Better to destroy them, surely?
When Billy flicked open the top folder, meaning to quickly analyse how incriminating the documents could be, his eyes immediately fell on the letter Pink had signed, granting him power of attorney over the companies and accounts he had set up to launder or hide the profits from his many shady business dealings.
This gave Billy pause for thought.
Billy had been on a reasonable wage at the office, but lately he’d been spending more than he earned, secure in the knowledge that he would soon be able to pay off whatever debts he had with the hike in wages he’d get when he made junior partner. With that gone, and the freelance work for Pink also gone for good, how was he to finance his life on the run? He couldn’t just walk into a new job and a new house, and he’d be damned if he was going to slum it in some dodgy hostel while he found his feet in some unfamiliar city.
He had lost a million pounds of Pink Harrison’s money already that day. What possible difference could a few hundred pounds more make? Or even a few thousand?
Might as well be shot for a sheep as a lamb.
With any luck, Pink would be so mad over the missing million, he wouldn’t even notice a few thousand being siphoned off from some obscure account he was barely even aware of anyway.
I put my career on the line for him, Billy thought. I just need a few grand to get me started. Ten, tops.
Did he dare? He was soaked in sweat even thinking about it. But what choice did he have? Was he going to sit here and wait for Bull to arrive, and then try to reason with him? If Bull didn’t shoot him in the head straight away, then the best he could possibly hope for would be a slight delay, just long enough for him to be dragged back to the Rangers Supporters Club and hideously tortured. Then he would be shot in the head.
It wasn’t as if moving Pink’s money around different accounts was new to him. He had all the passwords and access codes. So all he was doing was moving the money to a different account. He wouldn’t even have to speak to anyone. He could do it all over the internet.
Billy powered up the computer. He quickly accessed the first of Pink’s foreign accounts, based in the Hellenic Bank in Nicosia, Cyprus. He typed in the relevant codes, authorising a transfer of ten thousand pounds to his own personal account with the Northern Bank in Belfast. It was just a trial, to see if it worked. He hesitated over the send instruction. Outside, a car door slammed. Billy raced to the window, but saw that it was just a neighbour carrying in groceries. He calmed himself, then returned to the computer, took a deep breath, and pressed the button.
Done.
He checked his watch: it was after 3 p.m. He knew from past experience that electronic transfers, although claiming to be instantaneous, were still quite often authorised by hand, and that if instructions weren’t communicated by say, lunchtime, it would quite often be the next day before the money actually appeared in the desired account. Or perhaps they were a little more efficient in Cyprus.
Still, ten grand - it was more than enough to get him started, cash in hand.
The thing was, now that he had started, he could hardly stop himself. He began to transfer money out of every single one of Pink’s accounts, sometimes channelling it into different accounts within the same bank, sometimes into entirely new accounts in different banks in different countries. Before he knew it he had all but emptied every one of Pink’s secret hideaways - at least those he operated for him - only leaving token amounts in them to keep them open. When Billy finally glanced at his watch he was amazed and somewhat distressed to discover that nearly two hours had passed. And yet he couldn’t leave it; a kind of fever was upon him. He next found his way into Pink’s own private accounts with the Northern and drained those as well.
Finally he stood, exhausted, but also exhilarated. He would no longer be shot as a lamb, but as a huge flock of sheep. Very, very rich sheep. Totting it all up, Billy reckoned he had siphoned over three million pounds out of Pink Harrison’s many accounts. He giggled. It wasn’t a maniacal giggle, but it wasn’t far short. He switched off the computer. He pulled on his jacket and lifted his Gucci luggage. He took a final look around the apartment. Leaving the plasma TV, the ice-making fridge and the nuclear microwave now didn’t feel quite so bad. Before, it had felt so dreadful because he sensed he would never again achieve such a level of luxury. But now with money in the bank, many banks, anything was possible. Even life.
111
The Balcony Scene
‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to achieve,’ Linda said as Jimmy Marsh Mallow pulled the balcony door closed, ‘but you’re on a hiding to nothing. I’m taking one more look at this stinking, messed-up city and then I’m jumping.’
Her legs were really aching now, but not half as much as her head from all the drinking, and her heart, from all the disappointment. She peered down at the ground far below. At least she would be spared the embarrassment of having a crowd witness her plummet to a bloody, pulpy death. The apartments were empty, the builders that remained on site had been sent home because of the trouble, and the emergency services, to judge by the sky, were detained elsewhere. Just her and her soul and this hefty-looking man in his out-of-date suit and polished shoes, leaning on the rail. She wasn’t sure if he was a cop or a doctor or what. She wondered if he was man enough to say no when sex was offered at a price, because that’s what she’d done, sold herself in order to flog a flat - she could see that now. Cheap.
He said, ‘How are you doing, Linda?’
Linda snorted. ‘You’re not talking me down.’
‘No intention of it,’ said Marsh.
‘Yeah. Right.’
‘No, really. I just thought, before you jump, I should apologise.’
‘For what?’
‘Well, there’s a bit of a story to it.’
‘Can we cut to the chase then? Because I’m just about ready to go.’
‘Oh right. Well. Sure, it’ll keep.’
