Cowboys and Indians (36 page)

‘Were ICM better or worse than UC?’

Wayne sat upright and jabbed a finger in the air. ‘Don’t start me on them.’

‘Struck a nerve, have I?’

‘Just don’t get me started on those guys.’

‘I’m afraid I just have, sir. What does it stand for?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Nobody seems to. Please, continue.’

‘Look, there was a murky grey area around that whole thing.’ Wayne drummed on the table. ‘You know something? One of the outlaws is joining IMC once his golden handcuffs with UC are off.’

‘Who?’

‘Paul Vaccaro.’

‘He’s an equity partner, right?’

‘Hence the handcuffs. Got six months to sit on his ass, then poof! He can join a competitor. Supposed to be heading up the UK operation. High six-figure salary’s what I hear.’

‘How does this relate to what you were telling us about how much they were creaming off the top at Alba Bank?’

‘I’m not following you?’

‘Your deputy told us they made about twenty million. Why bother having another job if you’ve made that sort of figure?’

‘I wouldn’t expect a little ant like you to—’

‘A little
ant
?’

‘Sure. You’re just skirting round for crumbs. Do you know how much—’

‘You can’t call me an ant.’

‘Course I can. Just avoid aardvarks.’ Wayne shook his head. ‘This game’s all about power. Money’s secondary, shows how much power you got. You know how much I took home—’

‘Do you know where we can find him?’

‘Paul’s fishing, drinking and fucking.’

‘Where?’

‘He’s renting a farmhouse near Edinburgh. Place called Cramond.’

*
 
*
 
*

Something nudged Cullen’s arm. ‘Wake up.’

‘Mmf?’ Cullen blinked his eyes open. Bright sunlight. They were bouncing down a farm track, cows in a field to the left, opposite neon-yellow oil seed rape. ‘Where are we?’

‘Vaccaro’s house.’ Murray pulled up in front of a gate, a mishmash of trees and shrubs behind a gap in the leylandii. ‘Nice sleep?’

‘Feels like I’m coming down with something.’ Cullen stretched out and yawned. ‘This where—’

‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘Loads of stuff came out of your mouth when you yawned. You’re a snake.’

‘It’s just this thing I’ve got.’ Cullen unclipped his seatbelt and shrugged it off. Loosened his shoulders. ‘Let’s get this shit started.’ He got out of the car and yawned again. ‘Christ.’

‘Sure you’re okay?’

‘Aye.’

‘Your funeral.’ Murray opened the gate and crunched up the path to the big old farmhouse, stone with a rendered extension. He knocked on the door. ‘Better be in.’

A man pulled open the front door, head tilted to the side. He tightened the belt of his cream dressing gown, cut up with green stripes. Silver hair but a boyish face underneath. Rounded. Chubby. Just like George Clooney. ‘Yes?’

‘Police. DC Murray, DS Cullen.’ Murray flashed his warrant card. ‘Paul Vaccaro?’

‘That’s me. What do you want?’

‘Need a word inside, if it’s all the same.’

Vaccaro held the door open. ‘In you come.’ He trudged through the hall, adjusting his belt. ‘What’s this about, gents?’

Cullen followed him into a living room, his eyes itching.

Vaccaro sat on a sofa and checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to head up to Dundee in about an hour.’

‘We’ll be quick.’ Cullen perched on a winged armchair. ‘Do you know a Martin Ferguson?’

Vaccaro sniffed. ‘Worked with him at Alba Bank.’

‘You were the UC Partners lead there, right?’

Vaccaro frowned. ‘I headed up the HR programme. Martin was on the Ops programme.’

‘We found his body yesterday afternoon.’

‘What?’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘He’s dead? Really?’

‘I’m afraid so. Surprised you haven’t heard.’

‘Sorry, I’m on a sabbatical just now. Trying to switch off from all that.’

‘We understand you engaged in certain activities with him?’

‘That’s very euphemistic. Come, come, Sergeant, BDSM isn’t a crime. We were conducting consensual acts. Among adults, I hasten to add.’

‘Mr Ferguson seemingly died during one of these acts.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Where were you on Thursday night?’

‘Here.’ Vaccaro sniffed. ‘Some ladies came round to keep me company.’

‘Prostitutes?’

‘Did I say that? It was an entirely innocent visit.’

‘I’ll get some officers to corroborate your story, if you give us their names.’

‘Shall I just print the email?’

‘Whatever works.’ Cullen leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. ‘Did Mr Ferguson participate in these activities?’

