Accountancy Can Be Deadly Part 1

First posted here in 2014, this story had only been available on Kindle since 2017.
 

Just Another Saturday?
 
David Jones was an unassuming and private person, self employed as an accountant with a small office in Islington, north London.

One of his customers was at first appearances just the owner of an ubiquitous kebab take-away on Green Lanes, a Turkish area of North London. The businessman, Hamiz Fourani was actually an Iranian by birth and had remained in London after finishing a masters in Business Administration. He'd purchased several properties and had a successful property portfolio. He wasn't too fussy who he leased houses, shops or apartments to so long as they paid their rent. This was his shortcoming, and often became David's problem.

***

David was planning to put in some overtime on a Saturday morning to finish off Hamiz's annual returns and anything else he could achieve in a few hours. His office hours never included Saturday morning so no-one would have expected to find him there.

Unfortunately, someone else was taking an interest in the Iranian's finances and had decided that 7am on a Saturday morning was a good time to get a close look at his files. David arrived there at 0730 with a plastic coffee and a bacon roll and, being short of hands, had kicked the ground floor door shut behind him before trying to head up the stairs.

He was knocked off his feet as two dark clothed males pushed past him, there being no other way down. His coffee didn't survive and the bacon roll was unappetizing when David recovered from the assault. He hurried upstairs to see what their intent had been.

His office door was splintered where it had been pried and two of his filing cabinets had similarly suffered the crowbar treatment, with warped and scratched metal where the drawers were forced open. His office computer was switched on but wasn't logged in and the contents of the waste-basket were strewn across the floor.

"What were they looking for?" He wondered then his eyes potted a post-it note on the desk with one word - Fourani.

David sat down and wondered what to do next, he really should get hold of Hamiz but knew he wasn't due to fly back into the country until the following evening, which originally prompted David today.

If the raiders had been looking for documents, or computer data, then they would have been disappointed. David had already handed back all of the original documents having scanned everything so any data was now purely digital. That data hadn't even been in the office, it was on a portable drive he always took home. He not only didn't store client data on the office computer, it didn't even have an internet connection.

David evaluated his position, apart from cosmetic damage he hadn't lost anything. If he reported this break-in to the police would they really be interested? Regardless, he'd have to wait there all day with little likelihood that they would investigate a simple break-in.

Was it worth informing his insurance company? They would insist on a police crime reference number so that was a pointless exercise. He phoned a locksmith and asked for some better locks to be fitted, plus one of the filing cabinet drawers wouldn't open, and that's where his kettle was stored. He would need to inform Hamiz on Monday, if only to reassure him that his secrets were safe.

If he had been a little more observant then he might have seen the two men who watched from a van as the locksmith arrived, then as David went out to get a replacement breakfast roll.

Thankfully, the locksmith had recovered his kettle from the stuck drawer as the first priority so that was pressed into use. Remembering the spilt coffee, David went downstairs and cleaned up the mess. Checking the rear door to the building he saw that a small pane of glass had been broken, plainly this was the point of entry.

Back upstairs, the asked the locksmith to secure the rear door with a better lock and then phoned a carpenter to fix the damaged doors. Finally, David sat at the office computer and loaded Hamiz's accounts from the portable drive. Most of the morning had gone, wasted, but he was now able to go back to something that had troubled him the previous evening - where was the money going?

David had calculated that around £170,000 of expenditure on the rental properties was spurious in this financial year alone. There were job sheets and invoices, but the paper trail was at best confusing and at worst completely false. He really needed to speak to Hamiz before he could sign off the accounts.

By 4pm he was too tired to work on anything more. David had surrendered on the Hamiz accounts around two and had done a little bit of work for smaller clients. The locksmith and carpenter had long gone. Just to be certain, he checked the building, concentrating on the ground floor.

David now owned the building, after having originally rented just the upstairs office space. There was an empty shop, just a counter and some shelves, below his office and a couple of store rooms in the back. At least that's how it was when the previous owner had died.

David had been offered the building by the deceased landlord's solicitor and bought it straight away. Since then he had refurbished the ground floor, not that anyone apart from the carpenter would have known!

