‘I’ve sure got some thinking to do.’
‘Do it at your own desk, can you? Wing Commander’s got us in his gunsights, you know.’ And before Cat left the office she called out: ‘Did you fuck him, by the way?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Stop playing innocent – it doesn’t suit you. And don’t tell me you didn’t want to.’
‘No, I didn’t . . . do anything to him. Nothing. Didn’t even kiss him.’
‘Why the hell not? You were so hot for him you were sweating – it was literally dripping off your face.’
‘That was just the meal.’
‘Aye right,’ said Agnes. ‘What’s stopping you, anyway? Give it a whirl, girl. A bairn or two would be good for you.’
‘Seriously? You’re talking babies now?’
‘Why not? Not barren, are you?’
‘No, I’m not barren – as far as I know.’
‘Good to hear.’ Agnes sniggered. ‘There will be no miracles here.’
It was the other illuminated sign in the Modern Art Gallery gardens: THERE WILL BE NO MIRACLES HERE. But Cat couldn’t work out exactly why Agnes had said it.
Back at her desk, after sorting through the mail, she spent some time further contemplating Boucher’s suggestions about internal credit card fraud. She was staring absent-mindedly out the window – there was a billboard across the street advertising the ‘new’ John Lewis store – when a devious new possibility occurred to her. Preferring not to wait until Bellamy left the office again, she risked another call to Peggy in London.
‘It’s Cat Thomas from Edinburgh again. Listen, I don’t know if this is possible but could you send me a full list of credit card account holders at ABC? Just the ones earning rewards points?’
‘A full list? That’s really something your own department should be doing.’
‘I know, and I apologise. My contact there is indisposed.’
Peggy made an ambivalent noise. ‘It might take an hour or so. It’s bound to be a long list.’
‘I’d be extremely grateful.’
Cat’s desktop monitor had gone to sleep and she was able to see a reflection of Bellamy, back in his cockpit, staring at her contemplatively but talking on his phone. She doubted he had overhead anything.
When the list of account holders came through, Cat was gobsmacked. It was exactly as she had suspected. And it took only a few search engine clicks to confirm it. She stared at the list for two minutes, her heart thumping, then deleted everything as a precaution and headed out for lunch.
But she had no appetite for food. She took the bus down to portside Leith – a ten-minute journey – and found the local ABC branch on Bernard Street. Here she asked to see Karen Greeley, the former Credit Cards employee whom Carter Carterius had described as ‘honest as the day is long’.
Greeley, just as she had hoped, was out at lunch. Cat asked where. The desk clerk told her she should try one of the eateries at the local shopping mall, and gave her a concise physical description as well: ‘Spitting image of Susan Boyle.’
‘Susan Boyle?’
‘The singer, you know. Who’s Got Talent or whatever?’
‘Oh yeah – Susan Boyle. Do you know where she’ll be dining, by any chance?’
The clerk had a mischievous streak. ‘Let’s just say that garlic is her perfume.’
Glancing repeatedly at her watch – she had twenty-five minutes of lunchtime left – Cat did a brisk march to the shopping centre past the survey vessels at Leith Docks. Racing around the food court, she found Greeley, who indeed looked like Susan Boyle, sitting alone at a Greek outlet. With no time to be anything but direct, Cat went straight up to the table – Greely was dining alone – and placed her hands on the back of a wooden chair.
‘Karen Greeley? I’m Cat Thomas from the Internal Fraud Department. Can I have a word with you, off the record?’
Greeley, who’d been in the process of squeezing lemon over a slab of fried cheese, squinted up at Cat, appraised her for a few moments, and in the end just nodded. ‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting this.’
Lowering herself gratefully into the chair, Cat said, ‘I want to assure you that this isn’t about you and I don’t want to comp—’
‘I know, I know.’ Greeley was still squeezing the lemon. ‘It’s about Credit Cards. It’s about Mungo Dunn.’
