Murder On Account Read online

  Just then, my phone rang, so Sonya mouthed a goodbye, and slipped out of the office.

  “Kat? It’s Mrs Marston.”

  “Hi.”

  “I was hoping I might have heard from you by now. When I spoke to Roy last week, he said he thought you were close to getting something on Roger.”

  The moment of truth had arrived. Did I continue to string the poor woman along, just to bump up the bill, or did I tell her the truth?

  “I’m not sure if you heard, but Roy King was murdered on Sunday night.”

  “What? Oh, my goodness. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

  “The truth is, Mrs Marston, I’ve followed your husband on and off for the last two weeks, and I’m almost certain that he isn’t seeing anyone else.”

  “But what about those times when you weren’t following him? He might have been up to something then?”

  “That’s always possible, but I’ve had a lot of experience of working on adultery cases, and I can tell you that it’s usually very obvious when someone is cheating. I genuinely don’t think your husband is. Can I ask why you’re suspicious of him?”

  “Nothing in particular. It’s just a feeling I can’t shake.”

  “It’s entirely up to you of course. I can continue to follow him, and report back if that’s what you want, or—”

  “You really don’t think he’s seeing anyone else?”

  “I’m almost certain he isn’t. I would have spotted something by now if he was.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps it’s just my overactive imagination. I suppose I could see how it goes between us, and if anything happens to raise more doubts, I could contact you again. Or will you be shutting the business down, after what’s happened?”

  “No, I intend to continue running it.”

  “That’s what I’ll do, then. And, of course, I’ll need to pay your bill for the work you’ve done to date. Are you still based in the same offices?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll drop the payment off in the next day or so.”

  Well, that was clever. My first executive decision as the new owner of the agency had been to convince a client that she didn’t need my services. I wasn’t sure Roy would have approved of my new business strategy.

  Chapter 4

  I decided to take Sonya’s advice, and went in search of Vic the printer. Clients would expect me to have some kind of business card, so the sooner I ordered them, the better.

  Just as Sonya had said, there was no name on the door adjacent to the gents’ toilets. I knocked, but there was no reply, so I tried the door and it opened.

  “Hello? Anyone in?”

  The office, if you could call it that, was a room without a stick of furniture in it. I was just beginning to think that Vic must have moved out, when a door at the back opened and a man appeared.

  It was only then that I realised I’d seen Vic before, but I’d always thought of him as Half-An-Ear. I’d walked past him a few times in the corridors, and I’d often wondered how he’d lost the top half of his right ear.

  “Can I help you?” He had what sounded like a Brummie accent.

  “Are you Vic?”

  “Depends who’s asking.”

  “I’m Kat Royle. Sonya said I should come and see you about some printing.”

  “Naughty Sonya?” He grinned. “Are you two in the same line of business?”

  “No, I’m a—err—” I hesitated. “I’m a P.I, I guess.”

  “Aren’t you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m definitely a P.I.”

  “What are you after, Kat?”

  “I just need some business cards.”

  “How many do you want?”

  “I don’t know. How many do people normally order?”

  “It varies, but five hundred should keep you going for a while. Do you have a logo?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “I’ll knock one up for you. No extra charge for a new customer. What else do you want on the cards?”

  “Just the name of the business: R.K. Investigations, the address and my phone number.”

  “Don’t you think you should have your name on there too?”

  “Oh yeah. I’d forgotten about that.”

  “What about social media? Website, Facebook, Twitter, that kind of thing?”

  “I don’t have any of those.”

  “You’ll need to get that sorted pretty sharpish. A business isn’t a business these days without all of that stuff.”

  This from the man who didn’t even have his business’s name on the door.

  “I’ll get on it. Soon. Any idea when I can expect the cards?”

  “You can have them tomorrow if you like. Twenty-five quid okay?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Tomorrow it is, then.”

  The only thing I’d had to eat that day was the egg on toast I’d had for breakfast, and my stomach was making its displeasure known. Ideally, I would have liked to nip across the road to the Dog and Duck to treat myself to their midweek carvery, but my finances wouldn’t run to that. Instead, I had to make do with the school canteen.

  The café, which was located on the top floor of the business centre, was actually called Mary’s Diner, but everyone knew it as the school canteen. Before starting her own business, Mary had worked at a number of different schools over a period spanning twenty years. When she’d moved into the commercial sector, she’d seen no reason to change the tried and tested methods that she’d used to feed generations of schoolkids. That probably explained why the café was rarely more than one quarter full.

  Mary didn’t believe in either menus or choice. You had what you were given, and if you didn’t eat it all, you could expect to receive some caustic comment on your way out.

  “What’s that, Mary?” I pointed.

  “Yorkshire pudding. What does it look like?”

  I resisted the temptation to give her an honest answer, but only because she was wielding an enormous carving knife.

  “You’ve forgotten your broccoli,” she shouted after me, as I headed to the till.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Broccoli!” She pointed again—this time with the knife.

