by Pete Trewin
‘This feller who’s put in the order,’ said Sefton. ‘Is he the flashy ex-copper who fancies himself?’
‘Aha. Designer suits, shoes and haircut. If he went to the bog he’d have a designer shit.’
Sefton laughed. ‘Simon Chester. He once gave me a good hiding and put me in a cell for the night. So you don’t like Muslims and gays, Jimmy. What do you think of paedophiles?’
‘Paedophiles!’ Jimmy exploded. ‘I’d put them in a ring and let the parents roger them with sharpened wooden poles. Let them know how it feels!’
Sefton laughed. He patted the holdall on the seat next to him. ‘What time do you do Chester’s drop?’
‘Ten minutes. Down the alley back of Bold Street.’
‘OK, let me off at the next bus stop. Your money’s in with the packages.’ He paused with his hand on the door handle. ‘That street preacher you mentioned. I heard on the grapevine that he’s a paedophile who’s just been released from prison. He daren’t walk around where he’s from so he’s come to Liverpool. Great isn’t it? Pass the word around the other drivers, will you Jimmy?’
EIGHTEEN
As Chris walked in, Jeanette motioned with her head at the door to Simon’s office, which was shut.
‘He’s worse than ever,’ she whispered. Chris did a quick check of the main office. Each and every head was down. No talking. The only noise the clicking of keyboard keys. Chris’s heart fell, his elation at getting Alison’s laptop drive disappearing abruptly. What a way to run a company.
He took the laptop down to the workshop. Dennis, one of the tekkies, quickly retrieved the hard drive and inserted it into a recently refurbished laptop, his long hair falling over his expressionless face as he leaned over to click it home.
‘Tough buggers these hard drives,’ Dennis said. ‘Know the password?’
‘Nope. I could have asked the owner but it wasn’t the right time.’
‘You mean you nicked it. Not to worry, that’s where these little gizmos come in handy.’ He produced what looked like an oversized memory stick. ‘State of the art.’ He inserted it into the side of the laptop, sat down and worked at the keyboard for a couple of minutes. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Insert your own password and Bob’s your uncle.’
‘Have you got a spare one of those gizmos?’ Chris said.
‘Well, not really. It’s not been past the boss yet.’ Dennis grinned. ‘OK,’ he said. He passed one still in its box to Chris. ‘It didn’t come from me, though.’
Back at his desk, Chris plugged the laptop in and got to work.
The laptop mainly contained Excel files. Spreadsheets. Chris worked his way through, making occasional notes. After a couple of hours he printed off the most interesting ones, leaned back in his chair and looked out of the window over the fields. A tractor was ploughing, accompanied by a huge flock of gulls and rooks, the cawing and shrieking audible even through sealed triple glazing.
‘Fancy a cuppa?’ Jeanette said, over his shoulder. ‘That looks interesting.’ She handed him a mug of coffee and sat next to him, cradling her own mug.
‘More than interesting,’ he said. ‘This will give the NCA exactly what they want and keep us in business.’
‘It needs someone to focus on that,’ she said. ‘God knows what Simon’s focussing on, locked in there all day.’
Chris knew what Simon was focussing on. He handed her a sheaf of spreadsheets.
‘Have a look at these,’ he said. ‘Most of them are income and expenditure sheets, VAT returns, stocktaking. Snug as a Bug are doing well. The property side isn’t. Even the pubs aren’t doing as well as they should be.’
She flicked through the sheets.
‘Nice of them to set it all out so neatly,’ she said. ‘Are these the work of Kenny or Alison? Presumably “merchandise” is a euphemism for drugs? And “readies” is a euphemism for cash. The cash is broken down into two thousand pound deliveries. Who are these cash deliveries to?’
‘To Snug as a Bug. By Ed Sefton, with appropriate amounts creamed off no doubt.’
‘But where is the cash being used?’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t buy materials with it. That would arouse suspicion. Almost as bad as scally drug dealers trying to pay for a sports car with a big bag of used fivers. How would cash assist a business like double glazing?’
