Death Sentence (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 6) Read online

  ‘Who’s this?’ asked Louise, peering over Dixon’s shoulder into the bedroom on the right.

  ‘Sarah Witheridge probably. Find out, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘This, on the other hand,’ said Dixon, pushing past the firearms officers blocking the corridor, ‘is Miss Zoe Tremblay, Brett Greenwood’s loyal, hardworking, downtrodden secretary. Isn’t that right, Zoe?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘People keep offering to do that lately.’

  She spat at him, but missed.

  ‘Or should I call you Tamsin Kandes?’

  Just before 8 a.m. Dixon was waiting in the courtyard outside the offices of Lings Solicitors with Mark Pearce and three uniformed officers. Several police cars were parked on the pavement outside and in the lane at the back, with other officers covering the back door.

  A search of the flat had turned up nothing of interest, and Sarah Witheridge and Zoe Tremblay were on their way down to Express Park to await interview.

  ‘See if you can chase up the photos from Canada,’ said Dixon.

  ‘They’ll all be asleep over there,’ replied Pearce.

  ‘Wake them up.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon watched Pearce pacing up and down with his mobile phone to his ear. He turned when he heard footsteps in the alleyway behind him.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘John Tuckett, the practice manager.’ He was flicking through a large set of keys.

  Dixon identified himself and showed Tuckett his warrant card.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We have two members of your staff in custody, Mr Tuckett, one on suspicion of murder and the other has been charged with fraud and assault.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Zoe Tremblay and Brett Greenwood.’

  ‘I’m going to need to make a few phone calls.’

  ‘You do what you have to do. In the meantime we need access to Brett Greenwood’s files and Zoe Tremblay’s computer. Here’s a warrant.’

  Tuckett opened the front door of the office and allowed Dixon and the other officers into the reception area.

  ‘Can you wait here?’

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Well, just let me make a phone call then,’ said Tuckett, dialling a number on his phone. ‘Peter, where are you? Look, come straight to the office. The police are here with a warrant, and they’ve got Brett Greenwood and his secretary locked up.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ A woman’s voice from the doorway.

  ‘Thank God, Fiona’s here,’ said Tuckett. ‘Yes, and make it quick.’

  He rang off and handed the warrant to Fiona Hull. She looked at Dixon and then back to the warrant.

  ‘I think you know which file we’re interested in, Mrs Hull. Shall we?’ asked Dixon, gesturing to the lift. ‘What time does your IT manager get in?’

  ‘Anytime now,’ replied Tuckett.

  ‘We’ll need him when he does.’

  ‘I’ll text him to come and find us.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Once out of the lift Dixon walked straight across the deserted fourth floor to Greenwood’s office, Tuckett trailing behind him. He opened the first filing cabinet inside the door and pulled out the ‘Hagley and Others’ files, two correspondence files and three documents. The pile was about a foot thick in total.

  He opened ‘Correspondence 2 of 2’ and looked at the departmental summary sheet on the inside flyleaf. The file had been reviewed by Greenwood’s supervisor, Mrs Hull, twice. Once in August, before the case management conference, and then again in January, after Alison Crowther-Smith’s murder.

  ‘Are you taking the whole file?’ asked Tuckett.

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon. ‘Just the attendance note.’

  ‘We can print off another if that’s any good.’

  ‘I need the handwritten one,’ said Dixon, flicking through the correspondence pin. ‘The original.’

  ‘Can we keep a copy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is your IT manager here yet?’

  ‘He’s downstairs,’ replied Tuckett, looking at his phone.

  ‘We’ll need the password to Zoe Tremblay’s machine.’

  ‘I’ll ring him,’ said Tuckett.

  Dixon picked up a pair of scissors and cut the treasury tag on the correspondence, releasing the attendance note. Then he passed it to Mark Pearce.

  ‘Make a copy of that for Mrs Hull, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll switch the copier on,’ said Mrs Hull, walking over to the other side of the floor.

  Zoe Tremblay’s workstation was just like any other in the office. Neat and tidy, a wire basket in the corner for that day’s typing, a pile of files on the floor, and a selection of stationery in plastic tiered shelves. Dixon sat down and opened the desk drawers one by one. Paper handkerchiefs, sachets of soup, a box of paracetamol, fruit tea bags, elastic bands. The next drawer down was no more exciting: padded envelopes, plastic document wallets, memos from someone with the initials PJC and the minutes of the last departmental meeting. The bottom drawer contained shoes and empty carrier bags.

  He was looking at the photographs pinned to the partitioning when the door slammed behind him.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’

  ‘This is the senior partner, Peter Cotter,’ said Tuckett.

  ‘Do you want to explain it to him or shall I?’ asked Dixon, swivelling round on the chair. ‘Oh, and we’ll need their personnel files too.’

  Tucker took Cotter to one side. The discussion was animated – lots of arm waving, the odd expletive carrying across the room – but Tuckett seemed to calm him down. Cotter strode over to where Dixon was sitting at Zoe Tremblay’s workstation.