  I didn’t argue. Instead, I put the smallest piece I could find onto my plate.

  Eating lunch in Mary’s Diner brought it all streaming back to me: Mr West, the physics teacher, who spent all lunchtime picking his nose. Wendy Rowling, and her insistence on having a separate plate for each vegetable. Joan Carver, the prefect who used to get some kind of kick out of making my life a misery. And who could forget Nigel Lane who got his rocks off by deliberately spilling custard down the blouse of any girl who made the mistake of getting too close to his table.

  Whoever said school days were the happiest of your life obviously hadn’t attended Haywood High.

  I was trying to figure out where best to secrete the broccoli when I noticed a young man, going from table to table. Whatever he was selling, no one was buying. He was tall, very slim, and probably about twenty years old. And as for his hair, I’d never seen anything quite like it. How did he get it to stick out at that angle?

  “Excuse me.” He’d reached my table.

  Before he could start his pitch, I got in first. “Do you like broccoli?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Broccoli? Do you like it?”

  “No, it brings me out in hives.”

  “You’re not much use then, are you?”

  “I’m looking for a job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Anything. I don’t mind. I’m good with computers, numbers and stuff. I used to be a bit of a hacker, but I’m reformed now.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “Have you got anything for me?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Can I leave you my CV, just in case?”

  “If you like, but it’s unlikely I’ll have anything in the foreseeable future.”

  �
��Thanks.” He handed me an A4 sheet of paper from his folder. “I’m Zero.”

  “You’re never going to get a job if you don’t use your real name.”

  “That is my real name.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yeah. Zero Smith. My mum says she wanted to give me an interesting first name to compensate for my boring surname.”

  “Right. Well, good luck with the job hunting.”

  “Thanks.”

  Zero handed out a few more CVs, and then made his way out of the canteen. All I had to do now was to get out of there before Mary spotted that I’d left the broccoli. I bided my time, and after a couple of minutes, Ron and Don, who ran the dog-sitting business on the ground floor, went to the counter. While Mary was busy serving them, I made a dash for the door.

  ***

  If Roy had still been alive, I would have taken a cab to Fulton’s offices. He would have moaned about my expenses claim, but then he moaned about everything I did. Now that all the expenses were going to come out of my pocket, there was no way I’d be taking cabs. Not for the foreseeable future at least.

  Two tube journeys, and a ten-minute walk later, I was at the offices of Fulton Associates.

  “Can I help you?” Judging by the expression on her face, the woman on reception obviously thought I should have taken the tradesmen’s entrance.

  “Ted Fulton is expecting me. I’m Kat Royle.”

  She checked her computer. “You’d better take a seat. I’ll let Mr Fulton know you’re here.”

  The selection of magazines was straight out of a dentist’s waiting room, so I gave them a miss.

  “Kat?” The man was tall, dark and very ordinary. His suit was expensive, but probably not as expensive as his teeth.

  “Mr Fulton?”

  “It’s Ted. Would you come with me?” He led the way to a bank of lifts. “Did Roy King brief you?” He hit the button for the sixth floor.

  “Not fully. Something about your partner, I believe?”

  “That’s right. He’s disappeared.” The lift doors opened in front of a huge glass-fronted office. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  The small bar in one corner of the office was better stocked than the Gerbil and Oyster.

  “I’ll take a cola if you have one.”

  He handed me a bottle and a glass, and then poured himself a very large whisky.

  “Take a seat.” He gestured to one of the white sofas. “How long have you worked for R.K. Investigations?”

  “Just over six years.”

  He sank half of the whisky. “And you plan on keeping the business going?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My partner’s name is Mike Dale. We’ve worked together for almost ten years.”

  “What exactly is your business?”

  “We’re financial consultants. Mike and I are partners.”

  “How come his name isn’t above the door?”

  “I started by myself originally. Mike bought into the business about a year later, but he insisted that I didn’t change the company name. He prefers to keep a low profile.”

  “When did he go missing?”

  “The weekend before last. He left work as usual on Friday evening, and no one has seen him since. I’ve tried to phone him a hundred times, but the calls all go to voicemail.”

  “Does he live with anyone?”

  “No. He got divorced a couple of years back. His ex-wife moved to the States with her new partner about six months ago.”

  “Children? Other family?”

  “They didn’t have any kids, and there’s no one else as far as I know. Mike’s an only child; both his parents died several years ago.”

  “Did the divorce affect him badly?”

  “No. If anything, I’d say it came as a relief. Those two should never have got together in the first place.”

  “Has he been seeing anyone since the divorce?”

  “Nothing that has lasted more than a few months. I seem to remember the last woman he was seeing was called Liz, or Lisa.”

  “What about work? Has he been under more pressure than usual recently?”

  “No. Certainly nothing he couldn’t handle. Mike’s a happy-go-lucky sort of a guy. Not much worries him.”

