by Nick Albert
“Simple for you maybe,” Stone joked, “but all that IT stuff is scary for me.”
“Luddite!” Megan snorted in mock derision. “Anyway, on the up side, their communication methods could make it easier for you to spot a hand-off. Envelopes stuffed with cash and instructions written on bits of paper are far simpler to spot than electronic bank transfers through some shell Corporations in the Cayman Islands.”
“I’ll talk you and Linda through field-craft 101 later,” Carter added. He turned back towards Megan. “Carry on please.”
“Ok…and now for some good news,” she said with a bright smile. “Anton Stephens. It seems that we got lucky — lucky — lucky. As instructed, young Jenny left his Mercedes at the motorway services on the A1. From there it was apparently stolen, by a person, or persons unknown. Yesterday it was discovered near Cardiff — would you believe — it was completely burned out. There were two crispy corpses in the boot, but no useable evidence. As far as the police were concerned, drug deal gone wrong — case close-ed!
“Second…I spent a lot of time scrutinising their mobile phone records. Stephens didn’t have a home phone and neither did Markov, there was very little of interest — unless you want to sell some drugs. Markov’s calls were all to his boss, takeaway food joints, or various call girls — presumably for takeaway sex. Stephens’s phone was exclusively used for calls to suppliers, clients, and employees. The GPS data tracking his movements gave the same results — buyers and suppliers. He was obviously a very careful guy. At least up until he made a fatal mistake.”
She gave Stone a sly look and a wink.
“The guns were a bust,” Carter added. “The numbers had been professionally removed, so I presume they weren’t registered. For now, they will stay in the lock box in my boot — along with your weapons. We may need them soon.”
He nodded politely for Megan to continue.
“There was just one little thing in his bank accounts,” she said, “although it may turn out to be nothing.”
“Go on,” Stone said encouragingly.
“Well, a good rule of thumb in trying to find someone who’s hiding — is to follow the money. Somebody somewhere is being paid, and someone else is doing the paying. So I always try and track the money.”
“Makes sense,” Linda said.
“We know that this Wrecking Crew is basically muscle for hire. It’s very intelligent muscle, but muscle all the same. So I started to go through the bank accounts of Stephens and all of his associates, looking for payments that could be out of place. And I think I found one.” She beamed a bright smile and continued. “You may recall that Stephens did some legitimate work to cover his drug dealing?”
“Wasn’t he a marketing consultant or something?” Stone asked.
“Correct. And through that work Stephens had a contract with a respectable charity. It’s called ‘Second Chances’ and it specialises in providing rehabilitation for offenders.”
“Doing respectable work for a respectable charity, I presume that they were paying him?” Stone asked.
“Indeed they were. But the odd thing is that one of Stephens’s drug buyers — a pub landlord — has twice made quite substantial contributions to the same charity. And get this, the two payments were just three weeks apart, and for exactly the same amount of money. Coincidentally, it was at around the time of his last licence renewal—”
“A half-payment as a deposit, and the balance paid on completion of the contract?” Linda suggested.
“Not just a pretty face,” Megan nodded in agreement. “Call me an old sceptic if you like, but I don’t believe for a minute that these drug dealer types are big on charitable contributions. It must be a front.”
“Good job, Megan,” Carter said. “What else did you find out about ‘Second Chances’?”
“Sadly not a lot,” she said flicking through her notes to the relevant entry. “They have a small office in a converted shop in Aylesbury, in Buckinghamshire. Their financials all seem to be above board. There are six full-time employees and a board of three Trustees. They seem to raise a decent amount in charitable contributions, which they use to aid the training and rehabilitation of anyone with a criminal record and a genuine desire to start afresh. It’s all very commendable stuff on the surface, and I have no evidence to the contrary. But I am unconvinced.”
“With so many criminals in one place, it would make a perfect front for an operation like the Wrecking Crew,” Linda added.
“My thoughts exactly! However, the facts that we have so far, do not support such a theory. All we have just now is a coincidence — two people with a criminal connection, making and receiving payments to a rehabilitation charity. We simply need more information.”
“What do you suggest?” Stone asked.
Carter stood up and took centre stage.
“I think you should talk to this guy who made the payments. Perhaps you can pose as tax inspectors or something — suggest that you’re checking up on this ‘Second Chances’ charity, and ask about the reason for his contribution.”
“Yeah, I guess that could work,” Stone nodded, “but what if he asks for ID or something?”
“That’s not a problem,” Megan jumped in, “I can knock you up some fake Inland Revenue identifications. I’ll make two — you should take Linda. Those tax types always work in pairs…” she suddenly looked down, slightly embarrassed, “or so I’ve heard.”
Stone was unhappy at the unexpected suggestion.
“What about you Ed, you’re the investigator. Wouldn’t two guys together be safer?”
“Hey!” Linda complained, “I can look after myself.”
Carter shook his head at Stone. “Actually, I agree with Megan. I think that you two will present a more believable front. Less threatening and more likely to get an answer in the circumstances.”
Stone gave Carter a pleading look.
