by BRM Stewart
She swallowed. ‘He’s outside. I’ve just come for some more of my clothes. I meant to have done it before you got back.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, how was your trip?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Good, I’m glad. Right. I… I don’t know what to say, Martin. I’m so sorry. I hope we can be civilised about… about dividing up everything. The divorce.’
Another gulp of lager, and I nodded. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to do that. You get your stuff. We’ll talk after a few days, sort things out.’ I kept my voice cold and calm.
She stood up, almost coming towards me for a hug and then thinking twice about it. ‘I’ll get that stuff. Thank you for being so good about this.’
‘No problem.’
Endgame
Chapter 24
Spain and onwards
This time when I arrived at Malaga airport, I knew exactly where to go to get my hire car, beating the queues. Satnav in place, I was out into the sunshine and driving down the coast in no time at all. I had my suitcase and my technology with me. I just had to visit my bank in Gibraltar, find somewhere to stay for a couple of nights, and then finish my already tortuous journey – I had decided on Orkney, because it was far away from the too-obvious Spain.
I’d given my information to Amanda Pitt, sitting in the hotel lobby with my suitcase and rucksack, making no secret of the fact that I was getting out. She looked at the stuff, and took notes. Finally she nodded. ‘This is useful, Martin. Thank you.’
‘What happens to me?’
She looked at my suitcase. ‘I’ll pass this stuff onto colleagues and they’ll investigate the cybercrime and all those associated with it. I assume you are planning to go somewhere warm, out of the way, and that you have managed to accumulate enough money to live on. We may very well never find you.’
I nodded and swallowed, daring to hope, daring to think that she was going to try to protect me.
‘But no guarantees. I don’t know what happened in Romania, and I don’t know what our investigations will turn up concerning you. We might very well not pursue you for theft and fraud, but murder would be something else. I’ll try to play down your role, but ultimately the decision will not be mine.’
I nodded. ‘I appreciate that. I won’t tell anyone you took money from me for information.’
She looked straight at me. ‘There is no trace of any money coming into my bank account.’
I nodded: it had been a cheap shot, trying to get extra insurance like that. ‘The people in Argyle Street,’ I said, ‘are innocent. Don’t waste your time there, don’t give them a hard time.’
She nodded.
‘And there is someone you might be interested in – a young blonde girl, early twenties – first name Charlene, possibly Charlene Anderson. She knows Sandy Lomond, has connections with Talbot, but I’m not sure how she’s connected.’ Amanda was looking straight at me and nodding. ‘She’s very pretty,’ I added, and she gave me a look.
‘I’d better go,’ I said.
We stood up and she politely shook my hand, but she must have noticed the relief on my face, because she repeated: ‘No guarantees, Martin – ever.’ And added, with an acidic tone: ‘You realise you’ll never sleep soundly again: you’ll always be afraid that someone will come for you.’
I swallowed.
I phoned B&D, but Claire said no one had come in – Sandy hadn’t been in touch for a couple of days. I said I’d see her later.
I phoned Andrew and told him I wouldn’t be able to have any more meetings, and told him it might be better if he just stopped doing anything more with my shares and interests. ‘The police are involved,’ I told him, ‘try not to get sucked in.’
‘Fine, Martin – appreciate the warning. Have fun. Going somewhere warm?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Sun sea sand and sex,’ he suggested.
‘I’ll settle for three out of four,’ I said. ‘Cheers, Andrew. Thanks for everything.’
I emailed Jane and then phoned her, moving away from the reception area and down a long corridor. We exchanged pleasantries – ‘Still the same, but the new wheelchair is really good’. I told her to check her email.
‘What is this, Martin?’
‘The business is going tits up, Jane.’
‘Oh dear – is it the recession?’
‘Not exactly. Some of Ken Talbot’s dealings were dodgy, and the police are onto him. There’s a danger that they may freeze all the company’s assets.’