  “Enemies? Personal or business?”

  “None. He’s not the kind of man to make enemies.”

  “Have you reported him missing to the police?”

  “No. I wasn’t sure they’d be interested, and to be honest, we could do without the bad publicity. That’s why I contacted your office. A business associate used your agency last year; he was the one who recommended you.”

  We talked for another twenty minutes about Mike Dale and the business, but I didn’t learn anything of any significance.

  “Okay. I’ll probably have more questions over the coming days.”

  “Call me anytime.”

  “Before I go, would it be possible to take a look at Mike’s office?”

  “Of course. I’ll get his PA, Tasmin, to show you around if that’s alright?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  Tasmin glided in on the tallest heels I’d ever seen, and yet she made it look like she was walking in flats.

  “Hi. I’m Tas.”

  “Kat.”

  “Mike’s office is on the other side of this floor. Can I get you a drink on the way over?”

  “Not for me, thanks. What kind of man is Mike?” I asked as we made our way across the floor.

  “He seems okay.”

  “Seems?”

  “Didn’t Ted tell you? I’ve only been here for a month.”

  “No, he didn’t mention that.”

  “To tell you the truth, I haven’t seen very much of Mike. He spends most of his time out of the office.”

  “Did you see him on the Friday before last? The day he went missing?”

  “Yes, he was in all day that day, which is quite unusual.” She came to a halt outside another glass-fronted office, similar to the one I’d just been in with Ted Fulton. “This is Mike’s office. Shall I wait out here?”

  “No, come in, please.”

  The first thing that struck me was how empty the room felt compared to Ted’s. The only furniture in the huge office was a desk, a chair and a leather sofa next to the window.

  “Has this office always been so sparsely furnished?”

  “Since I’ve been here, yes. When I first started, I assumed they must have taken out some of the furniture while the office was being decorated, but it turned out that this is how Mike prefers it.”

  “Doesn’t he have a computer?”

  “Yeah, a laptop. It’s usually on his desk.”

  “Does he sometimes take it home with him?”

  “I’d never known him to. When I mentioned to Ted that it was missing, he said it had been taken by I.T. for repair.”

  Before I left, I had Tas give me Mike Dale’s address and phone number.

  “Thanks for your help, Tas.”

  “No problem. Do you think he’s okay?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  “I hope so. This is the best job I’ve ever had; I’d hate to lose it already.” She blushed. “Sorry, that’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it? Obviously, I hope Mike’s okay too.”

  “I understand. Just one last thing, could you take me to your I.T. department?”

  “Sure. It’s on the floor below this one.”

  Tas introduced me to Greg Crawley, the head of I.T. He was the typical I.T. geek: sandals and a goatee.

  “This will only take a minute, Greg,” I said. “Can you tell me what was wrong with Mike Dale’s computer?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I believe you had it collected from his office for repair?”

  “I don’t think so. Let me just double-check.” He tapped a few keys on his computer. “No, there’s no record of a fault call for Mike Dale.”

  “Okay. Thanks very much.”

 
There was something about this case that didn’t pass my sniff test. Fulton had said he was concerned about bad publicity, but it struck me as weird that he wouldn’t have reported his partner’s disappearance to the police. And why had he told Tas that Mike Dale’s laptop had been taken for repair by the I.T. department when that obviously wasn’t true?

  Chapter 5

  I was just about to get onto the tube when I received a text message from Christine Mather. She had been one of the first friends I’d made when I moved down to London. For a while back then, we’d been inseparable. Then she’d met Ralph.

  The last time I’d seen her, she’d told me she’d never speak to me again, and that I was dead to her. Yes, she actually did say those very words. That was two years ago, when I’d made the mistake of thinking she’d want to know that her good-for-nothing boyfriend was cheating on her with a woman named Fiona. Unfortunately, I hadn’t allowed for the fact that she was so smitten with Ralph that she wouldn’t hear a bad word said against him. Not even from the person who she’d insisted was her BFF. Yes, she’d really said that too.

  When I’d told Christine about Ralph and Fiona, she’d accused me of being jealous and of fancying Ralph myself. Seriously? I’d rather have dated the guy who sells wet fish on the local market. It’s not that I have anything against wet fish per se, but the guy who sells it is so ugly it should be illegal. At first, I’d thought she was joking, but she was deadly serious. She’d stormed out of the pub, but not before telling me that hell would freeze over before she spoke to me again.

  Apparently, the underworld was currently experiencing something of a cold snap.

  Christine’s text said simply:

  Can we meet, please? V important.

  If I was the vindictive sort, I would have ignored the message, or sent her a snippy reply, but that’s not who I am. And besides, I was curious to learn what could possibly have led to such an about-face.

  I replied:

  Sure. When and where?

  She responded almost immediately:

  Tomorrow at ten? Usual place?

  For all I knew our usual place might have closed down during the intervening two years, but I assumed she must know otherwise, so I typed: