Page 32 of Damon
“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?”