Medine nodded, straight-faced. 'I have taken instructions from my head office in Germany. I am cleared to co-operate with you as far as I can.' He rose from the round table at which they sat, and 173 walked round behind Alex to a smal filing cabinet.
'You wish to discuss our account number UK 73461,1 understand from the call which I received yesterday?'
'Correct.'
Medine took a smal folder from the cabinet and resumed his seat at the table. 'It's all in here,' he said, 'all the detail of the instruction.
The account details are on computer. I can get you an exact balance, if you wish. It will show the sum deposited, plus interest to date.
There have been no withdrawals.
'That would have been unlikely anyway at this stage,' he added.
'Why?' asked Ericson.
'Because the terms of the account specify ninety days' notice of withdrawal. This account was set up only a few months ago.'
'What's the rate of interest?'
'Currently nine-point-seven-five per cent.'
'That's very good,' said the Chief Superintendent.
'That's why we are popular with our customer base. We give that little bit extra for larger deposits. Our minimum is fifty thousand, sterling.'
Cheshire leaned forward. 'Let's get a bit more specific about your customer base, shall we. What types might it include?'
The little manager's eyes narrowed. He pinched his nose, below the cross-piece of his spectacles. 'Most of them are corporate. Our private clients include engineers working abroad, I suppose; retired people, as I said; soldiers.'
'Soldiers? Do they earn that much?' Cheshire looked at him quizzically.
'There are other armies beside ours, sir.'
The policeman nodded. 'You mean mercenaries.'
'Maybe. In my experience, most prefer to be called military advisers.'
'Are al your accounts numbered?'
'Oh no,' said Medine. 'that is simply a service which JZG offers.
Most of our accounts are held in the name of the depositor.'
'What about access?'
'Always we require a signature, and proof of identity. We don't go in for codewords or half banknotes or any of that nonsense.' He smiled, thinly.
'Yet if someone comes to you asking for a numbered account, what might that mean?'
The manager leaned back in his chair. 'Who am I to know?' he countered. 'You tell me of a private bank which asks a customer to provide references when he comes to it with a large sum of money to deposit.
'If I am asked for a numbered account, I provide it without question.'
'And that was how it was in the case of UK 73461?' Cheshire asked.
'Exactly'
'So how was that account set up?'
Medine opened his folder. 'Around five months ago,' he said, 'a man arrived with a parcel. He didn't give a name, and we didn't ask.
He said simply that he was a courier engaged by a third party, and he asked to see the manager.
'I interviewed him, in this same room, and he gave me the parcel.
It contained one hundred thousand pounds in sterling, in Bank of England notes of various denominations, and ages.
'With it, there was a covering letter. I have it here.' He took a sheet of paper from the folder, and handed it to Cheshire. 'It instructed me to place the contents of the parcel in a numbered account for the benefit of Robert Morgan Skinner, born in Motherwell, Lanarkshire, on April 7, 1951. Withdrawals from the account could be made only by Mr Skinner, on his signature and on production of a means of secondary identification.
'The letter asked me also to provide acceptable confirmation that the account had been opened. It was unsigned.'
Cheshire read the document which Medine had handed over: once, twice, a third time. Then he passed it across to Alex. She picked it up and stared at it, peering closely. The letter had been typed, not on a word-processor, for printing, but directly on a manual typewriter. It was on a plain sheet of cream A4 paper.
' "This is an instruction…",' she began to read aloud. It was exactly as the manager had said. Her father's name, his birthplace, his date of birth. 'But anyone could have gone to the General Register Office and looked that up,' she protested, her self-control beginning to slip for the first time that day.
Cheshire raised a hand to silence her, glancing across. For the first time, his eyes were sympathetic, rather than unkind. 'Shh,' he said, 'I know that.'
He looked back at the banker. 'What else, Mr Medine? How was the depositor to know that the courier hadn't just legged it with the cash?'
'He asked for, and I gave him, a signed, numbered receipt from this bank. It bore the number of the account. It's part of our security requirement that account holders must quote the number of their receipt as wel as the title of the account when requesting withdrawals.' He took a copy of the slip from the file, and handed it over.
'Of course I have no idea what the courier did with the receipt, but he did ask me also to telephone a UK telephone number and leave a message on its answering machine, saying simply, "Consignment received" and giving the date. This I did.'
'Do you recall the number?'
Medine nodded. 'I wrote it down. Here it is.' He took a slip of paper from the folder and passed it to the policeman. Before he slid it across to Alex, she had seen the first numbers, 0162. Even so, when she saw her father's unlisted Gullane number, a shaft of cold fear swept through her. She wondered if she had gone pale, and if Cheshire had noticed, until she realised that if the investigators had checked his financial details they would also know al of his telephone numbers.
'And final y,' asked Cheshire. 'The signature. How was that to be verified?'
'Easily,' the banker answered. 'This was in the parcel.'
He took the last document from the folder and handed it to the investigator. Cheshire looked at it, his face set once more, and passed it to Alex. It was another sheet of plain A4 paper, cream-coloured.
She read, aloud once more. ' "This is a sample of Mr Skinner's signature. He will also identify himself by producing his police warrant card, issued by his office in Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh".'
Below the typescript, there it was, in a clear hand which she knew so well. 'Robert M. Skinner.'
'It's all right, Alex,' said Cheshire, speaking suddenly almost like a kindly uncle. 'I'm not going to ask you.' She found his sympathy so much harder to take than his aggression.
'Are there any questions you'd like to ask?' he offered.
She pul ed herself together and nodded.
'The money in the package, Mr Medine. You said that it was in Bank of England notes?'
'That's right.'
'A mix of denominations and ages?'
'Yes, nearly all twenties and fifties. I remember, because I had to authenticate every one of them. Most were in sequence, but not continuous. Not new, but most, if not all, unused. It was as if the whole sum had been gathered together piece by piece, over a period of time.'
'And al of them were Bank of England notes?'
The banker looked at her, puzzled. 'What else? As I said, the deposit was in sterling.'
'Mmm, okay. Can we go back to the courier now?' Alex asked.
'Can you describe him?'
'Let me think.' Medine knitted his brow in concentration. 'He was tall,' he said at last, hesitantly, 'and slim-built, wearing a grey suit.
He had fairish hair, as I recall. I would say that he was in his thirties.'
'How about his accent?'
'I'm bad on UK accents. I can barely tell a Jock from a Geordie.
This chap just sounded bland; that's al I can say about him. He didn't give me any regional impression.'
On Alex's left, Chief Superintendent Ericson opened his briefcase, reached into it and, after fumbling with his papers, took out a single sheet which he handed, face-down, to the bank manager. 'Did he look anything like this?' he asked.