Death's Privilege (2 page)

Outward appearances offered little to indicate inner character. People deceived with appearances, purporting to be one thing whilst being quite another: a lesson she’d learned at too young an age to ever forget. She stroked the bottle’s lid in an absent gesture of affection more fitting for a loyal cat than a translucent glass of death.

‘He was a quiet lad. We gave him the best life we could.’

He was now the quietest he’d ever been. Dead quiet. Just the way she needed him to be. Had he gone to the police, it would all be over. They’d come with their gloves and dogs and unravel everything she’d worked for. She couldn’t have that. She had someone to cry for too. Someone important, unlike the pathetic boy who’d hit the headlines tonight.

The reporter held a mic up to the father’s face. ‘I know you want some good to come from this tragedy. What’s your message to people out there watching this now?’

‘I want to raise awareness about mental health and suicide in young men. Men don’t want to talk about things affecting them and we need to listen and support our sons, our brothers, our fathers. There are numerous—’

She threw the remote at the screen. It shattered and the room went black.

Three

‘Valerie is a very wealthy woman and, at her age and her...mental infirmity, people are apt to take advantage. Sorry, I don’t know the correct term. Mental health issues?’ Mr Semples, the duty manager of the Oxlaine Hotel, scratched the white hairs just above his ear. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who’d kept in shape into his later years.

‘Mental health issues is fine. What specific concerns are we talking about?’ Sarah Gladstone sat opposite him in one of the Oxlaine’s large conference rooms. The room catered for meetings of around thirty people, with a projector screen at one end and microphones and power outlets fitted into the long table. The Oxlaine was an impressive hotel set on a country estate just outside of Mavenswood, and Sarah imagined this room was selected to give an impression of opulence that a smaller office wouldn’t have displayed. Her tutor, DS Dales, sat next to her. He’d stayed quiet for most of her conversation with Mr Semples, letting her take the lead.

‘When she was young—and she won’t mind me saying this I’m sure—her father walked out on her. Upped and left without a word. She struggled through. I didn’t know her back then of course, but since working here I’ve become more of a friend than an employee, or so I like to think at least. Later in life, the poor woman’s husband left her and it all came flooding back. She went into a deep depression and hasn’t recovered since. The doctor’s have likened it to post-traumatic stress.’ Mr Semples had the dour demeanour of someone talking about a friend rather than just a boss. Sarah had investigated similar, lower-level cases involving questions of mental capacity. Since starting on the detective fast track programme, she’d worked on increasingly more serious cases. A few months ago, she had been in uniform dealing with minor assaults and thefts of sweets from Tesco. Now here she was, taking a report of fraud potentially into the millions with a victim who may or may not have the presence of mind to know she’d been defrauded at all.

‘How did the missing funds come to your attention?’

‘We were chatting about a friend of mine from my military days, who I’d spent a weekend with. We’d gone to the Lakes. Valerie mentioned she had a friend too. She sometimes comes out with these stories; she doesn’t often leave the house, you see, except to come to the hotel from time to time. I humour her for a bit and that’s the last I’ll hear of that particular person and before long there will be another one.

‘This time, however, she mentioned she’d given her friend some money. I asked how much and she wouldn’t tell me. I asked who it was and she just kept saying “my friend, my friend”. After a while, she refused to talk about it altogether. Sorry I can’t help any more than that, DC Gladstone.’

‘Have you looked at the accounts? Has any money been taken out?’ Sarah wasn’t strictly a DC yet; she still had an exam to pass and a portfolio to complete. She was one of two officers chosen for the detective fast track programme and was yet to qualify. Dales had told her that it was an administrative title and to simply use DC with the public as, despite everyone accepting that training had to go on, no one wanted their investigation being fed to a guinea pig. For all internal communications it was TDC: Trainee Detective Constable.

‘There’s nothing unusual on the hotel’s accounts. Everything is accounted for as best it can be for a place of this size. I don’t have access to her personal accounts, but she is incredibly wealthy. Like I said in my initial call, it could be nothing, could be all in her imagination, or it could be millions. She won’t tell me. Her husband was very well-to-do and the divorce settlement was a handsome payout.’

