Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘He had an Xbox and liked war games, big time. His most visited websites were Wikipedia, Sky News, the BBC and ITV players, the CIA World Factbook, and a charity called Problem Solvers.’

  ‘Wow!’ Mann exclaimed, with irony. ‘How much more typical could this man have been? You’re just described Mr Average Thirty-something.’

  The DC nodded. ‘Agreed. There is nothing out of the ordinary about him at all . . . apart from one thing. The charity: it doesn’t exist. And that’s where he does get interesting.’

  Sixty

  ‘It’s not a charity at all, sir,’ Paterson ventured. ‘If you ask me, it’s more of a doorway.’

  ‘Explain,’ Skinner said.

  ‘It’s the website, sir. It’s called www dot problemsolvers dot org. Dot org domains used to be just for charities, but these days that’s not necessarily so. To be sure I checked with the Charities Commission; they’ve never heard of it.

  ‘On top of that,’ the DC continued, ‘it’s weird in another way. It’s password protected. I only got in because Millbank was careless in one respect: he saved his passwords on his computer, thinking, I suppose, that nobody else would ever use it.’

  ‘When you did get in there, what did you find?’ the chief constable asked.

  ‘Nothing much; it’s very simple. I’m sure he set it up himself. There’s just the two pages. The home page has only six words: “Personnel problems? Discreet and permanent solutions.” Then there’s a message board. But there’s no history on the site at all. He’s wiped it all. However, there is one message still up on the board. It’s possible that he left it there because the reply will go automatically to the sender, without Millbank ever needing to know who he was.’

  ‘Not Millbank, Cohen,’ Skinner countered. ‘This is definitely Beram Cohen. You’ve found him. What did the message say?’

  ‘Confirm payment made as agreed, to sort code eighty-one forty twenty-two, account number zero six nine five two one five one.’

  ‘Have you followed it up?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Then do so, tomorrow morning. Wherever the bank is it’ll have knocked off for the day by now. When you find it, trace the source of the payment and find out if any withdrawals have been made from it lately. Lottie, Banjo, that’s good work.’ He turned to Provan. ‘Now, Sergeant, you’re clearly bursting your braces to tell me something. It’s your turn, so out with it.’

  Sixty-One

  ‘Is this not a real bore for you, Davie?’ Skinner asked his driver, as they passed the clubhouse that welcomed golfing visitors to Gullane, and picked up speed. ‘Same round trip every day, sometimes twice a day.’

  ‘Absolutely not, Chief,’ Constable Cole replied. ‘I love driving, especially nice big motors like this one. I’ve done all the advanced courses there are, too. When I get moved out of this job, as I will, ’cos nothing’s for ever, I’m going to try to get a spot as an instructor.’

  ‘Good for you. But don’t you ever miss the company? Most cops work in pairs. Most cops meet people through their work . . . even if some of those are rank bad yins.’ He laughed at his own words. ‘Listen to me,’ he exclaimed. ‘Second week in post and I’m lapsing into Weegie-speak already. I’m spending too much time with that wee bugger Provan, that’s what it is. Maybe being a lone wolf isn’t such a bad thing.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Cole agreed.

  ‘No, but seriously, does this never get to you? Don’t you ever get the urge to see some action?’

  The constable tilted his head back slightly, to help his voice carry into the back seat. ‘The last action I saw, Chief, was over two years ago. We got a call to a cesspit of a housing scheme they’d used as accommodation for asylum seekers. Some of the neighbourhood Neds had given one of their kids a going-over and the dads went after them, mob-handed. It went into a full-blooded riot. My crew was sent in there with shields, batons and helmets, to re-establish order, we were told.’ He chuckled. ‘There hadn’t been any proper order in that place for about five years, so they were asking quite a lot of us.

  ‘Anyway, we waded in, and got the two sides separated. Just as well, because the local hooligans had turned out in force. They were winning the battle and there would have been fatalities if we hadn’t stopped it. What we done, in effect, was protect the immigrants, but they never seen it that way. We had tearaways coming at us with swords and machetes, and behind us the foreigners were chucking bottles, rocks, all sorts of shit at us.’