‘I’ve only just worked that out. Snug as a Bug trade on their reputation for honesty. They pay their sales reps cash in hand bonuses but with strict instructions not to put pressure on the customer. That way they achieve more sales than a company using the traditional double glazing scams. The calls back to the manager, the time-limited deals. And the reps aren’t going to blow the whistle on a nice little earner for themselves, are they? If you are a rep there’s nothing better than some cash in the back pocket to spend as you feel like it. One obvious snag is disgruntled employees who have been sacked or hold a grievance. That needs careful management. The occasional hint about the nature of the real owners would probably be enough to take care of that one. The only other snags are that Ed is creaming off cash and the manager has dead souls on the books.’
‘It’s so complicated, isn’t it?’
‘Rather. But, nevertheless, Snug as a Bug look like a healthy concern and can stand alone. The pubs are a different proposition. Something is wrong. The managers must be creaming off money themselves, maybe in collusion.’
‘Everyone’s running a scam.’
‘And you won’t catch them at it, like Alison is presumably trying to, by waltzing in to the pub in an expensive business suit that flatters your perfect complexion as well as your curves. It’s quite funny really. Murderous gangsters being scammed by virtually every employee. Funny, that is, until the gangsters find out. But if Alison is on her own then there is much less risk of retribution. So they are all getting their snouts in the trough.’
‘Shouldn’t be too hard to pin something on them.’
‘The NCA gave me two days. That means I’ve got a day left.’ He paused. ‘Shit! Simon wants me to help out at the presentation this afternoon.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly lunch time.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
He transferred the photos of Alison Mason onto his computer and magnified the clearest one. He printed it off. He checked back through his old photo files until he found one of Alison Kirkpatrick. He set it at the same magnification and printed it off. He put both photos next to each other on the desk. The hairstyles were completely different. On the one hand a black semi-Afro which emphasized her ethnicity and, on the other, short, straight blonde hair and different make-up which made her look Southern European. A complete makeover. In the flesh she looked totally different. But when you looked at the two photos side by side you could see that it was the same person.
He googled “Victoria Sefton, Frodsham”.
It took him half an hour to collect some basic facts. No divorce or even separation, which was a bit unusual if they’d argued and she’d left in a hurry. It was ridiculous, but knowing Ed and what he was capable of, Chris suddenly had the most awful feeling in his guts.
The dot on the tracker was at an Asda store about ten miles from Ed’s house.
Most of the way was through mature oak woodland but occasionally there were unavoidable tangles of brambles or gorse which snagged at his pants and stuck spikes into his hands if he tried to pull them aside. Once a spike drew blood and he had to suck the wound until the bleeding stopped. As he neared Ed’s house he noticed a path not far away which would have made for an easier approach.
He reached the edge of Ed’s property, marked by a high sandstone wall. If Ed came home Chris should be able to hear the wheels of his Jeep crunching on the gravel of the drive and escape through the back. Plenty of time to have a good look. He climbed the wall. No glass or spikes. He didn’t think there were any dogs or fancy surveillance devices, but he would have to be careful.
Part of the house roof was visible through the trees. Red tiles.
Black and white half-timbered gable. Red engineering brick below. 1880s? It was certainly a big house. A couple of wood pigeons clattered up into the trees when he jumped down.
He edged cautiously from tree to tree until he was by the ornate conservatory at the back of the house. White-painted iron. Original Victorian. They made good copies of the Gothic style. Or what they imagined was the Gothic style. The ground sloped away from the back of the house to a tennis court surfaced in green artificial turf. He crept slowly around the house to the drive, which was paved in granite setts. All clear.
It took him a few moments to ease the lock on the back door then disable the rather primitive alarm system. He carried out a thorough search and inventory of the house, making notes on a pad like an estate agent. Six bedrooms, not counting any in the loft. Most with en suite bathrooms. Enormous kitchen with real oak worktops and cupboards. This was Premiership footballer territory. Except for the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and pans encrusted with congealed baked beans and porridge. Clearly Ed’s wealth didn’t run to a housekeeper. But then anyone who took that job would have to contend with wandering hands and uncalled for innuendo, so wouldn’t last long.
