by Marion Todd
‘And he doesn’t have a job,’ Chris said.
‘So where was he suddenly getting all this money?’
Chris was silent as he considered this. Then he said, ‘We’ve not found a bundle of notes like Marek’s, though.’
‘No, that’s true. But look around you. He has some nice things. Pricey things. Maybe Johannes was spending it as fast as he was getting it.’
‘You’re assuming they were both getting money from the same source.’
‘It’s too much of a coincidence, Chris. Marek had a bundle of notes and Johannes a bundle of stuff. So, if they had both found some money-making scheme – what the hell was it?’
Chapter 17
They emerged into the May sunshine. Clare looked at her watch. ‘I need to pick up Johannes’s parents soon.’
‘Want me with you?’
‘No. Can you head back to the station and ask Jim how he got on chasing up the bank and credit card statements for the two lads please? We need them urgently, and the phone records as well.’
‘Sure. Can you just drop me back?’
‘It’s half a mile Chris, if that!’
‘Time is money, Detective Inspector.’
* * *
Clare watched Chris enter the station from the car then she took out her work mobile and called Wendy. ‘How are things?’
‘Oh hi, Clare. All fine here. Pretty dull, to be honest.’
‘Dull is good. No sign of a blue Transit?’
‘I did see one earlier this morning.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Nothing really. The engine stalled and it took a few minutes to get it going. Then it drove away.’
‘Outside the flat?’
‘Almost. Not directly.’
‘Okay. But keep an eye on the street, please. Anything else?’
‘Just a couple of calls.’
‘Eh? Not for Tamsin, surely?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Jesus, Wendy! What’s she playing at? She’s supposed to have that phone switched off.’
‘I know, Clare, I know! I’ve told her. She said she just switched it on to check her Facebook. I pointed out how dangerous that was and now the phone’s sitting out on the table, switched off.’
Clare swore under her breath, then said, ‘Who called her?’
‘She didn’t know. No one spoke. She thought it was maybe one of those computer-generated calls. You know, the ones in the middle of the night and no one’s there?’
Clare was silent for a minute. Then she said, ‘Wendy, if she so much as touches that phone again, you have my permission to stamp on it. Hard. I’ll get onto the Serious Crime guys to find out why it’s not been deactivated.’
‘She’s that important?’
‘Yep.’
‘When’s she in court?’
‘All being well, tomorrow. But I’ll check with the DCI. He has someone in court watching the trial.’
Clare rang off and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then, taking the Alcatel phone with her, she stepped out of the car and went to her usual corner in the car park. She dialled the DCI’s number. The phone rang maybe nine or ten times before he answered.
‘Clare? Sorry, I had someone with me.’
‘It’s fine. Listen, Al, a blue Transit stopped outside the flat this morning. Pretended to have stalled. There for a few minutes then moved on.’
‘Is that it?’
‘No. The stupid eejit’s had her iPhone switched on and, according to Wendy, she had two silent calls.’
There was a pause then the DCI said, ‘She’s what?’
He sounded, Clare thought, as though he was trying to hang on to his temper.
‘That phone should have been deactivated on Friday,’ he went on, his voice rising. ‘And this is, what, Tuesday?’
‘I know—’ Clare said, but he cut across her.
‘I take it that the SOC cop explained this to her?’
‘He did, Al. And, to be honest, I thought she’d taken it on board. I suppose, being without social media for a few days – well, she’s bound to be wondering what folk are saying, about the trial, I mean.’
‘I’ll give her trial,’ the DCI fumed. ‘Look, leave it with me. I’ll get on to Serious Organised Crime and get it disabled immediately.’
‘Thanks, Al. And, if you could drum up another couple of bodies to keep an eye on the flat… she’s due to testify tomorrow and I’m worried they’ll try something tonight.’
‘Leave it with me, Clare. I won’t have that lot messing this operation up.’
‘Thanks, Al.’
