CHAPTER
THREE
Two weeks later cat was returning early from work when she caught a glimpse of Boucher, stylishly attired in a black knee-length coat with flared collar, striking out from Dean Village in the direction of the city centre.
It had already been, to say the least, an interesting day. Though officially she was still helming Jenny McLeish’s desk, Cat had built up enough credibility to have Bellamy grudgingly allow her to check out ABC’s Credit Cards Department. Along with the IT, Forex and Marketing departments, this was located in a charmless steel-and-glass cube in a business zone near the airport. She’d taken the tram – someone more important was using her VW – and identified the right building by a giant gnome in the ornamental pool outside (a moneybox in the shape of a gnome had been ABC’s advertising symbol for decades). She introduced herself at reception and found the admin manager – a man bearing the improbable name of Carter Carterius – wearing a bow tie, a dress handkerchief and the fussy air of a museum curator. After just nine months in Edinburgh, Cat recognised him instantly as belonging to that curious sub-species of Scot more desperately British than the toffiest Pall Mall club man. Thus she knew that his persona – stiff, reserved and openly uncooperative – was a flimsy construct that would collapse under the slightest pressure. When, for instance, he pointed out that the department already had its internal investigation team she promptly laid on the charm, insisting that since the complaint in this instance – the letter from Mr Dennis Napier of Dundee – had first been lodged with Internal Fraud she was compelled to follow it through. There was simply no way around it. No way at all. She demanded to consult their files.
With conspicuous reluctance Carterius granted her access, by first entering his password, to the department’s computer records. Here, after an intensive search through a labyrinth of irrelevancy, Cat confirmed that Mr Napier’s account had been activated some seven months earlier, about the time the second card was sent to his former address in Glenrothes.
She turned to Carterius. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t much good to me. There’s no record of who activated the credit card account I’m interested in.’
‘What makes you think there would be a record?’
Cat blinked. ‘I don’t understand. Where I come from activation usually requires the authorisation of a senior officer.’
‘I think you’ll find there are many procedural differences between here and America.’
‘You’re saying that authorisation is just waved through?’
Carterius became defensive. ‘Well, as you know, ABC only changed its credit card issuer four years ago.’
‘Uh-huh.’ She had no idea.
‘And as part of the switchover process from Visa to Cosmos certain procedures were, shall we say, “loosened”. To encourage customer take-up, you understand.’
‘Right. So anyone in here could have activated this card?’
‘Provided the customer has been with the bank for more than two years and has a balance in excess of two thousand pounds, yes.’
‘I see,’ said Cat. ‘May I use one of your phones?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I need to make a call. And I’d prefer to use a landline.’
‘Well . . . I can’t stop you.’
‘Excellent. I won’t be long.’
Cat was directed to an empty desk in the corner, where she phoned the manager of the Glenrothes branch. But since he was tied up with a customer she had to settle for a senior accountant. She started by asking him if he was familiar with a customer services clerk called Violet Ross – the one who’d set up Mr Napier’s savings account in the first place – and found him refreshingly blunt.
‘Sure, I remember Violet. Dumb as a box of frogs.’
‘She’s no longer with you?’
‘She got the flick last year. Nobody misses her.’
‘Didn’t pull her weight . . . shirked duties?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Any suggestion she had a history of pushing unwanted credit cards on customers?’
‘Everyone did that. When Cosmos took over we were encouraged to do that.’
‘So there’s no reason to believe that Violet herself was crooked?’
‘Violet Ross is too dumb to be crooked. You’re from Frauds, did you say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And American?’
‘That’s right.’
‘New to ABC?’
‘Pretty new.’
‘Then if I were you, I’d be looking at the Dunns, not some half-baked customer services clerk from Glenrothes.’
Cat frowned. ‘The Dunns?’
The accountant made a sound of grim amusement. ‘You don’t know about His Satanic Majesty? And his junior demons?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Alistair Dunn? Managing director of ABC? You must’ve seen his portrait in the lobby of the Aquarium?’
‘I . . . think so,’ Cat said.
‘Sits in a throne room on the top floor. His son Craig Dunn is in Business Management. There’s a daughter in HR. And another son in Credit Cards.’
‘In Credit Cards?’ Cat looked around the office but the staff didn’t appear to be taking much notice of her.
‘Sure. He’s the one you should be investigating if you’re looking for funny business.’
‘I see.’ She chose her words carefully. ‘And do you remember the name of this gentleman, by any chance?’
‘The one in Credit Cards? It’s Mungo Dunn. Face like a slapped arse.’
Mungo Dunn. Sounded to Cat like a Flash Gordon villain. ‘Well, I thank you for your cooperation. You’ve been unusually informative.’
‘I’m leaving next week to manage an insecticide company, so I can afford to be.’
Cat experienced a brief, searing flashback to the day she had exterminated the insects in her cousins’ backyard. She got off the phone and sat in place, pretending to consult something in the computer files. She hadn’t felt her hair prickle like this since the hotel scam. But she needed to be cautious. She might have been too indiscreet already.
