Corruption

By Mike Gill

Milo Devine had spent his life cutting corners and bending the rules to make his fortune until a late-night phone call from Parvez Iqbal helps him discover a conscience that leads him into a world of corruption and crime beyond his imagination.

Politics, business, and organised crime merge into one as Milo investigates the bad guys while his friends perish at the hands of two gangs of ruthless criminals who think nothing of killing in the name of business.

Just as he thinks he has won the day, the tables turn as his close friend, Simon, betrays him, and Milo becomes the next target for the assassins.

Hiding out in Ireland with professional killers on his trail, Milo is soon faced with a choice: finish the fight or run for his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468581652

Mike Gill

Mike Gill is a senior human resource adviser working in local government. His experience in investigating allegations of job fixing, local tax evasion, and misappropriation of grants in a northern local authority form the basis of Corruption. Mike’s evidence gathered from his investigations were supplied to an independent review team, police and auditors looking into the causes of summer riots in a north Manchester town. Mike lives in Oldham and works in West Yorkshire.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Milo stood facing the plain brick wall of the holding cell with his eyes fixed on the thin plastic mattress covering a wooden bench like ledge that doubled as a single bed and a seat. Claustrophobic and cold, the cell generated an overwhelming sense of impotence and doom that took immediate effect leaving him finding it impossible to move an inch for what felt like an eternity.

Forcing himself to look around he began to take in the physical reality of his situation and saw that the simple bench-settee of a bed was secured to the drab light grey painted bare brick wall by hinges and was held up by two thick chains attached to the corners at either end. Above the bed at a height beyond the reach of the tallest of mortal men was a rectangular slit of a window with thick opaque glass in box like formation allowing the minimum of natural light into the cell. Badly spelled graffiti proclaiming the loose morals of numerous young women from the estates of Dublin was scratched into the paintwork giving the tiny room the feel of a public toilet.

The distinct odour of the room added to the visual impression by combining the smell of all manner of human body fluids with industrial strength bleach. As the unfamiliar smell hit Milo’s nostrils he was forced to breathe through his mouth until he pushed himself to acclimatise to his depressing reality. Perversely such acclimatisation was helped along by the sound of the door clanging as it slammed shut behind him creating an echo that resounded in the room and was amplified as it bounced off the bare brick walls, floors and ceilings like squash balls in a court. It was this sound that told him he was trapped in a box from which he could never just get up and go.

The shock to his system was immense. So many others had gone before him in this very cell and he wondered how they all coped, adjusted and acclimatised. He’d seen some of his neighbours in crime being taken into their own cells as he was escorted along the bleak corridor.

He studied their sullen defiance combined with acceptance. He weighed up their bravado and saw weakness combined with the venomous anger of cornered rats. It occurred to him that he might actually be stronger than these people but as his head told him of his strength, inside him was a churning stomach and a racing heart. The thought came into his mind that the contrast between the immaculate designer suit he wore and the cheap track suit bottoms, grey hoodies and tee-shirts of the rest of his companions might have attracted some attention.

A white collar criminal, if found guilty, would find himself in the same place as the thieves, pimps, drug dealers and killers from the scummiest parts of the Emerald Isle. How he would survive he had no idea. Any sign of fear had to be suppressed, any outward evidence of anxiety buried, the slightest demonstration of unfamiliarity concealed and replaced with a show of nonchalant acceptance as if this was simply a hazard of a profession of crime practiced on a higher level than the rest of the prisoners.

Contradiction upon contradiction shot through his head as he now contemplated survival among the incarcerated criminal classes whereas ten minutes before he stood before a judge and jury attempting to portray a man of means, professional standards and honest intent. If the case went the wrong way he knew he would have to fit in with people who would impose a new order of fear and tyranny in a prison where Darwin’s maxim would be paraphrased as only the most ruthless survive.

