Читать книгу Blindside - Wilna Adriaanse - Страница 13

On Friday morning at seven, Nick locked the door of the apartment and set off on foot in the direction of Sea Point. He was slightly early for the bus and joined the short queue.

When the bus came, he took a seat right at the back and watched the other passengers who got on. School children, youngsters who looked like students, working people. Two elderly women, handbags tucked tightly under their arms. A dapper gentleman with a cap and walking stick.

The bus moved slowly, giving him the chance to survey his environment. He didn’t like the colossal new stadium in Green Point and wondered how the city fathers could ever have approved it. They drove past the Gallows Hill traffic centre. Legend has it that criminals were hanged for their transgressions here in the early days at the Cape. It was strange that the name had never been changed over the years. Maybe the place’s history was so dark that no one wanted to tamper with the name. In Somerset Road there were modern shops on both sides of the street.

When they reached the city centre, Nick got off at the station and walked to the Golden Acre, where he got into a taxi. In London he had always used public transport. Since returning to South Africa, he preferred to be at the wheel himself, but the Range Rover had a tracking device and he didn’t want to take unnecessary risks. Soon after he had started to work for the Allegrettis, he had picked up a tail on one or two occasions. After a while, things had settled down.

He hadn’t noticed anyone following him since he’d arrived in Cape Town, but Paul was terrified that they might be spotted together, so he always made doubly sure when the two of them met up.

“I don’t care that you’re positive no one suspects us. You’re not going to try to be a hero when my head’s on the block,” Paul had said in no uncertain terms.

The taxi took the N1 to the northern suburbs. Occasionally Nick looked in the rearview mirror, but he saw nothing that warranted his attention. At a shopping centre in Durbanville he got out, paid the driver and walked the remaining block to the restaurant.

Paul was waiting at a table in the corner, a cup of coffee in front of him.

“Were you careful?”

“Yes.”

“Did you switch off your cellphone?”

“Yes. Relax, will you?”

Paul sat back, noticeably relieved, but still frowning. “I hope you’re here to tell me my job is done.”

Nick ordered coffee and shook his head. “Do you really want to leave this exciting life behind and go back to a desk in a grey office?”

“You forget I like grey. I’m crazy about monotone. Colour is overrated.”

Nick smiled. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to hang on for a while longer. Whenever you get sick of it, think about your grandchildren. One day, when they hear what you did, you’ll be their hero. At least they’ll know you didn’t spend your entire life crunching numbers.”

“Grandchildren.” Paul shook his head. “Why would I want to add to the overpopulation of the planet?”

The waitress came to take their order. Nick asked for the farmer’s breakfast. Paul ordered fruit, yoghurt and a muffin with honey.

Nick sat back as the girl walked away. “Last time we spoke you said you’ve more or less worked out what the setup is at the club. Tell me.”

Paul frowned. “You don’t meet people that stupid every day. You could have hired an eight-year-old to figure it out.”

“Is it as we thought? Is dirty money going through the club?”

“I could have told you that without selling my soul. Why else would they have bought the club?”

“I know you said so, but without evidence my hands are tied. How do they do it?”

“First, there’s the door money. The club has a capacity of six hundred. For the club to rake in the kind of money they put down to entrance fees, on average between eight hundred and a thousand people need to go through those doors every night of the week. Close to two thousand on Fridays and Saturdays.”

“Could the numbers be real?”

“I suppose so, but the club’s licence, fire and health certificates put its capacity at six hundred. It’s possible that they let more people in occasionally, but every night? The risk of losing their licence is just too great.”

The waitress brought their food and they both had a bite of two before Nick continued.

“How much can they launder like that?”

“It’s a simple calculation. The entrance fee is R200. Multiply by six hundred. That gives you R120 000 per night. Multiply by five nights a week, four weeks per month on average. That gives you R2,4 million per month. To slip an extra two or three hundred thousand in is not rocket science. So we’re looking at a possible R3,6 million a year. Not bad. And we haven’t even looked at the liquor and food sales yet.”

“Do you mean to tell me the auditors don’t pick it up?”

“Are you stupid, or just pretending to be? Do you think I don’t know how to fix the books?”

They ate in silence for a while.

“You say they can also slip money in through the bars?”

“Do you know how many shots there are in a bottle?” asked Paul.

Nick shook his head. “No, but I suppose I should. I’ve emptied a few in my lifetime.”

“Let’s say you have more or less four bottles of tequila for the night. Your books can’t show you sold twice as many shots.” Paul sat back and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “As I’ve said, it sounds like small change, but if you add it up at the end of the year, you’ll be surprised. And remember, they bought the club for that purpose, so the numbers have been inflated from the start.”

“And you’re still keeping track of everything?”

“Yes, but let me tell you, if you drop the ball and I have to stand up in court and skip the country and spend the rest of my life living in some godforsaken village under a false name, I’m coming for you first. I’m not joking. Make sure you have a water­tight case. I don’t want to have to go underground with a wig and a false moustache.”

“I see Allegretti bought new vehicles. Where did the money come from?”

“That’s how they move the money around. He also bought polo horses, a house at Val de Vie Estate near Paarl, where his horses are stabled, a powerboat, and he added to his share portfolio. Very conservative, and he sees to it that the amount doesn’t correspond with any amount that came in via another route. The trick is integration. Once it’s done, it’s harder to follow the money, but not impossible. There are often crumbs that help you pick up the trail. Are you aware that Allegretti’s lost hundreds of thousands at the gambling tables over the past few months?”

Nick nodded. “You told me so on the phone.”

“It’s an easy way to hide money, but if you’re not careful, the bug bites, and before you know it, you’re hooked.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s so on edge at the moment. He knows he’ll have to get the money back before the old man finds out. Things are beginning to make more sense.”

“I’ve said it before, it’s not rocket science.”

“Do the cops ever show up at the club?”

“Frequently. But it’s not as if they come over and introduce themselves. The faces also change.”

“And you’re sure they’re cops?”

“You recognise them a mile off. Maybe you should introduce yourself and compare notes. Won’t it simplify things?”

Nick shook his head. “Under no circumstances. There have been too many leaks already. At the moment I trust no one.”

“There must be someone you can trust.”

“We simply don’t have time to separate the sheep from the goats. Just accept for now that all cops are dirty, at least to some degree.”

Paul looked at his watch and got to his feet. “I have to go.”

“I’ll grab a lift with you to the city centre.”

“You must be joking.”

Nick got up as well and put a few notes on the table. “There are no taxis around here.”

“There are buses.”

“Dammit, Paul … Do you know how long it’s going to take me?”

“Your time versus my neck – no contest. See you later.”

Nick walked to the Standard Bank on the corner. When a minibus taxi stopped, he asked where they were heading.

“Bellville station.”

He got in. His chances of finding a taxi there were better, or he could take the train to town. He cursed under his breath.