Dead at First Sight, page 9
There was a gasp from the room.
‘Four hundred thousand?’ DS Jon Exton said. He had been seconded from Major Crime because he had previously been in banking before joining the police.
‘Correct, Jon,’ Searle said. ‘He’s in despair. I understand he faces losing his home. He is now cooperating with us.’
The next photograph and name appeared, ‘Betty Ward’. Below was a brief description. Another officer raised his hand – DC Kevin Hall, also seconded to the team from Major Crime.
‘Guv, we’ve had a lot of help on this one from Tesco’s Service Bureau. This is an elderly widow in Brighton, who struggles to get out of an armchair, a blue-rinse granny who is convinced she is in love with the man in the next image and sleeps with a photograph of him beside her.’ He pointed at the screen and everyone in the room turned towards it.
The image was of a young black man with a six-pack and a smiling face, naked apart from a pair of skimpy budgie-smugglers that left little to the imagination.
‘He has been telling Betty for several months that he cannot wait to come to England and make love to her. I won’t go into the graphic details of all the sexual things he’s told her he plans to do with her. But what I can say is that this lady can only walk with the aid of a Zimmer and, fair play to her, the photographs she’s posted of herself to him don’t exactly make her out to be a Page Three girl.’
As photographs appeared of a frail-looking lady in her finery, there were a few raised eyebrows.
Hall went on. ‘A member of staff at Tesco in Shoreham contacted us to say they had concerns. This lady, Betty Ward, had sent two MoneyGrams to Ghana, the first to a “Mickey Mouse”, the second to a “Michael Jackson”.’
The sniggers turned into a ripple of uncomfortable laughter.
‘Seriously,’ Hall said, ‘this guy, whoever he is, convinced her it is just a loan to help with his hospital bills after a car accident, and to pay for treatment for his mother who has cancer. He told her to send the money to these names, otherwise the government would take fifty per cent of it in tax. And she believed him. She’s totally besotted with him. She’s sent him £27,000 to date. Tesco have agreed not to process any more of her MoneyGrams and to let me know if she shows up again wanting to send another. I’ve also alerted Western Union and all the other MoneyGram service bureaux in the area.’
Medlock thanked him and moved on to the next victim on their radar. The name ‘Ralph Beresford’ appeared. ‘This is a new one.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ a young DC from Brighton, Preena Gadher, said. ‘A widower, reported by his daughter who is very concerned. Mr Beresford is seventy-seven, a retired chartered accountant, and has early-stage dementia. She visits her father every week and noticed two days ago that he had an image of, shall we say, a somewhat curvy woman on his computer screen. When she asked him who it was he very proudly said it was his new girlfriend, that she was Romanian and he’d met her on the internet three months previously. He told her the poor woman was in trouble, with nowhere to turn to, and he was helping her to get her life straight. The daughter has access to his computer and checked out his bank. Turns out over the past three months he’s been cashing in stocks and shares, buying Bitcoins and making substantial transactions with them.’
‘How substantial?’ Sally Medlock asked.
‘The biggest was £250,000.’
‘Is he loaded, Preena?’
‘No, but he’s comfortably off – or was. He’s now in the process of doing one of those equity-release schemes on his house.’
‘And the daughter sees her inheritance vanishing down the khazi,’ Exton said.
‘Along with all his plans for a comfortable old age,’ Gadher responded. ‘The Romanian woman in question, Sorina Vasile, spun a story to Mr Beresford about her brother being wrongly accused of murder and banged up in a terrible jail. She asked if Beresford would loan the bail money, which of course he would get back.’
‘Of course,’ Medlock said.
‘I’ve done some background checks with Interpol and with the British Embassy in Bucharest and there is no record of this supposed brother at all. I believe she is using a false name, as well.’
‘What actions are you taking?’ Medlock asked.
‘I’ve contacted Adult Social Care. I’ve also spoken to his bank manager, but with all the new data protection regulation – the GDPR – it’s not easy to intervene there. The manager is sympathetic and aware of the situation, but says that beyond warning his client that the money may not be going to whom he thinks, there is nothing he can do to stop him. I think the daughter’s taken more dramatic intervention – she’s changed the password on his computer, effectively locking him out, and hidden his chequebook. I’ll know more after social services have visited him.’
Sally thanked her and they moved on. A photograph of a neat-looking man in his late thirties in a business suit came up. The name beneath read ‘John Southern’.
DS Exton raised a hand. ‘I’m dealing with this one, and there seem to be a growing number of cases like this coming to us, boss,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit sad. Southern was put through to me and asked to see me in confidence. He’s a Brighton solicitor, married with three kids. For whatever reason, he signed on to an internet dating agency for married people seeking affairs. He met a lady who told him she was also married and their exchanges, over a few weeks, became increasingly – er – fruity.’
The very straight-laced detective blushed then went on. ‘She started sending him pictures of herself in a state of undress and asked him to reciprocate. Which he did. Then she asked him to show her pictures of his – er, member – aroused.’
‘Member of Parliament, would that be?’ Kevin Hall quizzed. Several of the team laughed.
