Silent Money Read online

  She was more enthusiastic than Michael would have liked. It had been easy to spot who to recruit as smurfs – the ones who were on the brink of a life of destitution but had enough saving graces that meant they could follow a simple set of orders without screwing up. The dysfunctional, the psychotic, the ones who led irretrievably chaotic lifestyles, could easily be identified according to how they responded to Second Chance’s overtures to help them find a better life. It was the perfect recruiting ground for Ron to find as many smurfs as he needed, but Charlotte needed to be steered away from too much direct involvement with the people the charity was helping, to minimise the risk she might stumble on what was going on.

  In the meantime, meeting Charlotte’s friends was only the start of the new world Michael was being introduced to. He had always been dismissive of popular music, and the free-love culture and guitar histrionics of the 1960s and early 70s had left him cold. Barry White and soul divas were the limits of his excursions into music that wasn’t classical or jazz. Charlotte turned up at Michael’s flat one evening, clutching a plastic bag in her hand like it was a holy relic.

  ‘Wait till you hear this,’ she told Michael. ‘The new Three Degrees album, bought as an import from Bruce’s Records. They haven’t even started playing it on the radio yet. It’ll blow your mind.’

  Michael sat on his black leather sofa, watching as Charlotte started dancing, the slinky Philadelphia sound filling the room. As ‘When Will I See You Again?’ started to play, she pulled him to his feet.

  ‘C’mon, baby, let’s groove!’ she said, slipping her hand around his waist and shimmying to the beat of the music. Despite himself, Michael started to sway along with her. When it finished, Charlotte gave him a congratulatory kiss.

  ‘You’ve got natural rhythm under that ice-man exterior,’ she told him. ‘You’ve got to hang loose, Michael. You belong on the dance floor.’

  With only mild protestations, he was persuaded to head off to Tiffany’s in Sauchiehall Street the following Saturday night. Charlotte promised him he wouldn’t regret it.

  They pulled up in a taxi and looked at the long line of partygoers waiting patiently in the rain, the men in leisure suits and ruffle shirts, women in jumpsuits or spandex tube-tops, huddling under umbrellas. The sight was enough for Michael to decide that this wasn’t going to be the fun experience he had been led to expect.

  ‘I’m not hanging about in the rain with these people,’ he said to Charlotte. ‘It’s not too late to head off to the jazz club at the Albany. They don’t make you wait in the rain.’

  ‘You mean this queue?’ Charlotte replied. ‘Don’t be silly, that’s not for us.’ She walked up to the bouncers at the door. ‘Charlotte Aldford,’ she informed them. ‘Here with Michael Mitchell.’

  The bouncer checked a typed list on a clipboard. ‘Of course, Miss Aldford. Through you go.’

  Michael and Charlotte were ushered into the disco foyer, to yells and catcalls from the bedraggled punters waiting in line. Charlotte tried not to look too smug; Michael maintained a dignified aloofness.

  ‘Jeremy should be in here somewhere.’

  Michael looked at her blankly.

  ‘My cousin. He practically lives here.’

  Michael went to the bar to order a Moscow Mule for Charlotte and a club soda for himself, while Charlotte scanned the thronging masses.

  ‘There he is. Cooee, Jeremy!’ she yelled over the stomping beat. A snake-hipped man in loon pants and a lilac blouson waved back a greeting. She turned to Michael. ‘Let’s go over. Don’t bother with the drinks.’

  Michael found out why. Jeremy and his friends were in a roped-off booth, the VIP area. A bottle of Moët & Chandon was in an ice bucket, and three of Jeremy’s acolytes were topping up their glasses as they entered.

  ‘Charlotte, darling. Who’s your friend?’ Jeremy gave Michael an admiring once-over.

  ‘Taken, darling, taken,’ replied Charlotte. ‘Anyway, I don’t think he’s your type.’

  Michael sat at the edge of the semi-circular velvet bench, trying not to look uncomfortable.

  ‘I think maybe we should sit somewhere else,’ he whispered to Charlotte. ‘This isn’t my scene.’

