by T J Walter
‘Hi, Lynne, sorry I’m late phoning, it’s the first chance I’ve had.’
‘That’s OK, are you hungry?’
‘I could eat a horse.’
‘You’ll have to make do with a steer. Kitchen closes in an hour, see you soon.’
Rose drove him to the restaurant and made no comment when he asked her to pick him up there the next morning. She drove home to her flat on the edge of Hampstead Heath. There she put a frozen pizza in the microwave and poured herself a glass of chilled white wine. She ate the pizza whilst listening to one of Brahms’ piano pieces.
She let the excitement of the day slowly subside. She knew she had made the right decision in joining the job. In just two days, she’d caught the buzz and couldn’t wait for the next day and what it would bring; she felt alive. Her father had wanted her to become a barrister but she’d defied him and gone her own way. She’d spent a gap year working in a barrister’s office and hated it; she wanted to be where the action was. Having now spent three years doing her apprenticeship on the beat, she was finally exactly where she wanted to be.
*
Back at Lynne’s restaurant, Brookes greeted her with a kiss. She sat him at a table near the kitchen and poured him a glass of red wine.
As he sipped it, she gave him an appraising look. He was obviously bone weary and not in the mood for casual conversation. She went off to the kitchen to supervise the cooking of his steak.
He watched her walk away. She was an attractive blonde in her early forties and had a Rubenesque figure. Although she dressed modestly, her generous curves were apparent and he realised that he had more than one kind of hunger, despite his tiredness.
Twenty minutes later, as she cleared his plate away, she said, ‘Why don’t you go up and take a nap. I’ll only be another hour or so, then I’ll join you.’
He smiled gratefully and nodded. He followed her into the kitchen, where the stairs leading to her first floor flat were situated. He dragged himself wearily up them and flopped into an armchair.
When Lynne came up some time later, he was sleeping soundly. She brought a blanket, covered him up without disturbing him, and went to bed.
Sometime during the night, she felt him snuggle up to her warm body in the bed. He said, in a stage whisper, ‘Are you awake?’
‘Mmm, I am now, and I can feel that you are.’
Twenty minutes later, they both fell into a sound sleep. The alarm sounded at 6.30am, signalling the start of a new day.
*
Chapter 8 – The Fourth Day
‘Study the past if you would divine the future.’
Confucius
Wednesday dawned bright and clear. Brookes’ mood matched the weather, and he whistled a tuneless ditty as he walked to the car where Jacqui Rose was waiting.
He greeted her; ‘Good morning, Jacqui, how the devil are you today?’
She returned his greeting slightly less enthusiastically, noticing that he wore a fresh shirt, was clean-shaven, and had a satisfied expression on his face from which she drew the obvious conclusions. To her surprise, she felt a pang of jealousy. She was however sensible enough not to let her feelings show as she pulled the car away from the kerb.
Instead she said, ‘What’s the agenda for today, sir?’
He answered her question with one of his own. ‘What did they teach you on the detective training course?’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘What evidence have we got so far against our suspect?’
‘Well, there’s the car, sir. And won’t we get a match with his DNA from that found at the scene?’
‘If it was him then yes, we probably will. But the car? There are thousands of BMW’s in London and plenty of those will be black in colour and have tinted windows. So, for a start, there’s not enough evidence for us to even ask him for a DNA sample. And if we did and it was a match that would only prove he was at the scene. It won’t tell us when, it won’t tell us anything about his motive, and what about if he comes up with an alibi? We’ve a long way to go before we accuse him of anything.’
Rose nodded, wisely not telling him that she’d worked this out for herself and hadn’t suggested they accuse anyone of anything.
But he was obviously in an expansive mood and went on, ‘As Fred would put it: I want whoever did this screwed down tighter than a duck’s arse before I bring him in. When I question him I want to know all the answers to my questions before I put them to him. Then I will catch him out when he lies.’ He glanced at her but she kept her eyes on the road ahead.
