Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

“Not least because they’d acquired it in an underhand, if not illegal fashion. If they’d stolen it, either through purchasing state-owned assets at knock-down prices, bribery or a mixture of both, what was to stop others from stealing from them?”

  “They had to get it out of the country where it would be safe,” Caslin concluded.

  “Exactly. Once into the international markets, the state apparatus was nullified,” Sullivan said emphatically. “The problem is, state controls on the levels of financial movement restricted how much they could transfer. The regime didn’t want an exodus of wealth so they sought to control it through ever tighter means. Factor in European money laundering regulations and you have quite a problem with which to overcome.”

  “They can get around these problems, though?”

  “Of course. You just need to be creative that’s all.”

  “Sounds easy,” Caslin mused with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Far from it,” Sullivan continued, “but once you have a network of foreign assets to call upon it is eminently doable.”

  “Assets?”

  “Willing locals,” Sullivan offered. “A network of people with vested interests to help you. We’re getting into offshore accounts, shell companies, trusts that administer philanthropic funds. All of which will be used to funnel money in and out of countries to fund investment projects, property deals, business acquisitions and the like.”

  “They still need to transfer money, though. Right?”

  Sullivan rocked his head from side to side, scrunching up his nose as if to imply Caslin was on the right track, “Sort of,” he said. “Look at it this way, for example. You have a deal that needs financing back in Moscow. Your asset, a UK national, agrees to buy a property you own in Belgravia,” Sullivan referenced one of the most prestigious property locations in London, “to fund the purchase, he takes out a mortgage but instead of transferring the money to you, instead he invests it in your Moscow scheme. When the deal comes off, the profits from the development come in and only then does he pay you the purchase price.”

  Caslin thought on it, “So, what happens next?” Sullivan chuckled at his lack of comprehension, irritating him.

  “What do you mean?” Sullivan stated. “That’s it. It’s done. You’ve raised money to pay for your investment without having to transfer anything out of Russia. The profits come back, paying you for the house in Belgravia, paying back the mortgage and none of it is in your name. The trail becomes hard to follow, particularly if your involvement is kept a secret.”

  “But you don’t have the money,” Caslin said.

  Sullivan shook his head, “No but your trusted lieutenant does and it’s untraceable to you. What’s more, it’s clean as a whistle.”

  “What happens to the money then?”

  “Your associates will buy cars, property, whatever you like. You purchase them at stupid prices, sell them on, draw your money that way. Of course, often you never see or touch any of these assets. They are bought and sold in seconds, laundering millions in a few strokes.”

  “Sounds crooked,” Caslin said, sipping at his pint.

  “Oh, absolutely but, and this is the kicker, it washes the money to the point of being untraceable.”

  “And that was important for the likes of Kuznetsov?” Caslin clarified.

  “With Kuznetsov, he is hardly popular in some parts of eastern Europe these days. As soon as his money is tagged somewhere, someone will go after it. It was in his interests to be as opaque as possible.”

  “Are you suggesting Kuznetsov had money that we are not aware of?”

  “Without doubt,” Sullivan replied triumphantly.

  “Where?” Caslin asked. Sullivan shook his head, grinning as he raised his pint to his lips.

  “Now, if I knew that, so would the HMRC, wouldn’t it? Besides, I’m a journalist. You’re the detective!”

  Caslin sank back in his chair, cursing himself for hoping that Sullivan was about to give him a massive heads-up. If he was right however, analysing Kuznetsov’s associates could provide a strong lead.

  “Not a suicide then?” Sullivan asked.

  “I never said that,” Caslin countered.

  “You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”

  “Is it that obvious?” Caslin asked. Sullivan grinned.

  “What about the other one? The murder of the paedo?”

  Caslin shook his head, “He’s not a paedophile as far as I’m aware. Not having a great deal of joy with that one, though, if I’m honest. It’s early days.”

