The Mistake I Made (36 page)

George and I lived simply. After much balancing of the books and realistic examination of the household accounts (and without the old debts hanging over me), I found I was able to cut my hours spent at work. I told the clinic I could do twenty-six hours maximum and they could take it or leave it.

They took it.

Something of Henry Peachey must have rubbed off on me because I found that, with more time available, I did in fact spend less money. I was better prepared, and instead of life being one frantic whirlwind, meeting myself coming backwards, throwing cash at things just to get through, my days were more manageable. Peaceful. There was happiness to be found in doing the simple stuff.

Winston and I had a talk –
the Talk
– which had been more than a long time coming. I told him his period of playing out was over. That if he couldn’t step up to his responsibilities as a parent in the financial sense, then I would move to be near my parents, far enough away that he would see far less of George. Ultimately, I told him I needed help. I couldn’t do it alone any more. And Winston, being Winston, said, ‘Sure, Roz. No problem.’ Like if only I’d asked earlier, he would have happily obliged.

And finally, after a great deal of procrastination, I also wrote an email.

It’s amazing the self-deception that comes when you needing to get something written down. Suddenly, it was very important that the pile of ironing, which had been sitting in the corner of the bedroom for months, be dealt with.

I sorted through my kitchen cupboards, under the pretence of being organized for the approaching Harvest Festival, so that George didn’t have to turn up to school with some out-of-date English mustard, and a packet of cornflour.

I made dental appointments for half-term. And then, when I couldn’t find another thing to put in the way of my bottom being in the chair and staying there until it was finished, I did it. I looked up his address and I wrote the thing.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject: Us

Dear Henry

I’ll try to keep this short and to the point, though there is much I want to say.

I’m not sure if I ever said sorry, so I’ll begin with that. Sorry. It’s not enough, I know, and I can picture you reading this, rolling your eyes, deeply offended, with a strong urge not to read any further.

The truth is, I miss you. And I can’t help wondering if we’d met at another time, under another set of circumstances, things could have turned out differently for us.

George gets better every day and is very close to losing his crutches.

And if you think I’ve mentioned George to try to make you soften a little towards me, then you would be right.

Thanks to you, I seem to be getting my life in some kind of order. I’ve been reading books on how to stay debt free, how to work less and spend less, how to enjoy life without being a slave to commerce. And if you think I mention this to flatter you, you would be right about that, too.

As soon as I met you I tried to bring the arrangement with Scott to an end. Desperation led me to accept that offer, but meeting you helped me see what an absurd arrangement it really was, and that there had to be an alternative way of doing things.

I say again, I miss you. I am trying not to write nonsense like
There are so few people we feel a connection with
.

But that
is
what I want to say. And if I could find a better way of saying it, I would.

If you ever find yourself thinking along the same lines (even for a moment, even with the spectacular mess I made of everything), then know that I’m here, waiting for you.

Yours

Roz.

And while I waited for a response from Henry, slowly, bit by bit, George and I were rebuilding ourselves. That night, the night of Scott’s visit, had marked a strange kind of turning point.

Sometimes, I found myself wondering about Scott; about what made him tick, why he did as he did, and whether it was possible that he really was motivated by love?

What exactly pushed Scott over into that other realm – murder – the realm where so few of us go?

Perhaps winning was the same as love to Scott. Perhaps the two things evoked the same emotion in him and he couldn’t tell them apart.

Or perhaps he simply had no fear and felt free to do as he pleased.

And
he was
free.

That was the tragedy. Scott had not been held accountable for Wayne’s death because he’d been steadfast in his belief that he could get away with it. He had no remorse, because, in his mind, he had no alternative but to kill Wayne. Wayne, a disposable human being. Someone who was just going to get in the way of what Scott wanted. And I could do nothing about it because, if I did, Scott was fully prepared to try and fit me up for the murder and tell the police about the money I’d taken – or, worse, he would harm George.

