Funeral Note bs-22

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘There you are, gentlemen,’ he declared. ‘Current account statements for John and Ella Varley for the last three years. They have two; one seems to be reserved for household costs; mortgage, car loan, insurance, utility bills, council tax, dental plan all come off that, plus there’s a credit card that’s settled on it every month. It’s one of our Mastercard products so I’ve been able to access that too. I can tell you that it’s used for food and petrol, mostly. The household account is funded by monthly transfers from the other one. Both their salaries go into that. . she’s a civil servant, if you didn’t know. Their personal spending is modest, and they manage to save regularly, making irregular transfers into a high-interest deposit account that we offer our customers.’ He paused. ‘As I said, I’ve called up three years. I can and will go back as far as you like, but I can tell you that in what’s there, I don’t see a trace of payments from any Mr Welsh, or anyone resembling him. All their income comes from employment.’

  I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or frustrated. I didn’t want another cop to be crooked, but on the other hand I’d been given a task and I hoped that it was going to be wrapped up very quickly, to my satisfaction and, more important, to the chief’s. From what Morton was saying, that wasn’t going to happen.

  There was something else: I had a gut feeling about Varley, and so had Lowell Payne, for we had compared our impressions on the drive to the First Caley office. We were sure he was wrong. If we found nothing there, as it seemed we hadn’t, we were going to dig until there were no more holes left for us to make.

  I looked at the Strathclyde seagull on my right and could tell that his thoughts mirrored mine. Then I looked back at Graham Morton, and I realised that he was smiling.

  ‘That was the bad news,’ he murmured, ‘now the rest. In addition to this absolutely routine account portfolio, the Varleys are clients of another of the bank’s departments. We don’t shout about it, but we have an international division. It’s based in the Isle of Man and it’s home to an offshore account in the name of E. Varley.’

  ‘E. Varley,’ I repeated. ‘As in Ella Varley? The inspector’s wife?’

  He nodded. ‘The account details show the same address. It’s been active for eight years and the current balance is one hundred and thirty-seven thousand pounds. It was set up with a deposit of fifteen grand, and similar amounts have been paid in there every year since.’

  ‘Who by?’ Payne asked, eagerly if ungrammatically.

  ‘A corporate entity by the name of Holyhead Enterprises SL. That’s short for Societat Limitada.’

  ‘Spanish?’

  ‘Actually the language is Catalan; the company’s registered in Andorra and the transfers are made from a bank there.’

  It’s not only great minds that think alike. So do those of opportunistic, cunning investigators presented with the possibility of foreign travel. I looked at Lowell, but he said it first.

  ‘What’s the handiest airport for Andorra?’

  Detective Sergeant Lisa McDermid

  When George asked me his question, last thing on a Thursday afternoon, I seized the wrong end of the stick and grasped it hard. He’d asked me to come into his room at Dalkeith, and that was unusual. He’s not the sort of man who keeps secrets within the office. Anything operational is always discussed openly; anything private is usually a telling off, quietly, because he isn’t the sort of man who’s given to raising his voice to junior colleagues.

  No, I’d better qualify that: he isn’t now. I have no idea what he was like before his son was murdered. Maybe he was your stereotypical twentieth-century macho male cop before that, like our celebrated chief constable, a man I avoid at all costs, because there’s something ferociously arrogant about him that I just cannot stand. (By the way, I’d avoided him successfully for most of my career, since I’ve always been ‘other ranks’ material and unlikely to drift into his orbit, or even show up in the distance on his radar.)

  Actually, I could have understood it if my boss had become a Skinner clone, if George junior’s pathetic death had turned him into a shouting, quick-tempered, rage-filled bully, ready to take out his loss on anyone who crossed him, colleague or client.

  But that’s not him. He’s a quiet respectful man, who seems to take pride only in his work and in his immaculate appearance. I cannot imagine George Regan ever slobbing around in a vest and jeans with a Sunday morning hangover, or ever being a month past his due date for a haircut. This may be fantasy on my part, but to me, it’s as if he dresses to impress someone who isn’t here any more.

