“Oh, about five years ago,” Cassandra replied. “She’s been a godsend.”
“How about the other staff? Does anybody else have access to ready cash?”
“I suppose you could say all the heads of the estate have access to some money because Charlotte is signatory on an account to cover the gardeners’ wages and any outsourcing, plant buying and whatnot.”
“What about Dave Quibble?”
“No, I don’t think he has access to an account but he applies to Lionel for whatever funding he needs for specialist conservation of the house and grounds and he usually gets it. Lionel gave him the money so he could hire Alice to do that painting restoration,” she said unhappily.
Ryan listened and thought that it was all fertile ground for an unscrupulous person skimming off the top.
“I suppose you run everything past an accountant?”
“Oh, goodness, yes!” Cassandra laughed as she unlocked one of the desk drawers in her study. “Lionel has a team of accountants he’s been using for years.”
Ryan made a note of the name she gave him, then quickly wrote out a chit for the personal accounts paperwork she handed to him.
“These are the most recent statements,” she told him. “I hope they help you.”
Ryan glanced briefly at the columns of numbers and spotted an amount matching one of the deposits in Victor Swann’s account. With any luck, he could eliminate all those payments made by Cassandra Gilbert so they could focus on the remaining cash deposits and their source.
“Thank you,” he said, turning to leave. “You’ve done the right thing.”
“I feel better already.”
As he turned to leave, she called him back.
“Chief inspector? Do you really think somebody is doing this for money?”
He gave a brief nod.
“Be careful, Cassandra, and remember to lock your door.”
*
Ten miles south of Cragside, Martin Henderson pulled off the motorway and drove along a darkened country road leading to one of the many scattered hamlets comprising the landscape of Northumberland. Nothing stirred in the streets; unusually, there was no village pub and people kept themselves to themselves. On the outskirts of the hamlet there was a large set of electric gates with a video monitoring system. Henderson stopped the car and got out to press the buzzer. The disembodied voice of a security guard came through the microphone and he gave his name, glancing nervously behind him as he did so.
“For God’s sake, open the gates. I can’t hang around out here much longer, someone might see me.”
The gates swished open on well-oiled hinges and Henderson accelerated through.
He followed a driveway consisting of a long avenue of conifers, manicured and primped, leading to an impressive manor house at the end. At one time, it had been home to a family of local landowners but now it was the residence of an even bigger magnate.
Henderson was shown into the house by a dead-eyed security guard who patted him down. It was the same procedure every time and he held his arms out like the docile servant he was.
“Through there,” the man barked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the kitchen.
It was an enormous, gleaming affair with yards of marble countertop and waxed oak. Six stools were arranged around a central island where Henderson’s business partner was perched, chatting to a couple of his minders while he nibbled on a selection of olives. A well-known soap opera played out on the flat screen television mounted to the wall.
“Look what the wind has blown in, lads,” he scoffed when he spotted Henderson lurking in the doorway.
“Good to see you, Bob.”
Bob Singh was in his early thirties, with the glossy looks of a premier league football player and a broad Teesside accent. He might have looked like the boy next door but his mind was a sharply honed tool that had enabled him to become a multi-millionaire by the time he’d reached his thirtieth birthday. Unfortunately, much of his money had been gained through a series of underhand property and drug deals and therefore required expert laundering. The scale of his ventures made it necessary for him to delegate that important task to a handful of carefully screened and selected individuals who shared his love of money and were pleasingly short on morals.
For the time being, Martin Henderson was one of them.
“D’ you want a drink, mate?”
Singh made a big show of making his visitors welcome, even ones he planned to axe the following day.
“No, no, I’m fine,” Henderson lied.
“How about an olive?”
Singh held out the tray of olives and waited until Henderson took one, recognising that the offer had been an exercise in power rather than a desire to be hospitable. He watched while Henderson chewed and forced a Kalamata olive down his gullet. Singh gave him a false, shark-like smile.
“I’ve been a little bit concerned about the state of our venture, Martin, what with the police crawling all over the place. I was very worried when I heard Ryan was the one leading the investigation. Wasn’t I, lads?”
The other men gathered around the island made sounds of agreement, staring at Henderson with vacant eyes.
“Very worried,” Singh emphasized, all pretence of geniality now long gone. “Reassure me, Martin, because I’m thinking seriously about cancelling the terms of our agreement.”
Henderson tasted olive-flavoured bile on his tongue.
“The police don’t have anything,” he said, in the firmest tone he could muster. “I’ve destroyed all the company paperwork and they won’t find anything else.”
“Really? A little birdy tells me that the FIU have been called in. Now, why would the financial investigation unit be involved in a case of accidental death, Martin? And what’s this I hear on the news about it being a murder investigation now?”
“I—I don’t know,” Henderson stammered. “You know what they’re like, always looking for a headline…”
“Shall I tell you what I think, mate? I think somebody did murder those poor buggers up at Cragside and that somebody didn’t really think it through. If they had, they would have considered the fact that a famous detective is living on their fucking doorstep, one who isn’t known for letting things lie.”
“I didn’t—” Henderson started to deny any involvement but was interrupted again.
“Don’t bullshit me, Martin. What about the old couple? They might change their mind about selling the land, if someone should happen to tell them you’re nothing but a little con artist who isn’t above a bit of grubby murder.”
“I gave them references, certificates, everything when I applied for the job.”
“And all of it forged,” Singh gave a short laugh and popped another olive in his mouth. “You know, Martin, I’ve always liked you. The thing is, mate, the art of cleaning dirty money relies on the middle man remaining inconspicuous. You need to be the bloke everybody trusts to manage the estate, so that when you tell them a bit of land needs selling off, they believe you. You need to spend within your legitimate salary, so people don’t start asking questions or generating suspicious activity reports. Are you following me, so far?”