He grimaced. ‘Not quite what I meant.’
‘I know what you meant, and you said it yesterday. I do listen, you know.’ She pushed him onto his back and lay on top of him. ‘I’m in control tonight, big boy.’ She tingled as he caressed her back, then slid slowly down the bed.
Chapter 17
With his bank cheques and the $200K deposit on the credit card, Fowler set to work in Dench’s premises, first pulling responses to the Financial Recovery Limited advertisement. By the time the ads had run their course they had twenty-nine bites from disgruntled investors. Six of the clients were Donaldson’s, eight belonged to Thomas and fifteen to Dench. All sustained losses before the split of the Dench, Thomas & Donaldson partnership. Fowler opened up Dench’s database and located his fifteen file numbers.
A lucky five of them would receive bank cheques for $100,000. One other, Ron Point, a Thomas client, would also be a beneficiary. This would account for six of the seven cheques. Documented records about the payments would help the subsequent police investigation if it got that far.
Fowler tied the bogus organisation to Dench. He copied the ad to Dench’s hard drive, changed the file property details in the registry files to show they originated last year. He password-protected the documents and dug out Dench’s bank statements from another drawer in his filing cabinet. He was looking for cheque numbers that had been cashed for amounts over $750 within the last two months. These represented the cost of the size of the advertisements paid for. He found two at $875.
Using legitimate advertising invoices Dench had already paid, Fowler crafted two false invoices for Financial Recovery Limited, each for $875. On these skilful reproductions he stamped the word ‘paid’ and wrote the cheque number that corresponded to the one shown on the bank statement.
Once he placed the original draft of the settlement letter on the hard drive the false trail was complete. The lucky clients wouldn’t care where the financial recovery firm got the money. As for Titman, he’d have nothing to show for mortgaging his house except a lot of child porn and some gambling charges.
Fowler considered the likelihood of things going wrong with Kent Sligh. There was a slim chance the broker would claim to have been duped, but he faced two problems. First, he had form for this behaviour, and it wouldn’t take too much digging to learn that he’d been on the take before. Then there was his extraordinary fee – difficult to explain if he’d acted in all innocence and had been taken advantage of. No, Sligh had a vested interest in sticking to his guns.
Fowler prepared envelopes for all the bank cheques except one, then started another file showing records of payments made by FRL. He also password-protected this and the written correspondence files. Only a police IT forensic team would be able to discover the contents.
Drinking coffee and drawing in nicotine, he opened his own computer and refocused on Titman. He loved spending money that wasn’t his and grinned at the prospect of Titman’s fall from grace and subsequent financial ruin. The first bet for the day was the anonymous casino in North America. Two thousand dollars on black. Red came in. A good warm-up. For the next three hours he worked his way through different sites, burning $45,000.
Then, a setback. A big bet returned $8000, so his collect meant he was almost back to square one. It was boring and time-consuming work. No doubt the reason why Dench wouldn’t do it himself. Every transaction needed the data entry of the cardholder’s name, the full account number, expiry date and that stupid three-digit security number. Suspicious Dench wanted printed evidence of where the money had gone. Two copies of screen dumps of all the confirmed transactions, one of them for Dench. Too many wins and he’d be there all week.
Fowler needed time out. Now it was time to blacken Titman’s name. His search result for child porn sites disgusted him: sixty thousand options within two seconds. He shook his head. He knew this work was worse for him than for anyone who hadn’t been molested, but he’d said nothing to Dench. The top sites listed would have paid the search engine for their ranking so they’d be the real commercial operations. Every site promised free downloads to capture the sickos. All the worst stuff would need to be paid for. Still, if he got a few downloaded, he could go on and do something else. He couldn’t face the movie clips. Too much, even for his purposes. Besides, they’d take too long to download.
He downloaded hundreds of images, again printing two copies of everything. Taking a break from the porn as it wormed its way down the line, he went back to Dench’s computer and composed the following note to Donaldson, with password protection in place.