  So when quiet DI George invited me into his room after he came back from some away trip or other, with no hint of what he wanted to talk to me about, my mind sifted through the possibilities. There were only two that I could see, and I dismissed the first one out of hand. We’re an excellent team, he and I, and we have a good record of success. There has been nothing of late that I’ve screwed up, nothing that I’ve done without his knowledge and approval; so I crossed off ‘bollocking’ on my short list.

  That left personal. George rarely speaks of his home life, and I never ask, but I know that it isn’t happy. There was one time, a few months ago, when I thought that he was working up to unburdening himself to me, and possibly angling to take it further than that. I headed him off, politely, and as gently as I could. My guess had been spot on, but he took it well, and I came to believe that it had strengthened our relationship rather than weakening it.

  Still, as he closed the door behind him, that was all I could think of, and I decided to deal with it in the same way, full on.

  ‘Things bad with Jen?’ I asked.

  His eyes widened, very slightly; then he sighed. ‘It’s the same old story, Lisa; same old story. She’ll never get over it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘sorry for you both. George, I wish there was something I could do to make your life better, but honestly, that wouldn’t. If it’s still preying on your mind, then please understand that it’s not that I don’t find you attractive, I just know that sleeping with me wouldn’t make you any happier.’ His mouth seemed to quiver, very slightly. ‘Hey, don’t get me wrong,’ I added. ‘I’m not saying I’m lousy in bed, and I’m sure you’re great. It’s how we’d be the morning after, not the night before.’

  He grinned. I hadn’t seen him smile as broadly as that in all the time I’d known him. ‘I can only speak for myself, Lisa,’ he chuckled, ‘but I’m sure I’d feel fucking magic, for an hour or two at least. I’m just as sure it wouldn’t bother Jen at all, not even if we filmed it and I showed her a video. But can we discuss that later,’ he paused, ‘because there’s something work-related that I’ve got to ask you first. I’m being moved to a new job, and I’ve been given clearance to take you with me. . if you want to come, that is.’

  It takes a lot to make me blush but I did then; I even felt my chest go pink beneath my shirt. ‘George, boss,’ I spluttered. ‘I’m sorry, I thought. .’

  ‘I know, and to be honest I’m flattered. I like you, lass, and I’d be lying if I said that the thought doesn’t cross my mind any more,’ he grinned again, ‘but you’re right in what you say, so I don’t come to work every morning consumed by lust. Now. .’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, grateful for the chance to move on. ‘Your new job, what is it?’

  ‘Special Branch.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I gasped. I had not expected that, not in a month of those Sunday morning hangovers. ‘SB? And I can come with you?’

  ‘Yup. Fancy it?’

  I was ready to bite his hand off but I made myself consider some practicalities. ‘Where’s it based?’ I asked him.

  ‘HQ. Fettes building.’

  That sounded good; I’d always wanted to work there, but never thought it would happen. But it did mean. .

  ‘What’s the chain of command? Do you report to DCS McGuire?’

  He shook his head, and his expression returned to the norm; serious. ‘No. Direct to the chief constable.’ />
  ‘I see,’ I murmured.

  He caught on. ‘Look, Lisa, I know he scares you, but. .’

  ‘He doesn’t scare me,’ I retorted. ‘I just don’t like the man, that’s all.’

  ‘Well I promise, he’s got nothing against you,’ he replied, ‘because he approved your transfer without question. Look, we don’t have to like our colleagues. I could list a few that I can’t stand. But we do have to respect the system that put them where they are and work within it. . especially when they’re the chief bloody constable. Anyway, you’ll be reporting to me, not to him; I’ll be your buffer.’

  There’s something reassuring about George; when he said that, I felt all right. ‘When do we start?’ I asked.

  ‘Clear your desk,’ he replied. ‘Report there first thing in the morning.’

