BEYOND GOLD There is only Grey

Prologue

The room of the Central computer contained a mass of flickering screens which from moment to moment reflected the ever-changing myriad details of seemingly infinite financial transactions. From all over the Country, all over the World, a roller coaster of cash withdrawals, balance requests, deposits, were carried in a never-ending stream of ATM messages to and from the waiting millions out there in the cold and the rain in the dark of the night and the light and heat of the sun, all of which the massive computer system could, for the most part, handle with awesome efficiency.

24 hours a day, this automated juggernaut continued on its way, the flashing lights, the whirring and clicking from the relentless machines orchestrating a scene not unlike the Krell laboratory in The Forbidden Planet, eternally restless, in perpetual motion.

Today though, was different. Around these screens, monitoring them with unusual concentration were a group of men and women, clearly not the faceless operatives who usually stood idly by as casual servants to the mighty machines. Their eyes straining against the unremitting glow of the monitors, each person’s face was etched with the tension inherited from their own experience of a harsher, more realistic climate, a raw place that was a world away from the abstract hidden life of the computer operators who were the natural inhabitants of this cold environment.

“Look!” said a man with a Scottish gravel voice as he pointed towards the screen,

“Here’s another one!”

Although he spoke to the group in general, the man who could be easily identified as their leader, moved with swift economy to stand at the Scotsman’s shoulder, peering at the screen, his dark eyes intense and alert.

“Yes, it’s them all right” he said in a voice bristling with authority.

“Get someone down there right away, but no noise or fanfares, we want surveillance, not capture

There was a bustle of sudden activity, as a crowd of minions hurried to deal with his orders, bodies separating into corners as if from a rugby scrum, a confusing scramble of voices high and low intermingling as urgent messages sailed out into the ether. The Chief bit his lip anxiously, for this was not the first time in that evening he had given this order. There was no doubt about it, massive fraudulent withdrawals were being made from the banking system.

This in itself was not new, the Chief had seen massive fraud before, but this was something different, hundreds of thousands of these transactions seemed inextricably linked by modus operandi and in uneasy corroboration, sometimes-direct connection. Worse still, these known transactions being monitored could well be the tip of the iceberg. The conclusions to be reached from this seemed catastrophic. If true, there was no telling where it could lead. This could be paranoia, the Chief reasoned. He hoped it was, for if his worst fears were realised, the signs were ominous. Someone could be orchestrating an attack on the banking system itself.

PART ONE

CASH & CREDIT

1

In Finsbury Square, London, stands the impressive modern building whose marble and glass hallways house APACS, founded by a consortium of banks and financial institutions to oversee their joint interests including automated systems, security, and fraud, especially in relation to plastic cards and ATM transactions.

On this evening, the lights were burning late in these offices of the great and the good. In the main boardroom, a cloud of cigar smoke hovered above the long and elegant table where sat these modern knights of financial Camelot, the chairmen and major players who represented the banks and other financial institutions.

The meeting was chaired by the Director-General, Farquhar-Brown, a man who was sophisticated and clever, and not complacent. Yet time in this structure had taught him that his decisions must always be tempered by compromise, by the very nature of the institutions the consortium consisted of. They were competitors first and foremost, after all. He had position, but in reality he had little power, he was a virtual first secretary of a financial United Nations.

In this room with him, sitting at the long table among the most important financial people in the Country was a Junior Minister from the Treasury, something of a token gesture from the government at this stage.

“Gentlemen, this meeting is called to order,” said the Director- General, and a gradual hush descended over the room, leaving his voice slightly echoing among the crystal chandeliers of the high ceiling.

“We have noted an unusually high level of fraudulent activity among our loans and credit card transactions. The volume of such transactions and of general defaults has risen by some 20% in the past year alone. At this rate of growth, we could be discussing a level of 50% by next year, and that is obviously unacceptable. I have asked you here tonight so that we may discuss what steps can be taken to neutralise this threat to our business. Are there any comments at this stage?”

The chairman of a major high street bank, who had only recently been knighted, was first to speak. Sweeping his hand and the cigar it held in an arc of acknowledgement towards his peers, he said unemotionally, almost like a Mafia Don.

“All of us have become used to levels of fraud ever-increasing, and after all, our business is also increasing at such levels, year in year out. So what is new?”

A murmur of agreement rumbled round the table, and the Director-General replied, trying to disguise the impatience in his voice.

“Fraud is indeed always with us, but I don’t think you’ve grasped the figures we are talking about here. This is a 20% growth on what we may call ‘normal’ fraud. If this is allowed to go on and grow at its present rate, it will threaten our business to a very significant degree”.

Lord Sefton, the chairman of a major building society signalled to the Director-General that he wished to make a contribution, and once again the room stilled, as the portly red-faced northerner spoke, his accent unchanged by his years of success and high society.

“So let’s get down to brass tacks. Three questions for you - One - why is this happening? Two, what’s brought the change? Three, what can we do about it?”

“I can answer questions one and two by saying that we believe - my investigating officers and I - that such activity is being led by an organisation rather than consisting of a random series of unconnected events” said Farquhar-Brown in a matter-of-fact businesslike voice. “This organisation must be very large, covering the whole country in fact, and it is growing week by week. In our opinion, this is fraud on a highly organised basis. The answer to the third question is more difficult. We could eradicate this problem at a moment’s notice by closing down our loan and credit business......” A hubbub of protest drowned out the Director-General as he struggled to continue through the ensuing noise.

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen!” He was shouting now, the echoes of his voice carried by the cavernous room, the chandeliers ringing gently, like barely audible crystal bells.

“Gentlemen! If I could continue!” he said, calming himself down as the muttering voices reluctantly receded.

“Gentlemen, the fact is, that is the only certain way of eradicating this problem completely, but I accept it would be an operation which would nevertheless kill the patient”.

A nervous ripple of laughter crossed the room as he continued.

“What could also be done is to ensure a much more rigorous examination of each application, so that only the genuine applicant would be successful”.

“Hold on a minute!” said Lord Sefton, “What we’re talking about here is a complete revamp of our existing systems. Everyone in this room knows that’s impossible. The cost and time factors are just not on!”

A rumble and grumbling of assent punctuated his words. Farquhar-Brown had anticipated all of this, but had laid out the situation as he saw it mainly for the benefit of his own position at a later date. As a master of compromise - the very nature of his appointment - he had laid out the stall. No one could later accuse him of complacency, he had placed the onus squarely on his associates, who were virtually his employers. Now he was able to put forward the compromise solution he had in mind all along.

“Gentlemen, I propose that we set up a special body to deal directly with this problem. This virtual task force will comprise police officers of the highest calibre, as well as the best from our teams of investigators and specialised accountants etc.”

Slouching languidly in his seat, his narrowed eyes fastening on the Director-General like a weasel, another captain of financial industry raised his voice.

“If this so-called task force is to have any real bite to it, it must be led by someone with teeth”. “Do we have such a man?” asked the recently knighted banker, looking doubtful.

“Oh yes” said the Director-General, “I believe we have”.

2

His life had been ordinary up to this point. There was nothing about him that made him seem different from the crowd, he was anonymous, he lived an anonymous life. He had drifted through school, through employment, through life, a notable underachiever; his youth had passed him by without incident. He lived in a typical house in a typical street with his Wife and 2.4 children. There was nothing visible to separate him from the great mass of humanity surrounding him. But he was different.

It had all changed that one day in autumn. Circumstances had forced his hand. Now he was proud of the system, though proud was perhaps too strong, for somewhere inside he still felt a deep regret that the system had proved necessary to his survival. Being respectable and successful would have meant so much more, but it was never to be, it never could be now.

It had all begun so slowly, but now its strength was frightening to behold, and yet it was all rooted in principles which had a simple premise - the institutions were vulnerable. They had no choice but to open themselves to abuse, and trust in the basic honesty of the great mass of the people. All it took to gain advantage from that belief was someone like him and the conjunction of circumstances that made his reactions inevitable.

Now, the network was indeed formidable. In every city and major town there were ‘operatives’ carrying out orders, taking over empty houses, moving into salubrious areas, opening offices in respectable business premises. Most of all, these operatives generated cash flow, withdrawing vast sums of money, yet in such small amounts at a time to be inconspicuous among the millions of transactions made daily by the honest section of the population.

His own distinctly dishonest transactions would only become obvious as such when the inevitable defaults began to appear, after all, there was no point to drawing money then paying it back again.

Some payments were indeed made. It was all a question of balance. While there were still opportunities to gain from keeping the account and the identity seemingly valid, there was reason to ‘invest’ in such an individual’s illusory future as bait, in fact, to lure further income into the net.

The down side of these accumulating defaults was of course the growing visibility of the deception. Already, the system had accounted for some £10 million vanishing from the institutions. Around now, he knew, the authorities would begin to notice the unusual activity and take steps to monitor, identify any problems, and eradicate them, but he also knew that the nature of bureaucracy was slow to take action. It would be some time yet before his enemy began to take decisive steps against him. Defending the system would not be simple, for it had in effect become a bureaucracy itself. Controlling it, even with the swiftest of intentions, was like steering the Titanic away from the iceberg, so difficult for something of that size to make the manoeuvre quickly enough.

Another disadvantage was that his enemy had the best of resources and could call on any such resource without fear or favour, whereas he had to make every move by stealth, hide every action by subterfuge and cunning. At the same time though, the system had all the facts at its disposal, the others were working in the dark, unaware of how the pieces of the jigsaw fitted together. Also, as vast as the system was becoming, it was still the size of a fly in relation to the elephant that was the banks and the treasury, but as huge and powerful as the elephant was, it would have great trouble standing on a fly. Nevertheless, even as things were, he had the capacity to do enormous damage, and he had every intention of doing so.

Lost in these thoughts, he glanced out at the night sky through the stained glass window of his elegant mansion. To the right of him, and slightly below, there on the one lonely road along the horizon, he could see the luminous glow of cars as they drifted through the darkness, on their way home perhaps, or enjoying the company of someone they loved.

An aching loneliness filled his heart as memories of another time pervaded his consciousness. The system he had planned was already spectacularly successful.

Why then, did he still feel so empty inside?

3

In a city far away, in the comfort of his home, with his wife Jane and their children safely tucked into bed, the Chief was trying to relax with a glass of whisky, but to no avail. His mind was full of the events of the day. His concern over this business was growing, yet his superiors did not seem to be taking this threat seriously enough, they were exhibiting typical complacency, and seemed to think that by drafting him into the spotlight, the problem had been solved.

The call had come a few weeks before. A somewhat officious lackey had loftily informed the Chief that he was hereby summoned to APACS to see the Director-General. The Chief was no stranger to that building, but calls like this were rare, they meant something big was on the cards. Despite his years of experience, the Chief still had butterflies in his stomach as he stood on the elegant escalator taking him up through the magnificent building symbolically to the upper echelons of the Director-General’s suite.

“The Director-General is expecting you,” the receptionist said, smilingly showing him through. He had not been kept waiting,another portent, he thought at the time.

“Come in!” said Farquhar-Brown in friendly fashion, another bad sign. Welcoming him in with a handshake and a few pleasantries, Farquhar-Brown had come straight to the point.

“We have a major credit fraud on our hands,” he said, outlining the same facts he had presented to the APACS committee. When he heard what was involved, the Chief whistled quietly to himself. This really is a challenge, he had thought. Even then he could already see that complacency from the APACS committee was likely to be a negative force in his investigations. Not that this was anything new, but it could be a problem if the scale of damage proved to be as bad as his instincts were already telling him.

“Anything you need is yours,” Farquhar-Brown said, though both of them knew that wasn’t strictly true.

“Anything within reason, more like”, thought the Chief, but he was saying nothing. He too had long ago learned the nature of survival and compromise.

“I’ll need to choose my own team” was all he had said, proceeding to name several of the APACS specialists, and in particular, as his personal assistant and number one, the woman who was in his opinion, the real expert in her field of credit systems, Susan Bryde. They had worked together on many cases, but only when ‘big guns’ were called for. Their individual expertise was deemed by their superiors too rare and too in demand to be left undiluted by working together on the vast bulk of cases, which in the main, proved to be fairly easy to deal with.

“Are you coming to bed?”

The voice of his Wife calling downstairs to him intruded into his thoughts.

“In a minute, Dear!” he said, guiltily taking another sip of whiskey. His mind wandered back to the case, and Susan Bryde. He remembered her reaction to his call.

“Bloody hell!” she had said, less than pleased to be summarily recruited, and he could understand that. He knew how annoying it was to be in the middle of a backlog of work and thoroughly involved in investigations only to be suddenly ‘pulled’ into something new. At the same time he knew that once Susan saw the basic facts, she would be hooked, as he already was. There was no doubt about it. This was the ‘big one’.

Nevertheless, sitting here in his darkened room alone with his thoughts, a few weeks into the investigation he had to admit it was not going particularly well. After a promising beginning, it had stalled.

They had quickly identified some of the accounts that were fraudulently operating, and had taken steps to monitor applications and cash withdrawals, soon identifying a pattern of behaviour. From there, it had been fairly simple to keep surveillance on these individuals drawing the money and paying it into a series of accounts. They had learned everything they needed to know about these individuals, including where and how they lived. Yet he did not move in and have any of them arrested, for he felt that it would simply be showing his hand to the enemy. Could any of these individuals lead him to the heart of the system? Somehow he doubted that, yet as he sat there, doing nothing, he was merely a spectator, a voyeur who was standing by doing nothing, just helplessly watching a constant haemorrhaging of the banks, a draining of their lifeblood by a financial vampire.

Susan had made it clear that she favoured a move against the system, even at the risk of showing their hand.

“At least it’s doing something”, she had reasoned, and who knows? - They might learn more than they thought? Surely it was worth the chance? He knew she was mad as hell at him, and he marvelled at her decisive certainty. But then it was easier for her than him, he was the one who would carry the can at the end of the day if it went wrong, she could walk away, her record unblemished. Still, he admitted to himself, she had a point. It was going nowhere otherwise.

And he had to admit, she was beautiful when she was angry.

4

His Wife was beautiful, he thought, as he watched her from the kitchen window. She stood in her garden, gently touching the fragile leaves of a delicate flower he didn’t know the name of. She was a child of nature, so in tune with the universe, so unlike him, yet they had been together so long, been through so much.

Sensing his eyes on her, she paused and looked at him, almost shy and self-conscious that he had been studying her. He waved to her in reassurance. Even though she stood at the foot of the long garden, he could see she was smiling.

“Enjoying the weather?” he called to her somewhat superfluously, his voice almost lost in the wind.

She looked almost embarrassed, caught in her moment of privacy.

“Yes…………….”

He only heard the first word, the wind carrying only the gentle tone of her voice. Why did she choose him? Perhaps because he had an ageless wisdom about him, bought by his experiences and hard times, but also by virtue of an inbuilt intensity and awareness, and a brilliant intuition which he didn’t listen to nearly enough for his own good.

These thoughts wearied him, and he sighed as he walked away from the window. Despite his great gifts, life had somehow always been an uphill struggle for him, he was an outsider, a misfit. He had wanted the best for his Wife and children, but seemed unable to provide it for them. With his lack of practicality and shortage of experience and formal education, no one had ever been willing to give him a chance to prove his worth in the World. The years had rolled by, and he had missed the boat. All he had was a mediocre position as a clerk in an office, a job any fool could do.

By this time in his life, the dark forces had gathered against him, and when his bank offered him a chance to apply for a large overdraft, much larger than his salary justified, he made a fatal decision to go for it. He so badly wanted to provide his Wife with something nice in her life for a change, instead of the struggles and deprivation that had attended so much of her life, even before he had met her. Her childhood traumas had been something he was able to help her with emotionally, but her need for social respectability and quiet security matched his own, suffering as they both were from a lack of self-esteem, and the temptation of the overdraft beckoning was too much to bear.

Finally, he filled in the forms giving the information he thought they would like rather than the whole truth. He said he owned his house outright when it was in fact, mortgaged to the hilt; he overvalued the property by 50%; he gave his occupation as ‘Manager’ instead of ‘Clerk’; he stated his income was four times greater than it was in reality.

Some weeks later, the bank telephoned him.

“Your application has been accepted,” said the Manager, sounding like a benevolent Father Christmas.

“Thank you,” he said, stammering and hesitant, trying to take on the implications of a new beginning. There was a moment of euphoria, a feeling of sudden success after such gloom.

The first few months were an uplifting time, a time to suddenly enjoy the fruits of life, new clothes, a car, a holiday. His Wife was smiling again, she knew little about the reason for the change in their fortunes, accepting his explanation of a promotion and increase in earning power, which had prompted the bank to extend the gold hand of substantial credit towards him.

“We’re becoming rich!” she said, her eyes sparkling and happy.

These were good days.

At first, it had all gone well, so well in fact that further banks contacted him and offered him similar facilities as a response to their competitor’s success. Within a few months, he had built up a considerable overdraft facility. He found he had a real talent for convincing bank managers and institutions to accept his applications readily, he somehow knew what these institutions wanted to hear, wanted to see. Even at personal interviews, when they proved necessary, he charmed the gullible managers without any difficulty whatsoever, and to him, the lies were white rather than black. After all, he was paying the money back, wasn’t he?

Soon, it had all gone so well that they were able to buy a new house, the house of his Wife’s dreams, with a beautiful garden, a six-bedroom Georgian house in the best part of Town. Life gained a cosy domesticity and peacefulness they had never previously known.

“I’ve never been happier,” she said wistfully one day, looking at him in admiration, the architect of their fortunes. There seemed so much money available that he felt able to give up his employment, the very thought of performing such a menial task seemed now to be beneath him in any case; they felt akin to the rich and successful. Their immediate neighbour was a famous Cabinet Minister, the other residents of this exclusive address were eminent professional people, retired Lords and Ladies, up and coming nouveau riche. Days were spent on shopping expeditions buying goods that they mostly did not need and usually never used. At nights, he would stroll to the Village pub to dream a while away, making impossible plans, while at home, his Wife happily fussed around the house she was so proud of.

These were the rainbow days, but they were an illusion, for the house was built on cards, not bricks.

5

“Let’s pull him in,” said the Chief, moving decisively away from the video screen and the figure flitting through the dark streets depicted there.

Susan was startled.

“But I thought you said that we didn’t want to let them know that we were on to them?”

The Chief smiled at her warmly. It was true that he had opposed Susan’s early requests to move against the system. He realised that it must seem to Susan as if he was almost opposing everything she said for the sake of it.

“I still don’t want to alert them Susan, and I didn’t disagree with your ideas at all. It’s just that we have to let events keep pace with us, not the other way round. What we’ll do is keep it low key, pull this little cretin in quietly, as if it was merely routine. Lowlifes like him expect to be pulled, and it will come as no surprise to his paymasters either”. He smiled at her again, hoping to reassure her insecurities, and was rewarded with the warm look he saw in her eyes.

Susan nodded towards McKay who muttered into his mobile phone. As they watched like quiet voyeurs as the figure of the petty thief almost laughably stood in the queue for the ATM machine, every few seconds or so looking over his shoulder anxiously, telegraphing the fact that he was up to no good.

Only a few moments later, as the man hastily withdrew the money from the machine, a look of panic crossed his pallid features as a police car swung into view and blocked off his exit path. The man tried to run up an alleyway nearby, but as he did so, a policeman exited there right in front of him. They had thought of that too. The man was unceremoniously bundled into the white panda by the business-like officers.

Susan and the Chief hurried away from the video nasty to liaise with the police car at Theobolds Road police station in Holborn. Almost like children whose game has gone well, they laughed and joked, playfully pushing and shoving each other as they made their way into the lift to the ground floor.

The man was waiting in the interview room, his face frightened but surly. He had seen the inside of a room like this many times. They already knew that his name was James West, a name that made them smile, for ‘Jim’ was easily translated into ‘Jimbo’, the police slang word for every little petty thief on the street.

Susan was first to speak.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

She smiled, but her eyes looked at Jimbo as if he was stuck to the bottom of her shoe. He stared back at her insolently, his bravado fooling no one but himself.

“What have you got to say for yourself son?” she said patronisingly.

Jimbo stared at her under hooded lids, saying nothing, his face filled with tension. He knew he was in for it, but he was no ‘grass’.

Susan looked sideways at the Chief. He shook his head ever so slightly. Susan nodded just as subtly, and they both left the room saying nothing more.

Outside, they compared notes.

“We won’t get anything out of him” said the Chief in a matter-of-fact voice.

“I know,” said Susan, “I didn’t expect to. What I’m really interested in is what he had on him”.

“That’s right,” said the Chief. They were both on the same wavelength. Together they made for the custody Sergeant’s desk.

“Hello Bill” said Susan, smiling at the Sergeant. He looked up, and his scowling face broke into a boyish grin.

“Hello Darlin’!” he said, his voice too loud, “How’s you?”

“Fine Bill” said Susan, her face a study of method acting, “Jim West – did he have anything interesting on him?”

The desk Sergeant turned to a pile of objects at the side of his desk and handed them to Susan.

“Just some credit cards, a little bit of cash, some dope, and a mobile phone” he said, disinterested. It was all routine stuff.

Susan’s eyes gleamed as she glanced through the cards. She took the phone and handed the small package of dope back to the Sergeant.

“OK if we sign for these Bill?” she said, waving the phone and the credit cards in her left hand.

“Sure, no problem” said the Sergeant, reaching for the forms of release.

Moments later, they were back in the car, heading for the office again. Despite the non-interview with Jimbo, they were not disappointed. The cards were a precious lead, and the phone might yield something too.

“We can read the transcripts of Jimbo’s interrogation later,” said the Chief distractedly to no one in particular. He knew that Susan was of the same mind in any case.

“Yes,” said Susan, her mind also far away. She suddenly realised that she was tired, they both were, it had been a long day. She looked at the Chief fondly.

“Shall we call it a wrap for today?” she said with a feeble smile.

The Chief reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Yes, why not?” he said wearily, “We can put a trace on the stuff before we leave, and tomorrow we should learn something more”.

Susan smiled at him, warmly this time.

“Shall we have a swift visit to the pub?” she said.

“Good idea” said the Chief, feeling some of the tension coming out on him now.

It had indeed been a long day, and they were only beginning at the beginning.

6

It was raining, and it was time to leave the house. So many of their dreams had been trampled into the dust in this place, yet they were heartbroken to be leaving, his Wife was especially shattered.

“It wasn’t real,” she said sadly, tears streaming down her face.

She had known only insecurity all her life, and it added to his own sense of anguish that he had only contributed further to her despair.

Bereft of furniture, the rooms stood silent, already a ghost of a place, the central heating closed down till the winter that would follow winter, the garden left to grow uncared for till the summer that followed summer.

It was still pouring when they arrived at their new abode, a rather scruffy terraced house in a poor part of Town, a far cry from the heights they had once risen to. Step by step the furniture arrived, miles too much of it for this much smaller house, the already threadbare carpets trampled with mud as the weather outside grew worse, seeming almost a comment on the condition they now found themselves in. As the last piece of furniture entered the house, the lights failed, plunging their new World into unexpected darkness, this final small event feeling almost too much to bear.

Later that night, in the drab brown-coloured bedroom, they lay emotionally exhausted in each other’s arms, sharing tears for their lost dreams.

7

The trail seemed to lead initially nowhere. The names on the cards were of people who didn’t seem to exist, their addresses bogus, their details false. Susan and the Chief were unfazed. They had expected no less, and it did, nevertheless, give them confirmation of how the system was being set up, through dummy accounts and addresses. As for Jimbo’s mobile phone, it was a stolen one, naturally, and most of the numbers called from it were equally dubious but untraceable.

