All that Glitters

by Les Cowan

  “Did she see what happened next?” David asked, coffee and cakes now forgotten. “Did they go into the house or the garage?” Sam frowned.

  “That’s the frustrating part. She says that at that point her sister from Toronto phoned and she didn’t see any more.”

  David leaned back and studied the ceiling in frustration but Gillian leaned further forward.

  “That’s amazing. That’s the first bit of evidence we’ve had that it wasn’t a suicide at all! Anything else?”

  “Well, yes and no. Could be nothing, but I was trying to think through how all of these images got onto Mike’s computer. Honestly, I feel like a greyhound running round and round after the hare but never getting to the finishing line. I think of one thing, then realize it doesn’t make sense, then think of something else, then back to the first one. You know? Anyway, it struck me last night that one of the sets of church accounts Mike got was delivered on a memory stick, which seemed a bit odd. I mean, what’s a page of figures – 50KB or less? Why deliver it on a 4GB memory stick? Someone actually came to the door with it about ten days ago. I remember Mike went and spoke to them for a couple of minutes and then remarked on it.” Sam reached into a pocket, pulled out a tiny pen drive in transparent red plastic, and held it up.

  “Exhibit A,” she said, laying it on the table.

  “Do you know which church it was from, Señora?” Juan put in.

  “Sadly, no. One of the three, that’s all. But the point is, why would someone hand over a memory stick just for a file you could easily email?”

  “Because there was something else on the stick that had nothing to do with church accounts,” Juan stated as if it were a bald fact that everyone should know. “I did an IT evening class last year to help with the accounts at Hacienda. They were really strict about bringing in anything from home on a USB stick. They said just plugging the thing in could upload all sorts of stuff without you knowing or even touching the keyboard.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Sam continued. “So maybe if we found out what else was on the stick, it might give us an idea about the images on the laptop.”

  “Have you plugged it in to have a look?” David asked.

  Sam gave him a look.

  “I might not be Mark Zuckerberg but I’m not that dopey. If there is something nasty on this I don’t want it on my computer as well. I suppose we’ll need to explain what we’re thinking to the police and get them to examine it.”

  “Hmm… not sure about that,” David said with a grimace. “I met DI Thompson for lunch today. He’s pretty reluctant to change his tune. I think the firmer the evidence we can give him for an alternative scenario the better.”

  Gillian gathered up her last forkful of coffee and walnut cake, drained her latte, and piled the plates on top of each other with an air of decision.

  “I think I know exactly the man to ask,” she said.

  About eight hours earlier Alexander Benedetti – known to his friends as Sandy – had been calmly browsing through the headlines and financial section of The Scotsman over breakfast while his Romanian wife Sonia fussed around getting the kids ready for school. Except on days he had to go in early this was his invariable morning routine; he found it left him settled and grounded for the day. He had recently gained a very responsible position in Edinburgh’s Salamanca HQ and understood perfectly well that when things went wrong in his area it was his job to fix it. Sometimes that meant going in early or long hours over the weekend trying to track things down. Today there wasn’t any particular flap on, so he felt justified in taking his time. Yesterday had been a special pre-budget briefing at a nice hotel (nice lunch paid for by KPMG); today would involve a bit of catching up – nothing to get too stressed about. So he turned the page, took another sip of Valvona & Crolla’s Napoletano blend, and continued browsing.

  By nature he was an organized thinker, with a methodical turn of mind well suited to the task of tracking down anomalous needles in financial haystacks. In fact, he had developed a reputation as an effective fixer and it was largely that reputation that had landed him his present post. Not brutal, bullying, manipulating, or aggressive, but firm, clear, straightforward, and rigorous. The new role was called Head of Financial Security and covered internet and credit card fraud, scrutiny of accounts that might be linked to crime, insider trading, and a host of other stuff all aimed at keeping on the right side of a mountain of legislation. No one needed to remind him how much the sector had taken a hammering during the crisis and that restoring public confidence – in practice meaning the Chancellor’s confidence – was one of their highest priorities now. Windfall taxes on banks, the banking levy, and excessive bonuses had meant that financial services had become a toxic brand. His job was to help restore Salamanca, at least, to being a trusted name in Whitehall and the High Street. That meant being alert to anything that might pour trouble on oily waters. Hence the morning routine of financial news while trying to screen out the hunt for gym things, homework, lunch money, and parental consent forms.

