The Informant (31 page)

Damien worked upstairs in the bed department, but Nicci caught him on his way out to lunch. At the sight of Karen’s picture he grinned broadly, she was a lovely lady, he remembered her
well, back from Dubai. He could tell immediately from the eager look on Nicci’s face that the biggest sale he’d had in ages was about to go pear-shaped. He closed his eyes. It’d
been a rough few months, now they’d be bound to sack him. Nicci thanked him and asked to see the manager.

It took her less than five minutes to whistle up Bradley and the DCs, one of whom took Damien Brown’s statement. The store manager escorted Nicci to his office and pulled up the details of
all Karen’s purchases on his computer. From there it was a short hop, skip and jump to Alice Ogilvy.

Alice Ogilvy was older than Nicci had expected. Early forties, gym-fit, expensive suit with a pencil skirt. She sat alone in the interview room unfazed by her surroundings. Her
eyes were closed, she appeared to be meditating. Nicci and Mayhew watched her on the monitor.

Mayhew pursed his lips. ‘Tip of the iceberg?’

Nicci nodded. ‘May well be. But will she talk to us?’

Mayhew ran a hand over his saggy jowls. He was dreaming about the weekend, a bit of respite, feet up in front of the telly watching some Twenty20 cricket. ‘Have you checked the
firm?’

‘Old mate of mine from Hendon works at the Serious Fraud Office. I gave him a call. On the face of it they’re a perfectly respectable medium-sized City accountants. But they’ve
got a lot of overseas clients and they specialize in tax havens.’

Mayhew’s eyes lit up. ‘Really? Want me to sit in with you?’

‘Bradley’s asked if he can. Seems to be chasing his tail over how we handled Karen Phelps.’

‘No skin off my nose.’ Mayhew swallowed a belch. ‘Good experience for him – if you’re happy with it.’

‘He’s harmless. Most of the time.’

Mayhew nodded. ‘Well, I’ll give Customs a bell. Tax havens and evasion, might give us a way in.’

Nicci collected Bradley from the canteen where he was brooding over a cold cup of coffee. She entered the interview room with a broad smile.

‘Sorry to have kept you Ms Ogilvy. This is my colleague, DC Bradley.’

Alice Ogilvy directed a half smile at Bradley but kept her focus on Nicci. ‘Will you be recording this?’

‘No no, we just wanted an informal chat really.’

Ogilvy nodded. She was sitting up very straight in her chair, almost a yoga pose with her spine perfectly aligned. Her breathing was slow and regular. Nicci already knew she’d be a tough
nut to crack.

‘We’re interested in some furniture purchased at Heal’s in Tottenham Court Road. Your credit card was used. Do you remember the purchase?’

Ogilvy frowned as she thought about this. She wasn’t about to be rushed. ‘My personal credit card was used?’

‘A credit card with your name on it.’

After pondering this for several seconds, Ogilvy sighed and gave Nicci a confident smile. ‘Ah, I think I know what’s happened.’

Nicci didn’t return the smile, she just waited for Ogilvy to go on.

‘As well as being an accountant I’m a company secretary. Some of our clients, usually those with small private companies, don’t need to employ someone full time, so we provide
that service for them.’

Nicci nodded and waited some more. She was aware of Bradley next to her, fidgeting. He was getting impatient.

Still smiling, Ogilvy continued. ‘As company secretary my name does appear on the company credit cards of some of our clients.’

Nicci considered this. ‘But you don’t use those cards personally?’

‘We have them in case of emergencies.’

‘What kind of emergencies?’

Ogilvy hesitated. ‘Well, it could be anything really . . . if a director has lost their own card, we could access funds for them.’

Bradley pushed his chair back abruptly, he fixed the accountant with a hard stare. ‘Joey Phelps, is he a client of yours then?’

Nicci shot a glance at him, but it wasn’t enough to shut him up.

‘’Cause his sister has bought a shedload of furniture with a credit card in your name. I don’t think that’s strictly legal, is it?’

Ogilvy’s eyes widened, she opened her mouth and shut it again. She seemed surprised, shocked even, but to Nicci it was all a little too rehearsed.

Ogilvy finished by tutting. ‘Well, my goodness. I’m really glad you’ve drawn this to my attention. It’s certainly something that shouldn’t happen. And I shall look
into it with the utmost urgency.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

Bradley wasn’t about to let go. Nicci folded her arms, sat back and watched. The DC had blown it, there was nothing she could do.

