Chapter twelve #2
“Perhaps,” my mother says, unflustered by her retort. “We will be in touch if we feel the same. Thank you for coming in today.” Julia’s jaw drops, and I stand.
“I’ll see you out,” I tell her.
After I have escorted her out of my home, I return to the sofa and sit back down. My mother continues to rustle paper and mutter to herself.
“Who do you like?” she asks.
“Number Three seemed okay.”
“Really? With her thoughts on the use of timeout being a barbaric practice?”
“Number Two then.”
“Damon.” I look at her and she frowns. “Annie needs a nanny. Make a decision. You return to work in two days, and I want my next week to be spent ensuring the woman is suitable before I leave. Numbers Two, Three and Five can start tomorrow.”
“Five. Julia. You don’t like the other two.”
“Perfect,” she trills, then claps her hands together. “She was my choice. I will call her and let her know.”
***
HQ – The National Organized Crime Unit
Everything looks the same as the last time I was here.
My office is exactly as I left it; there’s even a dirty coffee mug stuck to the glass desktop.
A tall pile of paperwork sits stacked on the corner, leaning precariously to one side.
After standing and looking out of the window onto the London streets below, watching normal people who have no idea of the evil in the world we fight go about their daily lives, I move to sit at my desk.
As I switch on my computer, my door swings open and the commissioner walks in.
“Good morning, Chief Constable,” he says, and I stand. He approaches my desk, and we shake hands. “I do apologize for the pressure on you to return to your duties, but things within Project Shylock have progressed at a somewhat alarming rate. I need all trusted staff here and working the case.”
“Understood, sir. Is there any information I need to be aware of before the briefing this morning?”
He sits down in the chair opposite me, leaning back and tenting his fingers before speaking.
An older man and a loyal police officer, Commissioner White bleeds blue.
Protecting this country and doing so by the word of the law is his moral duty.
If he knew the darker world I operate in and who my contacts are, I have no doubt he would bury me. I lower myself to sit too.
“There have been further attacks on the family members of serving officers,” he tells me. “No fatalities, but an inspector’s father is currently in Intensive Care at Kings College Hospital from a knife wound to the abdomen. Whether he will survive remains to be seen.”
“How did the attack occur?” I ask, trying to maintain a professional manner, but inside I’m screaming for revenge. Another family cannot suffer the way mine has at the hands of these maniacs.
“Inspector Redford’s father was walking home from his work. The assailant was standing on his doorstep. As he approached, the man stepped forward and lodged a steak knife in his stomach then simply walked away, but this time there was a note left with the victim.”
“What did it say?”
“Similar to the emails, that they would continue the attacks until the project was closed.”
“Any experienced criminal would know that violence won’t stop the investigation,” I mutter. “Amateurs?”
He shakes his head. “No, we have tracked some of the money transfers to an office located in Canary Wharf. One of those hot desk places where you can hire a space for a few hours. It took the cyber team days, but finally they found a source account making the payments.”
“Do we know the owner?”
“A trading company called Rhinestone Investments. They have more directors than I care to think of, and every fucking name on the list has connections I’d rather they didn’t.”
“And does this company have a registered office?”
“The same hot desk address, which is owned by a certain well-known businessman named Brenton.”
“I knew that bastard would be involved somehow,” I grunt. “Whatever job I work on, whatever trail I follow, that cretin is at the end of it. But he always manages to slip through the net and keep his hands clean.”
The look he gives me is one of understanding; every officer can relate to the tortured feeling of being unable to catch the criminal, even when they’re within your grasp.
“Rich people exploit poorer ones to line their pockets. We’ve seen it time and again. We always knew the person at the top of this tree would be someone of power and authority. From what we have discovered, the money lending system works similar to that of a drug ring.
Each level lends to the one below, adding its cut. The gangs on the streets lend to the everyday struggling person then collect the payments; interest levels vary from twenty percent upwards then double as repayments are missed,” he advises.
None of the information is a surprise but it is depressing to hear. I know how dangerous debt collectors can be. I’ve seen what they can do.
“There have been various businesses implicated,” he continues.