‘Oh no,’ she wailed. ‘That would –‘
I interrupted her: ‘The info on the email I’ve sent you is for an online Santander account. It will give you all the money you’ll ever need to look after Davey and yourself. It gets topped up monthly from another account by standing order – the reference you’ll see will be Fiona Jobs. Nobody knows about the accounts except me. Take a note of the log-in details and password somewhere safe and then make sure you delete all trace of the email.’ I thought for a second and decided to tell her about Andrew, in case she arsed things up and needed help. ‘If you ever run into problems, contact Andrew Russell. He was at school with us – he’s an accountant. Davey will remember him.’ Davey would remember him as the nerd who got bullied worse than Davey himself.
‘Why – what are you – where – ‘ She stuttered to a halt.
‘I need to get away, Jane. It’s very complicated for me – the police would nail my arse. But they won’t touch you and Davey.’ God, I hoped that was true.
‘So – ‘
‘Yes. Promise me you’ll give yourself some time out from looking after Davey. Treat yourself.’
There was silence on the phone, and I had nothing more to say. ‘Look, Jane, I’ve got to go. Bye for now.’ Yeah, bye for ever. I switched off the call.
Hotel reception got me a taxi, and it arrived a minute later. ‘Glasgow Airport,’ I said.
As Gibraltar came into view, with a clear blue sky and all my physical possessions in the boot of a black Seat, and millions in the bank, I felt free but with a heavy sense of hopelessness.
*
Amanda Pitt walked up from the hotel where she’d met Martin McGregor, towards the police station where she worked, her mind churning. She crossed the main road, down to the old buildings, the original Cowcaddens area, and stopped to fish her mobile out of her handbag. She stood with it pressed thoughtfully against her lips, listening to the traffic on the road.
What to do… So, she said quietly, you’ve been playing Martin McGregor. Did you sleep with him too to get what you wanted?
She blinked away an unexpected tear. You were never in love with me, she thought. You just used me to get to Talbot, like Martin did. He gave me money, you gave me sex.
She dialled a number, which went straight to voicemail. ‘It’s me. We either need to talk honestly about what’s been happening, or I need you out of my life completely.’ She swallowed, and her tone grew softer. ‘We’re nearly ready to move against Talbot. You need to be careful.’
Back at the police station, the CID room was buzzing. They were nearly there, nearly ready to start raiding Talbot’s main businesses and pull in the main players.
Her boss called her in, and asked about Martin McGregor, what she’d got.
‘Not much, sorry. I’ve got some details on some minor cybercrime activities, but nothing else – and I don’t think what I have will give us anything much. Martin McGregor is not important in Talbot’s business – he just works on the computer side. He’s not important,’ she repeated.
Her boss sat back, looking coolly at Amanda. ‘I’d like you to stay with McGregor and that cybercrime angle.’
Amanda frowned. ‘I know very little about cybercrime.’
‘I’d like you to look after it for now. We’ll attach an expert to you, and if anything pans out we’ll get a team organised.’
Amanda nodded and understood. She was being kept away from the main Talbot team. Did they suspect her?
Chapter 25
New York
Mark Grosvenor took the packed A train from his home in Brooklyn, got off at Fulton Street and walked up through the welcome shade of the narrow Nassau Street into the sunshine of City Hall Park. He bought a black coffee and a bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon from a stall there, and headed on towards Federal Plaza. He was warm in his jacket, holding his briefcase, his arthritis not so bad now in the warm weather. Away to his left, the One World Trade Centre had now relegated the Empire State to second place once more, and still had three hundred feet to go. Grosvenor didn’t think about that day any more. He was still preoccupied with his son and family staying in his home, the child getting ever larger and louder.
He made his way up to the 23rd floor, and along to the small conference room. Kurt Jackson was already there, with Maxwell Stuart, both of them in crisp light blue shirts, checking their phones. Grosvenor hung his jacket on the back of his chair, and sat down, loosening his tie and starting on his breakfast bagel.
The three of them had a meeting every other Friday to look at where they were, share ideas, document progress. The rest of the time Grosvenor and Stuart worked mainly alone, with email conversations and occasional discussions.
‘OK,’ Jackson said. ‘What have we got today?’