‘What do you mean, it’ll keep? I’m about to jump!’
‘I mean, it’s not that important. To me - maybe, but not to you.’
A gust of wind caught her suddenly and she wobbled. She had to dig her fingers into the tiniest grooves in the mortar between the bricks to maintain her position. Steadied, she saw that the man was staring intently at the ground below, and apparently hadn’t noticed that she’d nearly fallen.
‘Who are you?’ Linda asked. ‘Police?’ Marsh gave a little shrug. ‘Or like that Cracker Robbie Coltrane? You needn’t think you’re going to just bullshit me to safety.’
Marsh turned a little towards her. ‘You don’t recognise me?’
‘Should I?’
‘Well, you’ve seen me before, one way or another - I’m pretty sure of that.’
She studied his features, and decided quickly that he was sort of familiar, but she had no idea where from. Maybe he owned the building, or had once worked in her office. ‘Like I care,’ she said.
Marsh shook his head. ‘Sure you do, and I’ll tell you, if you let me, but it’s kind of roundabout and like you say, you have an appointment.’ Marsh did not doubt that Linda Wray was serious about jumping. But it was a calculated guess, not to mention a sweeping generalisation about women, that she would not want to die curious.
‘Okay - tell me.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Only I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything.’
She snapped, ‘Just f***ing tell me!’ but even with it, there was a trace of a smile.
‘Well,’ said Marsh, ‘I’m Jimmy Mallow. Head of the CID, possibly the second most powerful police officer in Belfast, and certainly the most experienced.’
‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’
‘Not at all, because it’s not true. Not any more. Not as of about thirty minutes ago.’
‘Thirty minutes?’
‘Aye. I got the Royal order of the boot.’
‘So you’re not a policeman.’
>
‘No.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Like I say, I came to apologise.’
‘For what?’
‘Well, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, if you would ever shut up and give me a chance.’ He raised his eyebrows. She looked away, at the ground below. ‘So do you want to hear me out or not?’
‘Yes! If you must!’
‘Well, y’see, the reason I got sacked, and you’ll be reading it in the papers soon - I mean, you won’t, obviously, but everyone else will - is that I beat up a prostitute and then tried to buy her silence.’
‘You what?’
‘Yeah, I thought that might get your attention. It’s not strictly true, of course, but that’s what you’ll read, or not as the case may be. Anyway, as it happens, I was on a date with her. I didn’t know she was a prostitute, and then when I did know, I tried to order her out of the house and she fell down the stairs and cracked her head. At least, that’s my story.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
Marsh sighed. ‘Because it all has to do with the apology, admittedly in a roundabout fashion. Y’see, I’m a cop, I need to get all the evidence out there, so you can make a fair judgement. Do you get me? So if you’ll let me finish … Do you want me to finish?’
Linda stared at him. She did want to know, but not really because of the story, because of him. There was something comforting about him, something big and protective. He was like a childhood episode of Jackanory. She knew that he was probably being paid to get inside her head like some psychic gigolo, and make her feel better, but she couldn’t do anything about it. He was just there and she could hardly resist. She gave a slight nod of her head for him to continue.
‘Well, y’see, the reason I was on this date, is my wife died a few months ago. Cancer. Afterwards I was a bit miserable, so my daughter thought she’d help things along because … well, because she cares. The thing is, Linda, I loved my wife, but I never really showed her, until it was too late. I was married to the job, and I brought it home with me, and it can be a terrible job, so I was a terrible husband - and father. You know, regret is a dreadful thing, and doubly so when you can’t do anything about it. It eats you up. Is that how it gets you?’
‘Finally it comes round to me.’
‘I was only asking, you don’t have to answer. I haven’t finished my story yet.’
‘Oh Christ, if it’s all going to be this depressing I should jump sooner rather than later.’
‘Well, it’s good you’re considering later.’ This time he gave the smallest smile. And she responded.
‘I’m sorry about your wife,’ said Linda, ‘but it really hasn’t anything to do with me. If you want to come up here and jump with me, that’s fine.’
‘Well, that’s an option,’ said Marsh. He stared at the ground again. But then he gave another shake of his head. ‘The thing is, Linda, my whole life has just fallen apart. I think I was just about coping because I had my job, but then that got stolen from me today and just now … well, I was sitting on the Newtownards Road and I was on the verge of going postal, you know?’
‘Postal?’
‘Taking my gun out and shooting people just for the sake of it.’
‘Oh,’ said Linda. ‘And did you?’
‘No, because of you.’
‘Me?’
‘You were on the police radio.’
‘Oh, right. You thought if you saved me, you could make yourself feel a bit better. Well, sorry to disappoint.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that. I heard your name, and I thought, “That’s a bit of a coincidence. If it’s you, I should come and apologise.” You know, before you jump and I go postal.’
Linda rolled her eyes. ‘Will you get to the f***ing point?!’
‘Okay - you’re right. I am being a bit long-winded. The point is - this prostitute, the date, I met her through a website called Let’s Be Mates.’
‘Let’s Be Mates.’ She was looking at him with greater interest now, although she only had his side profile to study.
