Money maker
At the eastern end of Silbury High Street, adjacent to the Town Hall and Khan Antiques and Curios, the Western Provincial Bank looked exactly as you would expect. Its exterior was of dark grey stone with heavy brown doors at its entrance. Once inside the second set of glass doors, you entered a dimly lit oblong room that ran practically the full length of the building. On your left was a heavy wooden counter up to waist level and glass panels from there to just above the height of one’s head. At the end, on the counter side, was a walk-in safe that protected a fair bit of cash, but more importantly the bank’s ledgers. On the customer side was a door leading to a cosy office belonging to Mrs Peiris, Manager.
On any regular day, from ten o’clock in the morning to half past three in the afternoon, there would be about six to ten customers in the bank, served by two to three clerks, cashing cheques or paying in cash takings from their businesses. It was a pretty sleepy bank in a very sleepy West Country borough.
Today the doors were shut and locked, and a hastily typed sign indicated to customers and passers-by that the bank was closed for the day “for audit of accounts - open again at 10 a.m. on Wednesday 13th April 1966”. The fact that the bank was closed did not actually inconvenience many customers. An unseasonal cold Tuesday meant most people were staying at home, not out shopping or doing other business.
Inside the bank there was a review in progress, though it was not an audit of accounts. It concerned the appearance of just over one thousand pounds in counterfeit notes reported that morning by Kamala Peiris in a phone call to her friend, Inspector Fatima Dieng.
Kamala and Fatima had both moved to Silbury about two years earlier both on promotions within their respective services. They both had children at Silbury Grammar School and had initially met through the school. Two pillars of respectable Silbury society, they found themselves quite frequently at the same gatherings and gravitated to one another as newcomers in what was a very traditional small town community. They discovered they had similar interests outside of work and gradually formed a firm friendship.
A knock on Kamala’s door announced the arrival of tea and biscuits respectfully, and a little diffidently, served by her secretary, Anthony Lo.
“Thank you, Anthony. It was very sweet of you to think of tea. I should have done so myself. I think Inspector Dieng and I will need some time undisturbed now. I’d be grateful if you and the other members of staff could stand by in case the Inspector needs to question any of you. Please remain in the building.”
And so to the business at hand.
Fatima began: “You told me on the telephone that you had noticed some irregularities in five pound notes as you were putting out cash in the customer service drawers for the day. What was it about the notes that convinced you they were counterfeit?”
“At first I wasn’t that sure,” Kamala responded pensively. “The paper didn’t feel just right, the weight at first. Yes, I know. I’m a big woman and not prone to operate with anything else like a precision scale. But when you’ve handled as many bank notes as I have, you begin to have a more developed sense of touch. Once I was suspicious, I pulled out a note from my own purse and began to compare. There are subtle differences, misalignments of features on the notes. Here let me show you.”
Kamala laid two five pound notes on her desk, moving tea cups to one side. To Fatima they looked identical. “I don’t suppose that it will matter if I touch them now. There are undoubtedly too many fingerprints on them already for there to be any telling evidence.” She picked them up one by one but could not sense any differences of weight or quality of paper, not that she doubted her friend’s greater expertise in this matter. “All right. You’ll have to tell me.”
“A real expert will have to examine the paper and give us details on what is wrong with the fake note. I can only go on instinct there,” said Kamala. “But look here at some of the markings. Everything is there as it should be. It’s just that the spacing is different. The 5 at the top right hand corner is marginally closer, only about a sixteenth of an inch, to the edge on the fake note as compared to the real one. Then the words Chief Cashier at the bottom are spaced slightly further apart on the fake than they are on the real note. I’d bet too that the serial number, which looks perfect, is either not one that has been used, or it’s duplicated on another genuine note.”
“Are all the fakes five pound notes?” asked Fatima.
“Yes. We’ve found 207 of them, making a total, though not real, value of £ 1035. There could be more that we still haven’t found, and we’ll be going through all of our cash holdings during the rest of the day. If we have some, it’s likely that there will be others in other banks and possibly still held in businesses around the town. No one normally deposits this sum in one day here.”
“Yes,” Fatima agreed, “and someone knowingly using counterfeit currency will want to spread it around to make tracing it more difficult. They will not have counted on your intuition. Perhaps that will give us the head start we need to solve this case. I must get back to the station now. I need a quiet place where I can think. I’ll have Sergeant Banda and Constable Nguyen interview your staff. They can do that here. Then I’d like to talk with you again later. Shall we have a drink together at the Red Cow?”
“That will be wonderful. I think I’ll need a drink at the end of today.”
Back in her own office in the police station on Mabel Lane, Fatima had a number of questions to ponder. The first thing to understand was the scale of the counterfeit problem. She wrote down the names of all the clearing banks in Silbury, along with the names of the bank managers. There were four of them, in addition to the Western Provincial, and she knew the managers personally. Over the next hour she spoke to each one on the telephone. None of them had found any counterfeit notes in the previous day’s takings, but each promised to take a look at their cash holdings and get back to her. Based on what Kamala had found, she was able to give them some ideas of what precisely they should be looking for.
Was this local or bigger? She was in two minds about that particular question. If it was bigger, she could hand on the responsibility to the regional crime squad, located in Brigstow, and return her attention to the everyday issues with which she was more familiar. On the other hand, there was something to be said for expanding one’s horizons. If it was local, who might have information about it? She would begin with the usual suspects. These were not people she thought had committed any specific crime, though they were also not the most honest of her acquaintances. The thing is they had a knack of knowing what was happening in the neighbourhood that was not common knowledge. She was meeting Kamala at the Red Cow that evening, so she would also have a conversation with the publican, Anna Kaboré. Then tomorrow she would take a walk through the High Street market and have a word with some of the market stallholders.
The telephone rang. It was the first of the other bank managers reporting that she had found counterfeit five pound notes among her cash holdings but in fewer numbers than at the Western Provincial. Then there was similar news from the other banks. Each had received some of the fake currency, but the amounts varied from bank to bank, with none of them having as much as Kamala had found. She was looking at a very interesting pattern though one that also continued to perplex her.
She called in Sergeant Banda and Constable Nguyen, who had by now returned from the bank. It was time to triangulate. She would need to manage this carefully. Joyce Banda was ambitious. She was always enthusiastic in sharing her observations with her boss, though she did have a lot to learn about basing her assertions on real evidence. Nguyen Chi Man was less assertive, but she was very observant. Fatima wanted to know what she had spotted from what the bank staff may have said both during formal interviews and in less guarded moments. At the same time, she needed not to upset the natural hierarchy of the police station.
Sergeant Banda began. She seemed always to have a great urge to speak and to impress. “Ma’am, we interviewed all of the bank employees who were present today. One of the cashiers was absent, as she has just had a baby. She’s been away for two weeks, so I don’t think there is anything suspicious about her absence.”
She paused so that Fatima could give her some positive feedback, which she did: “Very thorough, Sergeant, as ever. We do need to consider all possibilities. Did anyone tell you anything of significance?”
“Ma’am.” It was Banda again. “They mostly spoke to us about the routine they follow on a Monday. A lot of cash gets deposited over the weekend in the night safe. Local businesses don’t like to keep money on their own premises, so they take it over to the bank at the end of business on Saturday. As the bank is closed on Sunday, and a lot of people come in to cash cheques first thing on Monday mornings, the staff don’t get time to account for all of the deposits from the night safe until later in the day. The Manager goes over the ledgers at the end of the day. She also watches as cash is put away in the bank safe and signs off on the cash holdings ledger. The next morning she oversees the removal of cash from the safe to the drawers at the cashiers’ counter. That’s when she noticed that there was something wrong with some of the five pound notes.”
Again, Banda paused. “This procedural information is really useful for us to frame the case, Sergeant,” said Fatima. “Now Constable Nguyen. You were born in Silbury, weren’t you? I believe that’s also the case for most of the bank employees. Was there something they might tell a fellow Silburian that they would not divulge to us foreigners?”
Nguyen chuckled. She enjoyed a good joke, and she found the Inspector’s dry humour especially to her taste. She liked working with Fatima, but she also wasn’t given to seeking praise.
“Born and bred, Ma’m, as we do say around here,” Nguyen responded to Fatima. “As I recall, the information we got from the bank staff were about what the Sergeant just said. But there was a couple of things also that stuck in my head.”
“Go on,” said Fatima.
“They do like Mrs Peiris a lot. She do know her business, and she treats them all fairly. She do praise them when they does good. She acts quickly to correct mistakes without making anyone feel badly for having done something wrong. When they all do work well, or when there be a big holiday coming up, like Christmas or Eid, she do organize a celebration for the whole bank.”
Fatima was going to say something about this, but Nguyen did not pause.
“The other thing one of them told me were that they always do get large deposits over the weekends from the pubs. People round here do like to have a few drinks on Friday and Saturday night, and sometimes more than a few also. To make things a bit more fun, they takes turns on Mondays to count the deposits from the pubs. This Monday were the turn of Miss Foroogh Kianian, who do live on the same street as me. She did say that there were especially many counterfeit notes from the pubs, compared to the other businesses that deposited. Except that there were also a lot from the off license in the High Street, which is the same difference.”
“Interesting,” Fatima responded. “Do you two know how many pubs bank at the Western Provincial and what proportion that is of all the pubs in Silbury?”
Banda looked somewhat irritated. She didn’t know the answer, though she would have loved to be the one to give it. Nguyen stared blankly at Fatima’s desk for a minute. Then she spoke slowly. “By my reckoning, Ma’am, and it’s not like I goes to all of them, mind you,” she said, chuckling at her own joke this time, “there do be eleven pubs in the town itself, with some more in the villages around. Out of the eleven, eight do use the Western Provincial Bank, and so do the off license.” Nguyen nodded in self confirmation.
“Very interesting.” Fatima brought the meeting to a conclusion. “I’m sure you’ve already put your interview notes into the case file. Could you please also add the observations you’ve just made, if you haven’t already done so? And, Sergeant, Constable, very good work.”
The Red Cow can be found on School Lane, a narrow street that issues from the point where the High Street, divided by the Town Hall, becomes London Road on the southern side and Downs Hill Street on the northern side. School Lane runs from London Road down to a very picturesque little square named for the edifice which is its entire southern end, the Lady Merveille Kabeya Primary School. The school in turn backs onto the River Forge. Fatima approached Kabeya Square via a footpath and bridge that join it to Mabel Lane almost exactly opposite the police station. What an apt name for our river, she thought as she walked across the bridge, given the business at hand.
She was early for her rendezvous with Kamala Peiris, and this was intentional. She wanted first to have a few words with the landlady of the Red Cow, Anna Kaboré.
There were three pubs on School Lane, and each seemed to have its own particular niche. The Crossed Swords was very popular with the young crowd in Silbury. It had a loud jukebox fed non-stop with coins so the eighteen, nineteen and twenty year olds could listen to the latest hits, whilst they downed their half pints of lager and lime. Fatima knew that there was a lot of under-age drinking at the Crossed Swords, but as long as this didn’t spill over into drunkenness and/or vandalism she turned a blind eye.
The Coronet had a much older clientele. Mostly they were in their forties and fifties and affected respectability. Music was piped into the bar and consisted mostly of various crooners singing standards from the 1950s. The couples - yes, the ladies would bring along their husbands when they came out for a drink at the Coronet - would sit sipping sherry or brandy and coke, which they understood was in vogue.
The Red Cow was the place for all those in the town that had an interest directly or indirectly in horse racing. Grooms, who worked at the various stables situated on the downs above the town, and punters would mingle in the public bar here knocking back pints of bitter or single or double whiskies depending on how much money they might have in their pockets on that particular day. The talk was all about horses, form and hot tips for next racing day. No music interfered with these seminal conversations, and outsiders were not terribly welcome.
The Red Cow also had a small lounge bar that was generally empty but always open for visitors such as Fatima Dieng.
“Your usual, Inspector?” asked Anna Kaboré as Fatima entered the bar.
“Good evening to you, Anna,” replied Fatima. “Yes, I’ll have a black currant and lemon, with ice, half pint please.”
Anna put together Fatima’s order and handed it over with a grin. “You should try something stronger. It might improve your mood.”
“My mood is quite fine, thank you, Anna. You know that for me drinking alcohol is against my religious beliefs, but I don’t judge others who do feel the need to dull their brains on a regular basis. Perhaps it’s just that otherwise they think too fast and too clearly.” The two of them laughed. They came from different worlds and were very different women, but they had developed quite a symbiotic and easy relationship since Fatima had come to Silbury. Anna was an occasional, but extremely reliable, source of information for the police, and Fatima had discreetly helped Anna out a couple of times when she had had brushes with persons wishing to extort.
“Anna, I was wondering if you might have heard anything about funny money circulating in Silbury and perhaps beyond. For us this is only a preliminary and informal inquiry at present. Just something someone might have mentioned in passing, if you see what I mean. Anything you might know, or half know, could be useful.”
“Ho,” Anna thought for a bit. “I knew you hadn’t come round to see if I was in good health. No, I’ve not heard anything of the sort recently, or for that matter since I inherited this place. But I’ll keep my ear to the ground. The grand ladies who provide me with my living may not be highly educated, but they know a lot of what happens in real life. Let’s see what they let slip.”
“Thanks, Anna. One thing you might want to look out for is anyone splashing around more money than usual. She may not be your actual criminal, but she might help lead us to whoever could be behind this, assuming there’s anything to it.” Fatima was doing her best to be crystal clear.
“Yes, Fatima, the penny’s dropped on this side of the bar. And meanwhile I’ve got other customers to serve, and they spend more here than you do.” Anna grinned and left Fatima alone to await Kamala’s arrival.
Kamala was there within five minutes of Fatima and Anna ending their conversation. She ordered a double whisky at the bar and sat down opposite Fatima. “This has been an extraordinary day and calls for an extraordinary drink. I assure you, this is not my usual tipple.”
Fatima was keen to know if there had been any new developments at the bank. “No,” Kamala responded, “but I was thinking some more about these forgeries, and it occurred to me that their level is not very sophisticated. Let me explain.
“Before I came to Silbury, I worked as an assistant manager in a large branch of the Western Provincial in Brigstow. Whilst I was there, we did have one case of counterfeiting that tangentially involved the bank and me. In this case there was apparently a large amount of fake money put into circulation. It was though so widely distributed in relatively small amounts, and the quality of the fakes was so good, that no one noticed anything for a very long period of time. Then someone came into a dealership and bought a new luxury car with cash, a suitcase full of it. When the dealer came to deposit the money, I thought it was suspicious. I didn’t suspect that the money was counterfeit, but I did question how any individual might have that much ready cash.
“I knew that one of the detectives at the regional crime squad banked with us, so I took the liberty of contacting her and letting her know about the transaction. Actually, I took something of a risk, as my manager would undoubtedly have worried that I had undermined a relationship of trust between the bank and one of its larger clients, but this was a client that almost never dealt in cash. The detective, Inspector Shahida Zaïd, and I met. It wasn’t in the bank, but I had taken another liberty. Withdrawing fifty pounds from my own current account, I took the cash in notes that had been deposited by the dealership. I showed these to Inspector Zaïd, and she asked if she could take them away for a detailed examination. Though I was worried that I was handing over, in effect, fifty pounds of my own money, I felt I should trust the Inspector to deal honestly with me.”
“And you were right,” Fatima assured Kamala. “I know Shahida well. She’s one of the most professional police officers it’s ever been my pleasure to meet and is often cited as a role model.”
“My experience too,” Kamala continued. “The next week she rang me up, and we met again, this time at the offices of the regional crime squad. She gave me back my fifty pounds, though she told me these notes were different from the ones I had entrusted to her. And, she said, these are real. The money used for the purchase of the car was fake, and it looked like it was part of huge counterfeiting scheme. The regional crime squad went on to round up most of the individuals involved, including the one who had been too greedy in wanting a luxury car. I didn’t play any further part, and the bank was not cited at all in the case. But Inspector Zaïd did let me know what had happened and thanked me for what had been a vital tip off.”
“So how does that case relate to what we have found here in Silbury? Do you think some of the same people might be involved?” Fatima was keen to get to the point.
