Page 80 of Vengeance is Mine

‘Really? Tell me, Ms Delaney, do all of the claimants you deal with offer you a gift? Or do they not even realise they’re giving you one?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Her eyebrows shot up.

‘If Dominic was the one giving you a gift, then the whole one million pounds would have gone into his account, then two hundred thousand pounds would have been transferred to you. His statement clearly shows just eight hundred thousand pounds went into his account from the company account of Ripley, Blumenthal and Partners. There was no gift, was there? You told Dominic Griffiths that your cut of the claim was twenty per cent, and he accepted it.’

‘You’re wrong,’ she said, fingering her collar.

‘I don’t think I am.’ He stood up, and Kyra followed. ‘I think we’re done here, Ms Delaney. I’m working on a murder investigation, and I don’t consider you to be a suspect so there’s no reason for us to talk again. However, you will be hearing from someone in the fraud squad, and I’m guessing the lovely people at Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs will be in touch. Have a good day.’

‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ Kyra said, when they left the building and stepped into the cold afternoon air.

‘Call me a flawed human being if you like,’ he said, with a grin. ‘I don’t get much to smile about in this job, but occasionally the right situation presents itself.’

‘I wonder how much she’s been creaming off her clients over the years?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it runs into millions.’

‘She’ll go down for it, won’t she?’

‘If she’s been keeping the money for herself then Ripley and Blumenthal will throw her to the lions, and she’ll get a very long time inside. If they’re in on it too and taking their own share, it’ll be so deeply hidden that they’ll lie and cheat their way out of the worst of it and probably just get a hefty tax bill.’

‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed the lions will have something to snack on soon,’ Kyra said, with a grin.

‘Ooh, if I didn’t know you better, Kyra, I’d say you were being bitchy.’

She looked at him over the roof of the car. ‘I was being bitchy. Sometimes it’s necessary. Where to now?’

He looked at his watch. ‘Do you mind if I drop you off at the station? Check up on forensics then take an early night. We’ll need to be bright and early for the post mortem in the morning, and I doubt we’ll be able to hold the press off much longer. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.’

Her face lit up at the mention of an early finish. ‘Would you like to come round to mine for your tea? It’s Matthew’s turn to cook, and he’s doing chicken cacciatore. It’s delicious.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but there’s somewhere else I need to be. Some other time?’

‘Sure.’

By the time Terry dropped Kyra off at the station, the day was starting to fade into night and the streetlights were coming on. The suggestion of a home-cooked meal had sounded wonderful. He couldn’t remember the last time he sat down to a proper meal and enjoyed it. Unless he had a takeaway, his culinary skills only went so far as piercing a film lid and throwing the container in the microwave for three minutes. If Kyra had lived alone, he would have accepted her offer. A bite to eat with a colleague was manageable. But the prospect of making small talk with Kyra’s husband filled him with dread. He didn’t do light-hearted conversation. He was much more comfortable chatting over a post-mortem report or gruesome crime scene photos. No wonder he had very few friends.

From Forth Banks, Terry drove through the busy city centre streets, until he hit open country. He turned up the volume on his playlist and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. It was a long drive to his father’s nursing home, and he enjoyed breaking the law to get there.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Lavender House Nursing Home was on the outskirts of a village called Edmundbyers in County Durham. It was twenty-five miles away. There were many homes closer to the city that could cater for Ian’s needs, but this was the only one Terry could afford without having to sell his father’s house. That was something Ian would not allow to happen.

After Ian had suffered the stroke two years before, it was decided that he could no longer live on his own. Terry had sold the flat he hated and moved in with his father, but his demanding job wasn’t compatible with his being a sole carer. Harry and Barbara helped as much as they could, but Ian needed specialised care from qualified nurses. Reluctantly, Terry had admitted defeat and began looking for nursing homes that could accommodate his father.

Lavender House was a privately run home. It catered for residents who had suffered massive strokes or were in the final stages of dementia. Despite the newness of the building, the soft lighting, the plush furnishings and the smiling staff in their pastel-coloured uniforms, the atmosphere was heavy and depressing. Even to a visitor just sitting in the car in the car park and looking up at the bright place with its well-manicured lawns, neatly trimmed hedges and rooms with balconies, the place gave off an atmosphere of false hope and abandonment.

The staff knew Terry by name and greeted him like a friend. He didn’t need to explain who he was visiting or be shown where to go. He just signed in, exchanged a few meaningless pleasantries with the receptionist, then headed for the stairs to the third floor.

Terry tried to remain positive when visiting his father, but the more visits he made, the more he was there to witness his dad’s slow decline, the more painful they became. He could feel his hope ebbing away with every step along the overheated pastel corridor.

He pushed open the door to his father’s room and entered. When he’d first started visiting, the intense heat used to stifle him. It was energy-sapping, and he often felt himself nodding off in the easy chair. Now, he was used to it and sat by his father in exhausted comfort. He could already feel his shirt sticking to his back.

Ian was sat up in bed. He looked a decade older than his sixty-two years. His eyes were wide and devoid of their old sparkle, and they were blank as he stared at the far wall. He was unable to feed himself, dress himself or even bathe himself, and his memory was patchy.

He recognised his son, and Harry and Barbara, when they visited. However, once they were gone and staff asked if he’d enjoyed their visit, he wouldn’t recall that anyone had been to see him.

‘Hello, Dad,’ Terry said, taking his father’s hand and shaking it.

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