Debits
Peter Thwaites
Debits
Peter Thwaites
Debits
A Rick Shore Mystery
By
Peter Thwaites
© 2004 by Peter Thwaites. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
ISBN: 1-4140-3667-1 (e-book)
ISBN: 1-4140-3668-X (Paperback)
ISBN: 1-4140-3669-8 (Dust Jacket)
1stBooks - rev. 01/26/04
Preface
‘Debits’ is the first in a series of mystery stories based on the diaries of Rick Shore. Rick is alive and well and lives in his much- loved bungalow in Worthing, West Sussex, on the South Coast of England. As well as enjoying the quiet solitude of his garden, Rick still enjoys the adventure of fishing from the local pier, but has yet to land anything heavier than a one hundred gram Bullhead which somehow became entwined on his line when reeling in one wet Sunday morning. Rick began his working life as a Police Cadet, easing his way gently up through the ranks to Detective Inspector, when he was selected for a transfer to the Flying Squad. Here he remained for several years before taking early retirement and settling down for a quiet life and some good fishing. He now spends his retirement as a Private Detective working on mysteries that confound the local police force, more as a hobby than a job. Rick was married for almost thirteen years, when regrettably he was divorced, leaving him to bring up three sons single-handed. The youngest of whom has only recently left home. Rick is a deep thinking, quiet man with simple tastes and an easy manner, and loves to spend a quiet evening philosophizing over some of life’s adventures.
This story is dedicated to my three great sons, Jez, Jon, and Tom who will, no doubt, recognize their dad within the book.
Chapter 1
‘One man’s credit is another man’s debit’
Life is beautiful and exciting. It should be explored to the greatest depth possible within every waking moment. It should be shared with the people you love, the people you work or play with, and the strangers today that will be your friends tomorrow.
Every new day heralded by the waking dawn is a precursor to new adventures, experiences and meetings, and is only ended by the setting of our sun.
Our home, Earth, is spinning in a vast universe of stars and moons and we share our existence with a million other homes spread as far as the most powerful telescope can see and far beyond. It is our duty and God given responsibility to sanction the development and growth of our home, not in practical capitalistic terms, but as a meeting of thoughts, ideologies, and cultures. Blindly we use the freedom bestowed upon us by our ‘maker’ to disturb the intricate balance that exists within our home, and seemingly take delight in death, destruction and disease as we watch from the sidelines as our appointed leaders march ever forward into instability and uncertainty.
We are all human. At least this is something that we all share. We are all conceived as one. We are all entitled to a fair and equal share of this life, and all have a place reserved for us in this our home. From the moment of conception, however, the equality ends and the human race takes over.
Your destiny is determined by your place of birth, your parents, your religion, or race, and in spite of your God given right to a fair and equitable share, this is denied you. We all have aspirations of a good life, whether on the basis of the number of possessions we own, the opportunities we experience, or the happiness that we bring to others. We set our goals, plan out our route and the journey begins. We encounter obstacles, heartache, and despair, but the goals are clearly defined and we continue onward. We share our experiences with friends and draw strength from those around us. Many of our goals are common, and together we achieve.
Ever since the dawn of civilization, however, there has been a faction of the population who will strive to achieve the very most by doing the absolute least. Generally these men, (and let’s not forget the women, for whom the record is little better) inevitably have to resort to criminal acts in some form or another. Technological advances are being created at a formidable rate and with them the increased ingenuity of the crime and crime fighter. Complex and dedicated computer applications can analyses thousands of separate pieces of evidence in the same time that Sherlock Holmes and his faithful companion Dr. Watson would have taken to peruse the local newspaper.
Unfortunately alongside the inspired plot, there is always the injured party and in many cases the scene quickly turns to murder and destruction. Violence follows greed just as positively as night follows day. The offences may have changed. The once only too regular sheep and cattle rustling; the dastardly stage coach hold-up; or the local highwayman with his pistol and black facemask. We now experience the more sophisticated computer based crimes, but the process is always the same. The villain, the plot, the caper, and then the victim. Maybe in conclusion, the capture.
