A Week Is...A Long Time: Neil McKenzie Mysteries, #4

By Chris Grayling

Russian money and right wing extremism, not to mention a missing seventeen year-old and a mafia businessman for whom seven days might be a really, really long time... Another case for Neil McKenzie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Publications
• Release date: Apr 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393939696

Book preview

PROLOGUE

1

Giles Grantham-Smyth MP was in a good mood. Not yet fifty, he could justifiably claim to have already achieved most of his life goals; great wealth, a happy marriage and a growing public reputation. His was an influential voice on the right wing of the Tory party and he’d even managed to evolve into an eccentric media darling. Decades earlier, at Oxford, he’d privately entertained hopes of one day becoming Prime Minister and who could confidently say that his secret dream would never be realised? Granted, there were others amongst his peers with similar ambitions and equally compelling credentials, their mere existence lessening his chances of realising his ultimate goal - but at least the dream was still alive.

Things are made so much easier for a man of average ability when one’s family has the wealth and pedigree that Giles possessed. It had not only eased his entry into Eton, Jesus College and the City; it had also opened doors in the Conservative Party. Britain is still a long way from being a meritocracy, and men like Giles aren’t judged by the same criteria as others. Finding a safe Tory seat in the South West, for example, had been a formality. His local party had almost fallen over themselves in securing his adoption, dismissing more suitable and better-qualified local candidates in the process. His charm and political provenance had smoothed over the dichotomy between Giles’s views and the quaint One-Nation philosophy of Conservatism to which most of his supporters in that rural backwater adhered. There was an overlap of course: low taxation and an unquestioning regard for the traditions and heritage of the country - themes Giles made a point of emphasising whenever he was in his constituency and which beguiled his supporters enough to blind them to his real agenda.

What many in his local party and the thousands who unthinkingly voted for him in elections didn’t know, was that Giles’s commitment was to a different vision of the country than that held by his supporters. His dry humour and eccentricities deflected their gaze from the cold, calculating inner man who hated the kind of country delivered to him by previous generations of politicians. He loathed the influence of Europe and what he perceived as Britain’s loss of sovereignty. The cost of social welfare was crippling the country. Given the chance, he would dismantle everything and usher in a bright new future of deregulation: an enterprise culture producing wealth on a vast scale.

He had an intriguing day ahead of him, starting at eleven when, instead of making the short walk to Parliament from his strategically placed town house, he would be meeting a potential investor at the headquarters of St George’s Investments. He relished living in the heart of the capital, where the smell of power and moneyed privilege was almost tangible. Over his breakfast, he considered his options: walk or take a taxi. He settled for the latter – it would be interesting to hear what the cabbie had to say about the state of the nation. He considered it research: discovering the views of the man in the street was as much a part of his brief as an elected representative as giving interviews or speaking in debates. Usually he found the drivers of black cabs implacably opposed to the inexorable erosion of British values represented by immigrants and, more specifically in their case, the rise of Uber and its habit of offering a cheaper and more convenient means of getting about for London’s savvy population. Giles hated the way that the country of his youth was being eroded by the customs of people from the EU and elsewhere. Folk who disregarded ordinary Britons’ sense of society and their place in it.

All of his three children were at boarding school of course, so it was just he and his wife Rebecca at breakfast. They were served by Janice, their live-in housekeeper who looked after the household affairs that Giles and Rebecca were far too busy to deal with.

Rebecca was her usual chirpy self and kept Giles amused with her one-woman, mostly disparaging, commentary on the leadership skills of the present incumbent of 10 Downing Street. His own view was that the Prime Minister was an intellectual lightweight who was too eager to appease everyone except people like himself who had the interests of the country at heart. The vested interests of business and the left wing of the party held sway – for now.

At ten thirty Giles entered the offices of St George’s Investments. They occupied the top two floors of a fifteen-storey block just off Angel Lane. Giles’s office commanded a panoramic view of the Thames and the London skyline: its purpose was purely for impressing potential investors. Giles himself hardly ever used it - Parliament and the pursuit of power came first. He announced himself to his secretary Glenda and asked her to call John Clarkson to come and see him. John had done all the groundwork in preparing for today’s meeting with Igor Shostav and Giles wanted a last-minute chat to make sure he was fully abreast of what the Russian wanted and what St George’s Investments were offering him.

