Still Midnight

‘Doing what?’

‘Import/export.’

Import. Export. The words clanged into the room, stu

Ba

‘I don’t really understand the business myself,’ said Billal, ‘but it seems to be something to do with computer chips or something?’ He looked at them as if they’d know. ‘Silicone chips?’

Ba

Morrow felt the sudden urge to giggle hysterically. They had all attended the lecture about VAT fraud after the Halligan case collapsed but, unlike many of the presentations they were given, the facts stuck in everyone’s mind because of the grotesque amounts of money: a single businessman committing a paper fraud had netted £15 million in a three month period, a group of three in Birmingham got fifty million in ten months – £1.5 billion cost to taxpayers in one year alone. The numbers were staggering but even more amazing were the clear-up rates: two million recovered in the same period, a tiny portion of the theft.

Everyone hated the cases because the facts were so hard to present to a jury. There was hardly any evidence, the goods were either tiny silicone chips or phones or non-existent. The paper trail evidence was dull, companies and subsidiaries shut down and opened up, directors changed their names and worst of all, most of the perpetrators were small businessmen, shopkeepers, nice men, familiar types, not meaning to hurt anyone, just telling lies on forms. Juries couldn’t stomach sending them to jail.

Two million pounds ransom was nothing to a VAT fraudster. Two million was two day’s wages. Two million was exactly what unprofessional idiots with no firearms experience would ask a VAT fraudster for, a quick skim from a deep pool. Morrow saw that Ba

‘Hm hm.’ Billal nodded at Morrow. ‘Listen, thanks for last night, I meant to say, Meesh said you were great with the baby…’ He was thinking about Morrow’s breasts, his eyes flickered down and up and he blushed, stumbling over what he was going to say. ‘So… thanks.’

‘No problem.’ She gri

Ba

‘Out the back. There’s a shed…’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Do you want to…?’

‘Yes.’ Ba

Billal stood up and Ba

The back door was old, not replaced by a white plastic UPVC but an old wooden door with glass panels that looked original. Billal took a key from a tin on the worktop and opened it, leaving it wide as he stepped out into the garden. Paving slabs had settled unevenly, sticking up at the corners, sliding into the earth, a graveyard on judgement day. Billal stepped carefully, putting his hands out to steady himself as he walked across, and Ba

Ahead of her Ba

‘Bollocks,’ he said to his foot.

‘’S a shit turn of events,’ she said kindly. ‘Sorry for ye.’

Billal was waiting behind the knobbly tree, in front of a brand new shed of orange wood with a tar paper roof. The same colour as the fence behind it, the shed was well hidden. The door was shut with a big padlock.

‘Em, I don’t have a key though.’

Ba

Billal guessed, ‘A padlock?’

‘A homing device for heroin addicts.’

Billal laughed politely and looked at Ba

Billal raised his hands and stepped away from the shed door. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, looking sorry. ‘Absolutely fair enough. Wire in.’

Ba

Morrow didn’t mind that he was talking to her like that, or that he was issuing orders. She did exactly as she was asked.

When the cops arrived Morrow and Ba

‘Fuck,’ muttered Ba

Morrow touched his forearm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

He looked grateful. ‘Fuck.’

‘It might not be…’

‘It is,’ he said, watching the cops clip the padlock open. ‘It’s a fucking VAT fraud and it’s going to get taken over by the Fraud Squad. And like half their fucking cases it’ll end in a ton of paperwork and a hung jury. My arse’ll be in a sling.’ They pulled their latex gloves on and went for a look in the shed.

Disappointing. No dead bodies or loaded shot guns. Just a small desk, a chair, a filing cabinet at the back and a small hard drive sitting on the floor and a long orange extension flex which presumably could be used to reach back to the house and provide power.

The shed was so new it still smelled of seasoning wood. Omar had left it fairly plain, furnishing it with a small Ikea white plastic desk, a chair and a single grey filing cabinet, second-hand judging from the dents in the side. A month by month wall pla

On the desk a Celtic mug with a broken handle was being used for two pencils and a biro. The desk had a thin layer of white dust on it, undisturbed. Even the chair had dust on it.

‘Oh.’ Billal stood in the doorway looking in, disappointed. ‘I thought it would be busier. He spent a lot of time in here, I just thought… I du

In the third drawer down by the floor he pulled out two cricket magazines and, rummaging at the back, a copy of Asian Babes. Billal saw it and seemed shocked.

Ba

Billal shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘Because it may have something on it.’

‘Sure, sure.’ He shrugged again. ‘Take whatever you want.’