  “Doesn’t help to have Osgood-Bellamy in town either, does it?” Sullivan said. Caslin shook his head. “Nasty piece of work, he is,” Sullivan added.

  “Tapped into the mood of the public, though. Somehow, he’s being touted as some kind of hero. Not too long ago, the likes of him wouldn’t have gained any traction at all,” Caslin said bitterly.

  “Sign of the changing times,” Sullivan said.

  “Hopefully, it’s more of a blip than a sea change.”

  “Amen to that,” Sullivan replied, standing. Indicating towards Caslin’s drink with his own empty glass, he asked, “Same again?” Caslin checked the time, knowing that he probably shouldn’t but nodded an affirmative anyway.

  * * *

  The sound of the clapper striking Great Peter, York Minster’s largest bell, carried from the North-West Tower across the city to signify the time had reached Eleven o’clock.

  Caslin stumbled on the uneven slabs beneath his feet. At least, that was his excuse. Although, he sought to mitigate the outcome of the impromptu drinking session by acknowledging it had been a while since he’d spent an entire evening with a friend, at his favourite haunt. Jimmy Sullivan was good company. Quick witted and, almost always, relaxed company.

  The evening had passed swiftly. The journalist’s knowledge of the darker elements of society never ceased to amaze Caslin. His own world was forever populated by shady individuals who most members of society only ever came across in works of fiction. They were both paid to wade through the cesspool, albeit for different reasons.

  One day, Caslin thought he might find out what motivated his friend to do what he did. For himself, Caslin was driven to make a difference. As the years passed, the tiers of success became harder to measure. Feeling a little nauseous, Caslin reckoned it probably hadn’t been the best idea to head back to Sullivan’s apartment after leaving the Cellars. Hopefully, the walk back into the centre to his home in Kleiser’s Court would revive him a little.

  A shriek cut through the still air of the freezing night, startling him. Stopping in his tracks, Caslin looked around in an attempt to determine where it originated from. At this time on a Sunday night, most of the city was deserted without even the hum of traffic to break the silence. The clouds parted, revealing a bright, full moon in the sky above. The surrounding area was bathed in silver light, eerie and foreboding. Another scream. Caslin took off along the street, making a right turn at the next intersection. Within fifty feet of the turn, he saw a figure slumped on the steps at the entrance to a building.

  Breaking into a sprint, he approached the woman, dropping to his haunches alongside her and reaching out he touched her shoulder. She looked up at him, fear and borderline panic in her eyes. Tears ran down her face and she was visibly shaking.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” Caslin asked. She couldn’t speak, such was her emotional state but raising her right hand, she pointed into the building. Caslin looked at the entrance doors, now realising where he was. He was outside the Islamic Centre, the largest Mosque in the city.

  One of the double doors was open and Caslin could see a flickering light further inside. At first, he thought it was the electrics but within moments the light grew in size and intensity. The building was on fire.

  “Is anyone inside?” he asked. The woman nodded. Rising, he rummaged through his coat pocket searching for his phone as he took the steps, two at a time. He was inside before he made
the emergency call for assistance, requesting the attendance of all three emergency services.

  The entrance lobby was empty, spartanly furnished with a noticeboard detailing upcoming events, prayer times and the like. A wide staircase was set off to his right, providing access to the upper floors and a corridor in front of him led further into the building, now lit by an orange glow. Caslin hesitated but only for the briefest of moments. He knew where he had to go, towards the flames.

  Moving forward, he found the fire appeared to be confined to an interior room, he deduced to be roughly halfway into the bowels of the building and on the eastern side. Slowing as he approached the doorway, Caslin steeled himself.

  Peering around into the room, he saw the fire was taking hold. The far side of the room was ablaze where the flames were at their most intense. They were climbing the curtains and the walls, running at pace across the ceiling, spreading throughout the room. Black smoke began to billow out into the corridor where Caslin stood, fanned by the breeze of a broken window at the heart of the fire.

