Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  “Exactly, Iain. A possibility. That’s not evidence.”

  “I know that,” he countered forcefully. “But sometimes… you just have a feeling about something, right? It’s like you with your man, Farzaad. It’s too clean. Too obvious.”

  Caslin nodded, thoughtfully, “Sometimes things are obvious, though. Maybe we’re guilty of overcomplicating by looking too deeply.”

  “That’s the job,” Robertson replied quietly with a stern expression. “Ma’am,” he said in greeting, to the approaching DCI Matheson.

  “Nathaniel. Can I have a word in your office?”

  “Of course,” Caslin replied, before saying goodbye to Robertson and thanking him for the speed of his report.

  Following her into the office, he closed the door behind them. Something in her demeanour was a little off. They may not have the greatest working relationship over the course of her tenure as DCI but he could read her well enough.

  “Where are you with the Kuznetsov suicide?” she asked, pulling out a chair.

  “I’m still not convinced it was a suicide,” Caslin replied, walking behind his desk. Matheson rolled her eyes and he sought to head off the direction the conversation was likely to take. “His daughter is adamant.”

  “His daughter, who he barely appears to spend any time with-”

  “Who is still the closest person to him, barring his gangster security detail anyway,” Caslin hit back.

  “He was bankrupt, going from billionaire status to nothing,” Matheson argued. “Men like him don’t take failure well.”

  “Men like him never accept failure. They get what they want one way or another.”

  “And if all his options expired?” Caslin took a deep breath breaking the eye contact Matheson appeared to cherish during a confrontation.

  He sighed, “Raisa, his daughter, claims he was negotiating a return to Russia. That he was homesick and looking to find a way back.”

  “Perhaps his request fell on deaf ears?” Matheson said. “Either way, I don’t see an awful lot left for you to investigate. There are a few minor anomalies contained within the pathologist’s report but aside from that, I fail to see why you’re not deferring this one to the coroner and moving on.”

  “This is too high profile to pass off so quickly. We’ll only fuel the conspiracy theories if we don’t do a thorough investigation,” Caslin said, pulling out his chair and sitting down.

  “And if we spend too long on it, the end result will be the same. They’ll claim we’re hiding something.”

  “I’m not ready to tie it off just yet but,” he added swiftly, “I do take on board your concerns.”

  “Don’t patronise me, Nathaniel,” Matheson chided him. “I’m not a junior detective. I’d also like to know why the Chief Constable has received a complaint about you?”

  “Me?” Caslin asked, incredulous. “What have I done?”

  “Accusing the press of fuelling racial hatred,” Matheson said, stony-faced.

  Caslin frowned, “When did I do that?”

  “This morning. Outside the station during your verbal confrontation with the demonstrators,” Matheson informed him.

  Caslin sank back in his seat, pressing a thumb and forefinger to his eyes, “Oh, yeah. I remember.” Matheson stood up and made to leave the office. She stopped as she reached the door, gripping the handle, poised to open it and looked back at him. She spoke in a softer tone.

  “The Chief Constable was asked for an interview for this evening’s television news,” she said. Caslin’s heart sank. “She declined, obviously. However, they will be running footage of the confrontation, so you ought to brace yourself.”

  “Local or national?”

  “National,” Matheson confirmed.

  “Great,” Caslin muttered.

  “You need a quick win, Nathaniel,” Matheson said. “We both do.”

  With the last said, the DCI departed leaving the door to his office open. Caslin turned his attention to the window and his view of the infantry barracks in the nearby compound running adjacent to the grounds of the station. The light was fading and the rain had started to fall. He didn’t hear Hunter enter.

  “Sir?” she said, gaining his attention.

  “Yes, Sarah. What do you have?”

  “I contacted the Interior Ministry in Kabul.”

  “How did you get on?”

  “Very well. They were extremely helpful, which was a pleasant surprise.”

  “What could they tell us about our victim?”

