by T J Walter
How could they force the man to make a personal appearance on Grand Cayman? That was a British colony, therefore British soil, and arresting him there would do away with the need for extradition proceedings.
Finishing his whiskey, he got up and went into his room. He would try to get some sleep and see what the morning brought.
*
Chapter 13 – London
‘Bad money drives out good.’
Gresham’s Law
Back in London, D.I. Richard Mann had been burning the midnight oil. First he’d researched money laundering. The term came into being in the 1930’s in America in a totally unrelated way. According to Wikipedia, US coins in circulation quickly became grubby passing from hand to hand. The US Treasury had the brilliant idea of removing them from circulation occasionally and cleaning them. Mann laughed out loud when he read the reason for this; it was to prevent the coins soiling ladies’ white gloves when handling them. The scheme didn’t last long.
Today, the term had an altogether different meaning. Successful criminals accumulated a great deal of wealth; too much to keep under the mattress. 'too much to keep under the mattress. And so, they had to find a way of investing their funds in a legitimate business, thereby explaining their existence to the taxman and "laundering" them.'Mann next turned his attention to the UK law on the confiscation of the proceeds of crime. There were several acts of parliament concerning the practice but the one he zeroed in on was The Proceeds of Crime Act, 2002. The lawyers glorified in terms such as ‘obtaining as pecuniary advantage’. But in layman’s terms, the act said that money or goods obtained as a result of crime were liable to confiscation on the conviction of a criminal.
Money laundering was a crime and Fleming had accumulated over two million pounds sterling from laundering the profits resulting from Silver’s many criminal enterprises. This was just his cut; the other ninety-odd percent was taken by Silver and his henchmen. Surely Fleming’s fortune, therefore, was liable to confiscation. But only after his conviction; the court’s hands were tied until he was found guilty.
The next question Mann gave thought to was, Was there a way round this?
He next looked at the financial service industry in the Cayman Islands. He was surprised to find that, despite having a population of fewer than 55,000, there were 279 banks registered there. Between them, they held an estimated one point five trillion US dollars worth of customers’ money. Almost all of this was from elsewhere. It was no surprise that banking generated 55% of the Cayman’s tax income and the local government was wary of any action that might diminish this.
But a phrase had stuck in Mann’s mind in a report from the IMF (International Monetary Fund). It read: “The overall compliance culture within Cayman (banks) is very strong, including compliance culture related to AMI (anti-money laundering) obligations”.
As Mann read through the mass of information he’d unearthed, the germ of an idea began to form in his mind. The islands were still British; no longer called colonies as that term was now politically unacceptable, they were nevertheless British possessions. Administered by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London, the islands had a governor appointed by the Queen, and he had the power of veto over the islands’ tiny legislative body. So the islands were subject to British law. The British government had declared war on crime. Surely Cayman banks could be persuaded to co-operate in any scheme aimed at fighting the criminals?
He quickly cobbled together a report and submitted it to Commander Aitcheson early the following morning. Half an hour later, he was summoned to Aitcheson’s office.
Waving him to a chair, Aitcheson said, ‘Is what you’re suggesting legal?’
Mann pulled a face. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s exactly illegal, sir.’
Aitcheson smiled. ‘I hope you’re right.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘It might just work; leave it with me.’
Over the next few hours, a great deal of consultation took place between various government departments. Finally a decision was made and the Foreign Minister sent an urgent dispatch to the governor of The Cayman Islands, Richard Deal. MC. Colonel Grenadier Guards (retired). In addition, a long phone call was made by a section leader in the Secret Intelligence Service (Formerly known as MI6) to his man in The Caymans.
This in turn led to the CEO of a bank in George Town on the Island of Grand Cayman being summoned to the governor’s office. The SIS man sat in on the meeting but kept very much in the background and was not introduced.
When told what was required of him, the banker protested vigorously.
Deal replied diplomatically, ‘Your bank has a reputation for good practice and requires a licence to operate here in The Caymans; it would be most unfortunate if something were to occur to jeopardise either of those, don’t you think?’
The banker left with his tail between his legs and his sworn promise to co-operate fully and keep the whole matter a secret.
*
Elsewhere in London, another meeting was taking place, but this one had a totally different flavour.
Above The Venus Club in the heart of the East End, three men sat around a table in a room. At the head of the table sat Raymond Silver, a huge figure of a man who had the look of an ex-boxer. Just turned fifty, his full head of hair was more grey than brown and neatly trimmed. His rough, well worn face had a healthy tan, as he was not loathe to visit his properties in far-flung places; in fact he’d recently returned from a week in the house on Mustique. His stocky frame was clothed in a grey suit and white shirt that was of a quality that marked him as a very rich man. He wore two gold rings, one on the third finger of each hand, and a slim wristwatch on a leather strap that was worth a small fortune.
