by William Shaw
‘Still no idea . . .’
‘The twenty-four words are basically what get you access to a big pile of Bitcoins. Without them, the money doesn’t exist. It’s the only way to get hold of it. The intermediary – I’m still guessing here, but I bet I’m right – divides the twenty-four-word key into two twelve-word phrases and stores each on a simple phone. It’s easy enough to take two cheap phones out of a country. They don’t look like millions of pounds, but that’s what they are.’
‘So two people were stealing money from the Foundation, paying it into a separate account, and taking it out of the tax haven as Bitcoins.’
‘Pretty much,’ said Devon.
‘And neither knows what the other twelve words are,’ Cupidi ventured. ‘So what the phones tell us is that it’s two people who don’t trust each other. Neither knows the other’s half of the key.’
‘Guess so.’
‘But something happens, and two chancers on mopeds steal one of the phones off Allan Mulligan. And suddenly, without the phone, there are no millions. They vanish into thin air.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So what happened to Abir Stein?’
‘Not my department,’ said Devon.
*
Allan Mulligan said nothing. The angry, bitter glares of officers at a man who had been one of their own were met by dull impassivity.
‘No comment.’
He had nothing to gain by talking, after all. An ex-copper who had killed a former colleague, he would go down for a long time anyway. Why did he care?
*
When Cupidi interviewed Astrid Miller, she was the opposite. ‘I can explain everything,’ she said.
‘Go on then.’ Just let them talk, ran the mantra. Sooner or later they will dig a hole for themselves.
So she talked. Allan Mulligan had a crush on her, she explained. When she had discovered that Evert was sleeping with Zoya Gubenko, she had felt hurt and rejected. Mulligan had comforted her and they had ended up in bed together. A terrible mistake. From a single liaison, he had become obsessed by her, fantasised an entire life together and become furious when he heard that, should she leave Evert, she would not be entitled to a share of his fortune because of their prenuptial agreement.
‘He was jealous of everyone around me. He is a monster. Abbie Stein was terrified of him.’
Cupidi raised her eyebrows. ‘You think Allan Mulligan killed Abir Stein?’
‘Well, hold on,’ she said. ‘We don’t actually know that Abbie is dead, do we? I mean, you haven’t even found a body.’
‘What do you know about River Deep?’
‘Never heard of it,’ she answered crisply.
Cupidi pushed a photograph of a simple phone across the desk. ‘Can you explain this? We found it in a safe in your shack.’
‘That was not mine. Abbie gave it to me for safe keeping,’ she said.
‘He did? What was so special about it?’
‘I have absolutely no idea at all. But he seemed very worried about it.’
Another sheet of paper, this time a photograph of the other phone’s screen. On it, the message: U win I will pay u half ££ if you promise to leave me alone.
‘You sent that message?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why did you send that text to Allan Mulligan?’
She looked shocked. ‘I most certainly didn’t.’
‘It was on the phone the lads stole off him. It was sent by you.’
She smiled. ‘But it wasn’t Mulligan’s phone at all, was it? It was Stein’s. You know that. I was sending Abir a message, obviously, not Mulligan. I didn’t even know he had it. Me and Abbie had argued about money, that’s all. We did sometimes,’ she said.
‘Smooth,’ said DI McAdam in the corridor outside the interview room.
‘Very,’ said Cupidi. ‘She’s denying everything. But that message had to be for Mulligan, not Stein. Why else was she outside the house while Mulligan was killing Peter? She was in it with Mulligan.’
‘Oh, I believe you. But that’s not what matters, is it?’
They had applied to keep her in custody for another twelve hours. Astrid Miller’s lawyer was demanding they release her immediately on bail, threatening the police with legal action.
*
Joseph Watt was sitting up in his hospital bed, his mother at his side. ‘I hear you’re taking in Benjamin,’ Cupidi said.
‘He has nowhere else to go,’ Mrs Watt explained. ‘It’s my duty as a Christian.’
‘That’s good of you.’
