Ramsay allowed himself a moment’s self-congratulation. He must be right. The theory devised in his office was almost proved. He was convinced that a fraud had taken place.
Then he began to wonder how it had been done. Surely Northumbria Computing would have made its cheque payable to the Grace Darling Centre, not to Gus Lynch personally. How then had he managed to get his hands on the money? And if Amelia Wood had realized that he had stolen from the trust, why hadn’t she taken steps to bring the matter to light? If she had taken her suspicions to an auditor he would discover immediately what had happened to the money. Ramsay could understand that a charity like the Grace Darling would want to avoid damaging publicity but there were ways to deal with the thing discreetly. He had seen it done before.
When Prue Bennett left her office at six o’clock she came across Ramsay in the lobby, leaning on Joe Fenwick’s desk, chatting to the porter as if they were old friends. It was clear that he was waiting for her, and she did not know what to make of it. She had persuaded herself that she rather despised him. There was something grubby and unpleasant about his prying into other people’s business. Yet now she found his presence reassuring.
‘I’m glad to have bumped into you,’ he said, as if the meeting had been quite by chance. ‘ There are one or two questions I need to clear up.’
‘I can’t stop now,’ Prue said. ‘Anna will be expecting me. We’ve hardly seen each other in the last few days.’
‘Perhaps I could come back with you,’ he said, ‘if it wouldn’t be too much of an intrusion.’
She would have liked to assert her authority, to tell him to get lost, but she couldn’t quite manage it. She was curious and it was hard to see him now as the sleazy detective she had long imagined. Most of her friends were younger, people she’d met through the theatre. They were enthusiastic, passionate, changing their philosophies to suit the latest trend. They were fun. Ramsay’s solidness and constancy was different and attractive.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be an intrusion.’
She wondered if she should invite him for a meal then thought that might cause him embarrassment. Perhaps there was some rule preventing policemen eating with the murder suspects. There should be.
He followed her up the dual-carriageway to Otterbridge in his own car. She saw his headlights in her mirror and though she usually drove home far too fast she maintained the regulation 60 m.p.h. Is this what it would be like? she thought. Living with a policeman? Having to keep all the rules. Could I stand it?
In the house the lights were on and as usual she called up the stairs to Anna. Ramsay followed her through to the kitchen where she automatically switched on the kettle then took a tin from the fridge to feed the cat. Anna wandered in ten minutes later, poured herself a mug of tea and went away without a word.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said. ‘You wanted some time together.’
‘That’s all right,’ Prue said. ‘ She’s not communicating much anyway. I think she’s in love.’
‘Who’s the subject of her affection?’
‘John Powell. He took her out last night.’ She smiled, making a joke of her unease. ‘You policemen can’t be badly paid,’ she said. ‘He brought her home in a very smart new Polo. His mother’s apparently. My car’s fifteen years old and held together with string.’
‘It’s about money that I want to talk to you,’ he said.
He had intended to stick to a story that his enquiries into the Grace Darling finances were a matter of routine police work, but she was too intelligent to believe that. Even after all these years she knew him too well. He saw that the only way to obtain her co-operation was to tell her the truth.
‘I think Gus Lynch might have been stealing from the Arts Centre,’ he said. ‘ Had you ever suspected anything like that?’
She shook her head. ‘But I’d have no way of knowing,’ she said.
‘Amelia Wood had a bank statement which seems to show that any payment to the Grace Darling-grants from the local authority and money from sponsors-was put on deposit and transferred into the current account when it was needed.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right. I was joint signatory to both accounts.’
‘Presumably each year the trustees would appoint an auditor to go through the books and make sure that any cheque from either account had a legitimate purpose. You had to keep receipts?’
She nodded. ‘ Of course.’
‘I want to know if there was another account,’ he said quietly.
‘A secret account that the trustees didn’t know about and the auditors never got to see.’
She blushed. ‘There was nothing dishonest in that,’ she said defensively. ‘ Gus started it soon after I arrived. There’d been a fuss about the expenses he claimed after a Youth Theatre production which we took to the Berwick Festival. He’d hired a minibus. The trustees said he should have charged the parents for the transport cost and that in future he should consult them before making a similar gesture. He was furious and said he wasn’t going to them every time he needed five pounds from the petty cash. They should trust him. He’d given up enough to come and work for them.’
‘So he opened a new account in the Grace Darling’s name?’
She nodded. ‘ With the Wallsend and Hallowgate Building Society. We paid in money that didn’t go through the books-small cash donations given by the public, money raised by the kids in informal fund-raising events, that sort of thing. It was used on projects which the trustees might not have approved of. For instance last summer we hired a mime artist to run a workshop and paid him from the account. I suppose it wasn’t strictly honest but there was nothing illegal going on.’
‘You were joint signatory on that account too?’
‘Yes. The banks and building societies insist on two signatures for charitable accounts.’
‘Did you always watch Mr Lynch write the cheque before signing it?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not. You know what it’s like. It’s always a mad house there, always busy. He rushes into my office waving the cheque book. “Sign a couple of cheques for me pet. I’m just on my way into town.” So I sign them.’
‘Without asking what they’re for?’
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted, ‘ if it’s really hectic. Usually he tells me what they’re for-costume hire or transport or to take some supporters for a meal.’
‘You never check?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’
‘The building society must send you a statement every six months.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I’ve never seen it.’
‘Who opens your mail? A secretary?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘the trustees don’t believe in paying proper secretaries. We’ve had a series of YTS trainees who leave us just as they’re getting competent.’ She paused. ‘You think Gus was making out the cheques I’d signed to himself?’
‘More probably for cash. That would be less easy to trace.’
‘How much did he get away with then?’ she asked cheerfully. ‘Fifty quid? A hundred? There could never have been much more than that in the account.’
‘Oh, considerably more than that,’ he said. ‘I believe that Mr Lynch paid some sponsorship money into the account. A firm called Northumbria Computing donated ten thousand pounds to the Grace Darling about three years ago.’