‘They often are.’ DS Dales had been divorced twice and had the bitter tone to prove it.

‘Well, it may seem that way, Sergeant, but let me tell you, that poor woman suffered for it. Money is nothing to be celebrated when it costs as much as she’s had to pay.’ Mr Semples jutted his head forward towards Dales, and looked angry at the assumption.

‘No offence intended.’ Dales raised his palms in an apologetic gesture and went back to his stoic observations.

Sarah quashed the tension before it festered. ‘Would her family have access? Any children, brothers or sisters?’

‘She never had any children, which is a shame. She would have made a good mother. One sister, whom she loves dearly, but rarely bothers with. A niece too. She’s quite the black sheep. Into all sorts. So no. No one else would have authority to look at her accounts.’

‘Okay. Well, I think it’s time we met her.’

‘I will warn you, she can be a little stubborn, even a little insulting at times. She’s a very forthright woman. She doesn’t mean it. She’s just not well.’ He stood up and walked towards the door. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

‘That’s nothing to worry about. I’m no stranger to stubborn people.’ Sarah looked at Dales as the door closed.

‘Not much of a sense of humour.’ Dales leant over and looked at Sarah’s notebook. ‘Just what have you been writing?’

‘Brief details.’ She’d taken a page and a half of notes under various underlined headings.

‘You know it’s not likely to go anywhere. Chances are it's just an old lady’s mumblings.’

‘Possibly. I’d like to get a look at her accounts just to be sure. Semples has known her for years and seems to think something’s up.’

‘He does seem very protective of his boss. Maybe there’s more to their relationship?’ Dales winked.

‘Maybe he just doesn’t like bitter old police officers suggesting all women’s eyes light up at the thought of divorce?’

‘I’m not old, Gladstone. These greys are wisdom hairs.’

‘And bitter?’

‘Bitterness is a matter of taste.’

Sarah scanned her notes. ‘Trouble is, if she doesn’t want to tell us, we’ve got nothing. If she’s deemed capable of making sound financial decisions, there’s little we can do.’

‘Then we head back, write it up and file it.’

‘As quick as that?’ Sarah had learned a lot from Dales over the month they’d worked together, but sometimes found him a little too eager to close a case and start work on the next one.

‘Just keeping the decks clear for when the good stuff comes in. Figuring out what’s important is a big part of being a detective. It may seem callous, but what good are you to anyone if you’re drowning in dead cases when the real call comes in?’

She was about to explain every call was a real call, when Mr Semples returned. Valerie shuffled in behind him, hunched over with her wrinkled hands folded across her waist, behind him. Her grey-black hair was pulled back in a bun. She was thin, her skin loose around her high cheekbones, giving her a look of healthy fragility. Mr Semples pulled her chair out before sitting down himself.

‘Valerie, this is DC Sarah Gladstone and DS Steve Dales. Officers, this is Valerie Goddard.’

Valerie spoke before Sarah could extend her hand and greet her. ‘I don’t know why he’s brought you here. There’s nothing to say.’ Her deep, direct voice wasn’t what Sarah had expected from someone with such a timid posture. She spoke with the force of someone who was used to being in charge, or at least not being told they weren’t. Valerie stared at Dales before turning back to Sarah. Dales sat up a little straighter in response.

‘I brought them here because it’s important we talk about it.’ Mr Semples looked apologetic.

‘I’m Sarah, a detective with Mavenswood CID, and I just want to ask you a few questions about what’s been happening. Valerie –’

‘Ms Goddard.’

‘Ms Goddard. Mr Semples told me you’ve been giving someone lots of money.’

‘My own money, yes. Is there a crime in that?’

‘No, of course not. I’m not here to say you’ve done anything wrong.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I want to be sure that you know the person you’re giving money to. And that you’re doing it for the right reasons.’

‘I know what I’m doing, thank you very much. I can give anything I want to whomever I want.’

