Silent Money Read online

  He went to get the City Taxis file for comparison. As he suspected, money paid in daily; direct debits to the garage that supplied the diesel; payroll payments to the drivers, and a loan account to purchase new vehicles. Ron’s Taxis had no employees; the taxis drove on air, and there was only one actual vehicle on the books. He checked the file history. Every previous year showed the same picture. Every one initialled and signed off by his predecessors.

  He permitted himself a small smile of self-congratulation. This would be the chance to show he was able to do more than just charm impressionable students to open their bank accounts with Royal Clydeside. And criminal activity reports went straight to head office, so there was no way Mason could steal his glory. Michael reached for the phone before realising that he should probably mention it to Mason in any case. No point in causing unnecessary friction when he found out Michael had filed a report. He slipped on his jacket, an act of false deference, knocked on Mason’s door and entered when called.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Mason, barely looking up. ‘Come back later, will you? I’m in the middle of something right now.’

  Michael recoiled at the abrupt dismissal, and a feeling of rebellion stirred within him. Ron’s Taxis, he decided, was safe. He walked back to his desk and slipped the file into his briefcase.

  Mary came around for a meal that evening. She had looked surprised when he told her he enjoyed cooking, that it relaxed him. To an extent it was true, but projecting an image way beyond his means meant balancing occasional fancy restaurants with more frequent entertaining at home. A cheap curry would be a giveaway. Cooking at the flat was both romantic and economical.

  She was turning out to be the perfect girlfriend. Fun and lively, she was a welcome escape from his troubles, besotted by his charm, as enthusiastic in bed as she was with life in general, and always eager to learn more. Michael, in turn, was enamoured by the transformation that happened every night as her demure demeanour gave way to passionate lovemaking. And, most of all, he was pleased that she respected his need to be left alone and didn’t try to pry into his inner thoughts.

  The only thing she tried to influence was Michael’s steadfast refusal to have anything to do with the counter-culture music and fashion that she was part of.

  ‘Come on, Michael,’ she would implore him. ‘Let’s go to a gig together. Gentle Giant are playing Green’s Playhouse. You’ll like them.’

  The compromise they reached was that she would bring some of her favourite LPs and Michael would dutifully give them a listen. Wishbone Ash and Van der Graaf Generator only got one playing, but Michael grudgingly admitted that the rhythmic abstraction of Soft Machine and Can could be tolerated if played quietly in the background. Michael liked that she was trying to influence him, to get him to loosen up a bit. He promised himself he’d do so, once he was in the right frame of mind.

  Usually, Mary stayed until eleven, when Michael would drive her back to her parents’ house in Paisley, but this night he wanted her to leave early. The meal had been perfunctory, the sex by usual standards rushed, and he took Mary to the train station two hours earlier than usual, with an apology. Michael had some thinking to do.

  When he returned to the flat, he sat down to read through the file again. He could just about recollect who this Ron character was. Pale and tall, like a henchman in a Hitchcock movie. He jotted down the last few months’ transactions and added them up. No wonder he was putting money in the bank. Wherever he was getting it from, it was too much to stuff under the mattress. That was the risk of being a criminal. Danger getting the money, danger holding on to it, and danger spending it. You could just as easily be brought to justice by an eagle-eyed bank employee as you could by a clever detective.

  Michael pulled out a pad of paper and wrote Ron’s Taxis at the top. It already felt like a piece of incriminating evidence. He added a question mark. A police siren suddenly pierced the silence in the room. He walked over to the window in time to see a blue light turn the corner and disappear.

  ‘Haven’t got me yet,’ he said aloud. The joke made him smile.

  He turned to the record player, found his Bach Sonatas, slid the album out of the sleeve and sat it on the turntable. After a second of pristine silence, the contemplative profundity of the music filled the room.

  Michael sat down at his desk. The abstract architecture of Bach’s music helped frame his thoughts. He would be logical, dispassionate. Nothing would be left to chance.