  Skinner glanced at the rear-view mirror as he paused, and saw him frown.

  ‘Those riot helmets, sir,’ he continued, ‘they’re pretty good, but if somebody drops a television set on you from the balcony of a third-floor flat, there’s only so much protection they can give. It probably saved my life, but I still had a skull fracture, three displaced vertebrae in my neck and a broken shoulder. I was off work for nearly a year. When I came back they sent me on an advanced driving course. I did well at it. When Chief Constable Field arrived she wanted a full-time driver, and I got picked.’

  ‘I see,’ Skinner said. ‘In that case, as long as I’m here, you’ll be in the driving seat. Besides,’ he continued, ‘this is good for me too. Having you lets me get through shedloads of paperwork that I couldn’t do if I drove myself, or if I took the train, for that would be too public. And the more of that I do while I’m travelling, the more time I have to put myself about, to see people, and, as important, to let them see me. So,’ he said, pulling his case across the seat towards him, ‘time to shift some of it.’

  He worked steadily for fifteen minutes until the car was half a mile from the slip road that joined the Edinburgh bypass.

  ‘Davie,’ he called, ‘I want to make a detour, if you would. Go straight on, then take the next exit and head left, until you come to the second roundabout. You’ll see a hot food and coffee stall. I’d like you to wait in the shopping centre car park, while I pick up a couple of bacon rolls. It’s a lot less fuss to buy my breakfast than to make it myself.’

  ‘I’m lucky, sir. I get mine made for me.’

  ‘I’m lucky too. Looking out for yourself can be a price worth paying.’ He grinned as he saw the driver’s expression in the mirror. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I’m not always that cynical. The fact is, when we are together as a family, I enjoy making it for everybody.’

  His directions were clear and accurate. PC Cole spotted the stall as he passed the first exit from the second roundabout, did a complete circuit and parked in the road facing the way he had come.

  ‘Want anything?’ the chief asked him.

  ‘No thanks, sir, I’m fine.’

  He relaxed in his seat as his passenger stepped out. He watched him in the nearside wing mirror as he sprinted towards the pedestrian crossing to catch the green light. Davie had never seen a senior cop who would go to work in a light tan cotton jacket; even the CID people usually wore suits, or expensive leather jackets in the case of some of the young, newly blooded DCs.

  The stallholder must have known Skinner, he reckoned, for the boss smiled at him as he gave him his order. Or maybe he was only in a chatty mood, for he seemed to strike up a conversation with the scruffy wee man who was the only other punter there.

  Whatever they were talking about, it must have been serious, for the other guy never cracked a smile, not even when the chief, his back half turned towards the car, slipped him something.

  Christ, Cole thought, the wee sod’s on the scrounge. Not a bad guy, my boss. He likes getting the breakfast for everybody, even for a wee panhandler like that.

  Sixty-Two

  It took almost no time at all to track down the bank account of Problem Solvers, once Banjo Paterson had opened the resource site that would take him there. He keyed in the sort code and number and clicked ‘Validate’, then leaned back with a smile on his face that broke all previous office records for smugness.

  ‘There you are,’ he announced. ‘The account’s held in the Bank of Lincoln, in an offi
ce in Grantham. There’s no street address, only a PO box number, but there’s a phone number.’ He scribbled it in a pad and passed it to his DI.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘Son,’ Provan grunted, ‘you better get a safe deposit box for a’ these gold stars ye’ve been gettin’, otherwise you might find yersel’ bein’ mugged on the way home.’

  Mann took the note into her small office and dialled the number. ‘Bank of Lincoln,’ a cheery female voice answered. ‘How can I be of service?’

  ‘You can phone me back.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Charlotte Mann, Strathclyde CID, Glasgow. I need to speak to your manager, urgently. If you call me back through my main switchboard number which I’ll give you now,’ she read it out, ‘he’ll know I am who I say I am. When you ring back, ask for extension one forty-eight.’

