Dying for Millions (14 page)

‘I believe,' she said slowly, but not hesitantly, ‘that theft is being committed against one of the organisations using the airport.'

God help me – I nearly said, ‘Is that all?' Instead, I pulled myself together. ‘Theft? Why do you think that, Gurjit?' I mustn't sound judgemental, disbelieving.

‘Because the figures don't add up. Incomings versus outgoings.'

‘What scale of theft?'

‘I don't know yet. One or two items per consignment.'

‘Are you sure it isn't just a mistake? That the missing items won't be sent on later?'

She gestured dismissively. ‘The figures suggest – no, I think it's regular. It's fraud. I know how it's being done, but I don't know who's doing it.'

‘Have you told the airport people? Mark Winfield?'

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I – I don't want—'

What didn't she want? To risk having him laugh at her? To risk discovering his guilt? But my imagination was running too fast.

‘Don't want what, Gurjit?'

She swallowed audibly, and fought to control her emotion. ‘Want to make a fool of myself – if I'm wrong. I – Mark—'

‘You value his good opinion of you?' I asked, as gently as I could.

Bending over her shoulder bag to hide her face, she nodded. Oh, dear.

‘What evidence do you have?' I asked, all business-like.

She straightened up again. ‘I didn't want to print it out. Someone might have noticed, or noticed me bringing it out.'

If only my brain would work! Chris – not his area, even if he hadn't been at Bramshill. What about Dave Clarke, an inspector in the Fraud Squad? He was up to his eyes with preparations for a big insider-dealing case; and moreover his eyes always had a predatory gleam when they shone in my direction. Not really enough excuse, if Gurjit was serious – but enough for now.

‘Sophie – couldn't
you
come and look?'

‘Me! I don't know the first thing about accounts!'

‘No, but I know enough to teach you. To explain, at least. Please! You have to come and visit me anyway, to see how I'm getting on. Please!'

I sighed. ‘When are you due in next?'
Please God, don't let it be tonight
.

‘Next week. But Mark said I could go in any time. I thought perhaps tomorrow—'

‘No.' My voice was so emphatic, she looked up, startled. ‘No. If there is anything going on, then it's important to behave as normal.' Almost as an afterthought, I added, ‘So what's being stolen? Booze, cigarettes? The usual high-duty stuff?'

She shook her head. ‘Medicines.'

Before I could summon up any intelligent questions, a scream came ricocheting up the stairwell. Then another. In my book theft gives way to violence: I was hurtling down the stairs before I knew it. Two floors down, there was a pool of blood. It wasn't occupied by anyone, so I supposed that whoever had left it there was walking wounded. There was a trail of bloodspots downwards; I followed it to the eighth floor. Richard's secretary, an imperturbable woman from St Kitt's who was wearing her violet contact lenses as opposed to her turquoise or green ones, was pulling on rubber gloves and looking weary. An Afro-Caribbean lad was clutching a wad of lint to his ear. A distant emergency vehicle was getting closer.

‘What happened?' I asked.

‘I was bloody knifed, Miss, that's what. Fucking Pakis!'

Florence flicked her eyes heavenwards. ‘It may have had something to do with the fact that you bottled him last week. Now sit still and let me look at that properly. The police and ambulance are on their way, Sophie.'

‘It's that bad? Shit!' I said, suddenly realising that I'd shed Gurjit
en route
.

‘Thought you were going to give up swearing for Lent,' Florence said. ‘You were lucky, Earl, it's a very clean cut. Not like what you did to him. Ah!'

I turned; the lift doors opened to reveal the community copper and a couple of paramedics. What really interested me was the suggestive intonation with which the constable told Florence he'd need to talk to her later, and the little flutter of her smile when she agreed. Someone's day was going to become a bit brighter. I grinned, thought briefly of my lunch; but I knew I had to contact Gurjit, and, thanking goodness that it too was on the eighth floor, headed off to the office where the students' records were kept to find where her afternoon class would be. Twelfth floor: and mine was on the thirteenth. No problem. Better to exercise the legs than the blood-pressure. But then I looked at my watch and pressed the up button, and waited. And waited.

