by Ed James
Xavier looked Cullen in the eye. ‘This can’t go on the record, okay?’
‘Why?’
‘Because it relates to our commercial interests.’
‘So you’re accepting responsibility for the transaction?’
‘No.’
‘Then what are you doing?’
‘Avoiding dim light shining on IMC. That’s all.’
‘DC Murray and I are Murder Squad. I just want to find who killed Mr Van de Merwe. That’s it.’
‘You swear?’
‘Stuart, step out of the room.’
‘Sure.’ Murray left them to it, pulling the door shut.
Cullen leaned against the wall. ‘Anything we discuss now’s inadmissible in court.’
‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Just the truth, Mr Xavier. Always a good place to start.’
‘This was an admin error. That transaction should’ve gone to one of Mr Van de Merwe’s offshore accounts but they put it into a personal account.’
‘So it’s a backhander?’
Xavier stared at the window. ‘The cost of doing business.’
‘That’s quite a high cost.’
‘We’re making a lot of money out of the engagement.’
‘Fifty million, I heard.’
‘That’s only the start of it.’ Xavier thumped down onto the edge of Vivek’s desk. ‘Look, if you want real dirt on this programme, I suggest—’
‘Woah, woah, woah!’ Cullen held up his hands. ‘Are you trying to deflect the blame?’
‘We’re trying to, ah, assist your investigation.’
‘Is that all it is?’
‘Listen, you should speak to the previous delivery partner. There was some corrupt shit going on there.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘All I can offer is hearsay.’
‘We’re off the record here.’
‘Fraud is what I hear. Just speak to them. The name is UC Partners.’
* * *
‘Sarge, have you got a sec?’ Murray grabbed a sheaf of papers and walked over, dumping them on Cullen’s desk. ‘Take a look at this.’
Cullen looked at the front page. The UK Companies House logo loomed above a table of data. ‘What is it?’
‘This is UC Partners LLP. Dissolved in January this year.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘They’re no longer trading.’
‘Who are the partners?’
‘Don’t even know how many partners there are. Found an address in deepest, darkest Middlesex.’
‘Great. Another one for the City of London guys. Is Eva getting anywhere on the bank accounts?’ Cullen leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. Couldn’t see her. ‘Van de Merwe’s wife thought he had offshore accounts. IMC said they paid it into one.’
Eva pounded back into the room, clutching a coffee.
‘Eva!’
She marched over. ‘Sorry, Sarge, did you want one?’
‘I’ve got one, cheers.’ He took a sip. ‘When you were looking through the offshore accounts, did you come across the name UC Partners?’
‘Still waiting on them.’
‘Bloody hell.’
Murray tapped his monitor. ‘I’m Batman!’
‘Then I don’t want to see Robin. What is it?’
‘Got an Edinburgh address for them.’
Thirty
Cullen parked the pool car on Rutland Square. Two men in dark suits bellowed at each other, grins on their faces. He glanced over at Bain as his seatbelt slumped into his lap. ‘Wouldn’t know this was here.’
‘Been here a few times over the years.’ Bain waved a hand in front of them. ‘Our old mate Campbell McLintock moved his firm somewhere round here.’
‘Let’s not firebomb them today.’
‘Well, we are here…’
Cullen got out into the cool air of the street. An aggressive breeze cut through him. ‘Methven gave you a bit of a shoeing at the briefing.’
‘That wasn’t a fuckin’ shoeing, Sundance.’
‘You’re not his favourite officer, are you?’
‘Didn’t sponsor me through a promotion, unlike some.’
Cullen tried to ignore the wave of heat on his neck.
‘Young McLean didn’t seem too happy to be cast aside like that, by the way.’
‘Murray.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’ Bain folded his arms, grinning away. ‘Doing all that work only for Crystal to ask a proper cop to attend with you.’
‘Shame he had to send you instead.’ Cullen looked up at the town house. Steps led up to the door, ornate columns either side. ‘Place looks empty.’
Bain squinted at it. ‘What’s that say?’