  ‘Yes, madam. I won’t be a minute.’

  She was over-optimistic, by just under ten minutes, but did have the grace to apologise. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, madam, but Mr Harrison, the branch manager, has only just become available. I’ll put you through to him now.’

  Mann had time to growl a curt ‘Thank you’ before the line clicked and a man spoke.

  ‘Inspector, is it?’

  ‘Detective Inspector.’

  ‘I see. My name is Nigel Harrison, how can I help you?’ There was a wariness in his voice. She had heard its like often enough in her career to know that assistance was not at the top of his agenda.

  ‘I want to talk to you about an account that’s held at your branch.’ She recited the number. ‘We believe that it’s in the name of an entity calling itself Problem Solvers.’

  ‘Let me check that,’ the manager murmured. She waited, anticipating another long interlude, but he came back on the line after less than a minute. ‘Yes, I have it on screen now. Problem Solvers; it’s a charity.’

  ‘So it says,’ Mann retorted. ‘I’d like to know about money moving in and out recently, within the last few weeks.’

  ‘Ahh. I was afraid this conversation might take such a turn. I don’t think I can help you there. I took the precaution of consulting my general manager before I returned your call, and was reminded that it’s our head office policy to afford our clients confidentiality.’

  ‘It’s my policy,’ she retorted, ‘to get tough with people when I believe they’re obstructing my investigation.’

  She was sure she heard him sniff before he replied. ‘If your questions are well founded,’ he said, ‘I’m sure the court will furnish you with the appropriate warrant.’

  ‘I’m in no doubt about that,’ she agreed, ‘but I was hoping you’d be more cooperative. You’re not, and that’s too bad, because my questions are now going to move up a notch. You say this client of yours is a charity, yes?’

  ‘Yes. We have a special account category for charities.’

  ‘So it will be registered with the Charities Commission, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Harrison; it isn’t.’

  ‘But Mr Cohen assured me . . .’

  ‘This would be Mr Beram Cohen, yes? The late Mr Beram Cohen?’

  ‘The late . . .’ the banker spluttered. ‘Oh my! What happened?’

  ‘He died. People do. So you see, he’s got no confidentiality left to protect.’

  ‘But Problem Solvers has.’

  ‘A bogus charity? Tell me, sir, do the words “proceeds of crime” and possibly also “money laundering”, which I’ll throw into the mix just for fun, have any meaning for you?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that unless you cooperate with me, my next conversation will be with my colleagues in Lincolnshire Police. No more than an hour after that, they’ll descend on you with that warrant you’re insisting on, and they won’t do it quietly. In fact, I’ll ask them to make as much noise as they can. How will that go down with head office and your general manager?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  She had been bluffing, but his hesitancy told her that she was winning. ‘I don’t want to bully you, Mr Harrison, but this is urgent, and you’ll be doing us a great service if you talk to me.’

  She heard an intake of breath as he weighed up his options and made his decision. ‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘Recent traffic through the account, you said?’

  ‘Yes. Go back three months for starters.’

  ‘Can do. I have it on screen, in fact. Two months ago, the charity received a donation of three hundred thousand pounds. One month later, two money transfers of fifty thousand pounds each were made, one to a bank in New Zealand, the other to Australia. Both of these were private accounts; that means I can’t see the owner’s name. That was followed by a third, for thirty thousand pounds, to a company in Andorra called Holyhead.

  ‘The most recent transaction took place just under three weeks ago. Ahh,’ he exclaimed, ‘I remember that one. Mr Cohen called into the branch and made a withdrawal of fifteen thousand pounds in cash. It was potentially embarrassing, as my chief teller had let us get rather low on cash, and there had been a bit of a run that morning. We were forced to pay Mr Cohen his money in new fifties. Some customers would have been unhappy about that, but he said it was no problem.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a record of the serial numbers, do you?’ she asked.

