Fox had been given carte blanche to employ financial specialists from outside the police force. The International Fraud Investigation Unit in Lyon had also been put on the case.
He was working on two theories: one, that a group of international investors, or even a foreign government, were trying to organise a single power base from which to operate and were unconcerned about the legality of such an action; or that the funds came from a criminal organisation which was patiently building up a massive power base from which to operate.
Fox was inclined towards his second theory, the very thought of which seemed to send Sutcliffe into a flat spin. Fox was forbidden to use the internal mail to contact his superior and instead hand delivered a report twice a week. Sutcliffe never failed to stress the possible repercussions should word of their investigation leak out.
The first real breakthrough had come in the same week as the unit was set up, when Customs in Gibraltar discovered three million pounds in cash in the suitcases of a Samuel O’Sullivan arriving on a plane from Rome. They had not detained him as all his paperwork was valid. After a phone call to a local solicitor, mentioned in a letter which O’Sullivan had handed them, the name of the bank to which the money was en route had been revealed, together with O’Sullivan’s Mallorcan address. As a routine precaution, Interpol had been informed and, in turn, had passed the information on to Operation Vagabond.
The only reason for O’Sullivan to be in possession of such a large amount of cash, instead of transmitting the money by bank transfer, was to cover its source. A cash amount of that magnitude would arouse the suspicions of any legitimate bank. However, the Gibraltar bank confirmed they were expecting the money and that they knew the account holder. They were not obliged to divulge anything more.
Fox tried to investigate the source of the money and the bank which received it. He came up against laws in Gibraltar which were as protectionist as those in Switzerland. His only hope was to delve into the background of Samuel O’Sullivan.
He had a record of petty crime; had served a year’s sentence for handling stolen goods. However C11, the Criminal Intelligence Unit, had now come up with a name connected to O’Sullivan’s which aroused Malcolm’s curiosity. He found it more interesting than anything which had happened so far on the investigation.
Sam O’Sullivan’s employer was Erick Elgberg.
The name sparked instant recognition with Fox who remembered how smoothly Elgberg’s man had bribed two of his Knightsbridge colleagues with holidays to the Seychelles.
Malcolm Fox got out the old file on Mirage Consulting and started a major investigation of everything related to Elgberg. After two months he felt he knew the man better than his own wife.
At the end of July, Fox was informed that a Mrs Ann Dockett had been stopped in Swiss Customs on her way to deposit a large sum of money in the Zurich Bank, having flown in from Rome. Her husband was serving a sentence for bank fraud. She lived on Mallorca. It was not much of a connection, but still worth taking seriously.
Things were coming together, he thought. He obtained a photograph of Ann Dockett through the passport office and got it enlarged, studying it in minute details. She looked an attractive if ordinary woman, but probably she had been picked for these very attributes. Whoever employed her – Erick Elgberg? – would rely on her ordinariness to enable her to travel alone and unprotected carrying large amounts of cash.
He decided to go to Copenhagen, where Elgberg had lived before he moved to Mallorca. Tim Larsen, a prosecuting police barrister, met him at the airport and took him to the Politigaarden, headquarters of the Copenhagen Police. This was a large angular building with a circular cemented yard in the centre and offices on four floors filled with heavy furniture. It had a musty, depressing atmosphere.
Larsen had prepared a file in English on Erick Elgberg’s activities in Denmark. He told Fox to read it and come back the following day when he would try to answer any questions.
Fox spent the rest of the day digesting the file. Erick Elgberg, as he had suspected, was the same man he had come across in newspaper reports on a share scandal in Denmark, nearly twenty years before. Things were finally slotting into place.
Next day Fox lunched with Tim Larsen at a restaurant on Raadhuspladsen, the central square in Copenhagen.
During their preliminary conversation, Larsen explained he had known Elgberg and his wife very well.
‘I can’t say if he’s your man,’ the Danish policeman said, ‘but if you are looking for someone with a broad understanding of business finance and an immensely strong motivation, he could be.’
