Cowboys and Indians (22 page)

Cullen flapped the sheet. ‘So they turned their backs on twenty million pounds?’

‘They’d received over one hundred and fifty million by that point. Against my will, I should add. Jonathan forced me to sign off their invoices. He would come into my office when I refused, screaming and shouting. I just made sure I had his instructions in an email to cover myself.’

‘So he was a bully?’

‘Of the worst kind.’

Cullen exchanged a look with Bain, getting a shrug in reply. ‘Why was he bullying? What were UC Partners up to?’

Ferguson reclined on the Chesterfield and stretched his arms along the back. ‘It’s complicated.’

Bain dumped his mug on the antique table, missing the tray by a foot. ‘We’ve got time, pal.’

Ferguson smoothed down his goatee yet again, like he had lice. ‘A management consultancy like Schneider trains up skilled resources and charges them out at a high rate, say a thousand pounds a day for the lowest rung of the ladder. They report to managers, who report to senior managers to directors, who report to partners like Wayne Broussard. Basically, a pyramid scheme.’

‘What’s the charge-out rate for a partner?’

‘Five thousand a day.’

‘A
day
?’ Bain shook his head. ‘Definitely in the wrong job.’

Cullen leaned forward. ‘What are you getting at here?’

‘UC employed the same model. Except, instead of one thousand a day for an analyst-level employee, they’d invoice two grand.’

‘Definitely in the wrong—’

Cullen butted in. ‘Is the resource twice as good?’

‘See, that’s the thing. What they were doing was back-charging contractors as consultants. They’d bring in self-employed resource, similar to myself.’

Bain snorted. ‘I’m not following you, pal.’

‘I contract myself directly with the bank, through my limited company. Cuts on their pension costs and so on.’

‘And you earn more money?’

‘Well, there is that.’

‘Definitely in the wrong—’

Cullen clenched his fists. ‘So were they any better?’

‘Don’t get me wrong, some of them were excellent, but there’s just not the same consistency as with the Big Five.’

‘They’re better?’

‘And they have a chain of command. I can ask someone to do something and they’ll just do it.’ Ferguson rubbed his temples. ‘Listen, after they paid the contractors the market rate, UC scalped the profit off the top.’

‘How much would these people cost?’

‘The market rate’s five hundred a day.’

‘Definitely in the wrong game.’

Cullen shot another glare at Bain. ‘Right, so they took in two grand and paid out five hundred.’ He frowned. ‘They were creaming off fifteen hundred a day in profit?’

‘That’s right.’

Ferguson nodded. ‘And they had over two hundred onboard.’

Bain whistled. ‘Ten grand each and every day.’

Cullen cleared his throat. ‘A hundred grand.’

‘Jesus.’ Bain shot up an eyebrow. ‘A
hundred
?’

Cullen got to his feet. ‘Was Mr Van de Merwe involved?’

‘The rumour was, VDM owned a third of UC.’

‘Thirty-odd grand a day from his own programme?’ Cullen frowned at Ferguson. ‘Who else owned UC?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Who might know?’

‘William Yardley.’

‘We need this on the record.’ Cullen folded his arms. ‘Can you accompany us down to the station?’

Ferguson checked his watch. ‘Look, I’m supposed to meet my lawyer soon. It’ll be after five before I’m finished.’

‘Ask for me at the front desk at Leith Walk station as soon as you’re done. Call me if you can’t make it.’

A man in an Alba Bank polo shirt was swiping a mop across a brown puddle on the sandstone. The smell of cleaning fluid mixed with the sweet tang of cola. He glanced up at Cullen and Bain, before going back to his work.

The corridor opened into an open-plan area at the end. A sign swung from the ceiling, blown about by air-conditioning breeze. Operational Transformation Programme.
 

Bain crushed his can of WakeyWakey. ‘What’s up, Sundance?’

‘You did better with Ferguson than last time. He didn’t try to kill himself.’

‘Cheeky fucker.’

‘You keeping quiet helped us get what we needed out of him.’

‘Come on, give me that invoice and I’ll show you how it’s fuckin’ done.’ Bain snatched the sheet and strode across the wet flagstones, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the dry floor.

Cullen followed, raising his hands to the cleaner. ‘Sorry about that.’

Bain was leaning over Lorna’s desk. ‘Morning.’

She titled her head to the side. ‘Can I help?’

‘Mr Yardley’s not in his office.’