  Harrison surprised her. ‘As a matter of fact I do. Those notes were brand new; we were the first recipients. I can send that information to you.’

  ‘Thanks. It would let us tick some boxes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mann replied, ‘the most important of all. Who made the payment of three hundred thousand?’

  ‘That came from a bank in Jersey, from an account in the name of an investment company registered in Jersey. It’s called Pam Limited.’

  Mann felt her eyebrows rise halfway up her forehead, but she said nothing.

  ‘Is that all?’ Harrison asked her.

  ‘Yes. Thank you . . . eventually.’

  ‘Come on, Inspector. You must understand my caution.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘What about the Problem Solvers account? Mr Cohen was the only contact we have with the organisation, whatever it is.’

  ‘I’d suggest that you freeze it,’ the DI told him. ‘I have no idea what its legal status is, although Cohen’s widow might fancy laying claim to it. Whatever, it’s not my problem. I’ll be reporting this; I’m sure someone will be in touch.’

  ‘Your investigation,’ Harrison ventured. ‘You didn’t say what it’s about, but am I right in guessing that it’s into Mr Cohen’s death rather than this Problem Solver business?’

  ‘No, you’re not; it’s into someone else’s murder. You see, Mr Harrison, Mr Cohen’s business was making people dead. Those were the sort of problems that he solved.’

  Sixty-Three

  ‘Pam Limited,’ Skinner repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ Mann confirmed. ‘I checked with the company registration office in Jersey. According to the articles, it stands for Personal Asset Management. Its most recent accounts show that it’s worth over two hundred and fifty million.’

  ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘According to the public record, its only shareholder is a man called Peter Friedman.’

  ‘And who the hell’s he?’ the chief asked, frowning, then muttering, ‘Although there’s something familiar about that name.’

  ‘Banjo ran a search on people called Friedman,’ she told him. ‘He came up with two singers, a journalist and an economist, although he’s dead. The only references he got to anyone called Peter Friedman were a few press stories. He showed them to me; they all related to donations to good causes, charities and the like.’

  ‘What, like Problem Solvers?’ Skinner retorted.

  ‘No, sir. Real ones, like Chest Heart and Stroke, Cancer UK, Children First, and Shelter. Only one of them gave any detail on him beyo
nd his name and that was the Saltire, in a report on a charity fund-raiser dinner in the Royal Scottish Museum, in Edinburgh, six months ago. It described him as “a reclusive philanthropist”; nothing beyond that. If a wealthy man has that low a profile on the internet, then he really is reclusive.’

  ‘Sounds like it. Friedman, Friedman, Friedman,’ he repeated. ‘Where the fu—’ He slammed the palm of his hand on the table. ‘Got it!’ he shouted. ‘It was . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence as he remembered who were in which loop, and who were not.

  ‘I’ll take the mystery man from here, thanks,’ he told the DI. ‘I’ve got another task for you, Lottie, for you and you alone. Thanks to Dan, we have Sofia Deschamps’ address in Mauritius, but we don’t know exactly where she lives in London, beyond that it’s in Muswell Hill. She moved there very soon after Toni came back from her so-called sabbatical, to look after the child. Marina told me that Lucille’s grandfather, Toni’s dad, bought it for her. I took her word for that, like I swallowed everything else she fed me. She lied to me about other stuff, so maybe she lied about that too.

  ‘I want you to dig deep, get the address and look into the purchase transaction. When it was bought, and if it was indeed an outright purchase, no mortgage, then I want to know exactly where the cash came from. And while you’re at it, just for the hell of it, look into Toni’s house in Bothwell, asking the same questions. Remember, don’t involve the guys in this and report to me alone, as soon as you get a result. Use my mobile if you have to.’ He gave her a card, with the number.

  ‘I understand, sir,’ Mann said. ‘What do you expect to find?’

  He smiled. ‘Who knows? Maybe it’s something to do with living at the seaside but I like flying kites.’