“OK, I’ll see you at the airport. And I’ll fake that e-mail to Grey’s Bank letting them know about our visit. I’ll even apologize for the lack of notice.”
“Meet you at the jet.”
“You know I like the sound of that. Suits me don’t you think?”
“Just get on with it.” Jo hung up. “Turn right here. Third set of traffic lights, turn left into Willfield Way.”
As Ben raced down the empty streets, something suddenly occurred to Jo.
“Hold on, how did you know to go my sister’s house? And where she lives?”
“Well your brother-in-law is the Whitfield Bowes contact isn’t he?”
“Maybe,” said Jo cautiously, aggravated that she hadn’t been as surreptitious in keeping her family excluded as she thought.
“Oh, come on Jo, I’m a reporter. You think I couldn’t put this together? Chris, that’s his name isn’t it, he’ll be the one coming with us right?”
“Actually, it will be my sister. I hope.”
“What posing as her husband? Let’s hope they wear the same size suit.”
“No, as herself. She’s also a Whitfield Bowes lawyer. At least she used to be.”
They were pulling up in front of the house that Jo had pointed to. “Used to be? Bloody hell Jo, I hope you’ve got this figured out.” He peered at the darkened windows, “I guess we should have thought to call in advance.”
“No,” disagreed Jo, “believe me, the element of surprise will work to our advantage here.”
A bleary-eyed Chris answered the door in his boxer shorts.
“For God’s sake Jo, have you forgotten the concept of calling before you turn up these days?”
“Nice to see you too Chris,” said Jo, pushing past with Ben in tow, “where’s Amy?”
“I’m right here,” said a voice coming down the stairs, “what’s happened, are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m OK, but we’ve got to get moving. The Jersey trip is happening now. Ben’s arranged a jet for us from City Airport.” Ben waved his hellos from behind Jo.
Amy turned back up the stairs. “Give me five minutes to get ready.”
“Amy don’t…” started Chris. Amy had already disappeared. Ben put a hand on Chris’ shoulder.
“Mate, we really need her to come with us.” Chris shrugged him off.
“First, I’m not your mate,” he said with a vehemence that surprised Jo, “and second, I really need her to stay here. With her family.” Chris suddenly recognized Ben, “And what the hell is a TV reporter doing here anyway?”
Jo intervened. “Chris, I’m the one who dragged Ben into all of this, but I think you know Amy is coming of her own accord.”
“No, she wants to go because she’ll blindly do anything for you.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“Maybe not for you.”
“Chris, you know she’s fiercely loyal toward all the family, especially you and Jack. But now’s not the time. We have to get moving and we need your support.”
“No, now you have to get moving. I won’t allow Amy to go.”
“Excuse me?” said the voice coming down the stairs again. “You won’t allow me to go? I’m afraid it’s not your choice. I’m ready.” Amy came into view, looking very much the part. Jo smiled at how business-like but attractive her sister looked in her slim cut dark suit and heels that were as equally impractical as her own. Amy’s blond hair was pulled back into a stylish knot.
Jo heard Ben let out a low, almost inaudible whistle. “Those bank guys are in for trouble.” Jo elbowed him into silence.
Amy addressed Chris as she gathered and placed a considerable volume of printed papers into her legal attaché case.
“Now it’s imperative that you send an e-mail now to Grey’s Bank letting them know of my visit. You know who to contact don’t you?”
Chris nodded sullenly.
“Add enough detail, make it sound legitimate. Say this visit was planned last minute.”
“Amy, I’ve done this kind of thing before. Without the lying part of course.”
“Well here’s something you have less experience with.” Amy handed Chris a page that had the names and numbers of three babysitters and a print out of their son’s schedule.
“Amy, please,” tried Chris one last time.
Amy kissed her husband on the lips. “No, Chris, I’m the one saying please. Wish us a good flight.”
“It’s not the flight I’m worried about.”
Chris’ concerns fell on deaf ears. The party was already making their exit.