The really interesting moment came when the phone suddenly rang. The Chief was surprised, but it didn’t stop him reacting. Raising his eyebrows conspiratorially, he looked at Susan with her mouth hanging open, picked up the phone and pressed a digit.

“Yeah?” he grunted, rather than spoke the word.

“Leo” said the voice on the other end, just as obscured and gruff.

“What’s the score?” the voice asked with anger and irritation.

“You tell me,” said the Chief, not knowing what else to say. There was a sudden click as the phone went dead. The Chief flicked through the buttons on the phone, tracing the number. Unsurprisingly, no number had been transmitted. Susan was already calling the line provider to trace the call.

“Leo?” she said, her face perplexed, “Is it Leo calling, or is that Jimbo’s codename?”

“My guess is that Leo was calling, though that might not even be his name, as you say,” said the Chief thoughtfully.

“What a shame we couldn’t record it, and play it over the loudspeakers,” said Susan wistfully, regretting the difficulty of recording from a mobile phone.

The Chief nodded.

“There was something though” he said, “Another voice in the background, a deeper, darker voice”.

“What was it saying?” said Susan, lighting up, interested.

The Chief looked puzzled.

“The background was noisy, an office or something. It was difficult to hear clearly. It was something like ‘pot meal’ or ‘hot wheel’ – it doesn’t seem to make sense to me at the moment”.

Susan looked hard at him.

“Could it be ‘hotmail’?” she said.

“It could be – but that still doesn’t mean anything to me,” said the Chief, looking at Susan for inspiration.

“Hotmail is a site on the Internet that people can use to send e-mail. More to the point, people can use codenames or aliases through hotmail,” she said.

The Chief perked up immediately.

“Now that is interesting!” he said, enthusiastically.

“I’ll get straight on to it!” said Susan, as their eyes met and held each other for a few seconds before she looked away.

8

The break up had been swift and ruthless. The Official Receiver had moved against their bank accounts and properties and already he had spent more time at the bleak offices in Atlantic House, Holborn than he could have thought possible. It was such a shabby business, bankruptcy. The bank managers who had been so cavalier in lending him the money lost their smile very quickly when they realised he would have trouble paying them back.

“We demand that you pay us immediately!” said the indignant voice on the phone, the tone threatening and outraged. It was only one of many such calls. They became afraid to answer the phone, or open the mail, but the callers at the door were the worst. To his undying shame, he almost retreated into his shell, leaving his Wife to face the wrath of the debt collectors.

“Is he in?” the aggressive voice demanded, as he hid in the bathroom upstairs.

“No” said his Wife in a quiet tearful little voice.

“He’s really dropped you in it, hasn’t he?” said the man, feeling unusual sympathy for the defenceless woman facing him, but harassing her nevertheless.

“You tell him we’ll be back,” he said in a menacing voice.

“Yes.”

The quavering voice of his Wife stirred his shame and remorse for the situation he had placed her in. Once again, he had let her down.

His troubles had all begun when one of the banks realised that his exposure was much greater than they thought, a link was made - an illegal link ironically, for customer confidentiality is supposed to be absolute. In reality, banks talk freely to each other, and once the penny dropped in one, the rest knew within days. Although he was technically solvent on paper, most of his apparent wealth was in property. It was a simple matter for the banks and the Official Receiver to down-value the property and make him technically bankrupt as a form of punishment for being too clever and too devious into the bargain. Banks never like to see their own flaws exposed, and their vengeance is total.

At first, he was shattered and repentant, feeling that he had indeed acted badly, and that he should do all he could to rectify the position.

Week after week, month after month, he worked with the administrators of his estate to clear up the mess. But his attitude changed one day in the Courts of Justice.

He was waiting to be called to the dock for his public examination, when he saw a man arrive in handcuffs, obviously brought to the court against his will. The Judge frowned at the man sternly. It seemed as if he would have the book thrown at him.

“You are John Alfred Simpson, are you not?” said the Judge, in imperious tones.

The man managed to look reasonably humble and contrite.

“Yes, your honour,” he said, head bowed.

The Judge frowned again.

“Simpson, despite many communications and orders from this court, you have failed to appear in the matter of your bankruptcy – is that correct?”

The man looked humble all over again.

“Yes, your honour.”

The Judge leaned forward in his seat.

“Are you now prepared to co-operate fully with this enquiry?”

“Yes, your honour,” the man repeated, sounding very much like a broken record.

It seemed that Simpson was in deep trouble, but to the astonishment of the other man, the Judge smiled.

“Very well” he said, leaning back in his seat, his expression one of relief.

The other man was flabbergasted and deflated. Despite his full co-operation and willingness to do all that was asked and more, he had been treated with contempt and tongue-lashed at every opportunity. Yet here was Simpson, who had flaunted the orders of the court at every turn, and yet was now being treated with kindness and consideration. He suddenly felt like a fool, and he realised that he had not been any the better off by helping his tormentors.

It was a terrible moment of revelation. He knew then that he had been wrong to subject his Family to this agony without even putting up a fight. These officials were people of stone, indifferent to the human dramas being played out, everyone was the same, nothing he could do would make any difference to them. Thus began his true education.

His first step was to divert attention from his true address. It wouldn’t save the house, but it would buy time and save many precious artefacts. From then on, in all official correspondence and dealings, he put forward a ‘dummy’ address, one of the properties he still had access to. In this house he placed a few cheap articles of furniture, so that when the official from the bankruptcy offices came to run an inventory, there was nothing of note to see. The real assets lay at his own home address.

Among these assets he still had some bankcards and accounts which hadn’t been seized or noticed by the Official Receiver. He drew all the cash from these accounts and opened another from a completely safe address, unconnected in any way to his past. There wasn’t a great deal of money there, but it was enough for a basis of a new beginning. He began to make plans to buy another house using the little cash he had along with a mortgage in a false name, which also coincided with a relative of his Wife’s, so that if the worst came to the worst, the ambiguity would save him.

Supplying false income details, he acquired the mortgage, and deliberately targeted an empty house, for time was of the essence.

Within a few months, the sale and purchase were complete, and though their grief seemed inconsolable, they at least had a roof over their head. Better still, by signing as unemployed, he was able to draw weekly benefit to cover very basic expenses. Then, giving the name on the mortgage as his landlord, he applied for housing benefit which exceeded the amount he actually paid in mortgage by quite a considerable sum, thereby guaranteeing himself a reasonable income while he decided what to do next.

Although he had taken steps that were decidedly illegal, he did not at this stage harbour thoughts of a life of crime. He knew he would be forever tainted by the events that had befallen his Family, he still harboured illusions about society and forgiveness and acceptance. He hoped that somehow he would be able to turn things around, find some kind of place, some form of endorsement, a raison d’être, a way back into society. It would be some time yet before this last illusion was well and truly shattered.

9

The proprietors of Hotmail had no illusions about their customers. Though most of them were bona fide, genuine people who merely wanted to protect their ultimate identities from the hazards of the Internet, some were sleazy, and even sinister, the alias provided by Hotmail designed to hide to their abuse of the facilities readily available.

The forms these abuses took were many. Some customers sought to obscure the fact that they subscribed to the vast array of hardcore pornography. Some used the opportunity to abuse others by e-mail; others were tax-avoidance punters, whose activities were none the less easily monitored by the Inland Revenue, as they would find out at a later date. The list went on and on. Abuse was common. Thus, Hotmail was not surprised when Susan contacted them about Leo.

“Let’s see,” said the bespectacled specialist as Susan looked over his shoulder at the computer screen. He typed in [email protected] to his ‘search customer’ base. The screen leapt into life with myriad messages and information – Leo was live! Susan glanced at the top lines on the screen.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Message: ’The sun has risen in the east’; and the next message below -

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Message: ’the sun has set in the west’.

“So there we are,” said the operator, satisfied.

Susan patronisingly patted him on the shoulder.

“Well done,” she said, “Now can you trace back where Leo came from in the first place?”

The operator nodded thoughtfully.

“Sure, no problem,” he said, turning to his desk again. Moments later, there it was, Leo’s home base, www.parker.maiden.co.uk.

Susan smiled triumphantly.

“Can you give me a print-out on all that?” she said briskly.

“Can do,” said the operator, efficiently setting up the printout. In a few moments, he handed Susan a bundle of papers.

“Terrific!” she said, “Thanks a million”.

“Any time,” said the operator, deftly sweeping her legs into his glance as she walked away.

“Not a bad looker,” he muttered, wishing her skirt was shorter.

Susan’s mind was already out of the place, her voice on the phone to Maiden Internet.

“Maiden Internet. Lorraine speaking, how can I help?” the pleasant voice purred.

Susan was formal but friendly, giving her security code before requesting Leo’s details.

“Hold on please,” said Lorraine, suddenly motivated and serious. A few minutes later, she was back, rhyming off the facts and figures to Susan, who grinned with delight. It was almost too easy, she thought as she dialled through to the Chief.

“Hello Susan,” he said, recognising her signal.

“Chief, no joy on the phone trace, but all the same, I’ve got Leo,” said Susan excitedly, “The Hotmail trail led to Amco trust Ltd, money lenders of dubious reputation”.

“I know Amco,” said the Chief, “That’s Fred Parker’s place”.

Susan butted in.

“Parker? Yes, that fits; the e-mail address has ‘parker’ in it”.

“We’re definitely on to something all right,” said the Chief, his enthusiasm obvious even over the intermittent radio signal of the mobile phone. Susan was going through a dead phone zone; the signal was breaking up more and more. She just had time to hear a few more words before the signal cut off.

“…ell…done……Sus…n…”

She almost blushed, pleased and embarrassed at the same time.

10

Perhaps if the situation had not deteriorated in the way it did, he would not have taken his subsequent path. Then again, he had proved that under certain circumstances his personality disorder would still assert itself, and lead him to a life of crime in any case, the easy way out, on the face of it at least. As things stood immediately following the bankruptcy, a period of calm came over their lives again, albeit cloaked in the gloom of their lost past.

Nevertheless, he was never to be the same again, and neither was his relationship with his Wife. She had lost that trust in him and his abilities, despite all his efforts and relative success in what was after all a remarkable recovery. It was all to no avail. His aura of invincibility had been broken as far as she was concerned, and though she still felt duty and love for him, she was also resentful and hurt, feeling betrayed by the failed promise of their Marriage and expectations. Correspondingly, though on the surface things seemed unchanged, she now kept at an emotional distance from him.

He was more difficult to live with too. He would spend every day scheming and worrying, a virtual machine, human feelings put to one side in the quest for an upward path once again. He saw that as the only way to find some kind of material salvation or justification for his existence. He failed to see that he was chasing away the most precious thing in his life - a loving relationship with his soul mate.

Perhaps if events had not conspired against them, they might have made it through these darkest of times, bloodied but intact. But the public examination of bankruptcy changed all that, for it revealed his acts of dishonesty over his original applications for credit, and his case was referred to the fraud squad.

“You are in jeopardy!” said the red-faced circuit judge to the man in the dock, as the Official Received and the trustees of his estate looked on disinterestedly. He walked from the court, feeling already condemned, sentenced, at the gallows of his life.

This was shattering news, but worse was to come. The next morning, almost at dawn, there was a commotion outside. As they awoke in fright, a tremendous crashing sound signalled that their door was flying off its hinges.

“Jack – you take the fucking stairs!” said a voice, loud and aggressive amid the grunting and cursing sounds from many others, a melee of chaos and confusion. Without ceremony, the bedroom door suddenly opened, and a Detective Sergeant wearing a white coat, almost like a parody of Maigret, entered the room. Brazenly, he gazed at the woman who was trying to hide her nakedness.

“Police,” he said, stating the obvious. “Get dressed – now!”

Almost reluctantly, he left the room, but they heard his voice, deliberately loud, speaking to his subordinates.

“Tim – watch out for those back windows.”

Shivering with fear, they dressed, their minds racing.

Moments later, the questioning began. As his Wife sat quietly crying to herself, the Detective-Sergeant, whose name was Hammond, interrogated him endlessly about matters that he had thought were part of the ugly past. Now, in the shape of this human bulldog, they were well and truly resurrected and barking their head off at him. With all the paperwork in their hands, it was an open and shut case, there was little he could say in response. Like many people, he had thought of fraud as real criminal activity, stealing from old people, robbing computer systems of thousands, Estate agents conning customers, solicitors robbing client accounts. For most people, exaggerating their income on a mortgage or loan application is not fraud, but the facts are that it is. Fraud is misrepresentation and pecuniary advantage by deception, not just the obvious and lurid examples seen every week in the News of the World.

Unfortunately, naivety is not an excuse for criminal behaviour, and he was charged to appear in Crown Court with all the attendant baggage that goes with it.

“I look around me, I see luxury,” said Hammond, his personal outrage building up his satisfaction in nailing this nasty crime to the floor. He looked at the woman, who was still quietly crying, her face contorted with misery and disbelief.

“You’ve made a mess, and you’ll just have to wipe your mouths,” said Hammond, the nearest he could get to showing sympathy.

They carted him off to the cells, where he spent a miserable few hours, not knowing that this was his future, this drab cold place of heartlessness and despair, a place where human warmth was a thing of memory.

Luckily for him, his brother-in-law was able to provide bail, and free him for the time being, at least until his trial. Till then, life once again took on a nightmare quality. Coming so soon after the awful events of just a few months ago, it began to seem to both of them that suicide was the only option. As the days went by however, they realised they were still somehow surviving, even if every day was a painful one, and they resolved to see it all through as best they could.

The signs from the solicitor were encouraging. He seemed to think that a custodial sentence was extremely unlikely, given all the circumstances in mitigation, which gave a light of hope, but somehow the big black cloud which had hovered over them for a year now was still there, tangible as ever.

The days were just dates on the calendar now; life had lost any resemblance to the world of pleasure and laughter, of security and well being.

How long could they exist like this?

11

It wasn’t long before they had Parker and Amco under surveillance. In no time at all, they established that a network of petty villains was operating under the auspices of Amco. Using mobile phones as their communications, and cryptic messages from ‘Leo’, a series of instructions was going out to these Jimbo’s on an almost hourly basis.

“It works like this,” said the Chief, as he and Susan sat facing the rest of the team, “From Susan’s investigations and what we could squeeze out of Jimbo, we can see a pattern. Parker’s cronies are given collection points for the cards, cheque books etc, the message is by mobile phone, the codename Leo is followed by ‘Go’. When the stuff is successfully gathered, the phone call is made in reverse using the same words. The next stage is getting the cash. Again, Parker expects to hear within the hour from the Jimbo that the cash has been collected. A phone call is made – ‘Leo, sorted’, confirming collection. Jimbo passes the cash onto yet another of his kind, and this time, the money is paid into a dodgy account to be siphoned off at leisure”.

“But how does Parker get the stuff in the first place?” asked McKay. The Chief turned to Susan.

“I traced the Internet messages involving Leo,” she said, “The other party is called ‘Aries’……….,” she paused, as a ripple of laughter went round the room.

Susan smiled.

“Yes, very 60’s, astrology and all that,” she said, anxious to get on with the facts, “The messages between Aries and Leo make it clear that Parker – alias Leo – is just a fall guy, ultimately. Parker is just a small time hoodlum with a merry band of men whose business is mainly loan-sharking, but they’re game for anything local that makes money”.

“At other people’s expense,” said McKay, who had run into Parker before in his travels.

“Of course,” said Susan wryly.

“Any leads on Aries?” said McKay, frowning.

“We cracked his alias the same way,” said Susan, “Through Hotmail, we’ve nailed him as Alexander Hall, of Forum House, Wirral Road, Liverpool. His phone line gave him away, and as we speak, Tony Simmonds and some of the team are down there, pulling him now”.

Right on cue, her phone rang, making the team laugh spontaneously.

“Hello Tony!” one of them shouted out.

“Is that you dear?” said another, taking the Mick out of Susan.

She tried not to laugh.

“Yes?” she said, knowing it was Tony, but not daring to say so, after all the Mickey-taking.

“No go, I’m afraid,” said Simmonds, sounding breathless, “The bird has flown the nest. The place is a run-down industrial estate, the target is a unit in there, and it’s been wiped out, clean, gone, nothing here at all but a mess of wires and a broken computer terminal”.

Tony sounded as disappointed as Susan. Nevertheless, she put a brave face on it.

“OK Tony, don’t worry, these things happen. Chummy is probably using a laptop by now. See if you can find out from the owners of the estate the who’s and why’s of it all”.

“Will do,” said Simmonds, signing off.

The team sat silently, the joking suddenly stopped. They didn’t like setbacks.

“What now?” said McKay, his face earnest.

“We carry on as planned,” said the Chief, breaking in confidently, dispersing the atmosphere of gloom, “We round up Parker and all the associates we can……”

“But Guv,” said McKay, interrupting the Chief in full flight, “It can’t possibly be just down to Parker and that tin-pot bunch, it surely goes much wider than that, for God’s sake!”

The Chief looked at the Scotsman patiently.

“I know that too, Dave,” he said patiently. “If you’d let me finish, what I was about to say, was that from there, we can piece together how this thing works on a grander scale. I’ll bet that Parker’s little operation is a sample version of what we can expect throughout the whole rotten apple”.

McKay groaned, clutching his hand to his face at his faux pas. He felt a little silly now, and the team responded with fits of laughter.

“You can’t win them all Dave,” said the Chief, his face full of mischief.

“OK Guv, banged to rights,” said McKay sheepishly, as the team broke into laughter again at his discomfort.

12

The morning began with an unaccustomed thunderous sound that seemed to shake the whole building. As his mind struggled to consciousness, the nightmare returned. He was a prisoner.

A single stark light bulb protruding from the grimy ceiling suddenly came to life, causing his companions in the cell to curse and mutter darkly about ‘screws’ with a few adjectives thrown in.

“Got some burn, mate?” growled one of his cellmates, a black man who hadn’t shaved in a long time, his fingernails black and ragged.

“No” he said, daring not to say “Sorry”. He instinctively knew that it would be suicide to show weakness in this place of jackals. He turned his head away to avoid seeing the third man squat over a pot to pass the piece of dope he had stashed there from a visit earlier that day.

Outside, in the corridors of this dismal place, he could hear a horde of feet trampling their way down the winding stairs to collect their breakfast, a football crowd noise of epic proportions echoing in the high ceiling of cell block C.

The noise suddenly magnified as the heavy steel door of the cell was thrown open and a voice full of authoritative menace barked “Slop out!” Stirring themselves, the three men pulled together their shabby clothes and seizing their buckets of disgusting excrement and urine, they headed along the landing towards the ‘slop-out’ sinks, wading through a virtual river of urine to get there. The smell was unbelievable, almost a physical thing in the air, and to the uninitiated such as himself, it lent a sense of disbelief to the unreality already being experienced. Wasn’t this Britain? Great Britain? This surely was the kind of conditions and treatment one expected in a tin-pot Republic, not a so-called civilised Country? And yet the proof was there before the eyes, nose, and ears.

“Fucking watch it!” One man’s voice leapt out from the general melee as slop from another man’s bucket inadvertently splashed on his legs. The two men glared at each other, but the menacing figure of a warder stood suddenly behind them, a massive truncheon in one hand. He stood there for a moment, hitting the truncheon against the palm of his other hand, daring the two men to go further.

“Get on with it!” he said, his voice a mixture of authority and disgust. Disgruntled, the two men looked away from each other, and concentrated once more on the job in hand.

As the wretched figures splashed their foul muck down the

overflowing sinks, a few brave souls attempted the use of the

barely useable toilets, where in almost full visibility, they strained and passed as best they could while hundreds of eyes fell upon them, some waiting impatiently for their own turn at this ugly treadmill.

Shuddering at such a sight, he decided to forego the pleasure and call of nature for now at least.

“You there! Move on – move on, you fucking idiot!”

Dimly, he realised that the officer with the wild eyes was glaring at him. Shivering inwardly with horror, he quickly lowered his eyes, and emptied his disgusting mess on top of the other muck in the sink.

The ghastly ritual of slop-out over, he headed back to the cell, where he and his unsolicited companions collected their battered blue plastic plates and utensils which were hand-me-downs from previous occupants, scarred with the remnants of yesterday’s battles.

Down and down the repeated series of metal staircases they went, enduring the curses and insults from the Prison Officers who stood like Gestapo as they passed. Finally, they reached the weary wooden tables that held their first meal of the day, a greasy slice of bacon with a sickly egg thrown in disarray upon a rock-hard slice of fried bread. Somehow, even the colours of the food were wrong, as if nothing in this place had anything to do with nature.

“Give us that, you thieving bastard!” A fight had started at the queue, as the pale-faced young man made grab at the plate of the man next to him, who had presumably stolen his breakfast.

“You slag!” he roared, thumping the other man, who went down on the floor, the food splashing all over the other men nearby. A whistle sounded, and a thunderous herd of prison officers charged into the passageway, knocking down all who stood in their path. With fierce faces and hateful eyes, they bore down quickly upon the pale-faced man, kicking him to the floor, stamping on him, wildly cursing and shouting, as if in some tribal ritual.

Meanwhile, other officers herded the rest of the men back to their cells. Only the lucky ones were able to retrieve some breakfast before being rounded up. He wasn’t one of them, but he had no appetite for the grim-looking food in any case.

Back in the cell, the clamour outside gradually died down, punctuated by a series of loud bangs as the doors were forcibly thrown shut, giving meaning to the term ‘Banged up’.

Trying to ignore the chomping and slurping animal sounds from his cellmates, his bewildered mind tried to retrace the steps of yesterday, a day to live in his personal infamy, sent to jail.

Southwark is a cold and ugly place at the best of times, he thought. A place where everything seems old and grey, dog shit lines the streets, people in shabby clothes with weary faces patrol the avenues languidly, as if there is no purpose to anything anymore.

There, in that unwelcoming part of the City, they have built a modern Courthouse to disguise their medieval ways, and by the circumstances and motivations which guided and misled him, he found himself there of all places, he who wished to find respectability above all else.

“Five years” the Judge had said, his icy eyes betraying no hint of humanity or warmth as he delivered the words of darkness to the silent and subdued figure in the dock. Stunned, they had led him away down to the cells, his brain spinning, his thoughts of his Wife and children, their pain, their terror at this outcome.

Right up until this day, his solicitor had constantly reassured him that a custodial sentence was out of the question.

“You will not lose your liberty” were the solicitor’s last words to him, but somehow he still had gone there in terror, for his own instincts were telling him something different, that the world was going to be changed for him forever from this day.

He had hoped it was paranoia, nothing else, but his instincts had not been deceiving him, here he was, on his way to prison for five years.

All that day he had spent in Southwark, till finally he was taken with the rest of the days catch, and put on a bus for Brixton, that famous dark citadel of iniquity. In the bus were a motley crew, with a large contingent of the black population. Some of them who were obviously experienced in these matters covered up their sorrows with a mixture of curses and bravado.

“Lifed off!” yelled a colourful Rasta man, grinning madly as if it was a badge of honour instead of a death sentence.

“Result!” shouted another, obviously relieved that his sentence was not more than he expected.

Among these vociferous few were dotted a cross-section of humanity, the old, the young, the middle-aged, of all creeds and classes, handcuffed to the rails of the bus in random selection, stuck with each other.

