The Mistake I Made (37 page)

SE: No comment, then.

DS JA: How would you describe your relationship with Mrs Toovey?

SE: No comment.

DS JA: Was there a relationship?

SE: (
Inaudible
)

DS JA: Mr Elias?

SE: There was a relationship, yes. A short one.

DS JA: A sexual relationship?

SE: We did have sex. That’s correct.

DS JA: And was money exchanged at any time?

SE: No comment.

DS JA: Okay, we can come back to that. Let’s move on to your wife. Nadine Elias.

SE: None of this has anything to do with my wife.

DS JA: A preliminary examination of the accounts for your firm, SPE Electronics, revealed that Mrs Elias is listed as an employee of the company. Can you tell me in what capacity your wife is employed?

SE: She is an adviser.

DS JA: An adviser on what exactly?

SE: A business adviser.

DS JA: And she’s paid handsomely for this job, is she not? How much per year does Mrs Elias receive as an adviser for your company?

SE: That’s a question for the accounts department.

DS JA: I’ll help you out. She receives an annual wage of one hundred and seventy thousand pounds. Quite a lot.

SE: You get what you pay for.

DS JA: How many hours a week would you say Mrs Elias spends at SPE Electronics? Ten? Fifty?

SE: I can’t be sure. You would have to ask her.

DS JA: When questioned, your secretary, Debbie Harris, claims never to have seen Mrs Elias in the offices. Not once.

SE: Nadine does most of her work from home, I suppose.

DS JA: I see. Could it be that you invented this role for Mrs Elias? Could it be that she does not actually do any work for your company? That you are drawing a wage for Mrs Elias rather than pay tax on the company’s profits?

SE: No.

DS JA: How about these employees then? Graham Fisher, listed as an electrical engineer; Robert Wood, listed as a management consultant; Eileen Young, a financial adviser? We have not been able to trace these people, Mr Elias.

SE: (
Interviewee does not answer
)

DS JA: Could it be that these people don’t exist
at all
? That they were invented by you, Mr Elias, and you pocketed their wages as extra income for yourself?

SE: That’s out of the question!

DS JA: Is it?

SE: If that were the case, there would be evidence of that money in my bank account.

DS JA: Perhaps. Perhaps not. There are a further eighteen employees without recognizable national insurance numbers. Including a gardener paid to the tune of twenty-one thousand a year, when, as far as I’m aware, the SPE site is surrounded by concrete.

SE: No comment.

DS JA: Why do you suppose your accountant has disappeared, Mr Elias?

SE: I really couldn’t say.

DS JA: Perhaps you’d like to try and offer an explanation. Because, as of 2 November, we’ve been unable to locate him.

SE: He was having marital difficulties. He was seeing another woman. Maybe he’s gone off with her.

DS JA: How long had Mr Bennett been your accountant?

SE: Around twenty years.

DS JA: Odd that he left without telling you, don’t you think?

SE: People do the strangest things for love, Detective.

DS JA: Don’t they just? … I’d like you to take a look at this invoice now, Mr Elias, and tell me if that is your company’s VAT number at the top right of the page. The invoice is for – forgive my ignorance – a large order for some kind of electrical component. It’s made out for the sum of seventeen thousand four hundred pounds. Inclusive of VAT.

SE: I wouldn’t know the VAT number off the top of my head. Who would?

DS JA: Okay, well I can tell you that it’s not SPE’s VAT number. I can tell you that, so far, we have uncovered a substantial number of invoices such as this, all with an alternative VAT number.

SE: Again, that would be something you would need to talk over with the accounts department.

DS JA: Not really. Because the VAT charged never reached the Revenue. In fact, it was redirected to an account we believe to be in Nigeria.

SE: I know nothing of such an account.

DS JA: Even though it’s in your wife’s name, Mr Elias?

SE: (
Interviewee does not respond
)

DS JA: Let’s move on to your holiday home. The one in Antibes. According to the website, it’s been booked fairly consistently, generating an income of around one hundred and forty thousand. Now, I appreciate these earnings will not be taxable until next year, but I’m curious to take a look at the booking schedule for previous years. HMRC have informed us that no earnings on this property have ever been declared.

SE: No comment.

DS JA: Perhaps you’d like to comment on this, then. It’s a copy of your bank statement from July. There’s an amount here … Three hundred thousand pounds, which was sent to a bank in Sierra Leone.

SE: No comment.

DS JA: That’s okay, Mr Elias, I think we have more than enough to pass on to the Director of Criminal Investigations at Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. I’m sure they’ll want to conduct full searches of your home and business premises. And, who knows, they might even stumble upon that fire extinguisher. The one which has Roz Toovey’s blood on it.

SE: They’ll never find that.

DS JA: No, Mr Elias? How odd that you even know what I’m referring to.

45

THE DAYS CAME
shorter, colder and brighter as the gloom of November passed, and the end of the year was almost upon us. Sadly, there was no word from Henry, and though I tried to put him from my thoughts I would find myself checking emails each day with a sense of anticipation. This would soon be quashed, however, when, again, there was nothing from him.

Petra had mostly thawed and we were back to being sisters. I can’t say if Scott Elias’s arrest and ultimate fall from grace had any bearing on how she felt about things, but she certainly was a lot friendlier to me than she’d been of late. I heard that after Nadine was questioned by HMRC officers she left the Lake District. Went south, though I didn’t know where. The official version was that she found it unbearable to stay in the area after her husband was detained on remand in Cheshire, awaiting trial. But the word in the village was that she couldn’t
afford
to stay. With no money of her own, and with all assets seized, she’d had to flee. We didn’t yet know if she was to be charged with her involvement or not.