‘What's this, Sophie? I thought you always used the stairs,' said Florence, coming up behind me on her way back from the loo. She'd taken the opportunity to put on fresh lipstick, add a little mascara, and spray herself liberally with Tendre Poison.

‘Just thought I'd treat myself,' I said.

‘Well, you'll have to save it for another day.'

‘But the engineers were in earlier! And they'd got them working by break!'

‘And the first one gave up as soon as they left the car park. Together with the one that hadn't been broken in the first place.'

I was late for my class and still hungry. I took a mug of tea in with me but rather drew the line at eating bread, cheese and celery in front of a GCSE group. If I finished the class a couple of minutes early, I might just have time to catch Gurjit and a bite to eat before setting off for the work experience visit.

‘I thought you'd follow me,' I said, running her to ground in the library.

‘I had a class to go to, and it was obvious you might be some time. Have you come to any conclusions about the thefts?'

I shook my head. ‘If you're determined to keep it completely hush-hush, then the only thing we can do is have me visit you on a night you'd normally be there. I can't make it tonight – I've got another visit. Tomorrow's Friday and—'

‘I would be quite happy to work an extra shift,' she said.

‘I sing on Friday evenings,' I said. ‘In a choir. I can't let the other members down.'

That should convince her of the seriousness of my commitment. As it was, I don't suppose anyone would miss a back-row soprano, but I discovered an urgent desire to do something I actually wanted to do, rather than something I ought to be doing. We agreed to fix an appropriate evening soon. She seemed much calmer, as if sharing her anxiety had made it manageable; she even managed a smile. ‘When you've sorted it out,' she said, ‘it would give me great pleasure to invite you to a meal at my home.'

‘That would be delightful,' I said, surprising myself by meaning it.

The staff room at fast. Picking up my lunchbox caused a little avalanche of paper. A couple of pieces of late homework. Richard's marking file – he must have put it down while he took a phone call. A query about a student's coursework. And a note from Ian Dale: would I phone him?

It took so long to get through the police switchboard I had started on my lunch, so I had to ask for him through a mouthful of celery. There was a message: he'd pick me up from college at five. There was something he'd like me to see.

Was there indeed?

I'd never before done such a perfunctory placement visit. But since the forecast threatened snow, and the whole city had the air of imminent disaster, everyone working with an eye on the darkening sky, doubtless the employers were relieved by my praiseworthy efficiency. In any case, everything seemed to be going according to the textbook, so my conscience was relatively clean.

Ian was waiting in the college car park when I got back. He sensibly suggested that we went via Harborne on the way to drop off my car.

‘Via Harborne on the way to where?'

‘Acocks Green, love. There's something you should take a look at.'

He wound his window up and started his engine before I could ask what; he enraged me further by grinning and tapping the side of his nose with his index finger. An impressive spurt of gravel, and he was gone.

A tedious rush-hour journey. Ian was waiting outside my house by the time I got there, and opened his passenger door before I could do more than think about dumping my bag of marking in the hall, so it had to join us in the car, where it huddled ignominiously between my feet. Ian sniffed, and put the car into gear.

‘You'll have to tell me sooner or later,' I said.

‘No. Not a word.' He drove in silence for a mile or more to prove his point.

I maintained an equal silence. Two could play at that game.

The first flakes of snow started to fall. Ian sighed. I sighed. He pulled up at last outside an unpretentious thirties semi, the sort of semi of which Acocks Green is made.

Karen's mother greeted us tearfully, but with the news that Karen had phoned to say she was all right, and would be in touch.

‘Did you let WPC Green know?'

A nod. ‘But I don't know where she is, you see.'

‘Could you hear her clearly?' I asked.

‘Well, she wouldn't be talking from the North Pole!'

I laughed, as if she had made a joke. ‘But there might have been other noises, Mrs Harris. Traffic, or – or something.'

She shook her head.