Cat hesitated. ‘Well, I can’t say with any accuracy—’
‘Just go for broke and if I don’t agree then I’ll say so.’ Greeley started slicing the cheese into quarters. ‘It’s best to get this over as fast as possible, don’t you think?’
Cat nodded, tried to work out the best way to ease into it, then filled her lungs. ‘I think the Dunn family is manipulating its power within ABC for personal gain. I think all the Dunns are involved. I think Mungo Dunn was – is – the kingpin in Credit Cards.’
‘This is excellent saganaki,’ Greeley said. ‘Very authentic.’
‘I think part of the scam involves rewards points on corporate credit cards. I think the changeover to Cosmos and the zero-liability clause opened up a new opportunity for internal fraud, specifically relating to the submission of details for credit card accounts that fit certain criteria.’
‘The dips are even better,’ said Greeley. ‘The tzatziki especially.’
‘That criteria being companies with personal names in their titles. S.D. Watts, an accounting firm in Aberdeen. J.P. McLeven, a publishing company in Glasgow. Ross Gibson Delivery Services in Perth. Campbell Diesel in Ayr. Emily Brown Clothing and Accessories in Edinburgh. And so on. Not huge accounts in themselves but collectively amassing a huge amount of corporate rewards points – points to which they’re not officially entitled.’
‘The baklava’s not bad either.’
‘All such accounts are presented to Cosmos in London via conveniently shorthanded titles. J.P. McLeven. Campbell Diesel. Emily Brown. As far as the issuer is concerned, these look like standard personal accounts. They haven’t got time to check up every account, especially when they’re from Scotland. The companies themselves are none the wiser – assuming undoctored correspondence gets through to them – as the abbreviated account titles are technically accurate.’
‘I’m no great fan of their coffee here, mind, but there are plenty of other places if coffee’s your thing.’
Cat stared at Greeley and felt a rush of affection. She was right. Boucher was right. It was both thrilling and terrifying. ‘Then – what can I say?’ she said. ‘I thank you. I truly thank you.’
‘Thank me for what?’ Greeley was dabbing her lips. ‘I said nothing.’
‘Then I thank you for saying nothing.’
‘There’s a whole lot more I didn’t say,’ Greeley said. ‘But I like my job. I really like my job. I like my life, for that matter.’ She took a sip of her cola. ‘So I’ll thank you for not mentioning me in dispatches. Especially to the Laird.’
‘The Laird?’
‘Alistair Dunn. The Laird of Lucre.’
Cat nodded with relief. ‘Treat it as a given.’
With just fifteen minutes left, she took a taxi from outside the shopping centre to Police Scotland Headquarters near the Gothic bulk of Fettes College. It was ambitious, even reckless – she knew by now she was going to overrun her lunchtime – but she needed to register her findings while she could.
At reception she asked for DS Terry Grimes of the fraud team. When Grimes appeared – cherubic, sandy-haired, bright-eyed – he looked stunned.
‘My word,’ he said with a half-grin. ‘I must say you’re looking well.’
‘Everyone is telling me that,’ Cat said, wondering if she should deglamorise. ‘Do you have time to talk?’
‘For you, of course. Step in. My office is being renovated but—’
‘Actually, would you mind if we walk while we talk? I’m sort of pressed for time.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Grimes. ‘Let me grab my coat.’
Outside it was c
hilly, rain-flecked and windy, but Cat hadn’t even noticed. She curved into Comely Bank Road.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m still new here, so I don’t know much about the hierarchy of crime in this country. I don’t even know much about the hierarchy at ABC. But I’d like to mention a few names to you and see if I get a reaction.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Grimes.
‘Mungo Dunn. Craig Dunn. Alistair Dunn. The whole Dunn family.’
She was watching Grimes and his face tightened visibly. ‘The whole Dunn family,’ he repeated. ‘Now that’s very interesting.’
‘I take it the names are familiar with you?’
‘Well, they keep . . . appearing, yes.’
‘Appearing?’
‘Look, Cat – are you saying that you have something on Alistair Dunn? Something solid?’