  He often vaguely wondered whether this went on in every household with kids or whether his was something special. He and Sonia had only been together three years. In a sense he was still getting into the routine of things so didn’t want to judge. She had been badly treated by her ex and needed space, time, and a quiet, dependable man to help both her and the kids recover. He was still single in his mid-thirties and was looking for a quiet, peaceful, dependable woman. They had met at a Central Library book group, got into a conversation about A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, and it just went from there. Despite the adjustment of having gone so quickly from living at home with his Scottish-Italian family in Prestonpans to a very nice (and frankly quite expensive) family house in the Grange with Sonia, Florian (ten), and Adriana (six), he much preferred the new life to the old and felt no need to complain. Sonia was the archetypal multitasker and managed to keep all plates spinning with no more than minor stress, which impressed him enormously. To be truthful, the entire family seemed to be doing very well, thank you. His career, if not actually stellar, was definitely gaining altitude. Sonia was finally getting the chance to study and hoped to make it to university in two or three years. The kids were happy, healthy, and bright. The past seemed to be behind them both.

  Besides all that, the new church Sonia had found a year ago, in which all four of them now seemed to feel at home, also played a part. Important as career, family, and lifestyle were, he had come to see that life was about something more. Going along to church, first to keep Sonia company then fully in his own right, he had come to see that without a central core of meaning and purpose, the rest was all just window dressing. Opening a door to the spiritual had made everything else richer, not poorer, even accounting for the church’s strong teaching on tithing. As his career developed this was not a trifling sum but, hey-ho, it was part of the deal so he signed the standing order and kept on smiling.

  In the midst of all this sunshine there was, however, one nagging anxiety as he scanned the paper that morning – a fly in the ointment, you might say; a spanner in the works. He was doing something he knew his superiors, colleagues, and the FSA would agree he shouldn’t be doing. The more he tried to justify it, the less convinced he felt. And the more he tried not to think of it, the more it kept flitting back like a pigeon returning to its loft no matter how far away you released it. “We’d never ask you to do anything against your principles,” the Prophet had said to him in a friendly way one Sunday after church, “but you know it’s more important to obey God rather than man – Acts 5:29. So when human rules and regulations get in the way of what God is doing… well, I’m sure you understand. The thing is we’re currently gathering funds for a major advance in the kingdom of God right here in Edinburgh. I’m not at liberty to say where these funds come from or what they’ll be used for; let’s just say nothing is going to be the same again. Just think of the benefit you and Sonia and the children have had these past few months
and imagine multiplying that by ten. Or a hundred. Remember last week’s text from Malachi: ‘“Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. Test me in this,” says the Lord Almighty, “and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that there will not be room enough to store it.”’ Well, that’s what we’re planning to do, Sandy. We’re bringing a substantial sum into the storehouse from God’s people all over the world. With that money we believe God will pour out a blessing on Edinburgh, on Scotland, such as we’ve never seen before. But in the meantime we need, how can I put it, a safe storehouse. All the regulations and red tape surrounding investments could get in the way of making the most of our tithe while we’re waiting for the right time. We need confidentiality and discretion. I’m sure you understand. We’ve been wondering about an account with Salamanca. It would be ideal if we had one of our own family keeping an eye on things. And I imagine bringing in that amount of new business might have a tangible benefit for you too. What do you think?”