As the bus passed through the Elephant and Castle, it seemed incongruous to see people strolling along the bright lights of the shopping mall, browsing for their Christmas presents with only a few weeks left. To him, it seemed like sights and sounds from another world, a world that was now firmly closed to him.

Tears filled his eyes as he thought of his Wife waiting alone at home. By now she must know his fate, and she must feel more alone now than she had ever felt before. Her past had been unhappy, and he had always set out to chase her unhappiness away, but the strong desire to do that had in fact ended with him presenting her with yet more unhappiness.

Now, as he once more took in his new surroundings, a wrenching fist of despair gripped his heart as he realised that all this had set in motion events that time could never reverse.

13

“So this is Alexander Hall,” said Susan, fascinated, as she studied a passport photograph.

“Hardly,” said the Chief, his expression cynical, “This passport is out of the ‘Day of the Jackals’ manual for a start,” he said, deflating her somewhat. Even without checking the facts, he was right, she decided, disgusted with own naivety.

“True,” she said, looking at the face with new eyes. It showed a rather full-faced man who looked like a foreigner, someone with ethnic origins, a white East European perhaps. But who was ‘Alexander Hall’?

Simmonds had uncovered links to a UK bank, and from there, the trail vanished via the bank account and fake passport into an offshore conundrum, companies and trusts and obscure banks which would take ages, if ever, to unravel. It was a dead end, temporary or otherwise.

Similarly, though Parker alias Leo, had been successfully apprehended, his operations closed down, Parker could tell them little more than they already knew. Parker knew he was in deep, and would have happily spilled any beans he could, but his only real substantive contact was with Aries, alias Alexander Hall.

The Chief and Susan sat at the same desk, just staring wearily in silence at each other.

“Where do we go from here?” Susan asked finally, breaking the long silence, “It’s all going in a circle leading right back to where we started,” she said, slumping into her chair.

The Chief smiled, and placed his hand on top of hers comfortingly.

“Don’t be disheartened,” he said, “We must expect these obstacles, you should know that. Remember the Markham investigation?”

Susan brightened.

“We thought we’d never see an end to that one,” she said, smiling nostalgically at the memory of the case involving large sums of money and a missing MP.

“We turned him up in the end though, didn’t we?” said the Chief, gently easing her momentary lapse into depression away.

“Yes we did,” she said, sitting up again, her tension easing away.

“You see,” he said, in a positive, fatherly voice, “The circle might seem closed for now, but all we have to do to widen the circle, widen the search, and we’ll eventually find what we’re looking for”.

Susan looked at him with admiration.

“I’m lucky to have you around” she said, reaching forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek.

The Chief said nothing, though he noticed she had tears in her eyes as she left the room.

14

He was one year into his sentence when he received the letter he had dreaded.

“This is a difficult letter to write”, the words said, “but I have to tell you that our Marriage is ended. I have met someone else, so please do not try and contact the children or I, for we are trying to begin a new life away from all this trouble. I know despite the way things have turned out, you did your utmost for us, and I know you will not be happy with this news, but in time, you will realise that it is the best for all of us. I am sorry to break this news to you in such difficult circumstances, but I’m sure you understand that were was no easy way. Do take care of yourself. In time, you will begin life again, and you must do so positively, if you can……”

He couldn’t read anymore, his eyes were full of tears, a knot in his stomach, his throat dry. He could hardly believe the awfulness of the news. His Wife had met someone else! Someone who could offer her the security and laughter that she had never felt sure of with him, she was beginning a new life. Not only was their Marriage over, she asked him to not contact her again, as she was moving away, for the sake of the children too, she argued, they must be protected from what had happened to their Father, it must not blight their life!

Shattered inside, suicidal thoughts filled his mind. He looked again at the bottom of the page.

“Goodbye” was all it said. Almost reluctantly, he looked again at the details in the letter, his mind numb, a sense of unreality dulling his pain.

His Wife had not visited nor written to him for two months, despite his agonising letters. Now she was confessing that she had never read those letters, for she already knew where her future lay, and it was no longer to be with him, she had already begun divorce proceedings.

Though his instincts had warned him this was possible, it was still a shattering blow.

For the first few weeks he drifted aimlessly, numb with shock and disbelief, waking each morning with this new horror to face, and in the situation he was, unable to discuss it with anyone nor find any way of erasing the pain, even temporarily.

They had been through so much together, now he was never to see her again. Worse still, she now loved someone else, a shadowy figure he knew nothing of. His sense of identity had been so wrapped up in her and their children that with prison as an environment as well, he now felt that he had no identity at all, that he didn’t really exist as a person. He prayed each night to not wake up the next morning.

And yet, the pain wouldn’t go away. Each day would begin with the thunderous noise and the clinging smell of urine and worse, though he had become as accustomed to that as anyone can after a while. But to wake each day and remind himself that his Wife and Family were lost to him brought him emotionally to his knees, thoughts of suicide were a daily part of the diet.

Yet, by the very nature of this place he found himself in, he could show none of this, for any sign of weakness in those grim places is the first step to being a victim of the parasites and vermin who are vigilantly seeking such signs. Like true jackals, they prefer a soft target, an easy prey whose bones they can lick clean.

Knowing this only too well, he kept himself to himself. Luckily enough, he now was totally alone in this tiny space, and he walked around and around, normal on the outside, but crippled and deformed inside, the pain and rejection and loneliness driving him almost insane. It was so difficult to absorb. The woman he had loved for so long, the love of his life, she was gone forever. If she had died that would have been bad enough, but no, she was alive and living with someone else, another man was bringing up his children, it was as if he was the one who was dead, who had no place in this World.

For another three years, the pain still crushed him, it always would when he thought of her, for the rest of his life she would haunt him, not just her, the woman herself, but all she represented, their home, their children, their family life. But now, in tandem with this pain, there was a new obsession, almost rising as a defence mechanism in response to the need to find a purpose to live, an excuse to carry on.

His thoughts began to turn to bitterness against the forces that had sent him here, notwithstanding his own part in his downfall. All around him he could see injustice, and for the first time in his life, he understood that the establishment is about protection and appearance and expediency, never justice, just law, randomly distributed.

This callous disregard for humanity fired in him a determination to rock the boat, to seek revenge, as well as demanding what seemed to him now was his rightful place at the table. He excused his new level of immorality by saying to himself that he owed nothing to society, and he had nothing to lose by opposing it.

Whatever frauds he had committed, they had been committed at first in innocence, then later in desperation, they were not calculating nor were they criminally motivated. His reward for full co-operation with the authorities had been 5 years of his life taken away, where others, luckier and more evil than he had received practically nothing at all. The blatant unfairness of it all was too much for his already despairing mind, and it tipped him over the edge.

He could have gone all the way, but for an incident in the exercise yard one day. For some reason unknown to him, he had made an enemy. Black Jock was gunning for him, every time they ran into each other on the landing, Black Jock would have a go at him, threatening dire consequences if he didn’t hand over his ‘burn’ – prison slang for tobacco – immediately. Black Jock, a huge intimidating, loud individual, did this with all likely targets on the landing. Being a classic bully, he picked on those whom he decided were weak, or frightened people.

“Right, you little shit. Are you ready to cough up?” he said menacingly, his broad Glaswegian accent an ugly scar on the English language.

He knew that Black Jock had picked on him because he was quiet and unassuming, but Black Jock was about to find out he had made a mistake. Quietness does not always equal timidity.

“Piss off, you ugly bastard!” he said, his voice full of venom, “ or I’ll shove those rotten teeth of yours down your throat and out your arsehole!” That said, knowing the eyes of the warders were looking elsewhere, he smashed Black Jock in the face, knocking him back against the rail of the landing.

Black Jock was hurt more by the shock than the punch, and dazed, he slouched away, a glare of hatred in his eyes. But Jock was not one to take up a challenge. Like all bullies, he preferred an easy target. Nevertheless, he made up his mind to get revenge, for the landing was alight with the story of Black Jock’s rebuff, and his male pride and credibility had been badly stung.

It happened in the yard. Circle after circle, the squalid crowds turned, then there was a sudden commotion. Black Jock and one of his sycophants leapt forward towards him, razored brushes in hand, ready to slash his face.

“You’re for it, you Nonse!” Black Jock shouted in triumph.

Suddenly, a stranger, an older man, jumped between the two attackers before they could reach their target.

“No you don’t!” he said, his voice of a man of action. Grabbing the heads of both men at once, the grey-haired man banged their heads together so hard that there was an audible crack, which echoed like the shot of a gun round the yard.

As the two men fell unconscious to the ground, the warders, late as ever when there was real action, strolled over gently, took the two men away, and another two of their number quietly took the grey-haired man by the arms, and led him inside. The whole thing was softly-softly, so as to not disturb the uneasy equilibrium of the tense crowd in the yard. One wrong move could end in riot and disaster, and no one knew that better than the warders, who had seen it happen often enough.

As the grey-haired man was being led away, the man he had saved looked at him, almost in wonder. A stranger had saved him at his own expense. Who was this man? As they led him off to the block, the two men looked each other in the eye.

An unspoken bond was created that day. Now he may have made only one friend in this friendless place, but his new-found friendship was the kind that everyone cherishes, a once in a lifetime meeting of chance. Over the coming months, they quietly got to know one another, being careful not to advertise the fact, for both men were cautious and private by nature.

Luckily enough, there was an empty bunk in his cell, and he prevailed upon the grey-haired man to request a move there, using the other man in the cell as a diversionary excuse to avoid connecting each other. Although there was still a third man in the cell, the man slept most of the day, and they could talk, albeit in whispered tones.

The older man listened sadly as he heard of his new friend’s heartaches, especially the recent loss of his Wife, his soul mate.

As, in turn, the other man learned about his grey-haired friend’s terrible journey, he realised that here was a person whose troubles and heartache easily exceeded his own. Feeling guilty, his own series of complaints seemed trivial next to his friend’s. All his life, he had confided so little to anyone, but this man was different. In the trenches of despair, they had forged a friendship and a bond for life.

Now, they began to share their pain, their thoughts of what kind of future could possibly await them when they finally left these halls of anguish. The younger man’s bitterness and hatred of society began to manifest itself in words, for now that he had someone who was interested in what he thought and felt, someone who listened to what he said with sympathy and understanding.

One dark night in the cell, in one of those rare moments of sharing, yet again, his friend sat in silence as the other man’s pain forced itself into the familiar words of anger.

“So they thought what I did was fraud, did they? I’ll show them what fraud really is!” he said over and over out loud, seething inside as the ghostly lights out in the prison yard shone through the bars of his cell, and the lonely howls and cries from the wounded prisoners echoed throughout the long night.

He knew he had one ally he could count on, and with his friend’s help, he began to make his plans with a vengeance.

15

In their efforts to widen the circle, the Chief and his team were comparing notes.

“As I see it,” said the Chief, “We have two alternative ways of monitoring the fraud. Both of them rely on Susan, who is the real computer and ATM expert. Using her knowledge of banking systems, and tying it into unusual activity, we should be able to spot pockets of withdrawals, and from there physically follow where and how the money is dispersed, more or less typical fraud spadework”.

Walker snorted aloud.

“Bloody big spadework!” he remarked, in some indignation.

McKay glared at him.

“OK, there’s a lot to cover,” said the Chief, “But we can do it, and we will do it – if anybody here wants out, they only have to say so. If you think the job’s too big for you, then get out now, before you get in the way of those who want to do it”.

He looked round the room, his eyes deliberately not fastening on Walker till last. Walker sat there sullenly, looking at his feet, saying nothing.

After a few moments of silence, McKay spoke.

“We’re with you all right, Guv,” he said quietly, still glaring fiercely at Walker. He would have words with him later, he thought.

The Chief eased off, his voice calm again.

“Good,” he said, finality in his voice, “As I was saying, the first element in our work is good old-fashioned surveillance, based on the information that Susan can supply about dubious accounts and activity. The second is the Internet link itself, and I’ll let Susan tell you about that”.

The Chief sat down, nodding respectfully to Susan, who was dressed in a prim and very official-looking blue suit. The Chief noted with pleasure the flash of white petticoat and beautiful thighs as Susan uncrossed her legs next to him.

“As you know,” she said, “The real link between Parker and Hall was e-mail on the Internet. We have a full list of all the communications between them. Given that they used the names Leo and Aries, I thought it might be reasonable to see if there were any other star signs similarly in use. I didn’t really expect to find a great deal, for I thought that the people we were dealing with here were perhaps too sophisticated to repeat the same operation every time, but I was wrong. I found every star sign in use, and they were all linked to Aries, alias Alexander Hall”.

Susan paused to take a sip of water.

“For instance, there’s one here,” she said, holding up a piece of paper before reading from it aloud –

“From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Message: ’you take the high road’ – I’ll let you guess what the reply was from Libra,” said Susan, smiling as the team chorused at her in unison. As soon as the laughter died down, she became serious again.

“The point is, these messages tally with the kind of traffic we saw between Aries and Leo. They also match up with the other star signs identified – a definite and very clear pattern, wouldn’t you say?” Susan looked quizzically at the team.

“That’s his first real big mistake,” muttered McKay out loud.

Susan smiled at him, then continued.

“Yes, I was pleased to be wrong on this occasion Dave. By the way, Alexander Hall is still current, still linking messages with Taurus, Sagittarius, Scorpio, Pisces, and the rest of the gang. He operates now from offshore, but we still think we can put a trace on him eventually. We’re trying anyway, it just takes longer, that’s all. The point is, we can watch the traffic this way too, as most of the e-mail should link to addresses we can centre in on as soon as they’re identified”.

Susan motioned to the Chief that she was finished. He gave her a friendly but business-like smile as she sat down, revealing more of her thighs than she would have liked, but pleasing him in the process.

“Thanks Susan,” he said appreciatively for more reason than one, “OK team, I’ll keep you briefed fully as we go on, but for now, you all have your tasks, you know what to do, Good luck”.

With that, the Chief folded his papers and sat down, as the team began to disperse and break into a babble of conversation. Susan was still sitting there, fussing with unnecessarily with her files. He noticed her discomfort.

“What is it Susan?” he asked, as the room emptied, leaving them alone.

She looked at him almost nervously.

“Look Chief,” she said, “Forgive me for bringing this up. I don’t know how to say it, but I’ve noticed you looking at me in a certain way, and it’s making me uncomfortable”.

He squirmed in his seat, surprised by her candour.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable. It’s just that you’re a very beautiful woman, and I don’t mean just your looks,” he said awkwardly and almost shy, though he still looked her straight in the eyes as he spoke.

She looked at the ground, blushing, but then she pulled herself together, and faced him, her features hard, her mouth tight and determined.

“I don’t need all this – you don’t need all this,” she said, as gently as she could in the circumstances. “You’re a happily married man, and we work together – two terribly wrong combinations in one package”.

“I don’t know about happily-married,” he said wearily, “But I take your point, you don’t need the hassle. I didn’t mean it that way, it’s just that I appreciate you, and all that you are”.

Susan smiled sadly at him, her eyes haunted.

“I just want to get on with my job,” she said, gripping her hands together so tightly that the knuckles were showing white.

“I understand – point taken,” said the Chief, resignation in his voice, “Don’t let it upset you, we can still work together, I won’t sexually harass you anymore”.

Susan could see how embarrassed he was. She wrung her hands again, torn between silence and truth.

“I’ve only just got over a difficult relationship,” she explained, biting her lip at the confession, “I’ve only just managed to close the door on it”.

He placed one finger gently on her lips.

“Enough said,” he almost whispered to her. He picked up his papers and walked from the room.

As he headed for his car, he thought of Susan, sitting there alone in that room, thinking God knows what of him. Then he thought of Jane, waiting at home alone too, as she had been so many times in their life together. What on earth was he thinking of? Was lusting after another woman the answer to his discontent? Was it Jane’s fault he was unfulfilled? Of course not!

He decided he must behave himself in future, fantasy or not, it was dangerous stuff. Nevertheless, as his car roared off impatiently into the night, a thought sprang involuntarily into his mind.

‘As one door closes, another opens’.

It was indeed a cold night. He shivered, and drove to Jane and the warm comforts of home as fast as he could.

16

The weather was turning warmer now, not clement as such, but the storms of the winter months were largely over. As the bus turned off from the desolate road into Ford open prison, he wearily assessed his new home. As expected, the reception area, the public face of the prison system was the best part to be seen, a reasonably modern brick building with impeccably clean and tidy rooms, neat tables, and comfortable chairs, the public face.

Inside the perimeter however, it was a different story. The bleak huts and drab buildings even in themselves belied the ghastly interior where cracked and weary walls housed the dust-filled beds which had seen so many, so very many occupants, couched so many woes in their dusty faded green garments.

The stained toilets and tired baths streaked with black where the porcelain had long gone stood in silent mockery to public perceptions of cleanliness and order, all was appearance to the public, the visitors, for the inmates who had no name, no status, no humanity, it did not matter. The outer perception of TV’s in every room was belied by the solitary television set which stood high on the wall of a bleak concrete building where the phantom pictures and inaudible sound echoed ghostly through the deserted wooden chairs.

These were lessons he took in well. winter after winter and summer after summer he strode the lonely perimeter road during the light and the dark hours while the wind howled and moaned, and the cold Winter rain poured mercilessly upon him, the heat of the Sun burned his emancipated body, but still he did not feel either, nor did he care. His soul was dead, but his spirit was not broken, for he had a purpose.

Yet another winter and summer came, and still he slogged along these paths, keeping himself to himself, making no friends, but at the same time cultivating a few useful contacts for future reference.

It had been so long. His Family was almost a distant memory, a dream to him now, an impossible possibility. It was almost as if someone else had been married to his Wife, not him, not this creature of stone whose face was so implacably set against the World and himself. He had become an automaton, a person without feelings, a person without real hope, a danger to everyone including his own soul.

Yet another winter came, and as he stood one particular dark night on the perimeter road listening to the wind howling like a wild beast, and watching the warm glowing lights of the reception area in the distance, real life so near, yet so closed to him, he realised how far he had come from the person he once was. He had reached a new plateau, he saw that he was experiencing the meaning of ultimate loneliness. Finally, with yet another long and desperate summer behind him, one autumn he was free.

17

“There’s something bothering me,” said the Chief, frowning at Susan, who was preoccupied at her computer.

“Yes?” she said, her mind only half listening.

“It’s this business of star signs as codenames,” he said. The Chief was talking aloud to himself as much as anyone.

Susan stopped what she was doing, and swivelled around in her chair to face the Chief.

“What about the codenames?” she said, interested now.

“How many are there?” asked the Chief, his eyes still distant.

“What – codenames?” said Susan, sounding puzzled.

The Chief sprang into focus, sitting upright in his seat, no longer slouching.

“No, star signs. How many star signs are there?” he said, almost impatient with her.

“Twelve, I think”. Susan frowned and thought for a moment, “Yes, definitely twelve,”

The Chief shook his head decisively.

“That’s not enough,” he said, “Even what we’ve seen so far – a series of group frauds bound together by an overseeing body – must involve more than twelve criminal gangs. And don’t forget, we may only be seeing the tip of the iceberg.”

Susan suddenly looked serious.

“You’re right,” she said, why didn’t I notice that before?”

He smiled at her, almost sadly.

“It’s not your fault, we were supposed to believe that twelve was the limit. It was a useful diversion to our friend, he’s playing games with us. He knows that we would stumble on to that fact eventually, but it’s like a fence, it’s a preconception that delays and obscures our free thinking.” The Chief was nodding his head, almost in admiration at his quarry’s ingenuity.

“So that whole Internet game was just to deceive us?” said Susan, unsure of anything now.

“No, not quite,” said the Chief, “It was still the method of communication between them, but it does warn us that we make assumptions at our peril. The real clue that made me think about it was, why did they use Aries – itself a star sign – as the central contact? Surely it would have been sensible to use a tangential image, like the sun, for instance.”

“Yes, that would have left all twelve star signs free for use,” said Susan. “So, I suppose that we have to assume different codenames are being used on the Internet. And the central communication points must be different too, for there’s nothing else linked to Aries, as far as I can see. The trouble is, without a clue to go on, and the web being so vast, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

The Chief frowned again.

“Well, let’s try not to assume anything here. The Internet might not be used in this way again – anything’s possible. Let’s keep an open mind if we can.”

Susan looked deflated.

“So all that work was just a red herring,” she said, dejectedly.

“No, of course not,” said the Chief, “How can you say that? What you discovered on the Internet gave us our first real insight into how much of this fraud is operating. It also gave us our first successes in what’s bound to be a long investigation.”

He looked at her, his eyes warm and admiring.

“You’re doing a great job,” he said, sincerely.

“Do you really think so?” Susan sounded almost like a little girl being praised by her Daddy.

“Of course!” the Chief said, emphatically, “You – and all of the team – have made a good start, but don’t forget there’s a long way to go.”

Susan came back to earth with a bump.

“We’re only beginning at the beginning,” she said, sounding Churchillian.

18

The system had begun simply enough. His first step was to create a new identity, or rather a series of identities. He scoured the electoral rolls in a chosen area, and found a number of names, each listed as belonging to a respectable address over a number of years previously. But they had the added attraction of having left that address before October when the electoral roll was due to be taken again. This left him free to use this name directly from the same address by simply adding it to the electoral roll himself. In some cases, where he deemed it advisable or desirable, he then transplanted these names onto new addresses that were in fact, empty houses.

From there, he applied for bank accounts in these names, having the mail redirected to an accommodation address which he himself controlled, citing his ‘names’ as mere customers, each with ‘dummy’ addresses and listed payments by cash or postal order for the services given. This supplied the necessary alibi should anything go wrong at this stage. When required to produce documents proving identity and home ownership, it was a simple matter to superimpose such details on an original document, sending merely a photocopy to the bank concerned.

He could, in some cases, even produce original documents by writing to companies concerned directly from these addresses. Even supplying driver licences and NHS cards was not a problem, either directly himself or via the numerous dubious contacts he had made in recent years.

As his friend was still trapped in Welling prison, with another few months to serve, he had to do most of the legwork himself. Nevertheless, they would be re-united again soon. For now, they kept in touch by hidden messages. This was an essential contact, for having been in prison so much longer, his friend could supply many useful sources.

Their bond remained as strong as ever, for they shared a zealous enthusiasm to pay society back, but also, they wished to gain power. They both knew from their observations of life at both ends of the scale, that power emanates from money, and they intended to gain both as soon as possible.

Occasionally, he would appear in person at a bank, producing all relevant documents and thereby gaining a precious account, but for the most part, he found that it could mainly be done by post, thereby saving themselves from identification problems should anything go wrong with the application.

Within a few weeks, there existed a series of bank accounts and identities that were ready to seek credit from the gullible financial institutions that relied on such business. Each institution was tested and vetted by a series of applications that each contained trial answers to the maze of questions that were part of the procedure adopted by each company. These questions attempted to give the impression that every facet of the applicant’s life was being scrutinised, but they were, in effect, a smokescreen, designed to disguise the fact that the institutions could check hardly anything about an individual at all.

Only the simple statement of electoral roll and any other information supplied from the individual’s past involvement with the institutions themselves could in reality be checked. Other than by checking that the phone numbers given on these applications were genuine, there was actually little that the security systems of these institutions could achieve. Credit scoring could only work if the applicant was telling the truth, it was a game of bluff.

The trouble was, such systems were an open book to someone like him, but still, he did his homework, and checked the facts that were actually being monitored by a game of pocket battleship. Slowly, application by application, he built up a picture of the systems he was operating against. Now he was ready to do battle in earnest.

