Blood And Water (34 page)

“What about credit cards? They must have bought drinks?”

“No cards,” he smiled. “Only cash.”

Evans raised her eyebrows in a ‘how convenient’ slant. “I assume then that we only have their word for it that they went home, separately.”

“Exactly,” Milford confirmed, moving the ruler up the board towards Ciara. “Ciara claims to have been walking the beach at Strandhill. She too has no real alibi although the shopkeeper at the local store thinks she may have been in the shop and bought a coffee at about seven, but she doesn’t appear on the CCTV.”

“So she’s not really clear then either? Strandhill Beach is only about twenty-five minutes away. On a good day she could have made it there and back easily.”

“I know,” Milford remarked, glad that the intricate weave was decipherable.

“Then there’s Rian.” He continued climbing up the family tree. “He and Martha, also pretty upset it seems, apparently went back to their apartment and didn’t leave again till they were called by Enya. But again we only have their word for it. The CCTV from their apartment does show the car parked all evening in the basement car park and then shows them leaving, but we only have their alibi for each other.”

“And what about Sebastian?”

“Ahh, the delightful Sebastian?,” Milford mused. “What a charmer. Sebastian was on the move most of the afternoon, travelling between his bank and his office. His secretary confirms he returned just after five and was in his office when she left at about five forty. The security camera shows the car drive from the car park at eight forty-five, obviously heading to his parents’ having got the call from Enya. Again, though, there doesn’t seem to be any one to witness for sure that he was in his office building all that time.”

“Right.” Evans shrugged. “Sure that doesn’t categorically rule out any of them – except Barbara who was off her head.”

“Ah yes, but we only have her word for it that Bertram was alive before she made off with her pungent little cocktail.”

“True,” Evans pondered, “but do you really think she has it in her? I mean, look at her – she’s a real mess and physically she doesn’t look like she could have done it. She’s pretty small.”

“Hmmm,” he brooded, mentally plotting a course of action.

“And you still don’t think there’s any chance it could have been an outsider, someone completely random?”

“No, it wasn’t random,” Milford replied firmly. “Whoever did this knew what they were looking for. They knew where to find the keys to the safe and then knew where the safe was. No. I’m convinced they were looking for something specific, so that rules out random. But as for it being someone outside the family, it’s certainly a possibility, but in my experience logically and statistically it’s unlikely. There’s too much going on in this family right now for this to be a coincidence. I mean, look at them for God’s sake!” He pointed back to the family portrait on the board. “An honest-to-God, good Catholic Irish family that makes
EastEnders
look like a playschool cartoon. No. One of them did this, I’m sure. I just need to figure out which one.”

Chapter 30

They sat around the large kitchen table with their steaming mugs of tea and a visibly nervous Gladys.

“There’s nothing to worry about here, Gladys,” Milford assured her. “We only just want to have a chat about what’s been going on these last few weeks – you know, the comings and goings, any disagreements, arguments …” The open sentence was primed for her to pick up his lead and hopefully tell him what he needed to know.

“Arguments?” She shrugged. “There’s always plenty of those!” She laughed shakily. “Mr. Bertram doesn’t suffer fools gladly.” Then she corrected herself sadly. “He didn’t, anyway.”

“With his wife?”

“Not really. Mrs. Bertram tends to keep very much to herself; they don’t really spend much time together. In the early days, perhaps, they’d be snapping at each other every now and then, but not so much anymore.”

“And what about the children?”

“He was always very hard on them boys,” she told him with a slow disapproving shake of her head. “The girls too but in a different way.”

“You’ve been with the family for many years, haven’t you? Did you know about Ciara?”

“I did,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I didn’t agree with it, I thought it was wrong and Mrs. Bertram was mad to do it. But it wasn’t my place to say.”

“You see a lot here,” Milford remarked in a sympathetic tone.