‘He’s my son’s friend. I will never forget that he saved his life. Course, he almost got him killed, too.’
It was true. In spite of the drugs that he had been given by Allan Mulligan, Tap had kept Sloth alive by staunching the bleeding while they waited for the ambulances to arrive.
‘It’s not going to be easy. They’re both hooligans. Benjamin says he wants to go to art school. Can you imagine?’
‘I shouldn’t be telling you this yet, but we found your son on CCTV. Him and Benjamin.’
Sloth sat up a little more. ‘At the Co-op we robbed?’
‘I am so ashamed of my son, Sergeant.’
‘No,’ Cupidi said. ‘On Spital Street, outside the Royal Victoria Hotel. They tried to steal a woman’s phone. We’re going to charge them both with attempted robbery.’
‘I’ll murder you,’ said Mrs Watt.
Cupidi looked at the boy. ‘It would save a lot of police time.’
Mrs Watt smiled for the first time. Cupidi turned to Sloth. ‘That’s what happened, isn’t it? You stole Allan Mulligan’s phone. The same day as you were outside the Royal Victoria. Where was that?’
‘Phones,’ said Joseph. ‘Nasty little one and the iPhone. You going to charge us for that?’
‘You probably want to talk to a lawyer about that before we take it any further.’
‘That’s why he killed my uncle Mikey, isn’t it?’ said Benjamin. ‘Because we gave him the wrong thing to take back. It was the other one he wanted.’
‘No, bro,’ said Joseph, gently. ‘Wasn’t our fault really. He’d have killed him anyway, wouldn’t he? He had been a copper, hadn’t he? Bet your uncle Mikey recognised him in the first place. Didn’t want anyone to be able to identify him.’
‘Still our fault.’
Joseph was probably right, but again, she couldn’t comment. She tried to imagine what it had been like for the two boys, out on the edge of Dartford Marsh, not knowing why they were being chased.
‘Any sign of mischief and Benjamin is gone. He can look after himself.’
‘Are they keeping Joseph in much longer?’
‘Long as they like,’ his mother said. ‘Keep him out of trouble.’
*
Ferriter had not come back to work. She was on sick leave. The doctor had prescribed antidepressants, but Ferriter refused to take them. Cupidi missed her.
On the second day, McAdam approached Cupidi’s desk with a copy of that morning’s paper in his hand: ‘Did Abir Stein Fake His Own Death?’ A one-armed man resembling Abir Stein had apparently been spotted in St Lucia.
‘You don’t actually believe it, do you?’ said Cupidi. ‘That story came straight from Astrid’s lawyers. The rich can run rings around the truth.’
McAdam looked anxious. If nothing changed, they would have to release Astrid Miller later that morning. The press were outside the building, waiting for her to emerge. She would make a statement to the press. It was like the old days, when everyone wanted to know what Astrid Theroux said.
‘They’re burying Peter Moon next Wednesday,’ McAdam said. ‘His mother has asked me to speak at the service. Jill Ferriter knew him well, didn’t she? Do you think I should call her at home, ask her for input?’
‘Definitely not.’
He looked down. ‘You’re right. Still too raw.’ It was time to go. ‘You ready for this?’
She picked up her notebook, nodded slowly, stood.
/> *
She and McAdam walked in silence down the stairs to the interview room. Officers watched them as they passed, giving little nods of encouragement. Once there, they only spoke to identify themselves for the record, then Cupidi stared at Mulligan for a long time until he finally broke her gaze and looked away to the red blinking light of the video camera above their heads. She had had time to think about this; about what she would say to him.
‘There are a lot of people outside that door who’d like to be where I am now,’ she said finally. ‘You should hear the things they say they would like to do to you if they had the chance.’
His lawyer, a middle-aged man with frameless specs, shuffled in his seat.
‘It’s all talk,’ she said.
Not a flicker from Mulligan.
‘Because they’re police officers. Good people. They don’t do stuff like that.’
Just a little blink of the eyes that time.
