Silent Money Read online

  chapter five

  Michael woke early. Other than that, his morning routine was as exactly choreographed as usual. He gave his shoes a quick polish, selected one of the five identical white shirts from his wardrobe and put on a silk tie and matching cufflinks. With time to kill, he arrived in Byres Road and headed off to University Café for breakfast. He glanced at the front-page headline in the Glasgow Herald. The government was warning of petrol rationing. His scrambled eggs on toast remained untouched.

  The seconds crawled by. It was still not too late, Michael told himself. When this Ron character turned up, if he had any doubts, he could say the meeting was only about the account irregularities. Ask Ron to explain himself and watch him disappear into the distance, never to be seen again.

  Or he could even abandon the whole harebrained scheme before it got started. The possibility flooded Michael’s body with relief. He cut the corner off a piece of toast, his appetite returning. Then he looked outside again, at the early morning commuters scurrying by the window, their heads down and their collars turned up to protect them from a biting, cold rain. Rushing to start another day of their miserable existence, all because they didn’t have the courage or imagination to do anything about it. He pushed his plate away, drained his coffee and stood up. He was going to see this thing through.

  Ron Smith arrived at ten sharp. Michael got a glimpse of him as he was shown into the meeting room. Late thirties, with a bad haircut that did nothing to improve his ferret face. He looked wary and focused, his body rigid with tension. A good sign. Whatever bluster he might try on, this was a small-time crook who was apprehensive that he was about to find out he’d been rumbled. He had to be approached carefully, like a cornered wild animal.

  Michael let him stew in the meeting room for a few minutes and then got up and walked in to meet him.

  ‘Mr Smith, a pleasure to meet you,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much for being so prompt. Got a busy day so it’s much appreciated.’

  ‘I’m busy too.’ Ron gave him a fixed stare. ‘Can you tell me what the problem is?’

  Michael produced a ledger pad and opened it at the front page. He’d got a new pad to do this analysis; one which he would dispose of afterwards. There would be no record of today’s meeting.

  ‘We have three taxi firms who use this bank. I want to show you a comparison between the three of you. I’ve called the other two firms A and B, and of course I can’t tell you who they are for client confidentiality reasons. But I think what I’ll show you will be quite clear.’

  Ron remained silent.

  ‘You see, when I look at their statements over the last three months, their outgoings on average are sixty per cent of their income. It varies between forty-five and seventy per cent. With your business, it’s less than ten. Can you explain that?’

  Ron stood up. ‘No, I can’t. If all you’ve got me here for is to ask bloody stupid questions, then I’m leaving. If you’ve got a problem with my business, I’ll go elsewhere.’

  Michael’s question had been exactly what any diligent bank employee would have asked when investigating a suspicious transaction. Even what he was going to say next could easily be explained as a misunderstanding. Michael felt his skin prickling. He uttered the words he had rehearsed the night before.

  ‘Please, Mr Smith. Sit down. I want to help you. Even a cursory glance at your accounts raises more questions than it answers. That might be a problem for you one day. Not with me, you understand. I’m all for people doing well in their line of work. But I’m not the only person who looks at these numbers. I want to help you to make them appear as above board as of course they are, so that they don’t attract … unwanted attention. That’s all.’

  The last sentence hung in the air, filling the room with an atmosphere of conspiracy.

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ was Ron’s icy reply. ‘And just why would you want to do that?’

  Michael laughed. ‘You’ve obviously never seen what an audit looks like. Extremely tiresome, I can assure you. I thought if I invested some effort to help you while the numbers in your account look a little … unbalanced, shall we say, it would save us both a lot of paperwork later on.’

  His relaxed demeanour did nothing to betray that his senses were on full alert, picking up every tiny clue in Ron’s reaction. The whitening of Ron’s knuckles as his hands made a fist. The tensing of his body. Eyes narrowing as he tried to work out whether he was dealing with a bumbling incompetent, a corrupt official. Or both.

