S Bolton - Sacrifice

We did it once more. Dana had gone back just three years. The story was the same. Several million pounds a year were coming into the Gair, Carter, Gow's client account ascribed to overseas land and property sales on the part of Shiller Drilling, but a cross check with the holding company's annual reports left a good portion of the millions unaccounted for.

'Did she ever sleep?' I muttered, mainly to myself.

'Not much,' said Helen. 'She rarely went to bed before one or two in the morning. Couldn't switch her brain off.'

I was looking down the columns of numbers and text notes. The law firm's statement showed debit as well as credit entries; as sales of land and property were completed, the proceeds were transferred into client bank accounts, most of which were referenced by name.

'Any point adding up all the debits to Shiller Drilling?' I asked. 'See what they amount to?'

'Can't hurt,' said Helen. 'I need to pee.'

Helen got up and I scanned the debit column, noting all the entries relating to Shiller Drilling. And spotted something. Not all the debits to Shiller Drilling had the same bank account reference. The money was being directed to two different accounts. I made a note of the reference number of each.

The lavatory flushed and I heard Helen going downstairs. I really wanted to know what information Dana had on Duncan, Richard, Andy Dunn and Kenn, not to mention on me. I hovered the curser over Duncan's name for a second, then opened the file on Andy Dunn and went straight to his bank account. Helen returned carrying two glasses of water.

'He likes to live well,' she muttered, sitting down beside me. The same thing had occurred to me too. Substantial payments went out each month: to a car leasing company, a wine merchant, overseas flights. The size of his monthly mortgage payments made me blink.

'What would an inspector earn up here?' I asked.

'Not that much,' said Helen, who suddenly looked deadly serious. 'And where's that coming from?' She was pointing to a credit entry for £5,000. We flicked back through the months. There were several entries for similarly substantial sums. Each carried a reference number, presumably of the bank account that the money had been transferred from. As my heart-rate speeded up a fraction, I scribbled it down. CK0012946170. I'd seen that number before, I was sure of it.

'Hang on a minute,' I said, grabbing the mouse from Helen. I went back to the Gair, Carter, Gow's client account, scrolled through until I found the right place and then pointed my finger at the screen.

'Look,' I said, 'I thought I recognized it. It's the same number.' There it was, CK0012946170. The first two letters had struck me. CK had made me think of Calvin Klein. We checked the column of figures. There were twelve transfers from the Gair, Carter, Gow client account to the CK reference number, spread throughout the course of the year, totalling some two and a half million pounds.

'This isn't good,' said Helen to herself.

'Am I following this?' I said. 'We have unaccounted-for millions coming in from overseas. Stephen Gair is directing a good proportion of them to this bank account and then Andy Dunn is getting a monthly payout from it.'

'Looks that way,' said Helen. 'Shit!' She looked at her watch. 'Shit,' she said again.

Helen was starting to take me seriously. Which should have made me feel better. But she was also looking worried. She'd obviously just realized what I'd known for some time. The last flights had left hours ago. No way off the islands until morning.

'You should check Gifford,' I said. 'If there's stuff going on at the hospital, he has to be involved.'

She nodded and took the mouse back.

'Spartan,' she said, opening up the file on Kenn Gifford. She was right. I'd rarely seen an account statement as short or as simple as the one I was looking at. The salary came in monthly – substantially more than mine, even allowing for the seniority of his position – and then two-thirds of it went out again to a savings account. He took out a largish sum in cash each month and that was it; no standing orders, direct debits or monthly payments of any kind – well, just the one: £1,000 came into his account regularly every month: reference number CK0012946170.

'How long ago did you leave the hospital?' Helen asked me.

'About four hours,' I said.

'Shit, we need to get out of here.' She made no move to get up though, but flicked open the file on Richard Guthrie and went straight to his current bank account. Dana had flagged two entries: the first a credit payment of £2,000 from the same numbered bank account that Gifford and Dunn were receiving money from; the second another incoming payment of £2,000, referenced Tronal Med Salary. I'd been right. Richard Guthrie was still practising: at the Tronal Maternity Clinic. A quick flick through the months showed the two entries were repeated on a monthly basis.

'I really need to check your husband out,' said Helen.

'I know.'

She opened up Duncan's file and I found myself crossing my fingers. Dana had produced a brief biography of his university and career and had found a few press cuttings about his new company. And she had his bank accounts, both business and personal.

It was as though the air had grown thinner in Dana's small study. I was suddenly finding it harder to breathe. I watched as Helen flicked through the pages, seeing the same entry repeated month after month: £1,000. Guess the reference number.

Helen looked at me, put her hand on my shoulder. 'Are you OK?' she asked. I nodded, although I was far from OK. I wasn't looking at the screen any more.

'There's something else,' she said. 'Late last year. Does this mean anything to you?'

She pointed to an entry in early December. A huge sum of money, hundreds of thousands of pounds, had come into Duncan's account from the CK bank account before going out again just days later – to Gair, Carter, Gow's client account.

'We bought the house the first week in December,' I said. 'That's how much we paid.'

'Looks like Stephen Gair handled the sale,' said Helen.

'Duncan told me the money came from a trust fund,' I said.

'Your husband uses a telephone bank,' she said in a gentle voice, as though dealing with an invalid. 'Do you know his security details?'

I thought about it, started to shake my head, then thought some more. He'd never actually told me, but I'd heard him on the phone to the bank dozens of times. His memorable date was 12 September 1974, my birthday; and his memorable address was 10 Rillington Place, a sick joke that only he found funny. I knew his mother's maiden name, McClare; it was only his password I would struggle with. But, thinking hard, I knew several of the letters. It contained a P, a Y, an S and an O. I wrote them down. Passwords need to be memorable, so people choose names of things or people they like. I ran through the names of family members, best mates from university, even pets, but came up with nothing.

'What does he enjoy doing?' said Helen.

'Plays squash,' I managed.

'Famous squash players,' she said.

'There aren't any. It's pointless anyway, they'll never believe I'm Duncan Guthrie.'

'Lower your voice.'

I dropped it an octave. 'They'll never believe I'm Duncan Guthrie,' I said in a ridiculous imitation of a man.

'Speed it up and hold your nose, like you have a cold.'

'Oh for God's sake, you do it. You're supposed to have the monopoly on butch around here!'

Helen exhaled through her nose, like a mother at the end of her patience with a particularly tiresome toddler.

'Osprey,' I said, realizing my little outburst had made me feel better. 'His first boat was an Osprey. That's it.'

'Ready to have a go?' she said, picking up the phone.

I shook my head. 'I don't know.'