‘What’s his motivation?’
‘He served a five‑year sentence when he was about twenty‑eight or twenty‑nine. What the report does not say is that he was at that time a rising star in Scandinavian industry and commerce, with strong support in the press. Then, without warning, he was publicly disgraced. If that had not happened, he would today be at the very top of Danish business.’
‘I remember it vaguely,’ Malcolm said. ‘It even made the British press, which doesn’t usually bother with European news. Certainly not in the Sixties, anyway.’
‘It was the biggest scandal we ever had. I was the investigating officer. When it finally came to court, I acted as the police barrister. Our legal system is different from yours.’
‘So you knew Elgberg well?’
‘Very well.’ Larsen hesitated. ‘I don’t mind saying I actually liked him very much.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he is a likeable person: intelligent, charming. And I would say honourable in his own way.’
‘But you think he could be the man I’m looking for?’
‘Very possibly. But he must have found someone else to provide the funds. Even Erick could not have amassed such a fortune in a relatively short time.’
Fox tried to read Larsen’s expression. ‘Have you any idea who provides the funds?’
He shrugged. ‘No one in Denmark, I am sure, could control that sort of money. Not many people in Europe, come to that. I think that is your problem, huh?’ He raised his hand to the waiter, indicating that lunch was at an end.
Fox knew he would not get any more information from Larsen. He left the restaurant deciding to go for a walk, to think over what he had heard.
Suddenly he remembered that he had left his umbrella under the table. Although in Copenhagen the sun was shining, he was due back in London that afternoon and might need it.
As soon as he entered the restaurant, he saw Larsen standing in a telephone booth at reception. After retrieving his property, Malcolm walked close to the booth, pointing the umbrella to Larsen and making gestures of forgetfulness. He waved back, notebook in hand. Fox frowned. If he were using a notebook to find a telephone number, it had to be one he did not know by heart.
Fox’s gut instinct was that Larsen was phoning Erick Elgberg. But surely he would only know Elgberg’s phone number if they were still friends? Not if he’d lost contact with him or only been in contact a few times a year.... But why? To warn Elgberg that the British police were on his trail? If that were true, it was Fox’s best clue yet.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
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The Cave, Mallorca, Monday, 10th August 1987
At midday on Monday, 10th August, Erick received a phone call from Tim Larsen in Denmark. Larsen informed him of a visit by a British Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox, who was investigating suspicious stock market movements in England.
As soon as he’d put the phone down, Erick dialled John’s secret number in France.
‘Give me a day and I’ll find out what’s going on,’ he said. Erick had no choice but to put down the phone and spend an anxious day wondering.
John immediately got in touch with Arthur, and put him in the picture.
‘The Clarks have contacts in the force. I’ll tell them to pull all the stops out, photograph whatever documents they can get access to in this office
, so we can see exactly what kind of problem we’re facing,’ Arthur suggested.
‘OK, but make sure there’s no sign of any interference. We don’t want this Fox to know he’s on to something.’
Two days later, Erick was waiting for John in the Marseilles bar. He was half an hour late.
‘Just had to be sure you weren’t followed,’ he explained when he finally arrived.
‘Was I?’ Erick looked nervously around.
‘I don’t think so, not this time, but be on guard from now on. The police are skilled in shadowing, as I know to my cost.’ John lowered his voice. ‘My people have found out how much this special squad knows. It’s quite a lot, but because we haven’t broken international laws or had any official complaints made against us, they can’t make any link between us personally and the companies we control.’
‘There should be no way they can do that,’ Erick protested. ‘We’ve covered ourselves pretty well. So are we still going ahead with the meeting in Cannes?’
‘Yes.’ John sat back, staring at the ceiling. ‘We’re only days away from achieving our goal, Erick. No Inspector Plod is going to stop us now.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
_________________________
London, end of August 1987
The day Malcolm Fox returned from his trip to Denmark, he felt sure that someone had been through his papers. He’d had his suspicions before, when some of them had been disorganised, but he’d thought perhaps another member of the team had had reason to go through them without telling him. Now he had the feeling that there was more to it than that. His file on Elgberg had been interfered with, he was sure. He decided to withdraw it and keep the latest information from his team.