“Just this. The amount of counterfeit currency we’re seeing here, compared to the case in Brigstow, as it was eventually explained to me by Inspector Zaïd, is not just small, it’s miniscule, unless you’ve found more in other banks and businesses.”
“No,” Fatima conceded. “In fact, the other banks found less than you did.”
“OK. That’s the first point. The second one concerns the quality of the forgeries. In Brigstow I had no idea I was handling counterfeit currency. It was exactly like the real thing. Apparently it was only the serial numbers that gave it away in the end. That’s how organized crime works. In this case though I knew immediately that there was something wrong with the notes. Whoever is behind this clearly has much less experience and expertise than did the crime ring in Brigstow.”
“What you’re saying then, Kamala, is that this could be local. Yes, that would make sense,” concluded Fatima.
“What will you do next?” asked Kamala.
“I don’t know yet, but let me buy you another drink. You deserve it after all you’ve been through today.” The two friends sat then and chatted for another half hour about all the other goings on in the town before both leaving for their respective homes.
On Wednesday morning Fatima sought out Constable Nguyen and asked her to come to her office. “Constable, I want you to go over to Silbury Printers. You know it, I’m sure. It’s just off the High Street close to the Post Office.”
“I do know it, Ma’am,” affirmed Nguyen.
“Good. There are a couple of things I’d like you to do there. The first is to get an estimate for the costs of printing posters, entry tickets and raffle tickets for this year’s Police Ball. Let’s see how much the government’s prices and wages policy is affecting printing costs. That will also help us in deciding how much we should charge for entry this year.
“The other thing I’d like you to do is a bit more delicate. I want you to try to engage in conversation with the woman, or indeed man, who actually does the printing. Tell her we’re thinking of putting together a custom Monopoly set based on the streets of Silbury. It’s hush-hush, because this might be the principal prize in our raffle. As such we would want it to be of the very best quality. Does she think that Silbury Printers can help us produce something of this nature? Everything would need to look really posh, including the property, chance and community chest cards. And we would want the currency notes to look just like the real thing, though, of course, they would say something like Bank of Silbury, so that no one would mistakenly use the Monopoly money in real life. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
Nguyen chuckled. The Inspector was bringing out that dry wit again. “Got it, Ma’am. You wants to know how easy it might be to counterfeit actual bank notes here in Silbury. I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will, Constable. Please come straight to see me, when you get back. I’ll be here all morning.”
As Nguyen was going out of her office, the telephone on her desk rang. It was Anna Kaboré from the Red Cow. “Good morning, Inspector. I hope you haven’t got too much of a hangover.”
Fatima laughed. “What have you got for me, Anna?”
“After you left last night, we had a lady come in flashing a lot of money and buying a lot of drinks. It seems she had a really big win in a couple of races at Casgwent. Paid for everything with fresh looking five pound notes. I asked her if she’d been to the race course itself. No, that was far too far away, and she has a full time job here as a mechanic at the London Road garage. She had placed her bets, as she always does, at Silbury Bookmakers and Turf Accountants in Kabeya Square. Normally that would be money lost, but lo and behold this Tuesday she comes up with a big win and must celebrate. Would you like to see some of the notes? I could send them over to you, if you promise to pay me back.” Anna was enjoying an enhanced role for herself in a police investigation. She also liked to help a friend.
“Don’t worry about sending the notes over. I’ll come over to you, along with my money expert. We’d like to come at a time when you don’t have any customers.”
“OK, Fatima. Would a quarter to three this afternoon suit you? We call time at half past.”
“That should be perfect,” Fatima responded. “Unless I ring back, we’ll be there then.”
Nguyen was back within the hour. “Ma’am, I did have some very interesting chats with a Miss Mbangwa at the printers. She be very knowledgeable about all them machines they do have there. Oh, and I got the estimate for the police ball tickets and stuff.”
“Thank you, Constable,” said Fatima, as she took a large manila envelope from Nguyen’s hand. “I’ll take this along to the next meeting of the Borough Council’s ways and means committee, so we can agree on budgets for the ball. But what did she say about our Monopoly set?”
“Ma’am, Miss Mbangwa did say that all of our special requests was possible. For the Monopoly money, they would have to get custom made plates.” Nguyen was now reading slowly and carefully from her notebook. “But they knows where to get them from. And,” looking again carefully at her notes, “for added authenticity, they can make sure each note has a different serial number and the paper will be with custom watermark. She also showed me the actual machines.”
“That’s very good work, Constable, and some equally interesting results. What I think we have learned is that the production of counterfeit currency can be done at almost any professional printing shop, though the quality of notes produced may not be adequate to fool everyone. According to Mrs Peiris, that needs a level of expertise beyond that of the small town printer.
“Now,” Fatima continued, “I need to have a word with one of our good justices of the peace before we proceed to our next step. Could you and Sergeant Banda please also join me for a rendezvous with Anna Kaboré at the Red Cow at a quarter to three? I’ll see you both there.”
Silbury market occurs twice a week on Saturdays and Wednesdays. The stalls are laid out in the middle of the high street in an area reserved on other days for car parking. The Saturday market is the larger of the two and extends half way down the High Street from its eastern end. The Wednesday market is smaller and is about half the length of the Saturday market. The stalls, especially on Wednesday, are mostly laden with produce: vegetables, fruit, meat and baked goods. There is, however, always one stall covered in bric-a-brac, old china and ornaments that don’t quite make the grade of antiques as defined by Khan Antiques and Curios.
