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‘Were they trafficking people?’ she asks.
‘According to the satellite tracking system, the trawler didn’t leave the fishing grounds.’
‘What about an earlier voyage?’
‘It’s possible, but Cameron Radford wasn’t a regular crewman. There was another brother on board – I’m trying to find him.’
Florence has been searching company records, looking for the beneficial owners of the New Victory, the trawler impounded by the police on Humberside.
‘The shelf company is registered in the Cayman Islands. The listed address is a post office box linked to a vacant block of land. But I found another interesting connection. Do you remember the Panama Papers? A whistle-blower working for a Panamanian law firm leaked millions of documents to investigative journalists.’
‘It was about tax evasion.’
‘On a huge scale. Some of the richest, most powerful people in the world were using offshore tax havens and dummy companies to hide their wealth and avoid scrutiny. Plutocrats. Dictators. Financiers. Politicians. Intelligence officers. Even royalty. One name that came up was North Star Holdings.’
‘Why is that important?’
‘It’s the family company of Lord David Buchan – set up by his father thirty years ago. Basically, it’s an umbrella company with dozens of subsidiary businesses. Factories. Processing plants. Prefabricated building supplies. Hotels. Employment agencies. Freight companies.
‘When the Panama Papers leaked, David Buchan denied any knowledge of the arrangements, saying that he handed over control of his business interests to a blind trust when he entered the House of Lords. Everything at arm’s length.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘No.’
‘What does Simon Buchan say?’
‘He negotiated to sell his stake in the family trust when his father died.’
‘To his brother?’
‘I assume so, but I don’t have more details and I’m reluctant to ask Simon because it might not be appropriate.’
I can understand her misgivings. She works for Simon Buchan and he’s unlikely to be happy if she investigates his family’s business dealings, regardless of the fraternal friction.
‘You mentioned a freight company. Does North Star Holdings have business interests in France or Spain?’ I ask.
‘I can check, but it could take a while to unravel.’
‘Tread lightly.’
‘You too.’
I try Carlson and leave him a non-specific message, asking for news of Arben’s kidnappers. He doesn’t know I’m in Scotland and won’t approve of a parallel, unofficial investigation into Angus Radford and his family.
St Claire has six pubs and a handful of bars and clubs, most of them clustered around the harbour in the older part of the town. At each, I nurse a beer and strike up a conversation with whoever is working behind the bar. I can’t hide the fact that I’m an outsider – my accent marks me down as an Englishman – but the staff are friendly enough until I mention the name Finn Radford.
‘He’s the friend of a friend,’ I say. ‘I promised to look him up.’
The responses range from feigned ignorance to outright hostility, with one publican saying, ‘That fookin’ drunk had better not come round here – not after the last time.’
At the fourth pub, I don’t mention Finn’s name. I buy a drink and sit in the corner, watching the regular patrons who have bellied up to the bar, buttocks spreading on stools, elbows guarding pint glasses, opinions given for free on all subjects.
A woman chooses something from the jukebox. We make eye contact and I hold her gaze for a beat too long. Moments later, she sways between the tables and approaches, leaning closer, cigarettes on her breath.
‘Buy a girl a drink.’
‘I’m waiting for someone.’
