Chapter 34
On the morning we’d left for Nevis, Jonny had taken Davy’s computer to his associate Nikola – the computer guy’s computer guy. It had taken two days, but Nikola had managed it, and the computer was now fully Open Sesame-d.
This is what Jonny found:
‘There’s a spreadsheet in here, containing—’
‘Oh, God, another spreadsheet?’ says Em.
Jonny says, rather stiffly, ‘I don’t have to show you if you don’t want to see it.’
‘Ignore her, Jonny,’ says Elle. ‘Go on.’
‘All right. Well, it’s more properties. But these are different, in a few interesting ways. Firstly, the list starts three years ago.’
‘So just as Davy’s last scam ends, or as he wraps it up, he starts this new one?’
‘Looks like. The second interesting thing is that the properties are very different. They’re nothing like this’ – Jonny gestures around at the mad tiled faux-harem we’re sitting in – ‘and there are loads more low-quality, low-budget lettings.’
‘Wouldn’t they be much less lucrative?’
Jonny looks like a proud teacher who is only slightly irritated that his top pupil has stuck their hand up before he’s finished writing on the whiteboard.
‘Well. Yes. But despite the properties being cheaper, the fees here are far bigger than in the first file. So Davy was doing something different.’
‘What?’
‘Not sure.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘He was a mentor. The colleague I met in his office – what was he called? Sami, I think – he said Davy ran a mentoring scheme. He had a network of young agents who he would help, then place at other agencies. Always low-rent ones. Not the kind of properties Harcourt and Wallace dealt with.’
‘That’s worth following up.’
‘I’ll get Sami’s number.’
Jonny continues. ‘OK, so there’s that. Have you got it pinned?’
We all mumble yes.
‘Right. Well, the last two things I found on here are super-interesting. Firstly, in the drafts folder, there’s a message that just says hello.’ No recipient in the address line.
I pipe up. ‘Is that interesting? Sorry, but I’ve done that with emails before. Start it, don’t know what to say, give up, find email in drafts folder six years later, delete.’
‘It might be that,’ says Jonny, ‘except that it’s the only draft. If this computer is the centre of the new scam, it might be for a reason. Like: he shares the inbox with someone.’
‘Oh!’ Elle perks up. ‘I’ve seen a Netflix documentary about that.
It was how a woman caught her husband having an affair.
He kept all the messages to his mistress in his drafts folder, because he thought there’s no email trail that way, because the email has never actually been sent.
’ She sits back. ‘He lost everything, but then he got famous because he was such a love rat. He has a podcast now.’
‘Exactly,’ says Jonny. ‘Drafts that aren’t sent are much harder to trace than actual sent messages. So that might be what was going on here.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘What do we do with that?’
‘I think whoever Davy shared his inbox with might know who killed him. And I don’t think the message was outbound, either.
I don’t think he wrote that hello. I think the person he shared the inbox with wrote it, as a test. So we should write back.
’ Jonny swivels the screen. Beneath the first message, there is a second Hello.
As you would expect of Jonny, he’s capitalised it and added a full stop. Never change, Jonny.
‘So we just wait and see if anyone responds?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘OK. Great. What was the other interesting thing?’
Jonny smiles. ‘This one I’ve saved specially.’ He taps, and swivels the screen again. A grey-on-grey panel, with four boxes.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a portal, run by a private bank in the UAE.’
‘You think this is where all the fees went?’
‘I reckon so.’
‘What do we need to get in?’
‘These sets of numbers.’ He points. ‘Sort code, account number – the local equivalents of them – but also two passcodes, in this last box here. Two sets of fourteen digits.’
‘Before Davy died, he said the money was in the outbuilding,’ I say.
‘The non-existent outbuilding.’
‘Yes. Is this the … outbuilding?’
‘Why would “the outbuilding” be an account in a private Middle Eastern bank?’ This is Em.
‘Could be a nickname?’ Even as I say it, it doesn’t sound likely.
‘Why are there two passcodes, Jonny?’
‘This bank is pretty niche. It lets you pick the account number, even gives you a boutique sort code. And it lets you set a number of passholders, each with their own access code. Davy will have had his own code. But you need two to get in.’
‘So he shared the account with someone.’
