Sacrifice (32 page)

NB: Total year’s incomings re Shiller Drilling – $10.065 million US dollars, £6.1 million sterling (current exchange rate). Cross Reference 2.

Putting ‘Cross Reference 2’ into the search facility took us to another of Manganate’s annual reports and Helen, with the aid of the calculator, converted US dollars to pounds sterling. Again, the annual report showed substantially less income from overseas land and property sales than did the solicitors’ client account.

We did it once more. Dana had gone back just three years. The story was the same. Several million pounds a year were coming into the Gair, Carter, Gow’s client account ascribed to overseas land and property sales on the part of Shiller Drilling, but a
cross check with the holding company’s annual reports left a good portion of the millions unaccounted for.

‘Did she ever sleep?’ I muttered, mainly to myself.

‘Not much,’ said Helen. ‘She rarely went to bed before one or two in the morning. Couldn’t switch her brain off.’

I was looking down the columns of numbers and text notes. The law firm’s statement showed debit as well as credit entries; as sales of land and property were completed, the proceeds were transferred into client bank accounts, most of which were referenced by name.

‘Any point adding up all the debits to Shiller Drilling?’ I asked. ‘See what they amount to?’

‘Can’t hurt,’ said Helen. ‘I need to pee.’

Helen got up and I scanned the debit column, noting all the entries relating to Shiller Drilling. And spotted something. Not all the debits to Shiller Drilling had the same bank account reference. The money was being directed to two different accounts. I made a note of the reference number of each.

The lavatory flushed and I heard Helen going downstairs. I really wanted to know what information Dana had on Duncan, Richard, Andy Dunn and Kenn, not to mention on me. I hovered the curser over Duncan’s name for a second, then opened the file on Andy Dunn and went straight to his bank account. Helen returned carrying two glasses of water.

‘He likes to live well,’ she muttered, sitting down beside me. The same thing had occurred to me too.
Substantial payments went out each month: to a car leasing company, a wine merchant, overseas flights. The size of his monthly mortgage payments made me blink.

‘What would an inspector earn up here?’ I asked.

‘Not that much,’ said Helen, who suddenly looked deadly serious. ‘And where’s that coming from?’ She was pointing to a credit entry for £5,000. We flicked back through the months. There were several entries for similarly substantial sums. Each carried a reference number, presumably of the bank account that the money had been transferred from. As my heart-rate speeded up a fraction, I scribbled it down. CK0012946170. I’d seen that number before, I was sure of it.

‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, grabbing the mouse from Helen. I went back to the Gair, Carter, Gow’s client account, scrolled through until I found the right place and then pointed my finger at the screen.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I thought I recognized it. It’s the same number.’ There it was, CK0012946170. The first two letters had struck me. CK had made me think of Calvin Klein. We checked the column of figures. There were twelve transfers from the Gair, Carter, Gow client account to the CK reference number, spread throughout the course of the year, totalling some two and a half million pounds.

‘This isn’t good,’ said Helen to herself.

‘Am I following this?’ I said. ‘We have unaccounted-for millions coming in from overseas. Stephen Gair is directing a good proportion of them to this bank
account and then Andy Dunn is getting a monthly payout from it.’

‘Looks that way,’ said Helen. ‘Shit!’ She looked at her watch. ‘Shit,’ she said again.

Helen was starting to take me seriously. Which should have made me feel better. But she was also looking worried. She’d obviously just realized what I’d known for some time. The last flights had left hours ago. No way off the islands until morning.

‘You should check Gifford,’ I said. ‘If there’s stuff going on at the hospital, he has to be involved.’

She nodded and took the mouse back.

‘Spartan,’ she said, opening up the file on Kenn Gifford. She was right. I’d rarely seen an account statement as short or as simple as the one I was looking at. The salary came in monthly – substantially more than mine, even allowing for the seniority of his position – and then two-thirds of it went out again to a savings account. He took out a largish sum in cash each month and that was it; no standing orders, direct debits or monthly payments of any kind – well, just the one: £1,000 came into his account regularly every month: reference number CK0012946170.

