All that Glitters

by Les Cowan

  “Come away in!” Irene MacInnes called as David pushed open the door of Hacienda that Sunday evening. Juan and Alicia might have been the nominal owners but that night even they had to do what they were told. The entire restaurant had been turned over to a buffet with eight tables together in the centre and chairs pushed back around the wall. Another couple of tables at the other end held reds, whites, cavas, and soft drinks for the kids. As well as the mountains of salads, tapas dishes, and Hacienda specialities on the buffet table, more seemed to be emerging all the time. Extra labour had been drafted in for the event so Alicia wasn’t allowed to do much “in her condition” and was constantly being told to sit down and put her feet up. Alicia’s nephew Tomas, who had originally come over from Madrid to improve his English, was now more or less permanent, as was Julie, the girl in David’s Spanish class last year who had given David and Gillian their first excuse to speak. She and Tomas seemed to be an item now, and as well as letting everyone know her pivotal role in the drama she showed particular interest in the ring and insisted that Tomas have a good look and admire it as well. Jen MacInnes, now almost seventeen and in need of work experience anyway, had a professional-looking apron on, her sleeves rolled up, hair tucked back, and a brisk and businesslike attitude that her granny particularly approved of. Her mum, Alison, was also on the team but actually found it hard to concentrate. She still had to pinch herself every morning when Jen brought her in a cup of tea and a digestive and did not need constant nagging about tidying her bedroom, doing her homework, clearing up the tea dishes, not leaving stuff all round the house, and being in at a reasonable time. She sometimes thought the girl who’d been abducted by Raúl Álvarez had never come back but had been replaced by someone entirely different. They still had their moments, but once the change was made things never really looked back. Alison’s mum encouraged her to give thanks to God but Alison was content to thank David Hidalgo – which she did mentally almost every day.

  As well as running the tightest of ships on the catering front, Irene MacInnes had also proved herself remarkably adept as social organizer. Discreet inquiries had been made and conversations had so that most of the Scots Language Department and half of Southside Players chamber orchestra also showed up – in the latter case, to make sure they weren’t going to lose their top flautist to a waiter from the Costa del Sol as the rumours had it. Along with a big turnout from Southside, it all made for an interesting mix. Normally Gillian was more at home with a pile of books researching some new point or preparing classes, but this time she just went with the flow and basked in the general approval.

  “Isn’t she stunning?” Gary commented to a couple of departmental colleagues.

  “You don’t need to tell me,” Stephen Baranski answered ruefully. “I tried to ask her out last week. I feel such a dope!”

  “Well, I think that’s forgivable,” another colleague remarked. “If you didn’t know the lie of the land then Gillian is undoubtedly highly ask-outable.”

  “Ye awright, Davie?” Eric Stoddart slapped his pastor’s back while gripping a plate of tortilla with the other. “Cameron! Tyrone! Leave they chicken legs alain. Yiz ur only alloo’d the wan each. Got it? An’ Senga. Fur ony sake sit doon ur ye’ll hae they olives skeitin’ roun’ like marbles. An’ get yir maw a drink. Great feed, Davie. An’ seen as wir oan aboot waddins an’ tha’, ur ye mindin’ about oor weddin’ date? Lorraine wid like to get it in afore Christmas if we can. Noo ah’m aff the drugs and the swally we’re wantin’ a proper Christmas for wance. Right married in aw. Awright?”

  What Alison felt looking at Jen, David felt about Eric. The toerag in a shell suit he’d first met over the counter of a hot soup van in Drylaw almost a year ago bore so little relation to the smartly dressed family man in front of him who never missed a week at church, was now working for a roofing company, and was planning to spend his earnings on children’s toys for Christmas instead of smack and bevvy.

  “Absolutely, Eric. It will be my pleasure.”

  Across the room Lorraine was sitting next to Alicia, both of them happily and obviously pregnant.