  He wasn’t kidding either; I said my goodbyes, with no mention of our destination and turned up at Fettes next morning as instructed. George’s predecessor had gone. . I didn’t learn until a few days later that they’d done a straight swap. . and I found myself at a desk facing an enormous Sikh DC called Tarvil Singh. He was being moved out too, but not until the following Monday, so he gave me a briefing on the practical work of the Branch and on what was hot and what was not.

  Naturally, there was also the obligatory welcome by the chief constable, barely fifteen minutes after I’d arrived. To my surprise, he came to me. I must admit that he was very pleasant, very polite and very proper, no question of that, but I had a mental picture of arriving at an old-fashioned boarding school and being greeted by the smiling headmaster, knowing that the next time you saw him would be in his study and he’d be standing there with cane in hand, ready to leave stripes on your arse.

  In this life there are some people to whom we will never take, and for me Bob Skinner is one of those. He reminds me of the Robert Duvall character, Colonel Kilgore, in that old seventies movie Apocalypse Now: I guess I must hate the smell of testosterone in the morning.

  Once he was gone, I spent a couple of instructive hours with Tarvil. . I really did take to him. . before George, the boss once more, as if our strange cross-purposes discussion had never happened, called me into his new office and gave me my first real SB task.

  He handed me a folder. ‘That tells you all there is to know at the moment about a man called Freddy Welsh,’ he said. ‘I want you to find out everything else. There isn’t very much there, just his business details, home address and that’s all. What it certainly doesn’t tell you is that Welsh is related by marriage to Inspector John Varley, who’s just been charged with perverting the course of justice. Varley’s niece is DC Alice Cowan, who used to work in this place.’

  ‘I know that,’ I told him. ‘Alice is a friend of mine, from her days in East Lothian. She called me last night to tell me she was in the shit. Her boyfriend told her something and she passed it on to her uncle. He went and did something crazy and tipped off a guy involved. She’s scared she’ll lose her job.’

  George frowned. ‘It’s gone beyond that. She resigned this morning. What did you say to her?’

  ‘Apart from telling her that I think her uncle’s an arsehole? I told her she should do what’s best for her in the circumstances.’

  ‘Do you feel compromised?’

  I wasn’t sure that I understood his question so I made him spell it out.

  ‘Will your friendship with Alice make you less than objective in investigating Welsh?’ he asked.

  I was almost offended by that. ‘No, why should it?’ I retorted. Then the penny dropped and I saw the wider picture. ‘It was Welsh who was tipped off?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ll be objective,’ I promised, ‘don’t you worry. I’ll also be well motivated.’

  ‘Good. Now here’s what I want you to do. First, run a check on Companies House for every company of which Freddy Welsh is a director. Find out who the other directors are; you never know, maybe Varley’s name will be among them.’

  ‘What’s his business?’ I asked. ‘What does he do?’

  He tapped the folder. ‘That much is in there,’ he said, ‘from what Tarvil tells me. I haven’t had time to read it. He’s a builder, incorporated under the name Anglesey Construction PLC. I want you to access his company records, preferably without him knowing about it.’

  ‘All of them? That might not be easy.’

  ‘I know. It may be we’ll have to go in with a full search warrant for his home and office premises, but our brief is to try and avoid that. His company will have auditors; they will have signed off on his annual accounts. Find out who they are and then go see them, armed with a court order to access information.’

  ‘Won’t it be difficult to get one?’

  George winked at me. ‘This is Special Branch, Sergeant; we deal with national security and organised crime. A sheriff will give you an order just for the asking.’

  I was sceptical about that, but I shouldn’t have been. Just over two hours later, I was in the offices of an accountancy firm called Garland Pyke, facing a rather uncomfortable but sharp-suited thirty-something auditor across a designer desk that was so large that if I’d been a client I’d have demanded to know how much it cost before I signed a cheque to cover a fee note. I’d gone on my own; I could have taken Tarvil with me, but he’s so large that I was worried he might have frightened the guy.

