Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective (15 page)

“You don’t need to be a bloody computer to work that out.”

Nobody had heard Greg Mallinson enter the room. There was a pause when even Stafford Paulson held his breath. Charlotte looked up at the sergeant. She guessed that her row the previous afternoon with Lasham, which was no doubt all round the station by now, was encouraging him to be difficult. She decided she would keep cool.

“You’re quite right,” she said. “The computer is doing no more than asking the questions a good detective should be asking, taking into account every scrap of evidence gained on the case to date.” With a slight smile she held up the first page of questions while the printer continued to spew out paper. “No doubt Sergeant Mallinson has already asked these questions of his colleagues,” she said to the office in general.

“Nothing to do with me,” said Mallinson. “I wasn’t in charge of the investigation.”

Paulson was stung to respond. But before he could do so, Charlotte jumped in. “Are you trying to say that you were desperate to point out this line of enquiry to your boss, among the thousands of other possible lines, but that you were too shy to speak your mind?” There were grins all round as she continued, “The point I’m making is that the computer can come up with this line of enquiry, with a fully detailed request for data within seconds of completing the previous entries. Nobody but Sergeant Mallinson could do it faster than that.”

The sergeant realised it was wise to shut up, but his face was like thunder.

“Now, I’ll show you what happens when you put in some answers to those questions,” Charlotte went on, pressing a key. “Here is the questionnaire on the screen. Now I’ll type in fictitious data and see what the response is. Let’s say the business has a turnover of a million a year and makes net profits of a hundred thousand. We’ll assume his father left Giles and his sister a quarter of a million each in his will and left a million to his mother. Let’s also assume there is an on-going income of fifty thousand a year coming from the father’s business investments in London. That’ll do for now. I’ll assume there are no replies to the other questions at the moment.” She finished entering data and pressed another key.

Almost immediately the screen flashed up with a message. It said, “This data does not correspond with G.Adams financial situation as recorded. That situation needs further investigation. Press print icon for detailed questionnaire to be answered by G.Adams. Press enter for next screen.”

She hit the enter key.

The next screen message said, “This data does not correspond with information entered about Cynthia Adams’ legacies.” And there was a further list of follow-up messages.

There was a further screen waiting to be displayed. When Charlotte pressed enter the screen said, “There is good reason to think that the data recently entered is false or that previous data is false. G.Adams needs to be very carefully questioned, both in connection with the murder of Cynthia Adams and the linked cases. The senior investigator on the case should be informed so that he/she may be present when the next interview is conducted. Press ‘Next’ key for full list of information which must be checked with G.Adams.”

Charlotte looked up with a laugh. “There you are. It shows what happens when you enter silly data. It starts alarm bells ringing all over the place.” She shrugged. “Obviously that was a bit extreme, but it shows the importance of getting very factual replies to the questionnaires.”

Stafford Paulson scratched his chin. “What does that comment mean? - Cynthia Adams and linked cases? Are those the things raised by Julian Brace? I thought you’d decided there was no reasonable link between them.”

“Ah, well spotted.” Charlotte took a breath. “Well - when I scanned in all the data from our interview with the journalist, Stafford, the computer brought up a string of queries raised by Brace’s article which might repay investigation. I am particularly interested in the suicide of Julia Hillman. So I decided to put that information on as well and ask the computer to tell me what it needs to know to suggest some sort of link between any two of the five cases.”

Paulson looked at her carefully. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that there’s so little to go on in the Cynthia Adams case. This isn’t a sort of desperate bid to try and turn up some sort of coincidental link, is it?”

“Yes, it is,” she admitted and sighed. “Normally I would agree with you, Stafford, that it was an unwarranted waste of police time to go off on side issues like these. But the great thing is that this machine here will let us have the luxury of doing this without wasting unreasonable amounts of investigation time.” She laid her hand on his arm. “What I want to do, is borrow the whole section for today and then I hope that I can handle the remainder of the investigation myself with occasional help from you and one other - maybe young John here. Is that reasonable?”

“I don’t know about being reasonable,” said Paulson. “But I’ve got my orders. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.”

Charlotte looked at him for a second then decided not to argue with him about his attitude. “Right,” she said. “Well - in that case, these are our plans for today. We’ve already booked for you to see Montessori at the hotel at two o’clock. Then can you please go and see the coastguard who boarded the Billiere boat on Slapton Sands and the security man at the marina who saw Joanne take the boat out? I’ll print out lists of questions to help you in the next few minutes.”

“Now, Greg.” She turned to Mallinson. “You did the original investigation of Mariella Prince’s death. I want you to see Hugo Farmer - the solicitor who used to be her father’s partner and the man who handled her estate. Again I’ll give you a questionnaire in a short time.”

Mallinson nodded curtly and left the room. Charlotte could imagine him muttering under his breath about her ordering him to go on what he regarded as some sort of wild goose chase. She forgot him as she turned to DC Howell.

“Bobbie,” she said, “I want you to remain here during the day but can you see if you can arrange an interview, probably late tomorrow or on Saturday, with Raymond Parsons - Stella’s husband. I’ll come along with you to that one. All right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Roberta Howell addressed her very correctly and scuttled off, looking a bit scared. Probably she was expecting to be treated to an ear-full of Mallinson’s vented fury.

“Now, young John, this afternoon I’d like you to come with me. First of all I want us to go back to see Giles Adams. Then we’ll be paying a visit to the Hillman family home and then back to the Burrows to see what they’ve been able to remember about Cynthia’s old friends.” She turned back to the computer. “I’ll have all the questionnaires ready for you within a half an hour.”