  He tried to imagine himself committing a criminal act, and the photograph of a disgraced bank manager from the Glasgow Herald weeks before leapt back into his mind. The ashen-faced police mugshot of a previously respectable banker, sentenced to five years for stealing customers’ money. He could imagine every ounce of anguish that pitiful wretch must have felt.

  Folly. Michael shook his head and tore off the page. He ripped it in half. Just to be sure, he threw it in the fire and watched as the paper leapt into flames. He lit a cigarette, but that didn’t seem to help. This was a waste of time, he told himself. If he was paranoid about the implications of two innocuous words written on a sheet of paper, he would be driven crazy by taking any real risk.

  An involuntary shake of his head spurred him on to think again. Cowardice. If things were going to change he couldn’t be weak. Doing nothing was always an easy option. When the magazine article came out, Mason had pretended it didn’t exist. The right thing would have been to apologise, to show he realised he had got credit for something undeserved and promise to put things right. But Mason was a coward. He had taken the easy way out, hoping if he did nothing, nothing would be said. Michael despised him for that. If Michael wanted things to happen, he needed to be bold, he needed to be daring.

  The phone rang. That would be Mary, letting him know she’d got home safely. It rang for a minute or so before going silent. Michael picked up the pad of paper again. Wrote Idea at the top of the page.

  Idea. If he was to be a criminal, he had to be anonymous. No one should ever be able to penetrate the disguise of the successful businessman, always under control. He inhaled on his cigarette and blew out some smoke in the direction of a poster on the wall, a print of a Magritte painting he’d bought in Woolworths, a bowler-hatted man with a green apple covering his face, Blu-Tacked to the wall where it covered a damp patch. The inscrutability of the image always resonated with him, the businessman’s real self invisible, the outside world seeing only the apple.

  Idea. His mind played with possibilities, as fitfully and discursively as a musician runs his fingers over a keyboard. Ron has trouble concealing his ill-gotten gains from view. That must be a common problem. Maybe there’s a way to hide and launder criminal cash. With an accomplice, perhaps, to deal with other criminals who want a similar service? He would never come into contact with the clients. Michael smiled at the word ‘clients’. It sounded very respectable. Yes, an accomplice. A partner. They would be the visible side of the operation; he would be in the shadows.

  He wrote, Handle cash. Run operation back office. on the pad and put a tick beside it.

  Michael picked up the bank file again. An accomplice would be high risk. Ron, the taxi man – could it be him? Could he confront him with what he’d found out, deal with whatever unpredictable response he received, determine if he was the right partner and if it all felt wrong, pretend that it never happened?

  Michael’s mouth was parched; he went into the kitchen for some water. He drank it in one gulp, feverishly, like he’d been in the desert for days. He remembered his mother drinking gin like that when she was stressed, like she was trying to put out the fires of some unquenchable hell. He shuddered. One day, he promised himself. One day he would be free of his past.

  He sat down again. Ask McGowan, Michael wrote on the pad. He could do that. Another risk, but a manageable one. McGowan knew everyone. He kept secrets. If he warned me off making contact, Michael reasoned, the exposure
would be minimal. Michael recalled McGowan’s speech in Drumchapel, the irony of a hardened criminal spouting a moral code he could believe in. The morality of consequences. This plan fitted that philosophy exactly. Yes, ask McGowan.

  Meeting 1: Introduction and confrontation. Get Ron into the bank, tell him what he knew, say there was a proposition that might interest him. Suss him out. And if he decided to walk away, so what? Ron’s word against his, and why would Ron want to say anything? The worst that could happen would be the loss of a customer.

  Meeting 2: Proposition. Starting to get in deep. Could still walk away.

  Michael wrote on the pad one final time. Meeting 3: Decision. He stared at the words. Would that day ever come? He tore the page out of the notepad. Glanced over to the fireplace. He hesitated for a second, then slipped the page into a desk drawer and placed the pad on top.