Fatima decided to fill in the time before her rendezvous with Anna Kaboré by wandering along the market stalls and exchanging greetings, perhaps also information, with the stall holders. She knew that they were not averse to a little petty crime themselves, but as long as it didn’t hurt anyone else she mostly turned a blind eye. They also knew this and thus knew too that they could trust her.
Today she went from stall to stall, stopped to admire the produce on sale, inquired into the health of the various ladies in charge of the stalls, as well as their families, and asked what was new. No one had anything much to share, though a couple of them remarked that the present nasty cold snap could well get worse before it got better.
Then at the curios stall, Jamila Khan, who was the elder daughter of Amina Khan, owner of the said antique shop, and who was tending their market stall today, said she did have something that may interest the Inspector.
“It’s nothing local,” she said, “but I did hear a couple of women today talking about a race fixing scheme at Casgwent racecourse. They were looking through the silverware over there and saying that this would be a nice opportunity to make a little money at the bookmakers. Maybe this is information that would interest anyone you might know in the South Wales police.”
“Perhaps it is, Jamila,” said Fatima. “Thank you very much. I’ll not forget your helpfulness.”
She looked at her watch. It was time to go and see Anna.
There are four entrances to the Red Cow. At the front are separate doors leading to the Public Bar and the Lounge. At the end of a narrow alleyway between the Red Cow and an adjoining residence there is a small backyard, and here one door also leads to the bar and to the public conveniences, and another door leads into the publican’s private quarters. It was at the last of these that Inspector Fatima Dieng knocked. She was accompanied by Kamala Peiris, Sergeant Banda and Constable Nguyen. Anna Kaboré opened the door and ushered them in.
Immediately before them was a spacious kitchen with a large table and chairs at its centre. On the table were teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and several cups and saucers, as well as a plate of custard creams. “I thought you might all like a nice cup of tea,” said Anna. And indeed they did, with Banda and Nguyen leading the way in polishing off the biscuits.
Anna then laid out two piles of bank notes: 22 five pound notes and 46 one pound notes. “Since you were coming here, I thought I’d show you all the money we had in the till at the end of yesterday night, except for the coins. As you can see, we had a good night, with a lot more fivers than you’d usually see on a weeknight.”
She pushed them over to Kamala, who picked them up one by one, starting with the five pound notes. After a careful examination, she put each note down, ending up with two piles, one much larger than the other. Then she did the same with the one pound notes, except that all of these went into a single pile. “The singles are all genuine, as far as I can see, but 18 of the fivers are fake, exactly like the ones I found at the bank, Fatima, sorry, I mean Inspector.”
“That’s fine, Kamala, I mean Mrs Peiris,” said Fatima to the accompaniment of Nguyen’s habitual chuckle. “Then we have £ 90 in counterfeit currency or almost half of your last night’s takings, Anna. Did this all come from the one customer, or were there others involved?”
Anna thought for a moment. “I think it’s only the one. It’s quite rare for our customers to pay for their drinks with five pound notes. Mostly it’s just in change. And it was only this punter that spent that much money. She had a skinful herself and was offering to stand rounds for everyone there, leading to a lot of regular beer drinkers switching to shorts.”
“And did you by any chance get her name?” asked Fatima.
“Indeed I did. She’s Mrs Rachel Odinga. You should be able to find her at the London Road garage, if she’s not busy placing more bets.”
“Yes,” said Fatima. “I think the garage should be the next port of call for the Sergeant and Constable here. Please find Mrs Odinga and bring her to Silbury Bookmakers and Turf Accountants. Mrs Peiris, would you mind accompanying me to that establishment now?”
Kamala assented, and they all prepared to leave. Anna stopped them. “Inspector, Fatima, there’s one more thing I’d like to know. What happens now to my takings?”
“Well, Anna,” Fatima responded with a twinkle in her eye, “you’ll not be able to use the fake money, as that would be against the law. Sergeant Banda will take that from you and give you a receipt, with an acknowledgement that you are helping the police with their inquiries. We shall have to see later how you would be recompensed for losses. But you have my word that I’ll do my utmost to see you don’t lose out.”
“Actually your anti-theft insurance should cover it,” Kamala put in. “Later on, if you want, we can have a look together at your policy just to make sure, and I’ll also help you make a claim.”
They left the pub and walked down into Kabeya Square, with Banda and Nguyen continuing on to the garage and Fatima and Kamala to the bookmakers. Once inside the betting shop, Fatima went straight to the counter ignoring the queue of punters there. “I am Police Inspector Dieng.” She showed her warrant card. “Who is in charge here?”
The punters quickly decided they did not after all need to place bets right at that very moment and left the premises. A middle aged woman opened a door beside the counter. “I’m Mrs Batbayar, the manager.”
“Mrs Batbayar, I have a warrant from a Justice of the Peace for a search of your premises. This is in connection with a current police case in which your business may have become involved, possibly inadvertently. We shall need to take a look at your ledgers and your takings, of course with you as a witness. I am being assisted by Mrs Peiris, who is manager of the Western Provincial Bank in the High Street. We shall be joined shorty by Sergeant Banda and Constable Nguyen, and possibly one other person. Once they arrive, I suggest you close and lock the front door, so that we may all proceed without interruptions. Are there any other entrances or exits?”
“There is a side door that gives onto an alley. We want to cooperate with the police and shall lock both doors. Our staff will all remain on the premises, if that’s what you wish. May I inform the owner that you are here?” Mrs Batbayar seemed to know how to do this by the book.
