Fatal Legacy (10 page)

Pendlebury was waiting for them, gowned and ready, beside the body of Arthur Fish, which was lying face up on a steel table. He nodded at them both as they walked in but said nothing. Really, thought Cooper, his moods are worse than ever.

Pendlebury started dictating his external examination of the body, then undressed it and place the clothes into sterile plastic bags for forensic examination.

‘Apart from recent scalds to his left hand there are no other signs of violence on the body except for these stab wounds’ – he read out precise measurements of the injuries. ‘Three wounds, same blade. The first two weren’t fatal, he bled from both for a short while. The third looks to be at the right angle and with sufficient force – see here, the faint bruise of the butt of the knife – to have reached his heart. It was a narrow, sharp blade; from the shape of the wound it could have been a flick knife or something similar. I’ll be able to tell you more about the weapon after I’ve looked inside.’

Cooper swallowed hard.

‘There’s a substance under his fingernails and around his groin – I’ve sent samples to the lab. It smells like some sort of powder – here.’ Pendlebury lifted one of the dead man’s hands up for them to sniff. Cooper caught a trace of Johnson’s baby lotion that took him right back to bathing his baby daughter all those years ago, and was angry that such a wonderful memory should now be tainted forever.

‘It’s baby lotion, Doctor. I recognise the smell.’

‘He’d had sex shortly before his death and had used a prophylactic. He hadn’t washed afterwards, and we’ve got plenty of trace evidence.’

‘But why baby lotion?’ Cooper was struggling to find the relevance. Fenwick and Pendlebury exchanged a look, and the pathologist carried on.

‘Let’s turn him over – Ken, thank you.’ His assistant rolled the body on to its flabby stomach with practised ease and then straightened the limbs.

‘Now, take a look at this.’ Long red welts stretched across Fish’s buttocks and lower back. ‘A cane, I think, certainly not a belt or whip. Probably done a matter of hours before his death.’

‘Sado-masochism?’

‘You tell me, but I couldn’t disagree with the conclusion.’

He inspected the rest of the back and limbs, lifting flecks of towelling and lint from the skin and hair, then asked for the body to be turned over again.

Without further preamble he started with a strong Y-shaped incision, his dry commentary recorded by the overhead
microphone
. The suddenness with which the taut grey skin sprang back from beneath the scalpel made Cooper choke. The
microthin
layer popped open, allowing subcutaneous fat to expand. Fish had been unfit and had carried at least an extra twenty pounds, and that layer of fat suddenly became the most prominent part of him.

Cooper glanced down at his own comfortable paunch and felt the acid remains of his toast and marmalade scald the back of his throat. He coughed loudly and blew his nose. Fenwick appeared unmoved, although it was always hard to tell. Unlike Cooper, he was able to keep any trace of what he was really thinking from showing on his face. He watched now as Pendlebury carefully removed and weighed each internal organ. All appeared relatively healthy given the man’s age, with no trace of heart disease despite the obvious lack of exercise and excess weight. Pendlebury pointed out the death wound to the heart and gave them the blade length and width.

Fenwick and Cooper waited patiently as the pathologist removed and weighed the brain, but there was nothing more for them to learn, and they left as the body was being sewn up. Outside, in the car park, Fenwick paused to lean across the roof of their car.

‘I want the relevant divisions on the coast informed of this death. I know it’s jumping the gun, but Brighton or somewhere close is the most likely source of whatever sex it was that poor bloke was buying. I’ll lay money on the fact that it’s where he
visited last night. It would be far enough away and busy enough for him to feel anonymous.’

‘Do you think there’s a connection between the sex and the murder?’

Fenwick paused, then shook his head slowly. ‘It’s a possibility, but why wait until he’s on the train?’

‘Just a mugging gone wrong, then?’

Fenwick looked at the sergeant in exasperation.

‘So why do we have his wallet, complete with credit cards? No, that doesn’t make sense either. It doesn’t feel like a random crime, and yet it’s too callous and casual to be premeditated. I’m not jumping to any conclusions; we’ll have to wait and see what today brings.’

