Kick Back (26 page)

I cut across the patronizing bullshit. “As far as I'm concerned, a crime has been committed and that's more important than your sensibilities, I'm afraid. How much do you know about fraud, Mr. Prudhoe? Am I going to lose you three sentences in? Because if you're not well versed in major fraud inquiries, I suggest we get
someone in here who is. I'm a very busy woman, and I haven't the time to go through this twice, which is why DCI Prentice is here,” I said briskly. He couldn't have looked more shocked if I'd jumped on the desk and gone into a kissagram routine.

“Young woman,” he stuttered, “I'll have you know that I am an expert in financial defalcations of all sorts.”

“Fine. Pin your ears back and take notes, then,” I retorted. There's something about pomposity that brings out the toe-rag in me. It must be the Irish quarter of my ancestry.

Prudhoe looked affronted, but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Ted looked a fraction less miserable. Della Prentice seemed to have developed a nasty cough.

“There's really no need to take this attitude,” Prudhoe said frostily.

“Listen, Mr. Prudhoe,” Ted interrupted. “You people tried to take my business away from me. Kate's been trying to sort it out and, as far as I'm concerned, that entitles her to take any attitude she damn well pleases.”

The turning worm shut Prudhoe up long enough for me to get started. “On the surface, it looks as if what has happened to Ted is a sequence of unfortunate coincidences, culminating in you cutting off his line of credit. But the truth is, Ted is the victim of a very clever fraud. And if the perpetrators hadn't got so greedy that they decided to go for a second bite of the cherry no one would ever have cottoned on, because the frauds would have looked all of a piece with genuine mortgage defaulters.” In spite of himself, I could see Prudhoe's interest quicken. Perhaps, under his patronizing pomposity, there was a brain after all.

I outlined the reasons why Ted had come to us in the first place. Della Prentice had her notebook out and was scribbling furiously. When I got to the missing conservatories, Prudhoe actually sat forward in his seat. “This is how it works,” I said, thoroughly into my stride.

“You need a bent salesman and you need an insider in the office of an estate agency that specializes in decent-quality rental property. In this case, they used a firm called DKL Estates, who are as innocent of any criminal involvement as Ted is. The insider, let's
call her Liz, picks houses that are to let where the owners have fairly common names and, preferably, where they are abroad, either working or in the services. Ideally, they want a couple who have been paying the mortgage for a fair few years, so that there's a substantial chunk of equity in the house. Liz then tells the office computer that she has found someone who wants to rent the place and whose references check out.

“The surname of the couple renting the house is identical with that of the real owners, but because they've chosen common names, if anyone in the office other than Liz notices the coincidence, they can all stand around going, ‘Well, stone me, isn't that incredible, what a small world,' et cetera. Of course, because Liz has access to all the original paperwork from the owners, they've got copies of the signatures, and possibly info on bank accounts, mortgage accounts, service contracts and everything else. With me so far?”

“Fascinating,” Prudhoe said. “Do go on, Miss Brannigan.”

“The salesman, who has access to credit-checking agencies via your financial services company, runs a check to see what other information about the owners it throws up. Then Liz opens a false bank account in the renter's name at that address, and stops any post office redirect on mail for the real owners. She spends a minimal amount of time in the house and pays rent for a while. Incidentally, they have three operations in the planning stage at any one time, so she never spends long enough in any of the houses for the neighbors to get close. They all think she works away, or works nights, or has a boyfriend she stays with a lot. She also changed her appearance with wigs, glasses and make-up to cover their tracks.

“Next, Jack McCafferty, Ted's top salesman, says he's had a call from her asking for an estimate for a conservatory. The following day, he comes in with an order, financed by a remortgage with this bank. And if it was one of those periodic nights where Ted goes out on the call with him, then Jack and Liz would just pretend they'd never met before and he'd pitch her just like any other punter. After all, remortgaging would be a perfectly legitimate way of doing it, and wouldn't ring any alarm bells with Ted or
anyone else since everybody who can't sell their house right now is desperately trying to liberate some capital. I tracked all this down via the Land Registry's records, but I'm sure you can verify the remortgage details with your own records. I suspect they used your finance people all the time because they'd also earn the finance company's commission that way too,” I added.

