Already Dead

13

Fry had visited Prospectus Assurance before. She recognised the buildings rather than the name. Perhaps the company had changed hands or rebranded itself. That happened all the time, small outfits being swallowed up by bigger and bigger ones, almost always followed by a new name and a different image. All those changes made it difficult to keep track of a company’s history — and perhaps that was the whole point of the exercise.

Nathan Baird was thin and angular, and dressed in a suit that hung all wrong for his shape. He had dark designer stubble and little wings of sideburn which seemed intended to enhance his already sharp cheekbones. Sharp was a good word for him. He was on the young side, too, to be Glen Turner’s line manager and sitting in a separate office of his own, away from the cubicles and rows of computer terminals with operators mouthing their lines into head microphones, like a set of Britney Spears imitators. He clutched at the oak finish desk in front of him as if it was a form of protection or security. A symbol, perhaps, of his position in the hierarchy.

‘Glen, Glen. I can’t get over it,’ Baird was saying. He shook his head, the empty shoulders of his suit jacket flapping like the sides of a tent in a stiff wind.

‘Did anything unusual happen here on Tuesday?’ asked Fry, when she and Irvine had been shown into his office.

‘What? With Glen Turner, you mean? No, nothing unusual. Was that the day he died?’

‘It seems so. He came into work as normal, then?’

‘He came in as normal, left as normal at the end of the afternoon. I’m sure he did a normal day’s work in between. That was Glen, really. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘Was Mr Turner a good worker?’ asked Fry. ‘He’d been with you for quite a while, we understand.’

‘With Prospectus, yes,’ said Baird. ‘I haven’t been his line manager all that long. Personally, I’m a bit of a high-flyer, you might say. I had my talents spotted. So Prospectus poached me from-’

‘Yes, sir. But Mr Turner?’

‘Ah, well. Glen was never a high-flyer of any kind. But solid enough, I suppose.’ He looked round the office. ‘I can get someone to dig a bit of information out of his personnel file, if you want.’

‘That would be useful, sir. But your personal impressions are more helpful at this stage.’

Baird steepled his bony fingers together and smiled as if she’d paid him a compliment. Did he think that everything was about him? Well, maybe it was. Fry found herself hoping that the inquiry would turn up some form of secret relationship between Glen Turner and his manager, which would allow her the chance to get Baird in an interview room without the security of his office and desk.

First, Baird signalled to someone through the glass partition, and a youth appeared at the door. He had red cheeks and wore a tie loosely knotted round an unfastened shirt collar, as if he was still at school and making a statement about his resistance to the uniform. Baird gave him instructions for the personnel file, and he scurried off. A blonde woman seated at the end of the row of desks watched him go, and cast a curious glance into the manager’s office. Somehow, Baird seemed to be aware of her interest.

‘You can’t use one of the girls for that sort of job now,’ he said. ‘It would be considered sexist. We operate on very strict equality guidelines here at Prospectus Assurance.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I’ll bear that in mind if I’m ever looking for a change of career,’ said Fry.

Baird studied her as if she’d just come in for a job interview. ‘Well, you’d probably bring some unique abilities to the job, Sergeant. Are you interested in insurance?’

Fry swallowed a response, aware of Luke Irvine hiding a smile. There was no point in explaining to someone like Baird that she’d been joking. If he didn’t see it the first time, she was wasting her breath. He probably imagined she was so impressed with such a high-flying manager that she was desperate to work for him.

‘I’m sure you’re busy, sir,’ said Fry. ‘So perhaps we could concentrate on Glen Turner.’

‘Indeed. My personal impressions.’

‘I’m wondering in particular if Mr Turner seemed worried about anything recently. Did he have any problems at work? Any disciplinary issues?’

‘No, no. We’re a happy ship here in Claims. No problems. Or, if there are, I soon sort them out. My door is always open. The staff know that.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Fry could see the flushed youth hovering a few yards away on the other side of the partition. He was clutching a manila file, but he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. Should he wait until he was summoned into the office? Or did the task of fetching the file give him permission to knock on the door and interrupt? She could see the conflict written all over his face and in his nervous body language.

‘Your staff are happy to come and talk to you, sir?’ asked Fry.