Fenwick was studying the contents of Arthur Fish’s wallet when Cooper tapped on his office door and walked in.

‘Ready, sir?’

‘In just a sec. Sit down. What do you make of this?’

Cooper eyed the angular visitor’s chair in Fenwick’s office with something approaching hatred but moved to obey. The DCI held out a small silver key for his inspection.

‘For a padlock or a suitcase? Where’d it come from?’

‘It was in the lining of Fish’s wallet, tucked away. There’s a reference number on it. Get it checked out, would you, and we’ll keep it quiet for the time being. Any news from the railway yet?’

Cooper shook his head. ‘Nothing. This evening will be more likely, but so far there’s no clue at all as to whom did this or why.’

Fenwick’s poker face carefully blocked out his reaction to his sergeant’s appalling grammar as he stood up and threw Cooper his set of car keys.

‘You drive. I need to think.’

It would be a silent journey.

Wainwright Enterprises had five offices in the UK, but none so grand as their head office, on the outskirts of Harlden. It was the landmark building in a development four miles from the town centre. Five storeys of dark blue tinted glass set in brilliant steel frames towered above a landscaped park like a
contemporary
ziggurat. The development occupied a natural rise, and Wainwright Enterprises had built on the summit, assuming an automatic authority much as it had done over the county’s commercial life. Stepped fountains and sculpted shrubs covered
the slope of the hill, cleverly concealing a functional car park to the rear of the building. Cooper chose one of the few visitors’ spaces and parked neatly but with considerable puffing and effort. His bulk made three-point turns an effort, even with power steering, and his habitual tweed jacket restricted his manoeuvrability as he twisted and turned in the driver’s seat. When he had finally finished and switched off the engine, Fenwick broke the silence.

‘Wainwright’s again. It seems strange that two senior
executives
– the managing director and now the financial controller – should have died within a few months of each other.’

‘Accidents usually happen in threes, sir. Who do you think will be next?’

Fenwick didn’t like that thought at all, and continued with his original theme.

‘You have to admit that this is a bizarre coincidence.’ He slammed the door shut. ‘And I have a deep distrust of
coincidences
.’

They were escorted from the reception area to a small meeting room dominated by a circular cherrywood table, where they were served fresh coffee.

The finance director, Neil Yarrell, arrived a few minutes later. A slim man of average height, he looked much younger than they had expected, no more than thirty-five. He offered them a perfectly manicured hand to shake and Fenwick
recognised
discreet Italian tailoring in his suit and tie.

‘Chief Inspector Fenwick, good morning. I’m sorry I kept you waiting but I was just on the phone to the Assistant Chief Constable. You’re here about Arthur Fish. Terrible business.’

Fenwick introduced Cooper, who promptly took out his notebook.

‘Extraordinary! In this day and age you still use paper.’

Cooper raised his eyebrows in surprise. Was the man deliberately trying to be rude?

‘It works, sir.’

‘I’m sure it does, but it’s still fascinating. Right, what can I tell you?’

‘Everything you can about Mr Fish, starting with his employment here.’

‘Well, I hope you’ve got plenty of time – and paper, Sergeant. He’d been here nearly thirty years.’

‘Sight of his personnel file will be sufficient for the background, sir. If you could perhaps describe his role and responsibilities?’

‘He was the company’s financial controller, which means he dealt with management accounts, internal controls and so on.’

‘And how does that vary from your role as finance director?’

‘I tend to focus on strategic developments, capital funding, shareholder relations – more up and out than inwards and down, if you understand my meaning.’

Yarrell went on to describe Fish’s job at monotonous length. Cooper found it hard to take notes, as there was no way of knowing which aspects were relevant and which just so much detail. At the end of ten minutes Fenwick moved the
conversation
along.

‘What was his mood recently?’

‘Fine. Same as usual.’

‘He didn’t seem troubled or preoccupied?’

‘No. He was naturally a bit of a worrier, but I like that in a financial controller.’

‘How about his personal life?’

