Murder in the Woods Page 14

  ‘I reckon that’s just for foot passengers, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton turns out his bottom lip; ironically he gives the impression of secretly regretting that they are not using the iconic surface transport.

  ‘That’s some accent she’s got, Guv.’

  Now Skelgill glances sharply at his sergeant – it is enough to convey the unspoken sentiment, referencing pots and kettles – but then again, he has an accent of his own, and – when he chooses – an impenetrable local dialect to go with it, so he skates on thin ice.

  ‘Easy enough to follow – the main thing is, she doesn’t seem to be covering up for Derek Dudley.’

  DS Leyton briefly cocks his head on one side.

  ‘I thought she was a bit tight-lipped when you mentioned money, Guv.’

  Skelgill blinks deliberately a couple of times. They have emerged into bright sunlight on the Birkenhead side of the river. He pulls down the visor.

  ‘People always are, Leyton. And if Dudley’s left a nice little stash, why would she admit it?’

  ‘Right enough he’d be dealing in cash, Guv – black economy and all that – no income tax, no VAT.’

  ‘No money back, no guarantee.’

  They glance briefly at one another – Skelgill is po-faced, but DS Leyton smirks.

  ‘You decided not to mention June Collins, Guv.’

  Skelgill shrugs – perhaps a little evasively.

  ‘Happen I didn’t want to be the one to break the news Dudley was leading a double life.’

  There is a little silence, interrupted by DS Leyton’s satnav, which exhorts them to make a U-turn. He swings lustily into a roundabout, pinning a grimacing Skelgill to the inside of the door.

  ‘Maybe triple, Guv.’

  It seems Skelgill has considered this possibility.

  ‘He’ll be running short of names.’

  ‘I was thinking “Emlyn Alun”, Guv – those middle names make a decent enough moniker. I used to have a sergeant down the Smoke called Dave Allen, laugh a minute, he was.’

  Skelgill makes a scoffing sound.

  ‘You’ve been doing too many crosswords, Leyton.’

  ‘No fear – that’s DS Jones’s department.’

  Skelgill falls silent. The mention of her name perhaps kindles a train of thought. Upon leaving Teresa Dudley they had contacted the Liverpool police – sure enough she had reported her husband absent in November, and missing person checks had been conducted. Since there was no reason to suspect foul play, only the basic protocol had been followed; Derek Dudley was sitting on file, on some back burner, with a quarter of a million others. Skelgill’s idea is that they may be able to trace him from one of the jobs he has performed – logically, the most recent – by interrogating the dozen or so lever-arch folders they have taken into custody from his box-room office. At first glance, Teresa Dudley’s assertion that her spouse is a housebuilder appears to stack up. But Skelgill does not relish the prospect of trawling through the indecipherable paperwork. DS Leyton is evidently thinking along similar lines.

  ‘I reckon she’d find Lord Lucan, if they put her onto it, Guv.’

  He refers to DS Jones’s capability to devour and digest written evidence. But Skelgill, somewhat irrationally, seems to bridle at this suggestion.

  ‘I’d settle for finding Rose, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton nods obligingly.

  ‘Derek Dudley would do for starters, Guv. Reckon we ought to put together more of a profile on him?’

  Now Skelgill’s expression is distinctly scathing.

  ‘Leyton – we’re trying to eliminate him from our inquiries, not write his biography.’

  DS Leyton looks crestfallen – but at this moment the satnav interjects with news that their destination is ahead on the left, and in Skelgill’s reaction to this information DS Leyton recognises a stiffening of his superior’s resolve, and a renewed focus that is borne out by his words.

  ‘I’m more interested in what this lot might tell us.’

  *

  She’s early for a Thursday. Marvin checks his notebook. Yes, Thursdays she’s normally afternoons. Suzie. Well, Suzanne, he knows for sure – he’s seen her name on an opened envelope left on the dashboard of her car. Address, too. Suzanne Symington, big house at Thornthwaite. But surely she’s Suzie when the lights are low? It’s more intimate. Just like her stretches. They all wear these tight yoga pants nowadays – even some of the female dog walkers in the park beside the lake. Do they go to exercise class afterwards – or do they just like to pretend they keep fit? He’s seen some of them at the leisure centre at Penrith, through the plate glass, it’s one-way after dark, and they all admire their reflections.

  Suzie’s a regular – here on Harterhow and at the gym. And now she’s going through her familiar routine. Marvin lowers his binoculars. The best bit is just coming. He pulls his camera from a pocket of his gilet. Remarkable the power of the zoom. Quite artistic, the close-ups you can achieve: the female anatomy at fifty yards. The sleek fabric is like a second skin. Rarely much worn beneath. May as well take a few shots – might get something better than before.

  *

  ‘It was more of a buy-in than a buy-out, Inspector.’

  ‘How does that differ, sir?’

  ‘Well – same principle as an MBO – you pay for the business with the intention to take over and run it yourselves – except you’re from the outside, rather than having been existing employees.’

  Skelgill rubs the stubble on his chin and wonders whether it is one or two or more days old. The action must make him appear suspicious of the answer – and after all, they are the police – for the younger man opposite he and DS Leyton volunteers supplementary information.