‘Of course, any time. Look at my ID. My badge says “Nathan”, not “Mr Baird” or “Team Leader” — even though that’s what I am.’

‘Very good.’

That was using symbolism as a substitute for people skills, as far Fry was concerned. A badge was an awful lot cheaper than employing someone who actually knew how to manage staff. But it was nothing new, and certainly not unique to Prospectus Assurance. Police forces used it all over the country. Everyone did, if it cut costs.

‘So how much do you know about Mr Turner’s personal life?’

‘His personal…?’

‘His life outside the office. His home, family, his personal relationships, his interests?’

‘Well. Er…’

‘Did you ever speak to his mother, for example?’

‘Why would I speak to his mother?’

‘That’s who Mr Turner lived with.’

Baird laughed. ‘Is it? He must have been, what? Thirty-seven? And he lived with his mum?’

‘Mrs Turner was advised by a police officer to phone here when she reported that her son hadn’t come home. So who would she have spoken to, if it wasn’t you, sir?’

He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the cubicles. ‘I don’t know. Someone out there. The switchboard wouldn’t have put a call like that through to me.’

Baird seemed to notice the hovering youth outside for the first time, and gestured to him irritably. The young man came in and handed him the file without a word.

‘Thank you, Aaron,’ he said.

He waited until the boy had gone, and grimaced at Fry. ‘Aaron, I ask you. Why do so many parents give their kids these ridiculous biblical names?’

Fry hesitated. ‘Perhaps they’ve never read the Bible and wouldn’t know a biblical name when they heard one, Nathan.’

‘You’re probably right. Ignorance is everywhere.’

He thumbed casually through the personnel file as if he’d never set eyes on one before and wasn’t really interested in seeing one now.

‘Glen Turner, yes. Glen was a multi-line adjuster.’

‘Meaning what?’ asked Irvine.

‘He handled different types of claim. Some adjusters just deal with property claims, or liability cases like motor accidents or personal injuries. Turner had the experience to handle more than one type. He was multi-line.’

‘I see. Does that mean he was particularly good at the job?’

Baird smiled at Irvine. ‘Well, not necessarily. And certainly not in Glen’s case. I’d say from his employment record that he was competent across the board, but not brilliant at anything in particular. You know the sort of employee I mean?’

‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘I believe we have that sort of employee in the police service too.’

‘Of course you do. If he was outstanding in any specific area, it’s likely he would have been promoted long before now.’

‘Ah. Well, that’s where our areas of business differ, then.’

He looked at her expectantly, with a faint smile. This time, he’d almost recognised the joke from her tone of voice, but seemed to be waiting for a punchline. When it didn’t come, he continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

‘My personal impressions, that’s what you asked for. Well, I think the word I’d use about Glen is “geeky”. He was a hard worker, no doubt about it. He’d studied the business, gained his qualifications and all that. But I never got the impression he had any wider awareness of the day-to-day issues that his policyholders had to deal with.’

‘No personal experience of life, then. And no outside interests, perhaps.’

‘Yes, you’re right. I think that’s what it was. Good insight.’

‘All part of the job,’ said Fry.

‘Well, that meant Glen didn’t have much conversation. It made him a bit boring, you know. And insurance isn’t supposed to be boring.’

‘Isn’t it?’

Baird waved a hand, as if swatting a small fly. ‘Absolutely not. It’s a common misconception among the public. Here in Claims, we deal with claimants in all kinds of difficult circumstances. You’d be surprised, you really would. We have to learn how to deal with people sensitively.’

‘I’m sure you do. None of us ever stop learning, do we?’

He clasped his fingers together in mock delight. ‘I certainly hope not. I look forward to learning new things every day at Prospectus Assurance.’

Fry looked down at the file Baird had handed her. It was pretty thin. Its slimness suggested that Glen Turner’s employers knew as little about him as his team leader claimed. She wondered what new things Turner had been learning during his time at Prospectus. Whatever they were, she suspected they weren’t recorded in this file. Luke Irvine ought to have taken up the questioning when she paused, but Fry realised he wasn’t going to.

‘You have a lot of female employees here, Mr Baird,’ she said.

‘Certainly. They’re good workers. They don’t last very long, mind you. About eighteen months on average. We have quite a bit of churn in this department.’

‘Churn?’