‘His wife, you mean? Well, that was very sad. We were all terribly upset when she became ill. It would’ve been a blessing to poor Arthur if she’d gone, quite honestly.’

It was all said by rote, with a callous disregard that betrayed a complete lack of true sympathy for his late colleague. Fenwick could feel his dislike growing for Neil Yarrell. At the end of half an hour he called the interview to a close. They had learnt nothing of relevance. Yarrell promised to send the personnel file to them and agreed to arrange for the finance staff to come down one at a time for questioning.

There were seven staff in all, including Fish’s secretary. By the time they’d finished seeing the third, Fenwick was utterly exasperated.

‘Nothing!’ he exploded. ‘Not a damned thing. Each one of them is prepared to swear that Fish was a nice, quiet bloke, decent to work for, never got angry or upset. They’ve no gossip about him or the rest of the place, and not a bad word to say
about anybody. And nobody knows a thing about faculty meetings.’

‘Well, perhaps it’s just a decent place to work. It does have an excellent reputation.’

‘No, Cooper, they all seem word-perfect to me. It’s as if they’ve been primed before they saw us. When we leave here, find out if he was a chartered or certified accountant, and whether either of those august bodies holds faculty meetings he attended. If not, I think we can conclude that they were his cover story for his visits to prostitutes.’

Cooper nodded and left to usher in the fourth member of staff to be interviewed. The questioning went quickly and predictably, as it did with the fifth and sixth members of the finance department. The last person to arrive was Fish’s secretary, Joan Dwight. In her fifties, already tearful and upset, she looked a little more promising than the others. She’d just sat down when Yarrell tapped on the door and beckoned Fenwick outside.

‘Is it really necessary to see Mrs Dwight?’ he whispered. ‘She’s really terribly upset.’

‘It’s relevant to see everyone who knew Mr Fish.’

‘Yes, but she won’t be able to tell you anything – she’s not that bright. I can’t think that she’ll help you in any way.’

‘Nevertheless, if you’ll excuse me …’ Fenwick turned his back on the man and closed the conference room door behind him.

Mrs Dwight was indeed tearful and distraught, and it required considerable patience to coax her story from her. It was basically the same as all the others, but this time at least they gained an insight into Arthur Fish’s working life.

‘He was very regular in all his habits. He arrived at a little before eight fifteen every day and liked the first half-hour to himself. I’d always be in just before nine, make the coffee and open the post. Then he did his dictation.’

‘Did you take shorthand?’

‘Sometimes, for short pieces, but a few years ago he started to use one of those dictaphone things and I just had to get used to it. Here,’ she leant forward and wagged a soggy tissue at Fenwick in emphasis, ‘this’ll show you just what a kind
man he was. I used to get in a terrible muddle with his tapes, could never remember which ones I’d typed. I used to erase new ones and retype the old ones – I was all over the place. Then Mr Fish worked out a system just for me. We always have ten of those little cassettes on the go, each one numbered, and he’d keep a list of them for me, showing which one I should be working on at any time. We had no more problems after that.’

Fenwick marvelled at the patience of a man who could cope with this sweet but muddle-headed dinosaur, but she had obviously been devoted to him and was desperately loyal.

‘So did he seem upset at all recently?’

She looked down at her lap and twisted the soggy tissue.

‘No,’ she said hesitantly, ‘same as usual. Although he’d been working very long hours over the past few weeks, and I know, although he never told me as much, of course, that things had got worse at home.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, little ways. He always used to keep the door between his office and mine open, unless he had a meeting, of course, but he’d taken to closing it recently.’

‘And this had been going on for how long?’

‘A few weeks or so. And just last night, before he went off to his faculty meeting, he closed his door so that he could do a whole load of dictation.’ Her face suddenly showed shock. ‘Oh, I must do that, of course I must. He did a full tape’s worth, I know, because I’ve only got numbers one to nine in my rack upstairs.’

‘And he showed no signs of being upset or different in any way?’

‘Well, no.’ Joan shook her tightly permed head emphatically. ‘I’d have known.’ She pursed her lips.

