by A P Bateman
“Which means?” Mereweather asked impatiently.
The other man spoke. He had a tinge of Welsh to his voice. “Snell claimed back more VAT than he should have.”
“But I want to know about Sir Hugo Hollandrake.”
“Sir Hugo is company secretary to some of these shell companies. His wife is down as company secretary to others. That is a term for an indirect business partner, say at ten percent. That means they get a share of the profits commensurate with their investment. They don’t need to put in a penny, simply have their share stated on the information at Companies House. There’s no secretarial duties, it’s a title in name only. Which means both Hollandrake and his wife take a cut of the profits and a share of the VAT returns. I imagine in return, Sir Hugo has invested influence, nothing more.”
“So, both he and Snell were milking the taxman?”
“Oh yes,” said Welsh. “Many, many times over, I suspect. Because we can’t find out what these shell companies actually do.”
“Isn’t that the point of a shell company?”
Cheap suit said, “Some are merely a cover. Some are a way to run assets at a loss, giving the prime company better profits. That helps a lot if they float on the market. All the toxicity is off-loaded. But companies like that can still turn a profit based on VAT rebates alone,” he paused, then added, “With some provision for creative accounting.”
Welsh nodded. “Say a company imports something. They declare the duty and pay a certain amount in taxes to get the ball rolling. They then sell their products to a shell company, that they already own, at an inflated price. The shell company sells it on, but at a low profit, maybe even at a loss. They don’t pay tax because of the loss. They submit a VAT return, get a rebate. But they’ve sold on to another shell company that the initial holder owns. The stock price rises and falls. On paper, one company is booming, another is going bust. But it’s only one investment. All that is happening is the products are being passed around on paper and tax is either being paid to avoid unnecessary interest from HMRC or VAT is being claimed many times over and the initial investment is constantly rising. Find another company with their own shell companies and work together, avoid the taxes, claim back the VAT in rebates, and the money being made is infinite.”
“So, the upshot of your findings so far?”
“Sir Ian Snell wasn’t worth half what people thought, but the companies he owns and have floated on the stock markets are worth far more on paper, so their shares are over-inflated,” he paused. “And Sir Hugo is worth far more than anyone could have guessed, because of his holdings in the shell companies. It’s all profit, bailed out by our taxes and until now, under everybody’s radar. What we need to do now is dig deeper, find out if Sir Hugo is running shell companies returning the favour to Snell. I suspect he is, and I suspect that Hollandrake’s wife is too. She may or may not be privy to such dealings.”
“And of course, Snell’s wife could be involved too. I suspect we’ll find Russian shell companies as we keep digging,” said cheap suit.
Mereweather leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He had recently noticed, to his consternation, that he was greying at an alarming rate. He had contemplated dying his hair, but had not caught it in time. It would look too obvious now. Perhaps if he took some annual leave, returned with a new haircut as well. Maybe his wife would fancy him more? He thought of spending time with her, his children, then he remembered why he hadn’t taken the leave. In truth, he much preferred his work to family life. He rubbed his face, something he did when he was either tired or stressed. “How has GeoSpec fared since Snell’s death?” he asked.
“On the stock market?” cheap suit clarified.
“Yes.”
“It dropped considerably for the first day, flatlined most of the second and started to rise again. But it stabilised today.”
“After the Home Secretary’s announcement securing the deal on GeoSpec providing the motherboards and electrical systems for Goliath,” Mereweather mused. “Can you find a link to Hollandrake through GeoSpec?”
“No,” Welsh said. “Not a trace.”
“Interesting,” Mereweather said. “Shares?”
“Nope,” cheap suit said emphatically.
“Well, start compiling a list of investors. Minimum share blocks through to the board of directors. And cross reference the names connected with the shell companies.”
Welsh smiled. “We’re already doing that.”
46
Amanda Cunningham lived an organised life. Her flat was clean and tidy - a place for everything, and everything in its place. There was an open, half consumed bottle of wine in the fridge, but no empty bottles in her recycling bin. Caroline thought back to King’s comments of her arriving drunk and drinking too much to drive. She couldn’t see a connection to excess drinking from what she had seen. She had been expecting a recycling bin like some outside student digs. But all she could see were milk bottles and some empty tins.
Whatever her lifestyle, Amanda didn’t appear to cook much. Caroline closed the fridge door. There hadn’t been much food in there. Some Greek yoghurt, a packet of butter, some cheese which had dried at the edges, some questionable milk and a tomato in the salad drawer. The cupboards were almost bare. Caroline thought about the woman who had stirred so blatantly between her and King. She thought of her as ‘Old Mother Hubbard’, the woman in the nursery rhyme, rattling around on her own, her cupboards bare.
