Gift Wrapped (20 page)

‘Did you do anything with the account?' Webster asked.

‘No ... no I didn't. Over and above glancing at it, there was no need to work on it. The tax returns had all been filed before James Wenlock vanished.'

‘So if we were to examine the account, or rather if our forensic accountants were to examine it, we might find irregularities?'

‘Yes, yes.' Andrew Nicholson nodded his head gently. ‘You might. I was familiarizing myself with the account among others, having nothing better to do one dark and rainy winter's afternoon, and I did notice a lot of hard cash withdrawals on the business bank account statements and, as I said, many outgoings labelled “expenses”. That will always make an accountant suspicious.'

‘Interesting,' Webster said softly as he helped himself to a buttered scone.

‘But there were no complaints; there were no allegations, no police interest, nothing like that. All I was asked to do was “sit on” the account until it was reallocated to another accountant at Russell Square, and I confess at that time my mind was focused mainly on the delightful prospect of my early retirement.'

‘My father worked until he was sixty-five.' Claire Nicholson sniffed and folded her arms once more. ‘And he was chartered.'

‘Fair enough,' Webster replied. ‘Can I ask if you ever met Mr Mellish personally?'

‘No, no I didn't.' Andrew Nicholson sat back in his chair. ‘I had no contact with the gentleman at all, no phone, no fax, no email and no eye contact, ever.'

‘We called on you at Russell Square,' Webster explained. ‘They told us where we'd be likely to find you; we were told you used to socialise with James Wenlock.'

‘Well, you've found me.' Noel Varsh completed his meal and placed his knife and fork on the plate. ‘A late lunch, as you can see.'

‘Yes.' Webster glanced at the table top. ‘Do you mind if we join you?'

‘I'm not coming apart, but please do if you wish.' Varsh grinned, gently.

Webster and Ventnor sat opposite Noel Varsh. ‘Thank you.' Ventnor glanced at the blonde, slender waitress who carried a meal to another customer in the dimly lit pub.

Webster glanced once at the flat-screen television screen to his left, which was showing racing from Newbury, and then he gave his full attention to Noel Varsh. ‘We have become interested in a client of James Wenlock, one Mr Mellish, Mr Peregrine Mellish. Does the name mean anything to you? Did James Wenlock ever mention him to you?'

‘Like the hawk?' Varsh asked. ‘What is it called? The Peregrine Falcon, fastest hawk in the UK – that is to say, the fastest of our native hawks.'

‘We presume that that is how he spells his Christian name. We have yet to meet the gentleman,' Webster explained. ‘Right now we're just looking for background information, anything anyone can tell us about Peregrine Mellish and the Mel-Kart account.'

‘I see.' Varsh delicately wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘In fact, that name does ring a bell. Not loudly, but quite distinctly, I confess, quite distinctly.'

‘Go on,' Webster prompted.

‘Well, this gets a little difficult but since James is no longer with us ...' Varsh paused. ‘I think it was the case that James and Mr Mellish had some form of business arrangement.'

‘A business,' Ventnor queried, ‘as in business partners?'

‘I know no details ...' Varsh began and then fell silent, as a black-skirted waitress approached the table.

‘Was everything all right, sir?' The dark-haired waitress appeared as if from nowhere and picked up Varsh's plate. She spoke with a distinct Scottish accent.

‘Yes, excellent, thank you,' Varsh replied warmly. ‘Very nice indeed.'

‘Would you like anything else, sir?' The waitress hovered.

‘No, no thank you,' Varsh replied with conviction, finality and warmth.

‘No details at all,' Varsh continued as the waitress retired and was swallowed by the gloom, ‘but I believe that there was some arrangement between them which was over and above his professional relationship with Mr Mellish. I recall James telling me something of this – it's the name Peregrine, you will always remember a name like that ... and James seemed worried about something between him and Mr Mellish. I sensed that the business relationship between him and Peregrine Mellish was a little fraught ... strained ... rocky.'

‘Interesting,' Webster mused. ‘Caused by what? Do you know?'

‘Probably because it was not wholly ethical.' Varsh looked uncomfortable. ‘I think poor James had got himself into some deep water and that he came to realize that he was swimming with crocodiles and piranhas. Not a clever place to be in.'