‘How long ago did you leave the hospital?’ Helen asked me.

‘About four hours,’ I said.

‘Shit, we need to get out of here.’ She made no move to get up though, but flicked open the file on Richard Guthrie and went straight to his current bank account. Dana had flagged two entries: the first a credit payment of £2,000 from the same numbered
bank account that Gifford and Dunn were receiving money from; the second another incoming payment of £2,000, referenced
Tronal Med Salary
. I’d been right. Richard Guthrie was still practising: at the Tronal Maternity Clinic. A quick flick through the months showed the two entries were repeated on a monthly basis.

‘I really need to check your husband out,’ said Helen.

‘I know.’

She opened up Duncan’s file and I found myself crossing my fingers. Dana had produced a brief biography of his university and career and had found a few press cuttings about his new company. And she had his bank accounts, both business and personal.

It was as though the air had grown thinner in Dana’s small study. I was suddenly finding it harder to breathe. I watched as Helen flicked through the pages, seeing the same entry repeated month after month: £1,000. Guess the reference number.

Helen looked at me, put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked. I nodded, although I was far from OK. I wasn’t looking at the screen any more.

‘There’s something else,’ she said. ‘Late last year. Does this mean anything to you?’

She pointed to an entry in early December. A huge sum of money, hundreds of thousands of pounds, had come into Duncan’s account from the CK bank account before going out again just days later – to
Gair, Carter, Gow’s client account.

‘We bought the house the first week in December,’ I said. ‘That’s how much we paid.’

‘Looks like Stephen Gair handled the sale,’ said Helen.

‘Duncan told me the money came from a trust fund,’ I said.

‘Your husband uses a telephone bank,’ she said in a gentle voice, as though dealing with an invalid. ‘Do you know his security details?’

I thought about it, started to shake my head, then thought some more. He’d never actually told me, but I’d heard him on the phone to the bank dozens of times. His memorable date was 12 September 1974, my birthday; and his memorable address was 10 Rillington Place, a sick joke that only he found funny. I knew his mother’s maiden name, McClare; it was only his password I would struggle with. But, thinking hard, I knew several of the letters. It contained a P, a Y, an S and an O. I wrote them down. Passwords need to be memorable, so people choose names of things or people they like. I ran through the names of family members, best mates from university, even pets, but came up with nothing.

‘What does he enjoy doing?’ said Helen.

‘Plays squash,’ I managed.

‘Famous squash players,’ she said.

‘There aren’t any. It’s pointless anyway, they’ll never believe I’m Duncan Guthrie.’

‘Lower your voice.’

I dropped it an octave. ‘They’ll never believe I’m
Duncan Guthrie,’ I said in a ridiculous imitation of a man.

‘Speed it up and hold your nose, like you have a cold.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, you do it. You’re supposed to have the monopoly on butch around here!’

Helen exhaled through her nose, like a mother at the end of her patience with a particularly tiresome toddler.

‘Osprey,’ I said, realizing my little outburst had made me feel better. ‘His first boat was an Osprey. That’s it.’

‘Ready to have a go?’ she said, picking up the phone.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘We really need to know exactly where that money is coming from.’

I took the phone from her and dialled the number of the bank. When I gave Duncan’s name the girl queried me immediately and I thought the game was up. I turned away from the phone, faked a sneeze and then turned back.

‘Sorry, ’scuse me. Yes, Duncan Guthrie.’

‘From your password, Mr Guthrie, can I take letter number three?’

Fifteen seconds later I was through security. ‘I’ve been going through my account; first time for months, to be honest, and there are things in there I can’t remember setting up.’ I broke off to fake a fit of coughing. ‘I was wondering if you could just explain some of the entries for me?’

‘Certainly, what are you unsure about?’

I quoted a number and an amount. There was a moment’s silence while she checked.

‘That one is a monthly direct debit to Body Max Gym and Personal Training, Mr Guthrie. Do you want to cancel it?’

‘No, no, that’s fine. Must start using that gym. But I’ve also got myself a bit confused about some of the monthly retainers I get from clients. There’s one referenced CK0012946170. Can you confirm where that comes from . . .?’

