Lies to Tell

by Marion Todd

Clare estimated Corinne Sim was in her forties. Her sleek dark bob was tucked behind her ears, revealing the odd liver spot on her temples and crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. Her no-nonsense manner suggested she knew her job inside out and Clare thought she was just the kind of officer she’d like to have on her staff. She scanned Corinne’s badge and saw she was a DS. Not much chance of poaching her from the larger Bell Street station in Dundee, then.

  ‘It’s a common enough picture, these days,’ Corinne was saying, as Chris placed three mugs of tea down on an empty desk in the incident room. ‘Anyone with cash-heavy criminal activity is looking for a way to make the money clean. Sometimes there’s so much cash that to pay it into an account would ring alarm bells at the bank. So they look for money mules to help them launder it.’

  ‘And students are looking for easy ways to supplement their loans?’

  ‘Yep. The universities do their best – lots of warnings about consequences – but some are still willing to do it. And, if they keep the account busy enough with lots of small transactions, the banks often don’t notice.’

  Clare pulled over the bank statements. ‘Can you have a look at these please, Corinne? We’ve one student dead and another gone missing but no idea why. Is there anything you can glean from the statements?’

  Corinne pulled on a pair of metal-rimmed glasses and began scrutinising the printouts. ‘So here,’ she said, after a few minutes, ‘this purchase from Cesciland Corp in Delaware – that’s almost certainly a shell company.’

  Clare frowned. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Companies in name only. They’re created to allow money to be shifted around through several companies, making it harder to trace. The reason they use Delaware is it’s one of the two states in the US that allows companies to function, anonymously. Crooks set up multiple shell companies with fake orders and invoices and pass the money between them; and, because of the anonymity, there’s almost no way to trace the owners. But the owners will be the same crooks who gave your student the money to pay into his bank.’

  She studied the statements again then jabbed a finger at another transaction. ‘See this?’ she said. ‘eBay. This debit card transaction for four hundred pounds. Then another for three hundred to PayPal a couple of weeks later.’

  Clare’s brow furrowed. ‘But why would he use a debit card for eBay if he has a PayPal account?’

  ‘Exactly. It makes no sense – unless you’re trying to pay out a lot of money using different methods.’

  Chris said, ‘But, hold on – if they buy something on eBay, that’s not laundering money. That’s buying stuff. Or do they sell it on to someone else?’

  Corinne shook her head. ‘No, the stuff they buy doesn’t actually exist. The crooks with the dirty money set up a series of eBay accounts, all through disposable email addresses. They then create a listing for a high-value item – say an iPad. They check prices of similar tablets and inflate the price – high enough to put off prospective buyers. Maybe they add on the maximum postage costs or list it as Collection Only. Our mule comes along and pays for it from his PayPal account. The money is transferred to the seller – your criminals – less the usual eBay and PayPal commission – et, voila. It’s no longer dirty money. But PayPal get jumpy if you earn more than fifteen hundred pounds in a tax year so the mules use a variety of methods to pay for these non-existent iPads – or whatever they are.’

  ‘So that explains why some of the payments are made direct to eBay and others to PayPal?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Yep. And it’s not limited to PayPal, either. They can do direct bank transfers, or use other payment services – Nochex.com, CertaPay and so on. And then there are other vending sites they can use – not just eBay. There’s even one called ebuygumm!’

  Chris frowned. ‘So, let me see if I’ve got this: the crooks give Johannes one thousand pounds which he banks, using his five different accounts – varying the amounts each month. He knows he can keep around five per cent so he withdraws some in cash, transfers some to businesses like the Delaware one and uses the rest to pay for bogus transactions?’

  Corinne nodded. ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘And the purchases from the company in Delaware – the goods don’t exist?’

  ‘No. There will be a paper trail making it look as if goods have been sent but these companies are owned, anonymously, by the crooks trying to launder the money.’

  ‘But what happens if another eBay customer buys the bogus iPad?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Simple. The seller cancels the transaction. Says it’s developed a fault – something like that. eBay returns the money to the buyer and our crook simply lists it again on another eBay account, maybe increasing the price to put genuine buyers off.’