‘It then progressed further. She sent him a video of herself masturbating and asked him to send her one of him doing the same. Which, unfortunately, he did – very foolishly, he now realizes. The next thing that happened was her threatening to expose him on Facebook to all his followers. To circulate the video. His followers included his wife and three children. She started with a demand for £5,000, which he paid. Then one for £10,000. It was followed by one for £25,000. He’s not a wealthy guy, he’s only a junior partner, but he managed to find and send the money. But now he’s had a demand for £100,000 and that’s when he contacted us – fortunately. The only way he could raise this would be by remortgaging his house – which couldn’t happen without his wife consenting.’
‘What have you advised him, Jon?’
‘I’ve told him to string her along for the moment, tell her – whoever her is – or the people behind her, more likely – that it will take him time to raise the money.’
‘I think this is definitely one for Digital Forensics,’ Sally Medlock said. ‘But he’s going to have to take the risk of the threat being carried out.’
‘He’s petrified of it getting out there.’
‘He shouldn’t be such a wanker!’ Kevin Hall said.
‘Watch out, Kevin,’ DC Charlotte Williams said. ‘You’re sounding like Norman Potting!’
Next, a photograph of a striking woman in her mid-fifties with long dark hair and a provocative expression appeared. The name beneath was ‘Suzy Driver’.
Williams signalled to the DS.
‘Yes, Charlotte?’
‘This is an interesting one, ma’am. Mrs Driver is a fifty-five-year-old wealthy widow in the city – her late husband was an antiques dealer. She’s sussed that she’s being scammed and has done quite a lot of work checking out her scammer on the internet, before contacting us. I interviewed her at her home. She has challenged her apparent “lover” to meet her in person. The email trails that Intel have come up with point to Germany.’
‘Germany again?’ Sally Medlock said. ‘This is getting interesting, a new area for us. Historically we have mostly Ghana, Nigeria and Eastern Europe.’
‘Mrs Driver’s been very cooperative,’ Charlotte Williams said. ‘Fortunately, she’s not parted with any money – it was the request for a loan that triggered her suspicions.’
Unlike most of our victims, the DS rued, privately. ‘What’s the latest with her?’
‘Well, she’s given us the name of her scammer, a Dr Norbert Petersen, who claims to be a Norwegian geologist, residing in Oslo. Digital Forensics have found his name, and same identity, on five European internet dating sites. He’s using images of a gay Brighton man, Toby Seward, a professional motivational speaker married to an architect, Paul Sibley. Digital Forensics are currently working on trying to uncover his real identity with the lady’s help. Mrs Driver has been very smart.’
‘In what way?’
‘She’s keeping up the pretence to Petersen. Although she’s told us she is certain the man’s ID is phoney, she’s pretending to him that she accepts his explanation, and that she is going to arrange the money – the £20,000 loan he’s asked to borrow for his grandmother’s hospital bills.’
‘Brilliant!’ Medlock said. ‘How long can she keep up the pretence?’
‘I think for a while. She has a daughter in Melbourne who’s due to give birth to her first grandson and is booked on a flight next weekend to go out to stay with them for a few weeks. Petersen has been very clever too. He told her he was coming to England to see her. When she replied that she was going to Australia for a while, he begged her to stay on in the UK for a bit longer. She said she’d bought a non-refundable air ticket and he immediately offered to reimburse her if she cancelled it.’
‘What would happen if she called his bluff, Charlotte?’ DS Exton asked.
‘He’d probably come up with one of the excuses they all use,’ said DS Phil Taylor, who had headed the fledgling former High-Tech Crime Unit some years back. ‘A car crash on the way to the airport. Or problems with his visa requiring a huge bung. Or a sick relative. They know how to yank the heart strings. They learn that on their first day.’
‘Twenty grand is a big chunk of change,’ Medlock said. ‘Not many people can come up with that amount of money instantly. Can’t she say it’s in an account where there’s a period of notice?’
‘I’ve suggested that. But as yet she’s not responded. I’m sure she will use every excuse she can, she’s a feisty lady. And it will be a lot easier for her if she is in Australia.’
The DS thanked her and they moved on to the next of the names on the list. As they did so, DC Charlotte Williams looked at her phone, checking for texts, then emails. During the past few days, Suzy Driver had been in constant communication with her, either by phone, text or email. But it was worrying her that she’d heard nothing from her since Friday evening.
She sent her a text.
Hi, Mrs Driver, have you any more news for us? Could you update us before you leave? All best, DC Williams
By the end of the meeting, twenty minutes later, there had been no reply. She made a note to try calling her later.
26
Monday 1 October
Roy Grace generally had an even temper and lost it rarely, but this evening he was close to boiling point, with a raging toothache not helping. The day had started well: a glorious early-morning jog with Humphrey across the fields, through an autumnal dawn – their rescue Labrador-Border Collie cross was loving their move to the country.
