Cowboys and Indians (21 page)

‘Which we’ll come to in DS Cullen’s update.’ Methven jotted a note on the board. ‘Now, is there anything else to report?’

‘That’s it, Col.’

‘There must be more, surely?’

‘Had a hell of an afternoon with the Ferguson boy.’ Bain sniffed and cleared his throat. ‘That’s all I’ve got, sir.’

‘DS Cullen.’ Methven wheeled round, menace flickering in his eyes. ‘Can you give your update?’

Cullen looked around at his team. Buxton and Eva perched on a desk. No sign of Murray. ‘First up, the SOCOs will finally process the drugs we found in Mr Van de Merwe’s flat today.’

Methven tapped the pen off the board, jotting it down. ‘That’s good news, for once.’

‘Anderson’s aiming for first thing tomorrow.’ Cullen checked his notebook. ‘Next, we’ve closed both the phones and social media. No leads.’

‘Sodding hell.’

‘Eva, anything on the emails?’

‘Got the work ones back from Charlie. There’s one from someone who worked in Group Internal Audit. Think that’s like our Complaints.’ She tugged her hair behind her ears. ‘From what I can gather, they met to go over corruption allegations. I’ll do more digging today.’

‘Thanks.’ Cullen nodded at Methven. ‘Sir, that’s it.’

‘Got a couple of things, guv.’ Buxton flicked through his notebook. ‘I’m still looking into this lap dancer Van de Merwe was at it with.’

Methven glowered at Cullen. ‘There’s still no sign of her?’

‘We found a cloak at her flat, but she’s gone to ground.’

‘Get her in here.’

Cullen glanced at Buxton. ‘I’ll sort this out, sir.’

‘Dismissed.’

Cullen went over to his desk and slumped in the seat.

‘Sarge?’

He looked round.

‘Found something.’ Murray stopped by his desk, out of breath. ‘Got in early this morning to get stuck into the bank accounts. Remember the payment Chantal found in Van de Merwe’s personal account?’

‘The one that was refunded?’

‘Came from an Indian company.’ Murray grinned. ‘An IMC subsidiary.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen stopped outside Vivek Sadozai’s office and held out his hand for Murray to hang fire on knocking. Shouting boomed through the door. He couldn’t make out the figures behind the frosted glass window.

‘Viv, we need to make sure these guys are playing the same game as us!’

‘But we’re not playing their game, Chris! That’s the problem!’

‘That’s Vivek.’ Cullen put his ear to the door. ‘Who the hell’s Chris?’

‘—get them playing our game. We’re open to Broussard swooping in and stopping progress as he usually does.’

‘We’ll be the ones stopping progress if we pull our resource.’

‘I don’t want to, but we’re running out of options, Viv. Unpaid invoices are not going unnoticed.’

Cullen rapped on the door and pushed it open.

Vivek leaned back in his chair, boots on the desk, glasses on the top of his head. He shifted his feet off and stood. ‘Sergeant Cullen.’

A squat man lurked in the window area, morning light silhouetting him. He looked like he’d been in one too many scrums — cauliflower ears ready to pop. Beefy arms and belly stretched his black shirt, the buttons straining. ‘Christian Xavier.’ Expensive accent — public school, Oxbridge, military service. Officer grade. ‘How can we help?’

Cullen gave a smile, eyes narrow. ‘You could start with telling me who you are.’

‘Vivek works for me.’ Xavier thrust out a hand, his round face twisting into a grin. ‘I’m in charge of IMC’s UK-based onshore staff.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ Cullen shook his hand and perched on the edge of a cabinet. He nodded at Murray to shut the door. ‘We just need a word with Mr Sadozai.’

Vivek slumped into his chair and tugged on his glasses, frowning at Xavier. ‘How can I help?’

‘I need to remain present, I’m afraid.’ Xavier raised a hand. ‘We’ll need to involve our lawyers if this relates to our commercial activities.’

‘Suits me.’ Cullen tossed a sheet of paper onto the desk. ‘Have a look at this.’

Vivek gave it a glance. ‘Looks like a bank statement.’

‘The account belongs to Mr Van de Merwe.’

‘Viv, I think we should get Legal in here.’

Vivek slid the page back across the desk. ‘I don’t know what this relates to.’

‘That true?’ Cullen pointed at the transaction highlighted in yellow. ‘That payment came from an IMC subsidiary.’

Xavier left the window, getting between Cullen and Vivek. ‘We definitely need to take legal advice.’

‘If that’s how you want to play it.’ Cullen took a step towards the door and swung around. ‘This doesn’t reflect well on your company.’