  ‘Jeremy’s not a fruit, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Charlotte replied. ‘It’s just his way. And his style is a big hit with the ladies.’

  Charlotte was right. A procession of Glasgow lovelies swayed up to the red rope, flirting and bantering with the group of men. Two giggling girls from Shettleston made the cut and were soon kissing Jeremy and one of his friends. The other two headed down to the dance floor to seek out some action.

  The logistics of the booth meant that Michael could turn his back on the canoodling couples and give his full attention to the dance floor. The sight was so bizarre that he couldn’t help but give a bemused grin. ‘I think I’ve lived a sheltered life,’ he said to Charlotte. ‘I never knew that Sodom and Gomorrah were right on my doorstep.’

  * * *

  The only flaw in the new world of which Michael was now part was that you needed money to participate, and lots of it. Charlotte presumed Michael’s income came from his financial consultancy, but with four members of the Aldford family and a smattering of other upper-class clients that Michael’s new-found contacts had put him in touch with, the commission he was making on handling their investments was responsible for only five per cent of his earnings. And took fifty per cent of his time. Smurfs and money laundering were an inevitable part of his life now, and one day he was sure that Charlotte would discover that.

  Charlotte was also having another effect on him. Michael began to toy with the idea of doing some genuine good with Second Chance, of being purely altruistic for a change, rather than exploitative and manipulative. Second Chance’s big ambition was to open a social and leisure centre in Castlemilk, a vast council estate on the South Side of Glasgow which was notorious for the lack of any amenities for the residents. Street after street of identical pebble-dashed terraced houses, with nary a pub, café or even a supermarket in sight. The leisure centre was a year behind schedule and, at a trustee meeting, there had been a discussion about whether it should be abandoned, given the lack of support from businesses and the public alike.

  When Michael mentioned this to Charlotte, he was impressed by her reaction.

  ‘I’ve got the contacts, you’ve got the business brain,’ she announced. ‘Let’s take charge and make this happen. Teamwork. We can do it.’

  The previous leader of the fundraising effort gratefully handed over the reins of responsibility and Michael and Charlotte got to work. Charlotte organised a charity dinner at the family estate, Michael sat down and planned how they were going to raise the other funds. Kenny McGowan agreed to be the guest of honour, amused to be extolling the virtues of Nietzsche to a room full of upper-class socialites. Ron was bemused by Michael’s new passion, but with the smurfing operation running smoothly and the laundering schemes continuing to expand to deal with increasing demand, his complaints were no more than sarcastic ribbing that Michael was having his brain turned to mush by all the posh totty he was getting.

  It took two months to achieve the financial targets, and the dream of a Second Chance leisure centre in Castlemilk could finally be realised. Michael posed for a photo with Glasgow’s Lord Provost, handing over a giant cheque for £50,000. The article praised him as a new breed of Scottish entrepreneur, showing that there was room at the top for anyone who had the ability and determination to succeed. He was touted as a product of an egalitarian new world order that was reinvigorating the business community with a dynamism that hadn’t been seen since the glory days, when Glasgow had been the second city of the Empire. Michael was becoming the symbol of this renaissance.

  Offers came flooding in. There was talk of him becoming chairman of Second Chance, once the current chairman decided to call it a day. A seat on the board wa
s offered as a way of preparing him for the role. He was tempted, but the higher his public profile, the greater the risk that his criminal activity might be exposed. His work with Ron would be a means to an end, Michael decided, a way of giving him financial security; he would put that world behind him as soon as the income from his investments was sufficient to provide the lifestyle he wanted. A million pounds in capital would suffice, two to be on the safe side, and at the current rate of growth he would be there in two years.

  Two years of keeping the truth from Charlotte. Then his new life could truly begin.

  chapter eleven

  Michael’s money-laundering operation grew in complexity. After three months, he had six separate schemes in place; Jenkins had set up an elaborate ledger system to track the small individual sums being paid in by the smurfs, and there was a byzantine network of shell companies to move money about. There were even a few more legitimate clients, Michael advising them how best to invest their cash tax-efficiently.