Then it had begun going downhill soon after, when his beloved Alpha Romeo wouldn’t start. It had a flat battery, for no apparent reason. He’d jump-started it and it had got him to the office, then wouldn’t start again. The RAC had duly arrived and cheerily given him the good and bad news. The bad was that the battery was knackered. The good was that they had a spare on board, for which they relieved him of nearly £200.
He’d then had a two-hour meeting with a solicitor at the Crown Prosecution Service, who was pedantically questioning Roy’s identification of a Brighton GP, Edward Crisp, a suspected serial killer. How much veracity did you need to identify a man who had fired a twelve-bore shotgun at you from ten feet and nearly blown your leg off?
Next he’d had to endure a performance review by his immediate boss – and nemesis – Assistant Chief Constable Cassian Pewe. There had been, unsurprisingly, high-level repercussions over a kidnapping case Grace had handled six weeks ago, Operation Replay, because of the high body count, mostly within the Brighton Albanian community. Pewe wasn’t interested that Roy had nearly died in the process of achieving a successful outcome, saving a fourteen-year-old boy from what would otherwise have been certain death. He was only concerned to personally come out smelling of roses from the Independent Office for Police Conduct enquiry into seven deaths related to the kidnap.
On top of it all, it was his week to be the Duty Force Gold Commander. This was a responsibility that came around every four months, on a roster that included the Chief, Deputy and Assistant Chief Constables, as well as all the force’s Chief Superintendents. It was the role of a Gold Commander to take strategic charge of any major incident in the county, and to authorize, if required, the deployment of firearms.
It meant no alcohol all that week, and he was badly in need of a drink at this moment. A large one. A very large one. He craved an ice-cold vodka Martini, which would do the trick nicely. But that wasn’t an option all the time he was on-call.
Instead, being home from work in time for once, he read to Noah, their fourteen-month-old son, his favourite book, about a hungry caterpillar, and put him to bed. He’d done this every night during the past fortnight he had been off, and he loved it. Loved the trust in his son’s eyes. Noah’s giggles and little laughs, and his naughtiness, splashing his arms in the bathwater, soaking himself and Cleo, and giggling even harder each time he did it.
Oftentimes during this he found himself reflecting on Bruno, all the missed childhood years. It made him even more determined to spend as much time as he could with both his sons.
When Noah was finally settled, Cleo, himself and Bruno had supper in the kitchen. Tonight, Bruno sat at the table, very upright, in a clean T-shirt, eating, but, as normal, saying nothing. Humphrey did his usual routine of moving around the table, sitting beside each of them in turn for some minutes in the hope a scrap would fall his way. Grace was less tolerant of the boy’s silence than his wife. It seemed to him it was, in his son’s mind, a way of getting back at them – punishing them – for uprooting him from Germany. Except what choice had they had? Boarding school was one but they didn’t feel that would be right. The only other option for Bruno would have been to go and live with his ghastly grandparents in Seaford – and life in their home, with their legendary meanness, would have been hellish for him. But Bruno did not seem to appreciate anything. At this moment he was toying with a piece of vegetarian sausage he had cut off and pronged with his fork, examining it suspiciously like a pathology specimen.
‘They’re Linda McCartney’s, Bruno,’ Cleo said.
‘Who is that?’
‘She was married to Paul McCartney.’
He looked blank.
‘One of the Beatles. Maybe you don’t know them – you’re too young.’
Ignoring her, he sniffed the morsel, turning it round with his fork as if concerned it might escape if he took his eye off it. ‘This does not even smell like meat.’
‘It’s not meant to,’ Cleo said. ‘It’s vegetarian.’
The boy smirked, but there was more supercilious mockery – and almost pity – in his expression than humour. ‘If people want to be vegetarian they should eat vegetables that look like what they are. My mother would never have eaten something as ridiculous as this. A beetle would taste better.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Cleo saw Roy was about to react, and she mouthed for him to hold off. ‘You told me your mother was vegan,’ she said.
‘She was a correct vegan. She cared about not eating animals. Meine Mutter would never have eaten a fake sausage or a fake hamburger,’ he sneered. ‘That’s just silly. If you want to be a vegetarian or a vegan, do that, but don’t make it look like meat and mess with everyone’s heads.’
Roy and Cleo shot a glance at each other. ‘So you didn’t become a vegan yourself, Bruno?’ Grace asked.
‘I’m blood-type A,’ Bruno said, solemnly. ‘It is important to eat according to your blood type. If you are type A you need proper meat.’ He pushed his plate aside and stood up, abruptly. ‘I go to my room.’
Again Roy Grace was about to rebuke him, when Cleo signalled for him to be quiet.
‘You’ve not eaten anything,’ she said. ‘You must have something.’
Bruno stared at his stepmother strangely. It was a look Roy Grace had seen many times before, during his career. It was the gleam in the eyes of a prosecution counsel, in court, who is just about to deliver a crushing rebuke to a key defence witness.
‘If you get me some proper food, I will,’ he said. ‘Why did you think I would wish for vegetarian?’
Smiling, as if determined not to be riled by him, Cleo asked, ‘What kind of proper food would you like me to get you, Bruno?’