A few minutes later there was a tap at his open door and John appeared. A Cambridge graduate, John was the brains behind operations at St George’s. It was Giles’s face and reputation that brought clients through the doors, but it was John and his team who kept them happy. He was shrewd and ruthless and knew every tax avoidance scheme in the book, as well as most of the big players in the City. His association with Giles had made John a rich man in his own right, even if his own millions didn’t compare to Giles’s vast wealth.

John Clarkson was a dark, handsome, convivial man, a little overweight after twenty years of taking an endless stream of clients to lunch, but still interesting and attractive enough to make him popular with men and women alike. Tall, black-haired and clean shaven, there was a faint Heathcliffian air about him that was utterly at odds with the self-control that was a constant feature of his professional life.

‘Come in John,’ Giles intoned in his measured Oxbridge accent. In his view he was upper class and considered his accent a badge of honour rather than something to be apologetic about.

‘Morning Giles,’ John greeted him brightly, the barely perceptible elongation in his vowels revealing his humbler Leytonstone upbringing. He came in and sat down opposite Giles.

‘So, this Mr Shostav,’ Giles said thoughtfully, looking at the notes John had prepared for him. ‘Russian businessman from Moscow. He has a considerable amount of money for us to look after according to you. The first thing I should ask is about the legitimacy of his investments.’

‘He’s Russian,’ smiled John. ‘But I’ve done some digging and no red flags, if you’ll forgive the pun, to speak of. Another one who was in the right place at the right time back in the eighties. Friend of Putin apparently but you know the score: you have to stay the right side of Mr P if you want to continue to be rich and out of jail.’

Giles smiled knowingly. He was a great admirer of the Russian leader. Yes, there were aspects of Putin’s regime and the leadership cult that surrounded him that caused the Englishman some disquiet, but at least he’d made Russia strong again and a force to be reckoned with on the world stage. Britain needed, in his opinion, someone just as ruthless.

‘Do we know how much he’s willing to invest?’

John seemed to take a deep breath. ‘A hundred million.’

‘Good God! Sterling?’

‘Yes. It would make him one of our largest individual investors.’

‘Well,’ Giles smiled faintly through his glasses. ‘I’d better not put him off then, had I?’

The briefing with John lasted twenty minutes, leaving Giles ten minutes to gather his thoughts before the Russian arrived. He wondered what Igor Shostav’s motives were for investing with St George’s? Was he squirreling away part of his fortune out of reach of the long arm of Putin or was it simply more money laundering? Most of the money originating from Russia was, how could he put it, of questionable provenance anyway and the City knew it. His attitude, along with almost everyone else’s, was that it might as well be invested in London so long as its origins were convincingly enough disguised from the authorities. They mostly turned a blind eye anyway. And since then there were no legal impediments to these investments, Giles wasn’t of a mind to consider the moral implications too deeply.

At eleven John collected Giles and they went down to reception to greet their potential new client. Igor Shostav was not as Giles had imagined. The former had the slim athletic build of a man twenty years younger than his sixty years. His skin was smooth and healthy looking and his grey eyes appraised Giles forensically as they shook hands. For some reason Giles felt vaguely uncomfortable, but years of meeting important people kept him from manifesting any outward sign of disquiet. He told himself that within an hour it would all be over: a deal would have been done and everyone would be the richer for it.

2

Shostav was accompanied by two men; one, a tough-looking, humourless bodyguard and another who was presumably, for want of a better description, Shostav’s financial adviser. Like his boss, Sergei shook hands confidently and made immediate eye contact with Giles and John, fixing them with a piercing, intelligent gaze. His small frame was clad in a crisp navy-blue pinstripe suit that Giles would have been pleased to wear himself.

Giles and John led the way back to the lift which whisked them all upstairs to the former’s office. Once inside, Giles ushered Shostav and Sergei towards a pair of couches arranged opposite each other and positioned next to a large picture window. Through it could be seen a myriad of buildings and rooftops clustered in random groups going down towards the Thames. The early summer sunshine seemed to emphasise London’s almost eerie metropolitan beauty, the imagination of the architecture reflecting the myriad influences it had embraced and encouraged over its long history. On the other side of the river The Shard soared skywards, like an elegant glass stalagmite rising confidently up out from the hotchpotch of surrounding buildings.

Giles offered Shostav and his associate drinks and passed on their requests to Glenda who was standing in the open office doorway. Giles sat down next to John, opposite the Russians, while the bodyguard remained outside in the outer office. They made inconsequential small talk in English until Glenda appeared again with a tray; two coffees for the Englishmen and sparkling water for the Russians.

Giles waited for his secretary to leave before he spoke directly to Shostav.

