‘At this rate, my heart will give out before Hank Marvin gets me,’ he muttered, turning the amplifier’s volume control all the way up.
Day Seven
17
Next morning, Fox drove to Gartcosh. His night had been restless and he had nicked his chin while shaving. He’d woken up to four texts from Jude, three of them apologetic, one baleful and accusatory. Entering the main building, he climbed the stairs and walked past the HMRC office. Through the window, he could see Sheila Graham seated at her desk, so he headed back to the ground floor, got himself a coffee, and found a perch in the atrium where the upstairs floor was visible.
Nobody paid him any heed. He remembered that he was good at this — blending in, becoming invisible. He’d always enjoyed stakeouts and tailing suspects. With his suit, tie and lanyard, he looked just like everyone else. Only the most senior staff wore anything resembling a uniform. Remove them from the picture and he could have been in any corporate building in the country.
Graham had left her office and was walking towards the other end of the building, where the Organised Crime team were tucked away behind a locked door, one requiring a special keycard. It didn’t really surprise Fox that Graham carried just such a card around her neck. She pulled open the door and passed through it, by which time Fox was halfway up the staircase. He walked into the HMRC office and looked around. Graham’s neighbour was seated at his own computer, facing Graham’s desk. Recognising him from his previous visit, Fox gave a nod of greeting.
‘You just missed her,’ the man said.
‘Will she be long?’
‘Bit of housekeeping to discuss with ACC McManus.’
Fox made show of checking the time on his wristwatch. ‘I’ll maybe wait for a bit, if that’s okay.’
The man gave a shrug of assent and got busy on his screen again. Fox sat down in front of Graham’s monitor. It was in screen-saver mode, and when he nudged the mouse, he saw that a password was required for access.
‘Think she’d mind if I checked my emails?’
‘You can’t do it on your phone?’
‘I can’t always get a signal.’
‘Try “GcoshG69”.’
Fox typed it in. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘I should have asked — making any progress in Edinburgh?’
‘Slowly,’ Fox said. He was studying a list of files. He couldn’t see the name Glushenko, so entered it as a search.
No results.
Having stared at the screen for a few moments, he turned his attention to the desk itself. A three-inch-high pile of manila folders sat to the right of the console. He opened the cover of the first one, but the details meant nothing to him. Same for the one immediately beneath. To the other side of the console sat a tray containing A4 sheets of paper, some stapled or held together with paper clips, Post-it notes attached at various points. But again, no Glushenko.
The desk boasted two deep drawers. Fox slid the nearest one open a few inches. More paperwork, neatly filed.
‘You okay there?’ the HMRC officer asked, growing suspicious.
‘Just wondering if she got the report I sent.’
‘Easier to ask her, no?’
‘Ask me what?’
Fox turned his head and saw that Sheila Graham had stopped just inside the doorway.
‘Short meeting,’ he said.
‘McManus got called away.’ She took a few more steps towards her desk. Fox rose to his feet, ceding the chair to her. But her eyes were on the screen. He looked too, and saw that the Glushenko search was still displayed. When he turned back towards her, she was staring at him.
‘You and me,’ she said quietly, ‘need to have a little chat...’
He followed her out of the office and along the walkway towards one of the glass meeting boxes. She slid the sign on the door to IN USE and marched in, seating herself at the large rectangular table and taking out her phone.
‘Sit,’ she commanded Fox.
‘I can explain.’
‘That’s exactly what you’re going to do, but someone else needs to hear it too.’ She waited for her call to be answered. When it was, she announced to the person on the other end that she was putting the speakerphone on. As she placed the phone flat on the table, a male voice said, ‘What’s up, Sheila?’
‘There’s someone here with me. Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox. I mentioned him to you.’
‘You did.’
‘We’re in a private room and can’t be overheard. Can you say the same?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then maybe you can start by identifying yourself to DI Fox.’
‘My name is Alan McFarlane. I’m in charge of the Economic Crime Command at the National Crime Agency, based in London.’
‘DI Fox has just come to me with a name — a name I didn’t give him,’ Graham said.
‘Does it begin with a G?’
‘It does.’
‘Aleksander Glushenko,’ Fox added, feeling the need to say something.
‘How did you come across him, DI Fox?’
Fox leaned towards the phone. ‘You can hear me okay?’
‘Loud and clear.’
‘You sound Scottish, Mr McFarlane.’
‘Well spotted. Now, to answer my question...’
‘I was asked to look into the affairs of an Edinburgh criminal called Darryl Christie and his connections with an investment broker called Anthony Brough. Brough’s gone missing, by the way — his PA hasn’t heard from him in over a week.’
‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ McFarlane said. Fox watched as a little bit of colour appeared on Graham’s cheeks.
‘Brough rents a flat above a betting shop — both are owned by Christie. So I placed someone in the vicinity.’
‘Someone you trust?’
‘Of course. It was this person who heard the name Glushenko mentioned.’
‘In connection with what?’
‘The name was as much as they caught.’
‘One more thing to add,’ Graham said, her eyes on Fox. ‘I found DI Fox on my computer five minutes ago. He was attempting to access information on Glushenko.’
There was silence on the line for ten long seconds, during which time Fox held Graham’s gaze.
‘Why was that?’ McFarlane eventually asked.
‘Because,’ Fox explained, ‘I’d started to suspect Ms Graham wasn’t giving me the whole story. Without being fully briefed, I could be putting people at risk — not least myself and my contact. And now that I know you’re in charge, I’d say my hunch was spot on.’
‘Can I assume you did an internet search for Glushenko?’
‘Yes.’
‘And found nothing?’
‘Correct.’
‘That’s because he only became Aleksander Glushenko a year or so back. He had a number of other aliases before that, but his real name is Anton Nazarchuk.’
‘Okay.’
‘Sounds Russian, but he’s actually Ukrainian.’
‘And he’s something to do with a flat in Edinburgh that’s become a one-man dodgy Companies House?’
‘Yes.’
Graham cleared her throat. ‘I can give DI Fox the relevant details, if I have your permission.’
‘It’s a pity we’re not face to face — I like to think I’m good at reading people.’
‘If anyone should be having trust issues here, it’s me,’ Fox complained.
‘You were told exactly as much as was deemed necessary.’
There was another lengthy pause on the line, then an exhalation.
‘Brief him,’ McFarlane said, ending the call.
Graham lifted her phone from the table and started passing it slowly from one hand to the other.