Gift Wrapped (19 page)

F.W. ‘So ... if we leave about now we'll arrive at the river at the beginning of the lull?'

S.W. ‘Yes. But don't get anxious ... calm down. We'll leave in a few minutes. It's time for another coffee, then we'll go down to the river.'

Upon leaving the café, the two women, as if in a practised manner, fell quickly into step with each other as they walked side by side, commencing up a route which would take them past the library, past the covered market and into Queensgate, where they would follow the curved road as it went down towards the canalized river. They both wore cream-coloured, three-quarter length, lightweight raincoats and carried a shopping bag between them in which, dear reader, was the typewriter. Upon reaching a bridge over the river which was but a few feet beneath them and, after glancing in either direction and without a word being spoken, when there was a convenient gap in the passing traffic, they tipped up the shopping bag so that the typewriter, which was of the small, portable variety, fell into the river, making a small splash and disappearing from sight amid the thick, green weeds.

F.W. ‘Huddersfield is a useful place for us to meet like this, in this manner.'

S.W. ‘Very useful So pleased you suggested it.'

F.W. ‘We are not known here and it's a pleasant town to visit on top of it all.'

S.W. ‘No, no, we are not known at all.'

F.W. ‘I am relieved we have got rid of the typewriter. Very relieved indeed. It was weighing on my mind.'

S.W. ‘Yes, less of a worry now. No worry at all, in fact.'

F.W. ‘Indeed. Well, it's home for me.'

S.W. ‘And it's home to hubby for me.'
Without a further word spoken the two women turned and walked away from each other. Neither gave a backwards glance.

‘Scarborough?' Clarence Bellingham stroked his chin and seemed to Ventnor and Webster to be pondering an issue. ‘Well,' he said at length, ‘I think we can let you look at our files, or rather James Wenlock's files. In the circumstances I don't think that we will require a court order compelling us to do so. A murder inquiry, a murder of one of ours, and the fact that any private information about a client's finances will be at least ten years old ... no ... I don't think the partners will object to me allowing you access.'

‘That is very good of you, sir, we appreciate your cooperation.' Ventnor inclined his head. ‘We would only be looking for a connection with the town of Scarborough.'

‘Or perhaps even a client of that name,' Webster added, ‘if you know of one?'

‘Well, I certainly don't ...' Again Bellingham stroked his chin. ‘I wonder who might be able to help there?' He paused and then suggested, ‘You know who I think might? A gentleman by the name of Nicholson. Andrew Nicholson. He's retired now, but I believe he is still with us and still active and still with a brain. He'd be the man to talk to.' Bellingham glanced round his office at the shelves of books, dark furniture, dark, deep pile carpet and the window overlooking St Leonard's Place. ‘Andrew Nicholson took over James Wenlock's accounts when James Wenlock vanished, you see. He did so in a caretaker capacity. He was winding down to retirement when James Wenlock disappeared and he was asked if he could look after the accounts in a reactive manner – don't work the cases, just sit on them and react to anything that happens ...'

‘Yes,' Ventnor replied, ‘we understand.'

‘So if there was a Scarborough connection, he'll likely know. Save you picking your way through his files. Andrew Nicholson will be a sprightly sixty-five now.'

‘Sixty-five?' Webster queried. ‘I assumed he'd be older. I mean, if he retired about ten years ago ...'

‘No, you see he went at fifty-five, lucky man that he was, and still is, so right now he'll be sixty-five or thereabouts.'

‘Where can we contact him?' Ventnor asked. ‘Do you know?'

Clarence Bellingham reached forward and picked up the phone on his desk. ‘I'll get his home phone number from my secretary, then I'll phone him and explain the situation. I am sure he will agree to me allowing you to have his address. He always was a very accommodating sort of fellow, very accommodating indeed.'

‘That would be most appreciated,' Webster smiled. ‘Thank you.'

