by Ian Rankin
Fox leaned towards the phone. ‘You can hear me okay?’
‘Loud and clear.’
‘You sound Scottish, Mr McFarlane.’
‘Well spotted. Now, to answer my question …’
‘I was asked to look into the affairs of an Edinburgh criminal called Darryl Christie and his connections with an investment broker called Anthony Brough. Brough’s gone missing, by the way – his PA hasn’t heard from him in over a week.’
‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ McFarlane said. Fox watched as a little bit of colour appeared on Graham’s cheeks.
‘Brough rents a flat above a betting shop – both are owned by Christie. So I placed someone in the vicinity.’
‘Someone you trust?’
‘Of course. It was this person who heard the name Glushenko mentioned.’
‘In connection with what?’
‘The name was as much as they caught.’
‘One more thing to add,’ Graham said, her eyes on Fox. ‘I found DI Fox on my computer five minutes ago. He was attempting to access information on Glushenko.’
There was silence on the line for ten long seconds, during which time Fox held Graham’s gaze.
‘Why was that?’ McFarlane eventually asked.
‘Because,’ Fox explained, ‘I’d started to suspect Ms Graham wasn’t giving me the whole story. Without being fully briefed, I could be putting people at risk – not least myself and my contact. And now that I know you’re in charge, I’d say my hunch was spot on.’
‘Can I assume you did an internet search for Glushenko?’
‘Yes.’
‘And found nothing?’
‘Correct.’
‘That’s because he only became Aleksander Glushenko a year or so back. He had a number of other aliases before that, but his real name is Anton Nazarchuk.’
‘Okay.’
‘Sounds Russian, but he’s actually Ukrainian.’
‘And he’s something to do with a flat in Edinburgh that’s become a one-man dodgy Companies House?’
‘Yes.’
Graham cleared her throat. ‘I can give DI Fox the relevant details, if I have your permission.’
‘It’s a pity we’re not face to face – I like to think I’m good at reading people.’
‘If anyone should be having trust issues here, it’s me,’ Fox complained.
‘You were told exactly as much as was deemed necessary.’
There was another lengthy pause on the line, then an exhalation.
‘Brief him,’ McFarlane said, ending the call.
Graham lifted her phone from the table and started passing it slowly from one hand to the other.
‘I hope to Christ you’re up to this, Malcolm,’ she stated.
‘Do we call him Glushenko or Nazarchuk?’
‘Glushenko.’
‘And what has Mr Glushenko done?’
‘He went to Anthony Brough for a shell company.’
‘And?’
‘And fed a chunk of money into it, some of which seems to have gone missing.’
‘Might explain why Brough made himself scarce.’
‘But if Brough has gone to ground …’
Fox nodded as the picture became clear. ‘This Glushenko character will be chasing his associates – including Darryl Christie.’ He grew thoughtful. ‘But the thing is, the way my source tells it, it’s actually Christie who’s looking for Glushenko.’
‘Maybe he has something to tell him.’
‘Such as Anthony Brough’s whereabouts?’
It was Graham’s turn to nod.
‘So where did this money come from?’
‘I’ll get to that in a minute. Two things first. Aleksander Glushenko is connected to the Russian mafia, and that means he’s somewhat dangerous.’ She waited for this to sink in.
‘And?’ Fox nudged her.
‘And the sum involved isn’t far short of a billion pounds.’
‘Did you just say billion?’
Graham slipped her phone into one of the pockets of her jacket. ‘Which reminds me – I forgot my purse today, so when we break for coffee, you’ll be the one buying.’
‘A billion pounds passed through that little flat above Klondyke Alley?’
‘Not in the form of notes and coins, but yes, that’s pretty much what happened. And somewhere along the line, someone decided that skimming a few million here or there wouldn’t be noticed.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Maybe we should get those drinks before I start. This story takes a while to tell …’
Cafferty was in the same Starbucks on Forrest Road. He signalled that he didn’t want a refill, so Rebus queued behind half a dozen students.
‘What’s quickest?’ he asked when his turn came.
‘Filter,’ the server announced.
‘Medium one of those, then.’
He added a splash of milk to the mug and joined Cafferty at a table just about big enough for the purpose. The newspaper Cafferty had been reading was lying there, folded in half so only the masthead and main story were visible.
‘You look like hell,’ Cafferty stated without preamble. Rebus took a sip of coffee in lieu of responding. ‘I know, I know – we all look like hell.’ Cafferty chuckled to himself.
Rebus tapped the newspaper just where the date was displayed beneath its masthead. ‘Is this today’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good, otherwise I’d have missed my birthday.’
Cafferty chuckled again. ‘If I’d known, I’d have bought you something. How’s tricks anyway?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’
‘You’d really forgotten your own birthday? No card from that daughter of yours?’
‘I’m not a great one for opening letters.’ Rebus took another slurp of coffee and lowered the mug to the table. ‘Reason I wanted to see you is I promised someone I’d do them a favour.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Her name’s Maxine Dromgoole.’
‘If you say so.’
‘She’s tried contacting you about a book she wants to write. The subject of the book would be you.’