He continued, ‘Fred Middlemiss is a damned good detective. He plays his cards close to his chest; the moment he saw that Fleming might be a suspect he backed off. That gives us time to gather the evidence that will hang him if he is the guilty party; only figuratively speaking, unfortunately. I want enough evidence on him to tie a pretty red ribbon round his neck before I present him to the crown prosecutor. And I’ll get it in such a way that even your dear old dad would be happy that I haven’t breached any of his precious ‘Judges’ Rules.’
She glanced sideways at him. Then, with a smile, she said, ‘Not quite the way Sherlock Holmes would have put it, sir. And they’re not called the Judges’ Rules anymore, are they?’
He laughed. ‘This is the real world, young Jacqui; you’re not tucked up in bed with a detective novel now. And a load of shit by any other name is still a load of shit. Even if it masquerades under the grand title ‘Police and Criminal Evidence Act’. Written by smug lawyers in a quiet room seeking to make sure they can demand a good fee when a case comes to court, tripping honest policemen when they try to leap the hurdles they’ve put in our way.’
Rose frowned. ‘I thought it was the government who worded the legislation and parliament who approved it, sir. Isn’t that the case?’
‘Yes it is. And how many of the government are members of the legal profession and who are the people the government turn to when they are wording new legislation?’
She smiled too, ignoring the question and implied criticism of her father and his colleagues.
Changing the subject, she said, ‘Do you think Fleming is guilty, sir?’
‘On the evidence we have so far, I’d say he is our number one suspect; in fact he’s the only one we’ve got at the moment. But an awful lot of detectives have come a cropper by becoming obsessed with one suspect. Let’s keep an open mind and see what today brings.’
*
At 9am, Detective Inspector Richard Mann of the Met’s Fraud Squad walked into the incident room. He was a stocky man of above medium height, aged about forty. His face resembled a piece of worn granite; it had a heavy brow and flattened nose, giving him an almost Neanderthal appearance.
The smart navy blue suit he wore did little to hide the man’s bulk – he obviously kept himself fit. He’d spent twenty years playing rugby for the Met and, despite the fact that he was now confined to the touchline, he still trained hard. Underneath the rough exterior, however, was a shrewd brain that the time spent in the rugby scrum had not addled.
He asked for Detective Superintendent Brookes and was shown into his office. The two had met before on another case and greeted each other as old friends. Mann’s handshake was vice-like but was matched by that of the veteran detective, who had known what was coming.
Brookes said, ‘A personal visit, I’m impressed. Something must be up to bring you all this way from The Yard.’
Mann nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, sir, you’re right; this one has got us interested.’
‘Do you mean someone’s cooking the books at Luxury Homes Abroad?’
Mann shook his head. ‘It’s even more interesting than that.’ He held out a wad of papers. ‘I haven’t had time to put a report together yet but I’ve got some information for you to be getting on with. I think you’ll find it interesting.’
‘Good, let’s get some coffee and a few members of my team in; I’d like them to hear this.’
‘Thank you, sir. Milk
, no sugar, please.’
A few minutes later, with introductions made and coffee fetched, Brookes, DI Short, and his two DS’s sat around Brookes’ desk as Mann told them what he had.
He started, ‘Your man is an interesting character, sir, born in Jamaica of British parents. He came to the UK five years ago and set up Luxury Homes Abroad. Prior to that, all we know about him is that in his teens he was sent to one of the minor public schools here and then to Bristol University, where he got a first in computer sciences. He then returned to Jamaica; his father was apparently a banker there before he retired.’
Mann paused, checking that he still had their attention. Brookes nodded, encouraging him to continue.
‘Now for the company, Luxury Homes Abroad; it’s well-named. The company is registered at Companies House; there are three named directors: Fleming himself, another Jamaican, and an Englishman. Their names are on the papers I’ve given you. All we have managed to find out about the other two so far is that one, the Jamaican, is a lawyer, and the other, the Englishman, is ‘a business man’, but what his business is we don’t know. I’m still checking on both of them.’