  ‘Shoot,’ Ron said. ‘What’s the deal?’ He spat out the words. ‘Go on. I’m all ears.’

  Michael’s first concern, that Ron would walk out without hearing another word, seemed to have passed. McGowan had been right: Ron liked to listen, rather than act impulsively.

  ‘Frankly, Mr Smith … Ron, may I call you Ron?’ Michael didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Frankly, Ron, there’s something not quite right about your bank account. It’s a time bomb. If anyone from our audit office looked at it, they would see it as a classic cover for criminal activities. Now you don’t look like that sort of person to me, so I want to help you avoid unnecessary suspicion.’

  Ron glared. ‘Look, pal, what’s your point? If you’re looking for a wee sweetener to look the other way, you’re way out of your league. You don’t want to mess with things that don’t concern you. Understand?’

  ‘I hate when people get something for nothing.’ Michael gave a dismissive shake of the head. ‘I’m not trying to do that. I want to offer you a proposition.’

  Ron lowered his eyes; his brow wrinkled in suspicion.

  ‘You have a very successful, if slightly unconventional, taxi firm,’ Michael said. ‘You seem to be good at what you do; you’re doing well. But what you’re not good at is being discreet about your success. That’s where I come in. Working at the bank has taught me a lot about discretion. I want to share that knowledge with a customer who would value it. You.’

  Ron said nothing, the slightest nod of the head telling Michael he was interested.

  ‘I’d like us to meet again, away from the bank, where I can offer you … let’s call it a consultancy service. Something that could help your business and others like it. That’s what this is about. No threats. No blackmail. I do it for free, as a way to get to know each other. To explore whether working together, the two of us, we can make your business look above suspicion to anybody who takes a look, for whatever reason. And if it works for you, to consider whether it might be a service that other individuals might be interested in. People who might pay handsomely to demonstrate that their money is squeaky clean. And to see if I can trust you. And, of course, if you can trust me. Interested?’

  Ron paused and looked around. ‘You’re one cool customer, pal. You’re either a nutter, or this is a set-up. Look at you, mister bank manager, in your pinstripe suit. What makes you think I would trust you an inch? How do I know that that this is not your bank’s way of stitching me up? Why should I tell a poncey git like you how I run my business? Consultancy service? Yeah, right.’

  ‘Why should you trust me?’ Michael nodded to himself as if to acknowledge the reasonableness of the question. When he spoke again, his voice became more intense. ‘Because this is not the way banks work. Do you think it would be acceptable for my superiors to ask me to take the sort of personal risk a conversation like this might entail? Your account sticks out like a sore thumb. If it had been spotted before now, it would be the Fraud Squad you’d be talking to. Not, as you say, a poncey git like me. I’m the one taking the risks. It’s me that should be asking for the reassurances. Think about it and get back to me.’

  Michael stood up to signal the meeting was at an end.

  ‘I think that covers everything, Ron. Please call me Michael, if we meet again. And if you do want to meet, give me a call and we’ll arrange something.’

  He opened the door and Ron walked o
ut, shaking his head. Michael went back into the meeting room, closed the door and leant against it, taking a deep breath. Everything would be okay. Ron wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself by reacting to what he had told him. Even if there had been a legitimate explanation for his finances and he reported Michael to the authorities, Michael could deny the conversation took place.

  All he had to do now, was wait.

  * * *

  In the meantime, there was Mary to distract him. He was in the uncharted waters of a five-month-old relationship. He had always resisted letting anyone stay around long enough to get to know him, but with everything that was going on, he told himself he didn’t want to waste any energy moving on. There was more to it than that, though. Every night with Mary was as intense as the last. She’d arrive at his flat as fresh as the fragrance of a crushed herb, and leave with the earthy muskiness of a fulfilled Aphrodite, the glazed look in her eyes betraying the night’s pleasures. Tonight promised to be no different.