Having found suitable addresses and applicants, and applied in their names, all he had then to do was retrieve the mail that would carry not only replies, but hopefully cheques, cards, and all necessary data to operate them. This was a fairly simple task.

First of all, he had the mail forwarded from each address to his own office. The only way he was visible was at the headquarters, an office in a rundown business estate he ran an accommodation address facility. Among the genuine customers were sprinkled his own ‘customers’, names and addresses of people who didn’t exist. As far as any investigating authority was concerned, he was forwarding the mail for these ‘customers’ to a series of addresses. Usually, it was a group of flats within a communal front door where any number of people had access to the mail, and the transient nature of its occupants were such that pinning any one person down to anything was virtually impossible. He kept diligent records to support this hypothesis should it ever prove necessary to invoke a suitable alibi.

In reality of course, he opened the mail himself, placing cheques etc. into the appropriate accounts, accepting cards and PIN numbers to enable them to draw cash from these accounts on a daily and weekly basis. He did this by using ATM machines that had the advantage of keeping them incognito. It was a lot of work, but whatever the work involved, it was proving to be very profitable.

Keeping one identity free from all this activity, the plan included the opening of an offshore account using the false name, giving it a business identity. Using another series of names that were also free of fraudulent credit activity, they deposited small sums of cash in each one on a weekly basis, finally filtering the money out to the offshore account on a gradual and steady scale, so as not to attract undue attention.

From small acorns............within six months of the system being up and running, its income was already in excess of £500,000. With this cash in hand, it was time to use this money to upgrade the system, add sophistication, extend the network.

He received a major boost to his morale, when news came to him of his friend’s release from Welling after so many lost years. He was sad not to meet his friend at the gate, but given the plans they had made, they both knew it would be extremely unwise to be seen together at any time.

Through his friend and Lieutenant – they jokingly referred to each other as Commander and Lieutenant – and his many contacts from that sad place of lost humanity, meetings were set up with key criminal personnel in every major city or town, putting a proposal to them which was hard to resist.

One such meeting was in the Midlands. Through a mutual acquaintance, the Lieutenant arranged to meet a local villain called Fraser, whose normal operations included prostitution and extortion. The pre-requisite for this small-time hoodlum, was that he was the local leading light of the gangsters, and led a fairly large, if ramshackle operation, which included many petty thieves and street operators.

The two men met in a local pub. Fraser eyed his new

contact suspiciously. The other man seemed at ease, confident but not pushy. Stepping carefully, the Lieutenant outlined the job he wanted Fraser to do.

“We have some business for you,” he said, knowing that Fraser was not one to turn an opportunity of making money away. Fraser tried to look nonchalant, arrogantly taking a sip of his beer before speaking.

“Yeah?” he said, trying to sound bored.

“Here’s the proposition,” said the Lieutenant, ignoring any pretence of formality. “We have a method of raking in money through credit applications that needs a lot of legwork. We need an outfit like yours to collect the cash. Obviously, there’s a percentage for you – a generous percentage.”

The Lieutenant paused, waiting for the other man’s reaction.

Fraser paused again, interested, but trying not to show it. He was fooling himself, not the other man, but the Lieutenant said nothing.

“How much cash are we talking about here?” said Fraser, finally.

“Six figures a week for an opener,” said the Lieutenant, noting with glee the flicker of shock that passed across Fraser’s eyes.

“What’s in it for me?” he said, his greedy eyes glinting.

“As I said, a generous percentage. We can talk about that once you see the details and agree in general,” said the Lieutenant. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that suits us both.”

Fraser licked his greasy lips. He liked the idea of free collection, and perhaps he could rip off a percentage on top. To his surprise, the other man seemed to read his mind.

The Lieutenant himself knew it was time to inject some steel.

“We don’t have to trust each other,” he said, “We know the exact figures from the forms we fill in, and we also will know what’s taken by seeing the balance of the accounts, so you can’t say your receipts are less. On the other hand, you’re the one who collects the cash, so

We can’t cut back your percentage without you knowing it.” The Lieutenant smiled, knowing he had marked Fraser’s card.

Fraser was thinking as fast as his brain was capable of.

“How do we know where and when to get this cash?” he said, betraying his eagerness.

“We contact each other by computer – you have computers in your office, don’t you?” said the Lieutenant, knowing that they did from his background research into Fraser’s organisation, if that word could be used loosely.

Fraser nodded.

“You mean e-mail?” he said, puffing with pride at his display of intellectual prowess.

“Yes, that’s right, e-mail,” said the Lieutenant, feigning surprise to feed Fraser’s ego. “We’ll give you a name and a password, and an e-mail address to contact. From that, you’ll be given all the details you need to run this thing.”

“What about your password?” said Fraser, still suspicious.

“Our password will be Aries,” said the Lieutenant, “And yours will be Scorpio. Look out for a message from Aries in your e-mail. When you get that, we can set the ball rolling. All the details you need will come from that.”

Fraser nodded, his mind still ticking over greedily.

“Do we have a deal?” said the Lieutenant, knowing the answer already. He knew that Fraser would never turn down the chance of easy money. He also knew that Fraser would ensure none of the small-time con men in his charge ripped off the system. He was ruthless as well as greedy, and his reputation for violent revenge would frighten the hardest heart. That was a necessary part of the deal.

Fraser licked his lips again.

“Sure,” he said, not wishing to seem too eager. “We’ll give it a go – but if you try to do us in any way, we’ll get to you, mark my words.” His eyes glistened, cold like a rattlesnake.

The Lieutenant was cool and relaxed in his reply.

“That cuts both ways,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. Then, his voice became soft and conciliatory. “There’s plenty for both of us. As long as we both behave, neither of us has anything to worry about. If anybody plays silly buggers, they’re only killing the goose that laid the golden egg, aren’t they?”

Fraser nodded dumbly, his male pride swollen by his threat. The deal was on.

None of the local villains who were contacted refused, for the prize was too good to be true, a flow of money which would benefit everyone involved. It was not in the interest of anyone to ‘rip off’ the system, for that would mean that the flow of money would immediately stop. Besides, the local villains had their own form of discipline that involved reprisals no one cared to contemplate.

In each City and Town, a series of ‘cells’ operated, each one completely independent in its operation, except that all the paper work, all the correspondence was forwarded on via the ‘dummy’ accommodation addresses to another accommodation address in London, where it was swiftly and efficiently dealt with.

All over each City and Town, a series of ‘operatives’ swept up and down the high streets, hoovering up money from cash machines, depositing it in accounts whose details had been previously supplied.

It was a thriving business. The system paid the ‘controller’ of each area, the controller paid his ‘staff’, everyone was happy.

By now the system could afford a safer luxury, the actual ownership of previously empty houses, along with the adoption of the names held by the last electoral roll register. As an added bonus, these ‘names’ claimed unemployment benefit, the operatives acting on instructions of identity, then housing benefit, always in excess of the due mortgage, making a tidy profit just in passing.

There were occasionally problems with the operatives, but the local bosses ran each cell on a ruthless basis, and minions were punished beyond the pale in retribution, thus discouraging similar minded minions from making the same mistake.

This then was the structure of the ‘cells’, when he learned that first the strand of a cell had been seized, then a cell itself, he simply closed down all operations. The moves against the system came as no surprise to him, it was inevitable, as he had guessed. In both cases, another cell was opened in the same area within weeks, replacing the lost income and satisfying the local bosses hunger.

The despair he himself felt inside would not be so easily satisfied.

19

The Chief had decided to go along with Susan’s wishes. For one thing, he had a soft spot for her, for another, he had nowhere else to go. The only information he could seize upon was the very visible sight of local tow-rags running amok with cash cards in the high street.

It was Susan who had identified some of these bogus accounts, her keen eye spotting anomalies on first one account, then with her experience of that, more and more of these accounts which just did not stand up to scrutiny. A basic weakness in their system was identified as being the occupation question. In these bogus accounts, occupation was inevitably an accommodation address with a non-existent employer. A quick run through Kompass and other company information logs would show the genuine from the false.

It was a more practical route into the workings of the system, and it was a useful alternative to the Internet connections, especially at this moment when the trail was all but lost. The trouble was, her eyes could not be everywhere. There were just too many applications to be personally vetted in this way, she was only scratching at the surface. Nevertheless, it did give clues as to how this system was operating, and it would certainly lead to those who were operating it, at least on street level.

From the vast computers at headquarters, they had for weeks now been monitoring several of these bogus accounts, and they even had video pictures of those who were withdrawing the cash. In typically thorough fashion, they even had monitored the paying in system, where it was happening, where it was going to.

It was time for a test case. Finally submitting to Susan’s pleas for action, the Chief decided to move in. One particular operative was targeted, and just as he withdrew £250 from a machine in the Town centre, he was swooped upon from all sides, taken before he knew what had hit him.

They were not particularly surprised when the interview revealed him as a known petty thief and drug pusher whose intelligence was at a low level.

“Can you state your name and address for the tape please,” said Susan in her cold authoritative voice.

“I ain’t tellin’ you nuffin” said the operative, sniffling defiantly.

“Well, I’ll tell you then, shall I?” said Susan, a sparkle of triumph in her blue eyes.

“You’re Winston Thomas, you come from Hackney, and we know you already as a petty criminal and drug supplier”.

“So if you know all that, why ask me?” said the operative, clearly rattled.

“You don’t seem to know what you’re involved with here Winston” said this bossy woman who was pushing him around gleefully, “This is not just the usual petty stuff that you’ve become accustomed to, we are talking millions here, big time”.

At the sound of the word millions, Winston’s black face nearly turned white. Money was something he did understand, could relate to.

“What d’ya mean?” he said, his certainty suddenly vanished.

“I mean that you are going to go down for a very long time, my son, unless you can give, and give now!” said his female nemesis.

Despite his familiarity with the police, the operative soon cracked when these big guns came into play, and he was made aware that he was the sole spokesman at this time. He ‘sang like a bird’.

Disappointingly though, he could only tell what he knew. His boss instructed him to collect the cash and pay it into the designated account, he knew no more. He didn’t even know the name of his boss, he was just an underground figure ‘you didn’t disobey’ if you valued your life. According to the operative, he knew his boss simply by the name ‘Scorpio’.

One dark night, he had been accosted by ‘Scorpio’ and his ‘associates’ in a long black car, and a proposition was put to him which he couldn’t refuse. Besides, the money sounded good, money for old rope. He knew enough about gangsters to realise that crossing Scorpio would not be a good idea, he had heard the same through the grapevine.

He said he didn’t know anything about the accommodation address which was linked to the bogus applications, and though it was obvious he was an inveterate liar, the Chief and his assistant believed him, they could see he was desperate to reduce if possible the looming prison sentence.

The Chief and Susan compared notes afterwards, a trifle disappointed that their seizure had so far revealed so little.

“What do you think we should do now?” asked Susan, her eyes for once docile to his gaze, perhaps feeling guilty that she had pushed so hard for an arrest only to yield such modest results thus far.

“I think we have to consider taking the accommodation address” the Chief said with a serious face, pretending that he hadn’t noticed her sudden acquiescence to his authority. Suddenly she was doubtful, the roles reversed.

“It seems too easy, do you really think they won’t be prepared?” she said, almost hesitantly.

“They may well be” said the Chief, “But having taken their man out, we have little choice, we’ve played our hand in any case”.

Inwardly he winced at what seemed a clumsy dig at the relative barren return in response to her calls for action, but she took no offence.

“You’re right” she said, “Having gone this far, we must act, there’s no choice, is there?” she added, almost wistfully, looking at the Chief eye to eye. Right at that moment, they both got it. Nothing was said, but the hooks of love tied their anchor on the spot.

Flustered, Susan averted her eyes, and fussed with her papers, trying to deny to herself and to him what had happened, she was confused, wretched, a little girl again.

He was stunned, numb, the feeling catching him unawares. He knew what he had seen, but was it his imagination? He looked pointedly at her. No, she was primly and efficiently organising her papers, he must be wrong. As he stared at her, she turned, looked at him, and blushed. He knew then he wasn’t wrong. It had happened. They had fallen in love.

Somehow though, neither could manage to raise the subject, and they both rather artificially began to talk business, plan the raid on the accommodation address without ever referring to the feelings that had flashed between them. The sub-text of the matter was that even without a proven link to the accommodation address, they decided to raid it anyway.

At office opening time, they burst into the shabby premises on a poor industrial estate and found a quiet man, seemingly surprised by the commotion. Though perturbed at first, he calmly produced all his files and books and left them to sift through, seemingly undisturbed. The books tallied perfectly, his bank account showed no unusual transactions. Satisfied as they could be, they dismissed the man from their minds as any part of this operation. The only way forward now was to check each address that he sent mail to, and that would be a time-consuming business.

Weeks later, they had identified the dubious addresses, but there was no one to be seized there, only a series of empty flats and houses, yielding nothing but the identity of the name attached there.

Taking the logical steps backward, the team traced first the linked ‘dumping’ accounts, then the offshore accounts to which they were attached. With the co-operation of the off shore authorities, they assembled the details of the beneficial owners of these companies. Inevitably, they were transparently false names linked to a series of accommodation addresses that again led nowhere. Someone seemed to be playing games with them, but who?”

“So who’s the brains behind all this?” said the Chief, thinking aloud.

“Well, it’s certainly not Winston!” said Susan with a wry smile.

“And how does the operation work?” the wheels were churning in the Chief’s mind.

“As we’ve seen, the accommodation address stands up, yet there must be a point of collection - can it really be the bogus addresses themselves? Isn’t that too obvious? The cover is certainly there, so many people of a transient nature move in and out from week to week”.

Frowning deeply, Susan pursued her own thoughts.

“The only real way is to keep track of each person who comes in and out and catch them in the act”. As she spoke, the Chief noticed how her eyes softened as she looked directly at him.

“Either that or leave them alone and follow the mail trail” he said, half of his mind on her (“God, what great legs!” he thought, as a glimpse of soft white thigh became tantalisingly visible beneath her rather formal secretarial skirt).

“The Post Office would help us on that one” Susan said, trying to ignore his lustful stare.

“Yes, but where would it lead? That’s the question” said the Chief, serious now, business as usual.

“Well it has to be one or the other,” said Susan, reverting to her more customary ‘bossy’ role.

In the end they decided to try the ‘trailing’ method first, if only to eliminate it from their enquiries. Their first target was a man called Danny, a ne’er do well petty thief who had ducked and dived all his miserable life, and who was now one of the ‘operatives’ working the system for all it was worth. On one day alone, they watched and monitored his transactions as he withdrew no less than £2,500 from various cash machines across the City. Then he visited a stream of banks, depositing amounts of no more than £500 in each one. Following all this activity, he went back to the squat where he lived, and which was totally unconnected to the addresses linked via the fraudulent transactions he had just made. Nevertheless, they watched him night and day, but at no time did he visit any of the fraudulent addresses. They decided to postpone Danny’s demise till another time.

Next, they targeted a number of the fraudulent addresses themselves. Watching and photographing all occupants as they came and went, and surveying their every move throughout every day, they came to the conclusion that no-one was living there who was part of the system, they were all quite innocent, at least on the face of it. That left the accommodations addresses.

The Post Office had confirmed details of the forwarding arrangements that were in place, and as expected, these details showed that in each case of fraudulent addresses, the mail was being sent to a particular accommodation address in the City, calling itself

F.M.S. (Fast Mail Services).

A raid on F.M.S. proved futile. As before, the books tallied perfectly. It was hardly the fault of the proprietor - a meek man with impeccable credentials - that some of his customers were dubious to say the least. Yet the mail he sent on was being received - how was this possible? Their surveillance had revealed nothing. The only answer was to indeed follow the mail itself.

With the co-operation of the Post Office, they arranged that a stringent check would be kept on the flow of mail to the examples they chose of fraudulent addresses. Mail sent out from financial institutions to their ‘dubious’ clients was marked with a special pen whose markings showed themselves only under ultra-violet light. This would prove once and for all what was happening to the mail.

Decoy mail was sent out, and for weeks afterwards, they monitored its every movement, through the dummy address, to the accommodation address, then to the stipulated forwarding address where it landed on the shabby carpet. To the enormous disappointment of the Task Force, no one collected it. Weeks later, it was still lying there on the dank hallway of the weary house.

“I don’t understand it,” said Susan, shaking her head in exasperation, “How can they run a system where no-one collects the mail?”

“It’s simple” said the Chief wearily, “He’s on to us, he’s sussed it even before we set it up”.

They were both beginning to realise what they were up against.

20

He knew now that the game was beginning to play for higher stakes. He also knew that this meant ‘the big guns’ would be called in against him, and the arrest of Winston proved that. The instant Winston hit the panda car, the word spread like wildfire until it reached him, and he swiftly had given out instructions to all concerned. The proprietor of the accommodation address was warned to expect visitors, and the occupants of all connected addresses were quickly sent packing.

None of this was unexpected, he had always realised it would be a game of cat and mouse, dog and hare. The trick was staying one step ahead if he could. Looking at it logically, he realised that the connected offshore accounts also had to sacrificed, although there was of course time to empty all relevant bank accounts without any danger to anyone operating them.

What would be his enemy’s next move? Marked mail would be the next option he guessed, and throughout his whole system he instructed all operatives in his accommodations addresses to install a system for checking marks that would only be seen in ultra-violet light, an obvious move, he thought. All such mail could be sacrificed, most of it being largely irrelevant in the short term. After all, the organisation which sought his capture and the closure of the system could not possibly at this stage have a finger on the entire system, they would only have footholds in strands of it, nothing more. By watching the marked mail, he was himself being given a barometer as to how well the opposition was following on his heels, and from where he was standing, he was still showing them a clean pair of heels thus far.

Also, as fast as cells were identified, new ones were being opened, so the flow of money was still increasing rapidly, despite the inroads into parts of the system. The trouble was, as he realised and expected, his would-be nemesis, the organisation and its leader, now had a quickly expanding blueprint of how the system was operating. Only a few vital clues were needed to complete the jigsaw. When that was done, it would only be a matter of time before the system as it presently stood became obsolete. Forecasting the demise of his own system caused him no heartaches, it was all part of the pattern to him. In any case, he had other plans.

21

“It’s like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it” said Susan, as she wryly watched the screens flicker endlessly with yet more fraudulent transactions which had been tracked down. And of course, yet more dubious ‘customers’ such as Jimbo out there, wandering among the ATM’s late at night, like cash-hungry jackals.

It was true. As fast as they closed down a series of operations, others flickered to life, and the difficulty was, as both Susan and the Chief realised, these fraudulent transactions were only the ones which they were aware of. They knew enough about their quarry by now to safely say that they were chasing a constantly disappearing pair of heels.

“There’s something we’re missing,” said the Chief, more to himself than anyone, knowing that he was stating the obvious as far as Susan was concerned.

“Something at the centre of this, something crucial......” his voice tailed off as his thoughts struggled for form.

“Yes, but what is it?” Susan said, her voice irritated with more than a hint of frustration.

“Let’s see,” said the Chief, reliving yet again a familiar scenario to both of them, “It begins with fake applications from ‘dummy’ addresses, the mail is routed through accommodation addresses back to these ‘dummy’ addresses where the cards and accounts are picked up and dealt with. The money is then drawn from ATM’s by a series of what we might call ‘dupes’ who are paid a virtual pittance for being ‘up-front’ as it were.”

“Yes” said Susan, chiming in. “And the ‘dupes’ are controlled by local Mafiosi whom it seems, are also paid for their services.”

“Absolutely” said the Chief, stroking his chin in agreement as he warmed to the empathy between the two of them, always an asset when they were nothing more than professional colleagues, but now heightened by the tangible sexual chemistry which bound them silently together.

Trying to maintain a serious air, he looked at Susan only obliquely as he added

“There’s no doubt in my mind that someone is controlling the whole thing, none of those local villains, as nasty as they can be, are capable of such grand designs”.

“So the money is fed back into ‘dummy’ accounts, and from there to offshore accounts and then translated to cash.” said Susan, so engrossed in the details that she was almost unaware of the tingling sensation inside her every time she felt him look her way.

“And presumably from there into another account, probably somewhere offshore again” said the Chief, also maintaining a false kind of composure as best he could.

Shifting his seat backwards as he slid his long legs over his desk, he began to backtrack through the sequences he and Susan had just outlined.

“Somewhere in among all that is the central link that will crack this egg for us” he said, “Now let’s see, as we’ve said before, the mail is the key”.

“Yes” said Susan, leaping in brusquely, “But we’ve followed the mail to accommodation addresses and from there to the ‘dummy’ addresses, and we’ve found no-one who’s picked it up. The only people we seem able to lay our hands on are at the bottom end of the scale”.

“In every sense” said the Chief, grinning at her, breaking the tension a little. Susan’s laugh was tinged with the edge of cynicism that came so naturally to her.

“It’s as if we’re being fed this fodder, just to keep the wolves happy, so to speak” she said, a hint of self-mockery in her voice.

“Well in a sense I suppose we are” said the Chief, serious now, “But the point is, would the mail - an important item in this chain - be allowed into the hands of such people anyway? Surely it would have to be trusted to someone a little higher up the scale?”

“Yes, but who? And How?” said Susan, perplexed. His own mind was ticking over.

“Someone with good office skills, an appreciation of the value of paper, wouldn’t you say?” He looked at her quizzically, a light beginning to break inside his head.

“Like someone who would run an.........” She was about to say ‘office’, but her voice tailed off as she realised the import of her own words and began to catch the thread of his thoughts. They looked at one another.

“Exactly” he said “An accommodation address”. Susan was still trying not to clutch at straws.

“But we raided several” she said, “We found nothing, not a thing!”

“They were as clean as a whistle” admitted the Chief, “Or at least, they seemed as clean as a whistle, but the pea in the whistle is cracked. Imagine this scenario - the mail is forwarded to the accommodation address, which is, in every other respect run as a legitimate business, the difference being that the mail which is for specific non-existent customers is never sent to the addresses shown in the books”.

“That can’t be true,” said Susan, her face full suddenly full of doubt. “We’ve seen mail for these non-existent customers arrive at the ‘dummy’ addresses, but no-one’s picked it up”.

“Yes” said the Chief, still sure of his ground, “But what if the mail for these non-existent customers is vetted first, the relatively unimportant mail sent through to the ‘dummy’ addresses, and only the relevant important mail is kept back?”

“Then it’s sent to a pre-arranged hidden address where it’s dealt with at leisure,” said Susan, trying to put herself in the shoes of the opposition. A frown crossed her lovely face. Excited, but still unsure, she had yet more objections to raise.

“But we even marked mail - mail which should have been important in that way - mail which we knew was part of the fraud, and even that mail actually did go to those ‘dummy’ addresses, yet no-one collected it”.

“There’s a simple answer to that too” said the Chief, his face grim, his jaw clenched. “Our friend anticipated our move before we made it”. Susan’s own jaw dropped open despite herself.

“You mean he...”

“Or she?” interjected the Chief, teasing her now. Susan smiled, but tried to maintain a business-like composure despite his flippancy. “As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted” she said with a smirk, “He - or She! - was waiting for our marked envelopes, and let them pass through for that reason?”.

“Yes” said the Chief, sure of his ground now. “I’ll place a bet that when we next visit those accommodation bureaux we’ll find ultra-violet scanning equipment”.

“All of that’s very well” said Susan, back to her business-like best. “But if these people are involved, how do we prove it? How do we catch them out? There’s no law against having ultra-violet scanning equipment”.

