The Ponzi Men
By
DAVID CHILCOTT
A crime thriller featuring John McBride
Ponzi Men, The
Chilcott, David
Copyright 2015, David Chilcott
All rights reserved
First edition
Cover design by Katrina Joyner, ebookcovers4u.com
(License notes) ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The South African country of Maswatiland does not exist, except in the author’s mind. It is not intended to resemble any existing state or country.
Also by David Chilcott
Murphy’s Heist
Cruise the Storm
Find my Brother
The Ponzi Men
David Chilcott
Chapter 1
John McBride was roused from his sleep by the insistent ringing of the phone. He searched the bedside table with his hand, not opening his eyes until he had picked up the handset. He stared blearily at the luminous digits on the clock. Six o’clock. Too early to be anything other than bad news. Maybe his mother, maybe the police, or the hotel was burning down. He could smell no smoke.
“Hello Mr McBride, it’s the concierge here. I have two gentlemen who want to come up to see you.”
“From where?”
“The police, Sir. Shall I bring them up straight away?”
McBride grunted, and replaced the handset, rolled out of bed. He went to the bathroom, took the bathrobe off the peg, shrugging it on, tying the belt. He padded back into the bedroom, by which time there was a knock on the door.
He still thought it was about his mother. A car crash, or a stroke. She was in hospital. Or dead, even.
He pulled back the night chain, opened the door. Two plainclothes men outside, the porter in his smart uniform standing to the rear of them.
“Come in,” said McBride. The plain clothes didn’t disguise them. They plodded heavily into the room, and the concierge went away, pulling the door closed behind him. McBride gestured to the group of chairs set round a coffee table at the end of the room opposite the bed.
“Is it bad news?”Of course not. They send uniformed men for that.
The younger man raised his eyebrows, then said: “Oh, I see. No, it’s not about a relative. Nothing like that. I’m Detective Constable Wilson, this is Detective Sergeant Carr. If you could just sit down, we’ll tell you why we have come.”
“At six o’clock in the morning?” said McBride, but in a friendlier fashion, now that he knew it wasn’t about his mother. He sat down. So did the policemen. Wilson pulled a notebook from his suit jacket.
Wilson had his pencil poised. It was Sergeant Carr who asked the question.
“Can you tell me where you were at six o’clock last night?”
“Of course. Here I got in about five o’clock, had a shower and got changed. Went down to the bar about seven thirty, ate in the restaurant.”
“Who would know where you were at six o’clock?”
“Well, the doorman downstairs. If he can remember, there were quite a few people arriving with luggage. Do you want to tell me where this conversation is going?”
The policemen looked at one another. Carr scratched his bald head.
“Get dressed, Sir. You are coming with us to the station for more questioning.”
“You’ll have to wait there. I’m getting a shower first.”
He locked the bathroom door after him. He heard one of them opening the curtains in the bedroom. Then he turned on the shower. He shaved while he stood under the water.
He came out of the bathroom, a towel round his waist, and started to dress. As he did so, he looked across the room. The police were still seated, Wilson scribbling in his notebook. He glanced through the window; a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. He put on his socks and shoes. He was wearing chinos and a white shirt. He put his wallet and change in the pockets. His car keys were with the concierge, in case he needed his car bringing from the multi-storey car park.
Today he supposed the police would give him a lift.
“Okay, I’m ready to go. I haven’t had breakfast yet. Are we going to be long?”
Carr said: “If we are, Mr McBride, we’ll feed you.”
The policemen had both risen, moved to the door. McBride stood watching them. The policemen turned to see why he wasn’t following.
“You said you’d tell me what has happened. When you do, I’ll come with you.”
“Sorry, Sir,” said Carr. “Somebody was shot last night. On the street, not far from here. Rifle bullet. From an upstairs window of an empty property.”
They went through the door into the corridor, Carr first, McBride second and Wilson bringing up the rear. It would be no problem getting away from them. But in the short term not necessary.
They went down the stairs single file, even though the staircase was wide enough for them to walk three abreast. They walked through the lobby, and as they passed the concierge desk, one of the porters said: “Good morning Mr McBride,” as though it was an everyday occasion to be arrested. No, not arrested. Nobody had charged him. Helping police with their enquiries. A grim sentence that indicated guilt.
The police car, an unmarked Ford Mondeo in black was sitting in the drop-off lane immediately outside the hotel entrance. They went down a flight of steps. Carr blipped the car to open the doors, and the indicators winked back. Wilson opened the back door and put his hand on the top of McBride’s head to push him down into the car, presumably to make sure he didn’t contact the door frame. But who else did that? Not chauffeurs, not taxi drivers, no-one. It was a police thing, to show they were in charge. The street, normally packed with pedestrians, was empty at six thirty in the morning. Wilson went round the car, opened the back door, and sat alongside him. Only then did Carr get into the driver’s seat. He drove fast, under the city walls, turning down the one-way system. McBride knew where the police station was, he had been in the city for five days already, painting in the centre. He could have walked there faster than the car could get there. He leaned back in his seat and relaxed.
The police station was modern, large flight of steps up to the lobby, divided by an iron fence in the centre, presumably up one side, anddown the other. Except no-one was using the one-way system. They went through the automatic doors into the lobby, still adopting single file. Carr nodded at the reception staff, went down a wide corridor, stopped at a door marked Interrogation Room 6. He knocked briefly and opened the door at the same time. Wilson didn’t enter the room, took up a stand-easy stance beside it.
The room had gloss paint on the walls, a sickly green, white ceiling with many strip lights. Two of them buzzed continually. A table stood in the centre of the room, five chairs around it. The windows were frosted glass, and standing in front of them facing into the room, was a man in his late fifties, smart suit, dark tie, white shirt.