  Sometimes David thought things were finally all coming together; not everything inevitably went wrong. Maybe this was the beginning of normality. Just then his phone rang.

  “Hello. David Hidalgo. Yes. Hi Charlie. What can I do for you?… I’m at Hacienda. Spanish restaurant in South Clerk Street… Bit of a celebration actually… Well, if you have to, I suppose. Yes, I have actually. I was using it this morning; I think it’s in the church building… Ok, if it’s absolutely necessary. Right. Half an hour or so?”

  “Trouble at mill?” Gillian asked, seeing David’s expression. “I take it Charlie’s DI Thompson.”

  “He is indeed. And he wants to speak to me in half an hour. Wouldn’t say any more. But he wants me to have my laptop available for some reason. I can nip along to Southside and pick it up. I left it after doing the PowerPoint this morning. But I’ve no idea what he can want with that.”

  It was little more than twenty minutes before Charlie Thompson appeared with a detective constable in tow. In the interim Irene MacInnes had proposed a toast, led the singing of “For they are jolly good fellows” and three cheers, and still managed to keep an eye on the emergence and placement of each additional dish. The sounds of happy eating and contented conversation made a buzz of general well-being around the room. Kids in party frocks mixed with old folk. Eric, who had never read a book in his life but was a walking dictionary of modern urban Scots, was happily chatting with Gillian’s Scots Language colleagues, who wanted him to come in and be recorded for the Modern Urban Scots audio project. They couldn’t pay but there’d be a lunch in the staff club, a credit in the final version, and maybe an opportunity to talk to undergraduates. Eric earnestly agreed while Lorraine was cracking up in the corner.

  “You? At the uni?” she asked, incredulous. “Daein’ the roof ah could believe but getting yir name in a book an’ hob nobbin’ with the heid bummers? That’ll gie the kids somethin’ to talk abou’ in circle time!” Secretly she was intensely proud and from that moment on never missed a chance to tell anyone willing to listen that her husband was giving a lecture at the university.

  DI Thompson did not have a carefree look on his face as he came in.

  “David Hidalgo – DC Kevin Carmichael. Is there somewhere we can speak? And have you got your laptop?”

  “Yes to both. Juan has a side office off the kitchen; we can use that. The laptop’s in there. Any reason why Gillian can’t join us?”

  The two officers exchanged glances.

  “No, I suppose not.” Thompson agreed. “We’re all grown-ups here.”

  Wondering what exactly that was supposed to mean, David found Gillian showing off the ring to a group from the Thursday afternoon Ladies’ Craft Club, who were looking like they’d never seen an engagement ring before, clucking and sighing over it. He whispered in her ear then ushered them all into a tiny office with two chairs and a desk littered with invoices, orders, and statements.

  “This yours then?” Charlie Thompson asked, nodding at the MacBook on the desk.

  “Sure. What’s this all about?” David asked. “This was actually meant to be an engagement party.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. And congratulations by the way. Developments in relation to our mutual friends.”

  DI Thompson parked his ample backside on a corner of the desk and took out a notebook.

  “We interviewed Alexander Benedetti last week – as you know. A report has gone to the Procurator Fiscal. Looks like he’s not going to be charged with the murder, but there’s a bunch of breaches of the banking regulations, conspiracy to defraud, false accounting, etc. I doubt if he’ll be spending Christmas at home. Anyway, the next thing was to freeze the account. We have a bunch of guys that specialize in financial and accounting offences. However, bit of a cock-up in the handover so it was Friday before they actually got onto it. Then, guess what?”

 
“It wasn’t there?” David hazarded a guess.

  “Oh, it was there all right,” Thompson smiled. “But something like 20 million short. Transferred overnight on Thursday. Goodness only knows where. They left £666 in the account. I suppose that’s meant to be some sort of joke.”

  David groaned, looked at Gillian, and rolled his eyes.

  “So they live to ride again? I think I can guess what’s coming next.”