  As usual, their passion started the moment he opened the door, their lovemaking beginning on the hallway floor, as they slowly, inexorably and pleasurably made their way to the bedroom. After their bout of frenzied lovemaking had ended, Mary jumped off the bed, following the trail of discarded clothes back to the hallway, where she scooped up her bag and scampered back to the bed, giddy with excitement.

  ‘I have a present for you, my darling,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with pride. ‘Open it.’

  It was a Peruvian angora sweater she must have spent weeks doggedly knitting. Michael slipped it over his naked body and sat up on the bed, looming over her. ‘What do you think?’

  She reached up and pulled him towards her. ‘I knew I’d guessed your size. I’ve been knitting it since that very first week we met. Do you like it?’

  ‘Love it,’ Michael replied. ‘No wonder it took so long.’ He tugged at a sleeve to stop his arm from itching.

  ‘Mum and Dad were full of questions about who I was knitting it for. I’d like them to meet you, Michael. Would you do that for me?’

  His gaze wandered around the room. This was the problem with letting relationships go on for too long.

  ‘I’d love to,’ he said, a flat tone to his words. ‘But I’m not sure it would be a good idea, not yet. I’m twelve years older than you, don’t forget. That’s a lot when you’re nineteen. I think it might be awkward. For them, not me.’

  ‘I think you’re being silly,’ Mary replied. ‘And Mum and Dad are different. They don’t like who I usually hang out with. Dad says they’re all hippies and communists and a spell in the army would do them the world of good. I told them you were older, a bank manager. They didn’t mind at all.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Mary. Let’s think about it, okay?’

  ‘Okay, but they can’t object. My dad’s ten years older than Mum and he was a police superintendent when they met. She wasn’t long out of school.’

  Michael tried not to look surprised. ‘Your dad’s in the police force?’

  ‘Fraud Squad. Something important there, but I’m not sure what. Doesn’t talk about it much.’

  Michael was still taking in this news as he spoke. ‘If you think it’s a good idea, then maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to meet them. As you say, how can they object?’

  The pros and cons of meeting her father occupied his mind as he took off the sweater and let it drop to the floor. What was it McGowan had said, about how important it was to get inside information to stay one step ahead of the game? Yes, very useful. He had worried that he had no idea how to get an early warning signal he was doing anything that could be detected. Mary’s father was going to find that Michael was an avid listener.

  Decision made, he gave Mary his full attention.

  * * *

  It was a week before Michael saw Ron again. When he came into the branch he looked around furtively, waiting until he could catch Michael’s eye. Michael spotted him and gave the briefest nod of acknowledgement. He went over to one of the empty teller windows and motioned Ron to come over.

  ‘Necropolis, 6 p.m. Underneath John Knox’s statue,’ Michael whispered, handing Ron a leaflet on business loans as a cover. Their eyes locked. Ron turned and left.

  Glasgow’s necropolis sat high on Fir Hill, a testament to the city’s Victorian business fathers’ yearning for immortality. Moody gothic tombs and mausoleums were scattered everywhere, a myriad of paths weaving their way past the statues and the final resting places of the great and the good, everything maintained in immaculate order. 1970s Glasgow didn’t care much for the living, but it really looked after its dead. Dismal rain hung in the air, keeping the visitors down to a few dog walkers.

  Michael stood beside the low wall next to the Knox statue, sheltering under an umbrella. He had wanted to meet somewhere where they could walk and talk at the same time, with less chance that someone nearby could overhear. He looked up at the religious firebrand, who stared down at him in frozen admonition. Michael just smiled.

  Ron arrived, gave Michael a nod, and they wandered over to one of the mausoleums to shelter from the rain. Ron was curt. ‘Let’s hear what you’re offering.’