Clare ended the call, thinking she wouldn’t like to be in Steve Robins’s shoes, when the DCI caught up with him. She checked her watch and realised the Mullers would be waiting for her at the Kenlybank Hotel and she jumped into the car and roared away.
* * *
Clare was glad to see Neil Grant’s team had managed to make Johannes as presentable as possible. There was no mistaking the dark bruising on his face but the blood had been cleaned off and his eyes closed. Standing at the window, Clare asked them if they were ready and they nodded.
She felt she would never get used to this dreadful process. Johannes’s mother wept quietly, leaning against her husband. He stood, ashen-faced, his back stiff, looking at the body of his only son. He put an arm round his wife and held her close. Clare saw his lips quiver and, once the identification had been confirmed, she withdrew to give them some time together.
The formalities completed, she took them to a nearby hotel where she ordered coffee. They sat in an alcove on high-backed upholstered chairs which seemed to envelop them and Clare thought, not for the first time, how grief could shrink a person. As they stirred sugar into their coffees she studied them. Johannes had been like his father, she thought. The same dark complexion and thick hair. His mother had finer features and her hair was blonde, the odd glint of silver threaded through. They would have made a handsome couple, had they not appeared so withered by their sorrow.
The coffee was strong and gradually the couple became more composed. They asked when they could take their son’s body home, what would happen to his things, his flat…
Clare answered their questions as best she could and, when they seemed to have no more to ask, she said, ‘I wonder if I could ask you about money?’
They exchanged glances then Herr Muller said, ‘Of course. Ask anything you wish, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’ Clare hesitated. ‘How did Johannes support himself?’
‘Oh, his fees were paid,’ Herr Muller said. ‘By the Government, you see. And he had a small grant too from a local charity. To help students study abroad, you know.’
‘Was that all? Did he manage all right? Financially, I mean.’
Johannes’s mother looked at her husband. ‘We helped, where we could,’ she said. ‘Not a lot of course. My husband works in a bank and I help out in a flower shop. But we are not rich, Inspector.’
* * *
As she drove the Mullers back to their hotel, Clare mulled over their words. They were not rich. So how could Johannes suddenly afford to buy a MacBook and designer jeans?
‘Team talk in five,’ she said, as she entered the station. She went to hang up her coat and found Gayle filling the kettle.
‘Time for that run round the table, Clare?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been to the baker and bought a selection of filled rolls.’
Dammit. She had completely forgotten. ‘Oh Gayle, I’m sorry. I’ve just called a team briefing. Could we do it another day?’
Gayle smiled. ‘Don’t worry. Tell you what, take your pick of the rolls and you can buy them next time.’
Clare chose a turkey and cranberry roll and bit into it while she made herself a coffee. Then she carried her makeshift lunch into the incident room and perched on a desk at the front. Gradually both uniform and plain-clothes cops drifted in and, when the last of them had appeared, she began.
‘Right. Thanks everyone and thanks to the o
fficers who joined us from Cupar and Dundee. Your help’s much appreciated.’ She paused for a minute to let the St Andrews cops acknowledge this then went on. ‘Links between Johannes and Marek – what do we have?’
Gillian stood and cleared her throat. ‘They were friends, from school. Both came to St Andrews via modest sponsorship schemes from their local town. They didn’t share flats but students we spoke to said they saw quite a bit of one another.’
Clare nodded. ‘Have you spoken to Marek’s other flatmate? Paul…’
‘Paul Jessop,’ Gillian finished. ‘Yes. Paul said Marek’s a good lad. Good flatmate. No problems at all. Paul himself seems sound. Nothing on the Police National Computer.’
‘Okay,’ Clare said. ‘So we’ve established they were friends. Now, money. Chris and I found over a thousand pounds in used notes, hidden in Marek’s bedroom. By contrast, there was little in the way of cash at Johannes’s flat but his flatmates said he had plenty of money to splash about, especially since Christmas. I’ve spoken to his mum and dad – understandably devastated – and they don’t seem to have much money. So where was Johannes getting it from?’