‘Me?’
‘I’m thinking the same as you – nobody in their right mind would want to read it. But anyway, I said I’d pass the message on.’
‘And what did she give you in return?’
‘Contact details for a couple of people even older than us.’
‘To do with the Turquand case?’
‘Yup.’
‘You’ve not given up on it, then?’ Cafferty watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Made any progress?’
‘Bits and pieces, maybe.’
Cafferty stared at him thoughtfully. ‘Today’s really your birthday? Maybe I will give you a present, gift-wrapped and everything …’
‘The Russian?’ Rebus guessed. Cafferty smiled and shook his head. ‘Craw Shand, then?’
‘Craw?’
‘I’m thinking maybe you’ve got him tucked away somewhere.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because he can probably point you in the direction of whoever attacked Darryl Christie. This is always supposing it wasn’t you. I reckon you’d want to know the who and the why. That way, you might have something you can use against Christie.’ Rebus paused, eyes locked on to Cafferty’s. ‘It’s only a guess, mind.’
‘Do you do palm-reading, too?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘So if not Craw or the mystery Russian, what am I getting?’
‘That day at the Caledonian Hotel, the day Maria Turquand was killed – not every visitor was accounted for.’
‘How do you mean?’
Cafferty leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘I don’t suppose it can do any harm to tell you. In fact, maybe it’ll tickle you …’
‘You? You were there?’
‘A touring band needs stimulants – too risky to travel with them, so there’s usually a contact in each city they stop at.’
‘You were the delivery boy?’
‘Bruce Collier?’
‘Remember I told you I was at the Usher Hall show – Bruce himself put me on the guest list. Here’s the thing, though. I was supposed to hand the stuff over to the road manager in his room. So I knock on the door, but no one’s answering.’
‘Vince Brady’s room?’
‘Right next to Maria Turquand’s, though I didn’t know that at the time.’
‘Did you see her?’
Cafferty shook his head. ‘The door at the end of the hall was open and there was music coming from it, so I went along there and found Bruce Collier and a couple of his band-mates. There were a few young women dotted about – girlfriends, groupies, who knows? I told Bruce why I was there, but he didn’t know where Brady had gone – maybe to the venue or something. Bruce didn’t have enough cash on him to pay for the delivery – offered me a signed album instead, but I wasn’t having that. So he took me into the bedroom and there was a mate of his crashed out on the bed, reeking of booze. Bruce had a bit of a rummage and came up with all the money this guy had on him. It was just about enough, so that was that.’
‘The guy would have been Dougie Vaughan.’
‘Would it?’
‘Tallies with his version. So what happened next?’
‘I walked out of there with my money and the promise of a free ticket.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Such as?’
‘The key to Vince Brady’s bedroom – Vaughan says he lost it. Did you see it in his pocket?’
‘No.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘What about when the story broke?’
Cafferty held up his hands. ‘I was gobsmacked.’
‘You didn’t think about coming forward?’
‘To tell your lot I was selling drugs in the vicinity? Oddly enough, it never crossed my mind.’
‘And you could be pretty sure Collier and his entourage wouldn’t bring you into the story.’
Cafferty nodded slowly.
‘The photos in the papers at the time – her husband and lover – you must have seen them?’
‘I didn’t recognise anyone, John. Are they the OAPs you’ve just been speaking to?’
‘Yes. I’ve talked to Bruce Collier, too.’
‘And the mate with the emptied trouser pockets. You’ve been busy.’
‘What is it they say about the devil and idle hands?’
‘True enough.’ Cafferty smiled. ‘You don’t really think nobody would read my life story, do you?’
‘Want me to put you in touch with Ms Dromgoole?’
‘I’ll give it some thought. Might be nice to leave something behind.’
‘Other than court reports and photos of you in handcuffs.’
‘It’s not much of a legacy, is it?’ Cafferty appeared to concur. ‘So did my trip to the confessional help you at all?’
‘It might have – if Brady really wasn’t in the hotel and Dougie Vaughan was unconscious.’
‘Happy birthday then.’ Cafferty held out a hand and the two men shook.
Outside, Rebus paused at the traffic lights. A birthday present? He didn’t think so. Cafferty had given him the information for one reason only: to focus Rebus’s efforts on the past rather than the present. Something was up. Something was brewing – and not just coffee …
After Rebus had departed, Cafferty tried to finish his paper but found he couldn’t concentrate. That was the effect the man had on him. Instead he took out his phone and tapped in a number.
‘Hello?’ a voice answered warily.
‘It’s me, Craw, who else would it be? I’m the only one with your number, remember?’
‘I liked my old phone.’
‘Cops will be tracking your old phone, Craw. Best it stays in cold storage.’
‘Can I come home yet? It’s like I’m in a prison here.’
‘You’ve got a sea view, haven’t you? And it won’t be long now. You’ve got to trust me, that’s all …’
‘I do trust you, Mr Cafferty. Really I do.’
‘Well then, a few more days. Watch the telly, read a book – they’re bringing you your newspaper every day? And feeding and watering you?’
‘I could do with a bit of fresh air.’
