Way beyond a lie, p.24
Way Beyond A Lie, page 24
‘But there’s what happened with Carla …’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake …’ Then, more gently. ‘Look. What Carla did was total shit but, and I know it’s easy for me to say, you can’t let it affect other relationships you end up in. There aren’t con artists hiding in every shadow, waiting to steal all your worldly goods when your back’s turned. Alex seems like a lovely girl. She did you a favour with those phone apps, and the only downside I can think of is she’s clearly into you so her taste’s a bit suspect.’ Ross tossed a cushion at his friend, who deflected it with his arm. ‘And, she dresses up in S & M gear, which, I have to say, is a bit of a bonus as far as I’m concerned.’
Ross would have been surprised if Martin had managed to remain serious for too long. ‘I suppose you’re right. Ending it straight away would be a knee-jerk reaction. I’m probably just being a bit uptight about the whole thing.’
‘Good man.’ He hauled around at his tracksuit bottoms and gave his belly a good scratch. ‘Now, I was just thinking earlier on, any more news from the police or the banks?’
‘Not really. I was talking to Mel the other day. They’ve made a formal request to their counterparts in Spain, sent them an International Letter of Request or something like that. But apparently it could take months for any sort of reply to come back. Everybody knows the money was probably moved on to another country in a matter of minutes so what’s the bloody point? And even if the Spanish authorities can trace it, Mel would then have to send another one of those letters to the authorities in the next country. And so it goes on.’
‘Fuck’s sake! Not exactly quick, are they? Do you stand any chance of seeing your money again?’
‘I’m working on the basis I won’t. Anything else is a bonus.’
‘And what about the fourteen k she withdrew from your credit card? Will you need to reimburse the bank?’
‘I don’t know yet but it’s unlikely. Eventually the police will decide I’m not the guilty party so when they confirm to the bank that I’ve been the victim of fraud, the bank will hopefully write off the debt.’
‘And the fake mortgage?’
‘Just exactly the same as the credit card, they’re waiting to see what the police say. I’ll lose all my own money but hopefully I won’t owe the bank or the building society anything.’
‘Well, that’s something at least. Isn’t it?’
Ross shrugged and turned his palms up. ‘The only problem would be if the cops can’t prove it’s fraud. Because if they can’t, I’ll be liable for the debt.’
‘Jesus! What a mess.’
Just as Ross was leaving, Martin said, ‘Seriously, now. I hope everything works out with Alex, so stick in there, kid.’ Ross was putting his helmet on so he almost missed the follow-up. ‘And you can let me know what she dresses up in next.’
But by the time he turned round to say, ‘Bugger off,’ he was saying it to a closed door.
He laughed to himself and pedalled off down the drive. No matter what, he’d always thanked his lucky stars he had Martin for a best mate. Even if he is a complete tosser sometimes.
Fall
Chapter Forty-Seven
Seven Weeks Later
‘Good game?’ asked the barman.
It was just after five o’clock on the first Saturday in September, and Ross and three of his football-supporting friends had dropped in to their usual post-match haunt. The pub was far enough away from the stadium not to be mobbed with fans but close enough that they didn’t have to walk too far for a beer. And, they could be reasonably sure of a table for their habitual dissection of their team’s performance, and the rest of the day’s football.
‘Not bad, but I’ve no idea how we managed to only come away with a draw.’
The barman chortled as he poured the last beer. ‘Let me guess. Hit the post, hit the bar, missed a few sitters, and their keeper played a blinder?’
Ross handed over the money, and picked up three of the beers. ‘That’s about right, Tommy. Never mind, there’s always next week.’
‘Ever the optimist, my boy. That’s what I like to hear.’ Tommy looked to the customer who was next in line. This was a proper pub and the patrons knew not to shout their order or try to jump the queue. Because if they did, they’d suffer the sharp edge of the barman’s tongue.
