The Burning Men

by Will Shindler

  There were two principal ways the cash was probably laundered. The most likely method with sums of money so large was to have smuggled it abroad. From there it would have been deposited into some foreign financial institutions whose laundering enforcement was likely less than rigorous. Needless to say Erik Whitlock was the undisputed master of the tactic. He was known to have contacts inside some of the Albanian and Romanian gangs in London. Eastern Europe was therefore the most probable destination. Those connections would have allowed him to act quickly in the immediate aftermath of the heist. It was always the critical period in a robbery of that nature. The faster it could be split up, the faster it could be moved, and the harder it was to trace. It was a bit like going on holiday, Godden thought. You spread your cash around your body; some in your back pocket, some in your front, and a few notes in your shirt pocket – just in case.

  The other method Whitlock often used was commonly known as ‘smurfing’. Here, the money was broken up into much smaller amounts then passed on to a large network of different people. They’d then pay it in to their own bank accounts without arousing suspicion. Later, it would be a simple matter for Whitlock to set up a shell company which each person would then invest in. The technique earnt its name from the famous cartoon characters, who would move around their village each doing their own small share of mindless work. It was the smurfing network that Godden was pursuing. Ever the thorough detective, he’d actually made some headway in uncovering the identities of Whitlock’s associates. Just as diligently as he’d tracked them down, he’d then made sure no one else could or would. With Spinney’s consent, he’d arrested a handful of them who he was sure knew very little about the wider operation. Enough to keep the investigation moving, to satisfy Warrender, but achieving precisely nothing.

  Godden thought he’d identified nearly three hundred people across the UK in the laundering network. There were undoubtedly many more, but it gave an idea of the breadth and scale of the operation. He was able to regularly snoop on their financial records as well as monitor their emails. It was a giant act of running on the spot, but with Warrender breathing down his neck he needed to at least be seen to be working up a sweat. It was also work he’d neglected for the past twenty-four hours and there was plenty to catch up on. As he scanned the routine reports, something caught his eye. He double-checked, instantly feeling the hairs on the back of his neck starting to rise. It served him right for thinking things were under control again. Stupid, stupid, stupid . . .

  A properly functioning laundering network should operate without any of its component parts being aware of one another; the whole system rotated around that principle. But now Godden was looking at two separate records; they belonged to a roofer in Chorley and an office manager from Maidstone. They’d both received calls from the same mobile phone yesterday – and the chances of that happening were astronomical. He’d check it out in case it was some bloody PPI firm, but he already knew in his heart it wouldn’t be. The only thing these two people shared in common was Erik Whitlock. And he was dead, wasn’t he?

  Chapter 36

  It was a puzzle, thought Stuart Portbury, and it was irritating him. He was standing in Mei Tsukuda’s bathroom staring at a wall. He’d solved the problem of her leaking toilet, but now there was peeling paint on the other side of the room. It didn’t make sense. He took a step back and looked at it again. It was like one of those pictures on the internet where you were supposed to spot a camouflaged leopard hidden on a mountaintop. The answer was there if you could only see it.

  ‘So what do you think it is?’ asked Mei.

  ‘There,’ he said after a moment, pointing at the wall. ‘You can just about see them: tramlines.’

  ‘Tramlines?’ she repeated uncertainly. He walked up to the wall and pointed more closely at a small grey shadow that was discolouring the bright white paint job.

  ‘It’s only happening between these two points,’ he said as he moved his finger to a peeling patch of plaster a few inches lower. ‘I reckon there’s a condensate pipe behind there.’

  Mei looked with bemusement at him.

  ‘It’s good news. Now we know what it is, we can do something about it. I’ll need to bash in the wall but I’ll have it looking right as rain by the time I’m done.’ She smiled and he felt his heart light up. ‘It is going to take a while though . . .’

  Then, as was their tradition, she offered him a drink before he began work. A few minutes later they were sat in her kitchen drinking perfectly steeped sencha tea.

  Portbury loved spending time in this house. There was an ambience to it he’d never experienced before. It always felt like a place of perfect calm. It took him a while to work out why, but then he’d finally seen it. There was nothing symmetrical. His own flat was perfectly symmetrical – a picture hung either side of a bookcase, shelves lined the walls either side of the fireplace – but there was nothing like that here. He’d even Googled it – it was called wabi-sabi; the lack of symmetry within a space, emphasising the form and beauty of the objects inside. The kitchen was a perfect example. They were sat around a long wooden kitchen island with a simple sink and a glass hob at its far end. There was virtually no clutter on the black marbled counters behind them, apart from a tiny indoor garden enclosed in glass. But most of all, it was quiet. The hustle and bustle of London might as well be on a different planet, and for Portbury that meant everything. He liked to think after all this time he and Mei were as much friends as odd-job man and client. She lived alone with her fifteen-year-old son Riku. His father died when he was young, and Portbury sensed she didn’t have many friends she could talk to about the difficulties of raising a teenager on her own. As a single man in his late thirties with no children, it wasn’t as if he brought a wealth of experience, but they’d enjoyed long conversations in this room which he’d come to value.