  “Absolutely nothing, sir,” Hunter said, enthusiastically. Acknowledging Caslin’s disappointment, she continued, “But that’s where it gets interesting. They have no record of a Farzaad Amin emigrating to the UK. The only mention they found of that name recorded in their files was of a civil servant working in a low-level administration role.”

  “Same guy?” Caslin asked. Hunter shook her head.

  “No. He retired last year, shortly after his sixtieth birthday. Oh, and he still lives in Kabul.” Caslin sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him, interlocking his fingers. Hunter met his eye. She found this as intriguing as he did, he could tell. Pushing his chair back, he stood and walked around the desk and out into the squad room. Hunter followed.

  “Terry,” he called. Holt scurried over from the other side of the room. “Where did you get to with Amin’s financials?”

  “No employer, as far as I could see from his bank statements, sir. There is a possibility he worked cash-in-hand but I don’t see it. There’s no evidence of him being the manual-labouring type. He does however, have a payment going into his account twice a month. Equal amounts on the same days of each month. Regular as clockwork.”

  “How much?”

  “A thousand pounds, sir,” Holt stated. “But it doesn’t say from where the money comes from.”

  “Two grand a month. How is it paid?” Caslin asked.

  “Via BACS, sir,” Holt said. “I’ve asked the bank for clarification of where the payments originate but they’re unwilling to say. Not without a warrant anyway.”

  “They know this is a murder inquiry, right?”

  “Yes, sir. I explained that.”

  “Get a hold of a magistrate. Obtain a warrant,” Caslin said.

  “It’s Sunday afternoon, sir,” Holt replied. Caslin fixed him with a stare. Holt didn’t protest any further, merely nodded and returned to his desk. He’d already picked up his phone before Caslin turned back to Hunter.

  “I want to know who Farzaad Amin is and I want to know now,” he instructed her, heading back into his office and pushing the door closed.

  “Yes, sir,” Hunter said to herself. “Me too.”

  Caslin cut a frustrated figure pacing his office. Up until now, all the available evidence indicated that Amin was the victim of a vicious, racially aggravated assault. That was however, Caslin’s biggest issue. So much of the evidence had been laid out for them and the real detail, the forensics they would expect to find, had been sanitised. To Caslin, this signified an understanding of police procedure or at the least, a knowledge of forensic methodology. A knock on the door snapped him out of his thought process. Holt entered with a smile on his face.

  “I’ve got a magistrate who is willing to see me. It’ll mean heading out to his golf club but we’ll have the warrant for Amin’s bank account by the close of play,” Holt said with enthusiasm. “That means I can be on to the bank first thing.”

  “Good work,” Caslin told him. The detective constable appeared to hover at the threshold of the office, almost as if considering whether or not to say what was on his mind. “What is it, Terry?” Holt stepped in, closing the door behind him. He appeared nervous but buoyed by Caslin’s willingness to hear him out.

  “I wanted to have a word, sir,” he said, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the squad room beyond. Caslin followed his line of sight, catching Hunter’s eye for a fleeting moment.

  “And?” Caslin presse
d. Holt cleared his throat.

  “I’ve been in the job for ten years now. CID for the last four,” Holt said. “I know my performance hasn’t always been… the most prolific in terms of results but… I’ve improved. I mean, I’ve made a real effort…”

  “You want a leg up?” Caslin said in conclusion.

  Holt nodded, “I think I’ve earned it.”

  “Earned it?” Caslin said, furrowing his brow.

  “Yeah,” Holt stated. “With Hunter moving to Thames Valley, I thought I’d have a good shot at making DS but now, what with her staying put, I don’t see it happening.” Caslin sat back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head and interlocking his fingers. “I mean, she’s a decent officer and all but do you think she’s still up for it?”

  “Are you saying she isn’t?”

  Holt shrugged, “Not exactly.”

  “Then what, exactly?”