Gidday Derek
Thanks for the $20K. Liked the used banknotes touch. Hope you enjoy the material and get a decent margin on it.
The brown envelope wasn’t too obvious?
As previously discussed, it’s important we keep our business to ourselves – keep Titman out of it. There’ll be plenty more opportunities. Here’s a complimentary on the house. Talk again over a few beers soon. This beats finance in a slow market eh?
Best wishes
Jack Dench
PS – Enjoyed the joke about Titman. Once a control freak, always a control freak, eh?
Fowler picked up The People and saw a report that St Peter’s was under threat of closure as its roll decreased. He hated the place, but he knew Titman went there. He rang the school bursar who was orgasmic about the $100K donation and wanted to meet him. Fowler apologised, saying if a donation couldn’t be made anonymously it couldn’t be made at all. He sent one of the bank cheques.
At the end of his second day of industry, Fowler had racked up one hundred and fifty thousand dollars posted to the credit card balance the broker had arranged. It was good progress to show Dench. In addition, FRL had reimbursed $500,000 of investment losses. The bogus company in Australia would get all the credit. After St Peter’s, the seventh and final cheque was held for Ron Point. If everything went according to plan, that one would be special.
Dench returned to his apartment as Fowler was packing up for the day. He was shit-faced, reeking of whisky, but his drunken jollity was better than his sober surliness. He was keen to see progress. Fowler, with gloved hands, had earlier placed an envelope on the corner of the desk with a blank piece of paper inside. To Dench’s inquiry he said, ‘Over there on the corner’, and pointed to the desk.
Fowler studied his employer while the older man picked up the envelope. With his right hand Dench pulled the blank page out and turned it over. ‘This represents your day’s work, you lazy little shit?’
‘Sorry Jack, wrong envelope. Wasn’t thinking. It’s the one on the other side.’ Dench dropped the paper and envelope and picked up the porn portfolio. ‘That’s more like it, lad.’ Pensive, he scratched a cheek. ‘But it looks like it’s going to take you a while to burn through half a mill.’
Chapter 18
‘Goodness me, this must be important for you to be ringing at – 4.15 AM your time, Sash?’ asked Mac.
‘Yep. I can’t bloody sleep with this QC ceremony the day after tomorrow going round and round in my head.’ She maintained a pretence of accepting his assurances that he, along with everyone else, thought she deserved this status. She was still far from convinced. ‘I just wanted to call you and hear your voice and tell you I’ll miss you terribly on Wednesday and…’ At that moment she felt her bottom jaw quiver, the normal timbre of her voice break.
Mac waited a few seconds. ‘Are you still there, Sasha?’
‘Yes.’ Her reply was a couple of octaves higher than normal.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’
‘I will be, Mac, I will be.’ She saved him from composing a sensitive and comforting reply by continuing, ‘It’s tiredness, Mac. It’s Mum, it’s Dad, and it’s you not being here because I’ve impulsively sent you on a wild goose chase.’
‘I’m sorry, Sash, I’d love to be there. It’s a big occasion, I know. I remember my own well. Can I give you some good news, my dear?’
/> ‘Of course. Have you found Michael?’
‘Chalky located a person he’s pretty sure is Michael. He got into his room and…’
‘Oh, you found him?’ Sasha sat upright in bed, sadness, insomnia and thoughts of unworthiness dissolving.
‘Hang on a minute, dear. Chalky tracked him down to a serviced apartment on The Embankment overlooking the Thames. He posed as Michael and told a housemaid who’d just finished servicing the apartment next door that he’d gone out for breakfast but left his card inside. She let him in. Because Michael had been very difficult to track, Chalky was looking for clues about why.’
Multiple identities?’ Sasha asked.
‘Indeed. But somehow the police found out Chalky had gained entry into the room by deception, and that led to his arrest. They dropped the burglary charge when they confirmed Chalky’s story: his history of working with the Met and the legitimacy of our reason for looking for Michael.’
‘Oh Mac, it sounds as though Michael might not be a poor orphan needing to be found and rescued. Why the need to be so elusive?’