Another short pause. ‘That payment is referenced from the Tronal Maternity Clinic.’

I said nothing. The seconds ticked by.

‘Mr Guthrie? Is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘What?’ hissed Helen beside me. ‘What is it?’

‘No. Thank you, that’s great. Thank you very much for your help.’

I put the phone down. ‘Tronal,’ I said. ‘It’s all about Tronal.’

Helen’s eyes flickered over my shoulder to the window. She jumped up, crossed the room and stood looking out. Then she leaned over to the wall, switched out the light and went back to the window. I didn’t like what I could see on her face. I got up too. Dana’s study looked down towards the harbour. Three police cars had pulled up just below us on Commercial Street, lights flickering but sirens turned off. As we watched a fourth car joined them.

‘Can’t help thinking that’s something to do with you,’ said Helen.

‘Arrest me.’

‘What?’

‘Arrest me. If I’m in your custody they can’t do anything.’

She took her eyes from the window for a second. Almost seemed to be thinking about it, then gave a slight shake of her head.

‘We’re on their patch. It won’t work.’

‘If you leave me with them, they’ll kill me. Like they killed Dana. It will look like an accident, maybe suicide, but it will be them. I hope you remember that.’

‘Get a grip!’ Helen pushed past me, back to the desk. She shut down the computer programme and folded up the laptop. Then looked over her shoulder.

‘Do you have a car?’

I nodded and she led the way as we fled the house. We went out through the back door, just as we heard hammering on the front. She locked the door, glanced around the small walled garden and set off. I followed. When we reached the top, Helen climbed on to a large terracotta planter and peered over the wall into the next garden. Then she leaped up, scrambled for a few seconds and disappeared.

‘Swing the bag over,’ she ordered softly. I did so, then climbed over myself. I wasn’t as stealthy as Helen but a couple of seconds later I was on the same side of the wall. We set off, heading uphill in the direction
of the car park, but the only way out of the second garden was via the lane where the police would be waiting. The wall was lower in this garden, and at the top we were able to hide behind a lilac bush and look over. Three uniformed constables, a man in a brown leather jacket and another, much taller man whom I was pretty certain was Andy Dunn all waited outside Dana’s front door. As we watched, one of the constables ran at the door and it buckled inwards for the second time that day. The police disappeared inside the house; Helen and I leaped over the wall, ran up the lane, climbed a short flight of steps then ducked left through a stone archway into the car park. We ran to my car and climbed inside.

I was pulling out of the car park when in my rear-view mirror I saw lights flick on upstairs in Dana’s house.

29

‘
THEY’LL EXPECT US
to head for the airport,’ said Helen. ‘They’ll be watching the road south.’

She was right, and even if we made it to Sumburgh, we could hardly just park and wait for the first plane. Well before daybreak, the people who were looking for me would have every airport, every ferry port covered.

My stomach churned. Helen was a good ally to have: she was gutsy, intelligent and not easily intimidated; but I didn’t think even she could hold out against the entire Northern Constabulary for long once they found us. And finding us would be the easiest thing in the world. There are just so few roads on Shetland; disappearing into a complicated labyrinth of back streets was simply not an option. If we were to avoid being picked up in the next hour we had to get off the roads.

‘I can’t get a helicopter out here until morning,’ she said. ‘What time is dawn?’

‘About five a.m.,’ I replied. In summer I often rose that early to ride my horses before work. Now, there was a thought. Helen was drumming her fists against the dashboard, obviously thinking hard.

‘Tora, listen,’ she said after a second. ‘I can’t start flinging accusations around about a senior police officer without a lot more proof than we have already. We need more time.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s almost two,’ she said. ‘Can you hide us for three hours?’

I thought of going home: not good, practically the first place they’d look. I thought of going back to the hospital: plenty of quiet areas this time of night but I’d almost certainly be recognized. I thought of cruising downtown Lerwick, looking for an all-night café or even a nightclub: potentially quite a good idea, except I was pretty sure there weren’t any. Helen and I couldn’t hide amongst people; there simply weren’t enough of them on Shetland.