‘Is Joey Phelps your client?’ He slapped his hand on the table.

Ogilvy held out her palms in supplication. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, there are issues of confidentiality here. I couldn’t possibly discuss any client without their prior
consent. If you wish to pursue this, I’m only too happy to come back with my lawyer.’

Nicci gave her a long look. ‘You said a moment ago you think you know what’s happened. What did you mean?’

Ogilvy sighed. ‘Well I meant that somehow one of the company cards must’ve got used. And as I also said, I shall be looking into it. But at the end of the day it’s a matter
between us and the credit card company.’

Bradley glowered at her. ‘Not if fraud’s involved.’

Ogilvy’s gaze remained unflinching. ‘The use of the card by a person other than the card holder is of course a technical breach of contract, though plenty of people do it. I think
that what the credit-card company will be interested in is whether or not the funds were available to cover the purchase. They haven’t flagged up any problems to me. I doubt they’ll be
interested in launching a fraud investigation for a minor infringement of the rules.’

Nicci tried again to subdue Bradley with a look. But he was fuming.

‘You know what Joey Phelps is, don’t you? We’re talking drugs and money-laundering here. Now either he’s lying to you or you’re lying to us and your
oh-so-respectable firm is up to its neck in it. Which is it?’

Nicci had to admire Alice Ogilvy. Bradley’s rant simply rolled off her.

She smiled at him serenely. ‘Your accusations are entirely unfounded Constable. But I understand that at times your job must be very frustrating, so I won’t take offence.’

Nicci got up. They were getting nowhere fast. ‘This is a difficult case and we were hoping for your cooperation Ms Ogilvy.’

Ogilvy smiled. ‘And I’m more than happy to give it – so long as I’m not being asked to breach my professional obligations to my clients.’

Nicci walked over to the door and opened it. ‘Thank you for coming in.’

Alice Ogilvy rose to her feet in one fluid movement. She smiled at Bradley and offered her hand to shake. He ignored it and turned away. Nicci sighed, he was being a petulant boy. She shook
Ogilvy’s hand and watched her sail off down the corridor. Then she turned on Bradley.

‘What the bloody hell is the matter with you?’

‘She was taking the piss!’

‘Y’know, I’ve had it with you Bradley. You’re arrogant, you’ve got no patience, and if there’s a way to fuck up, you’ll find it.’

Nicci turned on her heel and strode off too.

Bradley slumped down on a chair. He knew she was right. Through luck and solid police work they’d happened upon the firm of accountants Joey Phelps was using to front his business
dealings. And true to form he’d behaved like a rookie DC with a bug up his arse. He wanted so badly to get a result, to prove to Nicci, Mayhew, Turnbull too, that he did know what he was
doing.

Nicci was right, if there was a way to fuck up he’d find it. He wanted to go after her and apologize, but he didn’t think she’d listen.

Helen Warner had to admit to herself that she was relieved to have a reason to escape from the flat. She walked towards Canary Wharf, where she knew the underground shopping
mall would provide all she needed. Karen was trying to be resolutely independent but it was clear that she needed help. Helen had been both shocked and enraged when she’d seen the state of
her. Of course she wasn’t getting the full story, that was obvious. With Sean’s release from jail an eruption of violence within the Phelps clan was entirely predictable, but Helen had
thought Karen would’ve had the sense to keep out of it. It seemed she’d been wrong.

She found a kettle, some mugs and decided to add a cafetiere, but was that going over the top? She stood in the kitchen shop debating the point with herself. Why was she even doing this, running
round after Karen? She could’ve simply delegated the task to someone in the office. That’s what PA’s were for. But was her connection with Karen more personal than professional
now? They’d only slept together once. Still, seeing her, and seeing her hurt, had stirred up a hornet’s nest of dangerous emotions. Helen put the cafetiere back on the shelf, paid for
her purchases and headed for Waitrose.

The previous evening she’d taken Julia out to dinner at a smart new bistro in Soho in order to propose; it was supposed to be a romantic tryst but had turned into a strategy meeting.
She’d had a call from one of her policy advisor mates at Party HQ. It hadn’t hit the news feeds yet but a Northern Labour MP was about to die of cancer and his death would trigger a
by-election. The leadership was keen on a female candidate; someone modern, telegenic and on-message. Helen’s mate reckoned it was her big chance.