  Chris sat back in his chair, processing this. ‘They’d have to be pretty well organised to keep track of it all.’

  ‘Which is why students are popular. They’re generally tech-savvy and good at this kind of thing. It wouldn’t surprise me if your Johannes’s laptop had a detailed spreadsheet or something like that, keeping track of all these transactions.’ Corinne jabbed at the statement again. ‘Someone as organised as this is a dream to a crook with dirty money to launder.’

  Clare fell silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘Chris, we need to contact the university and get them to put out something to all students, warning them off this kind of thing.’

  ‘I doubt it’ll help much,’ Corinne said. ‘But it does no harm to remind the students of the potential penalties. They usually end up being kicked off their courses and can even do time for it.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ Clare went on, ‘does any of this help us track down who Johannes was working for? I can’t believe it’s not connected to his murder.’

  Corinne began leafing through the statements again. ‘I doubt it, Clare. But if you give me copies of these I’ll have a closer look. I wouldn’t get your hopes up, though.’

  Clare left Corinne and Chris discussing the statements and went outside to phone Wendy. ‘How are things, Wendy?’

  ‘We’re okay, Clare. No more sightings of the blue van, thankfully, and the guys in the red Range Rover have been across the road so I think we’re safe enough. But Tamsin’s going stir crazy. Any word on the jury retiring?’

  ‘Not sure, Wendy. Don’t tell Tamsin but Phil Quinn’s been on the stand and he’s implicated her.’

  ‘Hold on…’

  Clare heard Wendy saying something to Tamsin then the sound of her running downstairs. Then she heard the noise of traffic. Wendy must have gone outside to continue the call.

  ‘Phil Quinn’s implicating Tamsin?’ Wendy repeated.

  ‘Yep. But there’s no point in telling her. It’ll only add to her worries. The time to worry will be if the jury believe him.’

  ‘I didn’t realise he’d lodged that as a defence.’

  ‘He hadn’t. And here’s the thing, Wendy: Tamsin was given immunity in return for her testimony.’

  ‘Whose decision was that?’

  ‘The Fiscal’s ultimately but DCI Gibson pushed for it.’

  Wendy gave a low whistle. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes if Phil Quinn does get off.’

  Clare was thinking the same thing. Al Gibson had taken a chance giving Tamsin immunity. Listening to her on the witness stand yesterday, Clare could well understand why he had done it. Her testimony had been damning. But, if the jury didn’t believe it, Phil Quinn would get away scot-free. ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Clare said. ‘Better go, Wendy. Not a word to Tamsin, mind.’

  Clare ended the call and was about to head back into the station when her phone rang. Glancing at the display she saw it was DCI Gibson again. But why wasn’t he calling her on the Alcatel? She swiped to answer the call. ‘Hi Al—’

  He cut across her, speaking quickly, his tone sharp. ‘Clare, we have a problem.’

  She wondered what on earth he meant and why his manner had changed from his last phone call.

  ‘I’ve just bee
n called out of Phil Quinn’s trial to take a call from the Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’

  ‘It is. Remember that pro-am golf tournament you policed last month…’

  ‘I do. The one sponsored by the Spanish sherry producer – on the Old Course.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘That was all signed off, Al. I emailed all the forms over a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes, you did. The only problem is they weren’t right.’

  His words stung. Clare prided herself on being particular with paperwork. ‘Not right? How? What was wrong with them?’

  ‘A small matter of the invoice for policing.’

  She racked her brains. ‘I think it was around eighty thousand – something like that. Have they not paid?’

  ‘Oh, they’ve paid all right. Quickly too and I don’t blame them.’ He paused then said, ‘Did you realise you missed a zero off the end?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Clare – you invoiced them for eight thousand pounds. Not eighty. They must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. You’ve cost Police Scotland seventy-two thousand pounds.’