“But wouldn't there be a problem with the original mortgage?” Della asked. “Surely, once that had been paid off, either the building society would be alerted because payments were still continuing from the real owners, or else the real owners would notice that their mortgage was no longer being taken out of their bank account.”

I hadn't thought of that. But then I remembered an experience Alexis and Chris had had when they first sold their separate homes to move in together. Alexis, being a fiscal incompetent, had carried on blithely paying her old mortgage for six months before she'd noticed. I shook my head. “It would have taken ages for the building society to spot what was happening. And then they'd send a letter, and the letter would drop into a black hole because of the mail redirect being cancelled. It could drift on for ages before anyone at the building society got seriously exercised enough to do anything about it.”

Della nodded, satisfied. “Thanks. Sorry, do carry on. This is fascinating.”

“Right. So, when the bank checks the remortgage application, because the names are the same, all the information they get relates to the real owners, so there's never any problem. And the money is handed over. Think of the figures involved. Imagine a property bought ten years ago for twenty-five thousand pounds, which is now worth ninety thousand. The outstanding mortgage is only about seventeen thousand. They remortgage for the full ninety thousand, pay off the existing mortgage all above board to prevent any suspicion, then do a runner. Our friends Jack and Liz have netted approximately seventy thousand pounds after expenses.

“I reckon they've pulled the same scam at least a dozen times. And the only reason I was able to catch on is that they got so
greedy they decided to dismantle the conservatories after they'd been installed and sell them on to another punter with an identical house at a rock-bottom price of a couple of grand.” I turned to Ted. “That's what Jack was doing with the van when you thought he was playing at DJs.”

I didn't get the chance to enjoy their reactions. Now I remember why I resisted a mobile phone for so long. They always interrupt the best bits.

They say the Victorian era was the age of the gifted amateur. All I've got to say is that I'm glad I wasn't a private investigator then. I mean, if there's one thing worse than amateurs who insist on offering you the kind of help that completely screws up an investigation, it's the ones who are more on the ball than you. The way Alexis was operating in this case, I was soon going to have to start paying her, rather than the other way round.

What I'd heard when I went into a huddle with my telephone in Prudhoe's office wasn't the kind of news to gladden the heart. “He's going to skip the country,” Alexis started the conversation.

“Mr. Harris, you mean?” I said cautiously. I was trying to keep my end as short and uninformative as I could. After all, I'd suddenly become the rather embarrassing center of attention. I wasn't bothered about Ted or Prudhoe, but the presence of police officers induces a paranoia in private eyes that makes Woody Allen look well-balanced by comparison.

“Of course, Harris, Lomax, whatever! Who else? He's going to do a runner.”

“How do we know this?”

There was a momentary pause while Alexis decided how to play it. “After you'd explained how busy you were today, I managed to swap my days off. I thought if I kept an eye on him, at least we wouldn't have missed anything. And I was right,” she added defiantly.

I felt a guilt trip coming on. Somehow, I just knew that I wasn't going to be spending my evening as Emperor Brannigan of the Zulus, civilizing the known universe. “What's happened?” I asked.

“He's got a passport application form,” Alexis announced triumphantly.
“I followed him to the post office. He's obviously planning to leave the country.”

It was a reasonable deduction. What it didn't tell us was whether he planned to take off to the Costa del Crime with his ill-gotten gains as soon as air traffic control would let him or whether he was simply planning ahead for his winter skiing holiday. “Where are you?” I said.

“In the phone box just down the road from his yard. I can see the entrance from here. He hasn't moved since he came back from the post office.”

