CHAPTER 22
At 5pm, Colin Asher’s text to Mark Dobson said: “Ritchie called earlier wanting to speak to his accountant. I sent what he needed. He’s now free to talk.”
Mark called Ritchie. “Still alive, Ritchie?”
“How and where do you want me to deliver my report?”
Mark had checked out of the Sabaidee that morning. He never like staying in one place too long for security reasons. “Take a taxi to Soi 6,” he told Ritchie. “Look for RT Apartments, a grey, concrete block on the left. Take the lift to room 28 on the second floor. I’ll be waiting. Just make sure you’re not followed.”
Ritchie repeated the directions.
“Now delete this call.”
An hour later Mark heard a knock on the door of room 28.
“What’s this place?” Ritchie said. “It’s worse than the Sabaidee. And, Jesus, it’s so hot in here.”
“It’s a place Sannan rents,” Mark explained. “That’s one of his flip flops. The pile of clothing is his dirty washing. The mattress is badly stained – I suspect with coffee but I can’t guarantee it. Also, the AC’s not working which is why the fan is on full and the balcony door’s open. Oh, and the toilet’s blocked. But the WIFI’s good. And the ‘fridge has a few bottles of water left. Help yourself. Then take a seat on the mattress. This end is the cleanest.”
Ritchie fetched himself a bottle of water and placed his back side on the corner of the mattress. Then he pulled off his tee shirt and flapped it at himself.
“You look stressed, Ritchie. Did they give you a hard time?”
“I’m hot, OK? And I just want to listen to the voice recorder,” Ritchie said. “If it didn’t work then I’ll have to go back tomorrow and ask them to repeat everything.”
“Where is it?”
“Still in my cap, I hope.” He tossed the baseball cap towards Dobson who had chosen to sit cross-legged on the floor in bare feet, shorts and tee shirt. He opened his laptop bag and took a pair of scissors from a side pocket. “Always have a sewing kit with you, Ritchie. Did I already tell you that?”
He cut through a section of Velcro and pulled out what looked like a thin memory stick with two short wires attached. “There it is – a VX39. Now we plug in the VX39’s USB connector into my laptop and away we go. When did you switch it on?”
“Olga met me in the lobby of the Novotel. I then got taken for another ride in the Toyota Camry with the glasses on so don’t ask me where we went. I was allowed out on what looked like a housing estate.”
“How long a drive?”
“Half an hour. I was allowed to take the gasses off outside the gate. Olga hit a security button and the gate slid open. It was a tiny front garden with kid’s toys lying around but no sign of kids. I was taken into a sitting room and sat in a big leather sofa, sagging in the middle with my knees around my bloody ears. Olga sat in another chair and switched the TV on - some crazy Thai quiz show, flashing lights and joking that I couldn’t understand and neither could she. Neither could I see out the window so don’t ask me where I was. She then switched the TV off and Blow Wave came in followed by Yuri from the warehouse. I think they’d been upstairs.”
“You’re still sure Yuri is Yuri Abisov from the photos?”
“Yes, but I told you not to interrupt. It’s so hot in here.”
“So sorry. Carry on.”
“I stood up, took my cap off and switched it on.”
“Then?”
“That’s it, Mark. Switch on your laptop and you’ll hear something, or maybe you won’t.”
Dobson touched a few keys on the laptop, moved the cursor, clicked and sat back. There was a low hissing sound that lasted just a few seconds so he adjusted the sound volume. Then:
“Ah, Black Magic.” the Russian accent said. There were some Russian words directed at others in the room and the sound of Olga and Medinski laughing.
“Yuri’s a racist,” Ritchie said. “But I got up and shook hands feeling like the loser in a boxing match.”
“You’ve got to take the rough with the smooth, Ritchie,” Mark said.
Now it was the other Russian: Dimitri Medinski: “You sleep good? Good thinking? Make decision? Have headache this morning?”
“Only my usual hangover.” said the louder voice of Ritchie, aka Micky Parker, given with a reluctant laugh at the end.
Medinski: “So, you want to buy or you want full partnership?”
Ritchie: “I like the partnership idea. I like your plans. They appeal to my sense of scale and ambition. As far as I can see there’s scope for different things and I’m an entrepreneur. Where do we take this?”