He’d noticed one or two of the others glancing at him as they were marched to the cells from the different courts. What did they see? Was he a target? Was he someone who looked like a prosperous gangster or influential political prisoner of the republican kind? He didn’t know, he couldn’t know and neither could they. He had to focus on what he always focussed on; he had to fix his tangled thoughts on winning.

As he looked downwards towards the floor, portraying but not living some sort of physical manifestation of contrition or shame, he looked at his lace less shoes before running his fingers over his belt less trousers and tie less shirt as if to prove to himself that he really was in a cell and to remind himself he had no right to the trappings of civilisation or personal identity while so incarcerated. Even worse he now had no choices to make even to the point of using his belt, laces or tie to bring a premature end to his life as he waited for the verdict for or against him by a jury of his peers.

He began to walk up and down the cell as if to take some sort of control of his limiting environment. Pacing like a wild cat in a cage he crossed from side to side, bed to door and back again until the futility dawned on him and he decided another plan needed to be formulated.

After carefully folding his jacket and placing it on the end of the bed he began a series of press ups with his hands on the side of the bed and his feet pushed up against the base of the stainless steel toilet to give him the leverage he needed. He was beginning to take command of the situation and as his breathing intensified, as sweat began to moisten his sleeve’s underarms, as the blood began to pump through his body, his head engaged in a quest to find a way out of the negative maze his thoughts had found themselves trapped within.

It was now time to think. Raising himself onto the cheap plastic mattress and carefully lying on his back so as not to crease his clothes in case he was called back into the courthouse, he began to take in his situation. Up to this day he’d been able to enjoy his freedom to conduct his business and live his life more or less as he wished as long as he didn’t leave Ireland while this sorry trial had dragged itself across three long months. Today though, bail was withdrawn as the jury deliberated upon the charges of insider trading and conspiracy to commit fraud while he contemplated that this cell may be the place of things to come.

He tried to distance himself from the noise of keys turning in locks, cell doors clanging as they were slammed shut by uniformed staff with tattoos and fat guts while the temporary residents of the cells shouted their innocence of all crime and contempt for all screws, judges and Garda to their unknown neighbours.

This dungeon like block of cells under the beautiful Four Courts building was never going to find itself in any tourist guide book as a place to spend a night by the Liffey key side but for now it was the only place he could be.

Looking round his temporary new home, Milo reflected on its two hundred year history and imagined some of his father’s republican heroes, not least the great Wolfe Tone, who may have sat in this very cell waiting for the death sentence to be passed. Now he was in the same place but not anywhere close to the same esteem. For a single moment he was distracted from the fight for his freedom and thought of the shame a guilty verdict would bring to his family. No martyrdom for Milo, just notoriety for his pursuit of money at all cost.

Shame replaced fear and he thought of his mother’s face of disappointment upon hearing the news of a guilty verdict. In that moment he became a child again as he remembered being dragged home by a neighbouring farmer after being caught stealing apples from his orchard.

The childlike terror of his father’s wrath was nothing to the hurt he felt as his mother refused to even look at him and turned her face towards the peat fire burning in the hearth. Excommunicated from her love the child that was Milo was sent to bed with no supper to contemplate the mortal sin of stealing a few cider apples that had made his stomach ache with pain through the night.

Anger replaced shame as he refused to judge himself on the values of parents who lived in a bygone age of Catholicism, idealism, socialism, communism, republicanism and every other ism that put the common man on a pedestal built on noble causes. He lived in the real world and this world had no pedestals, no noble causes; only winners, losers and pedestrians. The choices were fast lane, hard shoulder or pavement; wealth, poverty or mediocrity.

His head was spurred by the anger and negative thoughts were only allowed to remain for a second or two as he forced himself to return to the fight in hand by analysing the prosecution lawyer’s summing up. The counter argument to the prosecution case from his expensive English barrister, engaged for his magnificent track record of getting all sorts of corporate miscreants off from much more serious charges, was brilliant. That prosecutor, on the other hand knew nothing about business finance and he wondered what on earth possessed the people who appointed him to make such a choice.