‘Oh, bless my old soul ... was there ever a Scarborough connection? Well, bless my dear old soul.' Andrew Nicholson revealed himself to Ventnor and Webster as a tall – exceedingly tall – athletically built man in his late middle years. He was, thought the officers, unnecessarily well dressed in a suit and tie despite being at home, relaxing in the middle of the day, as though he had got dressed in his suit and tie when he knew he was going to receive visitors who were calling in an official capacity, and did so as to be in observance of antiquated rules of social conduct. Both officers found his attitude both pleasing and eye-opening, as had been the case in their individual experiences before when calling on people who belonged to an earlier era, and thereby witnessing outdated customs and manners. Webster had once described it to his wife as ‘Suddenly finding myself in the midst of a vanished England'. ‘I can tell you that there was never a client of that name,' Nicholson continued, sitting in ‘his' armchair in the living room of the house whilst his wife was sitting in ‘her' chair, ‘so were there any connections with the town?' He looked up at the ceiling as he trawled his memory. ‘Were there any connections with the town? Delightful place, but then I have only ever visited in the summer. I can imagine the wind off the North Sea makes it quite unpleasant in the winter months. Quite unpleasant indeed, I would imagine.'

‘It is.' Ventnor smiled. ‘Take it from me, sir, you can do without visiting Scarborough during the winter months.'

‘So ...' Nicholson pondered the ceiling of his living room of his detached house in the village of Barnton, close to Driffield, ‘we had one or two foreign clients ... yes, we did have one or two foreigners.'

‘Foreign?' Ventnor queried.

‘Yes,' Nicholson replied with a warm smile. ‘Foreign as in outside York, as in clients whose homes and/or businesses were located in other towns, and all communication is done by phone or post. There is no reason why one should live in the same town or city as one's accountant. Living in Newcastle and having an accountant in Portsmouth is just as efficient as living next door to your accountant.'

‘I see. I dare say it is.' Webster glanced out of the window across the flat rural landscape. It seemed pleasant at the moment but he imagined, like Scarborough, it could become desolate in the winter, as that awful gnawing east wind sliced across the fields.

‘So, Scarborough ... James Wenlock,' Nicholson muttered. ‘Was there any account with a connection to Scarborough ... ?'

‘Oh, do hurry up, dear!' Mrs Nicholson was a small woman, quite finely built, thought Ventnor, and neatly dressed, further giving the impression that, as soon as they had permitted Clarence Bellingham to inform the police of their address, they had both hurried upstairs and dressed ‘to look their best' prior to receiving their visitors.

‘Yes, dear,' Andrew Nicholson turned to his wife, ‘yes, I shall hurry, dear. I shall do as you say, as always, dear.'

‘Well, please do so, Andrew,' Mrs Nicholson responded shortly. ‘These two young men have come a long way and I am certain indeed that they will not be very impressed with your dilly-dallying. Not one little bit, that I can assure you.'

‘Oh, really, Mrs Nicholson, it's not that far,' Webster offered, ‘it's just half an hour's drive, if that.'

‘Yes, no distance at all,' Ventnor added, sitting beside Webster on the settee, which was positioned between Mr and Mrs Nicholson's chairs, ‘and quite a pleasant drive, in fact, so we are not at all inconvenienced.'

‘I don't know, Andrew, I really don't.' Mrs Nicholson breathed deeply and folded her arms in front of her. ‘I confess, I do freely own that I think you are like a huge sloth sometimes. I swear if you moved any slower you'd go backwards. You know, Andrew, it might help you to think and remember if you were to make these two young gentlemen a cup of tea each, and some scones, buttered, of course, if you please. And a cup of tea for myself also.'

‘Ah, yes, dear. I am so sorry, gentlemen, where indeed are my manners?' Andrew Nicholson lifted his bulk from his chair with a display of minimum effort which impressed both Webster and Ventnor. ‘Tea and scones – buttered, of course, coming up.' He turned and left the room, dipping his head below the door frame as he did so.

Claire Nicholson watched him go, then she addressed Webster. ‘You know, he is a lovely, lovely man but he can also be so very trying at times, so very trying. He has been trying my patience for the last forty years. And you know he's not even a proper accountant.'

‘Certified?' Webster asked.

‘Yes. He's only a certified accountant,' Mrs Nicholson confirmed.

‘But still impressive.' Webster smiled. ‘In this investigation we have got to know the difference between certified and chartered accountants. It's really been quite interesting.'

‘Yes,' Ventnor echoed, ‘really quite interesting.'

‘An education,' Webster offered.