Brookes said, ‘What’s the name of the Englishman?’
‘His name is Alan Mitchell, with an address in Chelsea. I haven’t been able to find out anything more about him yet. But it’s the company finances that got our interest. The company is swimming in money. Most holiday companies make block bookings at hotels owned by others, put together a travel package, advertise and sell the whole package at a small profit. Not this one though; the company owns many of the places they let out. Their assets run into millions of pounds; so far we estimate fifty million and we’re only halfway through our inventory.
‘And if his lifestyle is anything to go by, Fleming himself is a rich man. More so than you would expect from running this small holiday company. And there’s nothing on his CV that suggests he’s made money elsewhere. The big mystery is the source of all the money used to buy the properties initially. It came in through dummy corporations based abroad, but whose money it is and how it was first obtained is cloaked in mystery.’
Brookes nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Let me give you one example of the properties they own. Have you heard of the island of Mystique?’
Brookes frowned. ‘Somewhere in the Caribbean, isn’t it?’
‘Not just somewhere; it’s about the most exclusive holiday destination on the planet. There are just seventy private houses on the island and a small very exclusive hotel. My source tells me that one of the houses lays claim to being the height of luxury in private homes. It has six bedrooms, which may not seem exceptional until you learn that each bedroom has its own swimming pool. The people that own homes on the island include a member of the British Royal Family, one of the biggest names in pop music, and some of the world’s richest industrialists.
‘I’ve looked at the company’s brochure; Luxury Homes Abroad owns a house on the island. Their rentals for the place are two thousand pounds a night off-season, five in the high season. But that’s just one of their properties; the others are situated all over the Caribbean. They weren’t all purchased at once; they seem to have been acquired over a period of time. It’s still a bit of a maze at the moment, but we’ll keep at it.’
Brookes nodded. ‘I know the answer is obvious, but I want to hear you say it. What’s your take on it?’
‘Money laundering.’
Middlemiss coughed; all eyes turned to him. ‘That makes sense of something I’ve found out, boss. I’d just got off the blower when you called me in, so I never got the chance to tell you. I managed to get hold of Fleming’s phone records; don’t ask me how. It’s his mobile that got my interest. Does the name Ray Silver ring a bell to you?’
Brookes gave him a sharp look. ‘It rings a whole peal of bells, Fred. Raymond Frederick Silver, born in Shoreditch and the biggest name in pornography, prostitution, protection, and handling stolen goods in this country. And he’s an evil bastard; he makes the Kray twins look like amateurs. What has he got to do with this?’
‘He operates from a sex club in Shoreditch. Fleming has been on the blower to the place eight times in the last month. Unless he’s got one hell of a sexual appetite they must be talking about something else.’
Brookes was thinking aloud; ‘And the murder victim was the accountant at Fleming’s office. If Fleming is laundering Silver’s dirty money and she found out about it, we’ve got a motive.’ He frowned. ‘But surely Fleming wouldn’t take a chance like that, employing someone not part of the operation in his office?’ He turned to Mann. ‘What do you think?’
‘When you say she was the accountant, what exactly were her duties?’
‘Her friend said she did the sales ledger, whatever that means.’
Mann nodded. ‘It means she looks after the money coming in to the company for renting the properties. Not as strange as it may sound. Fleming got a first in computer sciences but wouldn’t want to do all the donkey work himself. The stuff he wouldn’t want made public is in the bought ledger; where the profits go. It’s not difficult to keep the two ledgers separate so that the left hand never knows what the right hand is doing. And it’s not that unusual; most firms don’t want to let their employees know how much profit they’re making. They’d all be asking for pay rises. If she was responsible for the money coming in, she would have needed to know little or nothing of where that money goes. I’d have to look at their books to be certain.’