  Clare’s mouth felt dry. Could it have been some kind of printing error? But that didn’t make sense – the amounts were always spelled out in words and figures. How the hell had it happened? ‘Hold on, Al,’ she said. ‘I’m going back into my office to check.’

  ‘Phone me back,’ he said, his tone curt. And he ended the call.

  In the office she wiggled the mouse to bring her computer to life and tapped in her password. She went to her documents and found the folder for the golf event. The invoice was there, among the documents, and she clicked to open it, tapping on her desk with a pen while she waited for it to load. After what felt like an eternity the document appeared in front of her and she looked at the total at the foot of the money column: eight thousand pounds.

  Clare sank back in her chair. How could she have been so stupid? She had known full well it had been for eighty thousand. It had been such a busy few days. She must have been rushing to complete the paperwork and mistyped. She sat for a minute or two then picked up her phone again. The DCI answered immediately.

  ‘Al, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘So your copy says eight thousand?’

  ‘It does. But I don’t know how. I’m sure I made it out for eighty thousand.’

  ‘Obviously not, Clare. And now I have to go and explain that to the Chief Superintendent who wants to know why we’re seventy-two thousand pounds down on the event.’

  ‘Al, I—’

  ‘Look, Clare,’ he said, his tone softening, ‘it’s not great. But maybe I can do something. I’ll have a word with someone in Accounts – see if they’ll issue a second invoice for the balance. Appeal to the company’s better nature.’

  ‘Think it’ll work?’

  He sighed. ‘To be honest, Clare, I doubt it. But it’s worth a shot.’

  ‘Al – I should do it. It’s my mistake.’

  ‘Yes it is – and a bloody huge one too. But I have a bit more pull than you and I’d like to help if I can. Let me do this for you, Clare…’

  Chapter 25

  As Clare emerged from her office the cry went up.

  ‘It’s Marek,’ Robbie shouted. ‘Spotted in Tayport.’

  She moved to a map of Fife on the wall. Tayport was a small but busy town eleven miles north-east of St Andrews. It sat on the south bank of the River Tay, looking across to Dundee and its popular suburb, Broughty Ferry. ‘Whereabouts?’ Clare asked.

  ‘On the common. Early this morning.’

  Clare scanned the map. ‘It’s next to a caravan park, right at the river,’ she said to Robbie. ‘Reckon that’s where he’s been staying?’

  ‘Not sure yet, boss. Gillian’s headed over there to speak to the park manager. But I gather it was a dog walker who spotted him.’

  ‘Do we know where he is now?’

  ‘No, but there was another possible sighting a couple of hours later at the cemetery. Woman who saw him wasn’t sure but, from what she said, it sounds like him.’

  Clare studied the map again. The cemetery was further west, almost out of Tayport. ‘Just on the edge of the town,’ she said and Robbie agreed. ‘So where’s he heading now?’

  ‘If he’s heading for Dundee he’ll take the pedestrian walkway on the Tay Road Bridge. It’s just a mile further on from the cemetery. Or he could carry on past the bridge into Newport-on-Tay. Or he could even cut across country further into Fife.’

  Chris appeared at her elbow. Clare started to tell him about Marek but he interrupted her. ‘That blue Transit van…’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It crossed the Tay Road Bridge last night. Heading for Dundee.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘About half past eight, I think. Want me to check?’

  ‘No, Chris. But is there any chance we could see the footage?’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  Clare turned back to Robbie. ‘I need every cop and car there is to head over to Tayport. And get onto Bell Street station in Dundee, too. If Marek’s crossed the bridge he could be anywhere in the city. Is there CCTV on the bridge? Please tell me there is…’

  Robbie nodded. ‘Yep. Cameras at either end and another couple in the middle.’

  ‘Good. So we should be able to see if he did cross the river. Robbie, can you do that please?’

  ‘Anything I can do, boss?’ Gillian asked.