“That I do, sir,” she affirmed proudly, her chest inflating slightly. “I hear many things in this house long before they ever come up in the papers, but I know my place. I don’t blab. And Mr. Bertram knows that. He knows he can trust me,” she told him firmly.

Gladys, it seemed, blended into the background. She was a cornerstone of the inner workings of the house that no one seemed to notice anymore. She heard most things, personal and professional, and it transpired had quite a strong and entertaining political opinion more left wing than she would ever have admitted to William Bertram. She was never asked her opinion and she never offered it. In her eyes this was a professional working relationship and personalities didn’t come into it.

“Tell me what’s been going on here these last days,” he probed, feeling that now she had relaxed a little.

The argument between William and Seb captured his interest and he fully expected Seb not to mention it.

But he was wrong. Seb was very open about the argument and the reasons for it.

“My father,” he told them from the comfort of the couch in his office, sipping his Nespresso from a miniature glass cup, “was about to ruin me.”

“How so?” Milford asked the remarkably relaxed Seb lounging with his legs crossed and one arm draped across the back of the sofa.

“Well, although I’m sure you already know this, my father was involved in a property deal that is being investigated.”

“And how were you involved?”

“Basically I helped him and his business partners to set up the deal for the purchase of the land, but my father it appears was foolish enough to forge some key signatures on certain documents relating to the bank loan as well as ownership of other properties that he used to guarantee his own personal loan. And I ‘witnessed’ the signatures – on my father’s say-so without actually seeing the documents being signed.”

“I see,” Milford responded. It was a good summation – he already knew about that. “And tell me what the implications were for you?”

“Worst case scenario, in simple terms, I’d be barred from working in the industry again, my reputation would be shot and essentially I’d be ruined.” He laughed sardonically. “Best case scenario, I’d get a fine but the negative effects on my reputation, which in this industry is critical, would make it difficult to recover.”

“So what happens now that your father is dead?” Milford enquired, prompting a heavy huff from Seb.

“I see where you’re going with this,” he said, “so let me get straight to the point. You’re asking if I’m better off?” Shrugging his shoulders, he thought for a minute then replied, “Yes and no.” Putting the cup down on the table he rested his elbows on his knees, leaned in closer and looked intently at Milford. “Professionally, am I better off now that my father is dead? No. I am not. The problem still exists. Whether I like it or not or meant it or not, I did actually falsely witness signatures that weren’t performed in my presence.” Again he shrugged his shoulders. “Simple as that.” He put his head down, still fuming at his naive error in trusting his father. “That said, I do have evidence, emails between my father and his partners that show I didn’t purposely set out to mislead the bank. It shows they set me up.”

“So, it’s not as bad as it could be?” Milford suggested.

“No, thankfully it’s not.”

“And personally?” Milford prompted.

“Well, personally am I better off without him? Then, truthfully I have to answer yes, yes, I am. But did I kill him?”

“Well, did you?” Milford asked, equally straight and to the point.

“No. No, I didn’t,” Seb said with a patronising smirk, “and even if I did I’m not likely to admit it to you now, am I?”

His tone ground on Milford’s nerves.

“These emails you mentioned, did you get those off your father, as evidence, before he died?”

“No, actually, I have my own team working on this. It’s all my own handiwork.”

“And what about your father’s reputation?”

“Who cares?” Seb threw out coldly with a wide sweep of his arm. “He’s no longer with us.”

Milford’s skin prickled. He didn’t like Seb much and he was sure, without being bothered, that the feelings were likely to be mutual.

“So, you’re glad he’s dead?”

Seb considered both Milford and the question for a minute before answering.

“I wouldn’t say necessarily that I’m
glad
, but I won’t miss him. My father was a bully who put himself above everyone and everything else. He deserved what he got.”

Milford looked at him with wide eyes, not in the slightest bit thrown but slightly astonished by Seb’s cavalier and overly candid attitude.

“Can I ask what you did after Enya called you from the house?”

“You can,” he responded smartly. “I was here in the office and –”

“Do you often work late?” Evans interrupted from her standing position behind the couch.