Cooper asked his first question, gently, in his soft local Sussex voice.

‘Have you ever known him out of sorts, Mrs Dwight?’

Tears flooded her eyes again and her face was washed in a pink wave of colour. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘A little bit just recently,’ she whispered. ‘I think his wife’s illness had finally worn him down. Normally he’d never even so
much as raise his voice to me but he shouted at me last week, really shouted!’

‘And you think it was because of the situation at home?’

‘Well, what else could it have been? I know that he and the new managing director never really saw eye to eye, but why should that upset him?’

Mrs Dwight suddenly realised what she had said and was obviously regretting her words. Fenwick could tell she was about to close up on them.

‘Sergeant, might I have a brief word outside?’

Mrs Dwight butted in. ‘I really should be getting back now, I’ll be missed. And there’s that tape to see to.’

‘Please give us a few more moments. We won’t be long.’

Fenwick and Cooper stepped outside and Fenwick leant close to the sergeant’s ear.

‘Why don’t you take it from here? I’m a little too much the figure of authority to get any more, and she’s done her respectful bit now. Mentally she’s decided she’s given us more than her due. Ask her to show you the way to the canteen and then invite her for a cuppa.’

As Cooper slipped back into the meeting room, Fenwick decided to go and find the new managing director of Wainwright Enterprises. Behind him he heard the sergeant complimenting Mrs Dwight on her cardigan, and they were into a conversation about his wife’s knitting before the lift door closed behind him.

Fenwick walked the long corridor from their conference room, curious to find out more about Wainwright’s. He quickly completed his inspection of the ground floor. It contained only meeting rooms, the post room, access to the delivery yard and a small staff rest room. As he walked towards the lifts, the
ever-vigilant
receptionist called out to him.

‘Can I help you?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To have a look around.’

‘We really prefer our visitors to stay on this floor. The office layout is very confusing.’

‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry.’

A bell announced the imminent arrival of the lift, and the receptionist grew agitated.

‘Really, sir, visitors are to stay on this floor.’

‘I’m not a visitor,’ he said, and stepped into the lift. Technically he shouldn’t be doing this. He had no warrant, no powers of search, but he didn’t want to give senior management any warning that he was on his way. It was already nearly midday and he wanted to catch them before they left for lunch.

There was no guide in the lift as to what happened on each floor, so Fenwick pressed all the buttons with the intention of holding the lift as he quickly stepped out to check. The first and second floors contained quiet rows of small offices, none large enough to belong to the managing director. On the third and fourth floors, groups of people in suits worked or talked in low voices in a spacious open-plan office.

The top floor was noticeably smaller than the rest, and Fenwick emerged from the lift on to thick carpet in a panelled lobby. Heavy mahogany doors stood open to his right, through which he could make out a large empty desk with a PC to one side. He turned towards it.

The surface of the desk was immaculate. A half-used shorthand pad lay open beside the computer, with about a dozen letters ready for signing arranged over the mahogany top. Apart from a leatherbound diary, that was all that the desk contained. Fenwick thought about the state of his own secretary’s desk and marvelled at the contrast. This person was either the height of efficiency or vastly underworked.

There were two more desks opposite, both cluttered but unmanned, and two offices, doors closed, completed the scene. Fenwick glanced down at the letters and started to read one without meaning to.

‘Can I help you?’

The voice was cultured but sharp and he found himself blushing like a naughty schoolboy. He turned around to face his accuser, to be confronted by a beautiful blonde of no more than twenty-seven or eight. She was taking off a coat under which she was wearing a tailored black suit and pale pink blouse that showed off her figure. Her hair was pulled back from an oval face with a perfect English rose complexion. The eyes
had a slight Asian tilt and the full mouth had been painted in a way that invited kisses. She had set down a full jug of fresh coffee on the desk.

‘Yes, I’m with Harlden police, Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick.’ He showed her his warrant card. ‘As a matter of interest, who answers the phone on this floor?’

‘Voicemail, with a divert to the operator for urgent messages. It’s cheaper than having secretarial cover.’