‘I think so,’ said Banks. ‘And I’ve got a little job I’d like you to help me with tomorrow.’
There was a grey Clio parked in front of the newish, detached house outside Eastvale, and the man who answered the door seemed very nervous indeed. When Annie and Winsome showed their identification, he kept the door on the chain while asking them what they wanted.
‘Mr Flinders?’ Annie asked. ‘Roderick Flinders of Rod’s Staff Ltd?’
‘What if I am?’
‘Mind if we come in for a moment?’
‘As a matter of fact, I’m busy. It’s not convenient.’
Annie gave him the scathing look she reserved for the most obvious liars, and after a thirty-second staring match, during which she could swear she saw sweat break out on his brow, Flinders shut the door, fiddled with the chain, and opened it to let them in, ushering them towards the living room at the front. The furniture was all slightly old-fashioned, as if it had been bought at auctions. The large plasma TV was probably worth a small fortune. Flinders himself was not quite what she had expected of the sleazy exploiter of unskilled labour, but an overweight, red-faced, balding man in his early fifties, wearing a chunky-knit cardigan, who looked as if he would be more at home behind a desk in an insurance office than shepherding poor migrant workers around from factory to factory. His skin was baby smooth and had the sheen of wet plastic. Still, Annie realised, he didn’t do much of the shepherding himself; he had minions and gangmasters to work for him.
‘What is it?’ he said, turning to face them. ‘As I said, I’m very busy.’
‘With what?’ Annie asked.
‘Pardon?’
Annie glanced around the room. ‘What are you so busy with?’ she asked. ‘I don’t see anything in here to occupy your time.’
‘A business matter. In my home office.’
‘Ah, I see. Then we’ll get straight to the point. Winsome?’
Winsome consulted her notebook. ‘We’re investigating a series of infringements of the law under the Asylum and Immigration Act, and the Anti-Slavery Act,’ said Winsome. There was no Anti-Slavery Act, but it sounded more dramatic than Coroners and Justice Bill, under which such matters came.
‘What are you talking about?’ Flinders cried. ‘I’m a legitimate businessmen. Everyone who goes through my company is closely vetted. We have no truck with asylum seekers or illegal immigrants.’
‘They don’t need to be illegal, sir,’ Winsome went on. ‘All we need to prove is that violence, intimidation or deception were used to bring a migrant worker into the country.’
‘And, of course,’ Annie added, ‘moving people around the country without their consent is also a form of trafficking under the law, and is therefore prosecutable under the Act. Sentences can be rather excessive, as many judges take a dim view of these activities. In other words, mate, you could get banged up for a long time.’
‘But I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Do you know a man called Warren Corrigan?’
Flinders averted his eyes. ‘I’ve met him.’
‘Perhaps you’ve heard he was shot on Friday evening?’
‘I... yes... I... on the news. It’s terrible. Just terrible.’
‘Indeed it is,’ said Annie. ‘A real tragedy. Do you know the circumstances under which he was shot?’
‘No. I don’t know who did it, either. I was here at home. It was nothing to do with me.’
‘We know that, sir. But we understand that you met with Mr Corrigan on a number of occasions?’
‘We did some business together, yes.’
‘What sort of business would that be?’
‘Business of a financial nature. Warren was a financier.’
‘That’s a nice name for it, isn’t it?’ said Annie. Winsome nodded.
‘For what?’ Flinders demanded.
‘Loan shark.’
Flinders did his best to appear indignant, but succeeded only in looking more scared. ‘I know nothing about that. As far as I was concerned, Warren Corrigan was a legitimate businessman, like myself.’
‘“Like me”,’ corrected Annie. ‘What about Mihkel Lepikson?’
‘Who?’
‘The Estonian journalist found murdered at Garskill Farm.’
‘I know nothing about that.’
‘But you know Garskill Farm, don’t you?’
‘Yes. The company used it as temporary accommodation for some of our workers.’
‘The “company” being you?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I’m glad to hear it was only temporary,’ Annie said, ‘though it turned out to be a bit more permanent for Mihkel Lepikson.’
‘I told you, I don’t know him.’
‘Did you visit Garskill Farm the other Wednesday morning?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I’m not sure if I believe you,’ said Annie. ‘Still, we’ll leave that for the moment. Mind if we have a look around?’
‘Have you got a search warrant?’
‘No, But I’d be happy to wait here with you while Winsome goes and gets one.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I must remind you, though, it’s Sunday, and magistrates can be awfully hard to find on a Sunday. It’s unlikely we’d be able to get hold of one until tomorrow morning, at the earliest. In the meantime, we might as well take you to the station, and you can spend a night in the cells. Don’t worry. It’s not as terrible as it sounds. It might not be as comfortable as this place, but you get three square meals a day, there’s a working toilet and the showers are hot.’
‘All right. Get on with it then.’
‘Like to give us the guided tour?’
Flinders led them around the house — his office, first, with the filing cabinets and computer, which would definitely be worth a search warrant in itself — then a large well-equipped kitchen complete with island and pots and pans hanging from a ceiling fixture, too spick and span to have been used recently, a cloakroom, plenty of cupboard space, dining room with heavy dark wood table and overstuffed chairs. Upstairs were four bedrooms, two of which were empty, and one of which was set up for guests.
‘Do you live here all alone?’ Annie asked.
‘My wife and I have separated,’ said Flinders. ‘I’ve been thinking of selling the place and moving somewhere smaller, but the market is poor.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that. About your wife, I mean.’
The final room was Flinders’ bedroom. He seemed reluctant to open the door, but he clearly sensed that he wasn’t in much of a position to refuse. Two suitcases lay open on the four-poster bed, half filled with clothes and toiletries.
Annie glanced at Winsome and raised her eyebrows. ‘Going somewhere, Mr Flinders?’
‘If you must know, I was planning on taking a short holiday. It’s been a stressful time at work lately. My heart... angina, you see.’
‘Somewhere nice, I hope?’
‘Acapulco.’
‘Very nice. All alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the business?’
‘It can run itself for a little while. I have helpers. One needs to recharge one’s batteries every now and then. Even a police detective should know that.’
Annie laughed. ‘I’ve been recharging mine for the past few months. They’re in pretty good shape by now. Right, Winsome?’
‘Right,’ said Winsome, smiling.
Flinders’ chin started to wobble. ‘You can’t possibly read anything into this,’ he said. ‘It’s a coincidence, that’s all.’
‘What’s a coincidence?’
‘Well, you know...’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘You coming here just before I was about to leave. I know it might appear bad, but...’
‘And here’s me thinking you meant us coming here after Warren Corrigan was shot, and after Mihkel Lepikson was murdered by a hired killer called Robert Tamm, in your presence.’