‘Then open a window. Because if I hear you’ve so much as tramped to the end of the street, I’ll take a brick to your skull – understood?’
‘I would never do that, Mr Cafferty.’
‘Bear in mind, Craw, this is for your safety.’
‘And only for a few more days, you say?’
‘A few more days. It’s all going to be sorted by then, one way or another.’
Cafferty ended the call and stared towards the café window as if everything on the other side of the glass made perfect sense to him. Then he picked up his paper again and began to read. Two minutes later, his phone buzzed.
‘Yes, Darryl?’ he answered.
‘Just wondering if you’ve any news.’
‘Anthony Brough, you mean? He’s a money man, yes? I looked him up. Office in Rutland Square, home on Ann Street. How much has he cost you?’
‘That’s not why I need to find him.’
‘No? Well, if you say so.’ Cafferty paused. ‘I may have a couple of sightings, but I don’t want to get your hopes up.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘I’d rather wait for confirmation.’
‘Sightings in Edinburgh?’
‘Edinburgh and just outside – a fair few days back, mind …’
‘How soon till you know for sure?’
‘I’ll be straight on the phone to you.’
‘And this wouldn’t just be you stringing me along?’
‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.’
Cafferty listened to the silence.
‘Sorry,’ Christie said eventually.
‘This guy’s obviously important to you, Darryl. I appreciate that, and I’m doing my level best to help.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll be straight on the phone,’ Cafferty repeated, ending the call as Christie was on the verge of thanking him again.
He shook his head slowly and went back to his paper.
18
Fox sat at his desk in the MIT room, staring into space. He had looked up Ukraine online to get a sense of the chaos it had been through and the chaos that still existed there, adding to the sum of everything Graham had told him. Glushenko’s mafia friends had taught the man well, having previously laundered twenty billion dollars’ worth of dirty money – money spirited out of Russia, moved via Moldova around Europe, and now sitting somewhere out of reach of the authorities, even supposing the authorities knew its exact whereabouts. Firms registered in tax havens such as the Seychelles became partners in SLPs, then once the money was in place those companies and partnerships were dissolved, making the trail more complex and much, much colder. Although there were plans to tighten the regulations, the UK was still a cheap and easy place in which to register a company – an agent could do it in an hour and charge around twenty-five pounds. These same agents were supposedly required to satisfy themselves that they weren’t dealing with anyone shady, and they also had to know the identity of the true owner of the assets.
Fox couldn’t be sure how Anthony Brough had come on to Glushenko’s radar, except that Edinburgh retained an international reputation for probity and discretion, being home to institutions that looked after billions in pensions and investments. Glushenko brought with him just under a billion dollars stolen from a bank in Ukraine by way of loans arranged for non-existent companies, the paperwork signed off by executives who had been threatened or coerced. By the time the theft was noticed, the money was already a long way through its circuitous journey via the Edinburgh flat and beyond.
Sheila Graham had given Fox a short history of sha
dy money in the UK. London’s army of highly paid lawyers, bankers and accountants were, according to her, experts in dealing with it – using offshore accounts, trusts and shell companies to disguise the identity of any beneficial owner. There was plenty of regulation in place to attempt to stop money laundering, but banks often turned a blind eye when the price was right. The cash ended up transformed into pristine multimillion-pound apartments and even more expensive commercial assets. Tens of thousands of properties in London alone were owned by offshore companies, registered in the likes of Jersey, Guernsey and the British Virgin Islands – this last a favourite, as owners’ identities did not need to be registered with the appropriate authorities. Offshore havens had their own distinct personalities: Liberia specialised in bearer shares, which provided absolute anonymity; setting up a company in the British Virgin Islands was cheap and quick, which explained why an island with a population of 25,000 was home to around 800,000 registered businesses.
‘The sums we’re talking about would give you vertigo,’ Graham had said in conclusion, and after his own trawl of the internet Fox couldn’t disagree. The thing was, gangsters such as Darryl Christie and Joe Stark were amateurs by comparison. Anthony Brough had climbed into bed with the worst of the worst. And something had spooked him.
Something almost certainly linked to the disappearance of around ten million pounds from the original chunk of money.
‘So Brough’s skimmed ten mil and done a runner?’ Fox had asked Graham. ‘Leaving his good pal Darryl Christie in the firing line?’
‘It’s one possibility,’ she had replied.
‘What do we know about Glushenko? Is he in this country?’
‘He probably has aliases and passports we don’t know about. Immigration have been warned to keep a watch at airports.’ Graham had shrugged.
Now, seated at his desk, Fox was thinking through his options. Christie wanted information on Glushenko, and Fox could give him everything he knew. Or he could bide his time and wait for Glushenko to deal with Christie, after which Jude’s debts might be history. He had considered telling Graham about Jude, about Christie’s threat, but had decided against it. Not yet. Not unless it proved absolutely necessary.
‘Penny for them,’ Alvin James said, walking into the room.
‘You wouldn’t be getting your money’s worth,’ Fox assured him, fixing a smile on to his face. ‘Anything happening that I need to know about?’