Ross had delivered beers to his thirsty mates, come back for his pint and was walking away from the bar when he felt a tap on his left shoulder. He turned round to find an older gentleman smiling at him. The man was about Ross’s height, maybe early sixties, bald as a bowling ball, bespectacled, trim and unusually well turned out for a Saturday tea time. If Ross had been asked to find one word that described him it would have been ‘dapper’.
‘Excuse me. It’s Ross McKinlay, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’ Ross instinctively switched his glass to his left hand. ‘I’m sorry, have we met before?’ He remained half turned away, still a little uncertain.
‘No, we’ve never met but I wonder if we could have a quiet chat.’
Ross’s first thought was, what are you selling? He glanced at the man’s lapels, looking for a badge with the name of the charity he was using to fleece the Saturday evening drinkers. ‘I don’t know, what’s it about? I’m having a drink with some friends.’ He stepped to the side for a moment to let two men pass through the gap.
The man held up both hands. ‘I don’t want to interrupt your evening but I’m sure you’ll want to talk to me.’
Ross was still smiling but not with his eyes. ‘Okay. Two, no, three things. First, you know my name but I don’t know yours. Second, you’re standing in a busy pub, without a drink. What’s that all about? And third, I’d rather not be rude but I’ll be walking away this second if you don’t tell me what you want to talk to me about.’
‘That’s fair comment. My name’s Oliver. I’d prefer to stay sober while we talk but I’ll certainly be enjoying a couple later on. And, I know exactly what you’ve been going through.’
Ross couldn’t understand why but despite the man’s outward appearance and his gentle, polite manner, he felt some anger towards him. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, his brow lowered, and his index finger pointing at Oliver’s nose. ‘As you said, we’ve never met before. But you know exactly what I’ve been “going” through. What the hell are you talking about, Oliver?’
Oliver reached out and guided Ross’s finger away from his face. ‘I’d like to talk to you about your missing wife. And the reason I know about her is my wife went missing too.’ Ross’s pointing finger drifted gradually south as he stared blankly at the other man. ‘And I’m a few hundred thousand pounds down as a result.’
Ross looked like he’d just spotted John Lennon in the corner, sharing a joint with Jimi Hendrix. Oliver continued. ‘So, I’ll just order myself a soft drink and sit at that little table over there. Just come over whenever you’re ready.’
And with that, he walked off towards the bar, leaving Ross rooted to the spot in a space in the middle of the floor like the star-struck winner of a national elimination dance.
‘Sorry guys, but I need to talk to this chap about, em, something.’ There was a whole afternoon of football to be discussed, and now he was bailing out before a ball had been kicked. He hadn’t even been able to come up with a decent excuse.
Ross could sense the confused stares from his three friends lancing into the back of his head as he sat facing Oliver. ‘Right.’ Ross had his pint in front of him and his forearms crossed on the table. ‘The floor’s yours. But I want to know how you know me, and how do you know about my wife?’
Oliver pulled his chair in a little closer. He took his wallet from his inside jacket pocket and laid it on the table next to his glass of cranberry juice. Ross looked at the wallet, then back at Oliver, one eyebrow raised.
‘I’ll answer both questions in just a minute but may I tell you a bit more about myself first? It’ll save me jumping about in the story.’ Ross huffed a little but waved his hand in agreement. ‘I’m sixty-two and my first wife, Esther, died just over four years ago. She’d been ill for a long time. We were quite well off. Decent jobs and no children, you see.’ He looked at Ross for some sign of empathy but nothing came back. His mouth ticked up at the sides and he carried on. ‘Less than a year later I began a relationship with a much younger woman, her name was Susanne. She had a French accent, said she was from Guernsey. Susanne was beautiful, energetic, vibrant. I was besotted, blind and, as it turned out, stupid. All my friends warned me she was a gold-digger but I didn’t listen. Like I said, stupid.’ Ross leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly, the head of his beer still level with the top of the glass.
