‘Tie?’
‘TIE—Trace. Interview. Eliminate. Cast a wide net, trace anybody and everybody who has some connection with the crime, interview them, and if we can’t eliminate them we…look at them a little more closely.’
‘And Michael?’
‘He hasn’t been eliminated.’
‘So he’s a suspect?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the name…he lost more fights than he won. Often he went down to men half his size. We’re ruined. Finished. Now this…’
‘So your husband’s business is finished?’
‘Aye. So he says. A couple of little jobs, but that won’t pay the bills. So the house, our home, it’ll have to be sold. We came with nothing, we’ll go with nothing.’
‘He could sell the house he built for Max Williams?’
‘Not at a profit. And anyway, the house is just too fancy, a lot of fixtures and fittings, sunken baths and gold-plated taps. It’ll not sell well in this part of England. In the south, maybe, but the north of England, those sort of knick-knacks just are not to folks’ taste. He could sell it, to be sure, but at such a loss…Michael thinks we’ll be better off selling this house, but we want this house, not Williams’s fairy-tale design. See, the upshot is that we’re finished and that’s down to Williams.’
‘It’s like your husband blundered into something.’
‘That’s putting it mildly.’ Colleen Richardson took one last deep drag on the half-smoked nail and flicked the still burning butt into the fire grate where it smouldered harmlessly into extinction. ‘See, Williams has a…had a reputation in the Vale for being a good touch.’
‘A good touch?’
‘For money.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Aye, so he was. A lot of businesses have been started up and kept going in the Vale over the last ten years or so using Williams’s money as seed money. His name is well-known by businessmen in the Vale. See, that’s why Michael went ahead and built the house, Williams’s reputation, his money supply was endless. Williams must have known what he was doing, must have to make money like he could throw it around. It was like he was making the stuff…Michael said he bought into companies when they were new, helped them off the ground, rode piggyback and then sold his share, or his shares, when they were up and running with full order books. Reckon that’s how Michael got in so deeply, based on Williams’s reputation.’
‘Reckon that’s it. Tell me, did your husband ever mention a fella by the name of Sheringham?’
‘The man at the gym? That’s the only Sheringham we know.’
‘What is your husband’s relationship with him?’
‘Tim Sheringham? Drinking partners. There’s some age gap between them. Twenty years or so. More. They met at the gym. Tim’s the owner, I think. They occasionally went for a beer after Michael had been for his workout. Michael always booked in for the last session, nine till ten, so there was an hour’s troughing time left. That’s how stupid men are. All that good done to their little bodies and then they go to the pub and undo it all. But Michael and Tim Sheringham were not in business or anything.’
‘But they knew each other in a social manner?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Do you know when they last went out together?’
‘Last week, last Thursday evening. That’s Michael’s night at the gym.’
‘You were in York then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not in Ireland?’
‘No. Left for Ireland on the Friday. Returned yesterday.’
‘Your father will vouch for that?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Colleen Richardson flushed with anger.
‘What I said. He’ll vouch for that if we contact the Gardai in Galway, ask them to call on him, he’ll tell them that you were with him?’
‘He’ll tell them nothing. They’ll need to get where he is before he’ll speak to them.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning he’s in the ground, God rest him. He died a year ago this weekend gone and I was not there, God forgive me. I went to his graveside and I told him how I was, how I was not.’
‘Who else did you speak to?’
‘Nobody. I stayed in his wee terraced house. It still belongs to us while we contact two of my brothers to sort the estate.’
‘So nobody can confirm you were in Ireland?’
‘No. You tying me now, are you?’
‘Should we?’
‘Get out!’ Colleen Richardson leapt to her feet, her fists clenched to her sides. The cat ran from the room. ‘Get out! Get out!’
‘Going to get gobbled up soon, I expect, Mr Yellich. We can’t survive, can’t compete, can’t offer the breadth of service to compete with the main high street banks. But we’re clinging on with our fingertips, proud to be the last independent bank in England. Over three hundred years of continuous trading. Still owned by the original two founding families, the Sachses and the Lindseys. Used to be called Sachs and Lindsey’s, but in a doff-the-hat to modernization, we changed our name to the Yorkshire and Lancashire Bank, and brought in those infernal machines which still make me believe all our employees spend their day watching television. Ledgers were good enough in my day. Once we had five hundred branches, now we’ve got fifty. Most on this side of the Pennines.’
Benjamin Ffoulkes, the manager of the York branch of the Yorkshire and Lancashire Bank, was a portly man with a handlebar moustache, a yellow waistcoat and a maroon coloured suit. He sat in a swivel chair in front of a huge wooden desk in an office of panelled wood, with velvet curtains, maroon to match his suit, held back from covering the sash windows with tasselled cords, yellow to match his waistcoat. A grandfather clock stood majestically in the corner of the room, ticking softly. Yellich found it had a quarter jack and so chimed every fifteen minutes.
‘We quite enjoy our quaintness, Mr Yellich. We have our computers, as I’ve mentioned, but we have retained our atmosphere. This smells and sounds and looks like a bank of yesteryear, and we have applications for positions from many youngsters who want employment with us because of it. Our cheque books used to be as big as school exercise books but we had to standardize because retailers refused to accept them. One more nail in our coffin. But we enjoy a lot of customer loyalty, this branch particularly; there’s a lot of old money in the Vale of York and that helps us to stay afloat. So a concession here and there is a price we can afford. But you’ve come to discuss the account of the late Mr Williams, of Bramley on Ouse?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mmm…’
‘A problem?’
‘It’s one of ethics, really.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, yes, confess that in all my born days I’ve never come across a problem like this. Customer confidentiality is one thing, but if the customer is deceased, as is his wife; and I have not yet had the necessary notices, copy of the death certificate, or notification from his solicitor confirming his next of kin, I don’t know whether I can help. But, if the police seek to apprehend the perpetrator of this dreadful deed, then I feel obliged…you know I do want to help, Mr Yellich, I really do.’
‘It is a double murder.’
‘It’s that that makes me want to help. I confess I felt bowled over when I read of the murders in the Post. And I suppose you could come back with a warrant?’
‘We could.’
‘In a sense that would make it easier for me. The decision would be out of my hands, you see.’
‘Time is of the essence, Mr Ffoulkes. If it makes it easier, we don’t actually believe that money was at the root of this murder, but money has a way of shadowing all of us, our financial affairs are a profile of our lives.’
‘Yes…’ Ffoulkes smiled. ‘I rather like that. Tell you what, young man, I’ll offer a compromise.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I’m familiar with the account. I’ll answer questions but I won’t allow you access to his file, not without a warrant.’