‘Turnover. Old staff leaving, new employees arriving. It’s like a revolving door sometimes.’

‘They go on to do other things?’

‘They take up all kinds of opportunities when they leave Prospectus Assurance. We give them a good grounding in essential work skills, and they go off to make use of them elsewhere.’

Fry nodded. Or more likely they couldn’t stand the job for any longer than eighteen months. She wouldn’t last anywhere near that long herself if she had Nathan Baird as a manager.

She looked at the row of call handlers. ‘Did Glen Turner have any relationships with the female staff?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘It has been known.’

‘It’s against policy. We try very hard to discourage it. During working hours, at least. That would be very inappropriate.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting they were going at it in the stationery cupboard all day long,’ said Fry.

Baird looked shocked. ‘I should hope not. What sort of company-?’

‘But relationships are often formed in the workplace, aren’t they? Everyone knows that. It’s the most common way of meeting a future partner. So it’s a perfectly reasonable question. One of these women working out there in the cubicles, perhaps? They must stop for a break occasionally, since they’re not robots. What about the blonde one at this end, in the blue sweater? The woman who keeps looking this way, wondering what we’re talking about?’

Baird’s eyes flickered rapidly backwards and forwards in a desperate effort not to look at the woman Fry was referring to. Of course, he was afraid she would meet his eye, and that would be a complete giveaway. He began to go faintly pink with the strain.

‘I-’ he said. ‘Well…’

Fry could have put him out of his misery and told him she’d guessed several minutes ago. His reaction to the hook she’d offered confirmed her supposition. But she let him stew for a while, and watched him shuffle uncomfortably on his chair. They were both aware that the blonde woman was staring unashamedly now, no doubt seeing Baird’s discomfort and recognising that something was wrong. Fry turned slightly and gave her a smile. It wasn’t her friendliest smile. The woman flushed, straightened her headset, and went back to her screen.

She looked back at Baird again.

‘What’s her name?’

He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Dawn.’

‘Married?’

‘I … Well, it’s not…’

Fry shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter, sir. We’re not investigating your affairs, are we?’

‘Er, no.’

‘But your friend Dawn might have mentioned something.’

‘I never knew Glen Turner to show any interest in the female employees. And I’ve never heard it spoken about by … well, by any of the staff … that he made approaches of that kind. It’s the sort of thing you do hear about in an office environment, if it happens.’

‘Or you notice it,’ said Fry. ‘Those little glances.’

‘Exactly.’ He coughed. ‘There was none of that with Glen. I’m quite sure he just wasn’t interested.’

‘Pity.’

‘Pity?’

‘It’s often the first place we look, a relationship gone wrong. You know, the two main motives for murder — money and sex.’

‘I understand.’

Baird was relaxing now. He thought he’d got through the interview pretty well, all told. He gave her that expectant little smile again, though now there was a tiny tremor around his mouth that he couldn’t control.

‘So what’s your next move, Sergeant?’ he asked eventually.

‘Well, we’ll be following up any leads we can.’ She tapped the file. ‘Perhaps there’ll be some information in here that will be helpful to us.’

‘I hope so.’

‘But I still need to ask you whether Mr Turner knew anybody well in the office. Perhaps not a sexual relationship, but was there someone he had lunch with, or talked to during a coffee break? Did he go to the pub after work?’

‘To the pub? No, not Glen.’ Baird looked thoughtful. ‘Well, I suppose the person he knew best in the office would be Ralph Edge. He’s a claims fraud analyst, works on the next floor up. I’d say they had a few things in common, Ralph and Glen. Being a bit geeky was one of them.’

‘We need to see his work area,’ said Fry.

‘It’s just down the corridor here. I’ll show you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Fry and Irvine followed him along a few yards of carpeted passage and into another room, where Baird gestured at a desk.

It might as well have been an unused space, for all the personal signs that Glen Turner had left. Most people who spent a lot of their time in office environments tacked up family photos on their partitions or stuck humorous slogans on the computer casing. You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps. Fry had never gone in for the practice herself, but she understood that other people did. It was a kind of ownership ritual, she supposed — marking out your territory. Individuals wanted to feel that their colleagues and employers would remember something about them, even if they weren’t actually present.

