by Les Cowan
Just as he was about to ring, the door was opened by a young woman in skinny jeans, trainers, and a polo shirt with “Edinburgh Athletics” on it.
“Hi, saw you coming. Come on in. There’s a few here already.”
“Sam, can I introduce Gillian Lockhart? David gestured to his left. “Gillian – Sam Hunter. She’s big in the city, you know. Expert in everything involving numbers.”
“As if!” Sam made a face. “I’m all big picture now. Mike’s the numbers man. Pleased to meet you, Gillian.” She paused, softening her tone. “I’ve heard the story about Spain and what happened a few weeks ago. How are you?”
Gillian managed half a smile.
“Still sore,” she said. “I got some cuts and bruises at the time but I hurt my back falling against the shop window and that’s what’s taking longer to clear up.”
Sam put a hand on her arm.
“So glad it wasn’t anything worse. Anyway, we’re in the conservatory. Just go straight through.”
About a dozen had already gathered. A couple from Central, some from Kings Church, St Andrew’s, and a few others. A tall rangy guy with olive skin, a Scotland rugby top, and designer stubble appeared in the doorway with a tray of coffees. He quickly scanned around, then, spotting David, set down the tray and sat beside him.
“Hombre. Glad to see you in one piece. I hear it’s been a bit full on.”
“Hi Mike. You could say that. Peace and quiet – that’s what’s needed now.”
“Wait till you see what I’ve got for you later. Not sure you’ll get what you want.”
Once the coffee things had been cleared away, Sam did a welcome then immediately passed to David, who in turn passed immediately on to an elderly but clearly robust woman to his right who had just arrived.
“Irene MacInnes is our church secretary, treasurer, stalwart – and a few other things. I think she should start. She’s really the one that has kept Southside going for the last twenty years.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s an overstatement. We all just do what we can. What can I tell you?”
Irene MacInnes did a reasonable job of looking flattered and slightly flustered but David wasn’t fooled. Ladies from Morningside don’t do flustered. You’d think they’d all come from Navy SEAL boot camp, not The Mary Erskine School for girls. Mrs MacInnes briefly, concisely, and efficiently told the story of Southside right up to when David Hidalgo, an unknown quantity, subject of a recent tragedy, had been suggested as leader – largely as a stopgap, till somebody more suitable turned up. Then David told about Southside as it was when he arrived, the changes they’d made, what now seemed to be more or less working, and what they were still working on. Next up, Gillian briefly described her first impressions, then what she liked and what she still found uncomfortable – the friendly family feel and the worship songs, respectively. Finally, Juan spoke about Warehouse 66, the church David and his wife Rocío had founded in Madrid about fifteen years before, and how the cultures differed but many of the needs were the same. Then into some Q&A, explanations, and discussion.
Fascinating and useful as it all no doubt was, Gillian began to feel herself wandering. She still often had to do a mental double take at the weirdness of her situation. Last summer she’d still been getting over the divorce – in theory amicable, civilized, adult; in reality none of these things. For months after the final event she’d felt she was walking around with a banner over her head or that lottery pointy hand thing with a caption that said, “Failure, Muck-up, Abandoned.” The normal grown-up tools of rationalization, tell-yourself-you’re-not-to-blame, etc, didn’t seem to be working. She drifted into work each morning at the Scots Language Department of the university, drifted through staff meetings, gave lectures and tutorials in her sleep, and drifted home again. Slumped through rubbish TV and drifted off to sleep. It was some consolation that more than half her colleagues seemed to be in the same boat, but they didn’t seem to be drifting. They dated, they went to salsa class, they managed to swing conferences in nice locations and took a “friend”. They encouraged her not to take everything so seriously but somehow pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again didn’t seem to be working.
“How are you, Gilli? You look beautiful, as usual.” Her dad’s weekly greeting at the nursing home in Silverknowes never changed and she didn’t want it to. His body was gradually giving out but the spirit inside was only slightly dimmed – a candle flame through gauze.
“What do you think I should do, Dad?” she had asked, perplexed, one week. “I just can’t make myself feel bright and positive. It’s not like turning on a tap.”