Xavier snatched up the page. ‘Are you accusing us of something?’

Cullen held up his hands. ‘I’m gathering information here for a murder case. If you can’t explain that transaction…’

‘Look.’ Xavier jabbed a finger at the sheet. ‘We reversed the transaction. See?’

‘So it’s just an error?’

‘That’s all I can suggest.’

‘I’m intrigued by Mr Van de Merwe receiving a hefty payment from one of his new suppliers.’

‘I swear I know nothing about it.’

‘That your final answer?’

‘Of course it is, Sergeant.’

Cullen nudged Murray aside and opened the door. Whispered into his ear. ‘Play along here.’ He spun round. ‘Now I think about it, do you mind if we do this down the station?’

‘That’s fine.’ Vivek got up and buttoned his suit jacket. ‘Lead on.’

Xavier put a hand to his chest. ‘I need to insist on legal representation.’

‘Your corporate lawyers won’t know anything about criminal defence.’

‘Criminal defence?’ Xavier shifted his focus to Vivek. Then the floor. ‘Okay, fine.’

‘Fine, what? We can interview Mr Sadozai?’

Xavier looked Cullen in the eye. ‘This can’t go on the record, okay?’

‘Why?’

‘Because it relates to our commercial interests.’

‘So you’re accepting responsibility for the transaction?’

‘No.’

‘Then what are you doing?’

‘Avoiding dim light shining on IMC. That’s all.’

‘DC Murray and I are Murder Squad. I just want to find who killed Mr Van de Merwe. That’s it.’

‘You swear?’

‘Stuart, step out of the room.’

‘Sure.’ Murray left them to it, pulling the door shut.

Cullen leaned against the wall. ‘Anything we discuss now’s inadmissible in court.’

‘So what do you want to know?’

‘Just the truth, Mr Xavier. Always a good place to start.’

‘This was an admin error. That transaction should’ve gone to one of Mr Van de Merwe’s offshore accounts but they put it into a personal account.’

‘So it’s a backhander?’

Xavier stared at the window. ‘The cost of doing business.’

‘That’s quite a high cost.’

‘We’re making a lot of money out of the engagement.’

‘Fifty million, I heard.’

‘That’s only the start of it.’ Xavier thumped down onto the edge of Vivek’s desk. ‘Look, if you want real dirt on this programme, I suggest—’

‘Woah, woah, woah!’ Cullen held up his hands. ‘Are you trying to deflect the blame?’

‘We’re trying to, ah, assist your investigation.’

‘Is that all it is?’

‘Listen, you should speak to the previous delivery partner. There was some corrupt shit going on there.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘All I can offer is hearsay.’

‘We’re off the record here.’

‘Fraud is what I hear. Just speak to them. The name is UC Partners.’

*
 
*
 
*

‘Sarge, have you got a sec?’ Murray grabbed a sheaf of papers and walked over, dumping them on Cullen’s desk. ‘Take a look at this.’

Cullen looked at the front page. The UK Companies House logo loomed above a table of data. ‘What is it?’

‘This is UC Partners LLP. Dissolved in January this year.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘They’re no longer trading.’

‘Who are the partners?’

‘Don’t even know how many partners there are. Found an address in deepest, darkest Middlesex.’

‘Great. Another one for the City of London guys. Is Eva getting anywhere on the bank accounts?’ Cullen leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. Couldn’t see her. ‘Van de Merwe’s wife thought he had offshore accounts. IMC said they paid it into one.’

Eva pounded back into the room, clutching a coffee.

‘Eva!’

She marched over. ‘Sorry, Sarge, did you want one?’

‘I’ve got one, cheers.’ He took a sip. ‘When you were looking through the offshore accounts, did you come across the name UC Partners?’

‘Still waiting on them.’

‘Bloody hell.’

Murray tapped his monitor. ‘I’m Batman!’

‘Then I don’t want to see Robin. What is it?’

‘Got an Edinburgh address for them.’

Cullen parked the pool car on Rutland Square. Two men in dark suits bellowed at each other, grins on their faces. He glanced over at Bain as his seatbelt slumped into his lap. ‘Wouldn’t know this was here.’

‘Been here a few times over the years.’ Bain waved a hand in front of them. ‘Our old mate Campbell McLintock moved his firm somewhere round here.’

‘Let’s not firebomb them today.’

‘Well, we are here…’

Cullen got out into the cool air of the street. An aggressive breeze cut through him. ‘Methven gave you a bit of a shoeing at the briefing.’