One room was hers. The wife’s. The closet was full of clothes and there was a pair of spectacles by the bedside table. Plus a pair in the bathroom cabinet. You wouldn’t leave two pairs of spectacles if you were making an orderly departure. You might if it was a disorderly departure.
He found a postcard from Tenerife in an orange plastic Sainsbury’s bag in the back of the closet. “Having a great time. Give us a ring when we get back. Love Jane” There was a UK phone number at the bottom of the card. Jane? A sister? The card was addressed to Vicky Sefton. Vicky was no doubt short for Victoria. How had the bastard got away with the marriage certificate using a made-up name?
No photographs or letters. He checked the other postcards in the bag. The most recent date was about six months before the first postcard.
He sat down on her bed and rang Dennis.
‘Look, Dennis, I need some help.’
‘As long as it’s not illegal.’
‘Lady called Victoria Sefton. Married to Edward Sefton.’ He lifted a postcard. ‘Address is Mersey View, Longshott Lane, Frodsham. Postcode WA6 8QX. Check out any records of domestic abuse.’
‘That sounds illegal if it involves the police and NHS databases.’
‘I’ll take full responsibility.’
He rang the phone number from the postcard. Answer phone. Woman’s voice. Jane Williams. He left a message that he was looking for Victoria Sefton, and left his own work and mobile phone numbers.
He checked his watch. He’d have to be getting over to Liverpool and Simon’s Show. Another nightmare.
He stood up. Was it worth bugging the place or installing cameras? It was such a big spread that it would take more than what he’d got with him. Best leave it.
He did a quick check of the grounds.
It was nearly all grassed lawns or paved areas. Huge beech trees by the boundary wall. Dead leaves and dried up beech mast under the trees. In one place, next to the wall, there was a mound of branches, pieces of wood and garden rubbish. Ready for a fire.
The grounds must take a bit of upkeep. Ed didn’t seem like the gardening type. Chris found a double garage at the side of the house where the gardening stuff was kept. No vehicles apart from a big four-wheel petrol driven mower. He must pay someone to do it. Luckily he wasn’t here today. Chris changed his mind and decided to install a couple of cameras. He had two with him. One in the garage and one in the entrance hall to the house. Movement-triggered together with a battery and memory card. He could check remotely if they had been triggered and were in action or not, then come and retrieve the cards.
His mobile went.
‘You’ll get me shot,’ Dennis said. ‘If Simon finds out about this...’
‘Look, I’ve said that I will take full responsibility. Log it. Make a note in your diary if you want.’
‘No need for that. Who is this Edward Sefton that Victoria’s married to? He sounds like a right bastard.’
‘If he’s a right bastard then he’s our man.’
‘There’s a history of complaints. Abusive behaviour. Hospital reports. How did he get away with this for so long?’
‘Maybe he has friends in high places. Maybe she didn’t press charges. The usual thing. Probably because the area’s well off. Not a priority.’
‘Well it all stopped abruptly a couple of months ago. Have you checked the patio? Maybe she’s buried under there.’
‘There’s no patio.’
‘The garden then. Honestly, Chris. I really think you should report this.’
‘Maybe, but not just at the moment.’
He rang off and checked his watch.
He paused at the base of the wall before shinning over. At least there was no obvious evidence of disturbed earth.
NINETEEN
Alison saw that Chester had recognized her. Fuck. He was wearing a dark blue, well-tailored, obviously expensive suit and was now sporting a ponytail/bun and goatee beard. He grinned at her and came over.
‘Well, hello, Alison,’ he said in her ear. ‘Long time no see.’
She said nothing, looking straight ahead, hoping that no one else in the packed St George’s Hall would hear.
‘Still on the game?’ he continued. ‘Still robbing to pay for the habit?’
‘Simon?’ someone shouted. ‘Time for the presentation!’
He stepped back.