  ‘Yeah. Can you get on to the bus station, railway station and put a shout out to taxi drivers? If he’s trying to put some distance between himself and the people he was laundering money for, we need to know where he’s heading.’ She scanned the room for Chris and saw him perched on a desk, next to Sara. ‘Chris – can you co-ordinate the CCTV searches please? And make sure everyone knows to approach him with caution. For all we know he’s responsible for Johannes’s death and I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.’

  Having set them to work, Clare retreated to her office and sat down. She was already outstandingly tired and it was barely lunchtime. She put a hand to her head and rubbed her temples. Her phone buzzed and she took it out to read the message. It was from the DCI. Her heart sank and then she saw it was nothing to do with the golf invoice.

  Judge summing up this afternoon.

  Jury should retire after that.

  She put the phone down and let her mind drift back to the court room and to the jury. A reasonable cross-section she had thought at the time. But who would they believe? Tamsin with her detailed descriptions of the arsenal Phil Quinn had amassed or would they accept Phil’s assertion that Tamsin was the one behind it all? Clare was starting to wonder herself. Had Tamsin been pulling the wool over their eyes? She had said she was frightened of Paddy Grant. Was that because she had dropped him in it too? Clare hadn’t seen all the evidence against Paddy but there must have been something for them to have issued an arrest warrant. If it was Paddy driving that blue Transit van, he must have good reason to risk being seen by the cops guarding Tamsin. Could Paddy even be innocent, the evidence against him concocted by Tamsin? Could Phil be telling the truth? Or were they all in it together?

  A tap on the door brought her back to the present and she looked up to see Gayle. ‘You look like I feel, Clare,’ she said. ‘Bit of a head this morning, I must confess.’

  Clare forced a smile. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She rose. ‘Coffee? I could certainly do with one.’

  Gayle hesitated, just long enough for Clare to notice. ‘Something wrong?’

  Gayle jerked her head towards the door and Clare followed her out of the station by the side entrance. The visitors’ end of the car park was quiet and she walked across to the far end, Clare following.

  Clare took in Gayle’s appearance. She was neatly dressed, as usual, but her face was lined with worry, her easy smile gone. There was something more than a hangover here. Clare felt her palms become damp and she brus
hed them against her trousers. She wanted to ask Gayle what was wrong but, in truth, she was afraid of what the answer might be.

  Gayle checked all round then turned back to Clare. ‘Look, Clare,’ she said, her voice low, ‘there’s something I would very much like to share with you – but I can’t.’

  Clare stared at her. ‘What? Gayle! You can’t just say that. What have you found?’

  Gayle looked down. She seemed to be struggling with herself. Then she met Clare’s eye again. ‘I can’t, Clare. I simply can’t. I’m too close now. But what I want to say is, until I have filed my report and the person responsible for the leak has been taken into custody, you must trust no one.’ She took hold of Clare’s hand. ‘No one, Clare. Got that?’

  Clare wondered at the change in Gayle. She was a professional ethical hacker. Used to delving into the murky depths of company computers. Last Friday, when they had met in that secure unit, she had been utterly in command of herself. Aloof, professional and completely unfazed by the work she did. But here – now – this job – she seemed so affected by it. But what had she found? Who was it Clare shouldn’t trust? Who would be stupid enough to jeopardise their career for a fast buck?

  She thought of Chris and Sara – talking about saving up for a house together. Only the other day Sara was complaining they would need twenty thousand for the deposit. Had one of them been tempted? She put the notion right out of her head. She didn’t even consider Jim, her solid, reliable sergeant. Not for one minute. Jim was as straight as a die and too near retirement to do anything stupid. The other staff – well, who could tell what they had going on in their lives? Hopefully nothing that would make them deliberately leak confidential information in return for a wad of cash. Most of them were lower ranks anyway and wouldn’t have had access to information such as Tamsin’s whereabouts. But were any of them so desperate for money that they would risk their careers?

  And then it hit her like a sledgehammer. The one person who had been trying to get close to her. The person whose marriage had ended and who was trying to hang on to his very large pension. The person who had forsaken his beloved Jaguar for a Ford Focus. The person who she had spent the night with, just two nights ago. DCI Alastair Gibson.