‘Strange you should say that.' Ventnor's keen eye was caught by another black-skirted, svelte waitress. ‘That sounds interesting.'

‘Oh?' Varsh asked in a worried tone. ‘Why?'

‘Because we have also heard that Mr Mellish is not wholly ethical,' Ventnor explained. ‘“A brown envelope merchant”, was a phrase used to describe him and in fact on our way here, driving back from out Driffield way, we radioed in and we asked for a CR check to be done on Mr Peregrine Mellish.'

‘CR?' Varsh looked puzzled. ‘What does that mean?'

‘Criminal Records,' Webster clarified. ‘Anyway, it turns out that Mr Mellish has quite a lot of track ... all white-collar stuff though. Can we ask if you ever met Peregrine Mellish?'

‘No, I didn't,' Varsh replied. ‘Never met the man. In fact, James only mentioned him when he was a little drunk; the alcohol had loosened his tongue, you see. Initially he was enthusiastic and said that Mellish had helped him solve a little money problem he had.'

‘Now that is interesting,' Webster commented. ‘But you say that he didn't remain enthusiastic?'

‘No, but again he only ever spoke about Peregrine Mellish when the demon drink had got the better of him,' Varsh replied. ‘He never gave out any details – he was discreet – but it did seem that things which had started so well between him and Mr Mellish had very soon all gone sour. But I am sure Mr Mellish will be of assistance to you.'

‘Or of hindrance,' Webster replied. ‘It depends if and what he has got to hide. Right now we just want some background information, as we explained.'

‘You'll be reading his file?' Varsh queried.

‘Our forensic accountants will. Those sorts of files are all double-dutch to simple folk like us.' Ventnor leaned slowly back in his chair. ‘Mr Bellingham indicated that he believed that Russell Square would allow us access to Mr Mellish's file but we'll be getting a court order anyway. We must keep ourselves right from now on and not do anything which might upset the applecart, so we would appreciate a little diplomacy from your good self, Mr Varsh.'

‘Diplomacy?' Varsh asked. ‘What do you mean?'

Webster put his finger to his lips. ‘That sort of diplomacy,' he explained.

‘Not a whisper,' Ventnor added, ‘not even a dickybird to anyone. And we mean anyone.'

‘You have my word,' Varsh replied solemnly. ‘I am an accountant after all, well versed and thoroughly drilled in the concept of confidentiality. I will keep my mouth shut, you gentlemen may rest assured on that issue.'

Reginald Webster entered the drop-in advice centre on a whim. He had been walking in the crowded centre of York and, acting upon a similar whim, turned into a snickelway, being one of the alleys which thread through the centre of the ancient city like a street system within a street system, and which thoroughfare had brought him, quite by chance, to Gilleygate, almost opposite St Chad's Church. He crossed Gilleygate, walked to the drop-in centre and pushed the door open for no good reason that he could think of. So this, he thought, is the place where the lady who started the investigation into the murder of James Wenlock gives her free time to help the lost and lonely, the downtrodden and the needy. He found the drop-in centre warm and welcoming, softly decorated with comfortable chairs, a machine for making tea and/or coffee, posters pinned upon the wall of sun-drenched, far-flung lands with palm trees and ocean views. It was a place, indeed, to drop in for a chat and ask for and hopefully obtain a little useful advice on some personal issue. It had not perhaps the extreme privacy and confidentiality of the Samaritans but was nonetheless an escape, a bolt-hole. Two elderly women sat by the coffee machine but were not talking to each other. A young man with a long, straggly beard and old, unwashed clothes sat alone staring into space and not seeming to register the room or even the world about him, thought Webster. The room itself smelled of furniture polish, and classical music played softly in the background. The volunteer on duty by her name badge was ‘Kate', and she was small and cheerful, so Webster found. She had bright, sparkling blue eyes and a ready smile. Webster showed her his ID and Kate's ready smile evaporated. ‘I hope there is no trouble,' she said in a pleasant speaking voice.

‘None ... none,' Webster reassured her. ‘I just called in on the off chance that Mrs Bartlem might be here.'

‘Julia?'