  “Well, you saw it yourself the other day. When it goes down, do you honestly think she’ll have your back, or mine, when it comes down to it?” Caslin sat forward, placing his palms on the desk before him and drumming his fingers. In the corner of his eye, he saw Hunter watching them, doing her best to appear casual. He wondered whether she knew what they were discussing. Turning his gaze back to Holt, he fixed his gaze on the younger man.

  “Let me make something very clear to you, Terry,” Caslin said, his tone taking on a level of menace that most seldom witnessed. “DS Hunter is a far superior detective to you, in ways that you will never comprehend. Even working sub-par, she puts you in the shade and if I hear you questioning her competence or attitude in this way again, you and I will be having words. Bottom line, Terry, you go before she does. Is that clear enough for you?”

  Holt visibly shrank before him. However, he’d envisioned the conversation playing out, this wasn’t it. Ashen-faced, he was at a loss for words, merely murmuring, “Yes, sir.”

  “As for your performance,” Caslin went on, “when I first came to Fulford Road, you were underperforming in all aspects, other than studying the form at the bookies. It did not go unnoticed.” Holt looked down, averting his eyes from Caslin’s gaze. “With that said, you’re right. You’ve improved. You’ll walk through the exams but whether you’ll make a decent sergeant remains to be seen. If you want me to back you, then really earn it, Terry. Prove to me you’re capable but don’t do it by stepping on your colleagues. One day, you might need them and we’ve all got long memories.”

  The following silence lasted mere seconds before Holt raised his head and met the stare of his senior officer. He nodded an acknowledgement and stood up, leaving the office without another word. Caslin watched him go, annoyed by his comments but at the same time, admiring the renewed ambition that had always appeared to be so sorely lacking in the DC.

  Glancing across to Hunter, Caslin noticed her gaze was tracking Terry Holt all the way back to his desk. He would never share the thought with Holt nor anyone else for that matter, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t contemplated similar concerns about his detective sergeant. Hunter was different since she’d returned. A brush with death was traumatic and hers had severely impacted her personal life, not only her career. Time would tell whether or not she could find her way back.

  In his mind at least, she deserved the shot. Scooping up his phone from the desk, Caslin scrolled down through his contacts until he found his target and dialled it. The call connected and was swiftly answered.

  “Just the man,” a voice said from the other end of the line. “I was hoping to pick your brains over something.”

  “Great minds think alike,” Caslin replied. “The usual?”

  “The usual,” the voice responded and both men hung up on the call.

  Caslin stood up, crossed the room and pulled on his coat. Slipping the mobile into a pocket, he left his office. Passing Hunter in the squad room, he drew her attention.

  “I’ll be on the mobile if anyone needs me,” he said without breaking step. Hunter fell into step alongside him. Once out of the squad room and the earshot of others, she stopped him.

  “Can I ask what that was about before, with Terry? It looked pretty heated and he’s been quiet ever since.

  Caslin met her eye, “Nothing to be concerned about. Okay?” Hunter didn’t break the eye contact, almost as if she was trying to read inference into Caslin’s expression but failing to do so.

  “Okay,” she replied. Caslin set off, leaving her alone in the corridor. He sensed her watching him as he made his way to the stairs. No good would come from him enlightening her as to what Holt had said. If she was curious as to where he was heading, she didn’t voice it.

  Chapter 13

  The pub was doing a brisk trade for early on a Sunday evening. It would appear that the darkening of the skies leant itself to being in an establishment found largely underground. The Cellars were equal to the needs of its patrons throughout the year. In the summer, they were blessed with a large walled beer-garden that could comfortably accommodate a hundred people or more. Whereas in the depths of winter, the vaulted brick ceilings and atmospheric lighting of the old cellars themselves proved to be quite a draw.

  Caslin found Jimmy Sullivan in a booth in the lower tier. The next table had a small group of diners seated at it, enjoying an early meal. Caslin slid into his seat opposite his friend. A pint was pushed across the table which he gratefully accepted. Acknowledging Sullivan by way of taking a mouthful of beer, he wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “How’s life treating you, Jimmy?” Caslin asked.