She had searched the woman’s bedroom. She felt no shame or awkwardness. It was her work, and besides, she couldn’t give a fig for Old Mother Hubbard after this morning’s performance. Her bedside table revealed nothing revelatory. A jewellery box, an opened packet of condoms, scented tissues and some old letters. Caroline had read them. They appeared to go back to Amanda’s time at university. They were between her and a boyfriend. It hadn’t ended well, but Amanda obviously still had feelings for him and had kept the letters near. Caroline had then moved on to the bathroom. She checked the mirrored cabinet. Usual suspects there. No medicines, just a mess of toiletries and two toothbrushes. She looked at them, then reached up to the top shelf. She wasn’t more than five-seven and she had to tippy-toe, but she found the razor and shaving gel. It was a generic triple-blade men’s razor. She pushed it back, then changed her mind and took a clear, plastic press-seal bag out of her jacket pocket and rubbed the razor inside it. She repeated the process with both toothbrushes and two separate bags. She could see a more feminine razor on the lower shelf.
Caroline went back into the bedroom and checked the wardrobe. Just the normal selection of women’s clothing. No clothes belonging to men. She rifled the drawers, still came up with nothing else. But the men’s razor and second toothbrush had intrigued her. She stalked around the flat, but it wasn’t a large property and she struggled to see what else she could achieve. There wasn’t enough evidence or suspicion to get a communication order – the procedure for tapping her landline and installing electronic surveillance equipment in her house – but she couldn’t help thinking she hadn’t made the most of the opportunity.
Caroline went back into Amanda’s bedroom and took out the letters. She opened them up again and read them a second time. People didn’t communicate like that anymore. There was detail and emotion, words used without abbreviation. She looked at the date mark, then the signature. Just a swirl, some kisses. They seemed out of place within a college relationship. Out of touch. She thought of how she and King signed off their texts. They had never written a letter to each other. She had once left a folded note for King to say she had gone out. That was the closest she had ever seen him to tears. His wife had left a letter when she had committed suicide. It had taken days to coax it out of him, and from that moment on she had never so much as written him a note on a scrap of paper.
She laid the letters out on the bed and photographed them with her iPhone. She was careful to put the right letters back into the correct envelopes and tucked them back into t
he drawer. She was startled by her phone as it vibrated in her hand, looked at the screen and saw that she had messages and six missed calls. She cursed the silent function button, she was always catching it and turning the phone to silent mode.
“Hello,” she said, closing the drawer as she spoke.
“At last! Get out of there! The target is on route back, she should be there any minute!”
Caroline wasted no time, ended the call, resisted the temptation to open the app, and put the phone back in her pocket as she ran out of the bedroom. She grabbed her bag off the counter as she ran. She opened the lock, left it off the catch so that it would lock behind her, peered outside and turned her back on the street as she gently closed the door.
“Excuse me?”
Caroline spun around, startled. She looked at Amanda Cunningham, forced a smile. “Oh, hi,” she said. “Sorry, I was knocking, I thought you were in.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” Amanda paused, taking a step forwards. “As you can see.”
Caroline smiled. She studied the woman’s face. It was like staring into the mirror a decade ago. She found it difficult to believe King would not have been attracted to her. The younger model. She hesitated, then said, “I wanted to have a chat,” she paused. “If you don’t mind?”
Amanda stared at her blankly for a moment, then looked to compose herself. “How did you find me?”
“Just a quick search online,” she paused. “Social media, surname search, electoral roll, that sort of thing.”
“We both know that’s a lie,” Amanda said. “You work for MI5. We both know you used government resources to find me. Misappropriation, I’d say.”
Caroline shrugged. “I just wanted a chat. Girl to girl.”
“Girl to girl? What, are we dorm buddies?”
“Woman to woman then.”
“Well, the girl to girl may have worked if you were closer to my age. What are you, forty, forty-two?”
Caroline smiled, but inside, she was biting her lip. “Thirty-seven.”
“Oh! Sorry…”
“Don’t be,” Caroline said breezily. “Age is a privilege and youth is merely an illusion. By the time you figure out life, you’re usually too old to make a notable change. If you think forty is old, then your ride is going to be a steep and slippery one.”
“Thank you for that,” Amanda said uninterestedly. “So, what have you come around here for? Apart from our girly chat?”
“Can we get a coffee?” Caroline asked. “I’ll buy.”
Amanda stepped closer, took her keys out of her bag. “I’ve got coffee,” she said.
“Great.” Caroline stepped aside for Amanda so that she could open the door.
Amanda pushed open the door and stepped inside. Caroline followed, hoped she’d put everything back as she had found it. Amanda closed the door and Caroline walked through into the kitchen. There were two doors off the kitchen; one to the lounge and the other to the hallway, where they entered from. Amanda walked past Caroline and flicked the switch on the kettle.
“So, talk,” she said curtly.
Caroline leaned against the countertop. “What you said in the director’s office this morning. I want to know how close you and Alex got, and what happened down in Cornwall. I know you stayed at the same hotel.”
Amanda smiled. Caroline started to question whether she looked the same as the younger woman, or whether there was just a passing resemblance. There were glares, glances and sneers that she had never seen herself make in either photos or reflection. If she were to judge Amanda, having never before seen her, she would say that she was a damaged soul. She had a vicious streak to her. And that was what worried her most.
“Hold that thought,” Amanda said. “I just need the loo.”
She picked up her bag and walked out the door they had entered, and Caroline could hear a door open and then lock. The kettle flicked off and Caroline debated whether to make the coffee, but she did not want to appear over familiar.