‘What was Astrid Miller like in bed?’
That seemed to work. He took his eyes off the video camera and stared at her, as if trying to understand what she was trying to do.
‘She talks a lot. She has been telling us she had sex with you.’
He frowned.
Cupidi laughed. ‘No. To be honest, I couldn’t see it, either. Not with you. You’re not exactly supermodel material.’
‘Funny,’ he said, finally.
‘She’s saying a lot of things that probably aren’t true. Doesn’t that make you angry?’
He lapsed back into silence.
‘You know that when we find his body, she’ll say you killed Abir Stein, don’t you?’
Scrit, scrit, scrit. The lawyer made a note on his yellow pad.
‘When did Evert Miller ask you to start spying on his wife?’
Nothing.
‘That’s when it all began, wasn’t it? All that time, watching her. Figuring out what she was up to. You’re a copper, after all, somewhere underneath.’
She had spent the morning poring over his police records. He had been the kind of copper who got sent on gender sensitivity training courses, but other than that, old-school, diligent.
‘I read you were a pretty good one. Once.’
He smiled. ‘Better than you lot of nancies, poncing around worrying about your pensions.’
She smiled back. ‘Doesn’t look like it to me. You’re sitting there, and I’m sitting here. Go on then, prove it.’
‘I know what you’re trying to do.’
‘Astrid Miller is running rings around us. And we can’t do anything about it. Prove you’re better than us. Think about what it would be like if you were sitting on this side of the table. Go on.’
The lawyer frowned.
‘Prove that you figured out what she was up to with Abir Stein all along. That you’re not some mindless thug. You’re a clever man.’ If she had meant that to sound flattering, it hadn’t.
But he had lapsed back into silence.
They waited another few minutes. Perhaps she had overplayed her hand. She had thought she could use his arrogance against him, make him think like a copper again, but he didn’t care at all.
She was conscious of McAdam checking his watch. They would be out of time. ‘We need to go,’ he said.
‘No,’ Mulligan said. ‘Wait.’
They paused.
‘You’re right. I figured it out. What she and Abir Stein were up to. Evert Miller hated his wife. But he wouldn’t let her go. He was jealous of her.’
It had started the previous year, he said. At Evert Miller’s request, he had been reporting on what his wife did every day. Mulligan had even put a GPS tracker on her car. A few weeks ago, he had followed her to Cromwell Tower. He drove there, loitered behind the walkway pillars.
Usually she was only there for half an hour or so, doing business. That time, she stayed late. Some time around midnight, he saw her emerge running from the lobby, looking pale. There was blood on her dress.
Evert Miller cared about his reputation most of all. Mulligan was there to protect it. If something bad had happened, it would be his job to deal with it. So, before she could reach her car, he confronted her.
She was shocked at first; wanted to know why he was there. Then she told him there had been a fight. She claimed Stein had tried to sexually assault her. She had fought back. She was not sure what she had done. So he went to find out.
Upstairs in the flat he found Stein dead on the living-room floor. He had his doubts about the story even then; Stein had not been the kind of man who assaulted people. Besides, he had been killed by a blow from behind.
‘Did she say why she killed him?’ Cupidi asked.
‘No, but it’s not hard to guess. Stein wasn’t built for that kind of thing. I think he wanted out. I remember thinking he’d looked rough for a while, as if something was bugging him. Maybe he wanted to confess to Evert that he’d been stealing his money for years.’
Mulligan told Astrid they would have to go to the police. She pleaded with him not to. Instead, she offered him money to help her.
‘I was greedy,’ said Mulligan. ‘I took it.’
‘You got rid of the body for her.’
‘At the bottom of Evert’s swimming lake. Wrapped up tight and weighted. Easiest place I could find,’ he said. ‘Most of the remains, anyway. I kept something back.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? As a kind of special pension plan of my own.’
Cupidi looked up at the camera. Someone would be watching. They would be sending a team there now.