‘Well,' said Ian, ‘if she does phone again, just see if you can pick up any background. WPC Green's got all the details of her money and bank account and so on? Good. Now, I was just wondering if I could have a quick look at her room again? I wondered if Sophie – you know, her college books …'

I would never have imagined Ian capable of such half-truths. Finding from somewhere a serious yet sympathetic smile, I followed him up the stairs before Mrs Harris could reply.

I would have thought, being Andy's cousin, that I'd seen him in most positions. I would have been profoundly mistaken. Codpiecing for Africa, hadn't he called it? There he was: pouty in tight jeans; out-Springsteening Springsteen; smiling sexily; languishing, ready for some teenager to come and save his life by taking him to bed. There must have been twenty-five or thirty sexy Andys, on doors, walls, wardrobes and even on the ceiling over the bed. A half-naked Andy would be the last thing Karen saw before she went to sleep at night and when she woke up in the morning.

‘I thought you said she wasn't a fan,' said Ian, mildly.

‘She told me it was her mum,' I breathed. One thing was clear: our little Karen was an accomplished liar. The posters went back about five years, though there were a couple of old ones – quite valuable if you happened to be a true devotee. ‘This
is
Karen's room? Not her mum's?'

‘Her mum's is quite an education as well. Tell you what – pretend to go to the bathroom and sneak a look.' Ian dropped his voice conspiratorially.

I raised my hands in mock horror and did as I was told.

I quite like the Bee Gees. OK, I like them a lot. I used to do my fitness routine to their greatest hits before I hit on the more silent Canadian Air Force exercises. But I didn't like them as much as Mrs Harris did, and I don't think I'd have thought of putting portraits of them together to make lampshades and a decorative firescreen. Well, I'd never have thought of making
anything
into a firescreen, to be honest. The only sign of reading matter was a pile of much-thumbed Bee Gees Fan Club newsletters on a bedside table.

There was a stirring down below: the return of Mr Harris, perhaps? While I used the loo, I pondered how he might deal with womenfolk so obsessed. Back to Ian: he'd laid a couple of William Murdock folders on the bed. Her timetable was stuck inside one of them.

‘Why on earth didn't I think of it before? Asking her fellow students where she might be!'

Ian's face produced what might have passed as a smile. ‘Even Stephenson's thought of that. But I have to admit, Sophie, she didn't get much out of them.' He coughed discreetly, and raised his eyebrow a millimetre: Ian, encouraging me to meddle? I could hardly believe it. ‘Maybe someone else … No hurry, of course. But someone who actually knows the kids involved …'

‘What a good idea, Ian,' I said. ‘I wonder if there's anyone on the college staff who might help you?'

I was prowling round the room again. Poor Karen – she'd have died if she knew one of her teachers had invaded her privacy. A couple of blockbuster sex-and-shopping paperbacks; some teen magazines. I leafed through them idly – surely Karen was too old for these? And then I found one for slightly older girls, judging at least by the cover. I flicked it open idly. ‘Remedies for Love.' What the hell –?

It all seemed innocent enough, Herbs and spices. A little cayenne to make him hotter in bed; basil to sweeten his temper; and so on. It was just a silly, glossy magazine. But I wondered; might it be altogether more sinister? Karen had spent a lot of time in that kitchen at the Music Centre: what culinary arts might she have employed to make her man love her?

‘Ian, we have to take this.' I held it up, pointing at the headline.

He came over, peering and then letting out a low whistle. ‘Can't,' he said. ‘Everything has to be done above board, remember?'

‘Can't we ask Mrs Harris's permission?'

‘Are we talking possible evidence here?' he demanded.

‘Maybe only background.'

He wished I hadn't found it, didn't he?

An anxious Mrs Harris was waiting in the hall with a man whom she introduced as ‘Mistrarris. Alan.'

He was a sweet-faced man, with round, rather prominent brown eyes and a smudge of a moustache inadequately concealing an upper lip bullied by the incisors it was supposed to conceal. His lower lip and chin did what they could, but sank chummily into the fold of his neck. He wore a honey coloured sweater and thick beige cords, stretched tight by his stomach.

We all shook hands.

‘You'll find my little girl?'