  “Better than if I was a billionaire,” Sullivan replied with a cheeky wink.

  “There is that,” Caslin replied with a smile. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Kuznetsov?” Sullivan replied, Caslin nodded. “Atypical of his kind. A real rags-to-riches story. If I wrote it as fiction, my editor would toss it aside as too far-fetched.”

  “He came from obscurity, didn’t he?”

  “Son of a coal miner from a provincial town. He made some acquaintances that served him well. As the Soviet Bloc collapsed, he found he was well placed to benefit. He had a knack for media, a natural talent you might say. The technological revolution that we all got swept up in back in the nineties, changed things.”

  “Some of us are still trying to catch up,” Caslin stated, seeing off half his pint.

  “As I understand it, he just understood the way things were changing and turned it to his advantage,” Sullivan continued. “What with those old Party allegiances that he’d fostered, he found himself in the unlikely position as something of a kingmaker when it came to politics.”

  “Sounds like you know him pretty well?”

  Sullivan smiled, “It’s my job to know.”

  “So, what went wrong?”

  “Ahh…” Sullivan said, drinking from his own glass. “Arrogance, greed, alongside the old adage of becoming a victim of his own success.”

  “How so?”

  “He rapidly made himself the go to man of the moment. You know what politics is like. The rewards are fantastic, whichever country you’re running in. With that comes a lot of competition. Once you pick a side, you make enemies. And let’s also not forget we’re talking about a man who seemed to revel in poking the bear.”

  “With a landscape such as the one in Russia, even those on your side will come to fear you,” Caslin added. Sullivan nodded, draining his glass. He pushed the empty across the table, in front of Caslin, who finished his own at the same time.

  “Your round.”

  Caslin stood and made his way up to the next level, picking his way through the throng towards the bar. Putting the glasses on the counter, he thought about Sullivan’s words. Had Kuznetsov overreached? If his enemies were powerful political figures, there may well be some mileage in the threats made against his life. That would place his investigation against formidable opponents. The barman took his order, two more pints and a couple of chaser
s to go along with them. Receiving the change from a twenty, he pocketed the money and picked up the tray bearing their drinks. Returning to the booth, Caslin negotiated the steps down and Sullivan picked his drinks up before he’d managed to set the tray down on the table.

  “Cheers,” he said, downing the scotch in one. Caslin followed.

  “If you had to guess,” Caslin asked, “hypothetically speaking, were he to have been killed, where would you target your focus? The politics or the business?”

  Sullivan laughed but lowered his voice before answering, “He was a Russian billionaire. Do you really think you can separate the two?”

  “Humour me,” Caslin countered. Sullivan sat back, pursing his lips as he considered the question. After a few moments he leant forward, placing one hand on the table and the other on his fresh pint.

  “Much of his business interests have been seized in the past few years.”

  “Either in the East or, more recently, by European governments. I know.”

  “Those that they are aware of anyway,” Sullivan said, his eyes flitting about the bar. Caslin sat forward in his chair.

  “I understood he was facing a winding up order and was practically broke?”

  “So, they say,” Sullivan said. “Personally, I don’t buy it. Not that I doubt the competence of the HMRC, mind you. When it comes to money, they are surprisingly efficient if they choose to be.”

  “Meaning?”

  Sullivan took a large swig from his drink, looking around to make sure those nearby weren’t paying them any attention before continuing, “Guys like Nestor Kuznetsov, who made it big very quickly, came onto the international radar in quick succession. Some of them were apparatchiks - politicians who survived from the old communist regimes - others arose out of the ruins of the KGB. They were lesser known faces. Some, such as Kuznetsov, were tied to these people and made fortunes off the back of them. Whoever they were, they didn’t want their money staying in the Motherland but to move it was, and still is, not easy.”

  “Why did they need to move it?” Caslin asked.