  ‘It’s quite likely Marvin would have described it as a management buy-out – it’s common parlance, and people more easily get the idea.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘So what was the attraction?’

  Now the man glances about somewhat guilelessly – like a homeowner trying to remember just what it was that appealed to them about the property, all those years back. They have come to a converted red-brick warehouse, hoisted three floors in an original clanking goods elevator, to a meeting room overlooking the Mersey. The large space is bright and airy; there are long picture windows, comfortable modern sofas, a pool table, a beer fridge, a traditional pub jukebox and a gigantic wall-mounted flat-screen TV that plays a muted music channel. The man himself – introduced as one of three owner-Directors – sports a trendy asymmetrically shaved haircut, a finely knitted navy merino sweater and drainpipe jeans and fashionable leather trainers.

  ‘The business was a good fit with our own. We were exclusively web design – it’s given us an advertising arm – now we can offer the whole package, from origination through to execution.’

  Skelgill appears unmoved by the mild jargon.

  ‘Couldn’t you have done that yourselves?’

  The man responds with a thoughtful sequence of nods, their amplitude descending – as if to demonstrate that he thinks this is a wise question.

  ‘In some circumstances, undoubtedly, Inspector. But the local market was already crowded. MMA – that’s Marvin Morgan Associates – was an established player – it would have been a slow road to growth to compete against them. And there was a further strategic reason – their biggest client, and ours – was and still is the Local Authority. It’s not easy to get on the government roster, but once you do there’s a long-term source of regular income. We’d be dealing with the same clients – and because they already knew us well, they endorsed the takeover and committed to continue to work with us on the advertising side – better for them, a one-stop shop and they didn’t need to go through the whole due diligence process.’ He draws his hands carefully back over the crown of his head, as if subconsciously checking all facets of the hairdo are in place. ‘In one fell swoop it eliminated the biggest risk of buying a marketing agency – that the clients all jump ship and you’re l
eft with a rusting hulk.’

  Turning his head Skelgill gazes across the grey Mersey, as if he is seeking floating evidence of this metaphor. But right now craft are few and far between, and his gaze drifts to the Liverpool skyline, where the twin towers of the Royal Liver Building, once perhaps more salient, are absorbed into a disharmonious modern cityscape that grates upon his countryman’s eye.

  ‘So how well did you know Mr Morgan, sir?’

  The man tilts his head to one side and briefly closes his eyes.

  ‘Not especially well – of course, his reputation went before him – everyone in advertising on Merseyside knew of MMA – won every award going, twice over – but Marvin’s was the generation before ours. He made his name back in the Eighties and Nineties when direct marketing was all the rage. We’re basically a digital agency, born of this century.’

  ‘So he was keen to get out, would you say, sir?’

  ‘I guess he felt he’d served his time. He’d achieved the status of industry grandee. And there’s no denying that the age profile in advertising is skewed towards the younger end of the spectrum. I remember Marvin talking about striking off into the sunset – that he’d got a little bolthole up in the Lakes.’ His voice momentarily trails off. ‘I guess that’s where you guys come in?’

  The question is intended to be conversational rather than prying – though the man must be wondering what is their purpose – beyond what they said in their bland introduction about conducting a background check on Marvin Morgan – there being nothing for them to worry about. However, Skelgill is not about to dispense gratuitous detail where none is needed.

  ‘It’s what – five years since you took over, sir?’ The Director nods and inhales to reply, but Skelgill continues quickly. ‘Is there anyone here who did work with Mr Morgan?’

  The man now begins to shake his head – but then he clicks his fingers, and frowns in self-reproach.

  ‘I was just thinking of Creative and Client Services. There’s Loz – of course – in Accounts.’

  ‘Loz?’

  ‘Lorraine Debitson – she was Marvin’s admin assistant – we kept her on – she just works mornings.’

  ‘Is she here now, sir?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her myself – but we lock her away in a little garret – like Rapunzel.’

  *

  Skelgill has in mind how Rapunzel might look – though he would struggle to recall when such an image became burned upon his memory. But, in any event, Lorraine Debitson is not it. Her hair is short and grizzled and cut in the style of a female judge who is habitually required to wear a wig. She is of average height, but decidedly thin, and rather arthritic in her movements for a woman of only 50; Skelgill watches with a little alarm as she stalks across the meeting room to shake his hand, before starchily accepting a seat as directed. He is alone with her, DS Leyton having been chaperoned by the young Director to a spare office from where he may make some essential telephone calls. The woman does not willingly meet his gaze, and Skelgill is left wondering if this is just her regular manner, or whether some history underscores the caginess. Either way, he is provoked into a moment of devilment.

  ‘Madam, if I said to you I believe Mr Morgan may have committed a serious crime – what would you expect that to be?’

  Now she does glance at him sharply. In her eyes is the look of a frightened animal, deprived of a means of escape. Is this a reflex – self-preservation – or loyalty to her former employer? And yet, though Skelgill’s opening question is leading to the point of being out of order, she surprises him with a straight answer.

  ‘Fraud.’