“I assume they’re using these as fronts to clean the money before Rhinestone Investments pays into the final account. It’s everything ranging from bars to launderettes to corner shops. The net is so wide, it’s hard to be sure we have tracks on the whole business. However, whichever lead we follow,
they all end up back at Roger Brenton’s offices.”
“Does he still own that casino near the river?” I ask, and he nods. “Has that been implicated in this?”
He shakes his head. “Brenton is smart enough not to include any of his own businesses in washing the funds. On paper, it looks as if he’s merely providing office space once a week for a small fee, but I would guess he’s using the smaller businesses that no doubt owe him to move the cash.
“There only seems to be one consistent company task that takes place each week. Every Friday, a large money transfer is made into an unknown account. It’s made from the same computer network each week in Canary Wharf at the hot desk location.
The value varies but is within the realm of high six figures, sometimes seven. The owner of the receiving account remains unknown.”
“Okay, so your theory is…” I pause to consider all the information he has given me.
“That someone with connections to the financial district in Canary Wharf is acting as controller for the project; they pull together payments received from lower tiers of the scheme and make the payment to Brenton, who is the funder for it all.”
“In short, yes.”
“Do we know what country the final account is in?”
“Bermuda. A tax haven for the rich with a reputation for keeping identities secret. We’ve requested the account owner details, but…”
We both know the chance of getting any information from the banking sector in Bermuda is limited.
It’s known as a tax haven for a reason. “An anonymous person pays cash to use a hot desk on a Friday afternoon. After some encouragement, the receptionist was willing to volunteer a potential candidate. A man, gray hair and dark suit, arrives every Friday and stays for only ten minutes, then leaves.
”
“Did she give you a name?”
“Colin. But I very much suspect that isn’t his name.” We both laugh.
“He would be an idiot if it was.”
“Not every criminal is a mastermind,” he says. “But I am very keen to speak to Colin. Clear your calendar for Friday, McKinney. We’ll be paying him a visit when he uses his desk to send hundreds of thousands of pounds to Bermuda.”
***
The Level Boardroom
I drive the same route I have every Wednesday for as long as I can remember to my friends’ hidden apartments in the sky.
After parking around the rear of the glass and chrome skyscraper, I enter the concealed elevator and make the journey to the fifty-seventh floor, to the boardroom of The Level.
The familiar sound pings on my arrival, and the doors glide open.
It’s obvious I am last to arrive, as the other men all sit around the table drinking beer with empty bottles in front of them.
“Nice of you to join us,” Russell says in his usual mocking tone.
I glance at my watch. “It’s eight-thirty. Some of us do a full day’s work. Pass a beer.” He leans forward, grabs a bottle, and throws it to me, like he has done a thousand times before. I catch it, snap the cap, and drain it. “Hell, I needed that.”
“How is being a working daddy going?” Harrison says with a smile. “Did you remember to remove your apron before heading to the office?”
“Fuck off. It’s day three, and I’ve no idea if I’m coming or going. On the plus side, Julia seems to have settled in quickly. Annie likes her, and my mother doesn’t snarl when she walks into the room.”
Harrison chuckles. “Outnumbered McKinney? All those women and you?”
“My mother leaves next week, thankfully. Anyway, shall we get down to business?”
Connor and Hunter remain silent; listening to the banter around them. Greyson isn’t here this evening, which doesn’t surprise me. He isn’t truly part of our small group that meets every week. I settle in the chair next to Harrison and prepare myself to update them on the current situation.
“Is there any movement on the case?” Russell asks, direct as always.
“On the overall money lending circuit, yes. On the bastard who pulled the trigger, no.”
“What the fuck is your lot doing?” he snarls.
“Our job—investigating. We’ve found a source account and the destination country for the final payments. There are hundreds, if not a network of thousands, of connections. It all seems to lead back to Roger Brenton.”
“The businessman?” Hunter says. “Well, that’s no fucking surprise. He’s into everything.” We all look at the Head of the Irish Mafia, who at this point in time has more illegal businesses than I care to admit I know of.
“All routes lead to him, though he always manages to keep his hands clean.”
“If I remember correctly,” Connor interjects. “You and he have history, McKinney. Did you not lodge a bullet in his brother?”
“His half-brother was a petty drug dealer who tried to move with the big boys. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t my bullet that killed him; someone switched off his life support. But Brenton has always blamed me for his death.”