It is often said that Switzerland lies at the heart of Europe. Geographically speaking, that’s not quite true. However, the main route linking northern and southern Europe does run through the Alps. And three important European cultures meet in Switzerland: German; French; Italian.
It was once said in 1823 “No country in Europe is more interesting than Switzerland.
To the admirer of nature it offers scenes of grandeur almost unrivalled; to the observer of national manners, a people of great simplicity and firmness of character; while to the statesman it displays in a striking light the salutary effects of religion, freedom, and security of property; nor can the poet or painter find scenes more calculated to exalt the imagination.”
Unfortunately Switzerland has also been recognized as the money laundering center of the world, with many secret bank accounts and locked vaults lying deep below the ground. The country, however, has changed and is now much more open with its banking activities, much to the satisfaction of the European
Union, that to which it is committed to join.
It is here, in this praise-worthy country that the story really begins. Even surrounded by such wondrous beauty and friendship, an embittered, desolate and materialistic man was planning a fraud so clever it was breathtaking. He worked for one of the leading banks in Switzerland as the assistant to the much younger, and well respected manager. Although having worked for the bank for well over thirty years, he had seen this young university taught man promoted over him. This respected and coveted position within the banking fraternity was to have been the final stage before retirement. He had felt his life shatter and he was angry, very angry. He had dedicated his whole working life to the banking institution only to be passed over by a much younger, university trained brat who was not even worthy to make his coffee. The bank would be sorry.
Switzerland is a wealthy country. Many of the Swiss citizens have considerable incomes and are extremely astute. This bank was no different to any other and maintained a very high quota of wealthy customers looking for long term investments. As assistant manager, he had control of the investment and equity side of the bank’s activities and it was his role to advise these particular customers on investments to ensure a comfortable retirement with a secure pension. Funds were also being set aside for family inheritances and future business developments. It was not difficult, therefore, to manipulate these very same funds in such a way that he could cream off enough to produce a good side income for himself and his own retirement. After all, he deserved it.
The scheme entailed that a number of bogus companies should be set up, many of which had their headquarters outside of Switzerland. One such company, ‘Hansell Exports’ was based in Bracknell, South London and was ostensibly a warehouse distribution organization moving goods around the world. In reality it was one of a number of empty warehouses situated on one of the many industrial estates developed over the last few years on brown field land adjacent to the River Thames. Through his position at the bank, he managed to convince his wealthier clients to invest huge sums of money in this company with promises of high returns over the longer term. In reality he was simply transferring the funds into a private Swiss account held by his very own bank.
His activities went unnoticed for a while until one morning, purely by accident; a sharp computer hacker discovered what he was doing. The hacker, employed by a clandestine property company as one of a small team of men working on the plans for a major computer scam, was scanning the Internet for bank and investment transactions. During one of the scans he noticed that a regular sum of money was being transferred firstly to a UK company account here in London, and then almost immediately being transferred back to the same originating bank in Switzerland, this time under a different account name.
With a sense of pure logic (not usually found among computer experts), he determined the name and bank details associated with these transactions and passed them on to his client. The planned scam would require a safe and untraceable bank account established outside of the United Kingdom. This would prolong the discovering of the stolen funds. Now that an account already established in a leading Swiss bank had been located, and if the owner could be persuaded to co-operate this would indeed solve a great deal of the preliminary issues that had been delaying the start of the scam.
The ‘Cock and Ferret’ is a public house dating back to the late eighteen hundreds, and still retains some of its old charm. With its urine stained brickwork, (and smell to match), broken and rotted window and door frames that appear to exhibit a disliking for glass in any form, and a bent and twisted sign, probably reflecting the minds of all who dare to enter within. The building would not have seemed out of place in a remake of Oliver Twist, or Jack the ‘Ripper’.