  ‘He’s constantly bored. He’s always complaining he doesn’t know what to do,’ she said as she sipped her tea.

  ‘He’s a teenager, Mei. I was exactly the same at that age. There’s almost so much occupying your mind it paralyses you. Like a bottle so full of water when you hold it upside down nothing comes out.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that. It is about . . . enterprise.’ She looked at him uncertainly, as if not sure about her choice of vocabulary. ‘He is not self-sufficient. A young man should have interests to pursue, pastimes . . . but he does not do the things other boys his age are doing.’

  ‘You’d rather he was glued to his phone? Or slouched in front of the TV all day? Sounds like he’s got a bit more about him.’

  ‘I worry it’s because he has no father figure. No one to set him an example.’ She looked at Stuart hesitantly for a moment. ‘I was hoping that maybe you might be able to speak with him? You are very wise. I know this from our conversations. I think you might be able to help him.’

  ‘I lost my father when I was young. I know how hard it can be. My dad was an accountant, spent his whole life with his head buried in work. Every weekend he was in his study working. It made me sad because I never got to see him. Then one day his heart gave out. He’d been warned by the doctors – they said he worked too hard. I was only fourteen.’

  ‘Younger than Riku – you poor man,’ said Mei. He smiled gently back at her.

  ‘I was close to my mum, just like Riku is to you. So I wasn’t alone, and I wasn’t unloved. But I wish my dad hadn’t worked so hard, wish he’d spent a bit of time with us instead.’

  ‘I’m sure he loved you.’

  ‘Yeah, he did. In his own way. I’ll happily talk to Riku, if you think it would help. I’m not sure what I can say, but I’d be more than happy to try.’

  ‘I know you will find the words. Thank you, Stuart.’

  She reached across and held his hand for a moment, meeting his eyes with her own. There was nothing romantic in it, but the heartfelt look of gratitude made him feel like a giant. He drained his tea.

  ‘Can’t sit here all day – your
bathroom needs sorting out.’ He stood, took his empty cup over to the sink and washed it out. ‘Don’t worry about Riku, he’s going to be just fine.’ He smiled reassuringly at her, then headed out to his van which was parked out the front. He picked up his toolbag from the boot and turned to go back inside. Just for a moment he thought he saw someone on the other side of the road watching him, but when he looked again he was alone. Nerves, he thought. Just nerves.

  Martin Walker was working up a sweat. As a firefighter he’d always kept himself fit and he’d never lost the habit. He was at the gym in a rowing machine, focusing on the rhythm of the belt and the wheeze of the fan as he pushed and pulled. It was one of the few places where he could truly clear his thoughts. As he felt the sweat soak through his vest he went through the logic of the situation again. He was fairly certain Christine was safe now. Someone was now in custody for the two murders. Typical that it should all be tied up with one of Gary’s idiotic business ventures. The only concern now was how deeply the police looked into Elder and Kaul themselves. He was being paranoid, he told himself. The future would look after itself, and he would look after Christine.

  After he finished, he picked up his hand towel, wiped his brow and headed back to the changing room. There were two other men in there. The first – overweight and old – looked like he should be sat in the park with a blanket over his legs. The second was naked and towelling himself down. In his forties perhaps, he was muscular and heavily tattooed. Walker relaxed and walked towards the showers. Paranoia again, he thought. He was seeing potential threats everywhere now.

  Five minutes later, he emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist. The fat man was gone and the tattooed man was now dressed, checking his hair carefully in the mirror. Walker went over to his locker and pulled out his clothes. The man blew through his teeth and Walker could see powerful shoulders with thick-set muscular arms.

  ‘It’s too hot for this malarkey . . .’ the man muttered under his breath.

  Walker looked at him suspiciously – was that aimed at him? Or just a general comment to the world? He slipped on his boxer shorts and started searching for his socks. The man turned to walk past him. Suddenly one of those muscular arms shot out and grabbed Walker’s throat. He heard a strange high-pitched gasp, and realised it was coming from his own larynx. The man picked him up like a doll and slammed him up against the lockers. He tried to speak, but all that came out was more strangulated air.

  ‘But then you’d know all about heat, wouldn’t you, Martin?’

  He seemed to be squeezing even harder now, and Walker flapped pathetically at the giant arm extending out in front of him. He was too old for this, he realised. He’d gambled and lost, and now Christine was going to be alone.

  ‘We know what you did. And now it’s time to pay the price . . .’

  Instead of squeezing the life out of him, the huge fist around his throat unexpectedly released its grip. Walker sucked in a deep gulp of air with an involuntary whoop and collapsed on to his haunches. His assailant looked down with barely disguised contempt and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He screwed it up and threw it in Walker’s face.

  ‘The man I work for wants to talk to you. Be at that address at the time specified. If you don’t, then I’ll break your wife’s spine with my own hands.’

  He walked out, and all Walker could hear was the sound of his own gasping breath.