“I know. When your mum was drinking I tried to keep things going for you and Ros… Feeling bright and positive isn’t always easy.”
“You did fantastically well. You know that, don’t you?”
“Well, one makes an effort. Stiff upper lip and all that.”
“No, seriously. You did. You kept us safe. Now I just feel I don’t have any direction any more. Like being homeless, you know?”
“I do. Life does that to you sometimes. But sooner or later you have to get back on the horse. Why not take a break? Go and see Charlie and Rosa in Andoain. They’d be pleased to have you.”
“Mmm. That’s worth thinking about. I haven’t seen Charlie for years. And the new Mrs Charlie. She’s Spanish, isn’t she?”
“Basque, I think. Don’t get caught calling a Basque woman Spanish. They’re less than half an hour inland from San Sebastián. You can see the city and the country.”
“Well, if I’m going to do that I’d better brush up on my Spanish.”
So that was it. Check out the Modern Languages Department extramural programme and find a top-up conversation class. Somebody called David Hidalgo. Sounds Spanish, at any rate. Give it a go. And the rest, as they say…
“Gillian? Any thoughts on that?” The conversation had paused and the room was looking at her expectantly but not unkindly.
“Eh, sorry – I must have drifted off a bit…”
Finally, it was over. Sam rounded things up and drew some tentative conclusions. Then it was hats and coats till only Sam, Mike, David, and Gillian were left.
“Well then. What’s the big deal?” David asked. “Financial irregularities in the parish?”
Mike grabbed a black ring binder and dropped it on the coffee table.
“You could say that. Actually, it isn’t funny.” Mike hadn’t contributed much in the meeting and David had thought he seemed a bit disconnected. Now he was sharp and focused.
“We should have had another agenda item today. Three new congregations that want to join. I’ve been asked to do the financial health check. Apparently we don’t want any dog-and-bone operations signing up – not good for the image. So they’re asked to send in three years of accounts and some other stuff, which I have a look at then give them the ok. That’s the theory anyway. Have a look at this.”
The first page of the folder looked like a routine summary of accounts – text labels with numbers next to them in neat columns with underlined totals at the bottom. Gillian bent a bit closer, scrutinizing the figures.
“I don’t know about church accounts but I used to do our local chamber orchestra’s books. It all looks ok. Is something the matter?”
“Not at all. This is Maranatha Centre, Morningside. Income from offerings nine thousand or so. Outgoings just under seven. Three grand in the bank. All hunky dory.”
“So what’s the problem, then?” David asked. “Finance isn’t my strong suit. Maybe we should have asked Mrs MacInnes to hang on a bit.”
“Actually no,” Sam put in firmly. “The fewer people involved, the better, at least for the time being. “Let them see the next page, Mike.” The second page looked remarkably like the first.
“Same thing. This is City Life Centre. A bit more in, a bit less out, a bit more in the bank. One year up a bit, next a bit down. Nothing exciting. With me so far? Ok. Now the last one. They call
themselves Power and Glory Church. Sounds a bit whacky but you never can tell these days. Three years again. They seem a bit more prosperous but there’s not much in it really. All perfectly normal. Offerings. Pastor’s salary. Heating and lighting. Travel and transport. A bit out to foreign missions and a bit in from sister congregations.”
“Sorry, Mike. I think I really must be missing something. There’s nothing here so far that’s going to hit the Evening News.”
“Indeed. Now here’s the bit we don’t want blabbed around or I lose my job. You know I work for Salamanca’s Scottish operation? Right now I’m in what’s called S&V – Scrutiny and Verification. The government have put a huge onus on the banks to track down the proceeds of crime – money laundering, ill-gotten gains, etc. So we’re looking for accounts that seem disproportionate to the enterprise behind them. A corner shop that’s turning over hundreds of thousands a month. A tanning studio that’s taking in twenty times what it should be.”
“Or a church, I suppose,” Gillian put in.