  At that moment, the lights went out as the electrics shorted. He ducked low, covering his mouth and nose to limit his intake of the acrid smoke. Beside a table, frighteningly close to the advancing flames, a man lay apparently unconscious. Keeping low, Caslin made his way towards him. The intensity of the blaze was such that he found he had to use his coat as a shield against the heat of the blaze.

  Coming alongside the stricken man, Caslin knelt. He was elderly, probably well into his seventies and dressed in a cream thobe that stretched from shoulder to foot. Seeing no sign of visible injury, Caslin knew he had to get them out and fast. He could feel the intensity of the heat against his skin and it was alarming. He unceremoniously took a hold of the older man, grasping him by the clothing of his chest and hauling him upright. Glancing back towards the door, their only exit, Caslin was dismayed to see the flames rolling down from the ceiling above and licking at the doorframe. He assessed they had but seconds to escape.

  Finding the strength from within, Caslin hoisted the man up and across his shoulders. Despite his age, he was far from frail and his frame was significant. Caslin suddenly felt a surge of fear, borne from a realisation that he might not be able to manage. Brushing the feeling aside, he made for the door, almost stumbling at two points under the weight of his load. The polystyrene roof tiles of the suspended ceiling were falling all around them, some on fire, others raining down droplets of molten plastic. The flames were in the cavity and spreading with frightening speed. Caslin staggered towards the door, knowing they would have to pass through the fire itself. He did so at pace.

  Reaching the sanctuary of the corridor beyond, he found it too was now filled with black smoke. Above him, the heat emanating from the ceiling told him they were in serious trouble. Breathing heavily, he set off for the entrance but he could no longer see the streetlights beyond, such was the ferocity of the flame and the smoke. Every breath stung within his lungs and seemed to offer less air. Every step became more laboured and Caslin felt his panic rising. Trying to keep low, away from the smoke, proved to be impossible with his charge across his shoulders and Caslin stumbled. Both men crashed to the floor.

  Knowing that to remain where they were, even for a few seconds, could be the difference between life and death, Caslin rolled back onto his front and pulled himself up onto his knees. Visibility was now such that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Scrabbling around in the dark, he located the unconscious man’s upper body and looped his own arms under the armpits, interlocking his hands across the chest. Having completely lost his bearings, Caslin felt the heat from the fire was more intense before him. Therefore, he set off down the corridor in the opposite direction, confident that was the way out.

  His eyes were stinging and water was running from them along with the sweat pouring down his face. Trying to hold his breath, fearful of the toxic cloud surrounding him, Caslin found the going tough. He knew the distance to safety, once in the corridor, was less than forty feet from the source of the fire but it seemed an interminable distance now. Why weren’t they safe already? The thought flashed through his mind that he’d taken the wrong decision and was now leading them into the building and not out of it. Panic threatened to consume him but he kept going.

  With each step his charge felt heavier as did his own body. Each movement was slower. From nowhere, he felt a surge of pressure come at them. Before he knew it, Caslin found himself flat on his back with a rush of colour passing over him in stark contrast to the black that’d encompassed them thus far. Darkness followed and Caslin lay there. The polished concrete floor was solid beneath him, unforgiving and yet comfortable. The will to move was lost on him as was any sense of urgency. Caslin closed his eyes only to sense movement alongside, bringing him back to reality. A small, dancing, white-light flashed before him. Suddenly, he felt something take a firm hold of him and he was moving again. This time, he was being dragged along the corridor only at a far greater speed. Caslin could see movement around him but no detail, just a vague notion that he was no longer alone.

  Within moments they were outside. Caslin coughed. A violent, hacking cough that racked his entire body. A hand placed a mask over his mouth and nose, the oxygen that flowed into his lungs from it was a relief. Rolling his head to the side, against the protestations of his medic, Caslin scanned the scene for the man he’d left behind only to see him being lifted onto a gurney with paramedics and firefighting personnel in attendance. Only then, could Caslin relax. As his senses stabilised, Caslin took note of the two appliances dispatched to tackle the blaze along with several ambulances. Police were also in attendance, cordoning off the area and assisting the firefighters in doing their job.