  Skelgill regards at her intently. He wants to know if this reply reflects some belief or basis in fact, and is not just a convenient retort. But she has averted her eyes, to render any reading of her feelings more difficult. He notes, however, that her Merseyside accent, which might naturally produce a questioning intonation, is decidedly flat. She says “fraud” less as a suggestion and more as a statement. Interesting, too, is that she decisively plumps for this white-collar genre of crime – when a more predictable reaction might be to throw up her hands in dismay at the very idea that her erstwhile boss is a criminal. Skelgill waits a short while before responding.

  ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Fifteen years.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘So that’s what – five years since the management buy-out – and ten years before that, when it was called MMA?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And the new business is doing well?’

  She nods, a little apprehensively now.

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Skelgill assumes an ironic – though affable – tone of voice.

  ‘Aren’t you the accountant?’

  ‘Bookkeeper.’

  ‘And there’s a difference?’

  She seems more comfortable with this line of questioning.

  ‘Profitability is above my salary grade. I just process the admin – make sure we pay bills on time, that our invoices are paid – allocate expenses to the correct jobs – complete the quarterly VAT returns. One of the Directors uses my reports to produce the management accounts for the Board. We have a firm of Chartered Accountants that conducts the audit and prepares the statutory accounts.’

  Skelgill spreads his palms in an appeal to her superior knowledge.

  ‘So what would be an obvious fraud?’

  ‘I should say the CAs are the best people to ask.’

  Skelgill leans forward and rests an arm across one knee. ‘But if you were going to... let’s say, write a crime novel – and there was a crooked employee?’

  The semblance of a smile turns up the corners of her thin-lipped mouth. Skelgill wonders if she is what a typical reader of whodunits looks like. Certainly the idea of unpicking a devious plot might appeal to her orderly and perhaps righteous mind.

  ‘Well – VAT is the commonest type of fraud. You charge VAT to your clients and then don’t declare it on your return. That’s 20% instant extra profit. But it would be easy to detect.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you have to send invoices that detail the tax to your customers. The VAT inspector would gain access to them and want to know why you haven’t remitted the appropriate balance after deducting your own VAT outgoings.’

  ‘But the VAT’s your job – so we can rule that one out.’

  Her body language hints at a further small incremental warming to him.

  ‘Then perhaps more likely would be to charge a customer for a service you didn’t provide.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they notice?’

  Skelgill’s expression is blatantly ingenuous, and now she grins.

  ‘You might be surprised, Inspector, if the number of times we’ve been paid twice for the same invoice is anything to go by. But that isn’t what I mean. I’m talking about when they do notice – that they are party to the deception.’

  ‘An insider?’

  She nods.

  ‘That’s why big organisations need robust internal auditing procedures. When employees are entrusted to spend large sums of company money, you need to know that someone hasn’t passed an artificially inflated invoice and received a kickback from the supplier.’

  ‘Would you spot that – here?’

  Quite guilelessly she shakes her head.

  ‘I have no idea whether the invoices I process are correctly priced. We sell advertising campaigns – and no two are ever the same – from a few thousand pounds up into the millions. The Client Services teams price up the work.’

  ‘Any reason to believe it has occurred – in the past?’

  ‘No – no reason.’

  Skelgill rises from his seat and ambles across to the windows. The room is at one corner of the building, facing east over the Mersey and its other windows looking north towards a seven-story residential apartment block. There is a paramilitary-style rubber-armoured telescope on a tripod, pointing across the water. S
kelgill digs his hands into his pockets and casually lowers his left eye onto the eyepiece, which is angled at 45 degrees for the comfort of the user. The optical device is trained upon the area of the Pier Head, the huddle of grand old Edwardian buildings known as The Three Graces (though this classical allusion can only be a demonstration of Scouse humour). Still gazing through the scope, he speaks.

  ‘He’s a bit of a twitcher, your ex-boss.’

  He stands upright and flexes his spine, exerting pressure with his knuckles into the small of his back. Now he returns gingerly to the arrangement of crescent-shaped sofas that encircle a round coffee table. Lorraine Debitson appears somewhat reluctant to comment; she sits stiffly, with her hands clasped upon the knees of her crinoline trouser suit. Skelgill resumes his position but still does not speak; eventually the silent treatment tells and she volunteers some information.

  ‘He left the telescope to the new merged company. He used this room as his office as well as for meetings. A lot of visitors liked to look through it. Some of the clients from the council would tease him that they could see right into their building – and that Mr Morgan must be spying on them.’

  Skelgill nods. He has just experienced the phenomenon – the magnetism of a telescope, its promise of a window upon some secret world.

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘Oh – he just joked about it. He kept a bird list taped on the window – of the different species he spotted each month. One or two of them were quite interested in that.’

  Skelgill raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘Is there much to see out there?’

  ‘I believe the Mersey estuary is important for birds in winter. I think it was called a Shelduck that Mr Morgan would tell people about – that there are more here than anywhere else in Britain.’

  ‘Must be a lot of shells.’

  Skelgill’s remark is patently fatuous, and the older woman regards him good-naturedly, as a schoolmistress might a former pupil.

  ‘I suppose there must, Inspector.’