“Exactly. You’re on the right track. I wouldn’t normally expect to see anything unusual in church accounts, but you never know. So we have an algorithm that does it all for us. Accounts are allocated what we call a model profile. If they deviate more than 10 per cent from that, we have a closer look. Now. Here we are.” He turned to the final page in the folder. This time the figures were anonymous. No church name, letterhead, or logo, just three neat tables, one for each of the last three years, each one with columns for date, amount, and balance.
“But these are tiny sums,” David said. “£1.24, £2.30, £4.55. What’s the problem?”
“Actually, not so tiny,” Mike said quietly. “That’s not £4.55. It’s four and a half million.”
The room fell silent. A carriage clock on the sideboard gave a slight whir and a car horn sounded outside in the street.
“These columns are for transactions over the past three years. You can see the numbers are building. Not many transactions each year but they’re getting bigger. Look at the bottom figure on the right. There’s the final balance as of 5 p.m. yesterday.” He pointed to a figure in bold: £21.3.
“How on earth does a start-up church in Edinburgh wind up with £21 million in its accounts?” Gillian whispered. The question hung unanswered for some moments till finally David spoke.
“That’s one question, Mike. Others might be, which church is it and why are you telling us this?”
Mike closed the folder and was about to speak when Sam interrupted him.
“Before we go into that, there’s something else. Just so as we’re all clear. There are good reasons for sharing everything you’ve just heard. But if anything of what we’re talking about gets back to senior level at Salamanca a lost job might be the least of it.”
Mike took a deep breath and rubbed his temples.
“Everyone knows confidentiality is high on any bank’s agenda. Customers need to know their information is as safe as their money. Despite all the recent scandals, confidentiality is still a high priority. So no names, not just yet.”
“He hasn’t even told me,” Sam put in with a pointed look at her husband.
“At this stage let’s keep it to a church in the Edinburgh area.”
“A church that might be applying for membership,” David added.
“Well, you may think that – I couldn’t possibly comment,” Mike replied pointedly. “Anyway, there are very strict procedures for reporting this sort of stuff. The government wants the profits from illegal activities out of criminal hands and into the public finances on the double. So the case officer – me in this instance – reports to his superior, then a report goes to the Serious Fraud Office within forty-eight hours and they have a team that take it from there. Since I’d been doing some basic background on the churches about to sign up, it kind of stuck out when I spotted this one. I passed it on, but then a week later I thought I’d take another look just to see what was happening. Call it professional curiosity. Nothing. No report. Nothing pending. No note in the file to say what was happening. So I mentioned it to my next up and got a very funny reaction. Special measures, I was told. Nothing to do with us. Bigger fish to fry. Some sort of flannel like that.”
“Which you don’t buy…” David asked, more a statement than a question.
“I don’t. There is no way a church that size, any church I’ve ever heard of, should be messing around with these sorts of sums. And for that not to be reported is itself a criminal act.”
“And with that amount of money floating around there might be incentives to prevent disclosure,” Sam summed up.
“And you’re telling us this – why?” David asked.
“Well, you seem to be the organized crime expert around the table – more coffee anyone?”
There wasn’t a rush to restart when the coffee arrived. Eventually David spoke.
“Just to get this straight, Mike. You are checking up on some basic accounts as part of the process of churches applying to be part of the Edinburgh Council of Churches. Everything they send you seems fine but as part of your job you notice something odd and the name rings a bell. A church name you might have seen recently – don’t answer that – seems to be up to something peculiar. You report it to your boss, who seems to ignore it or cover it up. You’re telling us that in itself is illegal. So why not just report it to the police?”
Mike took another sip and put his cup down.
“Fair question. Breach of confidentiality for starters. Whistleblowing isn’t something you undertake lightly. If I go to the police I’m basically accusing my superiors of one crime and concealing another. I have to be absolutely sure of what I’m doing before I try that one on. And it’ll be obvious where the leak has come from – I’m the case officer, remember? So breach of customer confidentiality and accusing senior staff of criminal conspiracy. If I’m not 100 per cent correct, either one of these is a hanging offence. Both together and I won’t be able to keep the accounts for a sewing bee. I’m not sure I want to take that risk. And if I am right I have absolutely no desire to tangle with organized crime. I just add up numbers all day. This is way out of my comfort zone.”