Middlemiss said, ‘But maybe she found out and he killed her to keep her quiet. That would explain why he nicked her computer.’
Brookes nodded. ‘OK, this all makes sense, but we’re only guessing at the moment. How does this money laundering work, Richard?’
Mann nodded. ‘There are various ways. One is when money is paid to what appears to be a legitimate company for goods or services rendered. But when you examine the transaction closely, you find that the price paid far exceeds the value of the purchase. The cash is then hidden in the profits of that company. There’s no law against making huge, disproportionate profits.
‘Another way is to invest money in the company and get it back from the company profits. To all intents and purposes it’s ‘clean’; only when you wade through the dummy corporations apparently making the investments do you discover where the money actually originates. That’s what seems to be happening with Luxury Homes Abroad.
‘The dead giveaway is usually in the list of shareholders of the company in question. Obviously, those making the investments want to keep control of their money. They have to have someone involved in the decision-making process. That means they have to have someone on the board of directors. I’ll get straight onto the other two directors of the company; I’ll guarantee one of them will be Silver’s representative if it’s his money being laundered.’
‘Can we find out the exact dates that Fleming’s company bought all these villas?’
‘I should be able to find out when they started bringing in revenue. As the company is registered in the UK, it is subject to our tax laws. I’ll see what the Inland Revenue has on them.’
Brookes said, ‘We are going to need some hard evidence, Richard, will you be able to come up with it?’
‘Maybe and maybe not, sir. It depends whether the purchases were made from here. If the money was from abroad and never actually went through this country, it may not be so easy. If just the profits are coming through this company and the taxes are being paid, then it may not be possible. Of course, with two of their directors domiciled in Jamaica, I may have to make a trip there to liaise with their tax people. I suppose I’ll just have to grit my teeth and put up with a few days in the sunshine.’ He smiled as he said it.
Middlemiss chimed in, ‘I’ll carry your bag for you, guv. I don’t mind suffering.’
Mann continued, ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Sergeant; but back to serious matters. The one big mistake they seem to have made is having the company incorpora
ted in the UK. If they’ve made one mistake, maybe they made others. I’ll get on with it and keep you informed of my progress.’
‘Good. You get on with that angle and we’ll get on with proving that Fleming killed Alison MacPherson. By the way, do you know Brian Collins at the Yard?’
‘You mean Chief Superintendent Collins, the head of the Organised Crime Squad, S.O.twenty-three? Yes, sir, we’ve worked on a couple of things together.’
‘Good. I’ll have to bring him in on this; it obviously goes way beyond my remit if Silver is involved. You had better liaise with him too.’
*
As soon as Mann had gone, Brookes phoned Scotland Yard. When he got through to Collins, he said,
‘Brian? John Brookes, how are you?’
‘John? Despite suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, good. And you?’
‘Yes, fine. Listen, I’m investigating a murder here and a name has popped up. Someone you might know, Raymond Silver. What can you tell me about him?’
‘The lowest of the low. Got his finger in so many pies it’s difficult to keep up. Makes a lot his money by selling sex: prostitutes and porn. And I mean hardcore porn. We suspect children, even animals if that’s what takes your fancy. We’ve been after him for years but he’s no fool and not easy to catch.’
Brookes and Collins knew each other well. It was no coincidence that the young DS Rose had been posted to Brookes’ murder squad. Twelve years ago, Collins, then a young DI himself, had spent a year working in a CID office run by Brookes, learning the fundamental skills of a detective under his tutelage; he was in fact one of the few people on the accelerated promotion scheme who’d proved to be worth his salt. It seemed that he was one of Jacqui’s sponsors and had suggested to the powers that be that she be posted to Brookes’ team.
Collins continued, ‘I’ve been meaning to call you. How’s young Jacqui doing?’
‘I thought you might have had a hand in her posting. I’m running a murder squad you know, not a bloody nursery school.’