  Ron’s criminal clients knew only about Ron; Michael’s investment clients knew only about Michael. For the first time in his life, he felt fulfilled, enjoying the ever-increasing money he was making, but also getting a curious intellectual satisfaction from the elegance and meticulousness of how he was amassing his fortune. Yes, it might be illegal, but it felt more like he was spending his days playing an intricate game of three-dimensional chess, always thinking one move ahead to make things bigger and better.

  It couldn’t last. When Ron called to say they had to meet urgently, Michael knew something was up. The fact that it was Ron wanting the meeting rather than Big Jockie was reassuring. An emergency Big Jockie meeting would mean that a smurf had exposed them to police attention; with Ron, it would probably only mean an awkward customer issue to sort out.

  Ron arrived at Michael’s house, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder and talking too quickly.

  ‘Michael, we’ve got a problem,’ he said, without preamble. ‘Ivan Young has got wind of our operation and has taken offence that there’s activity on his patch and he isn’t involved. He wants to meet up. Pretty sure it’s to tell us if we want to keep going, at least on the South Side, he has to be in charge.’

  Michael paused to light a cigarette.

  ‘Are you hearing me, Michael? Ivan Young. Crazy Ivan. He’s a fucking nutter. You don’t mess with him; if he wants to run our business, we’ve got to let him. Otherwise, we’re dead meat.’

  ‘What’s happened? Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Not directly. One of his heavies stopped me in the street, said Ivan was told about our operation by one of the guys involved in the bank job in Merchant City. Ivan was behind the heist, and the driver had been part of a job we got the money from a couple of months ago. The guy saw how our operation to handle the money went like clockwork, and recommended us to Ivan. Not his fault, he thought he was using his initiative.’ Ron seemed to be trying to convince himself. ‘Had to happen sooner or later, I suppose.’

  Michael leant back into his leather armchair. The gentle tick of a grandfather clock filled the room.

  ‘We don’t have time to worry about whose fault it was,’ he said eventually. ‘This Ivan character. What’s his problem with our operation?’

  ‘His problem is that we exist. He put out some feelers, found out how much we’re into, and went ballistic that nobody had told him. I’ve to meet him, and not just me. They figured out I’m not in this on my own. You’ve to come along too.’

  ‘Ron, you know I’m not going to do that.’ Michael took a deep breath. ‘This is your area. Deal with it.’

  ‘Don’t you think I want to? Look, Ivan knows we’ve got a big operation, and that it’s becoming more and more sophisticated. No way can I convince him I’m doing this all by myself. He knows someone like you exists. If I don’t produce you, I won’t be around much longer. It’s up to you, Michael. If we’re going to keep this operation going, we’ve got to meet with Ivan and give him what he wants.’

  Michael felt the sense of injustice rise up inside him again, that someone could come along and muscle into something that he had worked so hard and risked so much to achieve. He thought he was keeping his feelings hidden, displaying a veneer of calmness, of being in control. But his two Dobermanns chose that moment to muscle into the room, and instantly picked up on his mood. They weren’t puppies anymore, and growled a low, threatening snarl towards Ron, this intruder upsetting their master. Michael rubbed the backs of their necks.

  ‘Satan, Lucifer. Go!’ The dogs skulked off to their baskets, Satan giving one last reproachful look towards Ron as he left.

  ‘They should know you by now,’ Michael said. He got up and closed the door. ‘Look, I know I’m an amateur when it comes to these things, but there must be some way to reason with this guy. I’m not going to hand over everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve, just because some mindless thug threatens us.’

  Ron didn’t speak, just stared into the distance. His defeatist attitude made Michael all the more determined.

  ‘Look, he must know the operation would never be able to survive if he was running it,’ Michael insisted. ‘The criminals who use our services are much too suspicious of each other to trust one of their own to handle the proceeds of their crimes. The thing is, it only works if it’s run by people who are not pulling jobs themselves. You need to make Ivan see sense.’

  Nothing Michael could say would shift Ron’s fatalism.