  ‘Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, you certainly haven’t, Mr Cotter. Brett Greenwood was in this country illegally. And you employed him.’

  Dixon turned back to the photographs on the partitioning and listened to yet more animated discussion, this time with Fiona Hull joining in.

  He thought he recognised Thailand amongst the pictures, and Australia was obvious enough. Then he focused on the people. A mixture of young and old. Friends with their children, boyfriends too perhaps, all smiling at the camera. Some taken during the day, others at night. Fireworks over Sydney Opera House, a young man smiling at the camera.

  A young man carrying a yellow rucksack.

  ‘What d’you notice about that photo, Mark?’

  Pearce stared at it for several seconds.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘Bag ’em up,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘This is James Hubert, Inspector, our IT manager,’ said Tuckett.

  ‘What d’you need?’ asked Hubert.

  ‘The digital dictation schedules for Thursday, 17 and Friday, 18 October. You have daily backups?’

  ‘Yes, on tape.’

  ‘And the dictation itself?’

  ‘The voice files, yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I need you to get me into this machine.’

  ‘As administrator?’

  ‘As Zoe Tremblay.’

  ‘OK, I’ve got a list of passwords. Can I sit down?’ asked Hubert, gesturing to the chair Dixon was sitting on.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The door opened and two secretaries walked in, laughing loudly.

  ‘Wait downstairs, please, Gina,’ shouted Tuckett. ‘And tell anyone else to wait in reception.’

  ‘Er, OK.’ Gina noticed the police officers for the first time.

  ‘There you go,’ said Hubert, standing up. ‘You’re in.’

  ‘What was her password?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Tamsin82.’

  ‘A daily reminder,’ muttered Dixon. ‘Where do I find the client folders?�
��

  ‘On the N drive. Here, let me.’ Hubert leaned over and took the mouse. He clicked on ‘My Computer’, selected ‘N Drive’ and then scrolled down to ‘Litigation Department’. ‘Now you just go to Brett’s folder and go into “Clients”.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dixon clicked on the Hagley folder and then the subfolder ‘Attendance Notes’. Then he selected the note of the case management conference, right clicked on the mouse and selected ‘Properties’.

  It had been created on 18 October by Document Author Zoe Tremblay.

  ‘I need the backups of this folder for 17 and 18 October.’

  ‘That’s easy enough.’

  ‘Presumably this is all on a server.’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘We may need to take it, but I’ll check with our High Tech team first.’

  ‘What?’ screamed Cotter. ‘You can’t do that! We’ve got a business to run.’

  ‘And I’ve got a murder to investigate, Mr Cotter,’ said Dixon.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘What did she have to say for herself?’ Dixon asked.

  ‘Not a lot really. She advertised a room to rent in the Bristol Post last year and Zoe answered the ad,’ replied Louise. She was standing by the corner of Dixon’s workstation with Dave Harding, the two of them having just interviewed Sarah Witheridge.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘She said Zoe was a good lodger,’ replied Harding. ‘Quiet, clean, didn’t go out much.’

  ‘When did she move in?’

  ‘Last May.’

  ‘Where was she living before?’

  ‘She told Sarah she’d just moved to Bristol for work and was in a bed and breakfast,’ replied Louise.

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Is she in a relationship?’

  ‘No. Not according to Sarah anyway.’

  ‘Any sign of the brother?’

  ‘No,’ replied Louise, shaking her head.

  ‘Did she know Zoe was Canadian?’

  ‘Yes. From Toronto originally, she said.’

  ‘Well, that’s something I suppose.’

  ‘She stayed in most nights watching telly,’ said Harding. ‘She did go back to Canada in December though. First two weeks.’

  ‘Right after Fryer’s murder,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Better check the passenger list, but I bet they travelled on separate flights. Probably from different airports too.’

  ‘If they did, we’ve got no chance,’ said Harding.

  ‘Just check if the person she sat next to flew to Canada after Alison Crowther-Smith’s murder too.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘When are you going to interview Zoe?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Now,’ replied Dixon, looking at his watch.

  ‘Is it her?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Dixon, handing DCI Lewis a black and white copy of the photograph that had come over from Canada. They were standing in front of a monitor, watching Zoe Tremblay waiting not so patiently in the adjacent interview room. Her solicitor was scribbling in a notebook.

  ‘Can’t really see from this angle,’ said Lewis. The camera was mounted on the wall just under the ceiling and they were looking down on Zoe.

  ‘She’s changed her hair colour and had it cut, but that’s it.’

  ‘What was it before? You can’t tell from this.’

  ‘Brown.’

  Her hair was short and jet black, the flowing hair in the photograph long gone.

  ‘What about the brother?’

  Dixon handed Lewis a photograph. Light brown hair, shaved at the sides, longer on the top and swept over; piercing blue eyes and a square jaw. He was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt, revealing the whole of his right arm, tattooed from the shoulder to the wrist.

  ‘Is this a mugshot?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘His previous,’ said Dixon, holding up several pages of A4 paper.