“I sat down at that point,” Ritchie said. “They were walking about trying to look big and important, talking Russian. Yuri was smoking. Olga went out, came back with three bottles of Tiger beer and put them on the table. Now they’re inviting me to join them at the table so I put the cap on the next chair.
Medinski: “So, big boy - you have assets?”
Ritchie: “Sure. I told you already.”
Medinski: “How much?”
Ritchie: “That’s private.”
Medinski: “I like this guy. What currency?”
Ritchie: “Pounds sterling.”
Yuri Abisov (with the sound like blowing cigarette smoke): “Your assets In UK or offshore, Magic?”
Ritchie: “UK.”
Abisov: “Pity.”
Richie: “Why a pity?”
Abisov: “We expect investment.”
Ritchie: “I can still invest but only in something that’ll make a good return. What would I invest in?”
Abisov: “Our company. Listen, Magic. You gotta lot to learn.”
From that point on Mark Dobson listened intently to the recording. Ritchie, stripped to the waist, lay on the floor next to the fan. The recording had worked far better than even Dobson had hoped but the proposal being made by the Russians was complicated. They claimed they had offshore companies, lots of them. They were, they claimed, especially well set up in south east Asia – China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia and Thailand. They also claimed to have unnamed trading companies in France, Holland, Russia, Romania, Greece, Lebanon and Saudi Arabia. Then came the first revelation. Mark had specifically encouraged Ritchie to ask one particular question.
Ritchie: “What about Italy?”
Abisov: “You like Italy, Magic?”
Ritchie: “I like Italy. I’ve got invitations to Rome any time I’m passing and you told me your star performer was Italian.”
Medinski: “Enzo. You saw the warehouse, huh? Enzo is a clever man. Enzo has his own label. Bio-Kal. You can do the same sort of business with an investment.”
Mark paused the recording, leaned over and punched Ritchie’s bare shoulder. “You hear that, Ritchie?”
“Of course,” Ritchie said. “I was there, remember?”
“That has to be Eddie’s Bio-Kal and the ‘Forever Youthful’ brand he gets so worked up about.”
Ricky gave a self-satisfied smile. “You see? You think Micky Parker’s just a pretty face? If you want breakthroughs on this stalled investigation of yours all you got to do is ask Micky. There’s more. Keep going. Won’t this fan go any faster?”
Mark pressed play again.
Medinski: “You put in your investment and we give you product to match. You put in fifty thousand, you get fifty thousand of product.”
Ritchie: “That’s not investment. That’s me buying from you. No guarantees I’ll get anything.”
Mark nodded at the sweating Ritchie. That was exactly what he should have said at that point. He felt a strange sense of pride. Asher & Asher’s own investment in a failed drama student was already looking like a good one.
On the recording there was a shuffling sound and Russian being spoken, one minute loud and close, the next minute faint. Olga’s voice was in the background.
“I think they were testing me, Mark. They thought I was stupid. They then left the room and I sat with the beer. The tapping noise is me, checking the recorder is still switched on. Fast forward it, Mark? About ten minutes.” He got up and fetched another bottle of water.
“So, Mr Magic,” came Yuri Abisov’s: voice, eventually. “You like Italy? You like the idea of Bio-Kal? Well, Mr Magic, here’s our proposal. You can buy shares in our Bio-Kal business, but we need to see - what you say? – the colour of your money.”
Ritchie’s reply took a while. “You have a Bio-Kal company in UK?”
Medinski: “It is not yet trading. Is that how you say it?”
Ritchie: “Yes. What is it called?”
Medinski: “Bio-Kal of course, it is what you call a sister of Bio-Kal in Italy, or maybe it’s a brother. So, you would have close friends with Enzo. I have just spoken to Enzo. He is happy.”
Ritchie: “Would I buy from Italy or from you in Bangkok?”
Abisov: “Neither, Magic. From Malaysia.”
Ritchie, still lying on the floor, sat up. “This was getting out of my depth, Mark. I’ve not dealt with Russian mafia before. You don’t see many around north London.”
“Don’t be so sure, Ritchie.” Mark said pausing the recording. “It’s another of those steep learning curves we spoke about. What happened next?”
“I decided I needed to understand more about the Bio-Kal UK business.”
“Good man. What happened?”
“I asked about shareholding.”
“Good man.” Mark pressed play again.
Abisov: “Shares, Magic? Shares depend on your investment.”
Ritchie: “If I’m running it, I can expect a majority, yes?”
