Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective (6 page)

“I’ll try,” he said and winked at her. “Who knows - we may meet again.” Then he was gone through the front door.

* * * * * * * *

It was the first time Inspector Paulson had actually been in the big office on the top floor. Deputy Chief Constable “Lord Harry” Corbett was slumped in the plush leather executive swivel chair behind the huge desk. To the left of the desk a strikingly good-looking young woman was sitting. Her glossy dark brown hair was pulled back in a simple pony-tail. Her high cheek-bones were flushed with just a touch of pink. Her bright lips were curved into a hint of a smile. She was wearing a well-cut suit over a white linen shirt. One leg was crossed over the other, as she sipped her tea from a delicate china cup. To Paulson’s eyes she didn’t look at all the typical picture of a working police detective.

Lord Harry rose ponderously to his feet as they entered. “Hello, Mark - come in. Nice to see you, Stafford.” He liked to perpetuate the myth that they were one big, happy family in the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. “Come and meet Charlotte Faraday - your new colleague.”

She rose elegantly to her feet and Paulson noticed she was a good inch taller than he was. But she wasn’t quite as slim and vulnerable as she had at first seemed. He received the impression that nobody was going to find her easy to push around.

“My new colleague, sir?” asked Paulson, “or is this my new boss?”

The sharp intake of breath from Lasham told him that comment hadn’t done his promotion prospects any good. He noticed a glint had appeared in Faraday’s eye. But Stafford felt he had to know exactly what their relative positions were going to be.

“Well, of course Chief Inspector Faraday outranks you.” The DCC smiled mirthlessly. “But she’s only here on a temporary three months’ posting to deal with the Cynthia Adams case. She’s going to use her special computer skills to see if she can come up with something that we’ve missed. She will of course be in charge of that one.” Corbett knew how to lay down the law. “And you, Paulson, will give her every assistance that she needs in her investigations. That case is of absolute priority to the whole division.” His smile softened a little. “But elsewhere nothing will change. You’ll continue to be in charge of your own patch.”

Paulson nodded, as was expected of him. But he wasn’t happy with the arrangement. He was clear-headed enough to know that this was a recipe for personal disaster. Faraday would have the right to order him around as she wished, to take his staff away from any other investigations which might be in progress, to undermine his authority in any way she chose. But it would do him no good to voice any of these doubts. He just had to grin and bear it for the next three months.

He became aware that everybody was watching him. A correct gesture was expected. He stepped forward and shook her hand. “Welcome to South Devon,” he mumbled.

“Thank you.” She smiled. It was nice smile, from sparkling blue eyes. It suggested she could be very pleasant to those she decided were on her side. Then Stafford realised she had seen the conflicting emotions which were crossing his face, and had understood them. Maybe she appreciated his problems. Maybe there was a chance she would try to prevent the next three months from being such a living hell as he had imagined.

“It’s going to be vital that you two work closely together on this one,” said the DCC. “You have all the local knowledge, Stafford, plus a year of investigation on the Adams case under your belt. You are to give Charlotte everything she asks for in both manpower and information. That will give her a flying start.” He came round the desk to be close enough to drive his point home. “It is essential that we make rapid progress on this one. The holiday season is nearly on us again.”

“Surely, sir, you aren’t taking any notice of that bloody journalist,” Lasham burst out intemperately.

He received a withering glance from Corbett.

“There’s no mention of any journalist in my briefing notes.” Charlotte Faraday’s voice had a hard edge as she looked up at the towering presence of the DCC.

“It’s only come up in the last few days” Lord Harry explained. “As Mark suggests, there may be nothing in it. I haven’t even read the article myself. But, as I understand it, some local journalist has been researching through back copies of his paper and has come up with the theory that Cynthia Adams is the fifth in the series.”

“The fifth in the series?” asked Faraday. “What does that mean?”

“Every year,” interrupted Lasham, “for the last five years, some rich bitch has died in Torbay at about the same time of year. Our Cynthia was the fifth.”

The DCC shook his head sorrowfully. “More than half the multi-millionaires on our patch live within a mile of each other just to the East of Torquay. This article has got them into a right panic, I can tell you. I’ve been having phone calls from them all week, demanding personal protection. We’ve instituted hourly car patrols around the neighbourhood. But you can’t protect every yard of an area of over a square mile with three main tourist routes running through it.”

“How many families are involved?”

Lord Harry’s face grew even longer. “Probably at least two hundred and fifty.” He shrugged again. “Mind you, I think a number have already decided to move to London or go abroad for the period when they might be at risk.”

“And when is that?”

“Er - when is it precisely, Paulson?”

The inspector swallowed. “Well sir - the earliest death suggested by Julian Brace (he’s the journalist at the Herald) is nineteenth June - the latest, seventh July.”

“Nineteenth June?” said Faraday. “But that’s less than a week away.”

“Bloody hell, you’re just like the rest of them. You immediately jump to the conclusion that there’s going to be another one this year.” Lasham jutted his head aggressively at her. “There just isn’t any evidence to support such a conclusion.”

Paulson was startled. Even the DCC murmured, “All right, Mark.”

However Charlotte stared straight back at him, apparently unmoved by the obvious contempt in his attitude. “I presume you mean that no kind of pattern has been established to link the deaths, other than the fact that they come from the same area and the same financial background and that they occurred at about the same time of year.”

“More than that,” said Lasham. “Oh, you know the details, Paulson. You spell it out for her.”

“Well,” Stafford considered how he should put it, “this article only appeared last Thursday and we don’t usually set up major investigations on the strength of a newspaper article. However I’ve dug out the coroner’s records of the other four deaths, as a precaution. The findings were that one was accidental, one was suicide and two were misadventure. A question mark was raised over one of the latter.”