‘You’re getting old.’ Cullen squinted at the cream signs in the windows. ‘It says, “The new home for Nelson and Parker”. We shut them down in January. Dodgy bastards.’
Bain knocked on the door. ‘Let’s see if anyone’s in.’
A man in tweeds limped along the pavement towards them, sunlight catching his bald head, heart-attack red. ‘Can I help?’
‘Police.’ Cullen flashed his warrant card. ‘DS Scott Cullen and DS Brian Bain.’
‘John Carston. I work for Rutland Commercial Property. We own this side of the square. How can I help?’
‘Need to ask a few questions about the tenants here. UC Partners.’
‘Them.’ Carston’s jaw tightened. ‘Still owe us rent for their last quarter. And we haven’t managed to replace them. Just upped and left in January.’
‘Do you mind if we have a look inside?’
‘Come on in.’ He barged Bain out of the way and unhooked a heavy keychain from his belt, slotting a large brass key into the lock and twisting. ‘After you.’
Cullen entered first. A threadbare carpet led through to a curved reception desk, no mail on the floor. Whitewashed walls, cheap office furniture. A cream door blocked off the rest of the building. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, it’s quite grotty.’
‘Location’s what sells this place. Clients just want a blank canvas.’ Carston shrugged. ‘Besides, your lot left in something of a hurry. Loads of furniture was still here, but they’d repainted the whiteboards on the walls.’
‘Why not just wipe them clean?’
‘I’m not an expert, Sergeant.’
Bain thumped the door. ‘Got any mail for them?’
‘Over here.’ Carston limped across the carpet and reached into a cabinet, stuffed with post. He dumped it all on the desk. ‘Here you go. This is all since they flitted.’
Cullen sifted through it. ‘Do you mind if we take this as evidence?’
‘It’s just going into recycling when someone else moves in.’
Cullen paused at one letter. Alba Bank logo in red at the top right. URGENT. He tore at the seal and skimmed it.
‘What’s that, Sun— Sergeant?’
Cullen showed it to Bain. ‘It’s from Martin Ferguson last November. Says Alba Bank won’t pay UC’s invoice.’
* * *
Cullen took the coffee from Martin Ferguson, the acrid aroma of instant drifting across the sitting room, undissolved granules floating on the surface. ‘Thanks.’ He set it on the coffee table.
Ferguson handed another cup to Bain. ‘Here’s yours.’
Bain slurped at it. ‘That’s better.’
Ferguson sat on a Chesterfield sofa, legs crossed, and grabbed the last mug from the tray. ‘I trust you’re not here to further investigate my mental state?’
Cullen glanced at Bain and smiled at Ferguson. ‘Sorry, sir, we didn’t mean to cause—’
‘It’s fine.’ Ferguson waved a hand in the air, eyes bulging. ‘I understand your concern yesterday, but I’m fine. Talking to you got a lot off my chest. Made me think of going back to work.’
Quick turnaround… Cullen frowned. ‘I thought they terminated your employment?’
‘I’m thinking of fighting it.’
Cul
len reached into his pocket for the letter to UC Partners and passed it to Ferguson. ‘Do you recognise this?’
‘Give me a second.’ Ferguson put on a pair of glasses, one of the legs all bent, and scanned through the sheet. ‘Yes, I sent this. I was acting on Mr Van de Merwe’s express instructions.’
‘We’ve just got your word on the matter.’
‘I retained a copy of the email instructing me to cease.’ Ferguson glugged his coffee and set the empty mug on the tray. ‘It pays to save emails putting any blame on another party.’
‘Can we see it?’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Here’s my email address.’ Cullen held out a business card. ‘Did they reply to this letter?’
‘We received no further bills.’ Ferguson didn’t take the card, instead clenching his hands around his thighs. ‘But, before I was moved off the programme, Jonathan and I arranged a meeting on their territory.’
‘Rutland Square?’
‘Yes. The place was empty. This was November. The twentieth, I think.’