He did not notice the tiny UIR receiver in the floorboard which made it possible for someone to listen in to conversations taking place in South London from as far away as Chiswick.
A few days later Fox delivered his weekly report to Sutcliffe, based on Tim Larsen’s information.
‘As you’ll see, there’s hardly anything about Elgberg’s activities over the last three or four years. He’s not been seen outside Mallorca, apart from holidays on his yacht, but seems to spend all his time with his wife in a rather strange house built into the side of a cliff.’
‘We could be looking at something which is only the tip of the iceberg,’ Sutcliffe said glumly. ‘We estimate at least three hundred million pounds have been used to build up a controlling interest in these companies. It could go past a billion. Larsen told you Elgberg does not have that kind of money.’
‘Yes, but he’s our man,’ Fox said impatiently. ‘And through him, I might be able to flush out the identity of the real Mr Big. Go with me on this one, at least until I’ve investigated him further...I want to go out to Mallorca.’
‘I don’t pretend to understand much about all this,’ grumbled Sutcliffe, ‘but Higgins has a hunch it could be some big tycoon who’s swanning around right under our noses. He could be doing this simply to shore up his existing business interest – there might be nothing political about it. This Elgberg could just be involved in some money laundering operation which isn’t part of our brief at all.’
‘No, I don’t go along with that,’ said Fox defiantly. ‘I’ve a gut feeling on this one. Try to keep the Home Office off our backs for a few more weeks and I’ll come up with something.’
Sutcliffe drew deeply on his stale‑smelling cigar. ‘I hope you’re not barking up the wrong tree with your gut feelings this time, Fox. There are at least twenty candidates for our Mr Big right under our noses, and you want to waste time on some Mediterranean holiday.’
‘Sir, I want permission to spend just a few days on Mallorca. If I don’t turn anything up within three days, I’ll start looking into high‑profile financiers, you have my word.’
‘Uhm,’ Sutcliffe sighed. He began to go through the rigmarole of lighting his cigar while Fox waited, fists clenched. Eventually the Chief Inspector succeeded and took a deep puff, blowing thick blue smoke in Fox’s direction. ‘All right. Three days. But make sure you tell the Spanish Police and Interpol.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
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Cannes, France, Friday, 28th August 1987
Erick and John met at eight o’clock in the morning in a pavement café on the corner of Rue Buttura opposite the Cannes Film Palais des Festivals to discuss the coming meeting.
‘Today the price of the Jensen shares will be finally agreed,’ Erick began. ‘The Jensens want two hundred and sixty‑five million. We’ve offered two hundred and fifty. It’s a battle of nerves, but their representative wouldn’t have come if they weren’t prepared to negotiate.’
‘That’s still a huge amount.’
Erick grinned. ‘It’s only money, as you used to say. I’ve arranged loans to cover eighty per cent with various banks and have the letters of confirmation with me. The rest, depending on the final price agreed, will have to be paid into an account as soon as possible. I’ve moved Osov’s payments over to Gibraltar, together with all other receipts. You personally will have to sign a transfer tonight for the agreed figure to be put in a special account with Jensen’s Swiss bank so we can validate the payment with his legal people. The courier is already in Cannes, waiting to transfer the money when everything is finalised.’
‘Where exactly is the meeting to be held?’
‘The Carlton Hotel. Seven o’clock.’
‘Very convenient.’ Erick wiped his hands on a napkin, hiding a smile. ‘But there’s one snag. Jensen was suspicious about Purcell’s financial backers as he realises his brother‑in‑law couldn’t do it alone so Jensen had to be told it was me who backed it, supported by other investors. Jensen can’t be at the meeting tonight. There’ll be his son and their three lawyers, Purcell, Thomas Wren and his wife, the barrister. When we’ve agreed the amount and arranged to deposit it, Conrad Jensen will visit me on Mallorca. He wants to make sure his company will be in safe hands. And then you will have achieved your life’s ambition.’