Wayne’s death still wouldn’t leave me alone but, thanks to the tenacity and thoroughness of DS Aspinall, I did feel we got something close to justice for him in the end. Since Scott had confessed to me I’d felt terribly guilty and struggled with the feelings of responsibility for Wayne’s death. I aired these feelings to DS Aspinall, who looked at me with a puzzled expression, before replying, ‘Wayne was a big boy, Roz. And he was blackmailing you. There are often unexpected repercussions when you dabble in a world you’re unfamiliar with.’

Which didn’t really make me feel a whole lot better.

So each morning I would say a small prayer to Wayne Geddes. Well, maybe more of a general chit-chat about things, rather than a prayer, which was an odd way to start the day, granted. And I made a few visits to his mother.

Glenda was in sheltered accommodation in Ulverston, and she seemed to enjoy the time I spent with her. Largely, I suppose, because I had nothing but kind words to say about Wayne – he was an excellent boss, generous with his staff, always willing to listen if I had a problem. Lies, I know, but I didn’t see the harm in them. Last week I turned up with a Christmas card, a feeble-looking poinsettia and a box of mince pies, and I thought she might burst into tears.

Which brings me to George and the Christmas problem – as we’d been referring to it. Santa, being unusually strapped for cash this year, was unable to fulfil George’s request for the games console. Even though, yes, George had been a good boy. And yes, Santa had taken into account how hard he’d been trying when learning to walk without his crutches. Sometimes, though, regrettably, even Santa must be careful not to overextend himself and spend money his business just can’t afford.

George was stoic, though disappointed, revising his list to a mere three items, which I assured him Santa would most certainly be able to provide.

And then something happened.

I opened the door one evening to find a very worried-looking Dennis on my step. My immediate thought was: Celia.

‘Dennis,’ I said. ‘Has something happened? Is Celia okay?’

‘Not really,’ he said.

‘Is she injured?’

At this he laughed softly and shook his head.

‘Is George here?’ he asked, and I told him he was. ‘I got him something,’ he said. ‘An early present, so to speak.’

On hearing his name, George rose from the floor, where he’d been writing his Christmas cards, and came to the door. Dennis didn’t say anything, just gestured to his left, and George stuck his head out to take a look.

There, trembling, was a tiny, sorry-looking animal, tied to the drainpipe. ‘She’s called Tess,’ Dennis said, ‘and she’s yours if you want her.’

I was about to speak when Celia’s voice rang out. ‘He’s lost his mind, Roz! I told him, “Dennis,
you have lost your mind
,”’ and she strutted down her path, out of her gate and up towards us.

By this time George was outside, trying to crouch (unable to on account of the limited flexion in his knee), and Tess, the puppy, was urinating with excitement. She was up on her hind legs, trying to scrabble into George’s arms.

‘I thought he’d done so well with his walking and all,’ Dennis whispered. ‘Thought this might push him that extra bit.’

‘Oh, Dennis,’ I said, overcome. ‘That’s so lovely of you, but I don’t think we can take her. My landlord—’

‘This is his idiotic plan, Roz,’ snapped Celia, silencing me. ‘You take the dog. It’s George’s dog on paper. But we look after it when you’re at work. And if your landlord says anything, then you tell him she’s ours.’

Dennis squinted, saying, ‘Foxy’s getting on a bit now, so it’d be nice to have a pup about the place.’

‘Foxy won’t thank you for it,’ I told him.

‘Ah, she’ll come around.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said.

George now had the pup in his arms. She was the size of guinea pig, with café-au-lait-coloured fur, and a pair of black dots for eyebrows. She wore a tentative look as though she, too, was waiting for me to decide her fate.

‘Thank you, Dennis,’ I said firmly, and he nodded just once.

‘You all right to take her now?’ he asked, and I told him, glancing at George’s rapturous expression, that I doubted I would have any choice in the matter.

‘Right you are,’ he said, smiling, not meeting my eye. ‘I’ll go and fetch her bowl and blankets.’

George stood rooted to the spot. He held on to the tiny pup as if his life depended on it. ‘You coming in?’ I asked, and he nodded. I reached out and cupped the puppy’s chin gently in my hand. ‘Welcome,’ I said to her. ‘Welcome, Tess.’

And we all went inside to get ourselves acquainted.

46

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject: RE: Us

Dear Roz

Just got your email. I’m doing the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage in an attempt to ‘find myself’.

No sign of me yet, so I’m heading home.

I realize running away was not the answer. I’ve been unable to stop thinking about you. Let’s pick up where we left off.

Will call in as soon as I’m back.

Love, Henry.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank:

James Long, Debbie Leatherbarrow and Zoe Lea.

And also: Jane Gregory, Stephanie Glencross, Claire Morris, and everyone at Gregory & Company. Frankie Gray, Sarah Adams, Alison Barrow, Rachel Rayner, Claire Ward and everyone at Transworld. Corinna Barsan at Grove Atlantic. Thanks, too, to Cathy Rentzenbrink.

Whilst writing, I found the book
How to be Idle
by Tom Hodgkinson very useful.

About the Author

Paula Daly
lives in Cumbria with her husband, three children and whippet Skippy. Before becoming a writer she was a freelance physiotherapist.

Also by Paula Daly

Just What Kind of Mother Are You?

Keep Your Friends Close

No Remorse

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First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press
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Copyright © Paula Daly 2015

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