They sped to the airport on the east side of London, the car engine screaming. Ben left the car in the parking lot reserved for private jet passengers. The old Volkswagen was flanked by a Rolls Royce and a brand new Aston Martin. The hostess in the Exec Co Jet waiting area must have been plucked directly from a brochure. She escorted them directly to the jet which was waiting on the runway. Adam was already on board, grinning at his surroundings.
Jo checked her watch as they took off. It was 6.30 a.m. and the flight was scheduled to take less than an hour.
Not much was said during the flight as everyone pondered their part. Jo was half drifting off to sleep still mulling over the project name, the people involved and links to Butterfly’s plans. She suddenly bolted upright, fully awake.
“Nina Hasleet!” she exclaimed for the second time in a few hours. “Nina Hasleet. Saint Helena. It’s an anagram!”
Ben leaned over from across the aisle. In a lowered voice and placing his hand on her knee he said, “Jo, darling. We need you to keep it together here. What on earth are you rambling about?”
“St. Helena. The island Napoleon went to after his last battle. I knew that watching my parents playing scrabble for endless hours would eventually pay off.”
Jo decided the full explanation could wait, and she drifted into a short fitful sleep, with Ben’s hand still reassuringly resting on her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The plane landed smoothly at Jersey Airport. Looking through her porthole window Jo noticed that they weren’t the only private jet. The small tax haven was obviously the home of some large business dealings.
Outside, the December air was chilly and the sky a monotonous slate color. None of the party had thought to bring winter coats and they shivered outside the terminal building as Ben went to collect the hire car.
Ben sped around in a sporty red BMW and screeched to a halt. Adam opened the back passenger door for the sisters to climb in before settling himself in the front.
“Good way to go unnoticed,” commented Jo, sinking into the soft cream leather upholstery.
Ben shrugged. “Well I figured it was all part of the no-questions-asked budget.
“Nice,” grinned Adam, nodding his approval.
“Give me the address and I’ll program it into the GPS,” Ben instructed Adam.
“Guys, the town’s only a few miles away. Don’t you think we can use our phones?” suggested Amy.
“But this is more fun,” insisted Ben.
The two men proceeded to spend five minutes pushing various menu buttons on the car’s console. The women exchanged looks conceding the futility of distracting their traveling partners from their toys.
The journey was indeed brief, facilitated by Ben’s impersonation of a racing driver. He slowed as they entered the town of St. Helier following the directions offered by the imperturbable female voice emanating from the computerized navigation system.
St. Helier struck Jo as a mix between the gentrified Georgian town of Bath and the English seaside resort of Southport, where her mother’s parents had spent their lives. Jo had vivid memories of the smell of fish and chips mingled with the salt air and the often rain-soaked souvenir stands propped up the vacation image with buckets, spades and sticks of rock candy.
The voice informed the passengers that they had arrived at their destination, the bank’s headquarters on Elizabeth Street.
The
time was half an hour earlier than the bank’s opening hour. Jo suggested grabbing a coffee in a local café a few doors down. Pushing open the door, they were greeted by the smell of sizzling bacon and buttered toast as the heat from the kitchen fogged up the windows looking onto the street.
Ben sat apart so as to make the rest of the group more anonymous. There was nothing unusual about the group of banker and lawyer types, regular fixtures in town, apart perhaps from the volume of watery coffee they managed to consume in the space of twenty minutes.
As he left, Ben signaled that he would wait outside in the rental car. The rest of the group took a collective breath and walked the short few steps to their appointment.
The bank’s façade was unassuming; a sixties office building sandwiched in a space between two tall white period shop front facades. The front door opened into a small lobby area with a receptionist, who spoke quietly into a phone as they entered. From the geometric artwork in primary colors and the fading lurid print on the sofa, Jo surmised that sometime in the late 90’s someone had had the grand idea to update the ambiance. Apparently, nobody since had any such grand ideas.