‘Chalky surmises Michael’s been a police informant. Of course they wouldn’t confirm that, but he’d know. Given that Chalky’s arrest and custody on deception charges was considerably heavy-handed, they were clearly looking after someone important to them.’
‘Hmm.’ said Sasha. ‘Sounds to me like our attempt to sort out his inheritance might be a lot less important than the needs of the UK police.’
‘I agree, but we’ve started now and I know how much you like to see things through. Chalky can buy a new pre-paid mobile and advise me of the steps to take at minimal risk to himself or me.’
‘What are you planning next?’
‘Not sure yet, but I’ll keep you posted. We’re off to France. Listen, my dear, I hope it all goes well at the ceremony. I know it will, and remember, you deserve this. I think the phrase is a leader among peers. I’ll be thinking about you. Chalky and I will toast your success.’
‘Thanks, Mac. That will bolster me.’
‘Time you resumed your much needed beauty sleep.’
‘Cheeky bugger.’ After putting the phone down she put her head in her hands. Too many nights like this. Maybe Ben’s right.
Chapter 19
At 10.30 AM, Thomas called out, ‘Jenny, any word from Derk?’
‘No. He’s normally here by now. Maybe he had an appointment that wasn’t in his diary.’
By the time she’d finished her sentence Thomas was out at reception, staring into the disorder that was Donaldson’s office. With his back to Jenny he said, ‘Ordinarily I wouldn’t be concerned, but with his ticker playing up.’ He stopped before adding, concern in his voice, ‘I’ve already rung his phones and got no response.’
‘Do you think you should go to his apartment and check if he’s okay?’
‘Well, at least I’ll see if his car is there. He wouldn’t walk far after his last experience. Just take any messages.’
As he drove around the neatly mown grass and autumnal trees of Cranmer Square towards Derk’s apartment, Thomas saw the slim figures of two well-dressed women sitting on a bench, coffee cups in hand. He scowled when he realised that one of them was Stace. At the apartments, Derk’s Kingswood was in the car park but this was more worrying than reassuring. Thomas followed the Avon River to his own place in Park Terrace, grabbed his mate’s key from his bedside table and was back at Donaldson’s place within minutes.
He knocked with real impact. Ear pressed hard to the door.
Nothing. He looked into the peep hole, immediately feeling stupid. Turning the key, he bolted inside, down the stairs, past a partition that screened off the entrance from the living room and straight for Derk’s bedroom.
He was sure the big man would be laid out on his bed. No sign. He called out as he opened the en suite door off the bedroom. Nothing. As he headed for the living room across a narrow hall, he heard the humming sound of Derk’s aging computer, one he’d taken home from the office when they’d upgraded their IT.
As Thomas passed the partition to enter the living room he froze. In front of him was his mate, hanging from the banister that separated the elevated kitchen from the combined dining and living areas, his feet not more than fifteen centimetres off the ground. A small kitchen stool lay on its side about thirty centimetres away from the dangling legs. Thomas attempted to take his mate’s weight off the rope but he knew this was pointless. He was long gone. Losing all strength, he dropped to his knees. That bloody banister. Not six months ago and sick of knocking it over, poor Derk had got someone to weld it onto steel plates bolted to the floor.
A last message? He looked around wildly, then, head pounding, returned to the computer and wiggled the mouse to make the screen came alive. Sorry, Trev. It’s all too much. Thomas shook his head in disbelief, then collapsed into the computer chair, his gaze never leaving those half dozen miserable words of goodbye. His eyes welled. His one true mate, loyal without condition, and yet he’d failed him.
He’d been too absorbed in Dench. Derk had been sympathetic to his domestic troubles and what had he done? Ignored the one little clue he’d given about himself. At least you’ve got a kid.
There could be no mistake. He might’ve missed the signs but Dench had driven his mate to suicide. It’s all too much. Dench was responsible for Derk’s slow and inevitable deterioration, his comfort eating, his weight problems, his heart attacks and poor prognosis – the bloody lot.