‘Yes.' Webster noticed with a professional eye that the production of his ID had caused the straggly bearded youth to turn and eye him with suspicion. ‘Yes, Mrs Julia Bartlem.'

‘No, I am afraid she is not here.' Kate's smile had returned. Webster thought that she was probably in her mid-forties. ‘Can I perhaps be of assistance?'

‘Well ...' Again Webster continued to cast a police officer's eye around the room, ‘I just called in on the off chance that she might be here but perhaps you might be able to help. You doubtless will know of the postcards that were delivered to the centre?'

‘Yes ... how interesting ... and why little us, I wonder? Why were we thought useful in that we'd know what to do with them?' Kate pursed her lips. ‘Why not send them direct to the police?'

‘Yes,' Webster nodded, ‘we also wondered that. Did they arrive separately?'

‘Individually?' Kate asked.

‘Yes, one at a time?'

‘Yes, that's how they arrived, one day at a time,' Kate confirmed. ‘They all came in the post. They certainly foxed us; in fact, the first one was nearly chucked out with the waste paper because we couldn't make head nor tail of it ... lots of numbers like it was a code, but Julia ... yes, it was Julia, she seemed very anxious to rescue it, she wanted to save it.'

‘She did?' Webster asked. ‘She was anxious to save it, you say?'

‘Oh, yes. She saw something in it that no one else saw, or at least she seemed to.' Kate spoke enthusiastically, ‘She seemed to think that someone was telling us something, which I confess I thought was a little out of character for her. She is not an educated woman and always seems to be out for what she can get, which makes it quite strange, I feel, that she should want to give of her free time to help out here. But she carries herself as if she has an education; she has developed the speaking voice of an educated woman though she left school at sixteen with no qualifications and started her working life in the supermarket as a shelf stacker.'

‘She married well, in that case,' Webster commented.

‘It seems so, it does seem so,' Kate replied, ‘though I never met her husband. I knew her from school, you see, the world being a small place, and it seems to be getting smaller as one gets older. I stayed on at school and went to teacher training college. I left teaching to start my family and I did not return.'

‘I see.' Webster nodded. ‘Well, her husband has proved very useful – he identified the numbers as being a grid reference on an Ordnance Survey Map.'

‘He did!' Kate gasped. ‘Well I never ... knock me down with a feather. Julia told us she was taking the postcards straight to the police, not taking them home to let her husband see them, to see if he could make sense of the numbers. So he's returned, she never told us that – she never mentioned anything about him having returned. She is a dark horse.' Kate glanced at the floor. ‘Mind you, she always was very secretive, even in the old days at school; you never really knew what she was thinking.'

‘Returned?' Webster asked. ‘Where had he been? Were they estranged at some point?'

‘No ... not estranged, not estranged at all, nothing so simple. He went missing. So he has turned up and returned home? This is news,' Kate exhaled and then inhaled deeply.

‘Missing?' Webster echoed. ‘As in being reported as a missing person?'

‘Yes, yes, in that sense. He disappeared ... oh ... let me see, it must have been five years ago now.' Kate paused. ‘Yes, a long time before she walked in here and offered her services. She said that she had been by herself for four and a half years and wanted something to occupy her free time. She has been here with us for the last six months. I don't know the details about his disappearance but I believe that they went on holiday, to France, I think. She went with him and came back alone. She told the French police and then came home by herself. She said he went for an evening stroll from their campsite or hotel or whatever, never returned and thus she had been alone ever since then. She puts in two afternoons here each week, not much time really for someone who claims that she wants to fill a void, but it seems to suit her. So he has returned ... well, well, well, strange that she keeps coming in to help us now that he has come home.'

‘This is really very interesting,' Webster mused, ‘most interesting. Look, Kate, I would be obliged if you wouldn't say anything to Mrs Bartlem about my visit or about what you have told me about her husband.'

‘That will be difficult.' Kate sounded worried. ‘I have known her since school days. I would feel that I was betraying her. I couldn't do that.'

‘If you could try,' Webster urged, ‘you probably won't have to keep it a secret for long. It could do great harm to our investigation, which has been triggered by the postcards, if you mention my visit to her or indeed to anyone who works here. Great harm.'