  ‘There are three things they tell me to look out for with suspicious business accounts,’ Michael said. ‘Unrealistic growth; cash businesses with little or no outgoings; and large lump-sum lodgements on an irregular basis. Ring any bells?’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I need you to do three things to make your business look less conspicuous. You need to set up a parallel banking operation to give you some outgoings. Open an account at another bank for a company that sounds like a diesel and garaging business. That company needs to start invoicing you for the running costs of your taxi fleet, about half of your turnover would be about right. And when that business gets above ten grand a year, you open a new bank account for a different business. Then you can cascade down fictitious expenses until they are too small to be noticed.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve done this before, pal.’

  ‘Maybe. Then we have a second plan to take care of any additional funds that this first scheme won’t cover. You take that extra cash and divide it by the percentages on this sheet.’ Michael handed Ron a typed-up table of numbers. ‘You go to the bookies and find a row that matches the odds in a race the next day, so the odds aren’t changing very much, and spread your bet based on the percentage number underneath each of the odds number. A separate slip for each bet, in two, ideally three, different betting shops. When the race is over, you collect the winnings and keep the betting slip, simple as that.’

  Ron looked incredulous. ‘This is a joke, right? Put my hard-earned dosh on the gee-gees? What if they lose?’

  ‘That’s the point. The money is allocated across all the horses, using different bookies, in proportion to the odds of each horse winning. No matter the result of the race, you’ve picked a winner. A gambler doing this for real would lose four per cent of his money every time, that four per cent is how bookies make their money. But it’s also what it takes to make the rest of the money legitimate. For every winning bet, you get a receipt from the bookies that matches what you pay into your saving account. The losing bets you tear up. You’re just a smart horses man, someone who can study the form and is sharp at picking a winner. You get the bookies to pay out your winnings by cheque to show where the money is coming from. Everyone loves someone who can get one over on the bookies.’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t like losing money. Four per cent goes to the bookies? I’m doing just fine without them. And without you, for that matter.’ Ron turned up the collar of his coat. ‘I’ve wasted enough time listening to your harebrained schemes. Just keep well away from me, do you hear? And if I pick up that anybody’s been snooping around my affairs, I know where you work. Keep well away.’ He turned and left.

  Michael stood alone, staring out over the city of th
e dead, a hollow sensation building in his chest. For a second, he contemplated running after Ron but realised that would be futile. He started shuffling down the hill, head bowed as the sudden squall built in intensity.

  He was surprised to see Ron waiting for him at the Merchants’ House gates by the entrance.

  ‘You’ve got some balls, I’ll give you that,’ he told Michael. ‘How exactly does this bookies scam work?’

  ‘Follow the instructions on the form I gave you. It should be clear.’

  ‘I’ll try it out. If it works, I might be back in touch. Might be, I say. Don’t hold your breath.’

  Ron disappeared into the now driving rain. Michael watched, oblivious to the icy rivulets tricking down the back of his collar. He could do no more. With a shrug, he headed back to his flat.

  * * *

  Michael’s next meeting with Ron was in the slightly more comfortable surroundings of Shettleston’s Golden Egg, the sort of fast-food restaurant people ate in who couldn’t afford the gastronomic delights of a Wimpy Bar. Michael was studying the numerous glossy photos of egg-based dishes on the menu, none of which bore any resemblance to the fare being served up around him, when Ron slid into the seat opposite him.

  There was no small talk.

  ‘Seemed to work,’ Ron said, passing the crumpled grid sheet over to Michael. ‘Total bets £5,000, £5,020 back, betting slips and all. Came out ahead because I didn’t put a bet on a no-hoper, even though your grid told me I should.’

  ‘You’ve got to cover every eventuality, no matter how unlikely you think it is,’ Michael replied. ‘But anyway, it’s showed you it works. Do you want to try the next step?’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Set up the parallel companies. You’ve got betting slips that explain how you came by five grand, but there’s still the rest of your money to deal with.’

  Michael spent the next twenty minutes explaining how things would work. Customer service wasn’t a high priority at the Golden Egg and they were left undisturbed by the waitress as he went through the details. When they had finished, Michael could tell Ron was impressed. He decided it was time to tell Ron more.