‘A few months later we were married so, of course, Susanne moved in. I didn’t really notice but gradually she took charge of all my affairs. I was still working full-time, my job was pretty full-on, so it was a big help. I thought it was just boring stuff like household accounts, paying bills, banking. Esther used to do all that so I was just glad someone else was dealing with it.’
Ross was parched but still his beer sat there as Oliver continued. ‘One day I came home from a business trip, I’d been away for a few days. Susanne wasn’t at home. The car was still there so I wondered if she was just out for a walk or something. But the house felt a little … I don’t know, different.’ At last Ross took a mouthful of his beer and Oliver followed suit, sipping his juice. ‘Then I realised things were missing. A couple of small antiques, a painting, all her jewellery including things I bought her. I couldn’t find my good watch, an Omega. Then I noticed an open drawer in the study, where we kept household papers. The banking folder was missing too, and …’ His voice croaked so he took another sip. He was struggling to retain his composure.
‘She’d gone?’ said Ross, and Oliver nodded. ‘And you said earlier, you’ve lost a few hundred thousand?’
‘No need to bore you with the exact figure but not far short of eight.’
They were both silent, lost in themselves. Ross spoke first. ‘I’m assuming you’re here because you’ve found out my wife did something similar to me.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Okay. So, back to what I asked you earlier. How? How did you find out? How did you track me down?’
A cheer floated over from the bar and Ross glanced up. The television showed several footballers in white tops celebrating a goal.
Oliver’s voice had regained its earlier strength, he sat taller in his seat. ‘About nine months, a year after Susanne left, I was approached by two men who’d suffered the same. They’d met at a victim support group completely by accident, and between them they decided to try to track down the criminals.’ He looked directly at Ross. ‘You know it’s organised crime, don’t you?’ Ross nodded as he was taking another drink. ‘Then they found out about me, and a few others, and now we’re a small group trying to pull together enough evidence to take to the police and the banks.’
‘You still haven’t told me how you tracked me down. And you need to tell me that or we’re done here.’
‘I get it. You’re suspicious. You don’t trust me, and you’re quite right not to. Perhaps this will help.’ He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew two pages of A4, stapled together and folded in three. He smoothed out the folds, and pushed them across the table.
Ross read the first few lines. His eyes snapped up at the man opposite him. ‘Where the hell did you get this?’ It was a copy of a police report written by Mel Cooper concerning Carla’s disappearance, including the full scale of the losses Ross had suffered.
Oliver picked his way carefully through his explanation. ‘We have, let’s just say, a “contact” in the police force who is willing to provide us with reports like that one. This person wasn’t targeted personally but one of their close friends was.’ Ross noted the gender-neutral terms Oliver had used but let it pass. ‘Depending on how our conversation works out today I’ll tell you more about other resources we have available to us but that’s all I can say for now.’
Ross finished reading the document and spun the papers away from him. ‘My problem is, I’m finding it difficult to trust you and, funnily enough, the fact you’ve got that report doesn’t help your case. You’ve come out of absolutely nowhere so how do I know you’re not part of this. That you’re not a con man too.’
Oliver reached for his wallet, slid out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Ross. It was a newspaper clipping that showed Oliver and, inset, a grainy image of a dark-haired woman. Below was a report of Susanne’s disappearance, suggesting there was a criminal element involved. It asked for anyone with any information about her to contact a helpline or a police station. Ross looked at the other man expectantly, pointing at several heavy black lines that obscured the couple’s surname and the location of the police station. ‘Why the redaction? It makes me wonder if this article is legit. After all, we’re talking about organised crime here. A bit of Photoshopping wouldn’t be beyond a gang of master criminals.’
Oliver wasn’t perturbed about this line of questioning. It was as if he’d been expecting it. ‘Again, you’re right. I could have mocked it up but I didn’t. All I can say is, it is genuine but at this stage I can’t give you the proof you need.’ Ross hit him with his best oh really? expression. ‘And the names are scored out for your safety and security as well as mine. So I can’t tell you my full name.’
‘How mysterious. Why not?’
