‘At the local planning office,’ I say, and draw out the wad of paper in my pocket (shuffling the sheet with IT WAS CONOR VANE written on it to the back). ‘Davy had lodged plans with the council to build a long, low shed in the field next door, a miniature barn. Look at the way the dimensions are written.’
‘08-12-68,’ Em reads. ‘Eight feet high, twelve across, and … sixty-eight deep? It’s written like that again here.’ She and Elle scan the document. ‘And here.’
‘Bingo. Davy had permission to build three years ago, but never bothered. He just kept renewing the permission. Building it wasn’t the point. The plans simply ensured it existed somewhere, in the hope that Lulu would work out that the dimensions were the sort code.’
‘What about the account number?’
‘Look at the front wall of the plan.’
The outbuilding is prettily designed. It has the name PENELOPE written above it.
‘Who’s Penelope?’
‘Lulu. It’s her middle name. Remember?’
‘He only ever called her Penny,’ says Charli. ‘Just to annoy me. And he’s still trying to annoy me in death. Stupid name. Old-fashioned. You ever see a model called Penelope?’
‘What about Penelope Cruz?’
‘She’s the exception.’
‘Penny Lancaster?’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Try typing the name “Penelope” on an old mobile phone,’ I say, ‘which was Davy’s preferred variety, and you get 73635673. Which is—’
‘The number he picked for the account, yes,’ Charli says. ‘You’ve taken about half an hour explaining two things I already know. Do you have his personal access code or not?’
‘I do. Em and Elle, do you remember going to the Bombardier in Putney a few days ago, and what they were actually up to?’
‘Yeah. The Fantasy Football thing.’
‘And do you recall why Davy had come last?’
Em doesn’t. But Elle does. ‘That man Westcott, Davy’s best man. He said that Davy picked players with the same shirt numbers every year.’
‘Which Jonny pointed out was insane for anyone actually trying to win a Fantasy Football tournament. But then I remembered just how much you, Charli, said you hated hisFantasy Football habit. And Ben Westcott is Lulu’s godfather, isn’t he?’
‘Not my choice,’ Charli murmurs. ‘Are you saying his stupid fake football numbers are the code?’
I turn over a sheet of paper. For the last twelve years, Ben Westcott has recorded the details of all the Fantasy Football teams of all five men. The shirt numbers picked by the other four are completely indiscriminate. Davy’s are a grid of the same numbers, in the same order, year after year.
‘Davy knew Lulu was allergic to football too. But he had one hope – that she would work out the truth about the outbuilding, that Ben Westcott would realise the football thing, and the two of them would piece it together without you knowing, Charli. That’s why he wanted Lulu to contact her godfather, and why he phoned her saying as much a few days before he died.’ I lean into my bag and get out Davy’s laptop. ‘It didn’t work, of course. But that’s how we get into his account, and how we all get our money.’
I say the last words with a flourish, and the audience react in four different ways. Elle claps and gives me a thumbs-up. Em shakes her head, a bit grudging but basically impressed. Charli looks furious, presumably that she didn’t work it out herself. Alfie: no change. He’s still looking at me like he’s a Dobermann and I’m two pounds of wet offal.
‘Can I see that?’ Charli takes the sheet of paper with the football strip numbers on, and studies it, shaking her head. ‘Dave, Dave, Dave. You silly bastard. We needn’t have gone through any of this.’
I open Davy’s laptop, but Charli interrupts: ‘Ah-ah. No thank you. The last thing I want is you draining the account God knows where and then us having to kill you and find the money all over again. You just give the laptop to Alfie here, there’s a good boy.’
Reluctantly, I agree. Alfie takes it off me as Charli opens her own tablet. Then he looks over his employer’s shoulder and pecks the address of the Dubai banking portal into Davy’s laptop.
‘All right. Pop that down just next to me. Thank you, dear.’
First, Charli enters her own three strings of numbers on her tablet: the sort code, account number and her private PIN. I can see on the screen that the account details appear in grey.
I pipe up. ‘How much is in there, if you don’t mind me asking?’