I gave in. “I'll be there as soon as I can,” I said. After all, I'd given Ted and Prudhoe enough to keep them gossiping for hours. I ended the call and smiled sweetly at my fascinated audience. “I'm very sorry about this, but something rather urgent has come up. No doubt the three of you have a lot to discuss, so if you'll forgive me, I'll leave you to it. Ted, I'll let you have a full written report as soon as possible, but certainly by Monday at the latest.” I got to my feet. “I'd just like to say it's been a pleasure, Mr. Prudhoe,” I added, reaching over his desk and seizing his hand in a firm grip. Poor sod, he still looked like he'd been hit by a half-brick. I seem to have this effect on men. Worrying, isn't it?

Della Prentice followed me into the corridor. “Hell of a tale, Kate. You've done a great job. We'll need a formal statement, of course,” she said. “When can we do the business?”

I glanced at my watch. It was getting on for three. “I don't know, Della, I can't see me being able to sit down with you until the weekend, at the very earliest. Surely you've got enough to get a search warrant on the addresses they're using for the scam?” I opened my bag and took out my notebook, and copied down the addresses as I spoke. “Look, talk to Rachel Lieberman at DKL Estates. The woman you're after is called Liz Lawrence and she works part-time in their Warrington office. And Ted can tell you all he knows about Jack McCafferty. I don't mean to be difficult, but I'm really up against it.”

“OK. I can see you've got problems. Let me know when you've got the time to sit down and put it all together. And give me your mobile number so I can reach you if I need some background,” she
said. I added my number to the sheet of paper and thrust it at her as I rushed off. I know that technically there was no desperate hurry for me to link up with Alexis, but if I hadn't got my adrenaline going, I might never have managed to drag myself back down the traffic-choked A6 and across that switchback road over the hills to Buxton. The locals must have amazing wrists.

I was back behind the wheel of the Fiesta. I'd got a taxi to drop me off there that morning, since there was no need to keep up my surveillance now. I swung round via the office to pick up the laptop with Cheetham's files, and a couple of my legal textbooks. I still hadn't had the chance to plow through the files, so I had no idea what twisted little schemes the dead lawyer had been up to. But I had a shrewd suspicion that they might need a bit more knowledge of the ins and outs of conveyancing than I had in my head. Better to have it at my fingertips instead.

It was nearly five by the time I overtook the last quarry wagon and dropped down the hill into Buxton. I cruised past Lomax's yard and clocked Alexis in her car. I had to admit I couldn't have picked a better spot myself. She was tucked in between two parked cars, with an uninterrupted view through the windows of the car in front to Lomax's yard. I parked round the corner and walked back.

I climbed into the Peugeot, shoving a pile of newspapers and sandwich wrappers on to the floor. “Better be careful the bin men don't come round and claim you,” I said. “Any action?”

Alexis shook her head. “There are two vans. The one that Lomax drives and an identical one. The other one's been in and out a couple of times, but he hasn't shifted.”

“Unless of course he's lying in the back of the other van disguised as a bag of cement,” I pointed out. Alexis looked crestfallen. Oh great, now I felt even more guilty. “Don't worry, it's not likely. He doesn't know anyone's watching him. Cheetham's death has been written off as an accident. As far as he knows, he's perfectly safe. Now, you can sod off home and let me earn a living instead of taking the bread out of my mouth,” I added.

“Don't you want me to hang on? In case he makes a run for it?” she asked, almost wistfully.

“Go home, have a cuddle with Chris. If he was planning to disappear
over a distant horizon tonight, he wouldn't be sitting around in his yard. He'd be twitching in the queue at the passport office,” I said sensibly. Judging by the scowl on Alexis's face, she likes sensible about as much as I do.

She sighed, one of those straight-from-the-heart jobs. “OK,” she said. “But I don't want this guy to get away.”

I opened the car door. “Don't forget, there's the small matter of proof,” I said. “Now Cheetham's dead, Lomax can claim he did nothing dishonest. T. R. Harris is a business name, no more, no less. He just showed prospective buyers the land. He had no idea who bought it or when. Now, you and I know different, but I'd like to be in a position to prove it.”