  “I bet you can’t,” Thompson said grimly. “Of course the church is locked up and none of the principals are to be found. But, and this is the nasty bit, they’ve been busy in the interim. When did you last use your laptop?”

  “This morning. At church. I usually do some sort of PowerPoint when I’m speaking.”

  “All ok?”

  “Yes, of course. What’s my laptop got to do with PGC church and Max whatever his name is?”

  “Turn it on and we’ll see.”

  Unable to contain a sigh at both the interruption to their event and the seemingly bizarre request, David opened up the case. He quickly typed his password at the sign-in screen, expecting the normal wallpaper of windmills in La Mancha and a selection of icons around the edge. Gillian involuntarily gasped as the screen lit up. David narrowed his gaze, unable to believe what he was seeing. Instead of Quixote giants in the evening light, the screen showed what looked like a child’s bedroom. There were pop posters on the walls and My Little Pony toys around the bed. In the middle of the bed was a girl. She looked about twelve or thirteen but could have been older. She was holding something like an artist’s sketchpad but looked totally naked behind it except for a tiny thong and high heels. There was a message on the pad in thick crimson marker. She was looking straight at the camera and smiling. The message read: “David Hidalgo is a Dead Man.”

  “Welcome to the club,” DI Thompson said tersely. “Every single member of my team has the same image. You’re famous.”

  After that it was hard to get back into the party spirit. They sat in stunned silence. DC Carmichael spoke, directing himself particularly to Gillian.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that. Naturally there’s no question about where it came from.”

  “I should think not,” Gillian said.

  “We’re working on the assumption that this came from the same source as the material on Mike Hunter’s computer – that’s to say PGC church or whoever’s behind it. A farewell greeting, you might say. I suppose your involvement in clarifying Mike Hunter’s death and pointing us at PGC… well I think we can say that hasn’t been taken very kindly.”

  “You can say that again,” David muttered, sitting down. “Can I close this thing now?”

  “Of course. Sorry.” DI Thompson pulled the lid shut himself. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to take your laptop away. I hope that’s not too inconvenient. Anything on it you need urgently?”

  David gave another heavy sigh.

  “Just all the notes I need for this week’s Spanish classes.”

  “Sorry about that,” Carmichael said, not looking particularly bothered. “We’ll get it back to you as soon as we can. The aim is to try and find where that stuff came from, then try to link that with the money laundering.”

  “Have we not ascertained that already?” Gillian asked. “We know that Mike’s computer was infected from some server in Belarus.”

  Thompson took over.

  “I’m afraid our guys in Cybercrime haven’t been able to replicate what your source found so that’s still to be confirmed. However, as soon as possible we want to convene a case conference and pull all the threads together. Normally that’s an in-house affair, but given that you both have been so involved the DCI wants you both included if you don’t mind.”

  David nodded wearily and looked at Gillian.

  “When?” she asked.

  “As soon as possible. Probably Friday morning. Maybe ten-ish?”

  Gillian pulled out her iPhone and did a few quick taps.

  “Can’t do ten,” she said. “Eleven thirty?”

  “Ok,” Thompson agreed. “Let’s aim for that. It’ll depend on everybody else being able to make it. We’re bringing in pathology, the finance boys, and Cybercrime. And Alexander Benedetti is pleading guilty to all the banking charges and says he wants to give as much assistance as he can. So we’re going to include him as a key witness, which will probably not do him any harm when it comes to sentencing. Now, finally, your mysterious master hacker: do you think he’d be willing to speak to us?”

  “I very much doubt it,” David admitted. “Let’s say he operates a bit under the radar.”

  “Well, we know who he is from the reports after the shooting. Maybe we’ll just have to be persuasive.”

  At this it looked as if the meeting was over until Gillian pushed the door shut again.

  “Just a minute,” she said. “Is there not something we’re forgetting? A threat has been made against my fiancé’s life. Right now what that image had to say bothers me more than where it came from.”