“No, but there is a law against keeping false accounts and being part of massive fraud” said the Chief, his voice suddenly liberated from doubt, “As for catching them out, we let the next batch of ‘dodgy’ mail we identify go through unmarked, but we note the fact that it - or at least the meaty parts of it - doesn’t arrive at its ‘dummy’ address..........”.

Susan cut in and finished the sentence for him.

“And we follow it through to its actual address.........”.

It was the Chief’s turn to cut in on Susan.

“With the co-operation of the Post Office”.

“Yes” said Susan, her eyes wide with enthusiasm and new hope, “We seize all mail which has passed through the accommodation address and go through it with a fine toothcomb”.

“At the same time, we follow ‘Chummy’ and see what journeys he takes after work” said the Chief, his eyes lighting on Susan, the woman, rather than just his professional colleague.

“And what goodies he carries with him” added Susan, slightly blushing at the Chief’s appreciative stare.

Both elated by what they recognised as a way forward after so long in the doldrums, without thinking into what they were doing, they found themselves in each other’s arms in celebration. For a moment they hugged and laughed without restraint. Once consciousness set in however, there was a moment’s awkward silence. They looked at each other, almost backing away from the momentary embrace, but before Susan willed herself to move, the Chief took his arms from round her body and placed his hands almost paternally on the sides of her face. Frozen there, they looked at each other, the bond between them open and naked. Finally, with an audible sigh he bent his face forward to her trembling lips and kissed her soft mouth gently till time and the World ceased to function in that very still room.

22

It was a cold grey morning, and they sat in an unmarked car parked in a world-weary business estate watching the activities surrounding the battered building that housed their quarry. ‘Mailseal’ was the uninspired name of this accommodation agency, and its proprietor, a bespectacled balding man of 58 years, had entered the premises anonymously at 9am. They were already waiting for him.

Alerted by the Post Office that the mail containing cheques, application forms, and bank account bric-a-brac was on its way into the premises that very morning, they had quickly swung into action. It would have been easy for them to delegate such a task to their subordinates, but in the light of the possible importance of the outcome, the Chief and Susan had both unanimously decided to deal with the uncomfortable ‘stake-out’ themselves. That way there was no one else to blame if it went wrong.

The down side was the extreme discomfort of sitting in a car all day, with little prospect of any real action. The difficulty was, they couldn’t risk waiting till the end of scheduled office hours, for the man could leave at any time.

They already knew his name - or at least, who he was supposed to be - they realised that nothing could be taken at face value when dealing with a fraud of this size and scope. He called himself ‘Thomas Marks’, and they also knew where he lived, the name of his Wife, and had already scanned the details of his bank accounts and phone calls. Needless to say, there was nothing untoward to be seen in all that.

The down side was the discomfort of the car; the compensation was the company. It was tempting in this first glow of their romance to use the opportunity to mercilessly ‘snog’ in the car, but both were too professional for that. Nevertheless, the air was thick was sexual tension without a move being made or a word said on the subject. He couldn’t help noticing how lovely her legs looked stretched out so visibly near yet so far from him. And as for her low neckline..........

Stirring uncomfortably in his seat and getting hot under the collar for other reasons, the Chief tried to focus on the job in hand.

“Well, the mail’s gone in now, I’d love to see through those walls”.

Susan nervously fidgeted for some of the same reasons as the Chief, nodding sadly at his words

“Well, I suppose we’ll know soon enough” she said, as philosophically as she could. Part of her mind was struggling not to think about the way his lips had melted on hers.......... The Chief broke into her wandering thoughts once more.

“I’ve seen a lot of crooks in my time, but I would have bet on this man being ‘straight’ until now”.

“That’s probably why he was chosen for the job” said Susan, her inbuilt cynicism about human nature showing itself.

Several sandwiches later, as the Sun crossed the sky and began to vanish, the lights of the weary buildings began to flicker on. The bodies of the car’s two occupants were inwardly crying out for mercy. In their earlier days as fraud combatants, they had both done their time on surveillance, but that was some years ago, and they had all but forgotten the joys of sitting in one place for a day or more.

It was only 4pm, but their still world was jarred into action when Thomas Marks walked into sight from the drab entrance, holding his tired raincoat over one arm, and carrying a black office bag in his other hand. As Marks wandered out of sight round the corner of the office block, the two of them suddenly forgot their aches and pains, and even their proximity to each other - the chase was on!

Softly softly they followed the diminutive figure of Marks through the fading light of the streets. Oblivious to their interest, the subject of their enquiry paused only once, to place some letters in a postbox. Time would show that these letters were the irrelevant mail, which would find its way to the dummy addresses.

Finally, Marks reached his destination, a crowded public bar, of all places. There was no other alternative, both the Chief and Susan followed on, acting for all the World like two lovers on a night out, which in a way they were.

Impatiently, the two pursuers awaited developments - was this just a false alarm? Thirty minutes later, Marks was joined at the bar by a well-dressed young man, they made an incongruous pair standing there together, completely socially mis-cast, the young man for all the World, a ‘yuppie’, the old man giving every outer appearance of ‘suburbanite’, and ‘Dad’s Army’ with it.

However, to the gratification of the Chief and Susan, Marks eventually reached into his bag and produced a package, which he passed on to the young man. Within moments of this happening, the young man vacated the premises, and leaving their full glasses behind them, Susan and the Chief followed on.

Jumping into a BMW, the young man roared off into the night, but Susan, in the driving seat of their Mercedes, was a match for the young upstart. Within moments she had fastened on his tail, and hung on to him like a leach.

Through streets and streets of crowded neon they sped, amidst lines of traffic that thankfully disguised their pursuit, till finally, with one final rev of the engine, the BMW skidded to a halt outside a block of flats in a fashionable part of Town. With barely a glance, the young man slammed the car door and hurried into the flats, not noticing the dark car that slid into position near his own.

It had been a long day. The Chief decided it was time for the surveillance to be taken over by his subordinates, nothing was likely to happen for some time, he concluded. Susan drove him home to his Wife, and he kissed her lingering and long outside his own doorstep, which she took as a sign of his commitment to her, though unspoken.

It was several days later when the young man made his move. They now knew him as Tony Wilson, a stockbroker in the very respectable firm of Harding and Grieve, nothing in his previous record showed up as devious or criminal. He was a single man, aged 25, or previous good character - what on earth was he doing associating with people who could get him jailed for a very long time? Shaking his head, the Chief puzzled over this and other conundrums. But seeing Tony leave his premises for the first time since they had followed him, they were eagerly awaiting the next move. Unfortunately, it proved to be a red herring, Tony merely went to his girlfriends, and did what all red-bloodied males do at a time like that, which was very nice for him, no doubt, but very tiresome for the surveillance team, including Susan and the Chief to supervise over.

Days later, nothing had happened other than that, and Susan was once again pushing for action, a trawling expedition to see what could be salvaged from days and weeks of wasted surveillance.

Partly against his better judgement, the Chief agreed, and the next morning, around 6am, Tony was rudely awakened by a posse which charged suddenly into his flat and his bedroom, finding him bleary-eyed and naked, blinking into the sudden light.

Without further ceremony, he was hauled off to the local police station, and dumped in a cell to await interrogation. In fact, he was deliberately left to stew as long as possible, for both the Chief and Susan knew that progress now relied on ‘cracking’ Tony.

It was unspoken between them that Tony was yet another cog in the wheel, rather than an essential item. Still, he definitely was further up the ladder. He was obviously well-educated, intelligent, upwardly-mobile, though a bit too upwardly-mobile for their liking.

Finally they brought Tony to an interview room, a sparse place with harsh lights and an unwelcome ambience about it. The tape in the machine flickered ominously as they began their questioning.

“Would you care to tell us your part in this fraud?” said Susan coldly, her very official voice being ideal for conveying distaste as well as authority.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” said Tony, but his bottom lip quivered as he spoke, and his brow was beaded with sweat.

“I’m talking about accommodation addresses which pass on dubious mail to dubious sources” said Susan, “I’m talking about Thomas Marks, who we know runs an illegal operation, and we know that you are his contact”. Tony’s sweat glands worked even harder after that one.

“I don’t know anything” said Tony, visibly wilting now, “I swear I don’t!”

“Well Tony”, said Susan, letting the suspect know that she knew who he was, “I think we have you banged to rights. In your flat we have the mail which Thomas Marks passed on to you. We ourselves observed you picking it up, so be a good boy, don’t try and insult our intelligence”.

Tony looked at Susan desperately, his earlier bravado quickly washing away.

“I only collect the mail and pass it on, I don’t even know what it is or what it’s for” said Tony, a note of desperation in his voice now.

His face quiet and calm, but with an assertive tone to his speech, the Chief chimed in.

“Unfortunately Tony, you are about to take the rap for a fraud which so far amounts to something over 100 million pounds”. He let that figure sink in, as Tony visibly shrunk.

Before Tony could respond, Susan again grabbed the initiative.

“Your only chance is to help us Tony, otherwise you’re gone for a very long time”. To their surprise, on Susan’s words, Tony suddenly burst into tears, his schoolboy bravado completely burst by reality.

“I didn’t know what I was getting into” he blurted, tears streaming down his contorted face, “It was only a way of making money on the side, I didn’t ask questions, I didn’t know what was involved, I thought it was only minor league” he said, somewhat unconvincingly, but with great desperation.

“No Tony”, said the Chief gravely, “This is major league, this is big time”. Then he added for effect “And the outcome is big-time for you too”.

With that, Tony nearly collapsed with fright, his whole life vanishing in front of his eyes. In truth, he had no chance of avoiding a prison sentence anyway, but Susan was happy to dangle whatever carrots she could to draw him into her web.

Taking a compassionate line, she spoke gently.

“Tony, I know you’ve been used. It can only help if you tell us all you know”.

At this seeming olive branch, Tony looked as Susan through soaked eyelids, almost pathetically.

“Can you help me?”

Susan kept a straight face and looked as sympathetic as she could,

“We’ll see what we can do. But first, you have to help us, it’s the only way Tony”.

She used his name softly, deliberately, making him feel cared for in his time of need.

Moments later, he couldn’t say enough. The trouble was, he really didn’t know very much. His instructions had come from a man whose name he didn’t know, he only had a phone number, which he rang once when it was time to liaise and hand over the mail. Nevertheless, as Susan and the Chief realised, he represented the next step up the ladder, and using Tony’s desperation, they urged him to set up a meeting with his next in line, the man who collected the mail from him.

Tony rang the number - the number that they had checked out and found to be a mobile phone linked to a name and address, which were no doubt false. He was due to meet the man in the mainline railway station at 9pm the following evening.

Susan and the Chief began to allow themselves to feel optimistic.

It seemed at last they were getting closer to the truth.

23

A busy railway station in the heart of the City. A pale-faced young man waits anxiously, his fate seeming to him dependent on the next few minutes. Gazing at his watch over and over, Tony’s white face reflected his fears. Would his contact turn up? Tony knew that if he didn’t, his own chances of years in a dungeon were certain.

Actually, they were anyway, he just was naive enough to let himself be used in the vain hope that he could be somehow saved from the fate that was already set for him. In reality, Susan and the Chief could do little to help Tony, his fate was sealed, but they were happy to feed him illusion so that he would be a willing tool in the next stage of their attack on the fraud which had dominated their lives for this past year.

Tony felt a hand on his shoulder and visibly jumped. It was his contact. In a mixture of relief and terror, Tony spoke nervously.

“I thought you weren’t coming”.

The man was urbane, polished, a cut above Tony in social status. Already his antennae were become unhappy with the demeanour of Tony, anyone with sensitivity could see that Tony was too strung-out, too on edge to be natural. It could mean betrayal. He looked around the station nervously. All seemed normal.

Surrounding him were the deliberately non-nondescript figures of the team’s ‘hard men’. However, the Chief had decided beforehand that surveillance was the best option here - let the man go, but follow him relentlessly till he led the team to the centre of the fraud. So it was with some relief that the contact took the package offered by Tony and vanished into the crowd with the team’s best officers in hot pursuit, albeit with great subtlety. For Tony, there was a trip back to the cells, and the temporary illusion that he had helped himself avoid a hefty prison sentence.

As they expected, the man had nothing more to offer them for that day at least. They followed him as he drove his gleaming Daimler to an elegant Town house in a fashionable area. A swift check revealed that the man’s name was James Jeffrey Morgan, a City analyst with a salary of some £50k p.a. Greed was an amazing vice, thought the Chief, as he wondered aloud to Susan - what on earth made someone as successful as Morgan get involved in a gunpowder plot like this?

Susan smiled, almost amused at the Chief’s relative innocence in such matters.

“It does prove that we must be near the top of the tree” she said, more interested in their progress than the foibles of human nature.

“Could be,” said the Chief, “Let’s wait and see where we go from here”.

It had been another long day, and the success of the surveillance thus far had kept the adrenaline flowing. Now though, they were both suddenly aware of how tired they were. It was time to go to bed, but not necessarily to sleep. They looked at each other, the question in his eyes unspoken.

“Yes” said Susan, her emotions conquering her fears, “It is time”. His face suddenly soft, his eyes moist, the Chief took Susan in his arms and kissed her passionately. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself to him, body and soul.

They drove for a while through the drizzling rain and glowing street lights till they came upon a wayside Inn, a smart but anonymous motel. The room service meal was excellent, but the night was long and memorable for other reasons.

24

The morning light was shining into the room when his mobile phone suddenly burst into life. Struggling to wake, the Chief reached for the ringing noise that filled his head almost as much as the champagne from the night before. The night before. As he clutched the phone, he looked at the lady lying beside him, stirring now, the duvet cover slipping back to reveal her naked breasts. Smiling softly to himself, he finally connected the phone and focused on the Scottish voice at the other end. It was McKay, his team leader.

“Guv, we’re on the move,” said McKay.

“Where are you heading?” asked the Chief, his head suddenly beginning to clear. From the sheets beside him came a sleepy female voice.

“Is it on then?”

On the other end of the phone, McKay, recognising the voice, hesitated before replying. So the guys were right – the Chief and Bryde were at it.....

“It’s London, it seems Guv” said McKay, “We’re steaming down the M1 through Watford, but I’ll keep you posted”.

“I’m on my way,” said the Chief, already rising from bed, revealing his nakedness to Susan, who despite herself, giggled nervously, a sound not unnoticed by McKay.

“Just wait till I tell the lads,” he thought, but kept his voice as indifferent as he could when he answered, “Right Guv”.

One long lingering naked kiss and several minutes later, Susan and the Chief were on their way to liaise with the team as they pursued their quarry.

Luckily enough, the day was bright and cold, rather than the drizzle and haziness of the night before, so the Daimler’s progress could be easily monitored. Before too long, just as the Daimler reached the outskirts of London, the Chief’s car pulled in tandem with the team, thanks to McKay’s precise directions. In the thick traffic, there was nothing odd about a series of cars tailing each other through the increasingly busy lanes and streets reaching into the heart of London.

Within sight of Tower Bridge, the Daimler swung into an expensive car park, and one car from the team was delegated to follow, the rest stopped and waited around the streets outside. The radio crackled as McKay and his men followed Morgan from his car to the busy streets below.

“He’s out of the car park Guv, I’d say he’s headed for the bridge itself” said McKay, his voice tough and brusque, but flowing with the excitement of the moment.

“Is he carrying anything?” asked the Chief anxiously. The radio crackled again.

“Yes Guv” said that gravel voice, “He’s got a black briefcase, one of those soft ones you carry under your arm, more like an attaché case I suppose”.

“Good” said the Chief with some release of tension. “Keep on him. We’ll be with you in a moment”.

Susan handed out Swift instructions to the rest of the waiting cars. Everyone else in the team was to follow McKay on foot, spreading out on the other side of the road from Morgan, some walking swiftly beyond him so that they could then approach his path from the opposite direction.

The bridge that day was bristling with tourists and working people, but it was also bristling with McKay and the team’s best officers as well as the Chief and Susan, who were determined as ever to be in on the act.

There were so many people milling around James as he strolled languidly across the bridge that it was impossible to tell who would be the contact. Suddenly it happened. To their surprise, a slim elegant man who looked extremely unlike a crook scooped the attaché case surreptitiously from James as he passed him and moved on without the two ever having eye contact.

McKay’s voice crackled again over the airwaves.

“What’s the score Guv? Do we take them or leave them on spec?”

“Take them!” said the Chief decisively as Susan nodded her agreement.

Hardly had this exchange taken place when a seemingly anonymous crowd of people leapt upon both men, bundling them to the ground before they had time to even register surprise. As their prey hit the deck, the members of the team were like a pack of wolves, the adrenaline in their own bodies pumping, making them shout and swear aggressively at the two men, when it was plain there was little they could do in response in any case. As innocent onlookers gasped and gaped, the men were whisked off in an unmarked car which immediately headed for Holborn police station in Theobolds Road, adjoining the offices of the Fraud Squad in Richbell Place.

For all the fame of this police station, its inner demeanour was bare and drab, its walls sprayed with tired and ugly graffiti and worse. Many a lost miscreant had passed through these doors. It looked as if a decent cleaner would not be seen dead in the place, and the latest inmates looked decidedly a pair of square cogs in round holes.

James Jeffrey Morgan they already knew all about. The second captive was an aristocratic looking man, and when he finally was allowed to speak, it was with a cut glass accent, expressing indignation at this treatment thus far.

Singularly unimpressed with this show of social snobbery even in the face of blatant fraud, McKay’s voice cut across him like a whip.

“This is how we treat criminals, and whatever class you consider yourself, you are now equal with the lowest,” he said, his contempt clear and unequivocal, the words delivered with that special edge of venom which a Glaswegian delivers best.

Driven now to silence, in a matter of moments the man found himself pushed into a dank and dark cell, his mind a jumble of questions and answers which were not pleasant to contemplate.

For several hours, he lay on the blue plastic bed, adjusting to his new surroundings, to the new life he undoubtedly would now face, for unlike Tony, he was not stupid nor a coward, but he was a realist, and knew that there was little he could do to avoid his fate.

Much much later, the door suddenly opened, and without comment or ceremony he found himself, as he had expected, delivered to an interview room, a place devoid of human warmth or comfort, just a bleak overhead light and stark table and chairs, cold and aluminium.

After a short time, a woman and a man came in. The woman was very handsome, he thought, though her features were somewhat cold and unfriendly, very formal he judged. She stared at him blankly, almost as if he were a specimen in a glass case. The man was sharp-featured, studied, almost a caricature of Sherlock Holmes, he thought, almost laughing to himself at the absurdity of the situation. But it was no laughing matter, as he well knew.

“We know who you are,” said the woman coldly, regarding him with disdain, “You are Piers Tremain, a supposedly respectable businessman. Well, your respectability ends here” she said dismissively.

The man was less formal, more matter of fact, analytical.

“Piers, you are up the creek without a paddle. Are you going to co-operate? It’s your only chance”, he said, somewhat conciliatory in tone.

Piers laughed without humour in his voice.

“Not that old chestnut, surely!” he said, mustering up as much disdain as he could, “You and I both know there’s nothing you can do to help me now, so what’s the point?”

The woman again fixed him with her cobra stare.

“The point is Chummy, you can kiss goodbye to life for a very long time. Your only hope is to gain a little credibility with the Judge by helping us clear this whole thing up once and for all”.

“By helping you, I’ll help myself you mean,” said Piers, smiling mockingly, “ How gullible do you think I am? I somehow don’t think so, do you?” He said forcefully.

The man interjected, a note of conciliation still in his voice.

“Of course we can’t prevent your appearance in Court and the outcome of a sentence against you, but you and I both know at the same time that your only hope of some reduction in that sentence is to help us as much as you can. All we can then do is to make that known to the Judge, and that we can certainly do. It’s true it won’t stop you going away, but it will in all probability reduce the time you are away. And don’t forget we are talking about a fraud here that amounts to at least 100 million”.

The mention of money always did the trick, he thought, for criminals as well as Judges. Nothing upset them more than the mention of large sums of money. People were expendable, but money came first to the good and the bad, as well as the ugly.

Piers however, was not that naive. He well knew what the sums of money were, and he merely asked for a Solicitor, thereby ending his interview for the time being at least.

25

The interview with James was considerably more rewarding than their first encounter with Piers. James was clearly still in shock, a person who had enjoyed the rewards of his ill-gotten gains, but who had never truly focused on what the penalties for capture would be.

His mind was reeling with thoughts of his Wife, his Family, his respectability, position...........

Into these feverish thoughts, the cold voice of Susan punched through.

“Well my Son, you’re in a fine mess, aren’t you?” she said, standing there with her hands on her hips, completely in charge. The Chief sat quietly, enigmatically, letting his own presence and obvious authority speak for itself.

Susan was pacing up and down now, like a tiger patrolling its cage.

“The question now is - are you going to co-operate, or are you going to be awkward, which is it to be?” she said, like a much-feared schoolmarm, scolding her errant pupils.

Bottom lip quivering, James spoke in a tremulous voice.

“If I tell you all I know, will it go easier on me?”

Seizing on his words, Susan dived in like a bird of prey.

“Of course it will!” she said, being economical with the truth.

“Tell us all you know and we’ll have a word - mind you, mess us around by telling us a lot of piffle and we’ll see you off completely!” she said, her beautiful face strong and angry as she spoke, frightening the life out of James.The Chief had not yet said a word. Now he eased in gently.

“James, tell us about your contacts, who they are, how you contact them - tell us all you know about this situation you’ve found yourself in”.

To their amazement, James reeled off something in the order of a hundred names of the people he collected from. The figures were staggering, they had thought of James as a mere cog in the wheel, but when they added up, it seemed to Susan and the Chief that they had indeed taken a very large bite out of the fraud, much larger than they would have imagined.

James had not a great deal more to tell, but when he had finished giving the details of his contacts, an immediate operation was launched to find and arrest as many names on the list as possible. James was put to work trawling through photographs of villains he could put faces to, as names were often likely to be an alias rather than the real thing.

The numbers would seem frightening to an outsider, but to the team, it was all the lines they expected - a host of middlemen, office managers, local crime gangs, along with some thousands of petty crooks on the streets delving into the insides of the ATM’s. All of this meant a logistics nightmare in terms of pursuits, arrests, and confinement, but on the plus side, as far as the team were concerned, it meant a major inroad into the destruction of the ‘sting’.

They now could visualise what they thought of as the size of the thing. If James could yield such results, what keys did Piers hold?

“He won’t talk,” said Susan, “I know his type. His arrogance is holding him up, we won’t get anything out of him”. The Chief shifted uneasily in his chair.

“The trouble is, by going for broke and arresting these two now, especially Lord Muck here, we’ve rather burned our bridges. I know you’re basically right, yet to get further with this, we have to nail him down, and there’s only one way”.

Susan’s lovely face took on an expression of dismay.

“Oh no!” she said, pushing her body away from the desk where she had been leaning, “You can’t mean you’re actually going to make a deal with that creep! Surely not!”

As the Chief opened his mouth to speak, she jumped in again.

“We can’t let him get away with this!”

“I know it goes against the grain,” said the Chief, anxious not to upset her more than he could help, “But can you think of any other way? If we just send him down, we have to begin all over again with the rest of it. Do you want to do that?” “No, of course not” said Susan, pouting a little, “But at least now we have the knowledge of how it works, we can use that to our advantage”.

“It is true we know something of how it works, and it would help, but how long will it take that way?” said the Chief, “But I’ll lay a pound to penny that Tremain knows exactly how it works. And we both know that if he could be induced to sing, Tremain could shut this thing down for us in one fell swoop - but we have to act fast, before our friend can adjust himself - or herself - to what’s happened here today”.