My word against his.

If I went to the police and told them he had confessed to killing Wayne, he would simply tell them I had confessed a similar crime to him. Wayne was blackmailing me, he would say.

So that’s where we were. And that’s how I thought things would remain.

Until I got the call, anyway.

George and I gazed through the windscreen of the Jeep at the barrier in front. We were the first on the ferry this morning; out particularly early on account of the appointment which George was trying to get out of. I had the window lowered in an attempt to rouse us. The days had now shortened. The dense, thick air of summer had been replaced by a fresher, rarefied, autumnal band from the north.

High in the sky, and following the line of the lake, a flock of geese headed south. They were noisy, jostling for position, and I pointed them out to George, gesturing for him to take a look.

He sighed out long and hard.

‘I wish I could fly south,’ he said, all melancholy. I ignored his comment. He sighed again. ‘She’s just so mean,’ he added.

‘She has to be mean to do her job,’ I replied.

‘You’re not mean.’

‘I’m not trying to get you to walk correctly.’

George had lost over an inch in leg length. The consultant orthopod was confident the discrepancy could be improved with time but, for now, George had been ordered to wear a raised shoe to avoid problems with his pelvis later. It was not going down well. And he didn’t like his physiotherapist one bit.

She was a severe, humourless woman, with neat, short hair, ugly shoes and a big bottom that dimpled when she walked. She made it quite clear that she had no time for physiotherapists who’d moved over to the private sector. They’d ‘sold out’, as she phrased it, on our first meeting. And I didn’t challenge her because there’s just no winning with a woman like that.

George couldn’t understand why I wasn’t his clinician, since I’d always managed to tidy up his aches and pains in the past. But gait analysis was not my strong point. And the treatment had been ordered by his consultant and had to be undertaken at Kendal Hospital. So that’s where we found ourselves, two mornings a week.

I delivered George to the department and saw his physio’s face turn sour as he swung his bad leg out to the side rather than bending it at the knee, as she had instructed. He was in for a tough session, and it broke my heart to watch. He was still so full of apprehension, frightened to weight-bear through his injured leg, scared to let go of his crutch. But there was no other option. It had to be done, or he’d limp for life. And, as much as I disliked his clinician, there was no doubt she knew what she was doing. And a certain amount of austerity was necessary when endeavouring to mobilize patients. The affable physiotherapist who is everybody’s friend is not particularly useful in this instance.

I told George I needed a coffee and would be back with him in five minutes. Not strictly true: I didn’t need coffee; it was a ploy I used to get the session underway. If I remained in the department, as I had at the beginning, George would sense in me my own suffering at watching him in pain and would lose all confidence. So I would slip away. And so far it had worked. By the time I returned, he would be focused on what was being asked of him, his fear dissipating with each new step taken.

As the door closed behind me, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I answered, and on hearing the voice at the other end, I stopped in my tracks.

‘Roz Toovey?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘DS Aspinall. Can we meet? There’s something I need to discuss.’

I told the detective where I was, which turned out to be quite fortuitous, since she was based in Kendal, and she said she would meet me in the outpatients’ department in ten minutes’ time.

I grabbed two coffees, found a quiet corner and waited.

She was there in five.

As she entered and spotted me, DS Joanne Aspinall smiled. She was alone and, unlike the previous occasions we’d met, she seemed harried. Her face was tired and drawn. Her skin had the lacklustre appearance of a person needing a holiday. Or a good night’s sleep.

‘Got you a coffee,’ I said as she sat beside me, and she thanked me, saying it was just what she needed. She removed the lid and gulped down half of it in three mouthfuls, not bothering to ask if it contained sugar.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked, and she nodded fast, fervently, to indicate, I presumed, she was short of time.

‘I can’t get to him,’ she began.

I must have frowned, because she added, ‘Scott Elias. With regards to the murder of Wayne Geddes,’ she said. ‘It appears he’s untouchable.’