* * * * * * * *

Susannah had been sitting in the cafe for three quarters of an hour before she decided to give up on Richard. It was true that they’d made no positive arrangement to meet this morning. All he’d said on leaving her on Tuesday was that he wouldn’t be able to see her the next day but would be in touch on Thursday..

She was annoyed with herself for being offended at apparently being forgotten by him. She was aware that there was no commitment of any sort on either side. Besides, she reminded herself, she was a married woman. She had no business becoming fond of another man or getting upset when he lost interest in her.

In fact she could hardly blame him for crying off from further contact with her. She’d confessed an awful lot about her past to him, together with the fact that she didn’t have a very happy marriage. The poor fellow had probably been frightened off. After all, he’d been a bachelor for nearly ten years now and his previous experiences with women had been rather tragic. He was perhaps worried that he might get involved in some high-profile, expensive divorce case and feel that, as a result, he might not be able to get out of a permanent relationship with her.

She mentally shook herself. She was going to forget about Richard and carry on living her life as though he was just a chance acquaintance whose company she had enjoyed for a few hours. That’s right! She’d do a round of the local fashion shops, find something new to wear, go home and ring Moira or one of her other friends and suggest taking a drive down the coast with them - do some research into the treasures of the local area. That was much more sensible than getting involved with some man she hardly knew.

She waved at the waitress and asked for her bill. When it came a few minutes later, the woman placed an envelope on the table with it.

“A gentleman left this for you first thing this morning, miss,” she said.

With trembling fingers Susannah tore open the letter. The contents were brief:

I’m sorry I can’t call in to see if you’re at your usual seat this morning, as I had intended. Unfortunately something important has come up which means I can’t meet you, even though I would have much preferred spending today in your company.

If you get this and are still interested, I would like to take you to the theatre this evening. The waitress tells me the cafe normally closes at about half past six so I will be sitting at your table at about six o’clock. I thought we might have a meal somewhere before the play. If you are delayed, I will wait outside until seven .

She refolded the letter and pushed it back into the envelope. She looked guiltily round as she poked it into her handbag. She took out a five pound note and tucked it with the bill under her saucer. It was ridiculously large tip but she didn’t care. She stood up, hitched her bag over her shoulder and walked out into the sunshine feeling ridiculously happy.

* * * * * * * *

Giles Adams showed barely-concealed irritation as DCI Faraday and DC Prendergast were ushered into his office. “Well,” he said, “it’s a bit unusual to see you again, for the second morning running.”

Charlotte gave him her most charming smile as she sat down. “I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mr Adams. It’s just back-ground information we want now - trying to build up a complete picture of the family. Do you understand?”

The accountant just nodded and glowered at her.

“Well, then.” She had read through her questionnaire thoroughly and now had it resting on her lap. “When your father died, about eighteen months ago, he left Druce’s Hill House to your mother. Is that right?”

Adams nodded again.

“Did he leave her anything else? Any money? A steady income?”

“Oh yes.” He pulled a face. “It costs a lot to keep that great barn of a place in a reasonable state. Don’t I know it now that I’ve got to pay for it.”

“So.” She looked at him sideways. “Where did the money come from?”

He looked at her in surprise. “From my father’s investments, of course.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“Specific?” He seemed unable or unwilling to understand her question. “You mean what did he invest in?”

Charlotte nodded encouragingly.

“Well, I don’t remember everything.” He looked thoughtfully into the distance. “The brokers would be able to give you a list. Mainly he had personal share-holdings in a number of British companies - quite substantial share-holdings. I think that they’re currently worth about five million pounds.”

“Did you say there were trustees?” asked DC Prendergast.

He nodded. “That’s right. My father placed his main investments in a trust more than twenty years ago. It’s a fairly standard way of avoiding excessive death duties. But it means the direct beneficiaries can’t receive the capital - only the earnings from the investments.”

“And who,” asked Charlotte, “are the beneficiaries?”

Adams smiled slightly. “The two main beneficiaries are my sister and I, now that my mother is dead. There are a few other relatives and former staff who are paid incomes from the fund. And our children will receive allowances once they reach twenty-five.”

“How many children are there?” she asked innocently.

A look of frustration crossed his face. “We only have the one son. Cardew is twelve. My sister has five children, at the last count, between the ages of two and fifteen.”

“Five?” Young Prendergast couldn’t prevent the astonishment showing in his voice. At the same time Charlotte was wondering how anyone in this day and age could bring themselves to call their son Cardew.

“Her husband is a practising Catholic,” said Adams, by way of explanation.

Charlotte had the feeling that there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Giles Adams and his sister’s family. But she said, “And what is the approximate annual income from the trust?”

“I should say about three percent at present.” There was a slight air of challenge in the way he said it.

Charlotte did a quick calculation in her head and came up with a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. “So how much of that income do you get, Mr Adams?” she asked.

“I get thirty-five percent, now my mother has died - about fifty thousand pounds a year.” He hurried to get the rest of the information off his chest. “My sister gets the same. When my mother was alive we both received twenty percent and she had thirty percent. About ten percent is paid out to other beneficiaries. The remaining twenty percent is intended for the grand-children. At present it is reinvested but it can be made available to them later at the discretion of the trustees.”

She nodded. It seemed that Giles Adams had benefited from his mother’s death to the tune of some twenty thousand a year. But somehow she doubted whether greed was enough of a motive to cast suspicion on him. However she had another question. “Who are the trustees, Mr Adams?”