“Are you sure?”
“Sorry Eric,” he gave an apologetic shrug, “anyway, at the moment I’m too busy to take time off. I still have a business to run you know. Just now I need to keep on top of things, so I can be available when you really need my help.”
Stone understood the subtext to Carter’s excuse, and immediately gave up the fight. In any event, until they had stopped the Wrecking Crew, he preferred to keep Linda safe at his side — although he would soon learn that being at his side was the last place where she would be safe.
ELEVEN
Before Stone and Linda left, Megan used her digital camera to take their pictures. Ten minutes later, she gave them two very creditable Inland Revenue identification cards. They spent a few minutes rubbing, scratching, and bending the laminate, to make the cards look suitably worn and scruffy. As they were so inexperienced at the ‘undercover stuff’, as Carter put it, he had insisted that they stick with their real identities. To avoid the amateurish mistake of turning up in the same clothes that they were wearing in their photographs, he told them to buy some business suits, before they headed to Ipswich later that evening.
Linda drove them north on the M11 and then east on the A14 towards Ipswich. All the time Stone kept a lookout for a tail, but he saw nothing. A few miles to the east, the roadside trees gave way to fields. Soon they were passing huge flat expanses of well-cut grass, ringed with miles of white picket fencing. They were approaching Newmarket, an area renowned for racehorse training, and top quality stud farms. Shortly after parking in the town centre, they found a Red Cross charity shop that sold second-hand clothes.
For the princely sum of £45, Stone bought a smart, but slightly worn business suit, black shoes, a blue shirt, and a clip-on tie. Linda opted for a black woollen dress with sensible shoes. With the addition of a briefcase, her spend was just £60. They changed into their ‘disguises’ in the cramped changing room at the rear of the store, and packed their regular clothes into a shopping bag which they left in the boot of Linda’s car, while they went in search of somewhere to eat.
Linda and
Stone wondered hand-in-hand for twenty minutes, taking several random turns, before the delicious smell of garlic and fresh pasta led them to a small Italian restaurant, with an impressively comprehensive vegetarian menu. After some deliberation and several false starts, they ordered a stone baked pizza-to-share, with a couple of side salads and some water. As they waited, they admired each other’s disguises. Stone’s suit had a slightly musty smell, and the shoes were a little too large, but Linda thought that he looked just like a tax inspector. The woollen dress fitted Linda like a snakeskin, further accentuating her athletic figure. Stone thought that she look spectacular, and he told her so, although he also admitted that she would have looked every bit as desirable in a potato sack.
Over coffee, they refined their strategy for meeting with the pub landlord. The plan was to suggest that ‘Second Chance’ was being investigated to confirm if it truly qualified for its charitable status, and deserved the tax breaks that such a designation brought. They decided that Linda should do the talking on the basis that she would be less intimidating, and therefore more likely to get some information. Stone would remain visible but silent in the background — the implied threat of the ‘bad cop’ waiting to be called in, if answers were not forthcoming.
Their target was Stanley “Scud” Fletcher. He was the landlord of a pub in one of the seedier parts of Ipswich. As they turned off the main road and entered the rundown housing estate that led towards the pub, it became apparent that Megan’s description of ‘seedy’ was her attempt at an amusing understatement.
Almost every house they passed had an unwanted couch, or some faulty white goods, on the front lawn. They saw the remains of several derelict cars sitting on bricks, and two that were just burned out shells. Most of the shops they saw had been boarded up for many years and regularly defaced with multi-coloured swathes of unintelligible graffiti. It seemed to Stone that every available vertical surface on the estate was marked with gang tags. Every wall, and every bus shelter that they saw, carried Cyrillic style swirls, and indelible loops of black felt pen. Like some secret alien language, these territorial warnings were meaningless to all but the gang members.
Along the way, they passed several small groups of apparently feckless youths, who made no effort to hide their contempt for the suited professionals who were invading their turf.
“My God, this is so sad. It’s just so depressing. How can people live like this?” Linda asked as she looked around.
“No chance of sneaking in here unseen,” Stone commented. “Perhaps they think we’re with the police.”
He gave a friendly wave to one group of lads as they drove slowly by, and were rewarded with an immediate chorus of middle fingers.
Linda returned the gesture.
“No — they definitely think we’re from the Inland Revenue!”
The pub, known locally as ‘The Tavern’, was every bit as shabby as the area it served. Obviously little effort had been made to clean or maintain the exterior in the thirty years since the property was constructed. As they pulled into the car park, Stone wondered aloud how such a place could conceivably remain in business. Linda pointed to a row of motorbikes lined up at the side of the pub, and offered an answer.
“Drugs and bikers.”
“Well we knew the first, and can see the second, so I presume you are right.”
“Do you think they are above lynching tax inspectors?” Linda asked ironically.
“Gallows humour?” Stone received a punch for the pun. “Anyway — we’d best remain vigilant.”
As they sat silently listening to the soft tick of the exhaust cooling, Stone looked at Linda for any sign of reluctance for what was to follow. She looked stern but determined.
