Page 70 of Damon
After the lock clicks, I slide the drawer open. Inside, I find a blank notepad, an electronic tablet, and a wooden box about the size of a breakfast cereal box. I remove all three items from their resting place. I stare down at each, wondering which to investigate first and decide to start with the mundane.
The notepad appears blank, but there are indentations on the surface. To my right there’s a lower shelf in the desk with a drinking glass filled with pens and pencils. I pluck a pencil from the container, then flip the first page of the notepad over and start drawing the lead across the back of the page. Once done, I return to the front page and begin tracing the lines to show the words on the paper below. I trace without reading, only wanting to ensure I have all the information before I become engrossed in it. When it is complete, I look.
The names Moreno and Brenton are written then joined with a line, then a third name Jed is connected but crossed out. There’s an address; I pull my phone from my pocket then type in the street, and a small family-run launderette pops up on my screen. There are various dates noted, then the name of a restaurant. Confused, I turn my attention to the box. As I lift the lid, I am taken aback by the handgun and bullets staring back at me. Focused on what I am doing, I don’t hear him approach.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Damon says, his voice deep, strong, and commanding. When I look up, he’s standing in the doorway, a furious expression on his face. My stomach somersaults, then I stand and square my shoulders.
“Looking for the damn truth. If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out my bloody self.”
Chapter twenty-five
St. Katharines and Wapping, London
Damon
The Top Wash Launderette is located underneath a tall apartment block in inner city London. The homes of the residents above climb to at least twenty stories. Each apartment has a balcony, and clean washing hangs over the rails of most. On the pavement beside the shop lies a broken washing line with t-shirts and jeans still pegged to it, obviously a victim of the high winds earlier today.
The area is well shaded due to every street being lined with similar high-rise buildings. Thousands of people must live in this small square footage of London, and the place is surprisingly quiet on a weekday afternoon. Every so often, someone walks past me sitting in my inconspicuous Ford Focus. I’m parked on the street adjoining the launderette; my position allows me a view of the entrance. The others are due any minute, but I decided to come early to survey the area and give myself time to think.
Luke informed Hunter that the collection team he’s part of had been allocated the job of attending the launderette this evening to collect payment—or dispense justice. The family who own the business have maxed both their lending limit and the time allowed to make payment. After a little digging, I was able to ascertain that the owners’ surname is Clarke. They’re an elderly couple in their seventies, and their granddaughter, who is nineteen, lives with them in the apartment above the shop. It’s their dependent’s addiction to cocaine that has pushed them into this debt.
Stephanie Clarke is the only daughter of her parents, both of whom are deceased due to a fatal fall while on vacation in Spain. It’s thought an argument broke out between the couple near a cliff edge; after an altercation, both fell over into the ocean. The impact on the rocks below was believed to kill them instantly. Their death meant Stephanie moved to live with her grandparents at the age of sixteen.
Mr. and Mrs. Clarke have had never-ending trouble since Stephanie came to live with them. Various reports from social workers concluded that although her grandparents were providing safe accommodations, Stephanie’s behavior became gradually worse over the past three years. Her acting out started with skipping school and minor shoplifting offenses, but more recently she has been arrested for possession of cocaine for personal use. She’s currently on bail awaiting trial. Her list of convictions includes theft of cash from the launderette. My assumption would be that this was to pay for her drug habit.
The launderette business itself is in high levels of debt to both the HMRC for unpaid taxes and to their suppliers. Whatever happens today, there’s no doubt that this business is going under. The added pressure from Moreno to pay makes me suspect he’s aware of the situation; according to Luke, he plans to visit today along with the collection team. He wants to leave no doubt in his debtors’ minds that their time to pay is up. My gut tells me that he’ll take the opportunity to make an example of this family, to show his other clients what can happen when payments aren’t made.
Roger Brenton frustratingly manages to keep his hands clean. Our intelligence suggests he could be at the top of the money laundering chain, but we have no concrete evidence to prove it. He and Moreno have been difficult to connect beyond the use of an office Brenton’s company owns to transfer funds once each week.
This task has continued on schedule. Each Friday, Moreno attends the remote working office and transfers the payment to Bermuda. Brenton's company rents him the office space. This was the sole connection up to now, until Russell of all people came through with new information earlier today.
***
My phone rang this morning at six o’clock. I’d extracted myself from being wrapped around Emma to find it on my bedside table. The loud ringtone echoed around the room, but Emma merely stuck her fingers in her ears and screwed her eyes closed tighter. I scrambled from the bed and answered the call.
“I have information,” Russell said bluntly before I could speak.
“Good morning to you too,” I replied, my tone dry.
“Brenton is connected to Moreno’s new restaurant. He’s invested.”
“What? Are you serious? I can’t imagine he would be as transparent,” I countered, disbelieving.
“We share accountants, would you believe,” he continued, “and I had a meeting with him last night. It is amazing how chatty someone can become once you ply them with whiskey and women. He was brimming with excitement about Moreno’s new eatery—let’s just say he likes food as much as he likes numbers.”
“That’s fortunate. And when is this new venture due to open?” I asked.
“January,” he replied.
“Any idea why it’s taking so long to open?”
“The place is being fully refurbished. From what the accountant said, they are spending a small fortune on the place. The chef coming to run the kitchen has been poached from a five-star resort in Dubai. Moreno is throwing money around, and we both know it won’t be his. Now we know exactly who is holding the purse strings.”
“So, they open in January? What date?” I say, trying to get him focused back on what he knows, not his opinions.
“It’s December really,” he says, “New Year’s Eve. A massive opening party is being planned. Everyone of importance to Brenton in London will be invited. And if I get my way, I’d love to help them bring in 2023 with a bang. It will be something to look forward to.”
“It’s good to have something that connects them,” I say, almost to myself. I’m relieved that we potentially have a link on paper between Moreno and Brenton.