‘I had no intention of trying to meet someone again after my wife died. My daughter bushwhacked me with membership of this thing and suddenly there were these women on my computer dead keen to go out on a date. I went through their emails and membership files and photos, and the one I thought was the nicest by far, I arranged a date with her.’
Finally he looked at her straight on. ‘We were supposed to meet for dinner - at Lemon Tree.’
‘Lemon Grass,’ said Linda.
Marsh nodded. ‘Except when I got there, I couldn’t get out of the car. I thought she was really lovely-looking, but I still couldn’t get out of the car. I hadn’t been out on a date for thirty years, and I missed my wife. I was just … scared. So I did something unforgivable. I watched her, watched her get more and more embarrassed just sitting there, and then I drove off. I went home.’
‘You,’ said Linda.
Marsh nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it. I just wanted to apologise. Now, if you wish, you can jump. And I can, you know, go off on the rampage.’
‘Is that what you’re going to do?’
‘Well, I suppose. Don’t really see much alternative. Unless you were in a particularly forgiving mood and you let me take you out for that meal. I’ve, uh, recently lost my wife and my job, and I’m about to be vilified in the press as a violent woman-beater, so I can promise you some interesting but miserable conversation. That said, I hear the food’s lovely. And if you do come down off that rail you can think of it not so much as you chickening out of a suicide as you saving the lives of all those poor people on the Newtownards Road I am going to murder if you don’t go out for dinner with me. So, what do you say?’
112
Credit Where Credit’s Due
The rioting had already begun to wind down naturally when word went out that it should be completely called off. After three days of mayhem on the city’s streets Pink Harrison was finally being released without charge, forensic teams not having been able to find a single microscopic dot of evidence linking him either to the murder of Michael Caldwell or the mysterious death of Benny Caproni. The city could get back to work, and play. Insurance companies could send out assessors; builders and double glazers could begin planning lavish Christmas parties. Chief Constable Tony Martin appeared at a press conference and denied that Pink’s release came as a result of political pressure. ‘Allegations were made against Councillor Harrison and we had a duty to investigate. No evidence was found and so he has been released.’
‘Are you saying that you made a mistake?’ one reporter asked.
‘No, they were serious allegations and we treated them seriously.’
‘And are you now satisfied that Pink has nothing whatsoever to do with these crimes?’
‘There is no evidence to link him to these crimes.’
‘Will you be apologising to Councillor Harrison?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a rumour going around that Jimmy Mallow has been sacked - would you care to comment?’
‘Jimmy Mallow is taking early retirement, for personal reasons. He has been a loyal and faithful servant to both the RUC and the Police Service of Northern Ireland.’
‘Has he been sacked because of Pink Harrison?’
‘He hasn’t been sacked. The Pink Harrison arrest was part of a wider murder investigation and was handled with complete professionalism by all concerned.’
‘Do you believe that Pink Harrison was behind the rioting?’
‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘Do you believe it was orchestrated by his supporters?’
‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘Is Pink Harrison no longer part of your murder investigation?’
‘Councillor Harrison has been released. If new evidence emerges, he or anyone else can be detained for questioning.’
‘Has Marsh Mallow b
een sacrificed because the politicians need someone’s head to roll over all this rioting?’
‘No.’
‘Rumour has it Belfast Confidential has something on Jimmy Mallow - care to comment?’
‘Well, you tell me. You’re from Belfast Confidential, Mr Starkey.’
That got a laugh, and provided an opportunity for the Chief Constable to call the press conference to an end on a lighter note. A few minutes later, on a footpath just outside Police Headquarters, Pink Harrison held his own. It was slightly chaotic, being right beside a busy main road, and with Pink’s supporters singing his name and chanting their support and drivers pumping their horns as they realised who it was.
Pink, having ordered that his expensive toiletries be brought from home (and which his equally expensive solicitor only found after some considerable trouble, Pink’s house in Holywood having been left in a state of chaos by the forensic team), and having been allowed use of shower facilities by the PSNI, once it became clear that they didn’t have any evidence against him, looked his usual suave and dashing self; his hair sat perfectly and the three-day stubble was gone; his skin shone and his eyes were luminous.
Pink immediately condemned the police for their actions and said his arrest was like something out of ‘Stalinist Russia’. He grew visibly angry when a reporter accused him of calling his supporters out onto the streets to riot, and described it as a ‘spontaneous show of support’ which he very much appreciated. Although he ‘obviously’ regretted the amount of damage that had been caused, he said this had erupted because of provocation by the PSNI in their heavy-handed response to a peaceful protest. Despite this, Pink maintained his support for the rank and file of the PSNI, who he said were doing a difficult job, and instead blamed the Chief Constable for bowing to pressure from ‘my political rivals’. He called for Tony Martin to resign, and welcomed the departure of the Head of the CID, James Mallow, who, he said, had chosen to fall on his own sword rather than face the humiliation of being sacked. He expressed sympathy for the families of Michael Caldwell and Benny Caproni, hoped that George Green, the missing property millionaire who was now the chief suspect, would soon be found, and prayed that he himself would now be allowed to get back to what he did best, representing his people and continuing the search for a permanent and peaceful settlement in Northern Ireland.
I Predict a Riot Page 47