“John McBride, Sir.” Carr turned to McBride. “This is Detective Inspector Taylor.”
“Sit down, Mr McBride,” said the inspector. McBride sat at his side of the table, the inspector sat opposite. He had a green file in front of him. Carr walked round and sat beside him. There was a tape recorder on the table, and a laptop.
The inspector turned to Carr. “Get someone over to the hotel and search the room before the staff start cleaning it.” Carr stood up. There was a phone on the window sill
. He spoke into it, quietly.
“Well, Mr. McBride, in case you’re innocent, you won’t know why you are here.”
“Nobody is telling me anything, so far. When asked I said I was in my hotel yesterday from five in the afternoon until I was removed this morning. Then they told me a man had been shot. Now it’s your turn.” McBride stared into the man’s eyes.
“Fair enough. You haven’t seen any television last night? A news programme?”
McBride shook his head.
“At six o’clock last night a man was leaving his office when he was shot dead. In Northgate Street, about a hundred yards from the station.”
“Why do you think I did it?”
“We don’t, but you were in the SAS. The man was a financial consultant. And you did lose some money. Quite a considerable sum. In some sort of Ponzi scheme, people are alleging. We’ve had some complaints of fraud, passed them to London. We’ve been very busy in the last twelve hours or so.” He paused, and seemed to be running a scenario through his mind. He rubbed his eyes. “Several of us haven’t been to bed. We found the file of investors of a financial scheme. Land Investors of South Africa. Your name was on it. You invested one hundred thousand pounds. Nobody has seen any of the promised annual payments. Except for the first year, that is. As you know, for the past five years, nobody has seen any money at all. That makes people angry. A man like you steeped in the army ways might take it into his head to shoot the man who introduced you to the scheme, eh?”
“That wouldn’t be my style. That is anarchy.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. We checked the list against names of hotel guests in the city. Yours was the only match.”
“Not surprising. A killer wouldn’t register in his own name surely?”
“You would be surprised, Sir. Criminals aren’t usually endowed with intelligence.”
“I bet there are some local names on your investor’s list.”
“We have people following them up. So far we’ve found people too old to climb a set of stairs, never mind aim a rifle and run away afterwards.” He was quiet for a moment. McBride could hear voices in the corridor. Not angry or panicked conversation. Joking remarks mostly directed at Wilson, who stood outside, he supposed.
Taylor seemed to make up his mind, opened the laptop, punched some buttons, turned the computer to face McBride.
“These are CCTV images.” McBride saw a busy street of pedestrians, not many vehicles as part of the pedestrian only area. The pictures were intermittent. So the pedestrians moved jerkily. On the right of the screen was a shop, converted to an office. Across the window in gold leaf, he could read Financial Consultants.
A man in a dark suit appeared as a door opened. The next frame showed the man falling backwards, his shirt blooming suddenly with blood. His legs crumpled and he fell on the pavement, face down. McBride could see a trickle of blood running down to the gutter. People stopped and looked. Eventually a man stooped by the body feeling his neck for a pulse. He used a mobile phone. Somebody produced an overcoat, which was draped over the body.
Taylor had moved round to McBride’s side of the table, looking at the computer screen over his shoulder. He reached across and tapped a key.
“This is from a CCTV on the other side of the road. Same time frame.”
There was an empty shop near the camera, a large projecting sign. Lease for sale. The upper floor sash window was open, a yawning darkness. People on the pavement jerkily walking. Then looking towards their right, outside of the frame.
Taylor leaned over, fast forwarded. A man appeared from an alleyway next to the empty shop. Dark shirt, dark trousers. A big man joining the pedestrians, above average height, muscular.
“See that man, the gunman we think. That could be you, yes?” Taylor touched his shoulder.
“No, it isn’t. I’ve just remembered. My agent phoned me at the hotel last night. Must have been about six. He dialed the hotel landline.”
McBride’s mind was working fast. He recognized the man on the CCTV. His old friend Dusty Miller. The stupid man.
The inspector said “Do you have a phone number with you of this agent? What’s his name?”
“Smith, Ian Smith. Hang on, I have his business card in my pocket.” He pulled out his wallet, extracted the card, passed it to Taylor.
The policeman studied it. “Shall we phone him and ask him if he phoned you?”
“You don’t need to ask me. He won’t be pleased about the time. He works late, rises late.”
“Well, at least he should be in,” said Taylor mildly. He took out a cell phone, put one finger on the business card, as he pressed buttons with the other hand.
The phone rang for a long time, and then McBride could hear an angry voice even at this distance from the phone.
“I’m sorry to bother you at this time, Sir. I have a Mr John McBride with me. My name is Detective Inspector Taylor, Cheshire Police. Can you confirm your name?” McBride heard Ian Smith speak. Taylor said: “Yes of course Mr McBride is all right. If you can just confirm that you phoned him at his hotel yesterday, and approximately at what time?”
McBride heard a long speech coming tinnily over the phone. At least he seemed to have remembered phoning.
Taylor was able eventually to switch off his phone, and put it back in his pocket.
“He does go on a bit, doesn’t he, Mr McBride?”
McBride nodded.
“Well he says he needed to speak to you urgently at about six o’clock yesterday evening, and remembered you would be in your hotel at that time. So, yes, that seems to clear you.”
“Thank you,” said McBride. “So I’m free to go?”
“Yes, but leave your address and phone number in case we need to contact you again.”
McBride pulled out his wallet again, and gave Taylor one his own business cards. Taylor scrutinized it. “Oh, you are that John McBride. DC Wilson is just outside, I’ll ask him to run you back to your hotel.”