by David Carter
He’d been interviewed by an old battleaxe named Miss Wiggins who’d tried to read him the riot act, threatening him with a heavy mandatory fine, young man, and worse penalties still, such as a public flogging and penal servitude in Botany Bay, that last part Gringo had imagined afterwards, but that was how it seemed to him at the time.
There and then he imagined nothing much would have changed; he envisaged Ms J Cairncross to be the latest reincarnation of Miss Wiggins, and expected to find the dusty and musty, dull and grey offices staffed by dead-enders in dreadful clothes exactly as before.
He could not have been more wrong.
When he first drove onto the redeveloped brown field site he thought he had taken a wrong turning. The building was a steel and glass palace, an impressive structure that would have graced the UK head office of any top American or Japanese Corporation. H M Customs & Excise boasted the overlarge silver sign above the glass revolving door.
He lugged the heavy file inside and reported to the security desk where he tugged the necessary ID from his pocket, and displayed it for the bored old guys to see. They directed him toward the lift and ordered him to land at the sixth floor. The elevator closed with a clunk and bolted to six and opened with a Bing!
He found himself in a rectangular room with several closed doors off. A single vacant desk sat forlornly in the far corner. Everything felt and smelt new and super clean, as if to drop a spec of dust would be considered a heinous crime. It was so antiseptic he half expected to find the staff wearing industrial safety suits. Gringo ambled to the desk and was having a little nose, when one of the doors opened and a stunning blonde came in. Noticing he was alone she said: ‘Are you being attended to?’
‘Not yet,’ he replied with a smile.
‘And you are waiting to see?’
‘Ms Cairncross.’
‘Ah yes, come with me please.’
Gringo would follow her anywhere. She opened one of the doors that led to a long corridor. They hustled down it; past closed and numbered green doors, before the corridor opened out into another central reception area.
‘Take a seat there, would you. Ms Cairncross will not be long.’
Gringo smiled at the girl again and took a seat before a table piled high with VAT magazines on tips and ideas as to how best to manage your tax payments. He’d like to manage the girl well enough. Early twenties, blue eyes, slim figure, clothed in a dark green suit. Green was the in colour in this house, so it seemed. Was there some discreet message there? He’d already made up his mind that if the opportunity presented itself he would ask her for a date before he left the building.
The girl tapped on one of the doors and went inside. Gringo thought he could hear muffled conversation, though it might have been the air conditioning cutting in. The girl came back a couple of minutes later, left the door open, and said: ‘Ms Cairncross will see you now.’
He stood up and grabbed the file and walked toward the door, looking the girl in the eye. He considered winking but didn’t, smiled instead, and went inside. He was vaguely conscious of the door being closed behind him as he took in his new surroundings.
Decent sized room, maybe twenty feet square, one very large and modern light oak desk, the latest wide flat display screen, expensive beige carpet not unlike the one in his bedroom, wall to ceiling smoked glass window that looked out over the car park and the sports ground beyond, and one young woman sitting behind the desk.
She removed her modern black-framed spectacles and stood up.
‘Mister Kevin Greene?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Put that stuff on the table over there and take a seat.’
He did as she asked and sat in the comfortable bright green chair. Hers was green too, though a tad more luxurious. She sat down again and began tapping on her keyboard.
‘From Dryden Engineering?’
‘That’s the one.’
Gringo glanced about. Maria had warned him that sometimes important tax meetings were audio-taped and possibly videotaped too. He couldn’t spot any cameras or mikes, though in a recently built building like this, designed specifically for the job, he probably wouldn’t. His eyes returned to the woman, the girl.
Early thirties, career thing, pale skin, very pale, a little like his, grey eyes, no wedding band, no jewellery of any kind, shoulder length black hair parted in the middle, a trifle wispy, suggesting she might have washed it last night, she shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble, slim figure, pert waist, horrible clothes, maroon long sleeved cardigan which he didn’t think she needed in this over warm environment, and a long grey pleated skirt. He hadn’t yet seen the shoes though he could take a sensible guess at that.
‘So, Mister Greene, if I might open up by advising you of what we are looking to achieve here today.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Gringo, waving his hand palm upwards across the edge of her desk. He was suddenly feeling quite at home. He had been dreading a thorough grilling from an ancient Miss Wiggins look-a-like, and what he found was an agreeable companion, so much so that she’d almost taken his mind off the blonde, almost. She had a cute voice too, Ms Cairncross, no discernable accent so far as he could tell, not strident in any way, well educated, he guessed, and above all, easy on the ear, and eye.
‘Nothing will be finally decided here today,’ she was saying. ‘I will write my report based on your documents and statements and that will be forwarded upstairs.’
Ah yes, upstairs, didn’t everything always find its way upstairs.
‘I see.’
‘You will be advised when a decision is made and you will have to return again in person for a second meeting.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Well of course you can,’ and they both knew that any summons to return would not be a request, but an order.
‘I have to say I am surprised you haven’t brought legal representation.’
Gringo laughed. ‘That’s only for the guilty ones.’