  Alexander had immediately thought, Did I really hear what I just thought I heard? Am I being asked to hide an investment from proper scrutiny? But the Prophet had a way of putting things that was difficult to resist. “Loyalty and obedience,” he had said, “not to us, of course – we are merely fallible human beings – but where the kingdom of God is concerned we all have a responsibility. You know our motto: If Jesus Christ gave everything for me then my true worship is to give everything for him.” “Well, since you put it that way,” Alexander had replied. “Wonderful,” the Prophet said. “God will certainly bless you for this.”

  So an account was opened that started getting alarming sums into it on almost a monthly basis. This wasn’t just coming from tithes and offerings; each and every member of the congregation would have to be donating their entire salary every week to add up to sums like this. Alexander duly kept ignoring the flags that kept popping up about “variance from model profile”. This did not make him feel very blessed. Every week he had to keep telling himself, It’s not for me; it’s not even for the church. This is for the kingdom of God. Sacrifices have to be made. We must obey God rather than man. Opening the floodgates of heaven. Where your heart is there will your treasure be also. The problem was that rather than the treasure being where his heart was it was the other way around. His heart and mind were constantly circling back to where the treasure was. And to make things even more complicated, all staff were incentivized with respect to new business, and since the new account was credited to his name, that was how the frankly quite expensive house in the Grange had come about.

  All had been well for the first six months or so based on regularly and consistently ignoring the exception reports that landed on his desk every Friday. He tried to make sure that his left hand didn’t know what his right hand was doing and sometimes nearly succeeded. But then, a few weeks ago, one of his team had come to him with a query. “Have a look at this,” Mike Hunter had said. “Looks a bit fishy, don’t you think? What’s a church doing with sums like this?” “Yes, yes, I see what you mean,” Alexander had had to say. “Leave it with me, I’ll have a closer look.” But there was no need for closer looks since he knew the details intimately already. Mike thought it looked fishy; Alexander knew it was a pile of stinking guts and bones. But in the kingdom of God, not everything is as it seems. So instead of going to HM Revenue and Customs he had gone to the Prophet and explained that the account might be coming under a bit of scrutiny that might be hard to resist. The Prophet hadn’t offered any advice. He had just spoken a bit more about the kingdom and told Alexander he had perfect confidence in him handling things for the glory of God.

  Try as he might, he simply couldn’t think of how. The bank’s procedures were entirely clear, thorough, and unequivocal and both he and Mike Hunter were well aware of them. In fact, while he was prevaricating, Hunter had come back to him with more awkward questions. He had tried to fob him off again but it was getting less and less credible. If they didn’t do something soon there was a danger of whistleblowing, and that might lead to criminal charges both for the bank and him personally. “Don’t worry,” the Prophet had said. “I can see that your heart is in the right place but human rules and institutions get in the way. I’m disappointed you haven’t been able to deal with things but I have an idea that might help. Don’t worry, Alexander. We’ll take it from here. What did you say was the name of your colleague?”

  Now, glancing down the minor stories in the financial section that morning, Alexander’s feeling of unease suddenly got a whole lot worse. A spoonful of crunchy nut cornflakes stopped halfway to his mouth, which had suddenly gone dry. “Popular financial figure found dead” read the headline. The text went on to briefly report that a well-known and popular officer in Salamanca’s Scrutiny and Verification section, Mike Hunter, had been found dead at his home the previous Sunday evening. Early indications were that Mr Hunter seemed to have taken his own life. Police were not aware of any suspicious circumstances but inquiries were ongoing. Being out of the office on a course you expect things to have moved on a bit, but not for a colleague to have topped himself. Alexander coughed, sank his head in his hands, and let out a wail of anguish.

  “Sandy!” Sonia scolded him. “Please. Not in front of the children!”