Confronted with the reality of the situation, Jo realized that in their rush to arrive, they had not prepared a script. They were now being approached by a man in a grey suit, his pallor and yellowing shirt blending with the fading décor. Although Jo guessed he was still in his thirties, his greasy swept-over locks and expanding midriff exhibited the impending collision with middle age.
“Did you print off a copy of the e-mail you forged from Bray about the visit?” Jo hissed to Adam behind her hand.
Adam began fumbling in his backpack. It was unnecessary since Amy had already taken charge, exuding the professional patina of a City lawyer.
Amy extended a warm, but authoritative introduction, proffering her business card and her name, Amy Smith.
The banker duly identified himself in return. “Timothy Crawley, Manager, Corporate Accounts,” he said, smoothing down his polyester tie.
“Well Timothy,” smiled Amy, as Jo noticed Amy move toward him, her jacket almost brushing Timothy’s shirt, “I’m sure you received the e-mails from Butterfly Investments and Whitfield Bowes informing you of our visit. These are my clients.” Amy introduced Jo and Adam.
“Yes, yes, indeed I did,” replied Timothy, already slightly flustered, “although the notice was rather short.”
“And we apologize for that,” appeased Amy with great sincerity.
“The thing is,” continued Timothy, “in the case of Butterfly Investments, access to account information also requires specific account codes.”
Adam immediately jumped forward, holding up his backpack and waving it toward Timothy’s face.
“We have all the codes we need,” Adam declared.
Amy lowered Adam’s still-raised arm that was waving the backpack. She gave him a tolerant but firm smile that left no doubt that Amy would be doing all the talking from that point on.
“Now Timothy, my clients are on a rather tight schedule, so if we could perhaps proceed with our work…” Amy went to move forward.
Timothy remained standing in front of them, obviously uncomfortable at having to oppose the attractive, but commanding female lawyer.
“Ordinarily, Miss Smith, that would suffice, but two days ago, we received updated instructions from Butterfly Investments’ finance department that authorization for all account access must also be verbally approved by the head of that department, Mr. McKenzie, and in this case we received no such confirmation, I’m afraid.”
“Well, ordinarily, Mr. Crawley, we would have time to call Mr. McKenzie to re-confirm the authorization, but I just spoke to him on our drive from the airport to go over the information his department requires, and I know he is currently at Heathrow Airport waiting to board a flight,” Amy checked her watch, “make that already boarded a flight. And he is expecting our findings when he lands in Madrid in approximately one hour. The information is critical to the meeting he is attending there. So since we cannot be responsible for your administrative shortfalls, kindly escort us to where we will be working.”
They were no longer alone in the bank’s lobby area; three businessmen having arrived for an appointment. Amy had been gradually raising the volume of her voice and everyone was now staring at their group. Timothy was now more than slightly flustered.
“I am the lead administrative banker on Butterfly’s account and I personally handle all authorizations and record keeping.”
Amy’s expression of confident expectation remained unchanged. “As I said, we are not responsible for the oversights of Grey’s Bank.”
“Let me see. Maybe I can get you started while I recheck my messages and put a call into Mr. McKenzie’s department,” Timothy finally muttered.
Jo internally let out a yelp of victory.
Timothy Crawley escorted Jo, Amy and Adam to a small, windowless conference room with a meeting table, computer terminal and printer. As soon as the door closed, an atmosphere of urgency took over.
“OK,” said Amy, “we knew we would have to be quick, but our timeline just got seriously curtailed. I think we can reckon on twenty minutes, max. Adam, go do your stuff at the computer. Jo, start taking notes and printing out what we need from the files that Adam pulls up. All the account information and details of the legal structures from the Whitfield Bowes files are in my briefcase in separate folders by deal name. I’m going to catch up again with our Mr. Crawley and employ some stalling tactics.” Amy left the room.
Adam and Jo huddled over the computer monitor, keying in the access codes that Adam had downloaded from Butterfly’s system so that they could retrieve the files they needed. They first looked at the project database associated with the IBJ trade.