The ground level shop and stores had now been converted into a bedsit with plenty of hanging space, a dressing table and the best bathroom he could fit in the space available. David normally spent weekday evenings at his flat in Hackney, not far from the Olympic Park, but his alter ego Gail stayed in the bedsit when she fancied partying.

He locked up then took the bus back to his flat but, as he got off the bus, could sense something was wrong. There was the smell of burning in the air and the sound of sirens filled the streets. He got closer and saw it was his flat that was ablaze. He edged closer but a policeman barred his way.

"Sorry sir, that's close enough."

"It's my home."

"Ah, just wait there please." The Constable quickly spoke to a senior officer who asked David to sit with him in a police car.

"Mr Jones?" David nodded. "We had accounted for everyone else from the building so I was anxious to find you. Where have you been today?"

"I was putting some extra hours in at my office, trying to get some work finished."

"What is your work?"

"Accountancy, nothing exciting."

"I see. Did anyone else have access to your flat?"

"No, why?"

"The fire service found an unidentified middle-eastern looking gentleman in your flat, you wouldn't know anything about that?"

"No. Can I collect any of my belongings?"

"Sorry Mr Jones, but it's now a murder inquiry as well as a suspicious fire. Do you have somewhere to stay and could I have a mobile number?"

David handed him a business card, "I'll be at my office."

Back in Islington, David went to the rear of the property and let himself in through the back door, then into his hidden bedsit. Something was very very wrong. He took a microwave meal out of the small freezer and zapped himself a very unsatisfying dinner.

 
Phone calls
 
Sunday morning, sometime before 7am. Gail peeled off her nightie and headed into the shower. She made a coffee and put a small TV onto breakfast news whilst blow-drying her hair. She shut off the hairdryer when pictures of David's flat came on the screen. The caption said "Body identified as Hamed Fourani, Iranian."

David had met Hamiz's brother once and hadn't liked him. What was he doing, dead, in David's flat?

David was clearly in danger but had grudgingly decided that it was safer to disappear as Gail, in disguise.

Gail finished getting dressed, and opted for a white blouse with a long navy skirt and a leather jacket. She packed a holdall with enough for a few days and just after 8am checked all the locks before letting herself out the back way. She hailed a cab when she was a couple of streets away. "Liverpool Street please"

Just over 15 minutes later she was on the concourse at London Liverpool Street surveying the departures board. The station serves the whole of East Anglia and several hundred miles of coastline. Her choice this morning was to disappear into the madness that is Clacton-on-Sea in mid-summer. She bought a newspaper and then a return ticket, paying cash. She figured that a single ticket to the coast might be remembered by the woman behind the glass screen, where as she was just trying to appear to be another day-tripper.

Gail checked she had her debit card in her purse. Many years earlier, before the banking laws had tightened up, she'd opened an account as Gail Jones and had put £10,000 in it; even accountants occasionally hid their own money. That account was unconnected to any of David's personal or business accounts.

Although David had to appear to be a responsible businessman, he was incredibly insecure. It was through the Gail persona, initially at college and subsequently in his professional life, that he found a counter-balance to his humdrum life. Gail was known to visit the best clubs and keep dancing until almost dawn, always refusing offers of a ride home. One advantage of the office/bedsit location was that London buses ran 24 hours past the front door, she could get back to the bedsit from just about any club in London in the wee hours.

***

As soon as the train reached its' final destination, literally the end of the line, she grabbed her holdall and made for the door. Once on the platform she looked quickly up & down to check no-one was on her tail, but saw only a few dozen complete strangers, each with their own issues.

She walked out of the gate, and was surprised at the lack of ticket gates or even staff. This was supposed to be a busy seaside resort and not the back-end of nowhere. She headed into the centre of Clacton-on-Sea looking for a B&B

To any casual observers, Gail was nothing spectacular, just an ordinary 30-something with a ditzy head. Nothing could be further, however, from the truth and Gail was just happy that most would get completely the wrong impression, as it might end up saving her life.

***

She walked purposefully from Clacton-on-Sea station and went looking for somewhere to stay in this coastal resort. She quickly found the tourist information centre and picked up the local hotel association's leaflet. Armed with a local map she continued her walk.