  Michael thought back to that evening he’d seen McGowan. Fifteen years in jail because his code of honour prevented him from grassing on one of his friends. He could be trusted not to reveal one incriminating, but theoretical, conversation. It was a gamble, but any business proposition came with risk.

  McGowan had said that he owed Michael for helping the ex-cons. It was time to take him up on his offer.

  * * *

  Michael arrived ten minutes early for their meeting in an East End pub, the conversations of the customers a mix of gregarious banter and whispered confidences. When he asked for a club soda, the barman stared in disbelief, his reaction picked up in an instant at more than one table. The buzz of chatter perceptibly hushed, everyone on full alert. Michael felt the hostility crackle in the air.

  He went to an empty table and could feel the eyes boring into him. The miasmic fug of cigarette smoke was suffocating. A one-armed bandit in the corner suddenly paid out, its celebratory bells and jangling of coins cutting an incongruous note through the tension.

  McGowan walked in. Someone proffered a handshake. The buzz of conversation returned as he glad-handed his way to the bar, like a politician working a crowd. A pint of Belhaven was already poured as he got to the counter. Michael saw McGowan go through the motions of offering to pay for it, the barman laughingly declining.

  He spotted Michael and came over. A disbelieving mutter went around the bar. The two men sitting nearest them stood up, and with a deferential nod to McGowan, moved to another table out of earshot.

  ‘You’re treated like a king here,’ Michael said.

  ‘Aye, respect.’ McGowan looked around. ‘As you heard me say, that’s always been a big thing with me. Respect is the only thing that keeps folk loyal to you.’

  ‘Was that how you kept out of prison for so long?’

  McGowan stiffened at the directness of the question, then relaxed.

  ‘Definitely,’ he replied. ‘Just about every gang member gets nicked eventually. No’ because they get caught, but because they get betrayed. My folks would do anything for me, because they love me.’ He leant forward until his face was a few inches from Michael. ‘And because they fear me.’

  McGowan sat back in his chair having made his point. ‘But you still need to know what you’re doing to make a killing at this game. Get inside information, think ahead, always have a plan B. And never get greedy.’

  ‘How do you know who to trust?’ Michael was inching towards deciding whether to take McGowan into his confidence. For all he knew, this could all be an act. McGowan could be someone who shouted his mouth off when he felt in the mood. He could even be a police informer these days.

  ‘I don’t trust anybody,’ McGowan said, with a shake of his head. ‘Everybody’s got some wee scam going on in their life that they don’t want to be found out. And I definitely don’t fucking trust you, young Michael. I can see you’re up to something, so why don’t you stop fannying about and tell me what it is? You didnae come all the way out to Shettleston to enjoy the delights of a club soda.’

  Michael flinched, but didn’t hesitate. ‘You’re right. It’s time I told you why I asked to see you. Have you ever heard of a man called Ron Smith?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Ron Smith? Common enough name. Why would I know a Ron Smith?’

  ‘He’s a customer at the bank. Runs a taxi firm. At least that’s what his file says. But I think there’s more to him than that. I’m thinking of approaching him with a business proposition, but I wanted to find out about him first.’

  ‘Now why would I happen to know a taxi driver and even if I did, why would I tell you anything about him?’

  ‘Because he’s in trouble and he doesn’t know it. His banking record has a funny smell about it. I want to help him fix it.’

  McGowan frowned. ‘Planning a shakedown, Michael? I must say you disappoint me. And all these bank accounts you’ve been opening? Are these poor wee sods next on your list?’

  ‘No, you’ve got me wrong. Not a shakedown.’ Michael hesitated for a second, testing himself to see if there was any doubt in his mind about what he was about to say next. But he’d never felt more sure.

  ‘A partnership. I’m not talking about looking the other way with Ron. I’m talking about showing him how to stash his money better. And if it works for him, finding the contacts that let me help others in the same boat.’

  McGowan’s grim face was like a carved mask, simultaneously inscrutable and menacing.