The next day, said Mulligan, Astrid had called him again. She wanted him to go to Stein’s flat and look for something. A phone. Nobody knew Stein was dead, so there was no risk involved, but could he go to Stein’s apartment, let himself in, and bring it back for her? Again, he asked for more money. Astrid agreed. It took several nights’ work to find the phone. Stein had hidden it in a jar of rice in his kitchen. Taped to it was the unlock code and instructions about how to retrieve a file hidden on the device.
But when he got back to Long Hill, he refused to hand the phone over. A third time she offered him yet more money: this time a million pounds. That’s when he became convinced the phone was worth a great deal more than that.
So he asked for more; the whole story. He wanted to know how much he could walk away with. And when she didn’t tell him, he thought of a plan. ‘I knew she’d freak out if the arm was in something that could let people link it back to her. And I was right.’
It had been simple enough. He told her that Abir Stein’s arm was concealed in one of the Foundation’s artworks, one of the many that had been loaned out. It would be discovered soon, and then it would be easy to trace it back to her. If she cut him in on the deal, he would tell her which piece of work the arm was in so she could think of some excuse to recall it before the arm was discovered. He had calculated that it would take a few days before the smell became too bad, but he had not factored in the over-heated gallery room at the Turner. But for now, his plot worked. Panicked, she told him the whole story. Nine million pounds, extracted deal by deal from the Foundation, sitting somewhere in the blockchain, encoded as data. He demanded half.
‘She gave in,’ said Cupidi. ‘But that was the day you lost the phone.’
‘And my luck ran out. What are the odds the person who brings back my bag knows exactly who I am?’
Cupidi took a photograph of Michael Dillman from her envelope and put it in front of him. ‘So you killed him.’
‘Stupid. I panicked. I crossed a line. After that, there was no going back.’
‘We never found the gun. What did you do with it?’
‘Slung it in the Thames. It’s a big river. I’m not stupid. I was a copper.’
She stared at him for a while, thinking of William South. ‘Make sure to tell that last bit to the lads in prison too. They might be interested.’
He winced.
After the boys had stolen the pho
ne, he had spent days in Abir Stein’s apartment in the Barbican, searching for a copy of the missing words, checking his email and post to see if Stein had left a duplicate of the list anywhere, looking for any clue about how to retrieve the money from the blockchain. He couldn’t believe that nine million pounds could just disappear. Until one day the police turned up there.
‘And all the time, I was trying to find the boys.’
‘They were terrified.’
Next, she pulled out a picture of the dead security guard from the Co-op. ‘You can’t put that on me,’ he said. ‘Not my fault.’
Then she pulled out the picture of Tap’s mother. And finally a picture of Peter Moon. She had chosen a picture from his passing-out parade. A young man in uniform, buttons shining. Mulligan’s face hardened again.
*
It was May when they buried Peter Moon in Bybrook Cemetery. Funerals for the young always draw a bigger crowd. Every copper on the force that Cupidi knew was there, and more besides. The chapel was so full, people had to stand outside.
Standing by the coffin, McAdam said, ‘He was young and ambitious. He went up to the room where he almost certainly knew a murderer might be, to save the lives of others. That is a remarkable act of a remarkable man. He knew the risk. He represents the finest among us.’
Many cried. Moon had been an only child. His mother, a small woman, stared at the crowd who’d gathered, bewildered by the event.
Afterwards they went to the local, and sat under the gentle curve of its oak eaves for drinks and sandwiches.
Ferriter was all in black. ‘Did you see today’s papers?’ she asked.
‘I’ve given up on them.’
‘Astrid Miller’s lawyers are laying out another sob story. How Evert Miller was an abusive husband.’
‘What do you expect?’ said Cupidi. ‘It’s not about whether she’s going down now. It’s about how long she’s going down for.’
Astrid Miller’s version was changing daily, as new details emerged. She had admitted using the art fund to siphon away her husband’s money. The money had been rightfully hers, she said. Now she was attempting to blame the conspiracy on Stein.