‘Job?’ someone suggested.
‘Nope. Didn’t have one. And I don’t think it’s drugs either.’ She turned to Chris. ‘Any luck with those bank statements?’
‘Sorry, Clare. Still don’t have them.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, bank being a bit sticky.’
‘I’ll give them sticky. Get right back onto them now and tell them I want those statements by first thing tomorrow, without fail. Remind them this is a murder enquiry and that they are obstructing justice.’
Chris rose from his chair and went to call the bank again.
Clare waited until he had closed the door then went on. ‘Any disagreements between the lads and their friends here? Any problems with tutors?’
Heads shook. Robbie said, ‘Both popular lads. Doing well on their courses.’
‘Okay. So there’s no obvious reason for Johannes to be killed. Except for that money. But we can’t say much about that until we’ve seen details of their finances. So that leaves just one thing: we have to consider the possibility that Marek is responsible for Johannes’s death.’
‘Motive?’ someone asked.
Clare spread her hands. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Lover’s tiff?’ someone else said.
Clare frowned. ‘I’m not sure. Marek was gay but apparently Johannes wasn’t.’
‘Maybe Marek fancied Johannes but got the knock-back,’ Gillian said.
‘It’s possible,’ Clare admitted. ‘But none of the flatmates thought there was anything between them. So, for now, we continue to treat Marek as a person of interest in this enquiry. Finding him is our number one priority. He’s either gone missing because he killed Johannes or he’s frightened he might be next.’
Chris came back into the room. ‘They’ve agreed. Should have them later today or tomorrow first thing, at worst.’
Clare nodded and turned back to the room. ‘Right. Marek’s photo is with the press office and should be on the evening news, earlier if we’re lucky. So I need the phones manned for sightings. If he does turn up, try to get him to come in voluntarily for questioning. Arrest him if you have to but I’d rather not start the clock counting down on how long we can hold him, if we can get him to come in willingly.’
‘What if he’s not the killer, boss?’ Gillian asked.
‘Quite. At this stage we don’t know why he decided to report Johannes missing then changed his mind. He may have fled because he believed he, too, was in danger. So let’s look at recent prison releases, check up on known offenders living in the area. You all know the usual suspects. Anything remotely suspicious, I want to know about it.’
‘Did he have any money on him when he was found?’ Jim asked.
Clare frowned. ‘I can’t remember. Can someone look it up?’
Sara moved to a computer and navigated to the report on Johannes’s body. After a few moments, she said, ‘Black leather wallet, Bank of Scotland debit card, Mastercard, student ID card and forty pounds in notes.’
‘So, robbery wasn’t the motive,’ Clare said. ‘There must be some other reason Johannes was killed.’
‘An assault gone wrong?’ someone asked.
Clare dismissed this. ‘Unlikely. He was killed elsewhere and dumped in the park. It was premeditated and organised so let’s be thorough in checking on anyone with previous.’ She looked round and there were nods and murmurs of assent. ‘Right, that’s it. Thanks, everyone.’
Clare’s phone rang and she glanced at the display. Diane Wallace. She was about to click to take the call when Chris shouted.
‘I’ve got the bank statements for both lads.’
Clare glanced at her phone again and declined the call. If it was urgent, Diane would leave a voicemail. ‘Can you print them off?’ she called to Chris. ‘I’d like to look at a hard copy.’
Minutes later, Clare and Chris sat poring over the credit card statements. Marek’s were unremarkable. A flight home at Christmas, a few purchases from Tiso and other outdoor shops while Johannes’s showed larger purchases – the MacBook, an iPhone and those designer jeans.
‘Pretty much matches what we found in their rooms. Marek watching the pennies, Johannes spending them,’ Clare said. ‘But where are the pennies coming from?’
They moved on to the bank statements. The debit columns showed the usual student stuff. Card payments at Tesco, various pubs and cafes plus regular cash withdrawals. Marek’s statement showed he’d withdrawn four hundred pounds on Friday afternoon.