To Silver’s left sat Ian McBride, his accountant. Of a similar age, he wore a dark business suit, collar, and tie. His eyes were hidden behind thick-lensed, tinted glasses. Opposite him sat William Smith. Ten years younger than his companions, he too was a huge man. Tall and powerfully built, he bore the scars of the many street fights he’d fought in his youth. These days he left the scrapping to his group of enforcers and only got involved in the more serious messages the gang sent to those who fell foul of the bossman.
Silver spoke, his voice soft but full of the idiom of London’s East End. ‘So, Fleming has run for the hills. How much of my property is at risk?’
McBride replied, ‘Technically none; you’ve got the deeds to all the properties in your bank.’
‘Never mind the ‘technically’, what can the British police do about the places?’
‘Nothing, Ray, I promise you. We’ll have to make new arrangements about the income but they can’t touch the properties. The deeds are registered in the countries the properties are in.’
‘And how long will these new arrangements take?’
McBride licked his lips before answering; he knew Silver would not like the answer. ‘Maybe a month or so, shouldn’t be much more.’
Silver glared at him but his voice remained soft. ‘You’d better be right, Ian; I knew we shouldn’t be putting all our eggs in the one basket.’ He turned to Smith. ‘What do you know about the woman Fleming killed?’
‘All we know is that she worked for ‘im.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She worked in ‘is office.’
‘I know that, you fool, but what did she do in the office? Did she have access to his financial records?’
Smith didn’t reply immediately; he looked down at his hands, fidgeting in his seat. Finally, he glanced nervously at the gang boss.
‘I don’t see how she could have, boss; ‘e was supposed to deal with that ‘imself.’
‘Why did he kill the woman; was he fucking her?’
Smith was becoming more and more uncomfortable. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, boss.’
‘So you don’t know nothing. When was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘Not for ages, boss, I had nothing to do with him as you know, he dealt directly
with you or Ian.’
‘So how did you find out he was in trouble?’
‘Only when you told me. I started making enquiries. When I found out the dead girl worked for him, I called him but just got his answerphone. I sent two guys to his office but the filth were all over it; the same with his flat. I guessed he’d done a runner; that’s when I told you he wasn’t to be found.’
‘So he’s been gone what, two days?’
‘Yeah, I reckon.’
‘And you’ve no idea where he’d run to?’ He looked at each of them in turn.
Smith shook his head. ‘No, boss, no idea.’
McBride shook his head and said nothing.
Silver was silent for a long moment. Then he said, ‘Listen very carefully, both of you. The police here are not stupid. They will look into his business and make the connection to us; then the shit will hit the fan. I want him found and I want him silenced. The properties are safe unless he talks; they can’t tie them to me without him.’ He pointed a finger at Smith. ‘If that happens you’re dead. Drop everything else and get your arse after him. Find out where he’s gone and get rid of him.’
Smith’s face was suddenly covered in sweat. He brushed at it with a hand, averting his eyes, looking everywhere except at Silver.
‘Do you understand?’ Silver insisted.
Smith managed to say, ‘Yes, boss,’ his voice almost a croak.
‘OK, where’s he most likely to run to?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Any ideas?’
McBride said, ‘His only family is his father, who lives in Kingston, Jamaica.’
‘Yes we know about him. It was through him we got involved with his son. Start with him, find out if he knows where his son’s heading for. And what about his money? He’s made a fortune from me. Where does he keep it?’
McBride pursed his lips. ‘Somewhere abroad, I’d guess.’
‘OK, his father should know.’ His eyes turned back to Smith. ‘What contacts have we got in Jamaica?’
Smith’s brain had started working again. He said, ‘Bob Wendle, one of my soldiers, his father lives over there. I’ll take him with me.’
‘OK, that’s settled then; get your arse over there and don’t come back without Fleming’s scalp. I don’t care what you have to do; do you get my meaning?’
Smith nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’
*
Chapter 14 – Bananas in Pyjamas
‘The owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat.
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.’
Edward Lear
Brookes woke the next morning to see the sunlight flooding into the room from the balcony. He looked at his watch; it said 3.50. He frowned, and then remembered that he hadn’t yet set the watch to Martinique time. There was a clock on the bedside table that told him it was 7.50 local time.
Throwing back the sheet, he swivelled his body and put his feet on the floor. Then he sat for a moment, trying to get his bearings. His throat was dry and his sinuses ached. As his brain began to function, he realised it was the result of breathing the treated air both on the long flight in the plane and in the hotel room. Dragging himself to his feet, he headed for the bathroom.
After a shower and a shave, he felt marginally better. He dressed in the lightweight suit he’d brought with him and made his way down to the hotel dining room. Looking round, he saw there were few other guests having breakfast; the holiday season proper would not start for another month. He spotted Middlemiss and Petit sitting at a table on the terrace outside. As he approached, he heard the Frenchman burst out laughing.
Petit got up as Brookes approached, and greeted him in his heavily accented but good English. ‘So, Monsieur, you finally get out of bed. Fred has been telling me stories about his cases and he has been teaching me the strange language he speaks. I already know several Cockney words.’