This haven of delight was an ideal location for any clandestine meeting with the interior endeavoring to keep pace with the passing of time, and obviously failing dismally. The dingy tobacco stained walls, tatty well-worn carpets, an excuse for a jukebox dating back to the late sixties, and a barman with the face of a bulldog chewing a wasp welcomed the intrepid visitor. Situated deep in the East End of London, with a lighting scheme designed by a one eyed miner, it was the meeting place for many crime syndicates recruiting temporary help, or the services of specialist technical staff. Forgers, locksmiths, and drivers, were just a few of the latest vacancies available for a quick ‘no questions’ cash payment. Tonight, in one corner of the cynically named ‘Saloon Bar’ four men were discussing the report given them by their computer expert. To get a contact in one of the leading banks in Switzerland was indeed a real and unexpected bonus, and someone that they could control into the bargain. This was a real boost to their plan and meant that now things could move forward. In fact it was such a boost to their morale that an extra round of drinks was called for. The next move would be for a member of the team to fly to Switzerland, make the acquaintance of their new team member and finalize the necessary arrangements for transfers, etc.
This was a major role, so the team leader’s right hand man, known only as Sharp (he had a well-deserved reputation for being blunt and getting straight to the point), was selected as the most suitable member to make the journey. It was further agreed that this should be planned for the following Wednesday morning.
It was now getting very close to the ‘off’ and there was a real and distinct danger that if any of the team were seen to be travelling abroad at this time, their intentions may be discovered. Booking a last minute undetectable flight to Switzerland using the talents of their computer expert was of no difficulty, and scanning through both the booked flights to Geneva for Wednesday, and the Passport Office records for a close match for ‘Sharp’, they came up with the name Stephen Gorss.
Stephen Gorss lived in the picturesque village of Chiddingfold situated in the heart of rural Surrey. He owned a delightful detached thatched cottage where he lived with his wife of fourteen years, two young sons aged ten and six, and a rather daft dog, ‘Biscuit’. Stephen was, by birth, a German, born in Munich during the late Nineteen fifties. He later qualified as a Chemist, and now working for a large pharmaceutical company here in the UK, travelled extensively throughout the world. His wife, Ingrid, also a fellow German by birth, held a very rewarding position as Head Mistress of the small village school and was well respected by the community.
This Wednesday, Stephen was due to attend a high level conference in Geneva. He had showered and prepared himself for the journey. Stephen always enjoyed sharing breakfast with his wife and children, as this was not very often possible. He enjoyed the benefits of his high position within the company, and the many opportunities that he had for visiting many different countries. He would never disguise the fact; however, that he relished the time at home and would not refuse any offers of early retirement, should he be so lucky.
Saying his goodbyes, he was set to leave his home for the airport when the telephone rang.
Ingrid took the call “Stephen, Ihr Büro ist am Apparat” For some inexplicable reason she had reverted back to her mother tongue. “Sorry Stephen” she apologized, knowing that Stephen preferred them to speak English whilst in the house “The telephone, it’s your office” Taking the call, Stephen was well aware of the time, and explained that he would call them again once he had arrived in Geneva. His short drive to Gatwick was to take him along a very pleasant route through some dreamy woodlands and wide expanses of still, cool lakes. Everywhere, he could see myriad’s of wild duck and even the occasional goose splashing around in the deep still turquoise blue water. It was to be a good day, the sun was sending down beams of warm radiant light on to all and sundry, and the whole scene appeared calm and at peace. Cocky, over trusting grey rabbits were skipping along the wide grass verges lining the shadow marked lane with their white fluffy tails held high in defiance of any potential aggressor. Crickets could be heard cheerfully clapping the start of another fine day. Slowing to round a particularly tight left-hand bend, Stephen was confronted by a car parked to the side of the lane apparently showing signs of being in trouble. The bonnet of the car was fastened open, and the driver, a tall, fair headed man in a light blue suit, was unsuccessfully trying to catch the attention of any of the passing motorists.
Feeling particularly convivial, Stephen pulled over just in front of the parked car, and began walking back towards the now agitated driver.
“Can I help in any way” enquired Stephen of the driver as he reached the car.
“I haven’t a clue as to what is wrong, the bloody thing just died on me as I got to this corner” he had obviously had enough.
“Let me have a look” Stephen said as he moved to look under the car’s bonnet “I don’t what I’m looking for, but two heads are better than one, yes?”