  ‘I feel a little awkward about this,’ Mr Magnus Garland admitted.

  ‘Mr Welsh is a long-standing client, and his business is of great value to our firm. It could be very awkward for us if he found out about this.’

  ‘In what way?’ I challenged. ‘You’re not afraid of him, are you?’

  He flinched, slightly. ‘I wouldn’t say that, Detective Sergeant, but he’s certainly not a man I’d go out of my way to cross.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I assured him. ‘What we do is as confidential as it gets. This is one of those meetings that never took place. Now, can we get down to business? I’ve established that Mr Welsh is the controlling shareholder in a company called Anglesey Construction and that you’re his auditors.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Garland acknowledged.

  ‘That’s his only business?’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge.’

  ‘And it’s profitable?’

  He nodded. ‘Very. It’s ridden out the recession well. The pre-tax profits have dropped, naturally enough, but the last full year figure was still in excess of two and a quarter million.’

  ‘Where are the records kept?’ I asked: a big question.

  ‘The books for the current trading year are in Mr Welsh’s office, as you’d expect; but everything that’s been audited is stored here.’

  That was exactly what I wanted to hear. ‘How far back does it go?’

  ‘By law a company must retain its records for seven years,’ he explained, ‘but Mr Welsh insists that everything about his company should be demonstrably above board, so everything’s here, going all the way back to the formation of the company, what, fourteen years ago.’

  ‘Have you been his accountant all that time?’ He didn’t look old enough.

  ‘No,’ Garland replied. ‘Initially, my father handled his business, but he’s. . no longer in practice.’

  ‘I can still speak to him, though?’

  ‘He isn’t in practice anywhere,’ Garland said, laconically. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead. He passed away three years ago. I had to work hard to persuade Mr Welsh to let me keep his business. Sometimes I feel as if I’m still on probation with him, so you’ll forgive me for being nervous about this.’

  ‘I understand that,’ I told him. ‘Look, I might as well ask you straight out, when you sign off on the Anglesey accounts as true and accurate, are you always satisfied that they are?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he insisted, a wee bit huffily. ‘We’re stringent in our interpretation of what’s allowable and what isn’t. HMRC can inspect a company at any time, and nob
ody wants to fall foul of those people. Mr Welsh’s standing instruction is that when there is doubt over whether a particular piece of expenditure is allowable against tax, the benefit of it always goes to the Revenue. In other words, we don’t take any chances. As a result, on the two occasions that the accounts have been inspected, they’ve passed with flying colours.’

  ‘Was there any specific reason for those inspections?’

  ‘No. They were purely routine, I’m sure of that.’

  I pressed him a little. ‘If there had been a motive for those checks, would you have known?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Not necessarily,’ he conceded, ‘but I’m sure there wasn’t.’ He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the enormous desk. ‘Look, I’m not naive, Ms McDermid. I can work out why you’re here. You suspect that Anglesey Construction PLC might have been used for the purposes of money-laundering.’

  I didn’t; I’d gone in there with an open mind, but I let him run with what he’d begun.

  ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I can disabuse you of any such notion. We’ve been scrupulous in examining the source of every payment made into and out of the company and you can take it that the firm’s bankers have also. Even if we wanted to turn a blind eye to something, we couldn’t; regulation and supervision are too tight these days. As for Mr Welsh’s personal dealings, we supervise those too; one of my partners handles his tax return, and I can assure you that it’s a true account of all his income.’

  ‘What happens to the company profits?’

  ‘Some are retained, some go into the pension funds of Mr and Mrs Welsh. . I assume you know she’s his co-director. . and the rest they draw as dividend. It’s paid into a personal bank account from which they pay any higher rate tax that might be due, calculated by this firm, as I’ve said, and agreed with HMRC. Clean as a whistle, I tell you, clean as a whistle.’

  To my ear, he was a wee bit too insistent; he had the sound of a man who hadn’t questioned his client in as much detail as he might have, and was hoping that the wool hadn’t been pulled over his eyes.