Grosvenor, his mouth full, indicated Stuart.
‘OK,’ Stuart said, ‘we may be getting somewhere.’
‘At last,’ Jackson sighed.
‘Can’t be rushed,’ Grosvenor commented, spitting crumbs.
‘Of course. Apologies. Didn’t mean to imply you guys were dragging your feet. Carry on Max.’
Stuart stroked his laptop, and a map of the world appeared on the screen. ‘As you know, I’ve been looking at cybercrime implications of the Portugal hit. I’ve been through the code and the cards, trying to track the numbers back to whoever harvested them and sold them on. It’s taken time. We’ve found links with many of the usual suspects across Europe and into Russia, but we’ve also stumbled on some new kids on the block. And we’ve found some interesting connections.’
As he spoke, marker flags appeared on the map, with lines connecting them till the map was almost obliterated. Jackson showed his irritation: the graphic told him nothing.
Then the map was overlaid with a man’s face: round, balding, Eastern European. ‘This is one of the significant names we got: Gheorghe Angelescu,’ Stuart said. ‘He’s Romanian, but has worked mostly with criminal gangs in the former Soviet Republic. Intelligence on the ground said he had dropped out of sight – they thought he was dead, in fact. No one said he had any links with cybercrime prior to this.’ A stroke and a press, and a new face appeared, soft blonde hair, high cheekbones. ‘This is another of the names the Portugal people had. He is Charlie Talbot, and it seems he runs a computer company in England.’
Grosvenor sipped his coffee. ‘That’s Glasgow, England,’ he said to Jackson.
Jackson waved away his sarcastic comment. ‘Slip of the tongue – I’m sure Max knows where Glasgow is. Carry on, Max.’ He looked past the handsome face on the screen to the cold eyes and the cocky, sardonic smile.
Stuart sat back. ‘That’s pretty much it from me just now.’ He turned the laptop and pushed it across to Grosvenor, who plugged in his encrypted thumb drive and started typing to unlock it.
‘So,’ Jackson said, to fill the gap, ‘we’ve got connections between Portugal, Romania and Scotland. A known face, not previously involved in cybercrime, and new people, whom we haven’t seen before.’
‘Right. That in itself makes it all worthwhile.’
Jackson didn’t look convinced. ‘Mark?’
‘OK.’ Grosvenor put up a text document and scrolled through it. ‘That’s all the names I checked,’ he said. ‘All hotel guests around the time of the Portugal killing.’ He scrolled and scrolled.
‘OK, Mark. I get the point. Cut to the chase.’
Grosvenor closed the document and opened a new one. ‘I was searching for names that matched anything that Max was finding, and then exploring the connections. I always find it remarkable how many coincidences there are with so many people in such a small planet. Anyway, this guy dropped out.’ The name on the screen was Martin McGregor, one of a short list of names on a new page, but highlighted bold and italic. ‘He was in Alvor, near the scene of the murder, for a few days either side of the event. He works for the same computer company as Charlie Talbot. All of that could be coincidence, but last weekend this guy goes to Romania – Ploesti, around thirty five miles north of Bucharest.’
Jackson nodded and frowned. ‘And…?’
Grosvenor pushed the laptop back across the table to Stuart, who stroked and clicked it. A line of three photographs appeared.
Grosvenor said: ‘We contacted the police in Ploesti, and asked if they knew anything about McGregor, why he had been there, what he had been doing. They checked, and after a couple of hours a guy called Adrian Stancu, an Inspector de politie in the General Directorate, got back to us.’
Jackson was now sitting forward, his eyes narrowing, feeling the excitement that they really might be getting somewhere. Grosvenor watched him.
‘It seems McGregor left Romania rather quickly.’ Grosvenor went on. ‘He had booked two air tickets: Monday and Tuesday. He left on the Monday, leaving his luggage behind.’
Jackson was looking at the three photographs on the screen: the handsome, greying, middle aged man, the beautiful dark girl, and the thin, pretty girl with soft brown hair.