  ‘I can’t do that, Michael.’ His voice had the flat tone of defeat, with an edge of real fear. ‘I need you to come with me. I know what we said about you never being exposed to the sharp end, but we don’t have a choice. An operation under Ivan is better than no operation at all.’

  He saw the defiant look in Michael’s eyes.

  ‘Please?’

  Michael had never seen Ron like this. It should have been a warning of how dangerous the situation was. How the smart, sensible, businesslike thing to do was swallow his pride and give in. But instead, Michael surprised himself by the delicious icy chill that spread over his body as he made his decision. He had proved to himself that he had the mind to succeed in the life he had chosen for himself. Now he had to prove he had the stomach. It was time to fight for what was rightly his.

  ‘Okay, I’ll meet him,’ was all he said. ‘Let me do all the talking. I’ll convince him to let us be. And if I don’t …’ He paused for a second. ‘If I don’t, I’ll deal with the consequences. You won’t have to worry.’

  Ron looked at him as if he was seeing the real Michael for the first time.

  * * *

  Michael insisted on meeting at The Buttery restaurant, reckoning a classy setting might help keep the conversation civilised. He and Ron turned up on time, sat at a corner table, both staring into space, not saying a word to each other. Ivan arrived half an hour late, without apology, and with an ape in a suit as a companion. He was not what Michael was expecting. Dressed in a tan leisure suit over a brown turtle-neck sweater, bouffant hair spilling over his collar, Ivan looked more like a mid-Atlantic crooner than a Glasgow street fighter. He glanced around.

  ‘You’ve got a few airs and graces, pal,’ he said. ‘You didn’t need to go to all this bother. We’ll have this sorted out before garçon has taken our orders.’

  Ivan sat down, the ape by his side. He glanced at the solid gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘Maybe even faster than that. I’ll no’ be staying long. You two can enjoy a nice candlelit dinner together when I’m gone.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve got in touch, Ivan,’ said Michael. ‘I’ve been waiting to prove I had an operation worthy of your attention and now I think we’ve got there. I think we can be good for each other.’

  Ivan gave a thin smile, then a slight shake of the head. ‘Aye, we’ll be good for each other. First of all, I’ll no’ kneecap you pair o’ wide boys for starting this caper without my
say-so.’ He leant back as if to congratulate himself on his restraint. ‘Just to prove what a reasonable guy I am.’

  Looking perfectly relaxed, he pointed a finger at Michael’s face.

  ‘You’re going to tell me exactly how this wee scam of yours works, and how much you are making. And I’ll tell you what; I’ll let you keep fifty per cent for having the gumption to come up with this. Oh, with my boys checking all your numbers and holding your hand as you get used to working for me, so there are no misunderstandings.’ He spread his hands apart to signal that the deal was completed. ‘So, if that’s all agreed, I think I’ll order a bottle of their best champagne as a carry-out.’

  Ivan stared at Michael with a defiant look in his eye.

  ‘And thanks for picking up the tab to say sorry for the disrespect.’ He grinned. ‘See? That was easy. Un morceau de gâteau as they say here.’

  ‘That’s one way to do things,’ Michael replied.

  Ivan stared at him with undisguised fury at his impertinence.

  Michael continued. ‘Look, hear me out, okay? Some of your … can I call them your competitors? … are keen to use our services, but they’d lose face if it was your operation. So, what if you give us your blessing, and we help you out by laundering your money free of charge? There’re a lot of costs to the operation, so you avoid all of those. You get this deal, nobody else does. We keep it our secret. You get to keep every penny of your money; I get to keep my business. A win-win business proposition. What do you say?’

  Ivan grasped Michael’s wrist and pulled it across the table towards him.

  ‘I say you do what I tell you. If you don’t, then don’t blame me if I stop being reasonable. You’ve got balls, Mister City Slicker; I’ll give you that. But you’ve also got brains. Use them. You’ve got forty-eight hours to give me your answer. And it better be that you’re working for me, no’ another one of your fucking business propositions. Capeesh?’