Jo went through the line items and located deal expenses. She then searched specifically for a cash outflow item of £350,000. Having identified it, Jo asked Adam to click on the item to show any additional breakdown of the expense or associated notes. The only information shown was that the item was in relation to a transfer to an account number, which was internal to the bank.
Jo was despondent given that this was not the proof they had come so far to find. Then she noticed a small number in the corner of the spreadsheet cell for the expense item – a footnote. She checked the corresponding number in the footnotes.
“Oh my God! There it is!” Jo exclaimed.
The footnote detailed authorization given directly from Charles Bray to pay the amount of £350,000 to the account of a Mr. Schmidt, together with the date of the instruction.
“It appears that the enhanced authorization protocols may have backfired. Mr. Crawley may be a little too efficient with his record keeping,” observed Jo, somewhat gloatingly.
Jo and Adam looked up the same information for Money Trust. The files showed a similarly documented payment to Gary Dawson. For the final piece they searched for accounts on Project Hugomount. There was initially nothing.
“Try HGT,” suggested Jo.
The database came up immediately and was shown to have been set up only a few days ago. Again, within the files was clear evidence of a payment of £400,000, the largest of the three, to an account identified in a footnote, as set up for a Lisa Brown. The cash had been transferred the previous day.
Jo retrieved the printouts she had made, sorting them into piles and putting copies in her case. The two accomplices were almost wild eyed and Adam pumped the air with his fists. A junior bank worker appeared with tea and cookies and appeared somewhat alarmed at the exuberant atmosphere.
Jo and Adam made an attempt to appear calmer. “My favorite football team just scored,” Adam mumbled.
The worker glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 9.40 a.m.
“My favorite team … in Singapore,” clarified Adam.
Jo and Adam went back to work, using the time to gather as much supporting information as possible, pulling up the same files again, and printing out anything
detailing money flows which could later aid in demonstrating consistent trading patterns based on inside information.
One line item immediately caught Jo’s attention in the Money Trust database; “Legal Fees”, with a footnote identifying the recipient firm as Whitfield Bowes. The amount was £150,000.
“Well I haven’t had much experience, given my short career in the City, but that strikes me as somewhat exorbitant for legal advice on setting up a single special purpose company and the associated accounts. The collusion may be wider than we thought,” commented Jo. Adam was franticly gathering print outs.
Amy returned with Timothy. He was taking notes, “Yes, Miss Smith, your instructions have been very detailed and specific as to the files you need information on. And no, I don’t think we need to go over them a third time.”
Amy smiled at him appreciatively, touching his sleeve. “Thank-you for being so accommodating Tim. And,” she laughed girlishly, “I can’t believe I got all turned around in the building. Thank-you for escorting me back to the room.”
Timothy appeared reluctant to leave, clearly won over by Amy and enjoying the touch of her elegantly manicured hand. He made a visible effort to break the spell, “But really, I must go and make that call to Butterfly’s accounts department. A formality, of course, but I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, we understand,” purred Amy. “It is so refreshing to find someone so thorough in their work.” Timothy backed away, beaming.
Amy closed the door behind him and abruptly switched back to business mode. “OK, what have we got guys? We have to get out of the building before Mr. Procedure gets off the phone or he’s not going to let us leave with any material.”
Jo showed Amy the print outs. Amy was quick to decipher the long columns of line items, honing in on the critical information and the incriminating footnotes. She nodded her head slowly, exhaling.
“We’ve got them. Let’s go,” she ordered.
Jo wanted Amy to look at the files again on screen to see if they had missed anything vital, but Amy was adamant, “Look, I’ve trawled through enough of these kind of files to figure out what they are telling us. I know it’s nice to get more supporting evidence, but it’s not worth the risk of losing what we already have. The Financial Services Authority will have plenty of access and time to go over this all in minute detail. We’re out of here.”
The Girl Inside Page 25