Mental capacity in elderly victims was difficult to address. Sarah had investigated offences involving gardeners attending elderly and vulnerable people’s addresses and charging extortionate rates for work that didn’t need doing. Organised gangs drove around targeting addresses with clear signs of elderly occupants. Safety bars, permanently closed curtains and signs of disrepair often gave the game away. After identifying the address, they’d send letters purporting to be from the council, informing them of a problem with their property, an issue with the pipes under the garden or similar that needed urgent maintenance. The following day they’d knock on the door, brandishing a fake ID, and get to work. When it was done, the victim, none the wiser, would be made to pay inflated costs for unnecessary work. The criminal element of those cases was clear. The fraud was clearly made out and the investigations focused on identifying the suspect and linking them to the letters, the work conducted and the demand for payment. If Valerie Goddard was freely giving money to another person, no fraud was taking place, unless she was deemed mentally unfit to make financial decisions. Suggesting someone no longer had the mental capacity to make financial decisions was a difficult thing to say, and even harder for the victim to hear.

‘That’s true. You can. But there are some people who would take advantage of your kindness.’

‘Who they are is none of your business. And none of yours either, Eric.’ Valerie glared at Semples, a look he returned with a kind, if a little awkward, smile. An affection she shunned by turning back to Sarah. ‘I’m not answering any more of these ridiculous questions. I’d like you to leave.’

‘Valerie, please.’ Semples tried to placate her. Sarah appreciated him trying to facilitate the conversation. Discussions like this were made a lot easier with a relative or friend to assist, although knowing when to quit was as much a virtue as patience.

‘It’s okay. Thank you for your time, Ms Goddard.’

Valerie stood up. Sarah, Dales and Semples followed suit. Sarah extended her hand and Valerie shook it. Sarah winced a little; her grip was stronger than she’d expected. ‘I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.’

Dales’ offer of a handshake was greeted with only a stern look.

Semples looked a little embarrassed. ‘I’ll see you both out.’

‘I can only apologise for wasting your time, Officers.’ Semples walked them to the lobby. The reception area, like the rest of the hotel, was in stark contrast to the type of places Sarah was used to staying in. The reception desk was dark oak wood. The receptionist, an attractive brunette who’d caught Dales’s eye, stood in a tight-fitting black and white Oxlaine uniform.

‘It’s really no trouble. You were right to call us. It’s just a shame there’s little more we can do. I’ll put an alert report in to our vulnerable adult team. They work closely with social services and someone will be in contact with you to see if there is any help they can offer. It may well be that over time she wants to say more and we can investigate it further. Here’s your incident number. If anything else comes to light, be sure to call in and quote that.’

Dales leant on the desk and struck up a conversation with the receptionist.

‘I’ll be sure to.’ Semples took the incident number, folded it and placed it in his top pocket. ‘She’s not always like that, you know. She can be pleasant at times.’

‘I’ve no doubt, Mr Semples. Have you got any ideas who this friend could be? Even the slightest idea could be worth mentioning. She’s healthy and mobile for her age. Does she attend any social clubs where she could have met this person?’

‘I’m at a loss. She doesn’t really go out much. She hasn’t spoken to her sister in years and if she does ever mention her family, it’s always by name. She has no real friends to speak of. Aside from me. I’m all she’s got really.’

‘Well, she’s very lucky to have you.’

It was five o’clock and Sarah knew if she hurried back to the nick and wrote up her reports, she may be home at a reasonable hour for a change. Getting home late had become a regular thing since starting the fast-track programme and she could only hope things would settle down once she qualified.

The Oxlaine’s tall doors opened automatically as she and Dales walked into the car park. They walked past rows of shiny new cars on the way to their pale blue Hyundai Getz.

‘Making friends with the staff?’

‘Just making conversation. Not sure I could handle being knocked back by two women in a row.’ Dales smiled.

‘Valerie didn’t seem to like you.’

‘Clearly has no appreciation for the gold standard. Maybe that’s why she keeps soppy Semples around.’

‘Don’t be mean. He’s a nice guy in a tough position.’

‘The receptionist wanted to report something to us. Nothing urgent and nothing to do with this case. I told her to call it in and it’ll be assigned to someone.’

Sarah stopped. ‘What was it?’

‘Nothing important.’