An hour later, Gail was booked into a small hotel a few minutes away from the town centre, and the town's pier. Having deposited her holdall in the hotel, she took a walk along the pier, past the amusements and the rides, eventually finding a small café. She'd just finished a second coffee when her, or rather David's, mobile rang. No number was displayed.

"Mr Jones?"

"Who's calling?"

"Detective Inspector Jack Regan. My colleague Detective Sgt Carter came around to your office and saw that someone had forced entry and there's rather a mess at the moment."

"Oh."

"You don't sound too surprised Mr Jones. I take it you know rather more than you said yesterday afternoon?"

"I'd rather not discuss this over the phone, if possible. I think I'm at risk."

"Come to your office and we'll discuss it."

"I'm not in London right now."

"So where are you?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Mr Jones, you're placing me in a difficult position. If you're withholding information about arson, murder and, most recently, a break-in, then that makes you a vital witness or even a potential suspect."

"I understand that. Is there a number I can call to get hold of you?"

"I'm afraid I don't give out my number, but I'll be waiting at your office.”

Gail nervously looked around to see if anyone overheard the conversation, even though she hoped that she'd given nothing away. She wasn’t convinced by this call and something about the name rang bells.

She weighed up her options. Her home had been destroyed, her office was apparently wrecked, again, and a client's brother had been murdered at her home. What was happening? She really needed, as David, to talk to Hamiz, but his plane wasn't due in for a few more hours. Virtually no-one knew about the bedsit but how long before she was spotted there, whether as Gail or David? No, she couldn't go back to London straight away.

Gail considered walking to the local Police station and asking them to make the call, but proof of ID would be an issue plus the potential for them to take her into 'protective' custody, otherwise known as 'helping with enquiries' followed by a free ride back into an uncertain London.

Instead she walked into one of the small mobile phone shops and bought a simple model, then put £20 credit on it. She walked back to the pier, down to the end and sat on a bench. This was very exposed, and a bit breezy, but she could see everything around her. There was no hiding place.

She decided to test a theory and dialled the number for New Scotland Yard, 0207 230 1212.

"Metropolitan Police Service, how can I help you?"

"Err, DI Jack Regan please, he works in Islington I think?"

There was a laugh. "That's a name from the 70s."

"I was just called and asked to call to see the Detective Inspector, I suspect it was a fake and I think I’m at risk."

“What’s your name, dear?”

“I’m David Jones and I'm calling about a fire and murder in Hackney.”

There was some tapping on a keyboard. "I'm putting you through to someone who can help you."

"Thanks."

"SO15. Who's calling please?"

"My name is David Jones and a DI Jack Regan asked me to call."

There was a moment of silence, there was a new voice. "Why are you calling?"

"My office has been raided, my home burnt to the ground and one of my client's brothers is dead."

"The client's name?"

"Hamiz Fourani."

There was a pause and the sound of more keys being tapped.

"Right, it looks like you're in a boat in the North Sea, going somewhere?"

"No, I'm on a pier and I don't think I'm safe. Who are you anyway?"

"We're SO15, counter terrorism unit, and we're very keen to speak to you."

"Why?"

"Not over a mobile phone. We'll send a car. If you get a call from anyone else it won't be us. This DI Regan is a fake, a ruddy obvious one at that. Where are you staying?"

"I'm booked into a B&B, on the sea front, but I'd rather not say which one."

"Right. We have CCTV available now, are you dressed as the lady on the far bench?"

"Yes"

“What name are you using?”

“Gail.”

"Okay Gail, walk to the the pier entrance and we'll collect you there in a few minutes. Don't stop for anything."

She walked carefully back along the pier, scanning constantly. She was coming past the Helter Skelter when her original phone rang.

"Hello David, you do look nice in that frock."

Gail cut the call and switched that phone off, it was one thing for the genuine police to be able to locate her, even on a brand new phone, another thing entirely for a gang of who-evers. She was very wary now but still couldn't see anyone.