‘Mr Shostav – Igor - let me say again how good it is to meet you. Perhaps, now we could, so to speak, get down to business. I understand from John here that you are aware of what we have to offer you so I’m keen to know what you’re proposing.’

It couldn’t have gone better from Giles’s point of view. Shostav confirmed he was willing to invest a hundred million sterling with St George’s. John then had some routine work to do convincing Sergei that St George’s investment and tax avoidance strategies were as bulletproof as a Kevlar vest. He’d done it dozens of times before and didn’t fluff his lines. Eventually, after about an hour, at Shostav’s suggestion, John and Sergei departed to finalise the arrangements. He would sign the relevant agreements in a few days when they were drawn up and have them returned to St George’s. Giles and he were then left to celebrate their new partnership in private.

On cue, as John and Sergei departed the office, Glenda appeared with a tray carrying a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket, and two glasses. Giles personally didn’t care for Champagne, but it was the sort of thing Russians expected. He opened the bottle, easing the cork out gently and poured two glasses. Shostav stood and they toasted the success of their agreement before returning to their seats opposite one another.

Shostav examined Giles thoughtfully before his voice broke the silence. ‘You are becoming an important man in Great Britain Giles,’ he said. ‘I have watched your growing influence with interest.’

Giles tilted his thin angular features in acknowledgement and gave the Russian a watery smile.

‘Thank you, Igor, although I fear my influence isn’t as great as you might imagine. My party is a many-faceted beast whose appetites are difficult to predict. The vagaries of its inclinations have thwarted the ambitions of far better men than I.’

‘You are too modest Giles,’ smiled Shostav. ‘And perhaps it is not only in the Conservative Party? We are happy that a man with your views on the EU, for example, is showing to his countrymen that Brussels cannot be trusted. We - I admire patriotism, especially when you are exposing the loss in sovereignty of the UK to those parasites in Brussels. As you know, historically we Russians are suspicious of the Germans. Great Britain is a proud country with an illustrious history and should not become subservient to another rival nation.’

With a journalist, or anyone else outside of his closest circle, Giles’s antennae would have immediately pricked up with suspicion under the onslaught of Shostav’s blunt charm offensive. Here in his office, however, Giles began to relax. He sensed that Shostav was a like-minded man of the world.

‘Indeed Igor,’ he agreed. ‘The great shame is that not many people see it that way. I do my best, but progress is slow. As you probably know, there may be a referendum on our membership of the EU one day and if the people confirm our affiliation, the UK will continue to be part of the Union for at least a generation.’

Shostav nodded. ‘Do not be so pessimistic, Giles. There are many who think like us. More than you think. My government, for example, would see such a development as a great opportunity.’

Giles looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Put it this way, Giles. We are prepared to help you and the cause you fight for in any way we can. Financially, and in other ways if necessary.’

He raised his hand as Giles went to object. A simple motion of the fingers of his right hand. He continued. ‘We know there are laws which would prohibit such an involvement but you and I both know there are ways around the rules of accountants.’

Giles smiled, but he couldn’t entirely keep the anxiety – or the interest – out of his expression. He took a sip of the Dom Perignon. He noticed that Shostav’s glass was already empty and leant over with the bottle to refill it.

‘Igor, that is very kind,’ he chuckled dryly. But, as you must know, very risky. If the press got to know that I was being supported by the Russians I would be in serious trouble.’

Shostav leaned back on the couch and laughed as if Giles had cracked a joke. Giles looked on bemused. Was the Russian serious about helping him? It seemed like it. When he had stopped laughing the Russian spoke again. ‘Would it surprise you to know that we are already involved?’

Before Giles could think of a retort, Shostav answered his own question. ‘More than you can imagine,’ he said darkly. ‘These days we do not spend as much money on military hardware as we did in the past. Now we invest heavily in cyber space. It is more cost effective.’

Giles knew, of course, that this was true. He didn’t understand exactly how the internet and social media could be mobilised to further political ideas amongst the public, but he knew it was an up and coming means of spreading whatever message one had to tell. He made a mental note to himself to learn more about how it worked. 

Shostav continued. ‘There is, of course, still a place for pressure groups of the kind your man in Tunbridge Wells runs.’

Giles almost jumped with surprise.

‘I beg your pardon.’

Shostav grinned, showing a neat row of capped teeth.