A deep frown twitched on Vaccaro’s forehead. ‘Martin was a very enthusiastic occupant of a gimp suit.’

‘We also found Jonathan van de Merwe’s body on Sunday morning.’

‘Jesus Christ. Nobody told me. What happened?’

‘Pushed from Dean Bridge. Other than that, we don’t know.’

Vaccaro bit his lip.

‘We found his sex room. Mr Ferguson had been there.’ Cullen gave a smile. ‘Will we find your DNA there?’

‘Probably. We were in the same ring.’ Vaccaro leaned back, the dressing gown riding up. ‘That sounds so seedy.’

‘Where were you on Saturday night?’

‘Same story as two nights ago. Here, balls deep in—’

‘Again, I’d appreciate some proof.’

‘Sure thing.’

Cullen made a note. ‘We understand you were an equity partner in UC.’

Vaccaro frowned. ‘Why are murder detectives interested in who owns what?’

‘There may be a financial motive to his death. Are you a partner?’

‘Why are you interested?’

‘We believe Mr Van de Merwe was engaged in fraudulent activities.’

‘Well, I don’t know anything about that.’ Another frown, held this time. ‘I was just the Managing Director, just an employee. I didn’t own any equity.’

‘Who did?’

‘Jonathan had a third.’

‘We know that. Who else?’

‘I only know one of them.’ Vaccaro sighed. ‘Wayne Broussard.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen leaned against the wall of the interview room and glanced at his mobile. He looked at Wayne Broussard, then over Bain’s shoulder at the recorder winking on the desk. ‘Mr Broussard, I’m suggesting you take legal counsel here.’

‘And I refuse it.’ Wayne put a boot up on the table. He tapped at a frat ring on his right pinkie, arcane symbols scored into the metal. ‘I studied at Harvard Law School. I know my way around the law.’

‘Can you put your foot down, please?’ Cullen waited until he complied. ‘American law’s very different from Scots.’

‘Just get on with it.’

‘If that’s how you want to play it.’

‘I’ve got a conference call in half an hour. Be quick.’

‘You’re not getting out of here until we’re done.’

‘That so?’

‘Mr Broussard, we believe you’re an equity partner in UC.’

‘That’s good.’ He laughed. ‘Vaccaro told you this, right?’

‘I can neither confirm nor deny that.’

‘He’s lying. I’m not involved.’ Wayne licked his lips. ‘What evidence have you got?’

‘We’re assimilating it as we speak.’

‘You know Vaccaro has a share, right?’

‘Our understanding is that isn’t the case.’

‘Bullshit it is.’ Wayne clamped his lips together. ‘Look, son. I’m a partner of Schneider Consulting LLP. It’d be more than my job’s worth if I got into bed with a bunch of cowboys like UC. The other partners could sue me.’

‘What about for a third share of twenty million pounds?’

‘You little ant, do you know how much I make—’

‘Are you a co-owner of UC or not?’

‘Of course I’m not.’

‘But Mr Van de Merwe was?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So he used his position to rip off his employers?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How could he get away with it?’

‘Politics.’ Wayne shone a smile at them. ‘Jon’s boss, Alan Henderson, sponsored the programme. That disaster happened on his watch. Sacking Jon would show how little attention he’d devoted to three hundred million.’

‘We understand the CEO sacked them?’

‘
I
kicked them out of Alba. Sir Ronald just listened to my advice. He heard what he asked to hear. Replace UC with my firm.’

‘And you used it to your advantage?’

‘That’s not a crime. It was all signed off by Jon.’

‘I hear he wasn’t the most diligent.’

‘Not my problem. I submit into their process. What they do’s nothing to do with me.’

‘You’ve no guilt about exploiting this situation?’

‘It’s what I do for a living. I’m the best at what I do.’

‘We’ve found some transactions Mr Van de Merwe received from an IMC subsidiary called Indus Consulting.’

Broussard gave a shrug. ‘Greedy men take anything from anyone.’

‘Thought you said it’s only about power?’

He shrugged. ‘Jon was a bit different.’

‘Who else is an equity partner?’

Wayne glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I really need to get on this call soon.’

‘Tell us who else owns equity in UC.’

Broussard licked his lips. ‘William Yardley.’

Methven stopped outside the top-floor flat and tightened his stab-proof vest. ‘I shall lead here, Sergeant.’

‘Fine with me.’ Cullen sucked in breath and waited for the two black-suited uniforms to join him. ‘Right, here we go.’ He knocked on the red door and waited.