Helen was excited, she’d thought she’d be sitting it out until the next general election. But if this seat was up for grabs she was certainly going to go for it.

She realized there was no point being ambiguous about her sexuality or relationship status, the red tops’d sniff out any perceived weakness in a nanosecond. So she and Julia would
celebrate their civil partnership openly and joyously, make it a real family occasion, and she’d defy the selection panel to hold it against her.

The real skeleton in her closet was Karen Phelps. Being Karen’s lawyer was one thing, but she needed to take a large step back from anything more than that. As she selected tea bags, milk,
cereal and fruit from the supermarket shelves she told herself this was positively the last time she was riding to the rescue.

Loaded down with supplies Helen jumped into a cab for the short ride back to Narrow Street. She was at the front door to Karen’s building, paying the cabbie off, when she noticed a man in
a parked car opposite watching her. For a moment she racked her brains, she couldn’t quite place him. Then he got out of the car and walked towards her. It was the cop with the photos
who’d tried to lean on Karen.

As the cab drove off, he joined her. All smiles he reached down to pick up one of her plastic carriers. ‘Need a hand?’

She glared at him. ‘Do I know you?’

He pulled out a warrant card. ‘Sorry. DC Bradley – I bought you a cup of coffee in Southend.’

‘What do you want? I’m rather busy.’

‘Is Karen at home? I was hoping to have a word.’

Bradley gave her his most winning smile; it wasn’t an effort because the sight of the lawyer had cheered him up considerably. He’d been sitting in his car for the last quarter of an
hour wondering how, without ringing every doorbell in the block, he was going to find out if this really was Karen Phelps’s new home. The probation service in Basildon might know, but they
could be awkward bastards to deal with and had already made an official complaint about Bradley’s ruse at the hostel.

After some argument about cost, Mayhew had got authorization to have Karen’s mobile phone tracked. The signal location had led him to this residential block in Limehouse.

Helen looked him up and down. ‘Why are you here? Did the hospital get in touch?’

He frowned. ‘The hospital?’

‘Clearly not.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Oh what the hell, I think you probably should see what that bastard’s done to her. She’s been beaten up.’

‘By Joey?’

‘By her cousin Sean.’

Bradley’s face fell. The drunken phone call, the threat, all flashed through his mind. Oh shit. He thought it but didn’t say it.

Kaz had spent the latter part of the afternoon dozing on the sofa covered with the brand-new duvet, delivered with the furniture that morning, which now seemed an age ago. The
back of her head around the gash was extremely sore, the local anaesthetic they’d given her in order to stitch it had worn off. Her jaw was a dull ache. She’d sleep for a bit, then wake
abruptly thinking she was in the car boot again.

The light was fading, the river ebbing. Helen had taken a door key to let herself back in. Kaz heard the front door open. She wanted to call out, to check, but that seemed childish, absurdly
uncool. She waited a moment. The shadows in the room were lengthening, the hallway running off it was already dark, a sudden fear gripped her stomach. Why hadn’t Helen announced herself? She
could hear footsteps in the hall, two voices, someone fumbling for the light switch. Suddenly she was close to panic.

‘Helen? That you?’

The light in the hall went on. Helen appeared round the corner, saw Kaz’s anxious face. She smiled. ‘It’s okay.’

Except it wasn’t okay, because behind her was Mal Bradley with two plastic carriers of shopping. At the sight of Kaz his jaw slackened.

‘Jesus wept. What happened?’

Kaz sat up abruptly and shot an accusing glance at Helen. ‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’

Bradley put the carriers down on the kitchen counter. Helen went over to the sofa and sat on the end.

‘I found him on the doorstep. And I think you do need to talk to him. You can’t let Sean get away with this.’

Kaz was close to tears. She glared at Helen. ‘They was behind it, don’t you understand? To put the frighteners on me. ’Cause they don’t want Sean, they want
Joey.’

Helen turned to Bradley. He was standing, hands in his pockets, with a sheepish look on his face. She cocked her head. ‘Well? Is this true?’

‘No no, ’course it isn’t . . . you got it all wrong Karen. I’m really sorry . . . this is terrible.’

Kaz glared at him, her face was tight and angry. ‘Sorry? He knew I’d talked to you. That’s why he did this. So who the fuck told him, eh?’