‘Another delay,’ sighed John. ‘That’s all we need! But we’ll have to go along. Make this visit soon, and invite George von Fritzenberg as well. That might make Jensen believe your investors and the banks are backing the deal. All that’s needed is the perfect setting and charming hosts.’
‘What about Randolph Purcell?’
‘As he’s here today, you’ll have to invite him also to Mallorca or he’ll feel left out. Anyway, he and the Jensens are family.’
Erick suddenly shivered and looked up to see a solitary cloud in an otherwise blue sky. ‘I hope nothing goes wrong.’
There was a moment’s silence before John said, ‘You’re right. Sir Conrad Jensen’s signature on that document will mean I’ve achieved everything I set out to. I suppose that’s worth waiting a few days for.’
John squared his shoulders. ‘Give me the papers and I’ll sign them when you’ve got the final amount agreed. I’ll be in the restaurant, waiting for your call. By the way, who is this courier?’
‘Ann Dockett. You remember the helpful bank manager of Osov’s? She’s his wife, and rather attractive.’
‘Then I can give her instructions direct as soon as it has happened. Ask her to join me at the Carlton.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
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Palma de Mallorca, 8th September 1987
On his motor bike Sam O’Sullivan followed Malcolm Fox’s taxi to the Nixe Palace Hotel in Cala Mayor.
He waited outside while Fox checked in. When he saw the policeman disappear into the lift, he entered the foyer, waited until the receptionist’s back was turned and glanced at the register. Fox had checked into Room 34.
After Sam had reported back to The Cave, Erick unlocked a small cupboard in his office and lifted out a telephone. The line was registered elsewhere on the island and a converter made sure that no one suspected its use. In the unlikely event that it was bugged, a scrambler
had been attached so that conversations could not be understood.
He dialled a French telephone number, gave brief details of Malcolm Fox’s whereabouts and listened to his instructions.
* * *
On the morning of Wednesday, 9th September, Malcolm Fox entered the police station in Palma. He waited outside the door of Sergento Branco’s office on the third floor while a loud conversation in Spanish went on inside. Suddenly the door opened and a man strode briskly towards him.
Branco was a portly man wearing a sharply cut silver grey mohair suit. ‘Welcome to Mallorca, Inspector Fox,’ he said effusively, showing his visitor into an adjacent office.
Fox handed him a report, translated into Spanish, which summarised the investigation so far.
Branco waved it aside. ‘I will read this later. For now, I am completely at your disposal.’ He smiled. ‘You may have heard my superior just now. He tells me the Spanish Police alone are to investigate any matters to do with Senor Elgberg.’
Fox sighed and gave him a brief run down on his investigations to date.
Branco shrugged. ‘Okay. If you think there is something – how do you say – fishy in all this, how can we help?’
Malcolm decided to come straight to the point. ‘What do you know about Elgberg?’
‘Only that he has an unusual house and is hardly ever seen. He has some staff, but we have not found anything that could be of the slightest interest to you or to us.’
‘I believe that house is the nerve centre for a criminal investment operation,’ Fox said. ‘At least three hundred million pounds worth. Surely that merits some display of interest from the Spanish Police?’
Branco smiled. ‘But all this money cannot be coming out of our tiny island,’
‘No, but it’s being moved around by people who live here and are in Elgberg’s employment,’ Fox explained patiently. ‘Namely a Mrs Ann Dockett and a Samuel O’Sullivan. I would like you to keep both these people under surveillance.’
Sighing heavily, Branco picked up the telephone and spoke
to someone in rapid Spanish, then turned back to Fox.
‘This won’t get you very far, you realise. Even if we keep an eye on them for the next couple of weeks, we won’t find out much unless they do something very silly here.’