Anyone sat in the gallery and not the dock would have rushed out to Paddy Power to lay a sizable bet on an acquittal but since he was the one being talked about and the jury would know less about business than a Presbyterian would know about organising a spending spree and pub crawl in Vatican City, he had his concerns.

Despondency began to creep back into his heart and sense of panic began to well up from the pit of his stomach forcing him to get up from his bed and walk but he could go nowhere other than up and down the oppressive, depressing hole of a holding cell with nothing to do but talk to himself in his head.

Emotions and thoughts were swinging like two pendulums with the one only slightly behind the other. Anger followed despair, optimism was crushed in a breath as even the slightest of doubts lodged itself in the corner of his mind, and hope waned to nothing as he realised there was no more he could do to influence his fate.

The cell began to feel smaller and smaller with the walls becoming thicker as his thoughts refused to focus on the positive. Things were getting worse and he began to imagine a verdict of guilty followed by a number and the word years. What would that number be? Where would those years be spent? What would be the fate of his millions siphoned away in properties and bank accounts across the free world?

The last question was the one that caused the most distress. All that work, all that time spent building an empire of investment to disappear just because he did what everyone else was doing. After all knowledge was power and all he did was exercise some of his power to ensure a return on his knowledge investment. How could that be wrong even if technically it may have been slightly on the mendacious side of the border of legal definitions? Surely the good men and women of the jury would understand that this was just normal business.

He stood up again and began to pace between the bed and the door trying to again recapture control but failing. His breathing began to increase in pace as panic began to creep through his body but he pushed himself back to taking charge of the only thing he had any control over himself.

As his thoughts slowly navigated their way from negative to positive and then rapidly return to their pessimistic starting point he heard muted voices outside his small new world followed by the little flap at eye level slapping the metal door as it fell to reveal a pair of dark brown eyes looking in to make sure he was stood well back. The rough Dublin accent of the jailer man told him to step back and sit on the bed while simultaneously a key turned in the lock. The door swung open inwards to reveal the fat guard in his starched white shirt and blue trousers with sewn in creases and shiny backside standing in front of a familiar figure.

Chief Inspector Murphy. To what do I owe this pleasure? Milo had lost all semblances of contrition, angst and desperation by immediately assuming a confident welcoming tone as if greeting a business acquaintance walking into his opulent offices or a long lost friend coming into his palatial apartment. The cell had become the base from which he would conduct business as usual.

The architect of his present situation walked casually into the cell sitting beside him without saying a word. The large man looked up before nodding to the guard who retreated into the corridor and locked the door behind him.

Murphy looked round the cell for a moment before speaking in an accent that gave away his working class Dublin roots in spite of the effort to enunciate each word with the exactitude of its spelling. Not exactly what you’re used to is it Milo but I think you’ll have to call it home. At least for the evening anyway.

Neither man looked at each other and the conversation was like that of two men fishing by a quiet country lake side, keeping a watchful eye on their bobbing floats in the distance but in reality simply fixing their respective stares on the iron door. I’ve stayed in worse places and had to pay for the privilege.

Could be you’ll end up paying quite a lot for this accommodation if we get access to your bank accounts. By our calculations we’re looking at a couple of million euros in criminal compensation and then the revenue people will be after you and they’re like rats with bit of meat. They never let go.

Milo smiled and glanced at the expressionless face of his adversary You make an assumption you’ll win. I’m planning to be on the next available flight to Leeds.

You’re a cocky bastard Milo. Still that may help you out when you’re doing three years or so in the big house with all those drug dealers, perverts and thugs. Now it was Chief Inspector Murphy’s turn to smile. We had a pretty strong case and I think the jury will be swayed by it.

You may have had what you thought was a case but your barrister couldn’t have persuaded that jury of it being a fecking weekday if he gave them the morning papers with headlines saying it was Monday. He paused to laugh while still staring directly at the cell door. I mean for God’s sake if anyone should be getting done for fraud it’s him for making out he knows something about the law. If I was you I’d charge him for false accounting too if he bills you for that debacle.

