accountant for Christ’s sake! He was always “restructuring” our finances! He’d put things in front of me to sign now and then and I’d just –’
‘Oh shit …’ Roger moaned.
‘I didn’t know about any of this stuff!’
‘Oh God …’ Roger whispered, beads of perspiration visible on his forehead now.
‘“Oh God”? What does “Oh God” mean?’
He looked at her. ‘It means, Susan, from what I’ve worked out so far, that you’re personally liable for around half a million pounds’ worth of debt.’
Susan felt her blood turning to antifreeze, sludging up in her veins.
Just then there was the sound of a key in the lock, the front door opening and bags being dumped down in the hall. A second later Tom stood in the doorway to the dining room, Clare behind him. He took in his mother, Roger, the paperwork on the table. ‘Oh, Mum,’ he said, his lip already quivering, ‘I can’t believe he’s gone.’
Susan smashed her fists down onto the table as she stood up to face her son and daughter-in-law and screamed, ‘HE’S A LYING, SWINDLING BASTARD SEX PERVERT!’
Then she ran out of the room crying.
Tom looked at Roger.
‘It’s been a difficult morning,’ Roger said.
FOURTEEN
BOSCOMBE KNOCKED ON the door, just below the brass plate bearing the name ‘CHIEF INSPECTOR D. WILSON’. A second passed and he heard the muffled ‘Come!’ from inside.
He entered. There was CI Wilson, behind his desk, in full uniform, all that scrambled egg on his epaulettes. The desk itself – not so much as a stray paper clip on it. Boscombe thought of his own demented haystack two floors down. ‘Ah, Boscombe, good morning.’
‘Sir.’
‘Please, take a pew.’ Boscombe lowered himself into the chair feeling, as ever in here, the chill of someone being called to the headmaster’s study. ‘How is everything?’
‘Fine, sir, fine. Busy.’
‘I’m sure.’ Wilson wasn’t looking at him. He had his half-moon specs on and was already leafing through a few stapled pages of paper. What was the old bastard after this time? ‘Now, Boscombe, do you know what I wanted to see you about?’ He’d taken the glasses off now and was chewing thoughtfully on one of the stems.
‘Er, can’t say I do, sir, no.’
‘Mmm. That rather alarms me.’
Oh fuck. ‘Really, sir?’
‘I’ve just been going through your report on that rather unfortunate, what would you call it, auto-erotic death we had the other day?’ Wilson held up the stapled pages.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Including the transcript of your interview with the late man’s widow, a Mrs Susan Frobisher.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The interview that seems to climax with you calling Mrs Frobisher – who, bear in mind, had only been widowed in fairly horrific circumstances hours earlier – a “swinger”. Quote, unquote.’
‘Well, it was more of an implication really, sir.’
Wilson sighed and held up the transcript gingerly, as though it were something sordid and unclean, and turned a couple of pages. He slipped his glasses back on, cleared his throat and read aloud. ‘DS Boscombe: “Swingers, were you, you and Barry?”’ He took his glasses off again and faced Boscombe. ‘Seems a fairly strong “implication” to me, Sergeant.’
‘Well, I just felt … In an interview situation, sometimes you have to …’
Wilson leaned forward across the desk. He picked up a letter opener, a vicious-looking blade, and started testing the edge of it against his thumb. ‘Why, Boscombe?’
‘Like I say, sir, I just had a … a …’
‘Be warned, Boscombe, if the words “a hunch” are thundering towards this conversation I shall force this letter opener through your testicles to form a crude sort of kebab.’
Boscombe swallowed. ‘Well, sir, with all due respect, her signature was on a lot of documents found at the scene. Documents pointing towards substantial fraud. I felt, feel, that’s it’s unlikely he could have led this kind of double life
‘Oh shit …’ Roger moaned.
‘I didn’t know about any of this stuff!’
‘Oh God …’ Roger whispered, beads of perspiration visible on his forehead now.
‘“Oh God”? What does “Oh God” mean?’
He looked at her. ‘It means, Susan, from what I’ve worked out so far, that you’re personally liable for around half a million pounds’ worth of debt.’
Susan felt her blood turning to antifreeze, sludging up in her veins.
Just then there was the sound of a key in the lock, the front door opening and bags being dumped down in the hall. A second later Tom stood in the doorway to the dining room, Clare behind him. He took in his mother, Roger, the paperwork on the table. ‘Oh, Mum,’ he said, his lip already quivering, ‘I can’t believe he’s gone.’
Susan smashed her fists down onto the table as she stood up to face her son and daughter-in-law and screamed, ‘HE’S A LYING, SWINDLING BASTARD SEX PERVERT!’
Then she ran out of the room crying.
Tom looked at Roger.
‘It’s been a difficult morning,’ Roger said.
FOURTEEN
BOSCOMBE KNOCKED ON the door, just below the brass plate bearing the name ‘CHIEF INSPECTOR D. WILSON’. A second passed and he heard the muffled ‘Come!’ from inside.
He entered. There was CI Wilson, behind his desk, in full uniform, all that scrambled egg on his epaulettes. The desk itself – not so much as a stray paper clip on it. Boscombe thought of his own demented haystack two floors down. ‘Ah, Boscombe, good morning.’
‘Sir.’
‘Please, take a pew.’ Boscombe lowered himself into the chair feeling, as ever in here, the chill of someone being called to the headmaster’s study. ‘How is everything?’
‘Fine, sir, fine. Busy.’
‘I’m sure.’ Wilson wasn’t looking at him. He had his half-moon specs on and was already leafing through a few stapled pages of paper. What was the old bastard after this time? ‘Now, Boscombe, do you know what I wanted to see you about?’ He’d taken the glasses off now and was chewing thoughtfully on one of the stems.
‘Er, can’t say I do, sir, no.’
‘Mmm. That rather alarms me.’
Oh fuck. ‘Really, sir?’
‘I’ve just been going through your report on that rather unfortunate, what would you call it, auto-erotic death we had the other day?’ Wilson held up the stapled pages.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Including the transcript of your interview with the late man’s widow, a Mrs Susan Frobisher.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The interview that seems to climax with you calling Mrs Frobisher – who, bear in mind, had only been widowed in fairly horrific circumstances hours earlier – a “swinger”. Quote, unquote.’
‘Well, it was more of an implication really, sir.’
Wilson sighed and held up the transcript gingerly, as though it were something sordid and unclean, and turned a couple of pages. He slipped his glasses back on, cleared his throat and read aloud. ‘DS Boscombe: “Swingers, were you, you and Barry?”’ He took his glasses off again and faced Boscombe. ‘Seems a fairly strong “implication” to me, Sergeant.’
‘Well, I just felt … In an interview situation, sometimes you have to …’
Wilson leaned forward across the desk. He picked up a letter opener, a vicious-looking blade, and started testing the edge of it against his thumb. ‘Why, Boscombe?’
‘Like I say, sir, I just had a … a …’
‘Be warned, Boscombe, if the words “a hunch” are thundering towards this conversation I shall force this letter opener through your testicles to form a crude sort of kebab.’
Boscombe swallowed. ‘Well, sir, with all due respect, her signature was on a lot of documents found at the scene. Documents pointing towards substantial fraud. I felt, feel, that’s it’s unlikely he could have led this kind of double life
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