Cullen flapped the sheet. ‘So they turned their backs on twenty million pounds?’
‘They’d received over one hundred and fifty million by that point. Against my will, I should add. Jonathan forced me to sign off their invoices. He would come into my office when I refused, screaming and shouting. I just made sure I had his instructions in an email to cover myself.’
‘So he was a bully?’
‘Of the worst kind.’
Cullen exchanged a look with Bain, getting a shrug in reply. ‘Why was he bullying? What were UC Partners up to?’
Ferguson reclined on the Chesterfield and stretched his arms along the back. ‘It’s complicated.’
Bain dumped his mug on the antique table, missing the tray by a foot. ‘We’ve got time, pal.’
Ferguson smoothed down his goatee yet again, like he had lice. ‘A management consultancy like Schneider trains up skilled resources and charges them out at a high rate, say a thousand pounds a day for the lowest rung of the ladder. They report to managers, who report to senior managers to directors, who report to partners like Wayne Broussard. Basically, a pyramid scheme.’
‘What’s the charge-out rate for a partner?’
‘Five thousand a day.’
‘A day?’ Bain shook his head. ‘Definitely in the wrong job.’
Cullen leaned forward. ‘What are you getting at here?’
‘UC employed the same model. Except, instead of one thousand a day for an analyst-level employee, they’d invoice two grand.’
‘Definitely in the wrong—’
Cullen butted in. ‘Is the resource twice as good?’
‘See, that’s the thing. What they were doing was back-charging contractors as consultants. They’d bring in self-employed resource, similar to myself.’
Bain snorted. ‘I’m not following you, pal.’
‘I contract myself directly with the bank, through my limited company. Cuts on their pension costs and so on.’
‘And you earn more money?’
‘Well, there is that.’
‘Definitely in the wrong—’
Cullen clenched his fists. ‘So were they any better?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, some of them were excellent, but there’s just not the same consistency as with the Big Five.’
‘They’re better?’
‘And they have a chain of command. I can ask someone to do something and they’ll just do it.’ Ferguson rubbed his temples. ‘Listen, after they paid the contractors the market rate, UC scalped the profit off the top.’
‘How much would these people cost?’
‘The market rate’s five hundred a day.’
‘Definitely in the wrong game.’
Cullen shot another glare at Bain. ‘Right, so they took in two grand and paid out five hundred.’ He frowned. ‘They were creaming off fifteen hundred a day in profit?’
‘That’s right.’
Ferguson nodded. ‘And they had over two hundred onboard.’
Bain whistled. ‘Ten grand each and every day.’
Cullen cleared his throat. ‘A hundred grand.’
‘Jesus.’ Bain shot up an eyebrow. ‘A hundred?’
Cullen got to his feet. ‘Was Mr Van de Merwe involved?’
‘The rumour was, VDM owned a third of UC.’
‘Thirty-odd grand a day from his own programme?’ Cullen frowned at Ferguson. ‘Who else owned UC?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Who might know?’
‘William Yardley.’
‘We need this on the record.’ Cullen folded his arms. ‘Can you accompany us down to the station?’
Ferguson checked his watch. ‘Look, I’m supposed to meet my lawyer soon. It’ll be after five before I’m finished.’
‘Ask for me at the front desk at Leith Walk station as soon as you’re done. Call me if you can’t make it.’
Thirty-One
A man in an Alba Bank polo shirt was swiping a mop across a brown puddle on the sandstone. The smell of cleaning fluid mixed with the sweet tang of cola. He glanced up at Cullen and Bain, before going back to his work.
The corridor opened into an open-plan area at the end. A sign swung from the ceiling, blown about by air-conditioning breeze. Operational Transformation Programme.
Bain crushed his can of WakeyWakey. ‘What’s up, Sundance?’
‘You did better with Ferguson than last time. He didn’t try to kill himself.’
‘Cheeky fucker.’
‘You keeping quiet helped us get what we needed out of him.’
‘Come on, give me that invoice and I’ll show you how it’s fuckin’ done.’ Bain snatched the sheet and strode across the wet flagstones, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the dry floor.
