blythe looked like he’d been slapped.
‘No, no, that’s not possible … Amar had his issues, but he was a kind, gentle man. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Stranger things have happened, which is why I’m asking the question.’
The psychiatrist looked at her, saying nothing. It was obvious that he wasn’t convinced, not yet willing to remove the veil that separated their professions.
‘I’m guessing it was financial,’ Helen added. ‘His house is stuffed full of luxury goods, designer clothes and his outgoings far exceeded what he could have earned from his job at the children’s hospital. I should add that he was recently suspended from his post there, following the discovery of a major fraud, so clearly something was pushing him to accumulate, to spend, to project a certain image of himself. Whatever was driving him had clearly got out of control, as he was prepared to break the law, perhaps even commit murder, to keep the ship afloat. All I need from you is a little background – about his health, his state of mind, whether you noticed anything odd about his behaviour in recent weeks.’
Helen came to a halt, breathless after her quick-fire burst. Thankfully, her words seemed to have landed, Blythe’s demeanour noticeably less hostile than a few moments before. Rounding the desk, he sat down heavily in his chair, shooting a glance at a framed picture of a pretty young woman, who beamed back at him. But it was not she who came to his aid now, but a cute springer spaniel who hopped up onto his lap. He petted her for a moment, grateful for the distraction, before replying.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure there’s much more to add; you’ve hit the nail on the head. Obviously, I can’t go into detail about our sessions together, but what I can tell you is that Amar contacted me six months ago and that we met weekly, usually on Thursday evenings. As you’ve worked out, Amar had issues with his spending. He was heavily in debt, he told me, felt out of control, unable to stop, even though the things he acquired often went unused and certainly didn’t give him the satisfaction he hoped they would.’
‘Did he ever mention how he was getting the money?’
‘No, he was the Chief Operating Officer at the children’s hospital, so I assumed—’
‘Actually, he was just a middle manager.’
‘Right … I didn’t know that,’ the psychiatrist replied, flustered. ‘Well, anyway, I knew he was spending more than he was earning, but he certainly didn’t infer that he was resorting to – to criminal means to finance his lifestyle. If he had, I would have contacted the police immediately. The rules are very clear on that.’
‘And do you have any sense of why he felt compelled to spend in this way, to have the very best of everything, the most fashionable clothes, the most up-to-date phones?’
Once more Blythe hesitated. He was an attractive, articulate young man, whom Helen imagined would have been a very reassuring presence in his smartly designed, pet-friendly office, but today he looked uncertain and ill at ease, uncomfortable sharing the inner workings of his client’s troubled mind, offering up Amar Goj’s soul for inspection.
‘It’s hard to pin it down exactly, but I think, I think that Amar had always used money to earn – no, to buy – respect. It started at school, I believe. He’d steal from his mum’s purse in order to flash the cash with his mates and, later, when he was dating, he’d give his girlfriends lavish gifts, take them to expensive restaurants, drive them around in a hired Mercedes … and it kind of worked. People did seem to like him. He got married, bought a nice house, an expensive car … though I
suspect in his heart he always wondered whether they really liked him.’
‘Or whether they were just in his pay.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What drives something like that?’
‘Chronic lack of self-esteem, basically. Though what the basis of that anxiety was, I’m afraid I never got close to working out. We just didn’t have enough time together.’
‘But you said you were making progress?’
‘Yes. When Amar came to me, he was very depressed, could only dispel his anxiety by spending more, getting deeper and deeper into trouble. We managed to get a grip on that, stabilize the situation.’
‘But he was still in a bad way?’
‘Of course. This was learned behaviour, something he’d been practising since childhood. You must understand that when people make the decision to consult a psychiatrist, they’re often seeking a quick fix. They want you to wave a magic wand and make it all go away. But it doesn’t work like that. Conquering problems of this magnitude takes months, even years of counselling and CBT, supported by medication, help groups, pledge schemes and so on. It’s not an easy ride, it really isn’t, especially if you’re hiding your issues from your family and friends and I’m afraid that – that I barely got past first base with Amar.’
Blythe petered out, the reality of his patient’s death finally sinking in. Helen could see that the psychiatrist was receding into himself now, as the full weight of his responsibility, his failure, made itself felt, so she asked a couple more probing questions, then took her leave. She had what she wanted, a clear picture of the net that had slowly tightened around the unfortunate Amar. She was particularly intrigued by the fact that the NHS manager had sought professional help at around the same time as the hospital announced its internal review of procurement post-Covid. Did the fraudster see the catastrophe that lay down the line? Was he hoping that he could somehow cover his tracks, get a grip on his spending and perhaps start again? It seemed highly likely, but of course they would never know for sure now.
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