I told her I hadn’t thought she was still working on that case and she gave a small laugh. ‘I work on nothing else,’ she answered.

I looked at DS Aspinall for a sign of where she was going with this, but she appeared to be waiting for me to speak, so I said, ‘I’m not sure what it is you want me to say.’

‘You think he did it,’ she replied bluntly. And then: ‘Let me rephrase that …
I know
he did it, but I can’t prove it. Not enough to secure a conviction anyway.’

‘I’m curious,’ I said. ‘How do you know he did it?’

‘His story doesn’t add up. Then there was his general self-assurance and confidence when questioned. Along with your statement. And the tracker. Experience, I suppose you could call it. I know he did it, but I have nothing at all to place him at the scene – and no real motive – and so I’ve come to ask for your help. Will you help?’

I hesitated.

‘He visited George when he was in hospital. I think he meant it as some sort of warning. And then he threatened me,’ I said.

‘Threatened you with?’

‘He has evidence that I was there that night with Wayne and that he assaulted me. Remember I told you that Wayne knocked me out? Well, it was with a fire extinguisher, and it has my blood on it. Scott threatened to—’

‘I don’t suppose you know where he keeps this fire extinguisher?’

I shook my head. ‘I imagine it’s well hidden. He’s meticulous. I can’t see him leaving it around for the likes of you to stumble upon.’

‘Okay, never mind,’ she said quickly, letting it go. ‘What if I were to ask you to become part of a new inquiry?’

‘An inquiry into what?’

‘His business affairs,’ she said. ‘Something you once said about tax evasion lodged at the back of my brain. For the past couple of months it’s been whittling away at me. The upshot is that we’re now investigating his fraudulent activities, and we’ve reached the stage of interviewing witnesses.’

‘Has he been hiding money?’

She nodded.

‘How much?’ I asked.

‘More than I thought possible,’ she said.

‘And how likely is he to serve time for this … deception?’

‘Very likely,’ she said. ‘I can’t go into the list of the tax-avoidance offences with you, naturally, but there are lots.’

‘What sort of prison sentence would he get?’

‘For these types of offences, they’re usually looking at a term of between four and five years. But there is the possibility of a longer sentence in this case, as there’s so much money is involved.’

‘Doesn’t really seem enough,’ I said. ‘Not when you consider what he did to Wayne.’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But he would lose everything. All his assets would be seized. And I don’t know about you, but I think there’s a certain poetic justice to that. I met him only briefly, but from what I saw I’d say he’s not the kind of man who would cope too well with losing his fortune.’

44

SCOTT PARKER ELIAS
PART ONE OF RECORDED INTERVIEW
Date: 14/11/2014
Location: Kendal Police Station, Busher Walk, Kendal, LA9 4RJ
Conducted by officers from Cumbria Police: DS Joanne Aspinall, DS Ronald Quigley. Also present: defence legal adviser, Mr Jeremy Inglis, and HM Revenue and Customs Investigator, Ms Jennifer McCauley

DS Joanne Aspinall: The purpose of this interview is to collect information to further the investigation and/or evidence of the alleged fraud. You understand, Mr Elias, why you’ve been detained here today?

Scott Elias: I understand perfectly.

DS JA: Good. Just before we proceed, I’ll read out the caution to you … You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned about something which you later rely on in court. And anything you do say may be given in evidence. What that means, basically, is you do not have to answer my questions, not if you don’t want to.

SE: I know what it means. And I have nothing to hide, so I’m happy to answer your questions, Detective.

DS JA: Excellent. I’d like to start then, if I may, with your relationship with Mrs Rosalind Toovey—

SE: I have nothing to say on that matter. As stated, I have done nothing wrong, so I am prepared to answer questions about my
business affairs
. But not about my private life.

DS JA: The two are linked, Mr Elias. I’m afraid these questions form part of the investigation into the alleged fraud.