  “Of course; I should have mentioned that. We do take it seriously. We think it would be a good idea if you could drop out of circulation for a bit, David. We’ve got somewhere safe you can stay for a few days – at least until Friday. DC Carmichael will make the practical arrangements. So that’s it from us. Sorry to be party poopers.”

  The celebration was still in full swing as David, Gillian, and the two detectives emerged but it was immediately obvious that something had changed. Gillian tried to keep up a smile but didn’t fool anyone and David was looking grim and pale. He whispered briefly in Juan’s ear, then tapped a teaspoon against a half-empty cava glass and thanked the company for showing up and all their good wishes. There was still a mountain of food to be eaten but something had come up and he and Gillian would have to head off a bit before time. However, he would like to point out that neither of them had been arrested, that Juan was not in trouble for his VAT, and that none of their cars had been clamped. What exactly had turned up he didn’t say, so the ripple of laughter was a bit half-hearted.

  Fifteen minutes later they pulled up on Bruntsfield Place, behind Carmichael’s unmarked car, fifty yards from David’s flat. A bright yellow cherry picker with traffic cones around it was taking up three spaces opposite the front door, while a couple of guys in hi-vis jackets fiddled with a flickering street light. It didn’t take long to pile a couple of days’ worth of shirts and smalls and a washbag into an overnight case. With his computer and probably himself impounded, there didn’t seem any point in taking his Spanish class handouts but he stuffed them in anyway, just in case. Probably a phone call to the Adult Education office in the morning would be helpful to let them know what was going on. “Couple of days?” he asked DC Carmichael. “Probably better till further notice’,” Carmichael replied without batting an eyelid.

  Then, just as David leaned forward to give the zip on his bag a final tug, a crack like nearby fireworks rang out and the bedroom window exploded. Razor sharp shards showered the room, mixed with fragments of plaster and wood. The crash of breaking glass mingled with a scream and a shout. David instinctively grabbed Gillian’s arm and dropped to the floor. Carmichael shot over to the window and pushed open the curtain edge. The cherry-picker platform was still up as the vehicle tail lights receded up the road.

  “I am so fed up with this,” David Hidalgo groaned, lying on the floor with his arms around his new fiancée. Gillian’s eyes were closed tight as if trying to shut it out once and for all.

  Chapter 15

  THE BURGLAR’S TALE

  Something’s going on; everybody’s noticed. I’ve been here six months but even the girls that have been here longer say they’ve never seen the place like this. Hard to say what it is but the minders seem nervous and there are whispered conversations all the time. Everybody seems extra keen to make sure everything stays locked; nobody’s let out, even for a shopping trip. There’s this old guy that books me every week – he says I should just ca
ll him Pat. Sometimes he’s not quite “up to it”, you might say, so we just talk. He says there’s been a big thing in all the papers about a church that turned out to be a front for a bunch of criminals. When the police tried to pick them up all the birds had flown. Police are appealing for information from the public. They’re saying it’s all connected with drugs and money laundering and sex – which means us, I suppose. Some of the girls that look younger have said they make them get dressed up like fifteen-year-olds and get pictures taken, or they get filmed with some punter. One Sunday I thought I’d try it on a bit and asked one of the minders if he was planning on going to church today; his response was a slap across the face. I take that as confirmation. So this whole thing hides behind a church – what an idea. Who would think a church could be involved in what we have to do day after day? But then, nobody signs a receipt when you drop money in the plate; it only gets recorded when you count it. So if you’ve got a couple of thousand extra from some other source you don’t want to mention, what’s to stop you dropping that in too? No questions, no paper trail. Perfect. And that explains odd things people say around here. If you do something wrong Max might say something like “for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God”. Once I was complaining about a customer and refusing to see him again and Max just said smiled and said, “I urge you, sister, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your body as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing.” If that’s from the Bible then this place is even sicker than I thought.