‘The National Action Forum – or The Kent Business Forum depending on the purpose of the meeting.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Giles acknowledged with a reluctant smile. Shostav obviously knew about the Forum so there was little point in denying its existence. He also seemed to know that it changed its name from meeting to meeting depending on the aims of the gathering. Regular monthly meetings of radical adherents in Tunbridge Wells and elsewhere met under the auspices of NAF while the quarterly dinners for businessmen were advertised as KBF get-togethers. ‘Strictly speaking, however, it is Timothy’s sphere of interest in which I have virtually no involvement.’

‘Yes, Mr Cutts - a dedicated patriot - but you are being too modest about the extent of your influence I think.’

Giles blinked nervously at his guest. If Shostav had been from The Guardian, the Englishman’s hopes of ever being a serious politician, let alone Prime Minister, would have been as dead as the water in the ice bucket. Future ministers, let alone Prime Ministers, didn’t help found and fund extreme nationalist pressure groups. The Forum was really Cutts’s brainchild, but Giles couldn’t deny that it was mostly his money that kept it going and allowed him a major say in the issues on which it concentrated. All he could think of to say was: ‘Yes, he is very, er, enthusiastic.’

The Russian smiled. ‘As you say, he is very enthusiastic. And a small network of cells around the country have sprung up – so well-organised also?’

‘Yes, we’ve found some similarly minded people from various parts. It shows that there’s an appetite for the kind of politics that The Forum represents, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ went on Shostav, his voice indicating that he knew Giles was being evasive. ‘We, however, see the value in helping a group with similar aims as ourselves. In your country it seems on the surface that fewer people are concerned about the erosion of national identity than in mine. We suspect, however, that there are more like-minded citizens than those who are prepared to speak out at present. If we can help to increase that number and assist with the growing perception that their views are shared with many of their countrymen, then we will. This is the age of social media, Giles. Coming elections may be won and lost on Facebook or Twitter and The Forum will need the help of these if it is to increase its membership. We could help The Forum with that if you wish.’

Giles was simultaneously excited and perturbed by what he was hearing. He hadn’t the faintest idea what Shostav meant when he asserted that social media could win elections, but if the Russians thought it important then it must be. He was mostly thrilled, however, to know that he’d seemingly found another important ally. An ally with considerable resources who could help him in the fight against the modern liberal thinking undermining the strength and self-confidence of his country. Yes, he was a little nervous that the encouragement was coming from a Russian: the implications of having the moral and financial backing of a powerful ally was one thing but agreeing to foreign involvement in the politics of the UK was, to some extent, another.

Shostav seemed to read his thoughts. ‘There is no need to be alarmed Giles. No one will ever know about either of our involvements with The Forum. It would not be your fault, for example, if it were ever discovered that one of your employees is a leading member of an unfashionable political group. At the moment, no one cares anyway because not even Farage and UKIP are perceived as a serious threat, let alone The Forum, whose numbers nationally only run into the low hundreds. In the future, however, who knows – they may be a useful asset to have if they are nurtured carefully?’

He was right of course, and Giles bobbed his head in agreement.

Shostav continued. ‘It also follows that our involvement with them, while secret, is of no concern to anyone at present. If they become an embarrassment to either of us it will not be difficult to rapidly distance ourselves from their actions.’

‘I can assure you that I will do all in my power to keep them from becoming an embarrassment?’

‘I hope so. Anyway, we have a contact in The Forum. He is there to keep us abreast of its plans and future direction and, perhaps, in the future help to give guidance. We will use him so that you and I can liaise most effectively.’

‘A contact?’

‘I’m sorry not to have informed you sooner Giles but our meeting today is the culmination of several months of preparatory groundwork. We needed to know that you were a man we could support and that your Forum would not be an embarrassment, if you see what I mean. If you wish, we will step back and find another group to support.’

Giles shook his head to show that he understood. The last thing he wanted to do at that moment was offend someone who might prove to be a very valuable ally. ‘No, no I quite understand Igor, although I’m sure that Cutts can be trusted. This contact of yours - am I allowed to know who he is?’

‘Of course,’ Shostav said dismissively, his expression hardly betraying his pleasure at Giles’s enthusiasm. ‘Andrei only works for us in, as you would say, a freelance capacity. We facilitate his operations at home in exchange for his cooperation. He is primarily in it for the money to be made from his operations in the UK. Our leverage over him is considerable because of that but, if it means adding to the potency of The Forum, all well and good.

Giles still didn’t have the foggiest notion what Shostav meant, but there would be time later to get himself up to speed on that score: he was simply content that he appeared to have gained a powerful friend in the fight to regain control of his country. For now, he was prepared to overlook the unfortunate fact that the ally in question had close links with an enemy state.