Finally she went back to Carterius’s office and plonked herself in front of his desk.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘here’s what I want. A list of all your employees in this department for the past three years. Performance evaluations, responsibilities, authorisation levels, the works. There are hard copies of this, right? And before you say I should go to HR I’m telling you that I don’t want to do that and I can’t say why. And as to why I should trust you of all people, when you’ve been such a jerk to me, let me just say that it’s exactly because you’ve been a jerk that I trust you. If you had something to hide you’d be unctuously ingratiating, at least initially – that’s a given. And before you say, “Who do you think you are?” – I can see your jaw dropping right now – let’s just say I have contacts in high places in this organisation, contacts that saw me invited from the US precisely to swoop into places like this and order people like you around. So let’s get this ball bouncing, huh?’
She arched her eyebrows and flashed her incisors and generally hoped she hadn’t overdone it – the last panoply of lies in particular – but her gung-ho performance seemed to do the trick. After he’d gained control of his jaw, Carterius swallowed, blinked several times and launched out of his chair.
‘Give me a minute,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ll fetch whatever we have.’
The records – old-fashioned printouts to prevent computer hacking – came in four cardboard box files. Cat retreated to the side of Carterius’s office, snapped shut the venetians, and hunted for details on Mungo Dunn. And there he was. Twenty-nine years old, born in Edinburgh, clean but undistinguished performance record, currently chief supervisor of Credit Card Operations. On a hunch Cat leafed through the files of the previous chief supervisor – some guy fifty-five years old and distinctly better qualified.
She turned to Carterius. ‘What level is chie
f supervisor here? Relative to you?’
‘It’s a different job entirely,’ Carterius said stiffly. ‘My job is to manage the department vis-à-vis the bank itself and its relationship with the credit card issuer.’
‘And the chief supervisor?’
‘Just day-to-day operations.’
‘Just day-to-day operations?’
‘That’s correct – minutiae.’ He made it sound like an insult.
‘Minutiae such as credit card approvals, that sort of thing?’
‘That sort of thing, yes.’
‘Right,’ Cat said. ‘So where is he now? Mr Mungo Minutiae?’
Carterius seemed taken aback. ‘If you mean Mr Dunn, well’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘I believe he should be back any moment now.’
‘Out to lunch, is he?’
‘I believe so.’
‘OK, well’ – Cat checked her own watch – ‘it’s now three thirty-five. When did this lunch begin?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Cat knew Carterius was lying. And she wondered who was really in charge of the department. But she chose not to prod him.
‘Just one more thing. You said there’d been a switchover in credit card issuers. Can you tell me what sort of liability Cosmos shares with ABC? Equal, right?’
‘Oh no,’ Carterius said haughtily. ‘That was part of the deal. A renegotiation of terms of liability.’
‘So the answer is . . .’
‘The bank has zero liability for ten years.’
‘Zero liability?’
‘Cosmos is a new issuer. That was part of their incentive.’
Cat was stunned. But it made sense all the same. Credit card issuers, especially new ones, have an insatiable appetite for sign-ups. But their security-slackening incentives make them vulnerable to all manner of fraud.
‘Well,’ said Cat, keeping her surprise to herself, ‘it seems I’ve got a lot to work with, Mr Carterius, and thanks again for your cooperation. I’ll call you directly if I have any need for further enquiries. In the meantime, I’ll rely on you not to mention my investigation to anyone – here or anywhere else.’
‘Naturally.’
When they parted at the office door, Carterius looked hopeful. ‘Can I take it,’ he asked hesitantly, ‘that this investigation of yours involves some activity of Mr Dunn’s?’
She almost laughed at the shine in his eyes. But it was good – it might even prove useful. ‘And can I take it that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to you?’
Carterius’s expression told her everything she needed to know. ‘Let me just say I’m happy to assist in any way,’ he said. Then he opened the door.
On the way out Cat registered furtive glances from departmental staff and took a mental note of every face. When the elevator arrived, a pudgy red-headed fellow reeking of booze squeezed past, stifling a belch with a fist. Cat was about to enter the lift when a suspicion nailed her to the spot. She swung around.
‘Mr Dunn? Mr Mungo Dunn?’
The red-haired man, a half smile on his florid face, fixed her with his gimlet eyes. ‘Aye?’
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ she said, thrusting out a hand. ‘I’m Cat Thomas from Internal Fraud.’
His grip was firm but moist. ‘Nothing going on that I should know about?’ he asked, still smiling.
‘Oh no – I’m just new here and wanted to establish a good relationship with your department from the get-go.’
‘Who did you meet with? Carter Carterius?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, that’s a good start, but if you have any queries relating to fraudulent activity I’m really the one to speak to.’
‘Mr Carterius said something to that effect.’
‘Did he now? Well then, we’re on excellent terms already.’ Dunn looked her up and down approvingly. ‘I look forward to liaising with you, Ms – you’ll forgive me?’
‘Ms Thomas.’
‘Aye.’ A satisfied grunt. ‘So we’re hiring Americans now? That’s an improvement, I must say.’
Cat chuckled. ‘The circumstances were fairly unique.’
‘I’ll ask my sister about it – she’s in HR, you know.’