  Chapter 8

  THE SMUGGLER’S TALE

  It’s incredible really – everything in the papers and on the news about organized crime and exploiting vulnerable people. I feel like a celebrity. In the old days I used to move cigarettes and drugs. It was called smuggling and nobody made much of a fuss. After all, the only losers were the tax men and nobody cares much about them. Now there’s more to be made from human beings, so that’s what we move and suddenly we’re the scum of the earth. Well, excuse me but who are the consumers of what we move about? I’ll tell you. The politicians. The businessmen. The policemen. The respectable people. And the rest of them who haven’t the guts to get a real woman are sat over their computers consuming the self-same product. So, if anyone’s to blame, it’s them, not us. We’re only fulfilling a demand. We only exist because they do. Anyway, what’s the difference between smoking illegal cigarettes and sleeping with a girl who has no rights of residence in your country? They’re both on the wrong side of that arbitrary line we call the law. What’s legal or not all depends on who you are, where you are, when you are. I’ve heard that in Spain sex was legal at the age of twelve until 1999. If you did that in Britain they sent you to jail. One hundred and fifty years ago there weren’t laws against it anywhere. Now it’s the battle cry of all the politicians and civil rights groups that are looking for more support and donations. Even now, when Berlusconi sleeps with an underage prostitute he pays his lawyers to drag it through the courts for years and his party supporters stand by him because they’re hoping for kickbacks in the future. And the man in the street laughs and says, “Good on him if he’s still got the energy at that age.” Now I hear they’re investigating top people in Britain for “historical crimes”. They’re historical all right because it’s been going on throughout history. But the rich get away with it, that’s all. I’m not rich yet so I have to be careful. Anyway, the point is that as long as there’s a demand someone’s going to fulfil it and get well paid. Why not me?

  But there is one thing I don’t understand: why would anyone in their right mind volunteer to get on that bus? I call it the ghost train because they come and go like ghosts in the night and you never see them or hear about them again. Why do they do it? The German press is full of warnings so I suppose it must be the same in Belarus. Why would anyone trust themselves to people like us? You’d have to be mad. Or desperate. Anyway, whether I understand it or not doesn’t matter. I do it and I fulfil my side of the deal and give them what they’re asking for. Maybe not exactly what they expect but we get them into Britain and that’s what they’re paying for. Every fortnight Sergei rolls up with another van of hopefuls. They meet so
me guy who tells them there’s a job in the West for a smart girl like you, all papers supplied. Hand over your bus fare and two weeks later you’ll be in London working in a nice clean office with nice clean people. We’ll arrange accommodation, health care, your first job. Then you’re free to do as you please. What they forget – all these hopefuls – is that if something seems too good to be true then it probably is. Pity help them.

  So they get out of Sergei’s van and into mine. My job is to get them to London. Sergei isn’t the brightest bulb in the building, which is just as well as he has the easy job. Starting in Minsk, a couple of other pickups elsewhere in Belarus, then into Poland, across into Germany, and finally the drop off in Hamburg. About fifteen hours in all. He gets $50 for every one delivered. Not bad money in Belarus these days and not too much risk. Then back home to his wife. I think he has a market stall during the week and sells the fake watches he buys in Hamburg. I have more risks so I get paid more. Ivan is my contact in London and I’m happy when I see him. That means no more problems. Calais is the bottleneck though. We used to take them in the boot of a car but that was before they brought in more security – extra guards, dogs, electronics. So they got a special tanker made with a double skin. Now we can take eight at a time and so far it’s never been stopped. Of course it’s not very comfortable in the dark, with the smell and the heat and the lack of air. But by that time they don’t have much of a choice. They’ve come too far and paid too much to go back. So in they go dreaming of their new home, the friendly English people, the pop music, the fashion. If it’s not going to be exactly what they expected when they arrive that’s not my fault. My attitude is, if they want to leave so badly then they must know the risks. And it’s not all one-sided. I’ve come a long way to get to this point. You don’t see jobs like this in Bergedorfer Zeitung. I’ve been through some hard times. Had my nose broken a few times – and broken a few other noses and jaws – so I know the score. Now I’m well enough paid for the risks, and sometimes there are fringe benefits. It’s not exactly permitted but they turn a blind eye so long as it’s only every once in a while and nobody gets hurt.