‘Looks like he was planning to take off,’ Clare said, pointing to the transaction.
‘Half four in the afternoon,’ Chris said. ‘That was after he left the station wasn’t it?’
Clare sat back and pondered this. ‘He had over a thousand pounds in his room, hidden in that boot. Why not take that money?’
‘Maybe he was keeping it for something,’ Chris suggested. ‘Saving it up.’
‘But if you were planning to disappear, Chris, would you not take the money with you?’
‘Yeah, I would. Maybe he went to report Johannes missing, panicked for some reason and decided to get out of St Andrews for a bit.’
‘Which means…’
‘He has to be in the frame for Johannes’s death,’ Chris said. ‘He must be.’
‘Honestly, Chris, I’m not so sure. Why go through the pretence of coming in to report him missing?’
‘To make it look like he wasn’t involved.’
‘But what if he wasn’t? What if he’s gone because he thinks he’s in danger too? Or what if we’re too late?’
‘Dunno.’ Chris yawned. ‘Come on – let’s get this done.’
They returned to their perusal of the bank statements. And then they spotted it.
‘See that?’ Clare said.
‘Yep.’
‘So what do you reckon he was up to?’
Chapter 18
Clare decided to send Nita, a plain-clothes officer from Cupar, round to Johannes’s flat to carry out a more thorough search of his bedroom. ‘Take young Gary with you,’ she said. ‘You’re looking for anything at all to do with money, banks, credit cards – that sort of thing. I’ve a feeling there’s more to his finances than we’ve found out so far.’
That done, Clare made for the front door of the station but she was forestalled by Gayle.
‘Time for a cuppa, Clare?’
Clare flushed. She had been on her way out to the car park to phone the DCI. Had Gayle somehow sensed this? Then she gave herself a shake. She was being ridiculous, letting this hacking business get to her. She smiled at Gayle. ‘Quick one.’
Gayle produced a cafetière and began spooning coffee into it. ‘I hope you like it strong.’
‘I can’t even offer you a biscuit,’ Clare said. ‘They don’t last five minutes in here.’
‘Just as
well I have a secret stash, then.’
They carried their coffees into the small room Gayle was using. She bent to unearth a biscuit tin from beneath her desk and, as she did so, Clare’s eyes went to Gayle’s laptop. The browser was open at a webpage, a photo of a large building across the centre. She was just in time to see the name Cadham Rest. Gayle sat up again and pushed the biscuit tin across the desk to Clare, closing her laptop as she did so. ‘Jaffa Cakes,’ she said. ‘My weak spot.’
Clare found it hard to believe Gayle had any weak spots but she took one of the cakes – or was it a biscuit? – and handed the tin back. ‘How are things—’ She broke off as Gayle tapped the side of her nose.
‘It’s going well, thanks, Clare. I’m making real progress with the comms system.’ And she gave Clare a wink.
Clare wondered what the wink meant. Surely this room – one of her own interview rooms – surely it couldn’t be bugged? Her eyes involuntarily scanned the walls, the ceiling, the floor, for any sign that someone might have planted a microphone but she could see nothing. She racked her brains for how to couch what she wanted to ask. Something noncommittal was needed. ‘Have you made a breakthrough?’ she said.
Gayle sipped her coffee, watching Clare carefully, then she smiled. ‘Oh yes. I think I’m close to sorting out all the issues. With luck, I should be out of your hair by the end of this week.’
Clare wasn’t sure what to think about this. On the one hand she was starting to become paranoid about being overheard. Having to keep Tamsin safe was bad enough without worrying that someone might be eavesdropping on her security arrangements. And then there was the leak itself – what had Gayle found? Was it somehow related to Tamsin’s testimony? Was someone within Police Scotland tipping off the driver of the blue Transit van? Someone in Phil Quinn’s pocket, determined to frighten Tamsin into withdrawing her co-operation? If that was the case then Gayle uncovering the culprit could only be a good thing.