Brookes gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Don’t believe half what he tells you, he exaggerates everything.’ He pulled out a chair and joined them. It crossed his mind that it was an advantage that these two were getting on; it meant that Petit was less likely just to go through the motions in helping them find Fleming.
Middlemiss said, ‘Jean was trying to get me to dip me rusks into me coffee. I told him we stop eating these when our milk teeth come through. These foreigners have got some weird habits, boss.’
Petit laughed. ‘It is the other way round; it is you English who are very strange. I have told him that tonight he is going to eat escargot, a French speciality. He told me I should stick them up my ‘Aris’. By this he means my derriere. A strange language, he speaks.’
Brookes smiled again. ‘I’m surprised you understand him, Jean; I’m from London too and I don’t understand half of what he says.’
Moments later, Rose joined them and Petit made an extravagant gesture of kissing her hand and seating her. She gave Brookes an embarrassed look but said nothing. A waiter arrived and they ordered coffee and croissants; English breakfast was not on the menu.
As they ate, Petit told them what had been discovered during the night. ‘With the photographs you provided, we have made some progress. Fleming was seen arriving two nights ago. We have found a taxi driver who remembers taking him to an ‘otel here in Fort-de-France. He spent only that night there, then he booked out. We are still looking for a taxi driver who may have picked him up there. But it takes time; there are lots of taxis here. No one fitting his description has left on any commercial flight since then. It is possible he knows someone here who is hiding him. The only other possibility is that he left by sea.’
‘Is that easy to arrange?’
Petit nodded. ‘Yes, Monsieur, if you know the right people and have much ready cash. But now that we have a good photograph, we should have no trouble tracing him. This is a small island and white-skinned strangers are noticed out of the tourist season, especially if they wander away from the usual tourist spots.’
‘Where could he go from here?’
Petit smiled. ‘There are small ships that trade throughout the islands all the way to the South American mainland to the south and west to Jamaica and beyond. These ships will carry anything from illegal drugs and arms to lawful produce and sometimes passengers. There are so many islands and so many small ships, it is impossible to control the trade, but people here love to talk and a white man on the move will be talked about. We will find where he has gone but maybe only after he has got there. That’s the way of things in the Caribbean.’
‘What about private aircraft?’
Petit shook his head. ‘There are only two airfields on Martinique and we carefully monitor the few private aircraft that use them as well as the commercial flights. We have a problem here with drugs passing through en route to Europe, so we give them our attention. There is no possibility of your man using a plane without our knowing.’
‘How soon might we hear something?’
Petit shrugged his shoulders as only the Latins could. ‘Maybe only in a day or two. You must be patient; this is not Europe, you must relax and enjoy our island.’
Middlemiss said, ‘I almost forgot, boss. There was a fax waiting at reception.’ He handed it to Brookes.
Reading it, he looked up. ‘Our Interpol rep has contacted all the British-speaking islands in the Caribbean. If Fleming lands on any one of those, we should be informed.’
Petit looked sceptical. ‘I would not depend on that; there are many landing places that the police and customs do not patrol, he could slip into many places without being seen.’
Brookes frowned. ‘In your opinion, Jean, what chance have we got of finding him?’
‘It is not easy. I think you English say: ‘it is like looking for a needle in a stack of hay’. But here the stacks of hay are not so large and islanders love to talk. We will hear something.’
Brookes nodded resignedly. He was in a strange environment and in the ha
nds of the locals. He would have to be patient.
The four sat in the morning sunshine finishing their breakfast before Petit rose and led them to his car.
He said, ‘I must take you to meet my chief, Colonel Baptist, first; then we go to my office to see if we have any more news.’
He drove them to the old part of Port de France where the buildings were a mixture of French colonial and Caribbean shanty. He stopped outside a tall building in Rue Victor Hugo that had a whitewashed plaster façade. Its tall windows had white-painted shutters that reminded Brookes of a holiday he’d once had in Brittany back in the days when his children were young and his marriage intact.
He quickly brought his mind back to the present when Petit led them into the building. A discreet sign above the door announced it to be ‘The Commissariat de Police’. Petit spoke to a middle-aged woman at the reception desk. She made a phone call and nodded them through. Petit led the way up an old staircase with a highly polished mahogany banister rail.
Colonel Baptist was a tall, thin man with a Charles De Gaulle nose and the same haughty manner. The trousers of his tropical uniform had razor sharp creases and his brown leather boots were highly polished. Clearly he was old school and hot on protocol. His heels almost clicked together and his head bowed slightly as he shook Brookes’ hand. Petit formally introduced Middlemiss and Rose; they got a more cursory handshake from the colonel.
He then made a long speech which Petit translated and to which Brookes made the right noises in reply, which Rose translated in her precise French. There was no small talk, and the interview lasted just three minutes before Baptist was ushering them out of his office. Not once during that time had the man’s face broken into a smile. Brookes got the distinct impression that, as far as the colonel was concerned, their visit was just an inconvenience.