Ms Cairncross didn’t laugh, so he thought he’d better add a rider, ‘It’s the firm’s responsibility.’
She glanced down and riffled through some papers.
‘No, I believe that Dryden Engineering have stated that you, Mister Greene, were, or are, personally responsible,’ and she began reading more intently. ‘Yes, here it is, just as I said, and the affidavit is signed by two company directors, a Mister Soloman and a Mister Streeter. You know these gentlemen?’
Gringo nodded and sighed. So that was it. He was to be the fall guy, the scapegoat. Done up like a kipper. Why was it that he wasn’t surprised?
Ms Cairncross was already speaking again.
‘So, if it’s all right with you, we’ll begin?’
His mind was suddenly whirling like a mid western tornado.
‘Mister Greene?’
‘Yes, fine, carry on… proceed.’
She took a big breath and set off. ‘The problem came to light with documentation involving a company called All Nippon Steel.’
Ah yes, thought Gringo. All Nippon Steel and his mind went back to Melanie Harris. He could hear her innocent question floating through the office right there in his head.
Why are we paying them a quarter of a mill too much?
‘I can explain that.’
‘Yes, well before you do, let me fill in some detail.’
Gringo deferred.
‘Our inspectors state that All Nippon Steel, henceforth known as ANS, overcharged you by £250,000, the VAT portion of which amounted to £43,750.’
‘I believe that is correct.’
‘The error with the invoice was found, the overcharge that is, and corrected, but Dryden Engineering still went ahead and reclaimed the £43,750 as VAT back, in other words, the error was not corrected when it came to the VAT portion.’
He imagined she was thinking How convenient! So he thought he’d better say something. ‘So it would seem… but it was a complete accident.’
‘That is as may b
e, Mister Greene, but as I am sure you know, having accidents in your accounting procedures is no defence, and because of the over claim, and especially the large amount of it, our inspectors promptly ran comprehensive checks on your last three year’s accounts and found no less than five other similar over claims, admittedly not so large, but nevertheless they amounted to another £38,656 in total, and according to my arithmetic, that tots up to a whopping £82,406 overall. Over claimed. Wrongly over claimed. It could be viewed by certain people that this might be theft from the public purse.’
Gringo groaned. Theft? Ouch! No wonder they were getting rid of old Julian Smeaton. The picture was clearing.
‘That is one serious set of accidents, if your explanation is to be believed. Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Greene?’
‘Well, I know it looks bad, but I can assure you it was an accident, they were all accidents.’
‘Ah, but it doesn’t stop there.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘What is Dryden’s relationship with ANS?’
‘They supply us with finished steel, why do you ask?’
‘Is it not true that there are ongoing talks between ANS and Dryden’s with a view to the two businesses merging?’
Gringo sniffed and shifted uneasily in his seat.
‘First I’ve heard of it. Does it make any difference?’
‘To the suspicious mind it might.’
‘How so?’
‘It might be viewed that prior to a takeover, officers of both businesses colluded to inflate the VAT claim in the hope that once the businesses were merged the real facts could and would be buried forever.’
‘I don’t think so, and anyway, we are a mere pin prick on ANS’s buttocks, so to speak, it wouldn’t be a merger; it would be the equivalent of them swallowing a…’ Gringo sought hard for the right word. ‘A garden pea, and a tiny one at that.’
‘So you are saying there was no collusion on your behalf?’
‘Absolutely not!’
He watched her furiously writing something, making some important point in her report, and wondered what it could be, and then she proceeded to tickle the keyboard for a minute or so, almost silently, unlike him who still typed like a rogue elephant, and then she began talking again.
‘And you insist any over claims were genuine mistakes?’
‘Of course they were. It sticks out a mile.’
‘Not to me. If only I could be so certain, Mister Greene.’
‘Look, it’s very difficult, if not impossible, to prove something is an accident.’
‘Yes, quite. I think it’s likely we may be here for some time. Would you like coffee, Mister Greene?’
‘I would, as it happens.’
‘How do you take it?’
‘Black.’
She pressed the intercom.
‘Diane, black coffee for two, please.’
A couple of minutes later a knock came to the door and the blonde came in with a tray of coffee. She set it on the end of the desk, smiled at them both and retreated. She still looked and smelt good, though even Gringo’s previous train of thought had been somewhat derailed. The coffee was presented in expensive white china cups and saucers. No expense spared.
‘Sugar?’
Gringo shook his head.
‘So,’ she said, ‘why don’t you show me everything you have brought, and we will see if we can move things on a little,’ and she nodded to his fat file, dormant on the table.
‘Sure,’ he said, sipping the coffee and standing and grabbing the file.
They went through everything together. It took just on two hours to complete. Strangely, Gringo began to enjoy it. She was sweet to work with; yes, that was the correct adjective, sweet. She appeared understanding and concerned, never over officious, and though they both knew she had a job to do, and do it she would to the very best of her ability, she came across as one kind young woman, more than that, she was extremely feminine. More even than that, Gringo wanted to see her again, and not just at their second interview in her super modern office.