Seb looked at her with disdain. “Yes, I do. Often. If you must know I’m working on trying to unravel the mess my soon-to-be-ex-wife left behind her. I was in my office, the call came through on my mobile, I took it, told Enya to stay put, not to touch anything. I told her I’d be there as quick as I could and I left.”

“What time was that?”

“About five or ten past eight, I think.”

“Was there anyone else here with you?”

“I don’t think so, not from about seven onwards. Unlike me, my colleagues all tend to have lives outside of here.”

“How long does it take to get from here to your parents’ house?” Milford asked.

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes?”

“And that night?” he probed.

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes,” Seb repeated with bored, half-closed eyes, irritated by the question.

“So, just to be clear, Enya called you at five or ten past eight but you didn’t leave the office till close to eight thirty, because if memory serves me rightly you arrived at the house at about eight forty-five, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Why the delay?”

“Obviously I had to close up the office – that takes time.” His words were off-hand and dismissive, his face poker-straight, giving nothing away except contempt for their presence.

“I understand,” Milford said, “that you had access to the safe?”

“No”. Technically that’s not correct. Without the key no one had access and Father kept the key with him at all times. It was up to him who he chose to give it to.”

“Interesting. But you, I have been told, were the only he allowed use the key, in his presence as you say.”

“True,” Seb answered, but offered no further explanation.

“So as the only other person to gain recent access to the safe, you should be able to tell me if you’ve had any thoughts on what might have been in there that was so desperately sought after by the apparent thief.”

Sensing a trap, Seb looked directly at him. “I wouldn’t say recent access – it has been some time since I opened the safe. The last time was almost a year ago now and, no, I have no idea what might have been in there or what might have been taken.”

“We’ve come up with a pretty straightforward theory –”

“Well, good for you,” Sebastian said, eyeing the silent Evans. “You must be very proud of yourselves.”

“The idea is that whoever came into your parents’ house came with the specific intention of retrieving something that perhaps your father was holding from them, or even against them.”

“Well, now,” Seb replied, “aren’t you and your officers a hive of intelligent ideas! For the record, yes, I would agree with you. It makes perfect sense.”

“Was your father holding anything back on you?” Milford asked directly.

“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the detective.” He looked at his watch. “Now. If you don’t mind, I have an appointment and I’m late, so …” he stood up, the meeting, in his eyes, over, “unless you’ve got anything useful to tell me about the death of my father, I suggest you leave and if you have any further need of me, let me know, and I will gladly come to the station. With my solicitor.”

Striding to his desk he picked up the telephone.

“Lucy,” he instructed firmly, “the officers are ready to leave. Please show them out.”

With a pleasant if superficial smile Lucy promptly entered the room, eyed Seb briefly and held the door open.

“If you’ll follow me.”

Pulling up outside Cormac’s apartment Milford admired the neighbourhood and instinctively priced the location. Cormac didn’t drive so there was no car but chained to the railings was a high-spec hybrid bike missing its saddle. Milford rang the bell then turned to appreciate the view of the private park and hushed tone of the square. At ten o’clock on a bright Saturday morning there weren’t many people about.

Evans stood behind him, upright and official with a neutral expression, waiting patiently for the door to be answered, delighted she had become such an integral part of the investigation.

If he was surprised to see them both at his door on a beautiful Saturday morning Cormac didn’t show it. He brought them through to the living room and offered them a cup of the coffee whose aroma was tantalisingly apparent from the moment they entered the apartment. Gathering up the array of open newspapers and magazines, apologising unnecessarily for the non-existent mess, he invited them to take a seat.

“Lovely spot,” Milford complimented pleasantly, breaking the tension that hung in the air.

“I think so,” Cormac replied. “Again, sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting guests this morning.”

“Just a quick call, Cormac,” Milford assured him with a smile. “I just need to get some things straight in my head.”

“Sure. Well, make yourselves comfortable and I’ll get you that coffee.”