  Chapter 37

  Pinning her brother down, Mattie Paulsen decided, was like nailing jelly to a wall. Jonas Paulsen was two years older than her, but they shared several characteristics. There was the same wide mouth, jet black hair and light accent. Like his sister, there was a quiet thoughtfulness to him, but he’d always carried far less angst than her. It made for an interesting dynamic between them, his relaxed approach to life often at odds with her intensity.

  A teacher at an inner-city school in east London, his job kept him extremely busy. It meant midweek drinks weren’t the easiest to arrange, so they tended to keep in touch via text and email, with only the occasional meet-up. Despite this they were close, and she often found herself worrying about him. Jonas historically found relationships difficult to maintain, and Mattie was careful not to ask too much about his personal life. She’d been surprised, then, when she’d received a text requesting they meet. It seemed pressing, and he’d suggested an early morning coffee before she headed into work. Intrigued, she’d agreed, and they’d settled for a cafe in Highbury.

  When she arrived, he was sat by the window in a black polo-neck jumper sipping a cappuccino, reading from his iPad. He wasn’t normally the most tactile, but he greeted her with an unexpected hug. They sat and he signalled to the waitress.

  ‘An Americano, please, with a splash of soya milk.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Mattie, impressed. Her conversion to soya was only a recent development and Jonas smiled.

  ‘Like I’d forget. So how have you been? How’s the new job?’

  ‘You know. Pretty much like the old one.’

  ‘And Nancy?’

  ‘Fine. You?’ she said.

  ‘Muddling along.’

  ‘Seeing anyone?’

  He smiled tightly.

  ‘Muddling along.’ This time she smiled.

  ‘Nothing else you want to tell me?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said, and she shrugged. She knew there was a reason she’d been summoned, but clearly he’d get to it when he felt like it. Some things never changed.

  ‘You never really explained what happened at your last station. In fact, you never explained it at all.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You tell me nothing about your life, but you want to know everything about mine?’

  ‘Why change the habit of a lifetime?’

  ‘It’s just work stuff. You’re really not missing anything,’ she lied.

  ‘Mum and Dad were worried about you, said you weren’t in touch for a long time.’

  ‘So that’s what this is about? They’ve sent you to interrogate me?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, no, they haven’t.’

  ‘So it’s you who’s getting nosey, is it?’

  He recoiled slightly, and his voice became quieter, as it always did when she went on the attack.

  ‘Why are you being so defensive?’

  ‘Because this is unusual, Jonas. You don’t often go out of your way to arrange an early morning coffee with me. What’s up?’

  ‘A boy can’t see his sister?’

  ‘I’m guessing there’s a deeper reason for it?’

  ‘Why do you always have to strip every conversation down to the bone?’

  ‘Saves time.’ She pouted at him. It was a familiar dynamic; her argumentative, him weary.

  ‘Alright – it is about Mum and Dad. Well, Dad, actually.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Sort of. A few weird incidents.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He took the dog for a walk but forgot the dog . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He put his coat on, grabbed the lead, then drove to the park but forgot to take the dog with him.’

  She grinned.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, he also tried to make a cup of tea by putting the electric kettle on the gas ring.’

  This time Mattie laughed out loud, then stopped when she saw the sober expression on his face.

  ‘Lighten up, he’s always done things like that. He’s got a brain the size of a planet, but can’t figure out how a washing machine works.’

  ‘It’s more than that. Mum’s worried.’

  ‘Has he seen a doctor?’

  ‘No, but I’m trying to persuade them he needs to.’

  ‘Really? It sounds like nothing.’

  ‘Go visit them, see for yourself. You might not find it so funny.’

  ‘You think it might be something serious?’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘In there?’
>
  ‘He’s lost a lot of weight and he’s quite gaunt. It takes him a while to understand things too. You talk to him for a bit, then you find he’s still about three sentences behind.’

  ‘He’s just getting old.’

  ‘Maybe. Mum needs some help. She could use a hand, Mattie.’

  She saw the worry in his eyes and for the first time began to take the implication fully on board.

  ‘If you rang her a bit more, you’d know,’ he said.

  For once the reprimand wasn’t met with a sharp retort. She knew she’d neglected her family for the past year. She’d wanted to protect them from what happened at Dunlevy Road. It would only have deeply upset them. As the sunlight shone through the window of the cafe, her nightmare the previous night came back to her. The vista of London, the man with the affable smile standing with his hands outstretched.

  ‘Mattie?’ said Jonas, snapping her back into the room.

  ‘I’ll ring. Soon, I promise. I’m sure it’s nothing, but you were right to tell me.’

  She smiled reassuringly as she always did when her big brother was troubled.

  Finn’s day hadn’t particularly improved after he’d left Earlsfield Fire Station. The searches at Kevin Pender’s property were now complete. They’d found no evidence to link him with either crime scene so he’d been released on bail. It didn’t take long for Skegman to summon Finn to his office for an update.

  ‘Pender’s still very much in the frame,’ Finn insisted with more conviction than he felt. ‘Both crime scenes are large and complicated and it’s still very early in the forensic investigation. The cell site analysis on his phone shows it was at his home at the time of both murders. Doesn’t clear him though, just proves he didn’t bring his phone with him.’