It flew open. William Yardley stood there, frowning and red-faced. Lines creased his eyes, looking like he’d aged a year in a week. ‘What?’

Methven stepped forward into the doorway. ‘We need a word with you about your interest in UC Partners.’

He snorted and widened the door. ‘Come in.’

‘I’d rather do this down the station on the record.’

‘Look, Sergeant, I’m stretched to breaking here. I’m trying to hold this programme together with my bare hands.’

Cullen glanced over at Methven. Got a shrug. He nodded at the uniforms. ‘Stay here. Nobody leaves, okay?’ He followed Yardley through to a library, oak shelves filled with dusty books. A large table dominated the middle, just a laptop and green reading light on top. Sheets of flip chart paper covered the opposite wall.

Methven unstrapped his vest as they walked. ‘This is quite some place, sir.’

‘It does me during the week.’ Yardley pointed at a sofa by the window. ‘Please, have a seat.’

Methven sat on it.

Cullen stayed by the door, near the uniform blocking the exit. ‘I thought you lived in Peebles?’

‘Just at the weekend. My wife’s taken the kids back to the States for a couple of weeks.’

‘Is this a recent thing?’

‘Left on Tuesday.’ Yardley sat at his desk and shut the laptop. ‘Let me get this straight, you think I’ve got an equity share in UC Partners?’

‘We believe you and Jonathan van de Merwe co-owned the company.’

‘Have you got any evidence?’

‘Just two witness statements naming you as an equity partner.’

‘That’s not a whole heap of beans.’

‘You should talk to us.’

‘No.’

Methven got up. ‘This is getting us nowhere. Let’s do this down the station.’

‘Officer, I seriously can’t spare the time.’ Yardley waved a hand at the wall. ‘Can’t you see how busy I am?’

Methven gripped his arm. ‘Come on, sir.’

‘Look, I’ll tell you what you want to know. I just need to work.
Please
.’

Methven let go of Yardley’s arm and tapped his watch. ‘I’m giving you a minute to explain.’

‘What do you want to know?’

Cullen locked his gaze, holding it for a few seconds. ‘How much have you made through this scheme?’

‘Aren’t you listening? I’ve no idea who owns UC.’

‘What about Mr Van de Merwe?’

‘Well, maybe I heard a few things about that.’

‘What, that he owned the company?’

‘Maybe.’ Yardley collapsed into his desk chair. ‘You guys think I killed Jon, right? Why would I do that?’

‘Killing him allowed you to take ownership of the UC bank account in the Caymans.’

‘Where are you getting this from?’

‘We can’t say.’

‘I just want to deliver this programme. That’s it.’

‘Are you denying you knew about this fraud?’

‘Listen, I found out what Jon was doing last year. I tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t. I went to Alan Henderson about it. Tried to get Jon sacked.’

‘What happened?’

‘Henderson knocked me back, said Jon’s too ingrained in the bank. I don’t know what went on between them, but, next thing I know, UC got kicked out. Schneider were running things and IMC got brought in. Made my life a lot harder.’

‘Not sure I believe you weren’t involved.’ Cullen smiled. ‘Big house down in Peebles. Nice flat here.’

‘Alba pay for these. I get a decent salary, but it’s all going on the mortgage on our place near Sevenoaks.’

‘So you’re saying you don’t co-own UC?’

‘Of course I don’t.’

‘If it’s not you, then who’s the other partner?’

‘Wayne Broussard.’

‘Right, that’s enough.’ Methven hauled him to his feet and waved to the uniform at the flat door. ‘Constable, can you escort this gentleman down to the station?’

Yardley stood stock still, resisted the tug at his arm. ‘You need to speak to Wayne, not me!’

‘You’re playing games with us, sir. You think he’s landed you in the shit, so you’re dropping him in it.’ Methven folded his arms. ‘I’m sick of this. We’re going to prosecute you.’

‘Listen.’ Yardley shrugged off the uniformed officer. ‘Look, this won’t stand up in court, but… One of the guys I kept on from the UC team saw all this stuff on their walls.’

Cullen frowned. ‘On the whiteboards?’

‘Right. It was the money trail. How the money went from Alba Bank to their UK account. Then over to the Caymans. Then BVI. Then a few other places.’

‘This isn’t helping us solve a murder.’

‘I know.’ Yardley let out a deep sigh. ‘Look, I don’t know who owned them, but the ultimate owner of the company was in the UK. Based in Canary Wharf. Triple-V Holdings.’

*
 
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