Murphy joined the laughter I’ll give you that one son but the evidence was clear and you knew those shares you bought were going to rocket within days of getting them.

So you said in court but all I did was unload some shares in a business that was going down the pan and bought some that I felt were a prospect. Just intuition, business sense and a bit of good luck on my part as Mr Benedict so eloquently stated in his summing up. I think my peers will comprehend that and sympathise with a poor Wexford boy being persecuted, sorry prosecuted, for making an honest euro or two.

That’s as maybe Milo but you forget the little matter of conspiracy to commit fraud.

Yeah right. Problem is Chief Inspector that you need someone to have conspired with and your only witness was the person you said that was. Since you didn’t charge him at all there is no co-conspirator and that kinda weakens your case in my book. Also makes you look a bit like the chief persecutor himself. Tell you what though, and just to show there’s no hard feeling, I’ll buy you a Guinness and a nice Irish chaser tomorrow when the judge tells me I’m free to go.

I’ll tell you what my entrepreneurial little farmer’s boy, I’ll get you a drink when you get released from Mountjoy. You’ll need it after doing time with Dublin’s finest. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow… I’m off home to the wife and a nice supper. You, on the other hand had better get used to the shite they serve up here because you’ll be eating it for a while to come.

As the chief inspector got up to go the fat guard opened the door as if on cue. Milo stood up at the same time and held out his hand as if concluding a business meeting No hard feelings Mr Murphy, I wish we’d met in different circumstances.

Murphy took Milo’s hand with a firm grip, Yeah, me too son. I’ve enjoyed our chats over the past year or so. Good luck but however this turns out, I don’t want to see your sorry face on my patch again.

Milo smiled, You got a deal there my friend. I’m out of here as soon as I can be and it would take more than the craic of Temple Bar to get me back in this fair city.

When the door slammed shut again Milo resumed his solitary debate and felt the strength ebb from his physical and emotional being as he descended into a valley of uncertainty, doubt and an overwhelming terror of finding himself in Mountjoy prison. As he lay back on the shiny blue mattress he looked upwards to the high ceiling and felt two tears slowly edge their way from his eyes and make their slow way towards his neatly trimmed black beard where they disappeared from sight leaving only two thin shiny trails to say they existed at all.

. . . . .

Chief Inspector Murphy settled into his executive leather chair behind his large polished mahogany desk and began to leaf through his correspondence before getting to work on the case files. As he sipped from his mug of coffee he came to a post card with a picture of a glass of Guinness sporting a shamrock in the creamy head.

Turning the card over his policeman’s eye caught the stamp as being English and the franking as Bradford. The message was brief Dear Chief Inspector, sorry I missed you down the Brazen Head but I left a pint in the taps and a whisky in the bottle for you. Enjoy. M.

Chapter 2

Standing in the entrance hall of the Oldbury Council town hall Milo was looking like a man confident enough to rule the earth and prosperous enough to buy it and all who walked on it if he wanted. The world was yet again at his expensively shoed feet and he was going to make sure he took all that he could get.

Standing beside him was Mark Palmer, the formidable chief executive looking composed and calm with the council leader, Frank Fox showing no sign of the anxiety he was feeling on this crucial evening in his struggle to consolidate his authority. Milo was comfortable with the company he was keeping, with some reservations about the elected element, and the knowledge that wherever he was he was at the centre of power.

That power was emphasised by the splendour of the Victorian building in which they stood with its ornate marble staircase behind the three men underlining their rank as if they were nineteenth century cotton barons posing in regal settings. The lavish interior of the town hall contrasted sharply with the bleak urban landscape surrounding this icon of an industrial wealth that was never shared with those whose labour had paid for it.