‘And what he left behind were three dead bodies – these two, who were associates of Gheorghe Angelescu, and a prostitute. The man himself was on the scene at the time. Stancu went over to Glasgow to speak to McGregor; he denied everything, but rather unconvincingly. Stancu went home – didn’t even speak to the Scottish police. Off the record, he said that he thinks people in Romania are protecting Gheorghe.’
Jackson went to get more coffee, and to think. When he had sat back down, he said: ‘So McGregor is our hit man.’
‘Not necessarily, sir,’ said Stuart. ‘McGregor’s profile doesn’t fit that at all. He has no qualifications, but seems to have computer skills – not gun skills.’
‘And remember what I said about coincidence.’ Grosvenor said. ‘We have someone else who happened to be in Portugal and Romania at the same time as McGregor, and we checked her out. Her name is Charlene Anderson, aged twenty three, but she is a hairdresser in Wales. No connections whatsoever to McGregor, or computers.’
They all gave a smile.
‘Anyway,’ Grosvenor went on. ‘I agree with Max. McGregor doesn’t look like a killer – he looks like a hacker. I’ve now been in touch with the police in Glasgow, and they’re preparing to close the net on an organised crime gang, run by Ken Talbot – Charlie Talbot’s father. There’s a criminal empire of drugs, prostitutes, stolen cars – hell, stolen anything – illegal cigarettes, hooch, and a whole heap of money that needs laundering. Max here thinks that the young Talbot is the cybercrime mastermind, and McGregor is his key man.’ Grosvenor sat forward. ‘I spoke to the police in Glasgow – they put me on to a Detective Sergeant Amanda Pitt, who is dealing with what they know about the computer company where Martin McGregor works. She doesn’t think McGregor is a big deal. The police are mainly after Ken Talbot and his sidekick Sandy Lomond. Pitt doesn’t rate McGregor.’
‘And yet he is linked to four murders.’
Stuart sat back from the laptop, looking at Jackson. Grosvenor got himself another coffee, and then sat looking at Jackson too.
‘We’ve been in touch with the NSA again to see what they have from McGregor’s email or Facebook activities. Nothing had been flagged up. They had another look at my request, but came up with nothing: no links to any known carders out there.’
Jackson pursed his lips. ‘Which means he’s either clean – which we know he damn well isn’t – or he’s covering his tracks so well that he really is into something deep.’
They
were silent for a time.
‘So,’ Jackson added at last. ‘Do we just leave it to the local cops there to reel in the whole gang, including Charlie Talbot and McGregor, and the Romanians and the Portuguese can come in on the murders. Do we need to do any more here?’ He frowned. ‘Did she mention Charlie Talbot?’
Grosvenor raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t think we should just leave it to them. We know more about the whole story that they do – the Brits aren’t on top of the cybercrime issue – I don’t think they’ve got hold of the implications; they seem to think it’s just a little side-line over there. They’re interested in local gangs, not international fraud.’ He shrugged. ‘Furthermore, there is one strange twist to it all that we don’t fully grasp.’
‘What’s that?’
Grosvenor nodded to Stuart, who put up the photograph of Charlie Talbot on the screen again. ‘You hinted at it yourself just now, boss,’ Grosvenor said, his voice slower and deeper. ‘This guy is the key man in his father’s criminal empire, and is the main man in the computer business, and by implication in any cybercrime. His name is all over the documentation. But he’s been dead for ten years – Amanda Pitt told me that when I asked, wondered what I was interested in him for. Automobile crash in the Scottish Highlands.’
Jackson swallowed. ‘So there’s a hole in our overall picture.’
‘Oh yeah. A big one.’
The silence hung in the room while they all thought of the possibilities.
‘What do you think we should do?’ Jackson eventually asked, when it was clear to the others that he had made his own decision.’
‘I would like to talk to McGregor,’ Grosvenor said over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘The Scottish police are picking him up as we speak, along with the others. I’d like to go over there in a few days and talk to him, and Sandy Lomond. And I’ll try to find out what’s going on with Charlie Talbot’s ghost.’
Jackson nodded. ‘I’ll set up the formal arrangements. Early next week?’
