‘Want me to put you in touch with Ms Dromgoole?’
‘I’ll give it some thought. Might be nice to leave something behind.’
‘Other than court reports and photos of you in handcuffs.’
‘It’s not much of a legacy, is it?’ Cafferty appeared to concur. ‘So did my trip to the confessional help you at all?’
‘It might have — if Brady really wasn’t in the hotel and Dougie Vaughan was unconscious.’
‘Happy birthday then.’ Cafferty held out a hand and the two men shook.
Outside, Rebus paused at the traffic lights. A birthday present? He didn’t think so. Cafferty had given him the information for one reason only: to focus Rebus’s efforts on the past rather than the present. Something was up. Something was brewing — and not just coffee...
After Rebus had departed, Cafferty tried to finish his paper but found he couldn’t concentrate. That was the effect the man had on him. Instead he took out his phone and tapped in a number.
‘Hello?’ a voice answered warily.
‘It’s me, Craw, who else would it be? I’m the only one with your number, remember?’
‘I liked my old phone.’
‘Cops will be tracking your old phone, Craw. Best it stays in cold storage.’
‘Can I come home yet? It’s like I’m in a prison here.’
‘You’ve got a sea view, haven’t you? And it won’t be long now. You’ve got to trust me, that’s all...’
‘I do trust you, Mr Cafferty. Really I do.’
‘Well then, a few more days. Watch the telly, read a book — they’re bringing you your newspaper every day? And feeding and watering you?’
‘I could do with a bit of fresh air.’
‘Then open a window. Because if I hear you’ve so much as tramped to the end of the street, I’ll take a brick to your skull — understood?’
‘I would never do that, Mr Cafferty.’
‘Bear in mind, Craw, this is for your safety.’
‘And only for a few more days, you say?’
‘A few more days. It’s all going to be sorted by then, one way or another.’
Cafferty ended the call and stared towards the café window as if everything on the other side of the glass made perfect sense to him. Then he picked up his paper again and began to read. Two minutes later, his phone buzzed.
‘Yes, Darryl?’ he answered.
‘Just wondering if you’ve any news.’
‘Anthony Brough, you mean? He’s a money man, yes? I looked him up. Office in Rutland Square, home on Ann Street. How much has he cost you?’
‘That’s not why I need to find him.’
‘No? Well, if you say so.’ Cafferty paused. ‘I may have a couple of sightings, but I don’t want to get your hopes up.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘I’d rather wait for confirmation.’
‘Sightings in Edinburgh?’
‘Edinburgh and just outside — a fair few days back, mind...’
‘How soon till you know for sure?’
‘I’ll be straight on the phone to you.’
‘And this wouldn’t just be you stringing me along?’
‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.’
Cafferty listened to the silence.
‘Sorry,’ Christie said eventually.
‘This guy’s obviously important to you, Darryl. I appreciate that, and I’m doing my level best to help.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll be straight on the phone,’ Cafferty repeated, ending the call as Christie was on the verge of thanking him again.
He shook his head slowly and went back to his paper.
18
Fox sat at his desk in the MIT room, staring into space. He had looked up Ukraine online to get a sense of the chaos it had been through and the chaos that still existed there, adding to the sum of everything Graham had told him. Glushenko’s mafia friends had taught the man well, having previously laundered twenty billion dollars’ worth of dirty money — money spirited out of Russia, moved via Moldova around Europe, and now sitting somewhere out of reach of the authorities, even supposing the authorities knew its exact whereabouts. Firms registered in tax havens such as the Seychelles became partners in SLPs, then once the money was in place those companies and partnerships were dissolved, making the trail more complex and much, much colder. Although there were plans to tighten the regulations, the UK was still a cheap and easy place in which to register a company — an agent could do it in an hour and charge around twenty-five pounds. These same agents were supposedly required to satisfy themselves that they weren’t dealing with anyone shady, and they also had to know the identity of the true owner of the assets.
Fox couldn’t be sure how Anthony Brough had come on to Glushenko’s radar, except that Edinburgh retained an international reputation for probity and discretion, being home to institutions that looked after billions in pensions and investments. Glushenko brought with him just under a billion dollars stolen from a bank in Ukraine by way of loans arranged for non-existent companies, the paperwork signed off by executives who had been threatened or coerced. By the time the theft was noticed, the money was already a long way through its circuitous journey via the Edinburgh flat and beyond.
Sheila Graham had given Fox a short history of shady money in the UK. London’s army of highly paid lawyers, bankers and accountants were, according to her, experts in dealing with it — using offshore accounts, trusts and shell companies to disguise the identity of any beneficial owner. There was plenty of regulation in place to attempt to stop money laundering, but banks often turned a blind eye when the price was right. The cash ended up transformed into pristine multimillion-pound apartments and even more expensive commercial assets. Tens of thousands of properties in London alone were owned by offshore companies, registered in the likes of Jersey, Guernsey and the British Virgin Islands — this last a favourite, as owners’ identities did not need to be registered with the appropriate authorities. Offshore havens had their own distinct personalities: Liberia specialised in bearer shares, which provided absolute anonymity; setting up a company in the British Virgin Islands was cheap and quick, which explained why an island with a population of 25,000 was home to around 800,000 registered businesses.
‘The sums we’re talking about would give you vertigo,’ Graham had said in conclusion, and after his own trawl of the internet Fox couldn’t disagree. The thing was, gangsters such as Darryl Christie and Joe Stark were amateurs by comparison. Anthony Brough had climbed into bed with the worst of the worst. And something had spooked him.
Something almost certainly linked to the disappearance of around ten million pounds from the original chunk of money.
‘So Brough’s skimmed ten mil and done a runner?’ Fox had asked Graham. ‘Leaving his good pal Darryl Christie in the firing line?’
‘It’s one possibility,’ she had replied.
‘What do we know about Glushenko? Is he in this country?’
‘He probably has aliases and passports we don’t know about. Immigration have been warned to keep a watch at airports.’ Graham had shrugged.
Now, seated at his desk, Fox was thinking through his options. Christie wanted information on Glushenko, and Fox could give him everything he knew. Or he could bide his time and wait for Glushenko to deal with Christie, after which Jude’s debts might be history. He had considered telling Graham about Jude, about Christie’s threat, but had decided against it. Not yet. Not unless it proved absolutely necessary.
‘Penny for them,’ Alvin James said, walking into the room.