Final Account (14 page)

“Macmillan thought he might have been acting for a third party. He could hardly have made that much money himself. It's a very complicated business. As I said, either he was involved in aiding and abetting some pretty serious tax evasion, or he was part of a money-laundering scheme. There are still more questions than answers.”

“Did Macmillan tell you how this money-laundering business works?” Banks asked.

“Aye, a bit. According to him, it's basically simple. It's only in the application it gets complicated. What happens is that somebody gets hold of a lot of money illegally, and he wants it to look legal so he can live off it without raising any suspicions.” Gristhorpe paused.

“Go on,” Banks urged.

Gristhorpe ran his hand through his hair. “Well, that's about it, really. I told you it was basically simple. Macmillan said it would take forever to explain all the technicalities of doing it. As far as legal money is concerned, he said, you can either earn it, borrow it or receive it as a gift. When you've laundered your dirty money, it has to look like it came to you one of those ways.”

“I assume we're talking about drug money here,” Banks said. “Or the profits from some sort of organized crime—prostitution, pornography, loan sharks?”

Gristhorpe nodded. “You know as well as I do, Alan, that the top cats in the drug trade pull in enormous wads of cash every day. You can't just walk into a showroom and buy a Rolls in cash without raising a few eyebrows, and the last thing you want is any attention from the police or the Inland Revenue.”

Banks walked over to the window again and lit a cigarette. Most of the cars were gone from the cobbled square now and the hush of an early Sunday evening had fallen over the town. A young woman in jeans and a red T-shirt struck a pose by the ancient market cross as her male companion took a photograph, then they got into a blue Nissan Micra and drove off.

“What's in it for the launderer?” Banks asked.

“According to Macmillan, he'd get maybe four per cent for laundering the safer sort of funds and up to ten per cent for seriously dirty money.”

“Per cent of what?”

“Depends,” said Gristhorpe. “On a cursory glance, Macmillan estimated about between four and six million quid. He said that was conservative.”

“Over how long?”

“That's four to six a year, Alan.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Money worth murdering for, isn't it? In addition to Rothwell's legitimate earnings as a financial consultant, if he were in this money-laundering racket he also stood to earn, let's say five per cent of five million a year, to make it easy. How much is that?”

“Quarter of a million quid.”

“Aye, my arithmetic was never among the best. Well, no wonder the bugger could afford a BMW and a new kitchen.” He rubbed his hands together. “And that's about it. Macmillan said they'll start putting a financial profile together first thing in the morning: bank accounts, credit cards, building societies, Inland Revenue, loans,
investments, the lot. He said they shouldn't have any trouble getting a warrant from the judge, given the circumstances. He's also getting in touch with the Yard. This is big, Alan.”

“What about Calvert?” Banks asked.

“Well, they'll have to cover him too, now, won't they?”

A sharp knock at the door was immediately followed by Phil Richmond holding a small package. “I've got it,” he said, an excited light in his eyes. “The by-pass software. Give me a few minutes to study the manual and we'll see what we can do.”

They all followed him to the computer room, once a cupboard for storing cleaning materials, and stood around tensely in the cramped space while he booted up and consulted the instructions. All Rothwell's computer gear and records were with the Fraud Squad, but Richmond had made back-up disks of the relevant files.

Susan Gay popped her head around the door and, finding no room left inside, stood in the doorway. Banks watched as Richmond went through a series of commands. Dialogue boxes appeared and disappeared; drive lights flashed on and off; the machine buzzed and hummed. Banks noticed Gristhorpe chewing on his thumbnail.

“Got it,” Richmond said. Then a locked file called SUMMARY.924 came to the screen:

“What the hell is all that about?” Banks asked.

“It looks like financial records for the last quarter of 1992,” Gristhorpe said. “Companies, banks, dates, maybe numbered accounts. Keep going, Phil. Try that ‘LETTER' file you mentioned.”

Richmond highlighted the locked file, tapped at the keyboard again, and the file appeared unscrambled, for all to see.

It was a letter, dated 1st May and addressed to a Mr Daniel Clegg, Solicitor, of Park Square, Leeds, and on first glance, it seemed innocuous enough:

Dear Mr Clegg,

In the light of certain information that has recently come to my attention, I regret that we must terminate our association.

Yours faithfully,

Keith Rothwell

“That's it?” Gristhorpe asked. “Are you sure you didn't lose anything?”

Richmond returned to the keyboard to check, then shook his head. “No, sir. That's it.”

Banks backed towards the door. “Interesting,” he said. “I wonder what ‘information' that was?” He looked at Gristhorpe, who said, “Get it printed out, will you, Phil, before it disappears into the bloody ether.”

SIX

I

In Park Square on that fine Monday morning in May, with the pink and white blossom still on the trees, Banks could easily have imagined himself a Regency dandy out for a stroll while composing a satire upon the Prince's latest folly.

Opposite the Town Hall and the Court Centre, but hidden behind Westgate, Park Square is one of the few examples of elegant, late eighteenth-century Leeds remaining. Unlike most of the fashionable West End squares, it survived Benjamin Gott's Bean Ing Mills, an enormous steam-powered woollen factory which literally smoked out the middle-classes and sent them scurrying north to the fresher air of Headingley, Chapel Allerton and Roundhay, away from the soot and smoke carried over the town on the prevailing westerly winds.