3

The Russian’s game was a simple one, tried and tested in many countries with countless different players - recruit and control. Shostav and his superiors had chosen Grantham-Smyth as the object of their attentions months before the Russian had gone to St George’s Investments. In the intervening period Andrei Askenov had been contacted and persuaded to cooperate in the plot. He had business interests centred mainly in Russia and the UK, and it was those in Britain that made him, at least to Shostav’s way of thinking, ideal for what he had in mind. Askenov had a base in the south east – a large house in the countryside near Tunbridge Wells – and had built up an extensive infrastructure in London and the home counties.

Askenov was a rising star of the Russian mafia, even if he himself was Georgian. It was no hindrance; his countryman Stalin might have been dead for seventy years, but his murderous reputation still lived on in the psyche of many Russians. Already a ruthless and intelligent operator, Askenov wasn’t afraid to encourage the perception that he shared Stalin’s capacity for deadly efficiency.

He was also young enough to be open to new ways of enhancing profits in the new global world. Askenov covered his business tracks using a complex system of financial sleights of hand centred on companies registered in Panama. His business’s apparent area of expertise was the import and export of timber, which was a reasonably lucrative trade on its own. Askenov, however, had rapidly grown rich by enhancing the legitimate side of the business with the cash flow obtained from drugs and people-trafficking.

The ports of the Black Sea were becoming an increasingly important hub for the transit of narcotics from places like Afghanistan to the lucrative markets of the west. Askenov had used his knowledge of the Caucasian region to exploit the new situation. Both drugs and women were secreted on the bulk carriers that carried the wood across the Black and Mediterranean Seas and beyond. When the freighters neared their cargo’s destination, a rubber dinghy with an outboard motor would be launched like a tender from a cruise ship. Except, where the women were concerned, they weren’t destined for a day of relaxing sight-seeing. They were disappeared into the sex industry or other forms of slavery in the UK or mainland Europe, mostly never to be heard of again.

Anything in Russia, where the accumulation of large amounts of wealth is concerned, never goes on without somebody who matters finding out. Inevitably they want a piece of the action: at first port officials had to be paid off and later people in somewhat higher positions of responsibility joined Askenov’s payroll. In a State run for the benefit of those in power, corruption - like a rich man’s mistress - is always lurking in the background. Askenov’s budget for bribes had increased more than ten-fold before he came to Shostav’s attention.

An offer, as they say, he couldn’t refuse was put to him. He could continue with his operations which, in themselves were undermining the stability of the host countries and contribute in another way to widening the influence of the mother country. How could he say no?

Put simply, he couldn’t. No one turns their back on the Russian state without unpleasant consequences: it’s wise to give a bear first choice of the burgers at a barbeque. Shostav promised that it wouldn’t be too onerous: Askenov would continue to trade from the Black Sea with impunity and in return all he had to do was make contact with, befriend and, ultimately, control Timothy Cutts. They would do the rest.

Months later, Askenov and Cutts were firm friends, at least as far as Cutts was concerned. The Georgian began by turning up at the monthly meetings of The Forum at The Royal Kent hotel in Tunbridge Wells. Cutts led the meetings at which never more than twenty attended – he would give a résumé of the politics of the previous month after which others were allowed to participate in heated discussions. It was mostly young men and only two or three women at most. They all seemed incensed by the politically correct, left-leaning bias of the British establishment and politicians’ apparent lack of concern for the neglect of English values and the country’s past glories.

Askenov was amazed that such people existed in the UK and taken aback by the intensity of the feeling in the meetings. He assumed that the country he visited regularly and in which he personally owned several houses and an apartment was the mild-mannered place he’d always experienced on the surface. He set aside these reservations, however, and made sure he gave the impression to Cutts that he was equally committed to the right-wing extremism he witnessed every month in the meeting room at the rear of the hotel.

It wasn’t long before Askenov was fully immersed in the Forum’s activities: attending most of the meetings and contributing financially and socially. After about six months he’d graduated to going into the bar of The Royal Kent after meetings of The Forum to drink with Cutts and some of its keenest members. It was at one of these informal gatherings that Cutts had pulled him to one side and asked him if he was interested in joining him and a few others in going over to Maidstone, Kent’s county town, to sort out a suspected gang of paedophiles.

Askenov was standing with Cutts at the bar and the Georgian looked at Cutts questioningly. Cutts was mid-thirties