‘Yeah. The way these normally work, he wouldn’t have been able to access it without their code, and they wouldn’t have been able to access it without his.’
‘Lulu said her dad was skint,’ said Em. ‘Remember?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘What are you thinking, Jonny?’
‘I’m thinking that maybe all Davy’s commissions from the laundry work are in this account. Which he couldn’t get at without the second access code.’
‘So,’ Em says, counting on her fingers. ‘We know that until three years ago Davy was doing classic money-laundering. We know the names of all the people he was doing it for. We also know that three years ago he developed a new trick, and abruptly cut off his previous clientele for a new system, which we haven’t cracked.
We think it has something to do with these cheap properties, and maybe the junior agents he was mentoring, and we think the money from it went into this private bank account in the UAE.
’ She taps Jonny’s screen before he can pull it back, and he gets out a small polishing cloth. ‘Fair summary?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But we can’t get into the account, and from the looks of it we couldn’t get in even if we found his code, because we don’t know who his accomplice was. And none of this helps us with who was holding the gun that night.’
‘No.’
‘Hmm.’
Elle chips in. ‘Our working assumption is that it was Rob Wallace, right? They were heard arguing by the woman running the office.’
‘It’s not enough,’ I say.
‘And Al, you got a killer vibe from him?’
‘Sure. But again, the Crown Prosecution Service have quite a sceptical attitude towards vibes.’
‘He didn’t seem terribly comfortable at the Fantasy Football lunch,’ says Elle. ‘He kept pretty quiet. And he didn’t seem happy talking about Davy’s death.’
‘Still zilch in prosecutional terms.’
Em says, thoughtfully: ‘One of the guys at that lunch was an MP, right? What was his name?’
‘Conor Vane. The one who was horrible to Elle.’
‘He might know something,’ says Jonny.
‘Hey. Listen to this,’ says Em. ‘I just googled him.’
‘And?’
‘“A senior MP and member of a powerful select committee has been criticised as ‘totally in the pocket of the offshore financial industry’ in a new report published by a transparency organisation.” Says here Vane spent a lot of time a few years ago lobbying to keep a loophole open so businesses could maintain offshore operations.’
‘He might have been involved with Davy.’
‘Or Wallace.’
‘Or both.’
‘He seems to be doing OK, though,’ says Em. ‘He’s the one pushing this deal with the Qumaris.’
‘What deal with the Qumaris?’
‘It was on the news the other day. We’re about to sign a megadeal with them.’
Now, for those of you who aren’t familiar with Qumar, it’s a gigantic trading power located a few thousand miles south-east of Knightsbridge.
It’s absolutely loaded with all sorts of goodies and crunchy mineral and hydrocarbon assets, which the British Empire had a good go at extracting back when they were the only game in town.
However, times have changed, the colonial shackles have been melted down and re-forged as friendship bracelets, and Britain is now the junior partner, reduced to turning up with a rather hungry look and asking for the price of a cup of tea.
I’m no geo-strategist, but even I know that the trade deal Britain’s about to sign is slightly controversial.
Qumar’s unique security situation has necessitated a rather old-fashioned approach to law and order, in that their secret police hang anyone who proposes minor constitutional changes, and they have thousands more people locked up for a bit of good old-fashioned re-education.
Nevertheless, Britain is bravely wearing the blinkers of trade and the nose peg of necessity, and holding out its hand to seal the deal.
You may have noticed that I’ve also changed Qumar’s name, from a country you will be familiar with to a fake country they used in The West Wing when they needed somewhere for President Bartlet to bomb.
If Aaron Sorkin objects to me lifting the name, he can sue me.
I’m literally writing this from prison and have no fear of copyright infringement.
‘OK, so Vane’s going to be busy,’ says Jonny.
‘I’m sure he could spare five minutes, though,’ says Elle. ‘These MPs are always having little meetings. If Vane knows anything more about Rob Wallace, he might talk to us.’
‘Where will he be tomorrow?’
Jonny’s at his computer. ‘His constituency is miles away. But this is a big vote week, it looks like. So most likely he’ll be in Parliament.’
‘Oh, no.’
Em looks like she’s just won the lottery. ‘Yes, Al. Yes.’