‘He’ll be in a meeting.’

‘Any danger you could track him down for us?’

‘Sure.’ She glanced at Cullen. ‘I’ve set up some time with Jenny Stanton about that … stuff.’

‘Can you arrange it with one of my DCs?’ Cullen scribbled his number on the back of a business card. ‘His name’s Stuart Murray.’

‘Will do.’ She took the card, carefully placing it by her iPad. ‘Oh, I spoke to Oliver Cranston.’

Bain snorted. ‘Who’s he?’

‘Wayne Broussard’s number two. He got a call from him last night.’

‘Where is he?’

Lorna pointed at the room next to theirs. ‘That office there.’

‘Cheers.’ Bain powered across the corridor and knocked on the frosted-glass door. He pushed it open, not waiting for a response. ‘Mr Cranston, we need to speak to you.’

Cullen followed him into the office and lurked near the entrance. A square meeting space, twenty young men and women sitting around a table covered in laptops. Sharp suits, salon hair.

Oliver Cranston nodded at his team around the table, eyes blazing at Bain. More than a passing resemblance to Ewan McGregor.

Oliver grinned at his team. ‘Guys, can you give us the room?’ An indistinct accent, traces of Belfast.

The man next to him led the others out, laptop under his arm.

Bain nodded over. ‘This is DS Cullen.’

Oliver offered a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Cullen shook it — not quite the ex-forces grind of Alan Henderson, but not far off — and took his seat, still warm. Aftershave and perfume mixed, ocean smells blending with spices.

Bain sat opposite, sandwiching Oliver between them. ‘Gather you’ve had word from your boss?’

Oliver snapped his laptop shut. ‘Last night. Broussard’s cancelled my holiday.’ Clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that.’
 

‘Why?’

‘Does there have to be a reason?’ Nervous laugh. ‘I’m pissed off. It’ll pass, I suppose.’

‘He’s done this before?’

‘A few times, usually for no reason. Thinks he’s doing me a favour. Developing my career. Putting me in front of the other partners.’

Bain folded his arms. ‘So, in response to my question, I take it you have heard from him?’

‘I passed on the message to call you guys.’

‘Any idea when he’ll be gracing us with his presence?’

‘He’ll be here sometime next week.’

‘That’s not soon enough.’ Bain got out his notebook. ‘He wouldn’t have anything to do with Mr Van de Merwe’s death, would he?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Think about it. His old best mate dies in mysterious circumstances. Guy’s pissed off at how much your boss is charging. Nobody knows where he is, supposed to be hunting bears or wrestling crocodiles or whatever. Sounds like someone running away from something.’

Oliver reached into a briefcase for a sheet of paper. He slid it over to Bain. ‘His PA dug out the flight manifests for the eighteenth of April. Wayne flew from Edinburgh to NYC. Into JFK. BA. First Class.’

‘That’s convenient.’

‘Wayne expected this. He
was
on that flight.’

Bain pocketed the sheet. ‘Let’s talk about UC Partners.’ He got out the UC letter, already dog-eared and tattered. ‘You know anything about this?’

‘Before my time, I’m afraid. I rolled on in January when we took over from UC.’

‘But Mr Broussard was here before that?’

‘He had a team of five supporting him. He was advising Sir Ronald on delivery and helping with some other matters.’

‘Such as?’

‘Providing industry best practice.’

‘Broussard was an old mate of Mr Van de Merwe, right?’

‘They knew each other, yes.’

‘Were they in cahoots?’

‘Of course not. Look, Wayne used their connection as a route in to Sir Ronald. It worked.’

‘Did Broussard kick this UC lot off?’

‘Wayne wasn’t happy with them.’ Oliver closed his laptop. ‘He kept pressuring VDM to sack them.’

‘And did he?’

‘Wayne took his concerns to Sir Ronald in December. They were gone within a week.’

There was a knock on the door. Lorna frowned at Cullen. ‘That’s William back in his office now.’

*
 
*
 
*

William Yardley pounded a fist off his desk. Then tore his other hand through his ginger hair. ‘Listen to me. I’ve never heard about any of this.’ Full-on Southern drawl.

His office door juddered open. Lorna hurried across the carpet, clutching a coffee, nodding at Cullen as she put the beaker in front of Yardley. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks.’ He sucked at the cup. ‘Guys, I need to attend a meeting.’

‘You’ve just been to one.’