Grinning now at his familiar teasing, despite her frustrations, Susan took on the implications of what he had said.

“You mean you don’t think Tremain is the one?” she said, unsure of where she stood on the matter herself.

“No, he isn’t” said the Chief. “Stop and think about it - the figures add up, but he was too readily up for grabs, too expendable”.

“Isn’t that just his natural arrogance?” said Susan, still seeing the formidable Piers as the possible brains behind the fraud.

“I would put him down as second in command myself” said the Chief, “For me, there’s got to be someone standing outside, watching over the whole thing without getting his own hands dirtied by the troops”.

“It does make sense,” said Susan, softening now, respecting his cool detachment that worked so well against her fiery sense of combat.

“We’re nearly there,” said the Chief, putting his hand gently on her arm, “What does it matter that we give Tremain a lifeline? The exchange is the complete collapse of this fraud, and that’s the important thing here, isn’t it?”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Susan, putting her hand on top of his, “I just hate to see a toad like Tremain get the last laugh”.

“He’ll hardly do that” said the Chief, “He’ll be living in fear for the rest of his life, he’ll never see his friends or his social haunts again, he’ll be a wanted man from now on. The only difference is that he won’t be wanted by us, and which of those options is the worst?” Susan’s face became more tranquil as she realised for herself the wisdom of his words. Either way, Tremain was finished.

Still, when Piers was hauled in to the interview room once more, Susan found it difficult not to be riled by his smooth demeanour, his lack of remorse, his amused and detached sense of superiority, ironic in the circumstances of supposed jailer and jailed.

“I won’t mess about with you Tremain,” said the Chief coldly, “I have a proposition for you. Tell us all you know, and we will give you immunity from prosecution. You’ll be a Crown witness. Of course, it means that you’ll have to be under protection, for your own safety, as much as anything else, and we’ll expect to know everything you know, or the deal will be off.”

“You call it protection – I call it prison,” said Piers, his sneering face turned serious for once.

Piers was not averse to the concept of a deal, he was a realistic man. He had, in the idle hours since his arrest postulated to himself that such a deal might be on the cards. He had already pondered the questions such a deal raised for him personally. He too realised that his life as he had known it was over from the moment he was seized on Tower Bridge.

Nevertheless, he still registered surprise when the sharp-faced man with the hawk eyes put the plan forward without any preliminary ‘warm-up’. Tremain’s eyes narrowed as he took in the man properly for the first time. He began to realise that he had underestimated this man, he was indeed a formidable opponent, and a man of sensible pragmatism. As Tremain knew, a lesser man would have taken him uphill and down dale through many exhaustive and time-wasting interviews before even contemplating such a deal. He knew at this moment too that this man had not underestimated him.

Noting the woman’s studied disdain, he perfectly understood the chemistry between the two, and her intense dislike of him, but he was wise enough not to smile at the woman’s discomfort, except perhaps inwardly, while the plan was put to him in measured tones by the restrained but unusually alert man. Discarding his usual outer flippancy, Tremain listened with care.

“If you think protection means prison, perhaps you should try the real thing. There is a big difference, believe me,” said the Chief, his tone earnest, convincing.

Piers thought for a moment. The deal, such as it was, amounted to a witness protection programme. True, he would never go to jail, but he would exist in a prison of the mind, and even his physical surroundings would be decided by others, and subject to change for the rest of his life. As well as that, there was the always-obvious threat of reprisals. He would be, after all, be sending thousands of very disgruntled people to jail for a very long time. Worse still, he would have to face each one of them in court, and it would take years and years for his debt to his captors to be expunged. And when their use for him was over, what special steps would they take to protect him then?

Piers knew all of this, but he had no choice, it was the only way.

“I’m agreed in principle,” he said, his voice containing a note of surrender, “But I’ll need my Solicitor to go through it with you.”

The Chief shrugged. He knew he had him.

“Fine,” he said, in a voice of indifference.

As they left the room, Piers was already writing to his Solicitor, instructing him to negotiate the legal cover for his actions and well being. Sighing deeply, he signed the letter with a flourish, and resigned himself to whatever fate held.

26

The conference room was crowded, and a buzz of expectation filled the air. On the platform, the Chief and Susan sat with heads of operations in teams from all over the Country. As the Chief rose to his feet, the murmur slowly died until the great room was filled with silence, a pregnant pause.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Colleagues” began the Chief, “As you know, we have successfully taken hold of this fraud and shaken it by scruff of the neck”. At these words, a great cheer like a football scrum roared through the crowd, the enjoyment of the fruits of many months hard slogging work, the fruits of a sensed victory.

Waving his hands towards the crowd to bring quiet to the room again, the Chief went on.

“Yes, it’s a moment to savour, but it’s not a time for complacency, we still have much to do before we can say we’ve killed the beast”

He turned to the board behind him, turning over the first page of a large printed document full of coloured numbers and boxes.

Grasping a pointer, the Chief turned again to his audience.

“Thanks to the efforts of you all, we have as you know, many people in custody, some mere minions, some major players, many more at this very moment being hunted, and caught they will be” he punctuated the last few words aggressively, whacking the palm of his hand with the stick as he spoke.

“You also know that we have in custody one of the really big fish in this very nasty pool, a gentlemen - if I can use that word in its lavatorial sense - named Piers Tremain”. There was a ripple of laughter and scorn which carried contempt for the vivid contrast of criminality and class embodied in the aristocratic figure of Tremain, now highlighted on the monitor screen high above the stage.

Playing his somewhat theatrical role to the full, the Chief grinned amiably at the image of Tremain, then the audience, sharing with them the ritual disrobing of their quarry.

“Now then”, he said, waving his stick around like a musical baton, “We have a picture of how exactly how this system works, and what it consists of”.

Pointing to the first box at the head of the page, the Chief said, “Here we have the operative, the bottom of the scale. For the sake of identification, we call this representative sample ‘Jimbo’.......”.

Laughter again filled the room as everyone in that place had at some time or another arrested a ‘Jimbo’ many times over. To emphasise the point, an obviously mocked up identikit ‘photofit’ of a representative ‘Jimbo’ appeared on the huge screen, it’s Neanderthal features and gormless expression a composite of every street cretin they had all run across at one time or another.

The Chief paused, grinning, enjoying himself.

“Now Jimbo scouts the machines, picking up his goodies, and depositing them in a series of banks - all false identities of course. From there, the cash goes to a series of offshore accounts, and from there, it’s converted to cash again and vanishes”.

Moving to the next box adjacent to ‘Jimbo’, the Chief went on.

“Our friend ‘Jimbo’ gets his orders from these nice people, the local gangsters who run the show for the masterminds of this operation. Then, moving down to the next box below, all the material the gang needs comes indirectly from the local accommodation address, run usually by elderly gentlemen who have fallen on hard times and have nothing better to do. The mail - or at least the filtered parts which are relevant - are passed through by courier to the local agent, then from there to the area agent, and from there to our friend Tremain”.

As he spoke, the Chief shifted his pointer through a series of boxes, each illustrating the individuals concerned.

Pointing to the ‘Mafioso’ connection, the box at the very top of the page, the Chief said “These nasty creatures were recruited presumably by the person we shall call ‘x’ - the nasty mastermind behind this whole unwholesome scheme - but all subsequent dealings were through the supervision of Tremain. Via his instructions, they were fed their credit cards, bank withdrawal cards etc by their local controllers. These so-called local controllers vetted the mail they received, delivering the cards for the ATM’s to the gang leaders, delivering on the what you might call ‘new’ business - the forms that had to be completed etc”.

Then, turning to the next page, the Chief, his eyes glinting cold and grey, spoke solemnly.

“Now we come to the serious bit. The money involved, the strategics, the resources, the people in this vast fraud”.

“Colleagues, Piers Tremain, the main controller, handled no less than 20 area controllers, each area controller himself dealt with 5 local controllers from five accommodation addresses, five local gangs, and roughly 200 local operatives”.

An audible gasp filled the room as the numbers sunk in.

“Yes colleagues” said the Chief, his voice grave, his manner serious, “20 area controllers; 100 local controllers; 100 accommodation addresses; one hundred local gang leaders; 1,000 local operatives, some 1220 people involved, a kind of record in itself”. Really, it’s networking fraud - a sort of avaricious Amway”.

Letting that sink in, the Chief slowly turned another page, then turned back to address his audience.

“It worked as follows:- each accommodation address took on board no less than ten false identities which lasted approximately a three month cycle in terms of cash yielded. The month after these initial ten identities were taken on, another ten would be installed. Keep that cycle going, and you arrive at one hundred identities per annum. Now we come to the cash involved. Dealing with it as 100 units per accommodation address - For each operative - even £100 a week would equal £1,000, equals £50k per annum; for the office manager - £20k p.a.; for the local controller - £20k p.a.; for the area controller - £10k p.a. [a mere fifth of what he receives p.a.]; for the big man, Tremain himself - £10k p.a. - but from each unit! A cool million per annum for our fine feathered friend! So, to summarise, each accommodation address had 100 false identities, each identity yielding some £60k per annum, that is, £6m p.a. per accommodation address. As you’ve seen, costs for each 100 identities amount to some £200k p.a., so profit for each accommodation address was £5.8m p.a.!”.

The crowd gasped as the figures sunk in. Nodding his head as he turned the next page, the Chief spoke quietly, solemnly.

“Yes, I know. We next have to visualise what this means overall”.

Pausing while he turned the page, the Chief could feel the tension in the room, as his colleagues debated the implications in hushed tones. Finally, the Chief resumed, pointing to a series of highlighted figures on the page.

“What this means in terms of hard cash is - A total income of £600m per annum; the fraud has been running for some two years, therefore gross income equals some £1.2b. Subtract from that costs as follows - local gangs at £140k p.a. times 100 equals £14m p.a., or £28m gross; mind you, out of that the gangs had to pay their Jimbos, and though we have no idea what the exact figure would be, it would have to be something at least in the region of £5k p.a. per Jimbo, in other words a thousand Jimbos equals £5m p.a., i.e. £10m gross. 100 office managers at £20k p.a. comes to £2m p.a., £4m gross. 100 local controllers, the same figures again; 5 Area controllers at £50k each p.a. equalling £250k p.a., £500k gross; and finally, Tremain himself at a price of £1m p.a., £2m gross. A sum total of costs colleagues, amounting to £20m p.a., £40m gross; all of this leaving a cool net profit for the fraud of £5.8b p.a., £11.6b gross so far”.

An excited hubbub of noise had spread through the hall, and the Chief stood in silence, letting the overheated audience get it out of their system. For minutes he stood there quietly and patiently, till finally the noise subsided and he was ready to address the delegation again.

“As you know, at the outset of this operation, we had in mind a fraud somewhere around £100m. What we have ended up with so far is a figure at least 100 times that”. He paused again, looking gravely at the assembled teams, the people who had seen this through from its beginnings to its present state of unravelling. He spoke to them sincerely, a hint of emotion beginning to break through in his voice.

“Colleagues, the fraud we have uncovered together is the one of the most complex any of us have ever faced. It is nothing less than an assault on the very way we live our lives. The inroads we have made into the discovery and dismantling of this audacious crime are a triumph, your triumph, a tribute to your professionalism, a vindication of the skills you - we - have acquired together”.

The Chief paused, the silence absolute, the atmosphere of tension as well as pride in their performance hanging almost visibly in the air. The Chief’s voice was calm again, it was time to sound a professional note of warning.

“Our work so far in this case has indeed been remarkable, and remarkably successful too, but it would be wrong to assume that we are there, most emphatically, we are not. We still have much to do.

All of us now know the names, the faces, and most of all the method, but all of these villains, large and small have to be nipped in their nasty little buds and tucked away where they can do no more harm”.

Staring forcefully at the audience to ensure that they had got the message, the Chief had one final thing to say.

“As for the fraud itself, we still have to be vigilant against complacency. Even if we arrest everyone connected thus far, what’s to stop our enemy from digging up yet more hirelings and carrying on? After all, we may have caught some big fish - Tremain is the prime example - but the man - or woman! - himself.............”

A ripple of laughter interrupted him, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Susan smiling and blushing slightly at their private joke being aired in public.

The hall was quiet again, and he continued.

“As I was saying, the person who is ultimately responsible for this mayhem is still out there with some £11b in his pocket. That can buy an awful lot of Jimbos or Bimbos, or anything else you care to name. But of course, if he tries it again, we’ll be ready for him. It would take a long time now for him to regroup from nowhere, and we now know the way he works. If at any time he shows his hand, we’ll clobber him, sooner rather than later”.

The Chief turned the next page on his charts, then looked at the audience again.

“Of course, what would be best and safest of all deterrents is to nail the bastard, strangle him at birth before he fathers yet another Son. Unfortunately, we have very little to go on. Even our old friend Tremain knows very little, but if this so-called mastermind raises his head above the parapet, we’ll be ready”.

Already the crowd of his colleagues, sensing that the end of the conference was near, began to gather their papers and shuffle restlessly, men of action happier on their feet than their backsides.

The Chief was ready to let them go, there was now little he could add.

“Colleagues, you have a lot of work to do, so I’ll belt up quickly now. There are faces to find, people out there who need clobbering, nasty little vipers who need to be stepped on if we are to shut the shop up on this latest epidemic, this disease which is the product of a warped mind”.

The Chief paused theatrically, his eyes sweeping across the whole room, linking himself to every person in the place. “Colleagues, as I said, you have work to do. Now go and do it!”

A burst of enthusiastic applause swept the huge room, and then there was only the noise of raised voices, scraping chairs, rustling papers, and tramping feet, as the delegates to the conference fought their way to the exit doors.

The Chief himself turned to Susan, sharing a smile and a few words, her look of pride and love washing over him as they left the stage.

As they came out of the main hall into the foyer, McKay was waiting for them, his face ashen. Knowing it was unusual to see his old friend and colleague disturbed in this way, the Chief spoke to him gently.

“What is it Dave? What’s wrong?” McKay was so visibly upset he almost stumbled over every word.

“Guv, it’s still happening. It’s happening again, as bad as ever - worse even”.

McKay, a strong and pragmatic man seemed somewhat unnerved. The Chief himself couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Standing just behind him, Susan’s own face registered shock.

“Do you mean the frauds are still carrying on?” she said incredulously. Looking sheepish and little battle-fatigued, McKay nodded averting his eyes.

“The computers are going crazy Guv, the screens are absolutely filled with dodgy transactions”.

They rushed over to the operations room to study what was happening. It was true. It was as if they had done nothing to combat the fraud, the banks were leaking money at an enormous rate. Suddenly angry, the Chief grabbed his jacket and rushed for the door, Susan closely behind.

“Where are you going?” she said, unsure of her ground. The Chief was for once in danger of losing his famous composure.

“I want a word with that Pratt Tremain. He owes us an explanation. If he’s sold us a puppy...........”.

He paused there, not sure of controlling his temper. This should never have been possible, he thought to himself, his brain racing. If they had truly cracked the fraud, although it was always possible for it to be resurrected in some way, it should have been impossible for it to continue unabated. The Chief’s recent elation was now well and truly crushed. He thought of the bombastic statements he had made at conference - how foolish they now seemed! If only he could turn the clock back an hour or two, he thought wistfully. His thoughts once again hardened as he thought of Tremain. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on him.

A sleepy Tremain was roused from his bed in the safe house and bundled into a car, burly detectives surrounding him. An hour later, he sat in the interview room, indignant at this latest rough treatment, when he was supposed to be wrapped in cotton wool.

He saw the Chief and Susan enter, and knew straight away it was trouble. His mind tried to focus on what could be wrong; it was no good, there was nothing he could think of.

“Tremain” said the Chief, looking nowhere near as friendly as he once did.

“You’ve sold us a pup. You gave us the story, and it stinks!”

Piers was genuinely surprised.

“I don’t have any idea what you mean,” he said in his best aloof voice. Susan cut in.

“Don’t bother with all that crap” she said, her voice an icy steel.

“You undertook to give us all you had, and you didn’t, did you?”.

Piers was genuinely indignant now.

“Oh yes I did!” he said, “Now if this is some kind of ploy to take away the rights I gained from these disclosures and the succour I gave you, then my Solicitor will have to be called to address this very great wrong you are trying to impose upon me”.

They knew him as an indignant and haughty man, but his act, if it was one, seemed convincing.

The Chief, still breathing hard, but a little calmer now was next to speak.

“Tell me then Tremain” he said, in as measured a voice as he could muster, “If you gave us all you knew, why is the thing still running as big as ever? Can you tell me that?”

Piers looked at them both, an understanding flickering behind his bright eyes.

“Wait a minute” he said, “Just hold on there! I didn’t at any time say that all I knew covered the whole of the system. I did give you all I knew, and the results are plain to see, your relative success speaks for itself - you’ve positively basted in it! - all at my behest - I can do no more!”.

Piers looked at them, his eyes askance, his attitude critical, patronising. A light was dawning behind his eyes. He paused. He looked at them with incredulity.

“You mean you actually thought you had finished the whole thing because you had me? Very flattering, I’m sure, but you have miscalculated, my dear jailers. I did give you all I could - the fault for what you made of it all is entirely yours - what more do you want from me now?”

Even Tremain was finding the pressurised situation getting to him.

“I can see now that you just didn’t ask all the right questions” said Piers, comprehending the flaw in their approach, “You were always determined to make me feel that you both knew much more than you actually did, and this is the down side of such pretence!”

Piers sat back in his chair, his arms folded, his cold eyes glinting with more than a hint of amusement and triumph.

Susan was feeling frightened all of a sudden. Forgetting her usual disdain for Piers, she looked at him almost like a little girl, speaking haltingly.

“Are you saying that you only covered part of this, not the whole? But the sums involved..........” .

Her voice tailed off, the thought too great to take in. The Chief carried on for her.

“The sums involved are already massive, what size of a so-called system can we be talking about here?”

“As I’ve said, your own pre-conceived ideas have shot you down” said Piers, not without a little scorn in his voice.

“I thought you knew I was only one Controller, one of several”.

“How many?” said the Chief.

Piers’ reply was instant.

“Three”.

Three! The Chief felt suddenly sick. Susan’s face was ashen as they both took on board what that one word signified. That meant three times the figures already known! Piers could see how shocked the other two suddenly felt. He almost felt sorry for them himself.

“There was something else I’ve been meaning to tell you” he said, almost in consolation. The Chief looked up, his mind struggling to leave his thoughts behind.

“Yes, what’s that?”

“It’s about my contact - the man himself,” said Piers. Wearily the Chief looked at him, his voice suddenly tired.

“You said he always wore a hat and dark glasses, you never had a good look at his face, you knew nothing about him, you said”.

“That’s true” said Piers, “That is absolutely correct, but I do remember something, I remember his name, when I was speaking on the phone to him, I heard someone in the background speak his name and he involuntarily responded to the voice, so I know it must be true”.

“And what was it?” said Susan, suddenly alert.

“It was Alan,” said Piers.

“His name was Alan”.

27

The news from the Midlands was not good. Marks had been arrested, as had Tony, the local controller. Before he could be stopped, James too had walked into the trap, and had taken with him Piers Tremain, a major catch for the authorities. As well as these leading figures, there was the possibility of the associated capture a thousand operatives, as well as a nearly a hundred Accommodation Bureaux Managers and their Local controllers, then there were four more Area Controllers - all were now in severe danger. However, none of this was a complete surprise to him. He had always known this day would come, the thing he could not tell was who would fall. He did not personally know any of these people, though he knew them by name.

He was not even sorry for them, only slightly sad to see the beautiful system he had set up begin to decay, as all things must.

All these minions, both lofty and small, were themselves dispensable, he had always known they would not survive, despite the reassuring tones passed on to them about their future. It was always necessary in War of any kind to motivate the troops, even though their only real purpose was to die for the cause if necessary.

He somehow doubted that Piers would die for the cause. He had learned enough about him to know that he would barter whatever information he had for any chance of leniency in his own case. This much he knew about Piers, and he had planned accordingly. Having said that, there was nothing he could do to save the thousands who would suffer if Piers talked, which he guessed he would. All he could do was wind down the relative operation contacts and tell them it was every man for themselves.

The system had begun its first stages of disintegration, but there was still much to savour. This after all, was only one region, not the whole system. A great deal of money had changed hands, and more would still flow through the breaches. Neither he nor the system he had created was ready to call it a day. Despite the apparent setbacks, as far as he was concerned, it was all going to plan. His enemies would feel they had begun a fight back, that they had won a great victory, but as far as he was concerned, they were still pawns in his game, and there was much to play for.

As he sat in his place of solitude, drinking a glass of Asti, he afforded himself a bitter smile, devoid of human warmth. The game goes on, he thought. His enemy was no doubt savouring a moment of triumph, yet victory was still his, not theirs. But why did he feel so dissatisfied, so incomplete?

28

The rain splattered against the window of his office, ten floors up in a City skyscraper. Lost in his own thoughts for a moment, the Chief abstractly watched the pattern of the beads of water as they rippled across the dark glass. Beyond the window, it was a grey and hazy morning. Far below, the red buses, black taxis, and assorted cars, obscured by the rain, wound their way through the City, the noise below reduced to total silence by the double-glazing and the distance. A host of umbrellas seemed to scurry like termites, threading their way through the almost stationary traffic.

With a heavy sigh, the Chief turned at last to face the rest of his team, sitting there silently, watching him, their faces almost as long as the desk. They knew how he felt. The gloom lay heavy in the air.

Susan nervously played with a pencil, glancing furtively at the Chief every so often, wishing she could say a word of comfort, put her arms around him, anything. He glanced at her and smiled, his eyes tired but full of warmth for her.

“Well lads - and lassie” he said, nodding in Susan’s direction, “It seems we did get egg on our faces. But let’s not lose sight of the fact that we have made a major breakthrough. Even if we haven’t closed it down as we rather naively hoped, we have dealt it a massive blow, and as Susan has correctly stated, we now know exactly the system it operates under. If we do our work properly from here on in, we still should achieve a total meltdown”.

“Aye Guv” said McKay, his rough voice coming from a deep weary well inside himself, “But we all know how long it took to shut down what we have so far – a year! Now we have twice as much to do - how many more years does that mean, and by the time we crack it, will the Banks be closed down in the High Street? Won’t the Country be skint?”

A worried murmur of conversation sprang up briefly among the team.

“That’s unnecessarily pessimistic,” said Susan, her sharp voice cutting through the babble of noise, “It took us a year because we began from scratch, and had to work without a thing on the blackboard. Now with what we know we should be able to crack the other ‘arms’ of this in a fraction of that time”.

McKay’s assistant, a thin bespectacled man called Raymond Walker chimed in.

“Saying that, you have to assume that the fraud won’t be altered in those other ‘arms’, as you call them. They’ve played us like a violin up to now, why should they conform to your expectations all of a sudden?”

From the noise that sprang up, it seemed that quite a few of the team agreed with Walker. Listening quietly, the Chief could see that the team’s faith in its own abilities had been severely dented by recent events. He stood up from his chair to attempt to regain control, to emphasise the points he wanted to make.

“Look everybody, you know I’m as down as anyone else about what happened - I take the blame for it, I was fed a line, and I fell for it, as I was meant to”. A stream of protest washed around him.

“No Guv” said McKay, his gruff accent biting hard, “We’re not having that, are we lads?”

He looked around the table as every voice agreed with him.