‘I think we have nearly finished for today,’ she said, tapping again on the keyboard, as she studied her spreadsheets and electronic bean counters, or whatever it was on the screen that fascinated her so.
‘What do you do with yourself in the evening?’ said Gringo, chancing his arm.
That stopped her in her tracks.
‘You know what I mean,’ he persisted. ‘Do you get out much?’
She paused a second. ‘Yes… I occasionally go out, Mister Greene, though I’m not sure…’ and she left the phrase hanging in the air, so Gringo jumped in again.
‘Why not have dinner with me one night? Tomorrow, I’m free tomorrow.’
Her mouth fell open. Her head shook slowly from side to side. She probably didn’t even know she was doing it.
‘Even if I wanted to have dinner with you, Mister Greene, which I don’t, I would not be able to accept your kind invitation, as we are strictly forbidden from fraternising with clients.’
Gringo grinned. ‘No fraternising with the enemy, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to describe you as the enemy, Mister Greene.’
‘Well that’s a relief.’
‘I will be honest with you; I think you have a lot on your plate here. You should be concentrating on that.’
She made to stand up. Gringo did too.
‘No, sit there for a second,’ she said.
In the next moment she was on his side of the desk, standing behind him.
‘I think you need to totally rethink your strategy, Mister Greene,’ and she reached over his shoulder and slipped something into his breast pocket and tapped it softly. He hadn’t seen her pick anything up, and she’d slid it into his jacket with the slight of hand that would have done Mungo the Magician proud. She turned about and opened the door.
‘The meeting’s over, Diane,’ she called. ‘Show Mister Greene out.’
Gringo stood and gathered his things together.
‘Thank you for listening,’ he said.
‘Oh, I will always listen, Mister Greene, I am a very good listener,’ and with that she smiled demurely and closed the door behind him. Diane beckoned Gringo away down the corridor.
‘Clever woman, your boss,’ said Gringo.
‘Oh she is, Mister Greene, she is that. Very clever indeed, shooting star they say.’
A shooting star, eh? No one had ever described Gringo Greene as a shooting star, leastways not that he knew of. He stopped half way down the corridor. She stopped too, thinking he might have forgotten something.
‘Would you care to have dinner with me?’ he asked, peering hopefully into her bright eyes.
He thought there was a hint of a smile there, as if for a fleeting second she imagined she’d worked her magic on the man again, and then she said, ‘I can’t Mister Greene, we are not allowed to you see, and anyway, my boyfriend, he plays for Tott’numb, and he’d kill me if I went out wiv anyone else, and anyway, you are far too old for me, no offence like, but thanks for asking.’
‘None taken,’ he mumbled, and they barely spoke again.
On the way back to the car Gringo considered his afternoon. Two dinner invitations issued and both rebuffed. Perhaps he was losing his touch, or was he?
He tipped the papers onto the back seat and jumped into the front and hurriedly withdrew the card from his breast pocket and read every raised inked word.
HM Customs & Excise
VAT Section.
Ms Julie Cairncross
Senior Investigator
Julie, that was different. He’d never had a Julie. Beneath that were numerous contact numbers, an email address and website, and then almost buried at the very bottom in tiny letters it said: After Hours: 246-1549.
Then a thought came to him, surely to God VAT inspectors, who, let’s face it, must often be dealing with out and out crooks, did not give out their personal numbers to their victims. That didn’t make any s
ense at all. But there it was: After Hours: 246-1549. Gringo grinned. He couldn’t wait for after hours to arrive. He couldn’t wait to try that number. In the meantime he would have to mosey on back to the office and call Messrs Soloman and Streeter, for he had some sweet words to share with those two fine gentlemen, and he didn’t care one jot if they were his bosses or not.
Twenty-Eight
As it turned out Soloman and Streeter were both engaged in vital meetings and were not to be disturbed under any circumstances; in other words, they were refusing to take his calls. If they hadn’t done so by tomorrow night he might award himself the day off, he might jump in the car and drive to Reading, and he just might vent his anger on their faces.
Rebecca almost jumped into his office and sat on his desk and crossed her pink-corded legs.
‘Hi Gringo, man,’ she flirted, ‘how are you today?’
Gringo pointed to the door.
‘Close the door and sit in the chair!’
She jumped to the door and closed it; still not realising he was in no mood for frivolity, but when she glanced back at his face she knew different.
‘When you come to my office you don’t sit on my desk, understand? You sit in the chair, and only if I ask you.’
‘Yes Gringo,’ she pouted. ‘What’s the matter with you today?’
He pointed into her face. ‘And you don’t ring me at home, ever again!’
‘It was only a bit of a laugh.’
‘Ringing at half two in the morning is not a bit of a laugh!’
‘Eh?’
‘You know what I’m talking about!’
‘I swear, Gringo, I’ve never rung you in the middle of the night. Never. Why would I? The only time I ever rang you weren’t in.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘All right, Becky, but don’t ring me at home again, now be on your way and get some work done.’