‘Really? Nice watch, by the way.’
‘This thing?’ He glanced at his chunky gold Patek Philippe. ‘Just something my old man – Alistair Dunn, you know – gave to me.’
‘I’ve only got a Swatch – see?’ She angled her wrist.
‘Well, it’s Swiss, so you’re off to a good start.’
Unctuously ingratiating, Cat thought in the elevator. A twenty-nine-year-old, boozy-lunchtime, unctuously ingratiating chief supervisor in a silk tie, a bespoke suit and sickly-sweet cologne. She didn’t regret introducing herself – better that than letting him hear about her from others – but she wondered if she’d gone too far in admiring his watch. Not that she could do much about it now.
She rode the tram back to Queensferry Street and was still in a combative mood, yearning for answers, when she entered Dean Village via the Belford Road steps. Pausing on the riverside path to help a couple of beaming Italian-sounding tourists take a photo of the old Holy Trinity Church – which floated high over the village like some vision of Camelot – she noticed the darkly garbed Robin Boucher whisking across the old stone bridge not a hundred metres away. Cat felt an unusual frisson – which must have showed in her face, or her bearing, because the Italians tittered – and was on the verge of resuming progress to her flat when a new impulse seized her.
Submitting, yet again, to the compulsion to solve a mystery, she thrust the camera back to the tourists and headed up the riverside path, desperate to catch sight of Boucher before he slipped out of sight.
She had the curious impression that the Italians were snapping photos of her as she left.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Boucher was on the pavement near the top of Bell’s Brae, the steep incline leading east out of Dean Village. He had his hands buried in his pockets and was moving at a smooth but purposeful pace, almost gliding over the flagstones. Maintaining a distance of roughly eighty metres, Cat followed him up to Queensferry Road.
She knew it was crazy – literally stalking now – but she had never been so intrigued by a man. And she had to trust her instincts on the matter. Besides, Boucher had done everything imaginable to invite speculation about himself: through his evasiveness, his solicitousness, his supernatural unobtrusiveness – through the very fact that he seemed too good to be true.
In fact, when Cat had belatedly received a letter from Building Standards announcing that the acting surveyor had located enough time to pay her a visit, she felt obliged to respond that ‘the matter in question has been resolved for now’. This was not without risk – she had no way of knowing how long Boucher would be so considerate – but at the same time she couldn’t imagine presenting her neighbour with an order to attend to his flat’s soundproofing just six weeks after he had taken ownership of it. Even if there was every possibility that he’d be just as accommodating as he’d always been.
Presently, having deftly weaved between the traffic on Lynedoch Place, Boucher curled into Randolph Crescent and the elegant environs of the New Town. This was a region of Georgian townhouses with ornate iron railings, glinting plaques and sparkling windows – the homes and offices of well-to-do lawyers, doctors, architects, bankers and sharp businesspeople. So Cat had to wonder if Boucher had a local destination in mind – something that might explain, finally, the mystery of his wealth and circumstances.
As Agnes had already established, no one matching his name, origin and description had a criminal record. No amount of internal investigation, by Cat herself, could uncover any hidden bank accounts. He rarely, if ever, received any correspondence in the mail. He seldom seemed to leave the building. And yet he had enough capital to purchase a not-inexpensive apartment, to maintain a classic MG, and to furnish his rooms with an impressive collection of antique furniture, ori
ginal artworks, and bookcases bursting with priceless volumes.
When he turned up the hill towards Charlotte Square – a cheerless sun painted the street behind him with a huge spidery shadow – Cat briefly wondered if he was about to visit the residence of the First Minister. If he had some secretive role at the highest levels of Scottish government. But even as she became increasingly excited – and daunted – by the prospect, he cut a right-angle through the square and headed for bustling Princes Street.
Perhaps he was on a shopping expedition, then. It was Thursday, after all, and the stores were open late. But as it happened Boucher did not digress into any of the shops. He did not even glance in their windows. He darted across the road to the Gardens side, under the Castle, and weaved between the workers lined up for peak-hour buses. He was so graceful in his movements, so swift of pace, that Cat struggled to keep him in sight. But every time she thought he might have eluded her – purposely? – he appeared again: the winged black collar, the slick side-parted hair, the princely bearing.
When he ascended the Playfair Stairs into the Old Town and veered up the winding incline of Cockburn Street, Cat for the first time was struck by the notion that he might be making for a dinner engagement. With a business associate? A spymaster? A lover?
It was surprising how much the last prospect rattled her. And this when she assured herself constantly that she wasn’t really into him. The fact that she had added a full mile to her nightly run and two hundred sit-ups to her exercise routine – that was only because she now had considerably more energy and endurance. The fact that she had become increasingly conscious of her calorie intake – well, such disciplines are easier to observe when one is otherwise content. And the way she dressed up as if for church simply to put out the rubbish – well, there were psychological benefits in always being presentable.
But she could hardly explain away the way she continued to listen intently for his movements upstairs. That she repeatedly contrived to run into him in the stairwell. That he regularly appeared in her dreams.
The Devil Upstairs Page 13