“Yes, please do all of that,” said Fatima, just as Banda and Nguyen arrived, along with Mrs Odinga. “Constable, can you please question Mrs Odinga in Mrs Batbayar’s office? Sergeant, please join Mrs Peiris and myself as we examine the ledgers and cash drawers. Mrs Batbayar, we’ll start with the cash, if you please, one drawer at a time.”
There were only three cash drawers behind the counter. Two were already unlocked and open. At Fatima’s request, Kamala went to the first drawer and took out all of the five pound notes. She began to examine each note, first feeling the paper and then looking closely at the note itself. Then she put each note down on the counter into one of two piles. She repeated the same procedure at the second drawer and, once it had been unlocked by Mrs Batbayar, the third. At the end of the exercise, there were six piles of five pound notes on the counter. After asking for permission from Fatima and Mrs Batbayar, Kamala then consolidated the notes into two piles, one of which was about three times the height of the other. Then she counted each pile in the swift manner that is unique to those who work in banks.
“Inspector, there are 205 five pound notes here,” Kamala explained. “Out of these, by my reckoning at least, 47 are genuine, which means that 158 are fake. You’ve got £ 790 worth of counterfeit currency here. Do you also want me to look at the singles?”
“No, thank you, Mrs Peiris,” Fatima responded. “Sergeant Banda, please collect all of the presumed counterfeit notes and write a receipt for Mrs Batbayar. Now we need to take a look at the ledgers to see where the cash came from and when.”
Kamala took the three ledgers that had been brought from Mrs Batbayar’s office. They each had large labels on them indicating their purpose. She took the one marked cash on hand and examined it closely for some time. Then she had an exchange with Mrs Batbayar that lasted for about ten minutes, after which she turned to Fatima.
“Inspector, the ledger indicates that this establishment began the day with £ 1500 in cash. That is apparently standard practice, in order to cover all anticipated payouts in a worst case scenario, in other words if up to half of all bets placed proved successful for those placing them. I’d guess that current holdings are about that amount. It seems, according to Mrs Batbayar, that this has been quite a quiet day. Less than thirty bets have been placed today, none of them for five pounds or more. No money has yet been paid out on any of them.
“At the end of yesterday, which was apparently a good day for the establishment, they had a total sum of £ 2068 plus a bit of change. They deposited £ 768, at my bank actually. The ledger says they then topped up their cash on hand with £ 200 from owner.”
“From owner?” said Fatima. “Who is the owner?”
The front door opened, having been unlocked from the outside, and a tall, well dressed woman walked in. “That would be me.”
They all immediately recognized Mrs Priyanka Patel, reputed to be the wealthiest person not only in Silbury but in all of the county. She did indeed have multiple business interests, though Fatima had not known until that moment that she was the owner of this betting shop. She was also a distinguished member of Silbury Borough Council and, according to some, the most likely next Mayor of Silbury.
Councillor Patel also recognized Fatima. “Well, Inspector, perhaps you would like to let me know what you are doing here and who these ladies are accompanying you.”
“Of course, Councillor. I’m here with two of my colleagues: Sergeant Banda and Constable Nguyen. We are pursuing a lead in the case of some counterfeit currency that has been found in Silbury in quite a large sum. I think you already know Mrs Peiris here, who is the manager of the Western Provincial Bank in the High Street. It was she who first brought the matter to my attention. And Mrs Odinga is a mechanic at the London Road garage. She was known to have had possession of counterfeit currency after having placed successful bets at your establishment. We have now found some fake bank notes here that we have taken as evidence, having provided an official receipt to your manager, Mrs Batbayar. I should note that I have a warrant to search these premises duly authorized by a Justice of the Peace.
“We were just in the process of scrutinizing the ledgers of this establishment and had found that cash on hand had been topped up at the end of yesterday with £ 200 from owner. I was about to ask how that happened. Your arrival, Councillor, is thus very timely.”
“It’s quite simple, Inspector,” Councillor Patel responded. “As you know, I have multiple businesses in Silbury. At the end of each day I manage the cash flow of each one by moving surpluses from one to another to avoid depositing money at the bank and then withdrawing it again. I find this approach to be more efficient and much neater.”
“Do you personally visit each of your businesses, Councillor?” asked Fatima.
“Indeed, either at the end of business or just before each one opens for the day.”
“That’s correct,” Mrs Batbayar corroborated Councillor Patel’s statement. “Councillor Patel has recently been dropping in every morning at nine o’clock.”
“Was there anything else, Inspector?” asked Councillor Patel.
“Just one more thing, Councillor. I’m afraid we shall need to take the ledgers with us to the police station as potential evidence in this case. They will be returned, but you will no doubt want to copy at least the most recent entries. Sergeant Banda can remain here whilst you do that.”
“Very well, Inspector.” Councillor Patel was not pleased about this but did her best not to show it. “I shall, of course, be mentioning this to the Chief Constable. I believe you are aware that she is my cousin.”
“Of course, Ma’am.” It was Fatima’s turn not to be pleased. “And thank you very much for your cooperation, you too, Mrs Batbayar.”
They all took their leave. Kamala returned to her bank, Mrs Odinga to her garage, and Fatima and Constable Nguyen walked across the footbridge to Mabel Lane.
Back at the police station, Fatima asked Nguyen about her interview with Mrs Odinga. “Were you able to clarify exactly the origin of the money that she was spreading about at the Red Cow last night?”
“No doubt in my mind,” said Nguyen. “It took a while, but she did have quite a story.