Abisov: “I really like this boy. He really is Mr Magic. You want share certificates and all that shit?”
Ritchie: “Of course.”
Abisov: “How much you want to invest?”
Ritchie: “A thousand pounds.”
There was more laughter, louder this time, more Russian joking and an obvious request to Olga to bring more beer but it was Ritchie’s voice next.
“What’s wrong with you? Do all Russians laugh like hyenas in heat? You told me there were other opportunities besides selling cosmetics “
The laughter subsided.
Abisov: “How old are you Magic?”
Ritchie: “Twenty-six. What ‘s that got to do with it?”
Abisov: “You’re too young, Magic. A thousand pounds? That’s only a thousand dollars. I’ve got more than that in my pocket. How much you got in your handbag, Olga?”
Olga laughed. “But he’s a handsome boy. You just gotta do better than a thousand pounds Micky. It’s - what you say? – peanuts.”
“You think I don’t know how to make money?” Richie sounded annoyed, angry. “You think I don’t know the sort of business you’re in – counterfeiting and copying and stealing brand names and over invoicing and all the other tricks. I’ve been in that fucking business for years. Bio-Kal sounds interesting but just because my supplier let me down two nights ago, you think I can’t find a replacement? I started in business age twelve. When did you start, Yuri?”
“OK, OK, stay cool,” Medinski interrupted. “How much cash you got then, Micky?”
“Why should I tell you? Anyway, I’ve got six companies, but if you want proof then all I gotta do is phone my accountant and he’ll confirm. Is that what you want? But if I can do it why can’t you do the same? I show you mine, you show me yours so I know what I’m getting involved in. If that’s too complicated then show me Enzo’s figures.”
Ritchie leaned over and pressed the pause on the recording. “That’s when I phoned your Mr Thomas on his green phone,” he said. “It rang too long but just as I was thinking Asher & Asher was a crap, bullshit company and what a lousy unreliable conman Colin Asher was, he picked up and played the part very well for someone without proper acting training. I asked him to send me a copy of the Pollitop deposit account and it came on my phone within two minutes. My faith was restored.”
Mark smiled. “I’m so relieved to hear that.”
Ritchie pressed play again and what followed was Ritchie’s voice as he called to Jim Thomas, aka Colin Asher. Then:
“Give me two minutes. Meanwhile, where are Enzo’s Bio-Kal accounts or are they hidden and not so easy to access?”
“Cool it, cool it,” Medinski’s voice repeated. “Sit down, sit down. Take it easy, OK? Don’t get crazy. Drink your beer. Cheers. Prost. Zivieli. Sit down. Relax. We’ll wait, OK?”
There was a clinking of bottles, small talk in Russian. Olga saying something. Then:
“This is it.” It was Ritchie’s voice followed by a pause as he checked his phone message. “Yes. OK. This shows the credit balance of one of my companies, Pollitip. Feel free. Take a look.”
He’d handed the phone to Olga first.
Olga: “Yah, OK.” She’d passed the phone back and made a point of touching Ritchie’s hand as she did so. Ritchie passed it to Medinski.
Medinski:“467,980. Is that pounds or Euros?”
Ritchie: “Why do you need to ask? It’s written at the bottom. It’s pounds.”
Medinski passed it to Yuri Abisov: “OK, OK.”
Abisov: “How you earn this?”
Ritchie: “Mind your own damned business, Yuri. How much did you have in the bank at age twenty-six?”
Medinski again: “OK. Cool, cool.”
Ritchie: “Then tell that guy to stop making it sound like I know nothing OK. I thought he was just the warehouse manager.”
Olga had laughed. Abisov had scowled and readied himself to stand up. Medinski had smiled: “OK, OK enough.”
Ritchie then leaned over and paused the recording again.
“After that there isn’t much,” he said. “They refused to give anything on Bio-Kal so I asked what next. Medinski said he’d be in touch. He asked how long I’d be in Bangkok. I said I had no plans to leave just yet. I thought maybe I’d messed up and I’d not hear again but then I got invited to join them at the Peacock, tomorrow night.” Ritchie paused to pour some of the water from his bottle ont his head. He waited for it to trickle down. Then: “So, what do you think, boss?”
“I think you’re still involved. Well done. You think Medinski likes you?”
“Maybe. Yuri probably wants to kill me but won’t because of Medinski.”
“And Olga?”
“I think Olga fancies me.”