Gillian gave him a look. “I hope you don’t think what we’ve been through was comfortable.”
“No, of course not. But you have contacts in the police, and you’ve got experience. Maybe you could speak to someone and give me some idea how to proceed. I don’t think I can just ignore it. Not if I’m being asked my professional opinion. Doing something about it just feels like the right thing to do.”
“So hanged if you do, hanged if you don’t,” David summed up.
“Exactly. Rock and a hard place. All of that.”
“But if I say something to a police officer they’re just going to come straight back to you.”
“Not if you don’t tell them where the information came from,” Sam put in. “Then they could do their own investigation.”
“But isn’t that going to implicate Mike anyway?” Gillian asked.
“Well, do you have a better idea?”
“Just a minute,” David said. “Maybe it’s not just either or. I agree that something needs to be done, but what that is and who does it I’m not clear on at all. To be honest, Gillian and I are just a matter of weeks back from Spain. I’m not sure either of us has the energy to get into something else right now. Let’s at least take a couple of days to think it over, and meet up again midweek. Maybe there’s another way forward we haven’t thought of yet.”
“Ok,” Mike agreed, closing the folder. “I’ve got a bit of time. But no later than that. This is a big deal. I’ll keep on digging, but when sums like that are involved there’s no telling what people might do.”
Chapter 2
THE TRAVELLER’S TALE
They said it would cost $15,000. Who in a small town in Belarus has $15,000? Nobody, that’s who. But there are ways. When you ask why it’s so much they talk about forged papers, bribing guards, ge
tting transport, arranging couriers. Risks, dangers, unexpected expenses, whatever. Anyway, it’s $15,000. Take it or leave it. So when I met up with Andrei and he had a business idea, I jumped at it as a way to come up with that sort of cash. It wasn’t dangerous – not really. Just moving packages from here to there. Pick something up outside the airport and deliver it to somewhere outside a railway station. You don’t need to be Einstein to know what that means. Anyway, none of that was going to stop me. Who in their right mind would want to stay in a nation where you could either be a gangster or a pig farmer and not much else? Ironic really: to get away from the gangsters you have to pay them, trust them. “If I’d known then what I know now,” as they say.
Once you’ve got $5,000 you can book a place. You hand over the cash and they say they’ll let you know. As my grandmother used to say, “Nadezhda umiraet posledney” – hope is the last thing to die. You pay up and hope for the best. Of course they want the other ten so it’s in everybody’s interests to offer you something. What you get in the end isn’t what you thought you were paying for, but isn’t that always the way? I mean, you never know exactly what you’re going to get when you put your hand up for anything. If I was praying for anyone except myself now I would pray they don’t get what I got. But that’s not going to happen, is it? Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It started when I was fourteen. The other girls in my class just wanted to get married and live like their mothers and grandmothers. The only thing they talked about was who was available: Oleg the butcher, Yuri the mechanic, even Sacha the doctor. Then making babies. In ten years’ time you might be able to afford a washing machine or a freezer. But by then he’s behaving like his father or grandfather and spending more on vodka than you can save to make your life just a little bit easier. I thought I’d rather kill myself quickly and be done with it. I’ve thought about that a lot since then. But when you’re a teenager you think you’ll live forever. They tell you smoking will kill you early but dying at fifty-five doesn’t sound too different to dying at 500 when you’re that age; that day will never come. In every practical sense you might as well be immortal. So everyone started smoking – except for me. I had a different plan. I worked out how much I might have been spending on cigarettes and put at least that amount in a shoe box under the bed every week. I didn’t spend anything on make-up or magazines or parties either. Anything I did spend was an investment in the future. There was a stall at the Saturday market where they had cheap novels in English. I used to buy them and sit for hours with a dictionary, trying to understand. I don’t think Jane Austen wrote for a teenage girl in 2005 in Belarus. But I loved it anyway. 1984 I understood right away because I was good at history. I was Winston but I was Julia too. Unlike them, I had a way out – or that’s what I thought then.
