‘Moses Archer.’
‘Eh? Adam was a serving soldier; where the hell did he get that sort of money?’
‘I wasn’t able to establish that, sir, but I do know that he was getting it regularly . . . so to speak. The account was set up seven years ago with an initial deposit of two hundred thousand pounds sterling. Much of that went on the acquisition and improvement of the
‘What’s it been used for?’
‘Bills relating to the upkeep of the boat, mostly. There have been a few cash withdrawals over the years: the biggest of them was a hundred thousand, this summer. At the moment, the balance is standing at just over two hundred and ten thousand.’
‘You couldn’t trace the origin of these payments?’
‘No. All I know for sure is that they weren’t made over the counter.’
‘What about the Premier Taiwan Bank? I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.’
‘It’s a private outfit, sir, not a high-street player: a posh people’s bank.’
‘Indeed? And who’d be feeding money into that?’
He was frowning as he took out his mobile, retrieved a stored number and called it. ‘Merle,’ Shannon heard him say, ‘it’s Bob Skinner. How’s things in your busy world?’ He chuckled. ‘Look on the bright side. You’re a section head now, with a staff, instead of being stuck in an outpost on your own. That’s got to count for something. Listen, pal, can I ask you an idle question?’ Pause. ‘The Premier Taiwan Bank: does it have any special meaning for you?’ Pause. ‘I tripped over it, that’s all; possible money-laundering.’ Pause. ‘I see. Tell you what: I’m having dinner with a friend tonight in the Charing Cross Hotel. There’s a pub round the corner called the Clarence; full of tourists, but no players. Can you meet me there?’ Pause. ‘Seven will be fine. There’s something else I’d like you to do for me, but I’ll call you later about that.’
He ended the call. ‘Friend of mine,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Merle Gower, and she’s based at the US Embassy, National Security section. That bank means something to her, but she’s not for telling me over the phone. We’ll see her tonight.’
‘We?’
‘Sure. You two should meet: you could be useful to each other.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Bakewell, two miles. Nearly there: do you know how to find the address?’
‘I’ve got a map if we need it, but from memory we take the first right across the river, then we’re looking for a left turn.’ She paused. ‘I’d have thought that the Security Service would have had satellite navigation in their cars.’
‘I didn’t want that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just.’
Shannon’s memory had served her well: she found Stannington Drive without the need for the map. They drove slowly down the leafy street until they saw Glebe Cottage, on their left. ‘What was your cover story when you called her?’ Skinner asked.
‘I told her that you’re from the Imperial War Museum and that you’re doing a book on the real Falklands; I’m your research assistant. We’re looking into what soldiers really thought of the war as it was being fought.’
‘She bought that?’
‘Hook, line and the other thing; I can be very persuasive, sir.’
‘That’s your way of saying you’re a bloody good liar, isn’t it?’
She smiled. ‘If you want to put it that way, who am I to argue?’ She parked in front of the house.
When Esther Craig opened the door, Skinner found himself stifling a gasp. The woman was an inch or so taller than her brother and was more slightly built, but facially she could have been his twin. ‘Hello,’ she greeted them breezily. ‘You’ll be the people from the museum, will you? Mr Skinner, is it, and Ms Shannon? Come on in.’ The visitors followed her through the living room of the cottage and into a sunlit conservatory. ‘Have you driven all that way up this morning?’ she asked them.
‘It’s not that far, Mrs Craig,’ Skinner replied, as he settled into the soft cushions of a bamboo-framed couch.
‘This is really fascinating,’ the woman said; her accent was also very similar to that of her brother, in his less formal moments. ‘I’ve looked out some of my dad’s letters. I think you’ll be interested in them.’
The big Scot looked at her. ‘We have an apology to make to you, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘My colleague spun you an out-and-out lie in arranging this meeting. However, she did it with the best possible motive: she didn’t want you worrying unduly.’ He took out his warrant card and held it up for Esther Craig to see. ‘We’re police officers, and we’re investigating your brother, Moses.’
‘Investigating him?’ she gasped, as her open face creased into a frown. ‘Moses? Is he in trouble?’
‘As of this moment, no.’
‘Then what’s this about, Mr Skinner?’
‘Call me Bob, Esther. How much do you know about his professional life?’
‘You mean what he does for a living?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not a great deal, because he never talked about it much. He’s a policeman, like you, but he works under cover a lot. The boys, my sons, think he’s a civil servant: so does my husband, for that matter.’
‘He joined the army when he was young, didn’t he?’
‘Straight from school. After he took his A levels, he went to Sandhurst.’
‘That would be about, what, twenty years ago?’
She thought for a second. ‘Yes, that’d be right. He’s two years older than me.’
‘What age was he when your father was killed?’
‘He’d have been fourteen. After that it was only ever going to be the army for him: Queen and country and all that. Our dad got a posthumous Military Cross, with a citation, and a letter to my mum from Her Majesty, thanking us all “for Major Archer’s sacrifice”, as she put it. That made sure that Moses was a real monarchist . . . not that my dad wasn’t, mind. God, was he ever? I remember him telling us that he wouldn’t fire a shot for a politician, only for the sovereign. He believed that without the King for everybody to rally round, we’d have lost the Second World War, and we’d all be speaking German now. He never gave Churchill much credit, only King George and his generals.’
‘So Moses followed him into the army.’
Esther nodded. ‘Yes; but, sir, Bob, what’s all this about?’
‘I’ll get to that, I promise, in due course. Were you surprised when he left?’
‘Yes. Yes, I was. I thought he loved it; I thought that everything was going well for him. He was a first lieutenant, a company commander in Two Para just like our dad, as he’d always wanted to be, and then, what, ten years ago now, he just up and left.’
‘Did he tell you why?’
‘He said that he was disillusioned.’
‘By what?’
‘By the rules, he said. He said that it was the rules that had got our dad killed and that he wasn’t having any more of them. So he told me that he was taking a job with the police in London, and that he’d be working on special things, infiltrating gangs and the like.’
‘Did that worry you?’
‘No. If I’d been about to worry about anyone it would have been the people he infiltrated. Moses is a lovely man, Bob, but after Dad was killed something changed in him. He’s only a little chap, but he’s as hard as nails.’
‘Have you ever visited him in London?’
‘No: he said he didn’t want that. We see him when he comes back here . . . and the little sod’s overdue us a visit.’
‘What about your mother? Does she ever visit him?’
‘No, her neither; he’s been to see her in America a couple of times, though.’
‘America?’