‘I don’t know at this stage. I really don’t know. I need to probe further. But I’ve been here before, in Florida, and I was explicitly warned not to go digging “where the worms got teeth”.’
‘If you’re asking me if the worms have teeth in Scotland,’ Grimes said, ‘then I’d have to say you should be wary of where you stick your shovel. High-level internal fraud in the Scottish banking system is as old as the City of Glasgow Bank.’
‘The City of Glasgow—?’
‘A famous case in the Victorian era. The directors got rich on falsified statements and profit reports, but the bank went bust. Thousands of innocent investors got dragged down with them. I can lend you a book about it if you like.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Cat, wondering if he was hitting on her.
‘At any rate,’ he said, ‘that’s the sort of worms we have in Scotland. They’re deep, they’re many, and they bite. Are you sure you don’t want to leave this to me?’
‘I just want you to know I’ve been digging. And I’ll keep on digging.’
‘Then you’ll need to be careful – extremely careful.’
‘I will be.’
‘And you’ll need to know your limitations. With Alistair Dunn in particular.’
‘I do.’
They stopped under some early cherry blossoms and Grimes ran a hand over his choirboy quiff. ‘How are you getting on, by the way?’
‘Getting on?’
‘Well’ – Grimes seemed uncomfortable all of a sudden – ‘you’ve been through an awful lot here, what with that Moyle business and everything.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Cat thought about it. ‘Can I ask if there are any leads in that case?’
‘As far as I know it’s still a complete mystery. One of his chums turned up dead, though.’
‘Oh?’ said Cat. ‘Who?’
‘Fellow named Blair Griffon.’
Cat frowned. ‘A suspect?’
‘Don’t believe so. The manner of death was highly unusual, though.’
Something horrible occurred to Cat and her frown deepened. ‘Is this by any chance the same guy who was there when they found Moyle’s body? Tall, long-haired, bearded?’
‘I’m not sure – the body has only just been discovered.’
‘Where?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Was he murdered?’
‘Again, I’m not sure. Why?’ Grimes had noticed her reaction. ‘You don’t have anything to offer us?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, working hard to keep her voice steady. ‘Not really. But you say he died in some unusual way?’
‘I don’t know the full details yet but yeah, I’ve been assured it’s very weird.’ Grimes was still watching her closely. ‘You positive, Cat, that you don’t know anything about it?’
‘No – but it’s a bit of a shock. I mean, if this is the guy I’m thinking of, then I met him once. And Moyle, of course – I met him too.’
‘Then you might be interviewed about it.’
‘Of course. Of course. Not a problem. But for now’ – she glanced distractedly at her Swatch – ‘I’ve got to get back. I’ve got to return to work. I’m late enough already.’
She thanked Grimes profusely and then raced up Raeburn Place, past the trendy cafés and boutique trinket shops of Stockbridge. Forty per cent of her mind was revisiting the night in the Innocent Railway, another forty per cent was preoccupied with the Dunn dynasty, and twenty per cent was deep in mourning for her once-immaculate record for punctuality.
CHAPTER
NINE
It was in this frame of mind – wary, suspicious, unable to distinguish one devil from another – that Cat went for her nightly run. It was now 20 March, and while the daylight hours were lengthening appreciably the roads were still prone to be slippery with ice and compacted snow. A couple of times she’d ended up sprawled across the asphalt with bleeding palms, torn pants and injured dignity. So she had every reason to reconsider her routine – perhaps exercise at home, do crunches and sit-ups or whatever – but she needed to feel cold air on her face and the ground under her feet. She needed the ruthless clarity of running.
Upon her return from the extended lunch hour, Bellamy – who was idling with malignant purpose near her desk – had glanced very pointedly at the wall clock. She’d affected her most disarming smile.
‘I know, I know – I can still get lost around town without my GPS and—’
‘Kindly step into my office, Ms Thomas.’
Inside he told her not to bother taking a seat. Leaning back against his desk and folding his arms, he said, ‘I believe you know a man called Carter Carterius?’
‘Of course.’ Cat hadn’t been expecting this. ‘The admin manager at Credit Cards.’
‘He was your personal contact there?’
‘He was.’
‘Do you know he’s been reassigned to branch manager – effective immediately?’
‘He has?’ Cat blinked. ‘To where?’
‘To Musselburgh. To take over from a manager who’s retired due to illness.’
‘Well’ – Cat gulped, feeling of rush of claustrophobia – ‘that’s interesting.’
Bellamy’s nostrils dilated. ‘Are you absolutely sure, Ms Thomas, that you’ve put to bed the Napier credit card case?’
‘I can guarantee it,’ she said – truthfully, because she’d long moved on from that.
He strained all the muscles of his face. ‘You know, I want to believe you, I dearly want to . . . and yet something makes me sceptical.’
Cat made sure she didn’t even blink.
He thrust himself off the desk and glided past her, uncomfortably close. ‘Never mind. Just remember that I only need an excuse, any excuse. Because let me tell you’ – he was holding the door open with a sadistic grimace – ‘I enjoy clearing out the troublemakers in my department.’
There was something specifically sexual about the way he said it that Cat would later find troubling. But that wasn’t to say he wasn’t right. It was enjoyable overturning old stones and exterminating insects. It was, in fact, her calling. Her destiny. The very reason for her existence.
Presently she ran up and down the hilly side streets of sleepy Ravelston. In Miami she had very nearly been run over by a car backing recklessly out of a driveway, purposely or not, and afterwards she had taken to running in the middle of the road wherever possible. She was doing it now, constantly on the alert for strange people, menacing faces, ‘operators’ sent out to ‘deliver a message’. It had happened in Florida and there was no reason why it couldn’t happen here.
In Blinkbonny Avenue a woman straightening a wheelie bin glared at her. Towards the bridge underpass on Craigleith Drive a four-by-four squealed to a halt behind her. Hammering up the incline of Ravelston House Road, she noticed a hedge rustling and was preparing to change course when a scrawny fox bolted across the road. Pounding down the slope on the other side she flinched at what she thought was a rifle shot, but it was only a man slamming the rear door of his hatchback. She reprimanded herself for being oversensitive.
She was three-quarters of the way through the run, passing through t
he inky shade on Ravelston Dykes, when she noticed a shawled woman standing on the verge holding a dog by the leash. The dog – yet another Border Terrier – was snarling at her defensively. Cat, vaguely amused, was transferring from the road to the pavement when she thought she heard the woman bark something.
‘Cat.’
Perhaps she was taunting the dog for some reason.
‘Cat Thomas.’
The woman had spoken louder than strictly necessary. Caught up in the impetus of running, Cat considered not altering her stride, but curiosity got the better of her. She drew up in her tracks and looked back, panting.
‘Excuse me?’
The woman was about thirty feet away, standing in the shadow of an elm tree, an orange streetlamp casting an ungodly nimbus behind her. It was difficult to make out anything but a wizened face under an old-style cloche. She resembled Miss Marple. The Border Terrier was still growling.
‘You should be wary of the company you keep,’ the old woman said in a phlegmy voice.
Cat assumed at first the warning had something to with her investigation. ‘Say again?’
‘I said you should be very careful of the people you associate with. They have plans for you.’
Cat stared at the woman. As far as she could tell the two of them, plus dog, were entirely alone for hundreds of metres.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘I made it my business to discover your name.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I only want to protect you.’
‘Protect me from who?’
The old woman glanced at her Border Terrier. ‘From the dark ones,’ she said, with a sibilant hiss.
Cat started to get angry. ‘Who sent you? Was it the Dunns?’
‘I know of no Dunns.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I’ve made it my duty to watch those who consort with witches.’
Cat narrowed her eyes and the woman seemed to read her mind.
‘That’s right, dear – I know of which I speak. And I say again, they have great plans for you.’
‘Is that some sort of joke?’ The sweat was freezing on Cat’s skin.
‘You know very well it is not.’
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