Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘All of these?’
Graham had clicked her mouse several times, and the list kept growing. ‘Over five hundred,’ she stated. ‘Five hundred companies that give their business address as a one-bedroom flat in Leith.’
‘I’m hoping you’re going to tell me why.’
‘They’re shell companies, Malcolm. A way of hiding assets and moving them around the globe. Try tracking the actual owners and you usually end up in some offshore tax haven like the British Virgin Islands or the Caymans, jurisdictions that aren’t exactly forthcoming when the UK tax authorities start asking questions. There’s a new law coming in. UK owners will have to reveal who the real beneficiaries are, though whether we’ll be able to trust that information is a moot point. For now though, SLPs are a great way of hiding who you are and what the hell you’re doing.’
‘And Darryl Christie runs this whole thing?’
Graham shook her head. ‘The flat is rented from Christie by a corporate services provider called Brough Consulting.’
‘No relation to the private bank?’
‘Not quite. Brough Consulting is one man, Anthony Brough, grandson of Sir Magnus, who ran Brough’s until it was bought by one of the Big Five.’
‘How close is he to Darryl?’
‘Quite close.’
‘So these shell companies... they’re like an extension of the money laundering?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. It’s a hideous paper trail that happens to be mostly electronic. So we sit here all day, working our way from one company to the next, one beneficial owner to the next, trying to find real flesh-and-blood people hiding in the margins of a hundred thousand transactions.’ She looked at him. ‘It is proper detective work, you see. Except we tend to call it forensic accounting.’
‘Have you made anything stick yet?’
‘Against Brough Consulting? We’d be popping the champagne if we had.’
‘Getting close, though?’
‘We thought maybe Darryl Christie would lead us somewhere.’
‘But that hasn’t happened.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Could any of these shell companies have some beef with Darryl?’
‘We’ve no way of knowing.’
‘You can’t intercept his emails and phone calls?’
‘Not without the say-so from upstairs. And probably a doubling of resources — has news reached you that we’re supposed to be tightening our belts? This is Austerity Britain we’re living in.’ She swivelled in her chair so her knees brushed his. ‘You need to keep this to yourself, Malcolm, remember that. Even if it starts to have some bearing on the assault case, you talk to me before you start sharing with your pals back in Edinburgh.’
‘Understood,’ Fox said. ‘And thanks. It means a lot that you would trust me.’
‘There’s more I could tell you, but it would probably go over your head — some of it goes above mine.’
‘Numbers were never my strong point.’
‘But you can balance a chequebook — that’s what you said at our first meeting.’
‘Maybe I exaggerated a little.’ He jabbed a finger towards his cheek. ‘Good poker face, remember?’
Graham smiled again. ‘You’re heading back to Edinburgh?’ She watched Fox nod. ‘Quid pro quo, then — don’t leave me out of the loop.’
‘I won’t,’ Fox said.
‘So where does the inquiry go next?’
‘That’s DI Clarke’s call.’ His phone was vibrating in his jacket. He dug it out and checked the screen. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said, opening the text message. Graham saw his eyebrows arch in surprise.
‘Something?’ she asked.
‘Something,’ he acknowledged, turning the phone towards her so she could read what was there.
We’ve got a confession.
‘You better skedaddle, then,’ Graham said. ‘And be sure to phone me with the news.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Fox said, deserting the remains of his coffee as he headed for the door.
6
A solitary journalist stood guard on the pavement outside Gayfield Square police station. Her name was Laura Smith and she was the crime correspondent for the Scotsman.
‘I’m freezing half to death here, DI Fox,’ she complained as he made to pass her.
‘No comment, Ms Smith.’
‘It’s not like I haven’t done you favours in the past.’
‘It’s DI Clarke you should be pestering.’
‘She’s not answering her phone.’
‘Probably because she’s got nothing to say. And isn’t a mugging a bit pedestrian for a crime reporter?’
‘Not when you bear in mind who the victim is.’
‘Local entrepreneur Darryl Christie?’
She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my paper’s lawyers will make sure I don’t say anything that could get us into trouble.’
‘That’s good, because I dare say Mr Christie has lawyers, too.’
‘Just give me a sentence — I can quote you as “police sources”.’
‘I’ve got nothing for you, Laura. But I’ll put in a word with DI Clarke.’
‘Cross your heart?’
‘I wouldn’t want you suing me for breach of promise.’
He opened the door and went in, past the reception desk, punching in the code for the inner door, then along the narrow corridor to the interview rooms. No doubting which one contained the confessor — a huddle of uniforms had gathered next to it, whispering and listening.
Fox hadn’t been lying to Laura Smith — he’d tried phoning Clarke for clarification, but without any luck. Now he asked the most senior of the constables for the story.
‘Walked up to one of the beat officers, said he needed to tell him something.’
‘Where was this?’
‘A Greggs on South Bridge. Carrying a shopping bag and looking like he needed hosing down. Officer played along, asked him what he’d done. He said he’d whacked Darryl Christie around the head, given his ribs a few kicks for good measure.’
‘Probably a nutter,’ another uniform offered.
‘Specific injuries haven’t been mentioned anywhere, though, have they?’ the older constable said.
‘Hospital would know. Family and neighbours, too. Word has a way of getting out.’
‘Is there a lawyer on the way?’ Fox queried.
‘Says he doesn’t want one. Not been charged yet anyway.’
‘So who’s in there with him? DI Clarke?’
‘And DC Esson.’
Fox stared hard at the door, with its signage switched from VACANT to IN USE. The surface of the door was heavily scored, its paintwork chipped away. Fox was wondering if he could just march in. He could, of course — it was his right. But if Siobhan was getting answers... and if the man inside clammed up, spell broken by the interruption...
‘Has he got a name?’ he asked instead.
‘Officer he spoke to must have got it, but he’s off writing up his report.’
‘Will he mention that he was queuing for doughnuts at Greggs at the time?’
‘Man’s got to eat,’ the older constable said, as if dispensing the wisdom of the ages. ‘And it was a steak bake, to be exact.’
There was a noise from inside and the door opened, catching them by surprise. Like all the doors, it opened outwards, so that no one left inside could attempt a barricade. The edge of the door caught one of the uniforms a glancing blow to his shoulder. He let out a yelp as Christine Esson emerged.
‘Serves you right,’ she said, in place of apologising. Siobhan Clarke was right behind her. She spotted Fox and gestured for him to follow as she made for the stairs to the CID suite. Esson meantime was telling the uniforms to make themselves useful — two to keep an eye on the man still seated in the interview room, another to fetch him something to drink and eat.