“What’s in it for the launderer?” Banks asked.
“According to Macmillan, he’d get maybe four percent for laundering the safer sort of funds and up to ten percent for seriously dirty money.”
“Percent of what?”
“Depends,” said Gristhorpe. “On a cursory glance, Macmillan estimated between four and six million quid. He said that was conservative.”
“Over how long?”
“That’s four to six a year, Alan.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Money worth murdering for, isn’t it? In addition to Rothwell’s legitimate earnings as a financial consultant, if he were in this money-laundering racket he also stood to earn, let’s say five percent of five million a year, to make it easy. How much is that?”
“Quarter of a million quid.”
“Aye, my arithmetic was never among the best. Well, no wonder the bugger could afford a BMW and a new kitchen.” He rubbed his hands together. “And that’s about it. Macmillan said they’ll start putting a financial profile together first thing in the morning: bank accounts, credit cards, building societies, Inland Revenue, loans, investments, the lot. He said they shouldn’t have any trouble getting a warrant from the judge, given the circumstances. He’s also getting in touch with the Yard. This is big, Alan.”
“What about Calvert?” Banks asked.
“Well, they’ll have to cover him too, now, won’t they?”
A sharp knock at the door was immediately followed by Phil Richmond holding a small package. “I’ve got it,” he said, an excited light in his eyes. “The by-pass software. Give me a few minutes to study the manual and we’ll see what we can do.”
They all followed him to the computer room, once a cupboard for storing cleaning materials, and stood around tensely in the cramped space while he booted up and consulted the instructions. All Rothwell’s computer gear and records were with the Fraud Squad, but Richmond had made back-up disks of the relevant files.
Susan Gay popped her head around the door and, finding no room left inside, stood in the doorway. Banks watched as Richmond went through a series of commands. Dialogue boxes appeared and disappeared; drive lights flashed on and off; the machine buzzed and hummed. Banks noticed Gristhorpe chewing on his thumbnail.
“Got it,” Richmond said. Then a locked file called SUMMARY.924 came to the screen:
“What the hell is all that about?” Banks asked.
“It looks like financial records for the last quarter of 1992,” Gristhorpe said. “Companies, banks, dates, maybe numbered accounts. Keep going, Phil. Try that ‘LETTER’ file you mentioned.”
Richmond highlighted the locked file, tapped at the keyboard again, and the file appeared unscrambled, for all to see.
It was a letter, dated May 1 and addressed to a Mr. Daniel Clegg, Solicitor, of Park Square, Leeds, and on first glance, it seemed innocuous enough:
Dear Mr. Clegg,
In the light of certain information that has recently come to my attention, I regret that we must terminate our association.
Yours faithfully,
Keith Rothwell
“That’s it?” Gristhorpe asked. “Are you sure you didn’t lose anything?”
Richmond returned to the keyboard to check, then shook his head. “No, sir. That’s it.”
Banks backed toward the door. “Interesting,” he said. “I wonder what ‘information’ that was?” He looked at Gristhorpe, who said, “Get it printed out, will you, Phil, before it disappears into the bloody ether.”
Chapter 6
1
In Park Square on that fine Monday morning in May, with the pink and white blossoms still on the trees, Banks could easily have imagined himself a Regency dandy out for a stroll while composing a satire upon the Prince’s latest folly.
Opposite the Town Hall and the Court Center, but hidden behind Westgate, Park Square is one of the few examples of elegant, late-eighteenth-century Leeds remaining. Unlike most of the fashionable West End squares, it survived Benjamin Gott’s Bean Ing Mills, an enormous steam-powered woollen factory which literally smoked out the middle classes and sent them scurrying north to the fresher air of Headingley, Chapel Allerton and Roundhay, away from the soot and smoke carried over the town on the prevailing westerly winds.
Banks faced the terrace of nicely restored two- and three-story Georgian houses, built of red brick and yellow sandstone, with their black iron railings, Queen Anne pediments and classical-style doorways with columns and entablatures. Very impressive, he thought, finding the right house. As expected, it was just the kind of place to have several polished brass nameplates beside the door, one of which read “Daniel Clegg, Solicitor.”
A list on the wall inside the open front door told him that the office he wanted was on the first floor. He walked up, saw the name on the frosted-glass door, then knocked and entered.
He found himself in a dim anteroom that smelled vaguely of paint, where a woman sat behind a desk sorting through a stack of letters. When he came in, he noticed a look of fear flash through her eyes, quickly replaced by one of suspicion. “Can I help you?” she asked, as if she didn’t really want to.
She was about thirty, Banks guessed, with curly brown hair, a thin, olive-complexioned face and a rather long nose. Her pale green eyes were pink around the rims. She wore a loose fawn cardigan over her white blouse, despite the heat. Banks introduced himself and showed his card. “I’d like to see Mr. Clegg,” he said. “Is he around?”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No.” It sounded like “dough.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
“ Elizabeth. Elizabeth Moorhead. I’m Mr. Clegg’s secretary. Everyone calls me Betty.” She took a crumpled paper tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and blew her nose. “Cold,” she said. “Godda cold. In May. Can you believe it? I hate summer colds.”