“Ma’am, she loves the horse racing, especially the flat races, you know, where they has no fences for jumping. She think it easier to work out the odds for a horse to win or place, if the race be flat. Not that she is very good at it. Normally she do have a few bets on a Saturday and end up with nothing, or next to it. But for this Tuesday, when normally she don’t bet, she had some hot tips on two races at Casgwent. The tipster were by all accounts someone highly reliable, almost never been wrong, says a close friend of Mrs Odinga, who do be from out of town and rang her up special to pass to on the tips. According to me, these races was maybe fixed, but we didn’t follow that tack.”
“Good, Constable.” Fatima felt this the right moment for some encouragement. “I’m glad you stuck to the main issue of the inquiry: the origin of the money.”
“So, Ma’am, Mrs Odinga do take all the money she and her husband have saved up for their annual holiday - they goes hiking in the Lake District staying at bed and breakfasts - and put it on the horses given her in the tip to win. And they does win, both of them. She puts the holiday money back, along with a bonus, and then do decide that she can spend the rest on herself, goes for a cream tea at the Longbarrow Tea Rooms, and then buys everyone a drink, and more than a few herself, at the Red Cow. Husband do stay home, same as always, according to her. He do know his place.”
“Good work, Constable. Have you got this all in a written statement?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fatima thought for a moment. “Then I’ve just got one more rather unpleasant thing for you to do, Constable. We can’t have Mrs Odinga spending any more of the counterfeit currency she’s acquired from Silbury Bookmakers and Turf Accountants. You’re going to have impound her holiday savings pending determination of whether any of it is actually real. There may unfortunately be no hiking trip to the Lake District this year for Mrs and Mr Odinga, though at least we can’t insist on her returning the cream tea or the Red Cow’s drinks.”
Nguyen smirked. There was that dry wit again. She was about to leave when Sergeant Banda knocked at the door of Fatima’s office. “May I come in, Ma’am?”
“Of course, Sergeant. What did you want to tell me?”
“Ma’am, I just wanted to report on what you had asked me to do at the betting shop.” Of course, thought Fatima, Banda needs to receive some praise for work she has done on her own. “Mrs Batbayar copied down the last few pages of each ledger into separate exercise books and handed the ledgers over to me. I gave her a receipt. Councillor Patel stayed and watched everything. She didn’t say a word right up to the end but looked livid. When it came time to take my leave, I thanked everyone for their cooperation, and Mrs Patel said I should tell Inspector Dieng that she won’t forget this, and she will be telling the Chief Constable about it.”
“Well played, Sergeant. You did this all by the book and should be proud of yourself for dealing with what could have turned quite ugly. I think we’ll just have to live with the fact that Councillor Patel is not going to be our best friend, at least for a while.” Constable Nguyen again gave a broad grin, whilst Fatima did her best to hide her own misgivings.
England, especially the West Country, is not known for extremes of weather. The climate is temperate if generally on the wet side. It will rain on average every two to three days. April showers are to be expected. What is not to be expected is a sudden heavy snowstorm and for temperatures to go below freezing point. This is exactly what happened the next day, and it brought traffic in the town and surrounding area to a standstill. This Thursday morning the High Street was almost empty.
Off the northern side of the High Street a number of steep narrow alleys join it to two parallel streets above, where many of the wealthy citizens have their nice spacious houses; they are also accessible from a road, Jekyll Lane, at the western end of the High Street that leads onto the downs. Down one of these alleys a tall woman wearing a dark overcoat was attempting to manoeuvre a large suitcase. She reached the High Street, took a sharp turn to the left, slipped and fell heavily. The suitcase burst open depositing a number of five pound notes onto the pavement.
“Are you all right, Madam? Can we help you?” She couldn’t see who was speaking to her, as the fall had brought the overcoat over her head, but something about the voice sounded familiar.
“No, no, I’m fine, no need for any help, thank you.” She found she was more breathless than she had thought.
“Oh, but I think we should help you, Councillor Patel.” It was Inspector Fatima Dieng. “We’ll help you and your suitcase into this police car here. It will be much more comfortable for us all to continue our conversation at the police station, and we shan’t even have to negotiate the regular morning traffic to get there. Sergeant Banda, can you please take charge of the suitcase? Constable Nguyen, let’s you and I help Mrs Patel get back onto her feet and into the car.”
At the police station Fatima and Sergeant Banda sat in an interview room with Councillor Patel. The Inspector had sent Constable Nguyen on another errand.
“I am not saying anything without the presence of my solicitor.” Councillor Patel made her position clear from the outset.
“Of course, that is your right. Please let us know the number and we shall arrange for you to speak to your solicitor from this telephone.” Fatima indicated the instrument on the table that separated her from Mrs Patel, who gave the number.
Sergeant Banda went to give it to the switchboard, and the telephone rang shortly thereafter. Fatima rose, giving Councillor Patel a quarter of an hour of private conversation.
When she returned with Sergeant Banda, Councillor Patel told her that the solicitor, Mrs Meledi Mbeko, would be there shortly and that she would not be answering any questions until Mrs Mbeko’s arrival.
“That will be fine,” Fatima responded. “To fill the time it may take for Mrs Mbeko to get here in all this unseasonal weather, let me tell you what I think.