“If there is a failure here, it belongs to all of us. We are a team, right?”

“Yes!” shouted the others, Susan standing and banging the table, caught up by the moment.

“Dave’s right Chief” she said, “We stand or fall together, and speaking for myself, I’m damned if this thing is going to beat us!”.

“Nor me!” barked McKay, as the voices of the rest of the team sang like an echo to his words.

All of a sudden there was a fire and commitment in the team again, the atmosphere was charged with determination and even enthusiasm, their tails were up, their will to win reignited.

The Chief just stood there, looking at them proudly, nodding with quiet satisfaction as he did so.

“Right” he finally said, “Let’s get down to it”.

The voices around him stilled, the hush expectant.

“First, we have to understand why it went wrong for us, at least in perception. As I’ve already said, let’s not lose sight of the fact that we did everything right, we closed down a hellofa operation, even with the fact that it’s only part of a whole, it was a real big bite we took, was it not?”

He paused, letting the reminder of a victory gained set it.

“What went wrong beyond that is purely to do with perception” he said. “In a way we were set up - well, we definitely were. We were fed a string of images about the operation of the fraud - local operatives; local gangs; local Office Managers; local controllers - this series of images were ones which we, as methodical people ourselves, could entirely relate to. Do you see the point?”

The Chief paused, looking up to see if his explanations were taking root. Satisfied, he continued, his voice becoming more earnest, more passionate with conviction as he went on.

“Right, a series of images. Now we’ve got to local controller; Area controller - then what comes next? Yes, we followed the Area Controller, and he led us to - CONTROLLER.. We were put on the bus and when it reached that point, as indeed we were meant to, we thought we had arrived at our destination”.

A mutter of understanding spread through the team. “Yes” said the Chief, nodding gravely as he spoke through clenched teeth. “The crucial missing word is REGIONAL”.

The buzz of conversation around the desk almost contained a grudging respect for the enemy they were trying to destroy. The Chief, sensing the mood, took up the theme.

“No, we’re not dealing with a nonentity here, are we? But let’s not forget that crooks are by nature devious, twisted, nasty-minded little vermin, and a clever crook - even a brilliant crook - is STILL a crook!”

These last few words were belted out, the Chief’s voice roaring like a cheerleader.

A roar of approval greeted him. The enthusiasm for the cause was now vigorously renewed, everyone in that room was now champing at the bit to be on the hunt. The Chief allowed himself a quiet smile of satisfaction. Confidence was totally restored.

“Yes, we are getting a good idea now of what exactly it is we’re up against” said the Chief, a grim tone to his words, “But two can play that game, can they not? Like anyone else, our friend can’t help but show his natural characteristics. It’s obvious that he is a born organiser, almost neurotically neat, labels for everything - that gives us a clue. One thing follows the other. According to Tremain, there are two other Controllers - in other words, two more complete installations of this particular fraud at work. Knowing now the kind of mind we’re dealing with here, I put it to you that Tremain was fed that piece of information deliberately for our benefit. He wasn’t lying - he was programmed. Think about it - we have seen clear evidence all around us of a very meticulous - albeit ugly - mind at work here. Why should someone be fed a line like that? Even someone as obviously high in the scheme of things like Tremain? Surely such information, if true, would be priceless to us? Why give it away for nothing? The answer of course is that ‘three’ is a red herring”.

“But if that’s true, how do we know what we are dealing with” said Walker, an uneasy feeling of doubt now surrounding the team.

The Chief spoke swiftly, not wishing to lose the momentum of enthusiasm so easily.

“From here on in, we go by the evidence of our own eyes and instincts, not our enemy’s. We identify where the action is taking place, and we follow it through to the same level as we did with Tremain, except we do it Region to Region, almost like a sample check”.

“But Guv” said McKay, “We’d just be groping in the dark, chasing shadows, putting the lights out on individual ‘arms’, as you call them, but not knowing how many ‘arms’ this beast has”.

“Not really accurate” said the Chief quickly, “We can roughly guess what we’re dealing with by the state of activity left. It might not cover everything that’s happening - it definitely won’t - but given the size that each ‘arm’ would tend to be, we can get a very clear idea of the approximate size of the total fraud and quickly snuff it out, ‘arm’ by ‘arm’ if necessary”.

“That’s right!” said Susan enthusiastically, “And more to the point, we have a methodology of dealing with each network we find. We can snuff it out”.

Looking at her with appreciation for her brains and toughness as well as her beauty, the Chief repeated her words to emphasise the point.

“Yes we can snuff it out, and quickly too, as I’ve said.........”.

Before he could quite finish his point, Walker stepped in again, a doubt still in his mind.

“Guv, can you really be sure that Tremain - and the team as well - was fed a dummy? What if there really were only three Controllers? That leaves two somewhere in the Country, but where? Doesn’t that make the two harder to find, if that’s the case?”.

“No,” said the Chief, looking hard at Walker with some impatience in his voice. “No, three isn’t the figure. For a start, we know that the roots of Tremain’s branch began in the Midlands. The reason for the final contacts being in London are clear to me - to make us think that Tremain’s area was the south Midlands and the South. That would leave the North Midlands and the North as the second ‘region’, then Scotland as the third. That’s what we were meant to think, but it doesn’t stand up if you think about it. For a start, if Tremain’s region was cleared out as it’s supposed to be, why are we still getting tremendous activity in the Midlands and the South?”

He looked questioningly at his colleagues, but they only listened quietly to what he had to say. “It seems obvious to me that the so-called ‘regions’ are divided differently to what we were meant to believe”. McKay’s deep gravel barked through the room once more.

“Guv, how many ‘regions’ would you say there were?”

“Five” said the Chief, “As far as I can guess anyway”. A gasp of disbelief filled the air. A worried Walker was the first to find his voice again.

“But Guv, we remember the figures - surely another year or two of what we’ve seen multiplied by five would cause havoc!”

An excited murmur cut Walker off before he could say more. The Chief stood again, his movement sending the team into silence again.

“Yes, but we’re going to see to it that this particular video nasty is not going to run another year or two!”

Another chorus of approval swept over him as he sat down again.

Susan was the next to speak.

“Can we define those regions with any certainty?” she asked, her voice calm and businesslike.

“Yes, I think we can,” said the Chief, welcoming her ultimate professionalism and dedication as well as looking appreciatively down her blouse.

“Region 1 - Scotland and the North; Region 2 - the West Midlands; Region 3 - the East Midland’s - Tremain’s Region, by the way; Region 4 - the Southeast; Region 5 - the Southwest”.

His eyes hardened.

“And don’t forget we are now talking about a gross fraud of something in the region of £6b” he added.

He looked at the team pointedly, letting that penny drop.

“I think that’s a fair summary,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk and scratching his head. It had been a long week.

“The activity we can monitor, combined with the known likely size of each possible Region, gives us what I think is quite an accurate picture of where we are with this,” he added, sure of his ground.

McKay’s mouth was hanging open.

“We’ve got a bloody awful load of work to do,” he said, almost thinking aloud rather than talking to anyone in particular.

“Yes we have” said the Chief, “And we already know how to do it. We split the teams into four, each takes a proposed ‘Region’, identifies the operatives and gangs, links it to an office manager, let him take us to Local Controller, then to Area Controller, then to Regional Controller, even if that’s our title rather than theirs. Then we clobber the lot - hard”.

“Guv, isn’t there a case for following through on surveillance beyond the ‘Regional’ Controller?” asked McKay, “Surely we want to cut this out at its source. Wouldn’t that save us a hell of a lot of time?” “No, I don’t believe it would” said the Chief, his face suddenly serious, “Dave, I can see your logic, I’d love to follow it through like that, but I just can’t accept the contact to the man himself being that simple. I think he’s cynical to the point of seeing everyone - even the Tremains of this World - as expendable to the cause. According to Tremain himself, he simply handed the stuff over to a courier when he was told to, and that in itself had no apparent pattern to it. What that tells me is that the courier was just a paid minion, expendable as always, and knowing as I do - as we now do - who we’re dealing with here, there would definitely be substantial contingency plans to cover anything that happened beyond Tremain. That’s not to say we can’t crack it, but my guess is that if and when we nab him it will take extreme stealth and planning, or possibly a breakthrough by paper trail or computer or some kind of link like that, some connection he - the man himself - hasn’t accounted for. I think we could follow the Regionals and the couriers forever and a day, and he would still slip out of our hands. Besides, on the purely practical front, we can’t let this fraud run and run and grow and grow while we try to catch him out - we just don’t have the time. We’ve already seen the sums involved, and we know what’s in store for us if we don’t nip this in the bud smartish. No, we go for total closedown. If we can’t be sure of cutting the head off directly, then the best we can do is to leave the head without a body. We already have the method of doing that, and more to the point, we know it works. When all five ‘Regions’ - or more, if necessary - are closed, then we examine ways of dealing with this Alexander - if that really is his name - the germ who’s caused this disease”.

The Chief stood again.

“Time to get to work” was all he said.

Outside, caught in the inclement weather and the grey haze of a winter afternoon, the crowds were hurrying home. The day was growing dark now, lights were beginning to appear in the vanishing buildings as the room emptied and lay still again, only the sound of the rain on the window remained.

29

The system was a regimented structure, but part of his brilliance was the ability to recognise when to let go the neurosis, to admit the necessity for throwing an unexpected spanner in the works. He had fed Tremain and the others with logical labels, as was his own instinct, but on a sudden impulse and burst of creativity, he had resisted labelling Tremain and his equivalents in the manner the system itself cried out for. In a moment of revelation, such as he was subject to, he realised instantly the inference that would be drawn from such a scenario. Yes, they would think that any controller they captured was one of his kind.

Going on from there, it was a simple matter to conceive feeding such controllers with information as they were likely to divulge when under caught and under pressure, as they would undoubtedly be sooner or later, whether they realised it or not. By feeding these false figures to the controllers, he planned on squeezing at least another year out of the system before the howling wolves tracked it down and devoured it whole. If, he reasoned, his pursuers were looking in the wrong places, making the wrong plans, then he and the system would have more time to clean up. Already a cool £5.8b lay in his domain, even after costs of £200m. Another year should fetch a further £2.32b.

The light was fading in the garden. Standing there at the window, he gazed across the marbled patio and beyond to where the elegant trees swayed in the gentle breeze. His mind went back to another time when she strolled in such a garden, her long blonde hair tugged by the autumn wind, her delicate fingers touching her beloved flowers more gently than a butterfly’s wings.

Tears filled his eyes, remembering. He cursed himself, turning from the window and the darkness of the evening garden glowing in the arc lights. Why must he continually fill his head with old ghosts?

She was gone, gone forever, it was as if it had never been, never happened at all. The things he dreamt of almost every feverish night were the stuff of nightmares, of things that could never be. Such days of happiness were closed to him, closed forever. He could make untold millions, billions, but he could never buy her love again, could never see her face again, she now belonged to someone else. He had been all but forgotten, as if he never existed.

His long involuntary sigh echoed through the huge and elaborately decorated room, a room that despite itself was filled with pain and silence.

30

The effect of the Chief’s strategy was immediate and dramatic. Using the same methods which had trapped Marks, Tony, and Piers Tremain, within two months they had surveillance on four crucial area controllers of the system. Each area controller was deliberately targeted at a point somewhat central to the theoretical ‘regions’ proposed by the Chief. To prove his theory, each area controller would sooner or later make contact with his own completely separate (regional) controller. If this happened, it would show that there were at least four more ‘arms’ of the system at work. If abnormal fraudulent activity carried on after the elimination of these ‘arms’, then it would seem to prove the existence of yet more.

Prior to the awaited swoop on the area controllers and their contacts, the team held a strategy meeting to ensure that no stone was left unturned, and more to the point, to try and avoid egg landing on their faces again as in the Tremain debacle.

Turning to each section leader of the team, the Chief briefly summarised the situation they now found themselves in.

“Well lads” he said, confidant and business-like, “We seem to have identified the area controllers we want, or at least, a representative sample of them, each one hopefully linked directly to a separate strand of activity”.

As he finished speaking, he looked at Susan, signalling that she, as the co-co-ordinator of the four teams, should take over from here.

Unsmiling and stern, Susan was determined to play down her love life to the team, having grown aware that everyone knew about the Chief and herself.

“Using what we learned from the seizure of Tremain and his underlings, we began by targeting the street operatives, the fodder used by the local gangs to mint the machines; from there, we linked them to the gangs themselves, and pin-pointed the accommodation addresses which were used in the scam. Following four of these to their local contact was fairly routine, and the link was also made from local to area, not without some difficulty this time - cautiousness had set in, no doubt as a consequence of our earlier action against their counterparts”.

Susan paused, shuffling through the mound of papers in front of her.

“Although we all know roughly the state of play, perhaps it would be a good idea for each section leader to give an appraisal of how things stand right at this moment”. Glancing up, straight-faced, she singled out McKay first.

“Dave, can we open with you?”

The grizzly Scot nodded distractedly as he ran through the details of his team’s work so far.

“As you say Susan, it was a fairly simple task to put surveillance on the accommodation address, the local controller, then the area controller. All this of course, thanks to you for sifting out the right contacts among the flotsam and jetsam in the first place. The state of play at the moment is that we’re waiting for a move by the area controller. What I propose is..........”

Susan butted in before McKay could finish.

“Hold on Dave, we’ll get to that afterwards when we’ve heard from everyone else”. She turned in her seat and directed her attention to Walker.

“Ray, you’ve got the South West - what’s the situation there?”

Walker, a thin serious young man who felt distinctly uncomfortable working with a female boss shifted uneasily in his chair and avoided eye contact with Susan.

“We’re in an almost identical situation to Dave,” he said, nodding respectfully at his superior officer in the team, “We followed the chain through to area level, and it’s a matter now of playing a waiting game. Everything’s in position and ready to go”.

He wanted to say more, but he had already seen McKay cut off in his prime, and was wary of sharing the same fate, especially in the hands of Susan. From the cold look she gave him as he finished, he guessed that the feeling was mutual, but it was hard to tell with Susan, she was always so cold and informal anyway - except when was lying under the Chief, he thought uncharitably, stealing a glimpse at her curvaceous figure, wondering briefly what she was like in bed.

But Susan had already moved on. Simmonds and Taylor gave identical up-dates, the whole thing was in place, just waiting, waiting. Susan could sense their impatience, their anxiety for questions as yet unanswered.

Looking at the Chief as formally as she could manage, Susan passed the chair over to him.

“Chief, as far as evidence goes, we have masses of e-mail linking the gangs to the activity on the street, and the instructions from above, so we can move as we want at street level. We know for sure that everything from this level down is nickable, even if we still don’t know how much we can reel in from here. So everything’s in place, I’ll leave you to tell us what you want done from here on in”.

The Chief smiled a small wry smile at her. How frustrating that they had to play out this charade when everyone in the room knew that they were sleeping together.

“Thank you Susan, thank you lads” he said, clenching his hands, slouching forward across the desk as he spoke, “You’ve all done well to get as far as this so quickly, and now it’s imperative we move decisively in all directions. Walker, Simmonds, Taylor - when the contact is made with the controller, jump on them all with hob-nail boots - haul them in, then begin the trawl for all the arteries which flow from your controller - all the areas, the locals, the offices, the gangs, the Jimbo’s, etc etc - and don’t forget that behind all this human rubbish is a pile of paperwork and money - accounts, offshore, cards, and most of all - cash. Get hold of some of it if you can, otherwise it’s all gone walk-a-bye for good. I’m sad to say that it’s unlikely you will be able to get hold of any - we didn’t last time after all - but we have to follow all the trails, we can’t make any assumptions. Remember what happened last time - we got stuffed!”.

Seeing the question on McKay’s face, the Chief turned to him next.

“Dave, I singled you out because through your particular network, I want to have a crack at seeing if we can reach the man himself - ‘Alan’, if that really is his name”.

The brusque Scot’s face broke into an unusual smile.

“Thanks Guv” was all he said, his pleasure obvious. The Chief addressed him again.

“What I suggest we do is when it comes down to the contact between area and your controller, we don’t seize him, we watch him. For this reason, I’m afraid your team will have to be the last one to move in any case. It will probably mean your investigation going on for a while after the others have hopefully closed everything else down - OK?”.

More than happy with the news, McKay grinned like a little boy who had just been told he could go out to play.

“Right” said the Chief, determination and steel in his voice. “Let’s close the buggers down”.

31

Within two months, three whole strands of system operation were seized and shut down. The scale of arrests and seizures were an awesome mass of operational detail and sheer hard work. In Bristol, Newcastle, and Glasgow, startled shoppers were amazed to witness scenes of major arrests before their very eyes as controllers and their area contacts were knocked unceremoniously to the ground, and whisked off with great efficiency in cars with screaming sirens in a matter of moments. Although these very public arrests were merely the high-profile tip of the iceberg, they established in the public mind a sense that something dramatic was taking place all over the Country, and for the first time since the fraud crisis had begun, details began to emerge into the light of TV day. Scenes of the dramatic arrests in Glasgow were filmed by a tourist with a camcorder, and shown on ‘The News at Ten’ and many other important programmes. Unknown to the viewers and the broadcasters, among this footage could be seen the Chief and Susan, as well as the members of the Scottish team who had planned the arrests.

However, as questions began to be asked, and media pressure steadily built, the powers that be, through the offices of Farquhar-Brown, the APACS Director-General, prevailed upon the Chief to give a press conference.

In the brightly-lit press room of APACS were crowded a phalanx of TV and press cameras, as well as a noisy host of reporters, all awaiting the entrance of the Chief and the various connected parties, mainly represented by Farquhar-Brown himself.

The buzz of conversation rose and fell quickly as the Chief entered the room with Farquhar-Brown and the APACS PR guru, a rather dapper middle aged man called Wesley Sykes.

Sykes was the first to speak, his voice only just heard through the frenzy of clicking camera and jostling for position among the reporters. In the background, the technical staff adjusted the microphones to compensate for the din.

“Gentlemen, we have called this press conference to clarify the situation regarding the recent series of arrests and your subsequent interest in them” said Sykes, stating the very obvious.

“Can I introduce you to Mr Farquhar-Brown, the Director-General of APACS”.

With that, Sykes sat back in his chair, leaving the cameras to swoop on Farquhar-Brown. No stranger to the mass media, Farquhar-Brown was completely unfazed by the battery of questions and flashing lights. Smiling his diplomat’s smile, he cut through the confusing babble of reporter’s questions with a statement of his own.

“For some time now, we have been monitoring unusually high fraudulent activity in the banking sector, with particular regard to fraudulent identities involved in the misuse of credit facilities. We became concerned primarily because we realised at an early stage that this activity was being orchestrated by a particular source. Through use of the Internet and mobile phone network, contacts and instructions were handed out on an organised basis, spreading a web of deceit and fraud of unprecedented proportions. Obviously, we could not allow this to go unchallenged, and to that end, an expert team has been working to eradicate this subversive attempt to undermine the banking system. I’m very pleased to say that we have had some success in our endeavours, hence the series of arrests which you have witnessed for yourselves in recent days”.

Hardly had he paused for breath than Farquhar-Brown was met with a deluge of questions. He smiled patiently, his public face perfectly groomed for such a situation.

“Gentlemen, I’m sure you have many questions to ask, but they would be better directed at our Chief of Operations rather than myself”. Smiling smoothly, Farquhar-Brown introduced the Chief sitting on his left. Every camera in the place was now clicking furiously, in millions of homes throughout the Country the Chief’s lean features appeared on the TV screen, his words calm and authoritative.

“Michael Johnson, ITN” said the bespectacled reporter, his mild manner belying his determination to be first.

“Do you know who is orchestrating this fraud? Is it the work of a crime syndicate?”.

“No, we don’t know exactly who is behind this” said the Chief, “But I personally believe we are dealing with one individual rather than a crime syndicate as such”.

“You mean he’s a sort of criminal Mastermind?” said Johnson, already visualising a catchy quote for the headlines.

“Well, that’s a bit emotive” said the Chief, unwilling to confer any hero status on his sworn enemy, “It was a very complex fraud, but fraudsters of all kind fall in the end, and this one is no different”.

“Does that mean you’re on his trail?” asked the man from ‘The Sun’ newspaper.

“When are you going to nick him then ?” he added cheekily, clearly irritating Farquhar-Brown whose nose twitched with distaste.

Before the Chief could answer, Nicholas Winter, a BBC reporter chimed in.

“Can you tell us how much money was involved?”

“Something in the order of £10b” said the Chief, causing another flurry of flashing lights and gasps of astonishment. Out the corner of his eye, the Chief could see Farquhar-Brown giving him and old fashioned glance. He realised that the establishment would have preferred to put a cosmetic glow on events, the truth could hurt, and he had blotted his copy book in Farquhar-Brown’s eyes.

“And have you recovered any of this money?” asked Johnson, cool and professional.

“Not as yet” said the Chief, somewhat reluctantly, as it seemed to imply failure, “But it’s early days”.

At the mention of missing money, Vic Greaves, the man from ‘The Sun’ leapt in.

“You mean to say that this geezer’s ran off with ten billion quid and you haven’t even got a sniff of him?”

Greaves smirked gleefully. As far as he was concerned, he had heard enough.

Imagining the awful headlines the next day, Sykes interjected, trying his best to deflect such thoughts.

“Really Gentlemen, as the Chief of Operations has just stated, investigations and arrests are at a very early stage, so it’s far too premature to be discussing the possible outcome at this point in time. I think the appropriate phrase is ‘Watch this space’..........”.

He wasn’t allowed to finish his words, as Vic Greaves from ‘the Sun’ finished it for him.

“Yeah, we’re watching it all right - the space is where the Mastermind and the money were - you’ve blown it, haven’t you”, he said, voice sneering triumphantly. All around him, cameras and tape recorders flashed and clicked in a sudden frenzy.

Despite any further attempts by the panel to deal with questions sensibly, the tone of the media coverage was set. Millions were missing, and a ‘Mastermind’ with it - they had the headlines they wanted.

Reading his newspaper the next day, the Chief was not particularly phased by the focus on the missing money and the man with it. The PR problem was a headache to the likes of Farquhar-Brown and the people he represented, but it was of no great interest to himself, other than the fact that it could lead to undue pressure on him eventually.

For the meantime though, he was more concerned about the state of his investigation. He was pleased with the way it had gone thus far. With the benefit of their earlier experiences, closing down these current ‘arms’ of the massive system had been conducted in a manner which was more professional by far than the closing of the first ‘arm’ of the fraud.

What was different too about these arrests compared to the arrests which closed the earlier operation was that a much more thorough surveillance had taken place. Each area controller had been allowed to make all his local contacts; each controller had been allowed to make his area contacts, the arrest only taking place when all other contacts were known. It was far more in depth than the original ‘trial run’ had been capable of.

Step by step, the Scottish region, the West Midlands region, and the South East region were closed down with ruthless speed and efficiency.

There was only one more matter to deal with now, and time was of the essence since the media were hot on the trail, and the prey would be even more on the alert than ever.

The last strand or ‘arm’ of the fraud as known had also been under massive surveillance. All the gangs, operatives, local and area controllers had now been identified, as had the controller himself. Now it was a matter of waiting for him to make the vital final link.

Weeks had gone by without action, and the team was becoming nervous. All important team members were now seconded to McKay’s team as the operation had reached a critical phase. The other snag was that although every known contact and participant

was under surveillance awaiting developments before their arrest, nothing could be done until the drama had played its final card. The cost was, of course, horrendous, and worse still, every week that went by meant more money out of the banks and into the giant system. It was galling to say the least, but until the controller made a move, there was nothing they could do but sit on their hands and stew.