  “Sir, is there anybody else left in the building?” a voice asked. Caslin looked over to see the station officer standing alongside, identifiable by his white helmet.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve no idea,” he replied honestly, removing his mask. The man left without another word and Caslin could hear him handing out instructions to his assembled team. There was no sign of the woman he had encountered outside the mosque when he’d first arrived. He assumed she was being taken care of. Now feeling no ill effects from the alcohol he’d consumed, the surge of adrenalin having successfully countered it, Caslin considered the fire. Tapping the forearm of the paramedic who was in the process of wrapping a blanket around him, to fend off the cold and any potential advance of shock, he sought the attention of the station officer. The paramedic brought the officer back. Caslin, feeling in better control of his faculties, sat up but kept the oxygen mask close to him. He spoke between deep draws.

  “I’m not sure what happened but from the look of the room, where the fire started, I’d say there was an accelerant in play.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “The intensity of the blaze where it originated. It was too fast. There were no appliances, open fires or anything like that that would justify such a fire to start there,” Caslin explained. “The window to the adjacent street was also smashed.”

  “Thanks, I’ll tell the investigator as soon as he arrives,” The officer said.

  “The man. The one I tried to pull out.”

  “The Imam? It looks like he suffered a heart attack,” the officer told him. “His wife was with him and claims something was thrown through the window at them. It all started from there. Probably the window you were talking about. By the sounds of it, the police will have another investigation on their hands.”

  “Like I’m not busy enough,” Caslin said. Then it dawned on the officer that Caslin was a policeman. “Something knocked me over, before your team pulled me out.”

  “We think there was a flashover. It’s a bit early to say but possibly that was caused by the fire reaching the kitchens.”

  “Right,” Caslin said quietly. The officer nodded to him and excused himself. Caslin took another draw on the oxygen.

  “We’re going to take you to hospital an
d assess how much smoke you’ve inhaled, okay?” the paramedic told him. Caslin acknowledged him but offered no further comment as he watched the hoses of the brigade appliances being trained on the building. The fire had spread rapidly. If anyone else was inside, chances are it was already too late for them.

  Chapter 14

  Caslin climbed out of the passenger seat onto the pavement on High Petergate, a stone’s throw from York Minster. Handing the taxi-driver a ten-pound note, he didn’t wait for the change and set off for home. His apartment, located in the historic Shambles, was a mere two-minute walk away nestled amongst the artisan shops and cobbled streets.

  During the day, the ability to negotiate the crowds at any time of the year was essential. However, nothing moved at this hour. Satisfied he’d suffered no major damage from his earlier exploits that evening, the medical staff discharged him. A chest that tightened each time he drew breath along with the occasionally hacking up of phlegm, the colour of coal dust, was considered normal under the circumstances. Discomforting, certainly but unworthy of an extended stay. A conclusion Caslin was more than happy with. He’d had enough of stays in hospital to last him for quite some time.

  Rounding the corner onto Stonegate, he was a few steps from home. Glancing at his watch, it was a little before three in the morning and it felt like it. He unlocked the communal access door, entered the passageway and trotted up the steps to his apartment. The exertion brought on yet another coughing fit and he had to brace himself against the wall of the stairwell. Entering his apartment, he didn’t bother to flick on the lights. Instead, he walked into his living room, illuminated with an orange glow by the lights hanging from the buildings in the street outside. He chose not to draw the curtains and ignored the fleeting notion to pour himself a scotch, instead, sinking into his armchair and resting his head. Any feeling that he’d had a drink earlier in the day had long since left him. The only urge he had left to fulfil was that of sleep. Closing his eyes, Caslin sought to clear his mind of the jumbled thoughts gnawing away at him.