But Turner didn’t seem to have had any worries about that. When Fry looked at his desk, she felt that he’d never been here. Even if he’d been present, the desk wouldn’t have told her anything about him.

‘May we take a look?’ she asked Baird.

‘I suppose so.’

She nodded at Irvine, who began to open a few drawers. They contained nothing but stationery supplies, fresh notebooks, a selection of pens, a copy of a book called Birds’ Modern Insurance Law.

‘No personal items,’ said Irvine.

‘He must have had a computer,’ said Fry. ‘Mr Baird?’

‘Of course. He had a rugged laptop, with armoured casing. Standard issue for this job. They’re vital on site.’

‘But it’s not here,’ said Fry.

Baird shrugged. ‘I suppose he must have had it with him. It might be in his car.’

By the time they returned to Nathan Baird’s office, the cubicles were empty and the line of work stations deserted, a headset abandoned on each desk. No more claims would be handled at Prospectus Assurance tonight. Policyholders would have to wait until tomorrow to be dealt with sensitively.

‘Ralph Edge?’ asked Irvine as they walked down the corridor towards the exit.

Fry surveyed the empty rooms on either side. ‘It looks as though everyone’s gone home.’

‘We could visit him at home.’

‘It’ll do tomorrow,’ said Fry. ‘We should have some initial post-mortem results in the morning. At least then we might have a better idea what sort of questions we should be asking.’

Their DI, Paul Hitchens, was waiting to hear from them when they returned to West Street. Fry brought Hitchens up to date, and he promised to keep the bosses in the loop. It was a makeshift briefing, though. No one wanted to believe they had a murder on their hands. Without Hitchens having to say as much, Fry knew that he was far happier to believe they were looking at an incident of accidental death, or suicide.

Those incidents happened, of course. Some of the methods of suicide people worked out for themselves were bizarre enough. And when you thought about them, you realised they could only have been devised by someone whose mind was disturbed.

Charlie Dean heard about the discovery of a body on the local news that evening. As soon as he’d listened to the sparse details, he knew he needed to contact Sheena. They had emergency code to use, a signal by text message to indicate if one of them felt they need to speak urgently.

Barbara was on the phone to a friend again. She was grumbling about not having any new clothes and never going out anywhere. Nothing was ever right for her. But at least it meant she was totally absorbed in her own affairs, and wouldn’t notice what he was doing.

When he got the return text from Sheena, he knew it was safe to call her. He stepped into the garage and closed the door. The sight of the BMW reminded him of what he’d found on the boot yesterday morning, and he turned his back to whisper into his phone, as if the car itself had ears.

‘Sweetheart, have you heard the news? They’ve found a dead body. In those woods, you know-’

‘Yes, I heard.’

‘We can’t say anything.’

‘But, Charlie, there was that man-’

He cut her off. ‘If we so much as mention it, we’ll have to give statements to the police. They’d ask endless questions. Full details, Sheena. We’d have to explain what we were doing there at that time of night.’

‘Oh, God. Jay would murder me.’

‘Exactly.’

‘We can’t do that, Charlie.’

‘That’s what I’m saying.’

‘I suppose I’d say something stupid, wouldn’t I?’

‘Well, we can’t risk that, can we? Think of Jay.’

‘And Barbara.’

Dean sighed. ‘Yes, and Barbara.’

‘I’ll see you soon, won’t I?’

‘Yes, tomorrow. Just as we arranged.’

‘That’s great, Charlie.’

Irritably, Charlie ended the call and went back into the house. He hated it when Sheena talked about Barbara. It seemed wrong, hearing his mistress mention his wife. It was as if she’d called out the wrong name when they were having sex. It was just wrong.

Barbara had become really odd about sex in the last few years. So it was her own fault, really. She’d never recovered from the day she encountered a naked rambler on the roadside at Priestcliffe. He’d been dressed only in a rucksack and bush hat.

For many people, he wasn’t just a naked rambler but the Naked Rambler, who had been on TV, but appeared far more often in magistrates courts charged with indecent exposure. He’d been rambling on a chilly November day too, so the shock factor ought to have been pretty small.

But an excuse was an excuse. Charlie supposed he ought to take it as a compliment that she even bothered to think a justification was necessary. He’d feel better about the whole thing when he’d sunk a few drinks tonight.