It had seemed just another boring day with endless cups of coffee and tired conversation when the radio suddenly crackled with McKay.

“Guv, it’s go” he said, taciturn as ever.

Instantly the adrenaline was flowing as the team including the Chief and Susan assembled themselves at the point of surveillance, a large house in the best part of Southampton, where the controller, Martin Boswell lived in some style.

As Boswell cruised through the busy streets in his Lexus luxury car, a series of anonymous vehicles took turns at following him while others waited equally anonymously at pick-up points along the way.

The radio crackled again.

“Guv, he’s just gone into Farnham Securities - it looks like a deposit box job” said McKay gruffly.

Driving at some distance behind the convoy, the Chief betrayed his own anxieties.

“Keep back, let him do what he’s got to do, don’t interfere” he said. At the other end of the radio, McKay looked at the radio in his hand with disgust, then glanced at his assistant.

“Do I look stupid?” he thought, bristling with indignity, “Right” he said, in place of saying nothing at all. Perhaps the Chief was just hyped up.

Shortly afterwards, Boswell came out of the building again, and

this time the Chief was wise enough to leave McKay to organise things his way. McKay turned his attention to Walker.

“Ray, you take half of the lads and keep an eye on Boswell. The rest of us will stay here and watch things this end”.

“Sure Boss” said Walker, hurriedly getting on Boswell’s tail as he roared off back towards his house, it seemed, though everyone involved in this investigation had by now learned to take nothing for granted.

The Chief’s voice crackled in McKay’s handset.

“Dave, can you get in there and find out what the score is - what has he left etc? Also, arrange a signal with the Manager in there so that we’ll know for sure if and when we’ve got a bite”.

Slightly irritated at the interference in what to him seemed obvious procedure anyway, McKay just barked “Right!” into the radio and signed off without further comment.

Immediately he headed into the luxuriant foyer of Farnham Securities, where he was met by a rather pompous receptionist.

“Can I help you?” she said, looking at the rather drab figure of McKay with cool disdain.

“I want to see the Manager - immediately!” barked McKay without ceremony. The Secretary’s aloof demeanour was dented by McKay’s ID card, and without further delay, she nervously contacted the Manager to appraise him of the situation.

Within moments, a thin Mediterranean looking man with a sallow face rushed into the foyer, smiling unconvincingly at his visitors, extending his hand to McKay.

“Hello. I’m Mark Webster, how can I help?”

McKay shook his hand without enthusiasm, and explained what he wanted. Clearly nervous, the Manager took McKay through to the deposit boxes and with two silver keys, he opened the box which Boswell had used only moments before.

Inside was a bulky package of envelopes. A cursory glance showed that they contained mainly application forms and correspondence made out to a variety of names. It was just as McKay had expected. Putting the package back in place, McKay turned to the Manager who was fidgeting nervously, trying to imagine what to tell his superiors, McKay quickly gave him his instructions.

“What I want you to do is signal us by telephone as soon as someone calls to take away the contents of that box. We’ll be waiting outside. Do you understand?”

McKay’s voice was at its stern best.

“Yes, of course” said the Manager, his voice dry with tension.

They did not have long to wait. A motorbike courier pulled up outside and soon after he entered the building, the phone rang. It was Mark Webster.

“He’s emptying the box now” he said in a shaky voice. “He’ll be leaving any minute now. He’s wearing a.......”.

McKay interrupted him brusquely.

“Yes we know. Thank you for your help”.

He switched the hapless Manager off before he could clutter the airwaves any longer. Quickly he called the Chief.

“Guv, it’s a go” was all he said.

“Right” said the Chief, “I’ll be with you any moment now”.

Just as the Chief pulled into sight, the courier was roaring off in his revved-up motorbike, overdoing the throttle manipulations in a reckless urge to show his doubtful macho tendencies. With some subtlety, gained by years of practice, the team slid in behind the would-be Barry Sheen, following him through winding streets without giving away themselves away.

Given the choice, none of the team would have opted for following a motorcycle, for one thing, they were fast and mobile, for another, there was always the chance of them disappearing down a particularly narrow pedestrian walkway where a car couldn’t go.

Nevertheless, they stuck to their task, and if necessary, they had the ‘flying eye’ of a helicopter should it be required as a backup.

Eventually, the cyclist came to rest at a modest house in the suburbs of the Town. As the team drifted around the house, the rider vanished inside, only to reappear just a few minutes later. The Chief despatched some of the team to follow the rider, while himself, Susan, and McKay & company stayed on watch over the house.

While the main team sat on their hands, waiting with growing impatience, Walker and the rest of the team pursued the courier at a safe distance while he took a leisurely cruise out of Town and into the countryside.

For miles upon miles they followed him, the day growing darker now, his figure on the saddle becoming vague, obscure. They were all tired. It had been a long day. Soon, the rider pulled into a council estate and adjacent to some lock-up garages. Whistling casually to himself as the team watched with myriad eyes, he produced a set of keys and opened up one of the lock ups, then swiftly deposited his bike in there. It was easy to see why he needed the security, thought Walker. One look around the estate could tell anyone that anything with wheels that wasn’t supervised was going to be wheel-less come the morning.

They followed him up the decrepit stairways and turd-filled passages till he reached a crummy door, its paint long gone, disgusting splashes of God-knows what covering its pathetic exterior.

Walker called the Chief.

“Guv, our friend is to ground. It’s a run-down council estate - it looks like he’s settling down for the night. He’s wandering around swigging a beer and he’d down to his string vest”.

“Just hang on there till I give the signal Ray” said the Chief, but as he spoke, a courier suddenly arrived at the house he was watching. The Chief hurriedly signed off.

“Ray, something’s occurring here - we’ll keep you posted”. The Chief clicked off the signal from Walker, and turned to Susan and McKay, nodding their understanding. Switching on his transmitter again, the Chief addressed the rest of the team who surrounded the house.

“OK, when this joker comes out, we split again - Dave and his team stay here with Susan and myself, the rest go with Simmonds after the courier”.

An echo of voices acknowledged the Chief’s command, and they sat quietly in wait for the next move, their minds suddenly alert.

They didn’t have long to wait. Moments later, the courier emerged and set off at a cracking pace, followed by Simmonds and his team. Sometime later, they came to rest at a smart cottage deep in a rural setting. Again, the rider vanished into the house, only to emerge within a few minutes. It was becoming like a game of cat and mouse. As he roared off once more, the team was once again split. Liaising with the Chief, and with his agreement, Simmonds took charge of the team who remained with the house, while Taylor and the rest followed the rider on his mysterious journey.

Back at the first house, now that the Chief and his team had heard from Simmonds about the latest movements, anxiety was beginning to set in.

“How long can this go on?” said McKay, his doubts echoing those of the Chief himself. The Chief shrugged, knowing that nothing he could say would be relevant or helpful.

“What do we do now?” asked Susan, her lovely eyes half-closed with exhaustion.

“First, we wait” said the Chief, though he knew everyone in the team had really put up with enough for one day, “Give it a few more hours” he said, aware of what he was asking of them.

Time passed. Darkness had come, and with it, the urge to sleep. All of the team were struggling to keep awake, something had to give. The radio suddenly sprang to life, making them all jump. It was Taylor, who had followed the second courier.

“Guv - the courier has been at rest for half an hour, but nothing else has happened”. The Chief wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. “What kind of place has the courier stopped at?” he snapped with irritation in his voice. He wanted to know what new problems he faced.

“It’s a hotel - a very up market hotel about five miles outside Rustington” said Taylor. It had been a long night for him too.

It was midnight now, and the Chief decided enough was enough. He addressed Taylor first of all.

“Get into the hotel, grab the courier and anyone else in his vicinity. Go through the guest list and check everyone out - and I mean everyone - don’t let anyone - and I mean anyone, staff included - don’t let them leave the premises till the check is complete. Is that understood?”

“Yes Guv” said Taylor, glad of the action, secretly excited by the prospects offered by the hotel - definitely not the kind of place a courier could afford. Perhaps glory could be his tonight, thought Taylor.

Meantime, back at the town house, the Chief had made contact

with Simmonds, who was still outside the house in the country, waiting for the word to go in. The Chief didn’t mince words.

“Simmonds, get in there now. Grab the occupants and the

package - don’t let anyone give you the slip”.

“Don’t worry Guv,” said Simmonds confidently, “No-one is going anywhere without us on their backs”.

The Chief switched his transmitter over to general transmission. “OK everybody” he said, “It’s a go, I repeat - it’s a go”.

With his words, a last rush of adrenaline coursed through the limbs of the tired watchers as they sprang suddenly into decisive action.

Outside the council flat of the first courier were stationed Walker and his team, and in very short order they charged the decrepit door and knocked it to smithereens. Inside, a very shocked courier was slouching on the filthy bed, dressed in only his string vest and grubby underpants. He had been smoking a joint and listening to heavy metal. Before he could move he was pushed with no great finesse onto the floor, his face stuck like glue to the ancient decrepit carpet.

Meantime, miles back along the road, the occupants of 43, King Henry Avenue were asleep in bed when the door crashed spectacularly open. The elderly couple in bed were clearly distressed and shocked when The Chief, Susan and McKay suddenly occupied their bedroom.

In the house in the country, the two young homosexual occupants were rudely awakened by a host of cars outside, then a sudden commotion at their door. Without warning, the fashionable door flew off its hinges, blasted to one side like a piece of matchwood. Lights everywhere came on, and there was the sound of men swearing and shouting, pandemonium was breaking out. Simmonds and his men were breaking in. The two young men clung to each other in fright, one of them breaking down.

In a quiet country lane, the majestic hotel, which had been settling down for the night, was suddenly besieged as if by the SAS. Lights and unusual noise intermingled with raised and unfamiliar voices, filling the long corridors, while the elegant foyer was a scene of chaos as Taylor and his men took command of all operations and movement.

Meantime, standing in the town house among the belated protests of innocence from the elderly bespectacled man and the wails of woe from his roller-haired Wife, the Chief was trying to make sense of all that he had heard and seen that night. As he stood there distracted, stroking his chin, allowing his mind to wander among the debris of the evening, the radio suddenly crackled to life. It was Simmonds at the country house.

“Guv, we’re in, but as we blagged the house, we had another visitor, another courier. When he saw us giving it what for, he tried to make a run for it, but we nabbed him. Just thought you’d want to know”.

The Chief felt suddenly sick. He got the picture now. It had already been a long day, but the questions were just beginning.

32

The search of the house in the Town proved entirely negative as regards new information. Other than the surveillance that had confirmed the delivery of the package, there was nothing there whatsoever to connect the people who lived in the house to the fraud that they found themselves caught up in.

As for the first courier - only the surveillance of the deposit box and the houses could link him fairly and squarely to the fraud. In both cases, the only proof was surveillance, nothing else of value had been discovered. The interviews could possibly yield more fruit, provided there was any more to be had. The Chief thought it unlikely.

The second courier had been caught in his underpants at the hotel, but he was alone, and he had nothing incriminating in his possession. Every guest and member of staff at the hotel was thoroughly checked out, but no one there seemed of dubious origin or identity, though checks would necessarily continue for some time.

It was in the second house, the house in the country, that Simmonds and his team found the package that the couriers had collected and despatched.

“Why was it still there?” asked Susan, rhetorically.

“Obviously to lead us on a wild goose chase” said the Chief with some bitterness in his voice. He cursed himself for not being more vigilant and aware. He should have realised that it had been too easy to think he could pin his opponent down by normal standards of surveillance. Once again he had been unnecessarily complacent, he thought.

Piece by piece, his interviews with the house occupants and the couriers revealed the safety measures for what they were - a remarkable series of precautions - so excessive as to be paranoid - precautions designed to minimise the possibility of capture. From the separate accounts of the couriers and the occupants of the houses, the Chief slowly pieced together what those safety measures were.

It was a sober meeting the morning afterwards in the cold light of another day. To most of them it felt like the same day. Some of the team had been up all night interviewing the couriers and occupants. The Chief and Susan had not been to bed, not even to sleep.

They were both annoyed and frustrated, and not just because of the sufferings of their rationed love lives. It was true to say that the team now had the success of closing down the system which had opposed them, but their main target - the big fish - had effortlessly slipped away with the money.

With bleary eyes, the Chief addressed the team assembled together in the high-rise office building. Talking as if from a great weariness, the Chief tried to describe the events of the last few days.

“How did he avoid us?” he said, his eyes sad, his voice tired but defiant, “It worked like this - courier one picks up from the deposit box. He takes the package to a designated house. He leaves, and goes straight to his own home. When he gets there, after a pre-determined interval, he calls a number by mobile phone and says one word - ‘Safe’. The person who gets the call is the second courier. Neither knows anything about the other, all they have is a telephone number each and the signal. If the second courier had not received the signal, he would not have set out. But having received the signal, the second courier collects the package from the house and delivers it to house number two. He then sets off for a very plush night in a five star hotel, all at company expense, and all for our benefit, the point obviously being that we are meant to think our Mr Big is staying there”.

A muttering began among the team as they began to get the point.

“Yes” said the Chief, the expression on his face serious, “The package remains at the second house, which is what we would expect, but because of the hotel, we are faced with a double bluff - is our man - the man himself - in the house or in the hotel?

Meantime, the courier in the hotel rings a phone number and says that word again - ‘Safe’. On that signal, another courier - a third - calls at the house. As it happens, by the time this happened, we had played our cards in any case, but knowing what we know now, had we waited a bit longer it wouldn’t have made the slightest bit of difference. For this third courier was another red herring, a decoy. Not only is he a decoy, but any numbers of couriers can call at that second house, and any one of these can leave empty handed. Each courier receives a signal - ‘Safe’ - and this is the instruction which tells him to set out to pick up a possible package, and he doesn’t know until he reaches the house if he will receive the package or not. If he doesn’t, his instructions are to then proceed to his home, and after a time transmit the word ‘Safe’ to the next courier whose phone number he has. Needless to say, all the phone contact numbers are licensed to non-existent customers, nor do any of the numbers held by these phones link to anything remotely like an actual person or address - a dead end there” said the Chief, knowing no-one in this room was surprised by that news.

After a sip of ice water, the Chief continued.

“Somewhere along this chain - it can be at any point - a courier is selected to actually collect the package, and the house occupants are informed of this by the one word over their phone - ‘Safe’. As soon as they hear that word, the holders of the package know that they must give it to the next courier who calls. The courier who gets the package has a previous instruction that tells him what route to set out on, and what to look out for. Before each job, each courier is given a new instruction like this, each one different, individual, so that there are at any time a variety of options for the gang to operate under”.

Susan could not resist butting in.

“Then this selected courier is met somewhere along that route, and delivers the package which is then driven some distance, then changed over at least once more before reaching its final destination”. The Chief looked at her appreciatively.

“Yes” he said wearily, “From what we’ve gleaned from our three couriers - regulars with ‘the firm’ - it would seem likely that very soon after it was delivered to men in a car, a helicopter took the package on its final lap of the journey”.

He sighed, and looked up at the tired faces of his team.

“It also seems that once the ‘active’ courier is on his way with the package, his progress is monitored by helicopter as well, and presumably at the same time, the traffic behind the courier is analysed for safety”.

“The idea of the earlier couriers is, as I’ve said, to make a series of decoy runs, hopefully with the pursuers in tow - and that’s precisely what happened to us, my friends!” said the Chief, a rueful grimace crossing his strained features.

His face still tense, he looked at the team meaningfully.

“In other words lads, once again we were handed a donkey, and we fell for it, or at least, I did”.

Nodding sadly in acknowledgement, the Chief continued.

“OK, we failed so far in our attempt to get the man himself, but we have - I think I can say - successfully closed down a very major fraud - no mean achievement, and there’s still a lot of investigations going on, they might yet yield something significant”.

No one in the room believed that, least of all the Chief himself, but he somehow couldn’t leave it on a negative note with so much having been achieved by himself and the team.

“Three couriers and four house occupants were arrested last night,” said the Chief, “As well as the final controller. That means our attempts to shut the fraud down have been entirely successful”.

“Cheers!” he said, lifting a glass of ice water as a tribute to his friends and colleagues. With a great shout, they did the same.

There was still much work for the team to do. The exciting stuff seemed to be over, but there was still all the legwork to do, all the checking on papers trails and closing of fraudulent accounts, as well as the pursuit and arrest of hundreds, even thousands of individuals who had become embroiled in this enormous fraud. There was the hunt for the ‘Mastermind’, and of course, the cash, all £5 ½ b of it.

As for the Chief himself, although he was sorry to not have captured his prey at this time, his thoughts were mainly on the coming evening, and a date with Susan. It promised to be very interesting indeed.

33

From a Sun-drenched balcony he watched the waves breaking on the shore. It made him think again about the course his life had taken. How different it had all turned out! What had happened to that rather idealistic young man who hoped to be an accepted and even celebrated citizen? Looking back sadly, he realised that he could barely recognise his own self, he had become someone else, someone else who was almost the exact opposite of everything he had stood for, he had become a complete negative of the man he had once been.

Irritated by his inner thoughts, he realised that they were being fuelled by the unexpected collapse of his system. In just three months it had vanished under the ocean. It was supposed to stand up for another year at least.

He realised that his false signals had not been successful, they had not bought him the time he had planned for. His respect for his opponent had grudgingly grown in these last few weeks too, though he also recognised his own arrogance had a part to play. Had he been less secure in his own ability to outfox his opponent, he could easily have made plans to re-create the system as it stood, confusing the opposition, and thereby gaining the time and cash he had originally planned for.

As it was, thousands were under arrest or being hunted, and the system was in tatters, the flow of money ceased. The ill will created by the sacrifice of these thousands of employee’s would be considerable. He knew that it would be difficult to secure the co-operation of crime syndicates from here on in.

Even now though, there was much to do. There were still foolishly loyal, though expendable minions who were at this very moment feverishly collecting cash linked to offshore accounts that were in severe danger of closure and loss of valuable deposits. By the very nature of the essentially cash transactions, necessary to disguise the trail, the job was a massive one. Luckily, it was a job that had been constantly in hand since the beginning of the system just over two years before, so the task was well on its way to completion. The equally daunting task of putting the cash back into the banking system as ‘clean’ money was also well in hand, so at least the income which the system had generated was completely safe for the foreseeable future.

Still, the sudden disintegration of the system was a warning to him that forces out there - more than likely one person - were formidable too. He could now begin to imagine something of what his opponent was like. Perhaps, he thought, it was good that the system linked to that opponent was now defunct. At least the battle had ended evenly, he decided. His opponent had achieved the total closure of the system a year or so before it was scheduled to end. As for himself, he still had his freedom, and he had something else too -he had the cash.

34

Another evening in Finsbury square. Once again, the rich cigar smoke filled the huge conference room. The elegant table was lined once more with the great and the good. At the head of the table, Farquhar-Brown was making his report to the committee.

“Gentlemen” said Farquhar-Brown, his cultured voice booming richly in the chandeliers, “I am pleased to report that the unusual level of fraudulent activity has ceased. There have been some thousands of arrests, and I can categorically state that this particular fraud is at an end”. With a smile of self-satisfaction, he paused, which gave enough time for Lord Sefton to intervene.

“So the fraud is closed down - congratulations are due - but what about the proceeds? Where is the money?” he asked in a voice of indignation. Murmurs of agreement rippled around the long table.

Farquhar-Brown was at his urbane best.

“Gentlemen, as we speak, investigators are still following the paper trail through a maze of accounts. We must await the outcome of their deliberations”.

Speaking from the far end of the table, the squat and rather ugly Chairman of Coutts, Bankers to the Queen spoke with accusation in his voice.

“You say that there have been thousands of arrests - but tell me, do any of these arrests include the ringleader of this gang?”.

Farquhar-Brown smiled benignly, his face a perfect mask.

“We certainly have many of the key players - the top five players in fact, as well as almost everyone from there down. Some are in custody at this very moment, others are being sought - enquiries are continuing apace”. Farquhar-Brown smiled again, hoping this would suffice.

Another High Street Bank Chairman, Lord Wetherby was next to speak.

“You’re avoiding Lord Sefton’s question - have you or have you not got the so-called ‘Mastermind’ of this operation behind bars?”

Farquhar-Brown wriggled uncomfortably, not particularly willing to admit anything negative.

“It is true that we do not at this moment of time have the perpetrator of this fraud behind bars, but we are on his trail - we know his name, for instance, and it’s only a matter of time before we close the case. The main thing is, the threat to the banking system has been removed”.

Mutterings of discontent spread among those at the table.

“As long as you have someone like that at large, there will continue to be a threat” said Sir James Telfer, the Chairman of Yorkshire Bank.

Farquhar-Brown smiled his oily smile again, his best reassuring

tones in operation.

“Rest assured Gentlemen, we will leave no stone unturned till we find the person who is responsible for our misfortunes”.

Grunts and noises of vague satisfaction came from the assembled hordes as they settled happily back into their vintage port and cigars.

35

Once again he was summoned to the great marble and glass halls of Finsbury Square. In the reception area of the Director-General’s office he waited patiently, familiar with such routines.

“Ah, there you are!” beamed the Director-General, stepping grandly from his office with a weak handshake, “Come on in!”.

The Chief shifted uneasily in his chair, not particularly comfortable with the pomp and ceremony that seemed to him to have no real practical purpose other than to pamper the occupants of such offices.

Smiling a Cheshire cat smile, Farquhar-Brown professed an amiable stance.

“Well well, I think we can say that it was a task carried out with distinction”.

He waited in vain for the Chief to say something, a comment perhaps, but the Chief remained quiet. He felt he knew what was coming, he had been here before.

Farquhar-Brown pretended not to notice the Chief’s indifference to his charm.

“I must say you deserve every praise for the work you did in closing down this veritable attack on our institutions”. Again he waited for a response, but there was none. Farquhar-Brown decided to get down to brass tacks.

“You have performed a valuable task, and now it’s over, it’s time to return to normal duties”.

The Chief had expected this, but still felt impelled to protest.

“The job isn’t done” he said, his voice brimming with stubborn determination, “We haven’t succeeded in identifying nor capturing the person whose scheme this really was. OK, we’ve closed down operations thus far, but what’s to stop this person - if he wants to - starting all over again with a slightly or even drastically altered system? I really must insist we finish the job and track this person down, otherwise it will come back to haunt us, mark my words”.

Farquhar-Brown was tired of diplomacy. After all, he was now dealing with a mere subordinate, not a Captain of Industry.

“You will cease all operations in this matter as from today,” he said, his voice petulant and now devoid of diplomacy, “You will return to your normal duties, as will everyone else on the team that was assembled for this purpose. The local fraud investigators and police can now take over the reins and tie up any loose ends that there may be”. Farquhar-Brown looked pointedly at the Chief.

“Is that clear?” he said unambiguously.

“Yes” said the Chief reluctantly, knowing there was no way out, “But when this comes back with a vengeance, don’t say I didn’t tell you so”.

With great force, the Chief threw his pile of papers on the Director-General’s desk and walked out of the room before Farquhar-Brown could say another word.

Alone in his office, the Director-General muttered to himself in indignation.

“Stupid man! Why doesn’t he understand?” he said to no one but himself.

Outside the Chief was stamping along Finsbury Square, trying to control his temper and his contempt for Farquhar-Brown. It wasn’t all over by any means, he thought.

It had only just begun.