“And what about that one?”

Paulson shook his head. “It was a simple matter. The dead woman was called Mariella Prince. She was a spinster, rather mannish. She used to enjoy going out for long walks on her own. She apparently slipped and fell while boulder-hopping across a river on Dartmoor - on her own, of course. It appears she fell head-first into a pool about two feet deep and drowned while unconscious. The river runs in a very rough bed in that area, broken up by lots of boulders which create side pools off the main course.” He paused for a second. “Anyway the coroner seemed to consider that the medical report raised some doubt about the credibility of the cause of death. But, after we had made our report, he decided there wasn’t enough evidence to pass an open verdict.”

“What about your report?”

“We drew a complete blank. The death was investigated by Sergeant Gregory Mallinson. The woman had been the only daughter of a prominent local solicitor who had died a couple of years earlier. We could find no living relatives. Most of her money went to a cat sanctuary up-country - an independent trust which she had founded and supported for years. There were a few small bequests to staff and friends - nowhere near enough to provide a motive for murder. Nobody had seen her with anyone before her death. Nobody knew of any contacts she had, other than local friends and neighbours. None of those gave us any cause for suspicion. The matter was filed pending further information.”

Faraday looked at him with a speculative expression. “And the others?”

“They all appeared natural at the time. When I read about it on Saturday I thought the suicide is possibly the only one which might have a bit of a question mark hanging over it.”

“I don’t think we all need to be involved in this discussion,” intervened Lord Harry. “You can start looking into the details when you get back to Torbay, Charlotte. Have you somewhere to stay?”

She turned to him. “Yes sir. I’ve booked myself in with an aunt who lives in Newton Abbot.”

“How are you travelling?”

“I came by special car, sir, because of my equipment. But that’s gone back to London.” She paused for a second. “I was told a car would be provided when I got here.”

“Do you drive yourself?” asked Corbett.

Charlotte was a tight-lipped as she replied, “yes - sir.”

“Good.” The DCC was apparently unaware of her reaction. “That’ll save a bit on manpower. I’ll get a car to you in a couple of days. Meanwhile I’m sure Stafford will be delighted to drive you, or else arrange for someone in the section to do it.”

He smiled benignly at them. “You’ll be able to drop her off at her aunt’s on the way home, won’t you Stafford? It’ll give you a chance to discuss some aspects of the case and plan for your onslaught tomorrow.” He banged the desk. “I want you to hit the ground running on this one.”

He held out his hand to Charlotte. “Nice to have you aboard, my dear. You know where I am if you want any advice or assistance.” He turned back to his desk and the others perceived that they were dismissed.

* * * * * * * *

Paulson and Faraday were on the by-pass and heading south before either of them spoke about it again. The boot was full of her equipment and her personal baggage was on the back seat. There was a certain air of tension in the car.

Stafford was quiet, concentrating on his driving and the misgivings he had about the new arrangements. He had warned the staff in Torquay that he was going to Exeter to discuss the Advertiser article. He had left copies with them and instructed them to have a rethink about the Cynthia Adams case ready for a conference when he returned. They expected that. They were all sensitive about the lack of progress that had been made on the case. The last straw had been this article by the bloody journalist, Julian Brace. However he hadn’t told them about Faraday, so nobody was expecting Paulson to turn up with a new thirty-year-old female to boss them around. That would take some explaining.

He was unaware that she was watching him and it almost made him jump when she spoke. “I realise this new set-up is going to be difficult for you,” she said. “I will do my best not to undermine your authority elsewhere.” There was a slight smile on her face. “I think it’s important that we try to get on together.”

“Miss Faraday,” he began and paused. “Do I call you Miss or Mrs?”

This time her smile was more positive. “I hope it’s going to be Charlotte.”

“Of course.” He sounded boorish to his own ears as he insisted, “but I need to know when I introduce you to the staff and to others.”

“Very well.” Her smile tightened as though this was the usual reaction of the old chauvinist brigade. “You may introduce me as DCI Faraday to the staff or as Ms Faraday if we should ever attend a social event together.”

He pulled his ear in embarrassment as he concentrated on getting into the correct lane to take the Telegraph Hill ascent. He was aware that they’d started off the relationship on the wrong foot, but he didn’t intend to fawn over her like the DCC.

* * * * * * * *

Charlotte broke the silence again as they accelerated up the hill. “Thank you for the copy of the newspaper article. I have read it briefly. But you can tell me more about it.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I assume you took no personal part in the investigations into the deaths it refers to.”

“What investigations?” He gave a short laugh. “We weren’t involved at all, except in the case of the woman who banged her head on a rock. That was four years ago. But, from what I recall, there was never any suggestion of foul play at the time. We were only asked to report on that one because it seemed a strange kind of a death.”

“What are you going to do about these other deaths, now the question has been raised by the article?”

“Well.” He was concentrating on the road. “When I read the coroner’s reports I must say that my first reaction was similar to the DCS’s - that it was a load of rubbish. I admit it does seem to be quite a coincidence but so far I haven’t read anything to link any of the deaths with Cynthia Adams.”

Charlotte chuckled. “What you’re really saying is that you don’t want to spend weeks ploughing through piles of computer print-outs to see if you can spot any little details which might link in some way with your records of the Adams enquiry.”

He glanced at her quickly before he nodded. “We’re only a small section. I’ve got a sergeant and two DC’s. We’ve already interviewed more than four hundred people and DNA tested nearly sixteen hundred. We must have collected more than twenty thousand sheets of data so far. That’s a hell of a lot to plough through when we’re not really sure what we’re looking for.”