Cullen followed, raising his hands to the cleaner. ‘Sorry about that.’
Bain was leaning over Lorna’s desk. ‘Morning.’
She titled her head to the side. ‘Can I help?’
‘Mr Yardley’s not in his office.’
‘He’ll be in a meeting.’
‘Any danger you could track him down for us?’
‘Sure.’ She glanced at Cullen. ‘I’ve set up some time with Jenny Stanton about that … stuff.’
‘Can you arrange it with one of my DCs?’ Cullen scribbled his number on the back of a business card. ‘His name’s Stuart Murray.’
‘Will do.’ She took the card, carefully placing it by her iPad. ‘Oh, I spoke to Oliver Cranston.’
Bain snorted. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Wayne Broussard’s number two. He got a call from him last night.’
‘Where is he?’
Lorna pointed at the room next to theirs. ‘That office there.’
‘Cheers.’ Bain powered across the corridor and knocked on the frosted-glass door. He pushed it open, not waiting for a response. ‘Mr Cranston, we need to speak to you.’
Cullen followed him into the office and lurked near the entrance. A square meeting space, twenty young men and women sitting around a table covered in laptops. Sharp suits, salon hair.
Oliver Cranston nodded at his team around the table, eyes blazing at Bain. More than a passing resemblance to Ewan McGregor.
Oliver grinned at his team. ‘Guys, can you give us the room?’ An indistinct accent, traces of Belfast.
The man next to him led the others out, laptop under his arm.
Bain nodded over. ‘This is DS Cullen.’
Oliver offered a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Cullen shook it — not quite the ex-forces grind of Alan Henderson, but not far off — and took his seat, still warm. Aftershave and perfume mixed, ocean smells blending with spices.
Bain sat opposite, sandwiching Oliver between them. ‘Gather you’ve had word from your boss?’
Oliver snapped his laptop shut. ‘Last night. Broussard’s cancelled my holiday.’ Clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that.’
‘Does there have to be a reason?’ Nervous laugh. ‘I’m pissed off. It’ll pass, I suppose.’
‘He’s done this before?’
‘A few times, usually for no reason. Thinks he’s doing me a favour. Developing my career. Putting me in front of the other partners.’
Bain folded his arms. ‘So, in response to my question, I take it you have heard from him?’
‘I passed on the message to call you guys.’
‘Any idea when he’ll be gracing us with his presence?’
‘He’ll be here sometime next week.’
‘That’s not soon enough.’ Bain got out his notebook. ‘He wouldn’t have anything to do with Mr Van de Merwe’s death, would he?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Think about it. His old best mate dies in mysterious circumstances. Guy’s pissed off at how much your boss is charging. Nobody knows where he is, supposed to be hunting bears or wrestling crocodiles or whatever. Sounds like someone running away from something.’
Oliver reached into a briefcase for a sheet of paper. He slid it over to Bain. ‘His PA dug out the flight manifests for the eighteenth of April. Wayne flew from Edinburgh to NYC. Into JFK. BA. First Class.’
‘That’s convenient.’
‘Wayne expected this. He was on that flight.’
Bain pocketed the sheet. ‘Let’s talk about UC Partners.’ He got out the UC letter, already dog-eared and tattered. ‘You know anything about this?’
‘Before my time, I’m afraid. I rolled on in January when we took over from UC.’
‘But Mr Broussard was here before that?’
‘He had a team of five supporting him. He was advising Sir Ronald on delivery and helping with some other matters.’
‘Such as?’
‘Providing industry best practice.’
‘Broussard was an old mate of Mr Van de Merwe, right?’
‘They knew each other, yes.’
‘Were they in cahoots?’
‘Of course not. Look, Wayne used their connection as a route in to Sir Ronald. It worked.’
‘Did Broussard kick this UC lot off?’
‘Wayne wasn’t happy with them.’ Oliver closed his laptop. ‘He kept pressuring VDM to sack them.’