‘Got to go. Maybe we can meet up later? Talk about old times?’
Alison watched Chester climb onto the stage. She would rather eat a shit sandwich than see Simon Chester later. Her last memory of the ex-copper was of nearly being strangled as he took her from behind while she lay handcuffed on his bed.
She turned in her seat and tried to relax, taking in the opulence of St George’s Hall. Wood panelling, mirrors, chandeliers. According to the brochure, this was where Dickens had delivered his readings when he came to Liverpool. It was certainly a magical place.
The lights went out and a large screen was lit up. She sat down and examined the screen. She sighed to herself in the darkness. The first slide showed some dishevelled people – western tourists? - sitting in what looked like a jungle hut. Behind them were a couple of Asiatic-looking men with rifles. The following words flashed up on the screen:
KIDNAPPINGS WORLDWIDE UP
50% IN LAST TWO YEARS
The company logo - Safe n’ Secure - nestled in the bottom right-hand corner
‘The worst that can happen?’ came Chester’s voice out of the darkness. As her eyes adjusted she could see him standing at a lectern. ‘In this case the oil company paid a £1 million ransom and the hostages were still killed in a shoot-out with Filipino soldiers. That could have been a British oil company with British employees. We could be called in to help.’
The next slide showed a crowd of people leaving an office building. Somehow she knew that it was in America – probably from the weird looking helmet worn by the fireman who was pointing the way. You could also tell by the way the people were dressed.
The following words flashed across the screen:
A LOYAL EMPLOYEE FOR 25 YEARS
BUT THEY LET HIM GO.
THIS MORNING HE CAME BACK
‘In this case the gunman killed nineteen people. Only in America, I hear you say. But what happens in America today happens everywhere else tomorrow. What counts in a situation like this are three things; intelligence, intelligence, and, most important of all….intelligence. We might have picked up this disgruntled employee at an early stage of his disintegration.’
The next slide showed a fax in which the following sentence had been highlighted:
I wish to invest £500 million in the UK property industry and am on look-out for joint venture partner.
‘This was a Section 42 fraud. So named after the relevant section in the Nigerian penal code. This jok
er tried to defraud our client out of £5 million. The bad English is rather obvious. At least no one was hurt.’
The following slide showed a Manchester United player heading a football. Wayne Rooney? Alison couldn’t be sure.
‘Anyone know what this is all about?’
A woman’s face appeared where the football had been.
This was a lady who landed a job as Public Relations Director with Man United. On the basis of a CV which claimed the following…’
FIRST FROM OXFORD PRACTISING LAWYER LIFELONG MANCHESTER UNITED SUPPORTER
‘Actually, she left Uni after the first year, and she was not qualified as a lawyer. And she was a Chelsea supporter.’
Alison suddenly felt cold as everyone laughed. She looked around in the darkness.
The next slide showed a marine storming ashore on a sandy beach. Big yellow boots and psychedelic camouflage uniform. Gulf War?
‘This young wag claimed that he had been blown up by a land mine and that he had won medals for gallantry. Actually…’
LIMP CAME FROM MOTORBIKE CRASH BOUGHT MEDALS IN PORTOBELLO ROAD PHOTO TAKEN ON BRIGHTON BEACH
‘False CV’s – a growth industry.’
Chester turned and winked at a young man sitting at the side of the stage who was working the slides from a laptop. The next slide showed a jet aeroplane. A 737?
‘Nice plane,’ Chester said. ‘The owners claimed to have a fleet of twenty. Our operatives became suspicious when they could only view the planes on certain days. It turned out that it was:’
ONE PLANE: RESPRAYED TWENTY TIMES
‘But what is the biggest growth area in security?’ asked Chester. The following slide showed a balance sheet. ‘Company managers falsifying their results. Boring but true.’ He turned and winked at the young man. ‘And…’ The slide showed a roomful of hackers; you could tell by the cartoon haircuts, tracksuits and baseball caps. ‘Billy Whizz here knows all about this.’
The next slide showed a rather repulsive white worm and written underneath: