The Dogs in the Street

by J M Dalgliesh

  “I’ll see what I can do. What’s his name?”

  “Aiden Reece.”

  There was silence, apart from the tell-tale sound of keys being tapped on a keyboard, “That’s not one I recognise, Inspector. One moment.” Caslin waited while the search was returned. “Do you have the correct name?”

  “Of course,” Caslin said.

  “Not on my system,” Champion said. “Who did you say he worked for?”

  “Renton, the same as you.”

  “Not according to our records. You say he was working with us?”

  “No. For you. He has been for years.”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. Your information must be incorrect. Can I help you with anything else?”

  Caslin’s mind was racing, “How well did you know Christopher Fairchild?”

  “Hardly at all. We traded emails. I’m over here, in Singapore and spend little time in the UK. We would have the occasional conversation, regarding investment structures but other than that, very little contact. I have a note here to say his company have already been in touch. Our account will be administered by one of the senior partners, in future.”

  “Which one? If you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all. Tobias Eldridge.”

  “And you’re no longer worried about Renton’s exposure.”

  “Exposure to what?”

  “Never mind,” Caslin said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Not all, Inspector,” Champion replied before hanging up.

  Caslin set the phone back down. The exodus of people from the nearby office buildings was slowing to a trickle. Fewer vehicles remained. Another thirty minutes and he would be set. Thoughts drifted over the conversation with Champion. Alarm bells were sounding but as to what they were advising him, he was less certain. The notion of being played kept revisiting him, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. The puzzling question was by whom? Realising there might be a few stragglers, putting in some extra time at the end of their work day, Caslin reclined his seat. Lying back, he closed his eyes, seeking a level of clarity that thus far had escaped him.

  Awaking to find himself in darkness with only the overhead lighting, illuminating the car park, Caslin sat up. Glancing at the dashboard, he saw the clock read 22:35. Looking around, there were barely a handful of cars nearby. Reasonably certain that he could safely expect the offices to be empty, he got out of the car. The distant hum of the city carried on the breeze as he crossed towards the entrance.

  Approaching the building, he saw no movement within which was a good sign. The main doors were locked, as expected. Reaching into an inside pocket, he took out Fairchild’s access card. Caslin was hopeful that no-one had yet seen fit to revoke his clearance. Removing it from the evidence bag, he eyed the card for a magnetic strip but there wasn’t one, only a small chip embedded in the rear. Laying the card flat to the pad, he touched it. The light changed from red to green and a reassuring click, greeted his ear. Caslin walked into KL Global.

  Making his way through the lobby he walked with purpose, as if he belonged there. That was a trick he’d learned long ago, at boarding school. With no father to teach him and only his peers to learn from, Caslin adopted what he saw as the best attributes others had on show. Personal confidence, natural charm and how to come across as the one guy in the room everyone wanted to know, helped mask his frailties with a cloak of invincibility. All traits he was happy to use, when it suited. In this case, looking like he had every right to be somewhere, where he most certainly didn’t.

  Taking the stairs in order to avoid the attention of anyone who might be present, he reached his intended floor after a somewhat grinding ascent. Heading directly to Fairchild’s office, the access card breached every security barrier he came to. As it turned out, there wasn’t a soul present and judging by the levels of presentation, the cleaners had been and gone. Coming to stand before the door to the office, Caslin paused as a thought crossed his mind. Swapping Fairchild’s card for the other in his possession, he hesitated for a moment, considering whether he’d read this whole situation wrong. Pushing the thought aside, he pressed the card against the access pad. The light turned green and he was in. Exhaling deeply, as another piece of the jigsaw fell into place, Caslin closed the door behind him.

  Emily Coughlan had been here before.

  Chapter 19

  With the primary purpose of his visit proving successful, Caslin set about Fairchild’s files by torchlight. The team had been sifting through the financials for days, so he knew not to waste time looking for the obvious. The motivation here was to join the dots and nothing more. Doing so would give him leverage to keep the investigation alive. It didn’t take long before Forsythe Holdings and Investments came into view. A quick scan revealed nothing referencing Paraic Nelson directly but the significance of joining three players in this case, Forsythe’s, Renton Sands and KL Global, buoyed Caslin’s optimism.

  “How did you know what to look for?” Caslin said under his breath, Emily Coughlan foremost in his mind. Other company names came and went and frustratingly, Caslin felt some of them were no doubt relevant but without a reference point, he was scrabbling around in the dark. Closing the folder, in his hand, Caslin placed it onto the top of the open drawer. Glancing around at the number of filing cabinets, along with the multitude of lever-arch files, adorning bookcases around the room, it dawned on him. He’d got as much as he would from this venture. “You knew where to look, you must have,” Caslin said softly, thinking out loud.

  Replacing the folder back where he had found it, Caslin pushed the drawer closed. As expected, there wasn’t a smoking gun. However, the companies were linked via business, the victims knew each other and someone, somewhere was very keen to ensure the details never reached the light of day. Crossing the office, he cast an eye across Fairchild’s desk. Trying the drawers, he found them to be secured. Realising that he wasn’t going to get anything else useful, Caslin resolved to call it a day. First checking the corridor beyond was clear, he slipped out, closing the door behind him. As before, when he had arrived, he descended via the stairs and passed through the lobby without incident. Having not triggered any alarms, he figured no-one would bother to review the surveillance recordings from the security cameras. The impromptu search would in all likelihood pass unnoticed.

  Picking up the pace, he trotted back to his car. Setting off for home, Caslin considered what his next move should be. The friction with Broadfoot was going to cause a problem. Even if the DCS could be brought onside, who above him in the chain would also need convincing? Leaving the office buildings behind him and pulling out onto the main road, another car moved off behind him. Caslin noticed the vehicles lights coming on, shortly after it set off. Paying attention to the car in his mirrors, he watched as it took a left and disappeared from view, shortly after following his course. Taking a few unnecessary turns to satisfy his paranoia, Caslin relaxed as the vehicle didn’t reappear.

  Leaving his car in one of the city-centre car parks, he entered the cobbled pedestrian zone of the old town. The Shambles were quiet, what with the time approaching midnight on a week day. Every bar and restaurant were long since closed. Despite this, Caslin found his senses piqued as he picked his way through the narrow streets, back to his flat in Kleiser’s Court. The sound of footfalls nearby came to his ear but when he glanced over his shoulder, no-one else was present. Likewise, a shadow would flash across the corner of his vision but under scrutiny, there was nothing to note, out of the ordinary. Caslin was on edge and he knew it.

  Coming to the communal access to Kleiser’s Court, he stopped a few feet from the door. Looking in both directions of Stonegate, nothing stood out as unusual. The lights illuminating the nearby Minster and the myriad of independent artisan shop-windows, were all that drew his attention. Taking out his keys, he stepped forward and unlocked the door. There was that sound again. Footfalls on stone. Caslin slipped into the passageway, gently pushing the outer door to, b
ut not closed. Edging back, into the shadows, he waited. A hand grasped the edge of the door, stopping it from closing.

  Caslin drew a deep breath and set himself. As soon as he recognised inwards movement, he charged forward, throwing his entire body weight against the door. The solid hardwood construction of the door elicited a deep thud, followed immediately by a groan from the other side. Whoever sought to enter released their grip. Caslin took advantage of the surprise, pulling the door open and lunging forward, aiming a punch at the man, now stumbling backwards. At the last moment, he managed to pull the force of the blow. Not quickly enough for Terry Holt, already clutching the side of his face, who took yet another whack, for good measure. A strange sound emitted from within him, like that of a mortally wounded animal, as he dropped to his haunches with one hand held aloft, in protest. A flash of anger and relief came over Caslin at the same moment.

  “Terry!” he exclaimed, curbing the adrenalin rush as best he could. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sorry, Sir,” Holt replied, looking up. “Any chance I can have that word?”

  “You couldn’t have phoned?”

  Caslin passed over a damp hand-towel, ice cubes packed tightly within. Holt accepted it, applying the compress to the side of his face. Caslin wondered whether, in daylight, he’d be able to make out the grain of the timber on Holt’s skin.

  “What’s on your mind, Terry?”

  “The financials, Sir,” Holt said, removing the compress. His skin was reddening and looked tender to the touch. It was likely to bruise. “I haven’t managed to get entirely to the bottom of it. There’s too much to go through.”

  “Give me the headlines.”

  “The financial accountant we got over from the Serious Fraud Office uncovered an abnormal pattern of trades. KL, or Fairchild I should say, was adopting positions on the markets that didn’t seem to make sense, at first. Subsequently though, they turned out to be advantageous to certain clients.”

  “That winning streak you were talking about before?” Caslin clarified.

  “Bigger than I had found, though. We only had access to the accounts administered by Fairchild but the number of companies that benefitted-”

  “All of his, right?”

  Holt nodded, “Every one.”

  “Would this stand out within the company itself?”

  “There’s no way that only Fairchild would see this. The senior management must have been aware.”

  “They were probably benefitting their own client-lists, at the same time.”

  “There’s more. The clients appear to have been communicating with each other. On the surface, it’s all legit but once you delve deeper, looking into subsidiaries, who owns what, it all starts to become clearer. It’s an operation involving multiple shell companies, registered around the globe. Contracts are being awarded to other companies on KL’s client list, just prior to trades being logged on their future performance.”

  “Insider dealing?” Caslin asked.

  “Exactly,” Holt confirmed, “with Fairchild, for example, arranging shorts on particular stocks as and when required. However, thinking we know and being able to prove it are entirely different matters. The SFO want the case. To be fair, they have the software capable of tracking this kind of thing. We’ve got no chance, unless someone in the know starts singing.”

  Caslin sat upright, “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “What did you just say?”

  “That we’ve got no chance-”

  “No, after that.”

  “Unless someone in the know, feels like telling us how they’re doing it. We’ll struggle to prove what is-”

  “Someone on the inside,” Caslin said quietly, almost to himself.

  “Yes, someone on the inside with intimate knowledge of how they go about it.”

  “Someone like Chris Fairchild,” Caslin stated.

  “I guess so, yes,” Holt agreed. “What are you thinking?”

  “Two dead, an investigative journalist and someone who may have been singing.”

  “Fairchild would’ve burned himself, at the same time.”

  “He was dying, Terry. With only a few months to live, what did he have to lose? The next question is why would he throw it all out there?” Both men sat in silence for a few minutes, Holt returning the ice to his battered face. “What did you find on the NGOs that Fairchild was working on?”

  “Nothing untoward there, Sir. Why?”

  “It strikes me as an intriguing mix of clients that he took on.”

  “Smokescreen for the illegal trades?” Holt suggested.

  “Or a salve for the conscience,” Caslin replied. “Why didn’t you bring this up earlier, in the office, rather than creeping around outside here?”

  Holt shook his head, “I don’t want to speak out of turn.”

  “Bit late for that.”

  Holt agreed, “Probably. Ever since I started looking at those financials and in particular, when the guy from the SFO came in on it…it hasn’t felt right. It’s been different, you know?”

  “Not really, Terry, no,” Caslin said flatly.

  “I got the impression…that the SFO were ahead of the game.”

  “In what way?”

  “They covered a lot of ground very quickly, tracing ownerships titles and global bank accounts with an impressive level of speed.”

  “So?”

  “Sir. Government departments aren’t that fast...ever. They had to know, then…”

  “Then?”

  “I know compartmentalising when I see it. Information flowing in my direction started to dry up and was rerouted.”

  “Where to?”

  Holt took the towel away, glancing nervously at Caslin, “Upstairs.”

  “Broadfoot?”

  “I reckon. Maybe higher. Attitudes started to change from professional to overly friendly. Almost as if I was being put off guard, to keep me onside whilst treating me like a mushroom. You know, keeping me in the dark and feeding me on shit.”

  “Illustrative,” Caslin said, exhaling deeply.

  “The point is, they’re side-lining our investigation. Everything had become vague and nondescript…unprovable. Despite this, they’ve made moves to transfer the case and files to them.”

  “Has it been done?”

  “Not yet but it’ll be a matter of days, now that it’s being shut down at our end.”

  “What did the Germans bring back on Schmidt?”

  “When he died, they had him fronting as an unofficial agent for an arms manufacturer but selling illegally on the black market. By all accounts, he was a significant asset, well established.”

  “He’d have made a lot of connections along the way,” Caslin said thoughtfully.

  “True, the Germans are bricking it that he may have been playing them all along.”

  “There’s a lot of it around,” Caslin mused openly. “Nothing is quite what it seems.” He stood up, crossing to the window and looking down into Stonegate. Putting his hands in his pockets, his fingers brushed against the memory stick that Reece had given him. Taking it out, he rolled it in the palm of his hand. “Nothing is quite what it seems,” he repeated.

  “Sir?” Holt asked in response to a perceived question.

  “This,” Caslin said, holding up the memory stick. Throwing it to Holt, who deftly caught it one-handed, he pointed at it. “Have a look, would you?” Holt examined it with a cursory inspection.

  “May I?” he indicated Caslin’s laptop. Powering it up, Holt plugged the drive in and waited a few moments. Right-clicking he went through the properties before opening the file. Seconds later, music began to play. Holt glanced at Caslin, slightly perplexed. “Not my style.”

  “Anything about the file?” Caslin queried.

  Holt returned his attention to the computer, shaking his head, “No. Nothing. Why, what are you expecting?”

  Caslin shook his head, just as the maligned notes played out. He took on a p
ained expression, “No idea. It was just a thought.”

  “You don’t like it either?” Holt asked.

  “I do, very much. A friend gave it to me. He’s peripherally linked to the case and I was hoping he’d thrown me a bone. The sound recording’s either got an error in it somewhere or the cellist wasn’t very good. The latter, I would argue, is impossible. Perhaps it’s my machine or-”

  “Hang on,” Holt said, returning his focus to the file. He paused the playback and busily set about pressing keys.

  “What are you doing?” Caslin asked. Walking over, he could see Holt had connected to the internet and was accessing a site he didn’t recognise. “What’s that?”

  “One second,” was the only reply, which turned out to be five minutes. An excited Terry Holt voiced his satisfaction at an achievement. “Got it.”

  “Got what?” Caslin asked. Holt looked at him.

  “It wasn’t an error in the recording. It was deliberate,” Holt said with a smile, angling the screen in his direction. Caslin came to look over his shoulder, unsure of what he was seeing. An image was gradually revealing itself, one line at a time from the top to the bottom.

  “What am I looking at, Terry?”

  “Someone embedded an image into the file, then altered it so you’d notice.”

  “Altered it, how?”

  “The notes that you didn’t like. They were deliberate, manipulated after the recording. Presumably, your friend expected you to find it. Now it’s just a case of decoding the data.”

  “He expected much,” Caslin said, focusing on the download in progress. They waited patiently. The following minutes felt like hours. The image was a photograph, apparently taken in a bar some years previously. Clearly visible, seated in a booth in the foreground was a young Aiden Reece, beer in hand, grinning with his other arm draped across the shoulder of an attractive woman. Caslin didn’t recognise her nor the man sitting awkwardly to her right. However, standing behind the couple, leaning over with hands on their shoulders, smiling for the shot was none other than Paraic Nelson.

  Chapter 20