Denise Mina - Still Midnight

Morrow felt the sudden urge to giggle hysterically. They had all attended the lecture about VAT fraud after the Halligan case collapsed but, unlike many of the presentations they were given, the facts stuck in everyone’s mind because of the grotesque amounts of money: a single businessman committing a paper fraud had netted £15 million in a three month period, a group of three in Birmingham got fifty million in ten months – £1.5 billion cost to taxpayers in one year alone. The numbers were staggering but even more amazing were the clear-up rates: two million recovered in the same period, a tiny portion of the theft.

Everyone hated the cases because the facts were so hard to present to a jury. There was hardly any evidence, the goods were either tiny silicone chips or phones or non-existent. The paper trail evidence was dull, companies and subsidiaries shut down and opened up, directors changed their names and worst of all, most of the perpetrators were small businessmen, shopkeepers, nice men, familiar types, not meaning to hurt anyone, just telling lies on forms. Juries couldn’t stomach sending them to jail.

Two million pounds ransom was nothing to a VAT fraudster. Two million was two day’s wages. Two million was exactly what unprofessional idiots with no firearms experience would ask a VAT fraudster for, a quick skim from a deep pool. Morrow saw that Bannerman understood and she felt for him suddenly. It was an important case. A clumsy resolution would colour his entire career.

‘Hm hm.’ Billal nodded at Morrow. ‘Listen, thanks for last night, I meant to say, Meesh said you were great with the baby…’ He was thinking about Morrow’s breasts, his eyes flickered down and up and he blushed, stumbling over what he was going to say. ‘So… thanks.’

‘No problem.’ She grinned, not caring, then looked at Bannerman to redirect the questioning.

Bannerman looked a little ill. ‘Does your brother have an office? Where does he run the business from?’

‘Out the back. There’s a shed…’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Do you want to…?’

‘Yes.’ Bannerman sounded very tired. ‘Please.’

Billal stood up and Bannerman and Morrow copied him, following him to the door and out into the hall. He tiptoed through the hall, past the soft call of Meeshra’s snores, through the back hallway to the kitchen. There were a couple of other doors leading to other bedrooms but they were shut and the hallway was dark. As they passed through the kitchen Morrow noticed a fat green book on top of the microwave, and stood on her tiptoes to read the title: The Rattlebag.

The back door was old, not replaced by a white plastic UPVC but an old wooden door with glass panels that looked original. Billal took a key from a tin on the worktop and opened it, leaving it wide as he stepped out into the garden. Paving slabs had settled unevenly, sticking up at the corners, sliding into the earth, a graveyard on judgement day. Billal stepped carefully, putting his hands out to steady himself as he walked across, and Bannerman stepped gingerly after him. Morrow hung back. They had looked out here when they searched the house but it was dark and they had all assumed the garden was more shallow than it was. The space was quite deep but a gnarled old tree in the foreground hid a section against the back fence.

Ahead of her Bannerman stood on the corner of a paving stone, tipping the slab down into a puddle of muddy water hidden underneath. A sudden spring of grey water engulfed his beige suede shoe. Bannerman stared at his foot, slowly raised it and shook it out, spitting curses. Morrow padded after him across the choppy garden.

‘Bollocks,’ he said to his foot.

‘’S a shit turn of events,’ she said kindly. ‘Sorry for ye.’

Billal was waiting behind the knobbly tree, in front of a brand new shed of orange wood with a tar paper roof. The same colour as the fence behind it, the shed was well hidden. The door was shut with a big padlock.

‘Em, I don’t have a key though.’

Bannerman had a wet foot but his shock had subsided. Morrow tried to lighten the mood: ‘Know what that’s called?’ She pointed at the padlock.

Billal guessed, ‘A padlock?’

‘A homing device for heroin addicts.’

Billal laughed politely and looked at Bannerman. Bannerman wasn’t smiling. By now he was not only disappointed at the direction of the case but livid. He snatched the padlock. ‘Mr Anwar, we’re cutting this off.’

Billal raised his hands and stepped away from the shed door. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, looking sorry. ‘Absolutely fair enough. Wire in.’

Bannerman stepped down the side of the shed and looked in the high window. His mouth tightened miserably and he turned back to Morrow. ‘Call and get some SOCOs down here. Tell them to bring evidence bags.’

Morrow didn’t mind that he was talking to her like that, or that he was issuing orders. She did exactly as she was asked.

When the cops arrived Morrow and Bannerman stood to the side while they donned their latex gloves and got the metal cutters out of a bag.

‘Fuck,’ muttered Bannerman, almost to himself.

Morrow touched his forearm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

He looked grateful. ‘Fuck.’

‘It might not be…’

‘It is,’ he said, watching the cops clip the padlock open. ‘It’s a fucking VAT fraud and it’s going to get taken over by the Fraud Squad. And like half their fucking cases it’ll end in a ton of paperwork and a hung jury. My arse’ll be in a sling.’ They pulled their latex gloves on and went for a look in the shed.

Disappointing. No dead bodies or loaded shot guns. Just a small desk, a chair, a filing cabinet at the back and a small hard drive sitting on the floor and a long orange extension flex which presumably could be used to reach back to the house and provide power.

The shed was so new it still smelled of seasoning wood. Omar had left it fairly plain, furnishing it with a small Ikea white plastic desk, a chair and a single grey filing cabinet, second-hand judging from the dents in the side. A month by month wall planner had been pinned to the wall but was devoid of appointments. A sheet of stickers was lying on the desk, event markers. The sheet was complete.

On the desk a Celtic mug with a broken handle was being used for two pencils and a biro. The desk had a thin layer of white dust on it, undisturbed. Even the chair had dust on it.

‘Oh.’ Billal stood in the doorway looking in, disappointed. ‘I thought it would be busier. He spent a lot of time in here, I just thought… I dunno.’ He was looking at the filing cabinet, the only object of promise in the room other than the hard drive. Bannerman followed his gaze and went over to it, opening the top drawer and finding it empty. He opened the second drawer. A set of accounts books still in the sealed clear wrapper.

In the third drawer down by the floor he pulled out two cricket magazines and, rummaging at the back, a copy of Asian Babes. Billal saw it and seemed shocked.

Bannerman stood up and pointed at the hard drive. ‘We’re going to take this, OK?’

Billal shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘Because it may have something on it.’

‘Sure, sure.’ He shrugged again. ‘Take whatever you want.’

Everything was bagged and tagged and loaded into the van. Billal had finished his prayers and came out of the bedroom looking calmer, ready to see them out. He stood at the door and signed the evidence receipts for Bannerman. Morrow made a point of shaking his hand.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Bye.’

‘Where does your brother do business with?’ she asked.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Where does he import from? Does he ever have dealings with Arabic countries?’ She was asking to find an anomaly in the pattern, to give Bannerman hope. VAT fraud was an EU crime.