‘Do you want to see my diary? I’m full up for the rest of the week.’

‘No, you’re not.’ Bain blocked the door. ‘You’re answering our questions here or down the station. Your choice.’

‘I don’t have to—’

‘No, you do. Do you want me to detain you? Not done it for a while, but I can still remember how to read you your rights.’

Yardley slumped into his seat. ‘Ask the question again.’

‘Was Mr Van de Merwe a partner in UC?’

‘Look, I know nothing about that.’

‘We’ve heard he was.’

‘This is a man’s life you’re stomping over. His reputation. His legacy. You can’t just do that.’

‘He’s a murder victim. We need to find out who killed him.’

Yardley slammed his cup down, sending coffee spraying through the hole in the lid. ‘Did these rumours come from Martin Ferguson?’

‘We can neither confirm nor deny.’

‘So it was him.’ Yardley shook his head at Lorna. ‘What are you still doing here?’

‘Facilities are hassling me about their meeting room.’ She bit her lip. ‘Nobody’s been in there all day.’

Cullen smiled at her. ‘Thought I told you to release it?’

‘Oh, okay.’ Lorna left the office.

Bain watched her go, narrowed eyes locked on Yardley. ‘So you’re saying there’s nothing in these rumours?’

‘To the best of my knowledge.’

‘But you were here when UC were onsite, right?’

‘I never met the owners, though.’

‘Excuse me?’ Cullen glanced at his notebook. ‘You’ve been on the programme for two years and, in all that time, never met one of the UC partners?’

‘God damn it, will you listen to me? I don’t know anything about them.’

‘Did they wear masks in meetings?’

Yardley yanked the lid off his coffee and flopped it down on the desk. ‘My understanding is the firm’s partners were silent.’

‘So if the owners weren’t here, who managed their resource?’

‘They had a guy onsite. He was managing the entire programme. Big Scotch guy. Used to come to all of the meetings. I think his title was Delivery Manager or something.’

‘Was he a partner in the firm?’

‘Not that I know. I mean, he could’ve been.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Stephen Nicks. I don’t have his number.’

Cullen got up and paced the room. ‘And all this time, they were creaming off a few hundred thousand a day.’

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Simple maths. Two hundred employees at fifteen hundred a day.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. I don’t look after supplier management or finances. UC were fired because they weren’t performing. We needed to restructure the finances of the programme as we shifted into delivery. They weren’t the best fit.’

‘So you moved to Schneider and IMC?’

‘We swapped one firm out for two. Lowered the consultancy spend and moved our cost base overseas.’

‘Was Mr Van de Merwe a partner in UC?’

‘What? God no. Did Ferguson—’

‘Are you?’

‘God damn it! No, of course I’m not.’ Yardley gulped coffee. ‘This is ridiculous.’

‘You should know we’re looking into the ownership of the business. Two names unaccounted for. If we find out—’

‘Get out of here!’

Cullen got to his feet. ‘If we find out you’re involved, this won’t look good.’

‘Get out.’

Cullen looked around the Incident Room. He spotted Eva at a desk near the door. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

She turned to a fresh page in her notebook. ‘Go on.’

Cullen crouched down, his knees creaking with effort. ‘Can you look for a Stephen Nicks? He used to work for UC Partners.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Cheers. Have you seen Murray or Buxton?’

‘They asked Holdsworth to arrange a meeting room for them. Think it’s about this City of London stuff.’

‘Weren’t you looking into that?’

‘Stuart took it off me. They’re in room Six.’

Cullen got up, his knees creaking, again.

‘Sarge, wait a sec.’

He spun round. ‘What’s up?’

‘Been going through these emails like you asked? I found one sacking UC Partners.’ She handed him a sheet, stabbing a finger at a highlighted section. ‘Martin Ferguson sent it to a generic email at their domain. And a Paul Vaccaro.’

‘This is good work. Any idea who he is?’

‘I’ll add him to the hunt, Sarge.’

‘Cheers. Getting anywhere with Van de Merwe’s Gmail account?’

‘Charlie’s on it. Reckons hell’s gonna freeze over before we get it.’

‘Keep on him. And dig into any emails he received from Vivek Sadozai. And Wayne Broussard.’

‘Aye. Still nowhere with finding him.’

‘Cheers, Eva.’ Cullen left the room and jogged down the corridor. He knocked and entered room Six.

Buxton and Murray were leaning against the window frame. Their eyes shot over to him.