Banks faced the terrace of nicely restored two- and three-storey Georgian houses, built of red brick and yellow sandstone, with their black iron railings, Queen Anne pediments and classical-style doorways with columns and entablatures. Very impressive, he thought, finding the right house. As expected, it was just the kind of place to have several polished brass nameplates beside the door, one of which read “Daniel Clegg, Solicitor.”

A list on the wall inside the open front door told him that the office he wanted was on the first floor. He walked up, saw the name on the frosted-glass door, then knocked and entered.

He found himself in a dim anteroom that smelled vaguely of paint, where a woman sat behind a desk sorting through a stack of letters. When he came in, he noticed a look of fear flash through her eyes, quickly replaced by one of suspicion. “Can I help you?” she asked, as if she didn't really want to.

She was about thirty, Banks guessed, with curly brown hair, a thin, olive-complexioned face and a rather long nose. Her pale green eyes were pink around the rims. She wore a loose fawn cardigan over her white blouse, despite the heat. Banks introduced himself and showed his card. “I'd like to see Mr Clegg,” he said. “Is he around?”

“He's not here.”

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“No.” It sounded like “dough.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“What's your name?”

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Moorhead. I'm Mr Clegg's secretary. Everyone calls me Betty.” She took a crumpled paper tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and blew her nose. “Cold,” she said. “Godda cold. In May. Can you believe it? I hate summer colds.”

“I'd like to see Mr Clegg, Betty,” Banks said again. “Is there a problem?”

“I should say so.”

“Can I help?”

She drew back a bit, as if still deciding whether to trust him. “What do you want him for?”

Banks hesitated for a moment, then told her. At least he would get some kind of reaction. “I wanted to ask a few questions about Keith Rothwell.”

Her brow wrinkled in a frown. “Mr Rothwell? Yes, of course. Poor Mr Rothwell. He and Mr Clegg had some business together now and then. I read about him in the papers. It was terrible what happened.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Mr Rothwell? No, not at all, not really. But he'd been here, in this office. I mean, I knew him to say hello to.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Just last week, it was. Tuesday or Wednesday, I think. He was standing right there where you are now. Isn't it terrible?”

Banks agreed that it was. “Can you try and remember which day it was? It could be important.”

She muttered to herself about appointments and flipped through a heavy book on her desk. Finally, she said, “It was Wednesday, just before I finished for the day at five. Mr Rothwell didn't have an appointment, but I remember because it was just after Mr Hoskins left, a client. Mr Rothwell had to wait out here a few moments and we chatted about how lovely the gardens are at this time of year.”

“That's all you talked about?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“Then Mr Clegg came out and they went off.”

“Do you know where?”

“No, but I think they went for a drink. They had business to discuss.”

So Rothwell had visited Clegg in Leeds the day before his murder, almost two weeks after the letter ending their association. Why? It certainly hadn't been noted in his appointment book. “How did Mr Rothwell seem?” he asked.

“No different from usual.”

“And Mr Clegg?”

“Fine. Why are you asking?”

“Did you notice any tension between them?”

“No.”

“Has anything odd been happening around here lately? Has Mr Clegg received any strange messages, for example?”

“No-o.” Some hesitation there. He would get back to it later.

Banks glanced around the small, tidy anteroom. “Does everything go through you? Mail, phone calls?”

“Most things, yes. But Mr Clegg has a private line, too.”

“I see. How did he react to the news of Mr Rothwell's death?”

She studied Banks closely, then appeared to decide to trust him. She sighed and rested her hands on the desk, palms down. “That's just the problem,” she said. “I don't know. I haven't seen him since. He's not here. I mean, he's not just out of the office right now, but he's disappeared. Into thin air.”

“Disappeared? Have you told the local police?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn't want to look a fool.”

“Has he done anything like this before?”

“No. Never. But if he
has
just gone off … you know. With a woman or something … I mean he
could
have, couldn't he?”

“When did you last see him?”

“Last Thursday. He left the office about half past five and that was the last I saw of him. He didn't come in to work on Friday morning.”

“Have you tried to call him at home?”

“Yes, but all I got was the answering machine.”

“Did he say anything about a business trip?” Banks asked.

“No. And he usually tells me if he's going to be away for any length of time.”

“Do you know what kind of business relationship Mr Clegg had with Keith Rothwell?”

“No. I'm only his secretary. Mr Clegg didn't take me into his confidence. All I know is that Mr Rothwell came to the office now and then and sometimes they'd go out to lunch together, or for drinks after work. I knew Mr Rothwell was an accountant, so I supposed it would be something to do with tax. Mr Clegg specializes in tax law, you see. I'm sorry I can't be of more help.”

“Maybe you can be. It seems a bit of a coincidence, doesn't it, Mr Rothwell getting killed and Mr Clegg disappearing around the same time?”

She shrugged. “I didn't hear about Mr Rothwell's death until Saturday. I just never thought …”

“Have you ever heard of someone called Robert Calvert?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Did Mr Clegg never mention the name?”

“No. He wasn't a client. I'm sure I'd remember.”

“Why didn't you get in touch with the police when you realized Mr Clegg had disappeared and you heard about Mr Rothwell's murder?”

“Why should I? Mr Clegg had a lot of clients. He knew a lot of businessmen.”

“But they don't usually get murdered.”

She sneezed. “No. As I said, it's tragic what happened, but I don't see how as it connects with Mr Clegg.”

“Maybe it does, and maybe it doesn't,” Banks said. “But don't you think that's for us to decide?”

“I don't know what you mean.” She reached for the tissue again. This time it disintegrated when she blew her nose. She dropped it in the waste-paper bin and took a fresh one from the box on her desk.