“You ok?” he asked.
She nodded.
He checked again.
“You sure?”
She nodded silently.
“Right — let’s do this!”
After carefully locking the car, they took a moment to study the front of the pub. Four large floodlights harshly illuminated the featureless façade. Stone could see three doors. Two doors were close together near the centre; the third was off to the left. Other than the inevitable gang tags, there was nothing to guide new visitors to the correct entrance. The door on the left bore a hefty security bar and several padlocks, whereas the two centre doors were protected with roll down shutters, sturdy enough to deter a determined tank attack. Luckily, both shutters were up.
Linda nodded towards the two centre doors. “I’m betting the left will be the lounge bar and the right will house a pool table. We should go to the left.”
“Ok,” Stone said, “I’ll go in first and stay by the door while you do the business. Any sign of trouble, let me handle it — just try and stay out of the way.”
She gave him a slightly nervous smile.
“Don’t worry, I will!”
Stone opened the left hand door and walked in. As Linda had predicted, it was the lounge bar. He stopped just inside and took in his surroundings. The room was thirty feet long and twenty wide, with basic wooden seating and tables on the left, and a bar to the right. At the far end, there was an aging gaming machine, and high on the wall a television flickered silently as a rock band played to its adoring fans. There were just four customers. Nearest to the front was an elderly couple. They had probably been coming to the pub since it had opened, back when the estate was a desirable place to live. Stone had to admire their tenacity — desperately out of place in a biker bar, but stubbornly refusing to drink elsewhere. Near the back were two lads who glared openly at Eric for daring to enter their territory. Stone stared back, stern faced and unblinking, until they looked away. Satisfied that there was no immediate threat, he moved aside and allowed Linda to enter the pub.
She paused for a moment, to assess the situation. Then she marched confidently to the bar and tapped loudly on the counter with her car keys. A gruff voice shouted impatiently from the doorway that connected to the other bar.
“Keep yer fucking hair on!”
Linda waited twenty seconds and tapped again a little louder.
“I said fucking wait!”
A few seconds later, the barman stomped through the doorway and planted both palms firmly onto the bar with a meaty slap. He was a tall, hulking man, aged around fifty. Probably weighing a little under eighteen stones, barrel-chested and solid, he had that equal mixture of muscle and fat, seemingly characteristic of British racists and football hooligans. Like a badge of honour, he kept his head shaved to display a Union Jack tattoo above his right ear. His greasy jeans and tight white t-shirt did little to improve the ambiance of the pub, or hide his prison tattoos. Instantly recognising her outfit as a symbol of bureaucracy, he firmly crossed his arms and stared at Linda with open hostility.
“What?”
Undaunted, Linda gave him a bright professional smile.
“Stanley Fletcher?”
“Who wants him?”
Linda flashed her ID badge.
“Linda Smart, Inland Revenue.”
Fletcher didn’t move a muscle.
“Go see my accountant.”
“Actually, it’s you we need to speak to.” She flicked her eyes towards Stone to reinforce the implied threat. “Is there somewhere more private we can speak?”
Fletcher turned his head slowly and stared at Stone for a few seconds, as if assessing his chances in a fight. Stone stared back. Apparently unimpressed, Fletcher turned his attention back to Linda.
“Here’s fine. What do you want?”
“My partner and I…” she looked towards Stone again, “are looking into the tax status of a charity called Second Chance — to ensure that they are worthy of their charitable status, and the tax benefits therein.”
Fletcher looked down his nose and flicked his head in a sharp nod. The move reminded Stone of a snake preparing to strike at a mouse.
“What’s it got to do with me?”
Either Linda failed to notic
e his threatening posture, or she chose to ignore it. “Your tax records show that last May you made two payments to Second Chance.”
“What of it?”
“What was the nature of those payments?”
“Charitable contributions…” Fletcher smiled wickedly, revealing a gold incisor. “I gave money to help people less fortunate than me.”
“You gave money twice. Exactly the same amount in two payments, just three weeks apart.”
“So? It’s not a crime is it?”
Linda ignored his question and politely ploughed on. “Why two payments?”
“It felt so good the first time that I wanted to do it again.” He licked his lips lustfully as he made a big play of undressing Linda with his eyes. “I’m sure you know what that feels like.”
She ignored his provocative jibe.
“How did you get in contact with Second Chance?”
“Someone gave me their phone number. I don’t recall who it was.” He uncrossed his arms and, as if to indicate that the interview was about to end, he began wiping the bar with a beer stained cloth.
“Their office doesn’t have a telephone.” She nodded towards Stone. “We checked.”
Fletcher slowly held up a finger and tapped the side of his head.
“I remember now. It wasn’t a landline I called, it was a mobile phone.”
“I would like that telephone number.”
“Would you now?”
“Yes…we would.” She glanced at Stone again.
The barman stared at her with undisguised contempt as he dealt with some internal conflict. Then he seemed to come to a decision.
He gave a harsh sigh and dropped the cloth onto the bar.
“Wait here — I’ll get it.”