  ‘How the hell did he get into this country with this lot?’

  ‘Illegally.’

  Lewis grunted as he flicked through the pages of previous convictions. ‘Nasty piece of work, isn’t he?’

  ‘His sister’s not much better,’ replied Dixon. ‘I managed to dodge the gob when we picked her up.’

  Lewis shook his head.

  ‘Shame the Met didn’t stay for this one.’

  ‘I’ll send them an email later.’

  ‘Can I have a cigarette?’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Dixon, sitting down next to Zoe in the interview room. Her solicitor was to her right and Louise to Dixon’s left.

  He leaned forward and switched on the tape.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Dixon. To my left is . . .’

  ‘Detective Constable Louise Willmott.’

  ‘The time is 12.15 p.m. on Tuesday, 25 February, and this is the first interview of Zoe Tremblay. Zoe, you’ve been rearrested on arrival here on suspicion of the murders of Alison Crowther-Smith, Robert Fryer and Anthony Fripp. You’ve also been reminded that you are still under caution. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll stick with Zoe for the time being, shall we?’ asked Dixon without looking up.

  She tilted her head to one side and smirked at him.

  ‘Sitting to Zoe’s right is her solicitor . . .’

  ‘Thomas Cable.’

  ‘When did you come to the UK, Zoe?’

  ‘Last year. May.’

  Any pretence at an English accent had gone, replaced by Canadian.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘A holiday. I decided to stay on.’

  ‘So you’re here illegally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And working illegally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Lings check your immigration status?’

  ‘They asked to see a bank statement and my driver’s licence. I’d opened a bank account by then and used a fake licence.’

  ‘What about a visa or a work permit?’

  ‘They didn’t ask.’

  ‘Why Lings?’

  ‘I came to Bristol and saw an advert in the Bristol Post.’

  ‘Why Bristol then?’

  ‘It seemed like a nice place. London was too big and too busy for me.’

  ‘Your full name is Zoe Tremblay. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When were you born?’

  ‘September 12, 1982.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Toronto.’

  ‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any previous convictions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does the name Tamsin Jayne Lundy mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’ She sat on her hands and began rocking backwards and forwards on her seat.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. Why? Should it?’

  ‘Well, it’s your real name, so I suppose it should, yes,’ replied Dixon.

  Zoe shook her head.

  ‘Tamsin Jayne Lundy: date of birth 12 September 1982, mother Ginette Lundy, father unknown.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘This is a copy of your birth certificate,’ said Dixon, handing her a piece of paper. She glanced at it and then passed it to Cable.

  ‘I’ve never seen that before.’

  ‘Do you have any criminal convictions in Canada?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, you tell me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, let’s start with theft and forgery of a credit card, contrary to Section 342, Subsection 1 of the Criminal Code of Canada.’

  Zoe shook her head.

  ‘January 2001 that one,’ said Dixon. ‘Let me make it easy for you, Zoe. When you were arrested, your fingerprints were taken. D’you remember that?’

  No reply.

  ‘Anyway, when you arrived here, your fingerprints were taken again. Now,
you must remember that, surely.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They match, Zoe.’

  ‘Look, Inspector, I think my client has made her position clear.’

  ‘Your client has lied, Mr Cable. Zoe Tremblay doesn’t exist, does she, Tamsin?’

  Dixon waited.

  No reaction.

  ‘OK, let’s move on to the last time you were arrested, shall we? March 2011. Possession of Stolen Property, Section 355, and Unauthorized Possession of a Firearm, Section 91. Remember that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that time a DNA swab was taken. A cotton wool bud inside your mouth. Ring any bells?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The fingerprints are conclusive, but DNA is better still and we’re going to check the sample we’ve just taken with the sample from 2011. Call it a transatlantic DNA test. It’s one of the wonders of modern science.’

  She looked up at the ceiling, breathing heavily.

  ‘That’s going to prove your real name is Tamsin Jayne Lundy, isn’t it?’

  Her reply was lost in a loud sigh: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Repeat that for the tape, please, Tamsin.’

  ‘Yes, all right, fucking yes.’

  ‘Tamsin it is then,’ said Dixon. ‘You’ll need to amend your legal aid application form, Mr Cable.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Cable, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Right then, let’s start again, shall we? Why did you come to the UK, Tamsin?’

  ‘For a holiday.’

  ‘Not to find your father?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or to find out about him?’

  ‘I don’t know who my father is.’

  ‘Really?’ said Dixon. ‘I do.’

  ‘My mother never told us anything.’

  ‘Us?’

  No reply.

  ‘By “us” I assume you mean you and your brother.’

  ‘I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘You do have a father though. Sergeant Adrian Kandes, killed in action during the Battle of Mount Harriet, 11 June 1982.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘And he’s got a sister, which makes her your aunt. Still alive and kicking. So here’s what we’re going to do. Another DNA test. This time between you and her, checking for a familial match. And what d’you think we’ll find?’

  ‘I have an aunt?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘You do.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Glenda.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘I’ll need her permission to tell you that.’