A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(170)

“Recovered.”

“We’ll expect you on the pitch at the weekend, then. From the looks of you, you could use the exercise.”

“Croissants in the morning. They’re killing me,” Le Gallez admitted. Robilliard laughed. “Only the fat die young.”

Le Gallez introduced his companions to the managing director, saying,

“We’ve come for a chat about Guy Brouard.”

“Ah.”

“He did his banking here, yes?”

“His sister as well. Is there something dodgy about his accounts?”

“It’s looking that way, David. Sorry.” Le Gallez went on to explain what they knew: the divesting of a significant portfolio of stocks and bonds followed by a series of withdrawals from this bank, made over a relatively short period of time. Ultimately, he concluded, they appeared to have seriously depleted his account. Now the man was dead—as Robilliard probably knew if he’d been conscious in recent weeks—and as his death was a homi ci de...“We’ve got to take a look at everything,” Le Gallez concluded. Robilliard looked thoughtful. “Of course you do,” he said. “But to use anything from the bank as evidence...You’ll need an order from the Bailiff. I expect you know that.”

“That I do,” Le Gallez said. “But all we want is information at the moment. Where’d that money go, for instance, and how did it go there?”

Robilliard considered this request. The others waited. Le Gallez had earlier explained to St. James that a phone call from the Financial Intelligence Service would be enough to prise general information from the bank but that he preferred the personal touch. It would not only be more effective, he said, but it would also be more expeditious. Financial institutions were required by law to disclose suspicious transactions to the FIS when the FIS asked them to do so. But they didn’t exactly have to jump to do it. There were dozens of ways they could drag their feet. For this reason, he’d requested the attendance of the Fraud Department in the person of DS Marsh. Guy Brouard had been dead for too many days for them to have time to cool their heels while the bank did the two-step round what the law quite plainly required it to do. Robilliard finally said, “As long as you understand the situation with regard to evidence...”

Le Gallez tapped himself on the temple. “Got it up here, David. Give us what you can.”

The managing director went to do so personally, leaving them to enjoy the view of the harbour and St. Julian’s pier that unfolded from his window. “Decent telescope, you see France from here,” Le Gallez commented. To which Marsh replied, “But who would want to,” and both men chuckled like locals whose hospitality towards tourists had long ago worn thin.

When Robilliard returned to them some five minutes later, he carried a computer print-out. He gestured to a small conference table, where they sat. He laid the print-out on the table in front of him. He said, “Guy Brouard held a large account. Not as large as his sister’s, but large. There’s been little movement in and out of hers in the last few months, but when you consider who Mr. Brouard was—Chateaux Brouard...the extent of that business when he was directing it?—there was no real reason to red-flag movement in or out of his account.”

“Message received,” Le Gallez said, and to Marsh, “Got it, Dick?”

“We’re cooperating so far,” Marsh acknowledged.

St. James had to admire the small-town deal-making that was going on among the men. He could only imagine how convoluted the entire procedure could become if parties began demanding legal counsel, orders from the head of the judiciary, or an injunction from the FIS. He waited for further developments among them, and they were immediate.

“He’s made a collection of wire transfers to London,” Robilliard told them. “They’ve gone to the same bank, to the same account. They began”—he referred to the print-out—“just over eight months ago. They continued through the spring and the summer in increasing amounts, culminating in a final transfer on the first of October. The initial transfer is five thousand pounds. The final is two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand? All this to the same account each time?” Le Gallez said. “Good Christ, David. Who’s watching the bloody store round here?”

Robilliard coloured faintly. “As I said. The Brouards are major account holders. He ran a business with holdings all over the world.”

“He was God damn retired. ”

“There’s that, yes. But you see, had the transfers been made by someone we didn’t know quite so well—an in-and-out situation set up by a foreign national, for example—we would have red-flagged it at once. But there was nothing to suggest an irregularity. There’s still nothing to suggest that.” He detached a yellow Post-it from the top of the print-out. He went on to say, “The name on the receiving account is International Access. It has an address in Bracknell. Frankly, I expect it was a start-up company in which Brouard was investing. If you look into it, I’ll wager that’s exactly what you’ll find out.”

“What you’d like us to find out,” Le Gallez said.

“That’s all I know,” Robilliard countered.

Le Gallez didn’t let up. “All you know or all you want to tell us, David?”