To get off the pier she had to walk past the noisy and busy arcade. If someone was here to grab her, any screams from Gail would get lost in the mêlée, not good news. She continued looking but had no idea what her assailant looked like. Then one of her heels became stuck in the boarding and she stumbled. Crouching, and rather distracted, she took off the offending sandal and pulled the heel clear. She rubbed her ankle before putting the sandal back on.

She was jostled as she stood and grabbed firmly from behind. "Don't turn around David, or whatever your pretty name is, just keep walking, we need a talk about mutual interests."

Gail, almost without thinking, rammed her right foot down, and through the man's shoe. He cursed loudly and dropped to the decking, releasing her. She ran, as fast as possible on her heels, to the pier entrance and straight into two uniformed police officers. She was clearly distressed.

"Leather jacket and navy skirt I was told, looks like you're the one I'm expecting. I suggest we need to get away from here and you look like a cup of tea is required, our car is just here.."

Five minutes later she was being driven into the compound at Clacton Police Station and taken straight to an interview room.

"Sorry Miss, I wasn't told your name?" "Gail" "Thanks. There are some suits from London who are coming here to talk to you but you're free to go if you want to. That's all I've been told."

The tea took a few minutes so arrange and although the door of the interview room was left open, Gail felt very isolated at this time. She'd finished the tea and was reading a magazine from her bag when two plain clothed officers, one male and female, came into the room and closed the door.

"Mr David Jones I presume? Or do you prefer Gail?" The female officer was clearly taking the lead.

"Right now, Gail, although you know that's not my legal name."

"Okay, I'm Detective Sergeant Emily Keane and this is Detective Constable Adam Smith. We'd like to get some information from you quickly then get you back up to London."

"I'm not sure how much I can tell you?"

"Let us be the judge of that. Now, start with the break-in at your office."

Gail went through the previous day's events and her decision to leave London, dressed as her female alter-ego, followed by the day's calls. DC Smith, who was making notes, tried to contain a laugh when DI Reagan was mentioned. DS Keane gave him a look that caused him to apologise, and an explanation.

"We'll need to check your phone and we'd like a look at those accounts."

"You're welcome to my phone, but the call from The Sweeney was withheld. As for the accounts, I'm afraid you'll need a court order or authorisation from Hamiz Fourani when he gets in tonight."

"That would be difficult, he was found dead in Düsseldorf yesterday morning."

"Oh. So I won't get paid? Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"As I was saying, we'd really like to see those accounts. where is the hard drive?"

"In my case at Hotel Ocean, I'm checked in there as Gail Jones."

DC Smith left the room and was back a minute later, an officer had been despatched to recover her holdall.

Gail suddenly realised she needed a wee so went to go out of the room but didn't know which way to go. The two officers, from London were strangers in this Essex seaside nick so couldn't help either. Fortunately a local officer was able to guide Gail to the ladies loo before there was an accident. It seemed that the local staff hadn't been told that Gail was really David.

Back in the room, noting that DC Smith was again absent, she asked an outstanding question, "do I have to go back to London with you?"

"We can't force you but it's clear that you're in danger and could still have vital information you haven't said yet."

"So I'm helping you with enquiries?"

"Yes"

"And why is SO15 interested in this?"

"Mr Fourani and his brother seem to have been involved with a German group, sort of grand-child of the original Baader-Meinhof gang."

That was a name from the 70s, what relevance was it now in 2014? It did however explain the SO15 involvement.

"Okay, how are we getting back to London?" "Helicopter." "And how did you get here so quickly? It wasn't that long ago I was speaking to someone at New Scotland Yard?"

"We'd traced your phone's location this morning when it was clear you weren't at your office, and followed it here to Clacton. We just didn't know who to look for until you rang us."

"Why not ring me?" "We did once but it was engaged and we didn't get a chance to call again."

DC Adam Smith returned and said to the DS that he'd faxed his notes and had organised a car to get us to the chopper. In his hand was my holdall.

Ten minutes later we were strapped in and set off for London. Talk was near impossible on the flight so she just looked out of the window at the Essex countryside as they flew the 60 miles back to the 'smoke'.

They landed at City Airport and transferred to a car but weren't heading into central London.

“Where….?”

"To a safe location until we can neutralize the threat."

"How long .....?" The answer was a shrug.