  ‘Do I know Ron Smith? You don’t come here and ask me questions like that, pal. I’m no’ a pimp you can use to chat up whatever villain takes your fancy. Who the fuck do you think you are, asking Kenny McGowan to finger a criminal, be your lackey to introduce you to some punter so he can kiss your feet because you want to do him a favour? You have no fucking idea what you’re getting into. And if you expect me to help you, you’re off your trolley.’

  Michael didn’t back off. ‘I’m sorry if I offended, Kenny. I’ve got nothing but the deepest admiration for you. I agreed with every word of what you said in Drumchapel. I want to live by that code. That’s why I’m here, out of respect. I don’t expect you to help me, but I’d be honoured if you did. I’m about to make the biggest decision of my life, and what you say matters to me. And yes, I need your advice. Will you help me?’

  McGowan smiled. Michael had the uncomfortable feeling that he had just passed a test.

  ‘Let’s say I do know Ron Smith. If you want me to tell you if he’s a crook, you can fuck off. Just as I’d say the same to anyone who asked me if you were planning to become a bent bank manager. But if you want to know what he’s like as a bloke, aye, I could do that.’

  ‘And? What’s he like?’

  ‘Old school. Rare to find these days. Plans well. Smart, discreet. Got a good brain; no’ a nutter like so many of the yobs doing jobs these days. Has a lot of respect on the street. But he’s small beer. He keeps out of trouble from the big boys, never looks like someone who wants to run an empire. I’m talking about his taxi business, of course. Just so we’re clear.’

  There was a glint in his eyes. McGowan obviously liked playing matchmaker.

  ‘He might be street smart,’ said Michael, ‘but he’s going to draw attention to himself if he doesn’t watch out. There’s a new manager at my bank who’s itching to make a name for himself. He’s pretty astute. Only a matter of time before he notices what Ron’s up to.’

  ‘New manager? I thought you were the manager there?’ McGowan chuckled to himself. ‘Now it’s becoming a bit clearer what’s going on. Had a knockback, have you, wee Michael? Found out the world can be a cruel place sometimes?’

  ‘Since you ask, yes. Been passed over twice now for a job I can do standing on my head. I’m taking my destiny in my own hands. So, Ron Smith. Should I talk to him?’

  ‘As I’ve told you, I’m retired now, straight as an arrow. But you could do worse than Ron if you want to go down that road. Aye, give him a proposition. He’ll no’ like
it at first, but he’s smart enough to see if it makes sense.’

  ‘Can I mention your name?’

  ‘No, sorry, pal. That’s me getting involved, and I don’t do that.’ He leant over and squeezed Michael’s arm. ‘I … don’t … do … that,’ he repeated. ‘You’ll no’ forget, will you?’ The squeeze was getting painful. McGowan let go and took a sip of his beer. ‘Let’s say this was an … off-the-record chat. A character reference, if you like. Just between you and me.’

  Michael waited until the next day before taking any action. The conversation with McGowan was as good a green light as he was ever going to get. There was no reason not to progress to stage two. But it was a big moment. It was all he had thought about since meeting with McGowan, but no new perspectives or alternatives had come out of his endless internal debate. He toyed with calling Ron directly, but that wasn’t office protocol. And he didn’t want to start the conversation over the phone; he wanted to be face to face to read the signals he was getting before he said too much. He told the office secretary to call Ron, asking him to make an appointment to review his account, any time in the next few days.

  ‘Certainly, Mr Mitchell,’ she replied. ‘Should I give a reason for the meeting?’

  ‘Say I want to discuss bank procedures. If he asks why, say I’m not around at the moment but that I did say we should discuss it in person. Wednesday would be good for me, if that gives him enough notice.’ Mason’s Edinburgh day.

  She made the appointment for two o’clock on Wednesday. For the rest of the day, anxiety and excitement tore through his body as he thought about what he had set in motion. As time went on, the tension faded and an eerie calmness took over. He felt a sense of freedom, of liberation, that he had never experienced before.

  He had spent all his adult life trying to succeed in a world where his talents were not valued. Now, for the first time, he was going to do something about it.