Oliver looked around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard but most of the people nearby were concentrating on the game. ‘I told you earlier we are a small group. At one time there were nine of us. Now there are only seven.’
‘What happened to the other two?’
‘They died.’ Oliver paused. ‘In circumstances that are, at best, unexplained.’
‘And at worst?’
‘They were murdered.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
Ross digested Oliver’s last statement: that two of his fellow victims had perhaps been murdered. He was struggling to comprehend the enormity of this piece of information but he still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure of the person sitting opposite him.
Ross drained his glass, and braced himself to stand up. ‘This place is too busy to talk properly. There’s a pub a few doors down on this side of the street. It’s a barn of a place but it’ll be quiet at this time of day. I’ll meet you there in five but I’ll need to tell my friends where I’ve gone.’
A few minutes later, they were seated in a soulless, plastic pub with a faux-Irish theme. It was popular with the eighteen to twenty-five crowd, although everyone on this side of town knew the lower age limit was closer to fifteen. By ten o’clock the joint would be jumping but right now, only a dozy-looking barman with outlandish ear-tunnels was around to listen in. But he appeared to be lost in his own little world. The chances of him eavesdropping were slim to none.
Oliver allowed the silence to build. It was Ross who broke it. ‘Being right upfront with you, I don’t even know why I’m here. I’ve only known you five minutes, you’re dragging me back into something I’ve been trying to put behind me, and now you’re telling me that two people who were involved with you have been murdered. Now, based on things you haven’t told me, like your surname and whether your talented friend is a him or a her, it’s probably safe to assume that if I ask you for more details you’ll come over all cloak and dagger again.’
Oliver spread his arms wide. ‘Until I know you trust me, I won’t be able to trust you. So until we reach that point, you’re right, I do need to play my cards close to my chest. Because if I don’t, we could both be in danger. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.’
Having arrived at this impasse, Ross knew he had to fall down on one side of the ridge or the other. A good couple of minutes passed, where both men allowed the other time to think. ‘Okay, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. For now. But the only thing that’ll keep me here for any longer is if you convince me that, beyond any shadow of doubt, you’re on the side of the good guys.’ Ross sat back and folded his arms. ‘So, Oliver, you have one chance. Don’t blow it.’
‘Fair enough. If I can’t convince you today that I’m the real deal, I’ll walk away and you won’t ever see or hear from me again. I’m going to start off by describing your profile, and what I think has been happening to you. You can let me know if I’m right.’ Ross nodded his acquiescence.
‘I imagine you’re a widower, with no children or even close family relatives. If you died today you would have no one obvious to leave your estate to. Prior to meeting Carla, you won’t have been widowed for long, possibly even less than a year. Carla will have come out of nowhere. Her background would have been vague, certainly no family anywhere nearby. She wouldn’t have owned her house or flat. Perhaps she rented it or said she was looking after it for someone. Her personal possessions would have been few, no heirlooms or family photos or other mementos.’ Ross’s eyes widened but he didn’t make any comment. Oliver noticed and continued. ‘She may even have been reluctant to have her photo taken.’ He paused for a second but received no reaction this time. ‘Like I was with my wife, you were probably besotted by her and, I apologise for this, she could have been, em, extravagant when it came to sex. This is a major part of their MO. It’s possible she made moves to alienate your friends, to narrow down your social circle, keep you closer to her.’ Oliver considered asking How am I doing so far? but Ross’s expression suggested it wasn’t a good idea.
The door swung open, someone looked in, and let the door swing closed again. Ross wasn’t surprised, a funeral home would have more atmosphere.
Oliver continued with his analysis. ‘I’m almost certain that you’d have been under some sort of electronic surveillance like tracking apps on your phone or tablet, keyloggers on your PC, possibly even hidden spy cameras.’ Ross’s eyebrows shot up as he’d never considered the possibility. Oliver continued quickly. ‘I know that sounds a bit OTT but these things are dirt cheap, almost invisible and can be set up by practically anyone.’
