The Alex King Series by A BATEMAN (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📕

their investment. They don’t need to put in a penny, simply have their share stated on the information at Companies House. There’s no secretarial duties, it’s a title in name only. Which means both Hollandrake and his wife take a cut of the profits and a share of the VAT returns. I imagine in return, Sir Hugo has invested influence, nothing more.”

“So, both he and Snell were milking the taxman?”

“Oh yes,” said Welsh. “Many, many times over, I suspect. Because we can’t find out what these shell companies actually do.”

“Isn’t that the point of a shell company?”

Cheap suit said, “Some are merely a cover. Some are a way to run assets at a loss, giving the prime company better profits. That helps a lot if they float on the market. All the toxicity is off-loaded. But companies like that can still turn a profit based on VAT rebates alone,” he paused, then added, “With some provision for creative accounting.”

Welsh nodded. “Say a company imports something. They declare the duty and pay a certain amount in taxes to get the ball rolling. They then sell their products to a shell company, that they already own, at an inflated price. The shell company sells it on, but at a low profit, maybe even at a loss. They don’t pay tax because of the loss. They submit a VAT return, get a rebate. But they’ve sold on to another shell company that the initial holder owns. The stock price rises and falls. On paper, one company is booming, another is going bust. But it’s only one investment. All that is happening is the products are being passed around on paper and tax is either being paid to avoid unnecessary interest from HMRC or VAT is being claimed many times over and the initial investment is constantly rising. Find another company with their own shell companies and work together, avoid the taxes, claim back the VAT in rebates, and the money being made is infinite.”

“So, the upshot of your findings so far?”

“Sir Ian Snell wasn’t worth half what people thought, but the companies he owns and have floated on the stock markets are worth far more on paper, so their shares are over-inflated,” he paused. “And Sir Hugo is worth far more than anyone could have guessed, because of his holdings in the shell companies. It’s all profit, bailed out by our taxes and until now, under everybody’s radar. What we need to do now is dig deeper, find out if Sir Hugo is running shell companies returning the favour to Snell. I suspect he is, and I suspect that Hollandrake’s wife is too. She may or may not be privy to such dealings.”

“And of course, Snell’s wife could be involved too. I suspect we’ll find Russian shell companies as we keep digging,” said cheap suit.

Mereweather leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He had recently noticed, to his consternation, that he was greying at an alarming rate. He had contemplated dying his hair, but had not caught it in time. It would look too obvious now. Perhaps if he took some annual leave, returned with a new haircut as well. Maybe his wife would fancy him more? He thought of spending time with her, his children, then he remembered why he hadn’t taken the leave. In truth, he much preferred his work to family life. He rubbed his face, something he did when he was either tired or stressed. “How has GeoSpec fared since Snell’s death?” he asked.

“On the stock market?” cheap suit clarified.

“Yes.”

“It dropped considerably for the first day, flatlined most of the second and started to rise again. But it stabilised today.”

“After the Home Secretary’s announcement securing the deal on GeoSpec providing the motherboards and electrical systems for Goliath,” Mereweather mused. “Can you find a link to Hollandrake through GeoSpec?”

“No,” Welsh said. “Not a trace.”

“Interesting,” Mereweather said. “Shares?”

“Nope,” cheap suit said emphatically.

“Well, start compiling a list of investors. Minimum share blocks through to the board of directors. And cross reference the names connected with the shell companies.”

Welsh smiled. “We’re already doing that.”

46

 

Amanda Cunningham lived an organised life. Her flat was clean and tidy - a place for everything, and everything in its place. There was an open, half consumed bottle of wine in the fridge, but no empty bottles in her recycling bin. Caroline thought back to King’s comments of her arriving drunk and drinking too much to drive. She couldn’t see a connection to excess drinking from what she had seen. She had been expecting a recycling bin like some outside student digs. But all she could see were milk bottles and some empty tins.

Whatever her lifestyle, Amanda didn’t appear to cook much. Caroline closed the fridge door. There hadn’t been much food in there. Some Greek yoghurt, a packet of butter, some cheese which had dried at the edges, some questionable milk and a tomato in the salad drawer. The cupboards were almost bare. Caroline thought about the woman who had stirred so blatantly between her and King. She thought of her as ‘Old Mother Hubbard’, the woman in the nursery rhyme, rattling around on her own, her cupboards bare.

She had searched the woman’s bedroom. She felt no shame or awkwardness. It was her work, and besides, she couldn’t give a fig for Old Mother Hubbard after this morning’s performance. Her bedside table revealed nothing revelatory. A jewellery box, an opened packet of condoms, scented tissues and some old letters. Caroline had read them. They appeared to go back to Amanda’s time at university. They were between her and a boyfriend. It hadn’t ended well, but Amanda obviously still had feelings for him and had kept the letters near. Caroline had then moved on to the bathroom. She checked the mirrored cabinet. Usual suspects there. No medicines, just a mess of