Well, this nailed it. Derk’s death had to mean something and it would. Good from bad. The opportunity they’d discussed. A suicide note would defeat his intent. It was a temporary document, hadn’t been saved. Gloves. He went to the kitchen, not liking his odds, but he was in luck. In a cupboard he found an unopened packet of yellow rubber gloves. Back at the computer, he closed the document, clicked ‘No’ to reject saving the file and closed the computer. He wiped away tears on his sleeve.
Thomas scaled the stairs to the kitchen for a knife to cut the rope. No, think ahead. Cutting would show up in a forensic examination. It was a murder weapon. Untie it, secrete it on Dench’s property tonight. It wouldn’t matter that he couldn’t get inside Dench’s house to plant it. It would be a time bomb on the property, waiting to go off.
He manoeuvred the sofa towards the body so that Derk’s legs could be lifted over its high back. This allowed him to take some of the weight off the taut rope and untie it from the banister on the landing. Thomas winced as he heard Derk’s heavy body drop to the floor. After putting the footstool by the TV, he replaced the sofa, taking care to ensure that the small wooden feet were returned to where they had been.
Think like a killer. Think like a cop. Where would Derk be if he’d been strangled?
If Dench had satisfied Derk he was no threat, the big man would have let him in. Always affable, Derk, always wanting to be everyone’s friend. A quick kill, done from behind as Derk led his guest back into the living room. A cowardly attack, befitting scum like Dench.
In the three metres from the apartment door to the first of the landing steps where would he be? He’d have died on the landing with his feet facing the living room and his head facing the door. Shit. Move him up the steps.
Adrenalin coursing through his body, the pain of the temple drum fading. Don’t bugger your back. Bend at the knees. Take his shoes off, reduce the drag. He got behind Donaldson, hooked his arms under his mate and dragged the cold and heavy body to the steps. First step negotiated, then the second, then the third. Two to go to the landing. Fourth step. Sweating. The gym workouts were paying off. On the landing now. Leaning against the wall, or flat and face up? Flat and face up. Shit, was there enough space to open the apartment door and come in? No problem.
He saw drag marks. Vacuum cleaner. Saw it in the laundry a second ago. Just do the back half of the living room and the stairs. No time for anything else except the rope. He slipped this inside his jacket and jogged down the stairs and out to
his car. Opening the boot, he leant right in and surreptitiously let the rope drop.
For the second time in just over a week Thomas called emergency services to Donaldson’s apartment. When asked which service he wanted, he replied, ‘I’ve found my mate dead in his apartment. He’s been strangled. You choose which bloody service is required.’
He was asked to wait until the police arrived. He rehearsed his story. Satisfied, he rang Jenny, telling her of the awful find, how Derk had been strangled and of his suspicions about Dench, adding that he’d threatened to kill them both.
Within five minutes, two constables and two detectives were at the apartment. Thomas recognised Black from the recent visit to his office. Black introduced Hart while the uniforms secured the scene outside. One roped off the landing outside the lift and across the stairwell. Black asked Thomas if he’d made the call. Had he touched anything? No, of course not. Had he touched the body? Definitely not.
Black told him he’d need to give his prints to account for him being at the scene. ‘I’ve been here before, but I’m sure I’ve only used his phone. I didn’t touch anything else today.’
‘Mr Thomas, we’re going to need a full statement from you very soon, but our immediate priorities at the moment are the body and the scene.’
‘It’s Derek, by the way, not just another bloody stiff you have to write up. I know you bastards made the end of his life a misery.’
Black ignored the provocation. ‘I know it’s a shock to find your mate like this. I could arrange for you to see victim support services if that would help.’
‘I’m not the bloody victim here. Talking to a wet hand-wringer isn’t going to bring Derek back, is it? If you want to help me, go and talk to Jack Dench. He’s the bastard that’s done this.’
Black remembered archived records. ‘That the bloke you were in business with a few years ago?’
‘Not completely stupid then are you, Mr Black?’