‘It is interesting.' Mrs Claire Nicholson unfolded her arms. ‘In fact, my father was a chartered accountant and I learned from him that the world of accountancy can be a fascinating one. But Father ... dear Papa, he was not best pleased when I married Andrew. He was a big, slow, ambling sloth of a man then and he is a big, slow, ambling sloth of a man now. I have found in life that all large men are very self-satisfied.'

‘You think so?' Webster was intrigued.

‘Oh, yes, I do believe so ... indeed I do wholly believe so.' Mrs Nicholson sniffed. ‘Small men have always seemed to me to be possessed with a desire to succeed; they are much, much more driven, as if to compensate for their lack of stature. I am the daughter of a short man and I steered both my daughters towards small men when I was looking for husbands for them. My husband and I certainly did make a strange pair in the far-off early days, the little and the large, we were, the mountain and the molehill.'

There then occurred a brief period of silence which was sustained until the ambling, lofty Andrew Nicholson returned with a tray of tea and scones. He laid the tray gently upon the pine wood coffee table which stood in the centre of the lounge and then sat in his chair.

‘Well, go on, Andrew,' Mrs Nicholson turned to him. ‘You be mother. I am sure I cannot reach it from here.'

‘Of course, dear.' Andrew Nicholson smiled his reply. ‘I am just allowing the tea to infuse.' He then turned to Webster and said, ‘I can only think of the Mel-Kart account.' He then looked at Ventnor. ‘It's the only account I can think of which has a strong Scarborough connection. In fact, it's the only account with any connection at all with Scarborough.'

‘Mel-Kart.' Ventnor took out his notepad and a ballpoint pen.

‘Yes, it was an account or part of an account which involved the purchase of a parcel of land on which to build a go-kart racing track aimed at holidaymakers.'

‘I see.' Ventnor wrote ‘Mel-Kart' on his notepad.

‘I understand that it was a bit of a gamble.' Andrew Nicholson leaned forward and stirred the tea, then poured it into four cups. ‘As I said, the idea, I believe, was to ride piggyback on the tourist trade. The land was bought and planning permission was sought, which then ran into difficulties. If I remember,' he paused, ‘it's all beginning to come back to me now ... the land occupied an area, a localized area of natural beauty, or it was the only undeveloped land in a residential area and so local opposition was fierce.' Nicholson handed out the cups of tea, first to his wife and then to Webster and Ventnor. ‘Yes, that was the issue ... the land allowed the residential area to “breathe”, as it were, a place for children to play and for dog owners to walk their dogs, and to have that taken from the area and for it to be replaced with a go-kart track with karts with those horrible noisy two-stroke engines and floodlit during the evenings on top of that. I can fully understand the local opposition. Milk? Sugar? Do help yourselves, gentlemen.'

‘So can I.' Ventnor picked up the milk jug, added a little milk to his tea and then passed the jug to Webster, who did likewise.

‘The first application to build the track was narrowly rejected, but the second application was successful, by just two votes. The initial vote saw a rejection by just one vote. So it was a close-run issue.'

‘The council was not particularly sympathetic to the residents?' Webster observed.

‘No, no they were not. The council seemed to be very interested in the money the go-kart track would bring in. A very high level of rates could be charged for that sort of land use, you see. At the end of the day it was all about money.'

‘Do you know who owned the company which bought the land in question?' Webster asked.

‘Yes, it was bought by a gentleman by the name of Mellish, one Peregrine Mellish. An easy name to remember.'

‘Peregrine Mellish,' Ventnor wrote the name on his notepad, ‘an easy name to recall, indeed.'

‘Yes ...' Andrew Nicholson offered the plate of buttered scones to the officers and then to his wife, ‘and hence “Mel-Kart” as the business name.'

‘Yes.' Ventnor accepted a scone.

‘I made that connection,' Nicholson replied. ‘I got the strong impression that Mr Mellish was a local Mr ten-per-cent, fingers in many pies sort of chap rather than pursuing one business interest, and I am sure he was also a brown envelope merchant. I recall that I once glanced at his account and noted many tax deductible payments were put down as “expenses”. That can cover a multitude of sins.'

‘Yes, so we believe.' Ventnor smiled as he ate the scone.