The hot greasy bonnet came down on the back of his neck like a kick from an irritated mule, and as his face smashed into the red hot cylinder head, Stephen felt the searing pain burn into his nose and mouth. His head began to pound as the pressure on his neck was intensified and as the pain became too intense to bear, his brain issued the instruction to shut down and his soul was released. Stephen’s spirit drifted heaven ward, leaving his torn and mutilated body draped across the warm and sun lit road. He could once again hear the soft sweet singing of the birds, smell the countryside as it was wakening to the rise of the sun, and feel the warmth of the early morning rays. Stephen was at peace with all.
Quickly bundling the lifeless body into the boot of Stephens’s own car, he drove it to the top of a long moss covered grassy bank that bordered one of the deeper sections of the lake. There was serenity in the lake that denied the terrible inhuman act that it had just witnessed and was about to shelter. Releasing the handbrake, he watched it slowly roll down the slope until it hit the clean water and then gradually disappeared into the depths. There was a climatic rush of air, streams of bubbles came to the disturbed surface breaking into ever increasing rings that rippled their way across the still surface of the whole lake, as if to spread the sense of despair at this so unnecessary taking of life, and then silence. Even the wild fowl and local bird life seemed to respect the last act and fell silent as Stephen Gorss left this world, The first stage of the plan had been completed.
Gatwick Airport was as busy as usual and boarding the flight for Geneva was straight forward enough. ‘Sharp’ was soon on his way to Geneva Airport, booked in as Stephen Gorss. He satisfactorily passed through Customs and Immigration at Geneva and was soon on his way to meet the new team member who would be the vital link in the plan.
Taking a hired car from the outside of the airport Gorss headed to the address that they had extracted, and it dropped him off just outside a small restaurant on the main street. The place was humming with customers, and it took him a while to acquire an empty table, downing a single malt whiskey and ice as he waited propped up against the doorway. Eventually a seat by the window became free and Gorss was directed to it by an attractive young woman in her early thirties wearing a smart two piece grey suit with tresses of long blond hair tousled around her shoulders. Sharp guessed that she was the restaurant proprietor.
The restaurant was traditionally decorated with low oak beams spanning the rough plastered ceiling, high paneled walls with framed prints of the many beauty spots within the area, and groups of small rounded tables and high backed chairs. The waitress, a small insignificant type of girl, dressed in the traditional Swiss national costume, came over to Gorss to take his order. He ordered the pasta dish of the day, a half bottle of the house red wine, and sat back and waited. Of all of the faults that Hans seemed to have, and he had a few, he was at least methodical. Every day, at precisely one o’clock, he would leave the bank and take his lunch in this very same restaurant. Once he had eaten the meal and downed a glass or two of white wine, he would then take an easy stroll along the bank of the River Aare before returning to the bank sharply at two.
The traffic along the main street was unusually quiet today and Hans had a spring in his step as he strolled past the attractively displayed goods on sale in the many shop fronts that he passed. His latest client, a Gustav Belltin had, on the advice of his investment manager, invested two hundred thousand Swiss francs in a fine, sound, UK company ‘Hansell Exports’ reputedly bound for great things over the next ten years or so. Crossing the street, Hans entered the small restaurant, was acknowledged by the waitress and took a small table permanently reserved for him against the rear wall. His usual order was confirmed and with a contented sigh he sipped at the glass of white wine passed to him by the wine waiter.
Sharp was not surprised by his appearance. Matching his written description almost to the tee, here was a small middle aged man, with a slightly receding forehead, a small whispery moustache that seemed like an error rather than a statement, slightly overweight, and wearing a tight fitting pin stripe grey suit, white shirt and tie. Probably from the local golf club, although Sharp would have been amazed if this rather sad looking guy could ever play a round of golf.
Almost exactly thirty minutes later and Hans made his farewells, settled his account and made for the street. Likewise did sharp maintaining a discreet fifty meters behind. The route that Hans followed took them to a set of steps at the beginning of the river bridge and led them down to a small stone flagged courtyard surrounded by fruit and ornamental trees standing in hand made wooden tubs. At the far end of the courtyard, a narrow, well kept footpath would take them along the banks of the river running behind rows of ancient river side cottages, many in the process of refurbishment and repair. As Hans entered the footpath, Sharp caught up with him and tapped him polite