‘That wasn’t a fuckin’ shoeing, Sundance.’

‘You’re not his favourite officer, are you?’

‘Didn’t sponsor me through a promotion, unlike some.’

Cullen tried to ignore the wave of heat on his neck.

‘Young McLean didn’t seem too happy to be cast aside like that, by the way.’

‘Murray.’

‘Fuck’s sake.’ Bain folded his arms, grinning away. ‘Doing all that work only for Crystal to ask a proper cop to attend with you.’

‘Shame he had to send you instead.’ Cullen looked up at the town house. Steps led up to the door, ornate columns either side. ‘Place looks empty.’

Bain squinted at it. ‘What’s that say?’

‘You’re getting old.’ Cullen squinted at the cream signs in the windows. ‘It says, “The new home for Nelson and Parker”. We shut them down in January. Dodgy bastards.’

Bain knocked on the door. ‘Let’s see if anyone’s in.’

A man in tweeds limped along the pavement towards them, sunlight catching his bald head, heart-attack red. ‘Can I help?’

‘Police.’ Cullen flashed his warrant card. ‘DS Scott Cullen and DS Brian Bain.’

‘John Carston. I work for Rutland Commercial Property. We own this side of the square. How can I help?’

‘Need to ask a few questions about the tenants here. UC Partners.’

‘Them.’ Carston’s jaw tightened. ‘Still owe us rent for their last quarter. And we haven’t managed to replace them. Just upped and left in January.’

‘Do you mind if we have a look inside?’

‘Come on in.’ He barged Bain out of the way and unhooked a heavy keychain from his belt, slotting a large brass key into the lock and twisting. ‘After you.’

Cullen entered first. A threadbare carpet led through to a curved reception desk, no mail on the floor. Whitewashed walls, cheap office furniture. A cream door blocked off the rest of the building. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, it’s quite grotty.’

‘Location’s what sells this place. Clients just want a blank canvas.’ Carston shrugged. ‘Besides, your lot left in something of a hurry. Loads of furniture was still here, but they’d repainted the whiteboards on the walls.’

‘Why not just wipe them clean?’

‘I’m not an expert, Sergeant.’

Bain thumped the door. ‘Got any mail for them?’

‘Over here.’ Carston limped across the carpet and reached into a cabinet, stuffed with post. He dumped it all on the desk. ‘Here you go. This is all since they flitted.’

Cullen sifted through it. ‘Do you mind if we take this as evidence?’

‘It’s just going into recycling when someone else moves in.’

Cullen paused at one letter. Alba Bank logo in red at the top right. URGENT. He tore at the seal and skimmed it.

‘What’s that, Sun— Sergeant?’

Cullen showed it to Bain. ‘It’s from Martin Ferguson last November. Says Alba Bank won’t pay UC’s invoice.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen took the coffee from Martin Ferguson, the acrid aroma of instant drifting across the sitting room, undissolved granules floating on the surface. ‘Thanks.’ He set it on the coffee table.

Ferguson handed another cup to Bain. ‘Here’s yours.’

Bain slurped at it. ‘That’s better.’

Ferguson sat on a Chesterfield sofa, legs crossed, and grabbed the last mug from the tray. ‘I trust you’re not here to further investigate my mental state?’

Cullen glanced at Bain and smiled at Ferguson. ‘Sorry, sir, we didn’t mean to cause—’

‘It’s fine.’ Ferguson waved a hand in the air, eyes bulging. ‘I understand your concern yesterday, but I’m fine. Talking to you got a lot off my chest. Made me think of going back to work.’

Quick turnaround… Cullen frowned. ‘I thought they terminated your employment?’

‘I’m thinking of fighting it.’

Cullen reached into his pocket for the letter to UC Partners and passed it to Ferguson. ‘Do you recognise this?’

‘Give me a second.’ Ferguson put on a pair of glasses, one of the legs all bent, and scanned through the sheet. ‘Yes, I sent this. I was acting on Mr Van de Merwe’s express instructions.’

‘We’ve just got your word on the matter.’

‘I retained a copy of the email instructing me to cease.’ Ferguson glugged his coffee and set the empty mug on the tray. ‘It pays to save emails putting any blame on another party.’

‘Can we see it?’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Here’s my email address.’ Cullen held out a business card. ‘Did they reply to this letter?’

‘We received no further bills.’ Ferguson didn’t take the card, instead clenching his hands around his thighs. ‘But, before I was moved off the programme, Jonathan and I arranged a meeting on their territory.’

‘Rutland Square?’

‘Yes. The place was empty. This was November. The twentieth, I think.’