Dark, highly polished wooden panels rose from the white and black marble floor to be met by plaster walls painted in an anonymous council green and covered in large oil paintings of former mayors of long ago resplendent in red robes and gold chains. But only a few of the building’s frequent users could be tempted to look upwards to the Michelangelo style painted ceiling and the fading reds, blues and gold dominated images of the industry that financed that very building. At the top of the white pillars holding up the ornate dome were gold leaf coated scrolls with no other purpose than to please the artistic indulgence of architects who designed them and pander to the egos of the industrialists who financed this temple to their own honour nearly two centuries before.

There was no appreciation shown, or even held, by the majority of the building’s users for the exquisite craftsmanship contained within their immediate surrounds and it could be said that they simply took it all for granted as they busied themselves rushing from one important meeting to another. It was as if the building’s history had no more significance than the history of a terraced house; the legacy of the democracy of which the town hall represented a foundation stone was replaced by the business at hand.

Milo didn’t see it as they saw it. Milo saw the building for what it was, a beautiful testament to power and wealth and like all such buildings, his rightful place.

The acoustics of the great entrance hall made it so that words spoken would disappear into the air and this forced anyone trying to speak discreetly within a group to subconsciously stand closer to each other and talk quietly like conspirators who wanted their words to be heard only by the few trusted ones.

Milo was here tonight to make sure his plan for Oldbury Council went through without a hitch. He had been working hard leading a team of consultants and his plan was to save them money on their business and for him to make money by getting more than his fair share of what was saved and, with a bit of luck, a share of what was spent from the remainder. For Milo this was a win, win and win again situation. That is he wins, his customers win and then he wins some more.

Among all the men and women in suits Milo stood out from the crowd with his immaculately groomed black hair, steely blue eyes and black beard, speckled with a distinguished grey trimmed to a perfect two millimetres. Standing his full six feet and with back and shoulders straight in his jet black Armani suit, white Jerome Street tailored shirt open at the top displaying the thick black hair of his chest springing out like a burst mattress over the top button and his black faced, gold cased Gucci watch presented the image he had always striven for; an image of success without effort and of a man who demanded respect through the manifestation of that success.

Milo had worked hard for what he had but he strove to ensure that his past, a history of struggle to break from his own working class and farming roots with one or two close encounters of a potentially criminal kind with the Garda, was not contained within his image or demeanour. As far as anyone seeing this man would be concerned he was what he expected of himself, a man of importance and a man to be reckoned with.

Outside the main entrance he could see, and hear, the small but extremely vociferous, gathering of trade unionist and assorted lefties who had come to picket councillors arriving to vote his massive package of efficiencies through. He’d been here before and quite frankly he didn’t give a damn. To Milo trade unions simply got in the way of the prime objective, indeed the only objective, which was to make money, make more money and then make even more money.

Let them make a noise, their protest was futile. The deal was already done and their day had been and gone. As Milo looked at the protesters he imagined his mother standing with them and looking away from him in disgust just like when he was a boy. A trace of conscience found a corner of his amoral heart to reside for just one second before being killed off as Milo looked at his expensive watch having pulled back his crisp shirt cuff held together by a Prada link.

The three men stood like they had a plot to hatch and a plan to lay. Leaning into the centre of their little triangle to speak, listen and laugh occasionally at references to subjects unheard by and unknown to the masses. But because of the very fact of who they were and the importance they had, there was no need to whisper since no one would breach the invisible wall surrounding them without invitation. Anyone that needed to interrupt for whatever reason would stand a respectful distance away and wait for one of the three wise men to nod their permission to interrupt the conversation to which they would never be privy.

Looking directly into the eyes of Frank Fox Milo’s thoughts were very much about how contemptible this odious fat rat of bent politician this man really was. Fox stood there an overweight working class entrepreneur in a shabby light green suit and equally shabby yellow shirt looking like Barry Humphries’ parody of the Australian Cultural Attaché but thinking he was a man of merit and prosperity.

Milo thought of how he hated having to work with such barbarians in the world of politics and business but he remembered that his job was to save money for the council and make it for himself. ‘Couldn’t be fairer than that could it?’ Everyone’s a winner in Milo’s game. That is apart from the collateral damage sustained by the flotsam and jetsam of today’s world in the form