When Amanda came back in, she seemed a little more relaxed. She made the coffee, offered milk and sugar and cradled her mug with both hands. She looked at Caroline and smiled. “Well, this is civilised. I should have baked a cake.”
Caroline smiled, but it was difficult to make it to appear genuine. Inside she was not only seething at Amanda’s attitude, her general demeanour, but reeling that she had almost been caught. Her nerves were almost shot, her heart pounding in her chest. She needed to carry on with the act. Brass it out, as King would often say.
“I know this probably seems strange,” Caroline said, looking thoughtfully into her cup. “But I wanted to know what happened at the cottage,” she paused, looking at her. Already, she knew she would not get the truth, she could see the glee in the woman’s eyes, like she revelled at the possibility of having power over her. Caroline added, “I’m not angry at you.”
Amanda smiled, she did not speak for a moment, but it seemed like a whole minute to Caroline. “I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” she said eventually. “These things happen.”
Caroline nodded. She hoped not too forlornly. “It’s over,” she said. “I just wanted to hear it from you.”
Amanda shrugged. “Well, that’s that then,” she said. “So, what are your plans?”
Caroline shook her head. “I can’t think about that until we get further with the investigation.”
“And King is off the case now?” Amanda asked. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask about him.”
Caroline smiled. “Yes, his career is finished, I should imagine. The Home Secretary seemed to make his point.”
“He’s no detective, Hugo is right to have insisted.”
“Hugo?” Caroline smiled. “Quite friendly with Sir Hugo Hollandrake, are we?” she asked amiably.
“He requested I work the case,” she said a touch self-assuredly. “He gets what he wants. He’s probably the most influential politician in Britain today. I expect he’ll be prime minister before long.”
Not if I can help it, thought Caroline. Instead she nodded attentively and sipped some of her coffee. It was cheap instant. She looked around a little awkwardly, like she was thinking of something to say. Instead, she was studying her surroundings. That was what she took from her visit – Amanda had little in the way of possessions, and what she did own was inexpensive. Caroline wasn’t sure how much a senior pathologist working for the Home Office would earn, but she suspected it was up there with GP’s and surgeons. She looked back at Amanda and smiled. “I sometimes wish I’d taken a different route, gone into medicine.”
Amanda laughed. “Well, it’s never too late,” she said. “Even at your age.”
Caroline smiled again. “No, well there’s a thought,” she said. “I just need the loo.” She put down her cup and got up. She’d kept her phone in her pocket and as she locked the door behind her, she typed out a quick text and attached the pictures of Amanda’s letters. She pressed send and watched as the blue line slowly worked its way across the screen. The message was delivered, and as always, she deleted the message, leaving her history clean. She looked at the mirror and studied her face. She was looking stressed. She tried a smile, brightening her expression. When she relaxed, she barely recognised her reflection. She needed some time out. A holiday, something to recharge. Perhaps King was right about that yacht?
Caroline walked back into the kitchen, but Amanda was not there. She stepped through the doorway from the lounge. “Feeling better?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, just needed the loo,” Caroline said.
“How long are you going to keep this up?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard,” Amanda said. “You came here to search for something. What are you looking for?”
“You’re mistaken,” Caroline paused. “Look, I’m leaving…” she picked up her bag and went to walk past Amanda, but she stepped into her way. “Fine,” Caroline said and turned around to use the other door, but froze when she saw the man blockin
g her path. She turned back and stared at Amanda. “What’s this?”
Amanda smiled. “I saw you coming out of here,” she said. “You broke in. You searched my flat. Find anything helpful?”
Caroline nodded. She’d been busted and there was nothing she could say that would change that. “Okay,” she said calmly. “You’re welcome, obliged even, to make a complaint,” she paused. “I’ll explain the procedure.”
“No. I’m not exactly going by procedures these days.”
Caroline’s expression hardened. “No, we know that.”
“You know nothing!” she spat at her.
Caroline turned back to the man in the doorway. “Get out of my way,” she said calmly, but firmly. The man didn’t budge. “Now!”
The man lunged forwards, but Caroline blocked his arm away as he made to grab her and brought her knee up into his groin. He expelled air and gasped, his knees buckled. Amanda lunged from behind, grabbing Caroline around the neck. Caroline smashed her elbow into the woman’s face and she squealed as she reeled backwards. The man was recovering and this time he squared off in a fighting stance. Caroline got her guard up and parried across the room, putting the table behind her, putting a barrier between herself and Amanda. She kicked the table and it slid backwards into Amanda as she was getting up. She let out another squeal as it clipped her head and she fell back down.
“Nice moves,” the voice said from behind her.
Caroline turned and saw another man in the doorway to the lounge. He sounded Russian, but she already knew he was. She looked back at the other man, who was edging towards her. He kicked out and she blocked it with a forearm sweep and she dashed forwards and jabbed a punch into his sternum. He gasped again, but swung a wild punch which slammed into her jaw. She fell backwards, and the man stumbled forwards and half tripped, half threw himself on top of her. She screamed and struggled but he was muscled and overweight and felt like a tonne weight on her.