“I think you manufactured quite a large sum of fake five pound notes. You did this at Silbury Printers, which is one of the many businesses you own in and around the town. You then moved amounts of this counterfeit currency to Silbury Bookmakers and Turf Accountants, which you also own, and put it into circulation through the winnings of those placing bets at your establishment. Your product was good, not recognized by anyone in the town, except for one person. You had the misfortune that Mrs Kamala Peiris, manager of the Western Provincial Bank, had prior experience of handling counterfeit currency in her previous position with the same bank in the city of Brigstow. She identified the problem. Then Mrs Anna Kaboré, landlady at the Red Cow Inn, made a connection to the betting shop through the overindulgence of one of her customers. When we made our visit to your betting shop, you became worried that we might start adding one thing to another and coming to you as the culprit. You, therefore, decided to move your cache of counterfeit currency, which was at your home, to another location. Unfortunately the weather conspired against you, and here you are.
“The one thing I find really hard to understand is why you needed to do all this. You are the wealthiest person in Silbury, possibly in the county. You are considered a pillar of our local society. There are those who say that the rich always just want more. Would you say that’s correct in your case?”
Mrs Patel sat silent and angry staring at the table between them. The spell was broken by the arrival of Mrs Mbeko. “Priyanka, I hope you’re all right and that you have not said anything to the police in my absence. Inspector, I’d like a few moments alone with my client, if you please.”
“Of course,” responded Fatima, “but first I need to caution your client. Mrs Priyanka Patel, I am arresting you for offences under the Forgery Act. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
Councillor Patel exploded. “This will be last mistake that you make, Dieng. Once my cousin, the Chief Constable, knows of this, your goose is cooked! You won’t even be allowed to do traffic duty in the Malvinas Islands!”
“Mrs Mbeko,” Fatima said calmly, “we shall leave you and Mrs Patel to consult in private. She is free to leave the police station but should remain available to the police. I am also happy to provide you with information on the case held by the police, which now includes some physical evidence and statements just collected by Constable Nguyen at Silbury Printers. I am sure you will advise your client accordingly. Good day to you.”
The snow storm ended that Thursday afternoon, but it was some time before all the roads were clear. Still on the following Monday the main trunk road that linked London to Brigstow, and ran through Silbury, was fully navigable provided one drove with caution.
Returning that Monday from lunch at home with her husband - their favourite rice and fish - Fatima spotted a large black Ford Zephyr 6 Mark III parked on Mabel Lane outside the police station. Standing beside the car was the familiar figure of Constable Dawit Haile, driver for Chief Constable Meena Desai. Ever keen to be viewed as a progressive, the Chief Constable had decided some years ago to assign a male police officer to be her driver.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. She’s waiting for you inside. We’ve only been here for fifteen minutes. Sergeant Banda has made us very welcome.” Constable Haile showed Fatima the cup of tea he had been drinking.
Fatima made her way to her office. Chief Constable Desai was sat behind her desk, and opposite her were Sergeant Banda and Constable Nguyen. “Ah, Inspector, back from lunch at home, I understand. I was having a pleasant chat with the Sergeant and Constable here. As you know, I like to get the views of our more junior officers on how we are doing. They often have insights that we may miss, however experienced we are. And now I think it’s time you and I had a few private words.”
Sergeant Banda and Constable Nguyen left the room, and Fatima stood before the desk.
“Sit down, Inspector, sit down. This isn’t a disciplinary hearing, or anything of that nature. I just want to talk with you about this recent case concerning Councillor Patel. It’s going to have some ramifications, and I think we should be prepared, don’t you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Fatima took one of the chairs vacated by her two colleagues.
“You know, Inspector, that Councillor Patel approached me about the case. We are cousins; my mother is her father’s sister. To be frank, she asked me to have the case dismissed and you sacked or at least transferred with a demotion. I demurred. Apart from anything else, the case you have built is, at least to my admittedly trained eye, quite watertight. You haven’t left me any room for intervention.” The Chief Constable laughed at what was evidently intended as a joke.
“I think that was the last straw for Priyanka. If her own family was not prepared to aid her, she knew she did not stand a chance. As you know, she will plead guilty at her arraignment, I believe, in the hope of a lesser sentence.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Fatima waited for the Chief Constable to continue.
“Priyanka will spend some years in prison, I think that is obvious. This is going to have an effect on this town, since she was its richest citizen, and she owned so many of its businesses. The family, including me in my personal capacity, have spoken with her, and she has agreed to sell all of her businesses, though we shall do that over time, so as not to depress their values. I thought you should know this before it becomes general knowledge.
“She’s also going to resign from the Borough Council. She sees this as preferable to being ejected due to her pending conviction.
“I suppose I must commend you on the thoroughness of your investigation of someone who is one of Silbury’s, one of Shoatshire’s most prominent citizens. Tell me, were you never afraid of any negative consequences for you personally?”
“Ma’m, I was indeed concerned. But I knew I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to let down my fellow police officers, including the ones you were just talking with. Above all, I value the support and friendship of two women that are not rich and powerful, as was Councillor Patel, but are the lifeblood of this community. I absolutely had to live up to the expectations of my friends Kamala Peiris and Anna Kaboré.” Fatima wondered if she had gone too far.
Probably she had, as the Chief Constable, for an instant, lost her smile and her previously silken tone. “Well well, Inspector, so you have friends. So do I.” She paused to regain her former composure.
“Well, Inspector, I can’t spend all afternoon in sleepy Silbury. I have a telephonic appointment with the Home Secretary at five o’clock, so I had better get back to my own office. But I’m sure we shall meet again soon. Good day to you.”
The Chief Constable stood up and abruptly left the police office. Fatima knew she had not made a friend that day.
