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CHAPTER 1
2016, Day One: 2.55 pm
'Our guest of honour today, ladies and gentlemen, really needs no introduction from me,' Lord Justice Winters said. 'His selfless and tireless exploits, without fear or favour, on behalf of his persecuted and often impecunious clients have ensured that his name will long be remembered, not only amongst our illustrious Bar Association and Law Society brethren gathered here this afternoon in the splendid Dorchester Ballroom in London's West End ...'
Scott smiled at the plug. One of the noble Lord Justice's daughters was an adviser to the owners of the Dorchester Hotel Group, the Brunei Investment Agency.
'... but also amongst his clients, former and current. In fact, I would be doing our honoured guest an injustice if I were not to briefly remind you of the grit and determination he displayed during his spell in Moscow – a hostile territory for advocates of human rights at the best of times. Who of us can forget his success in the European Court of Human Rights in 2013 when he secured a unanimous judgment for the Chechens in respect of war crimes committed by the Russian military during the 1990s? A success which was rewarded by the Kremlin with a lifetime ban from Russia ...'
This grated on Scott. He loved the ordinary Russian people and his former work colleagues and clients in Moscow. Not every Russian was as bad as the Western media and many governments often proclaimed. It was 2016; the real threat to civilised society and tolerance was religious fanaticism, not alleged Russian hackers.
'Undeterred by this setback, he returned to this country and immediately began to rebuild his career of speaking up for, and protecting, those minorities amongst us who are ill equipped to obtain redress for their perceived injustices ...'
Scott had a leading City law firm to thank for giving him the opportunity to do this. The partners had taken him on as a self-employed consultant to help develop the firm's pro bono human rights department. Such had been his success in boosting the reputation of the firm that the partners were about to offer him a partnership.
'One such instance springs to mind, and that was his masterful cross-examination of the three police officers who were found guilty of corruption and manslaughter in the Peckham death-in-custody case.' Winters smiled at Scott. 'If ever you think of crossing over to the Bar, young man, I think your application will be well received.'
Scott felt his face reddening. He tried to hide his blushes with an embarrassed smile and gentle nod in the judge's direction.
Cries of "Hear! Hear!" and table-banging resounded throughout the room.
'So now, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, please give a warm welcome to our human rights lawyer of the year ... Scott Mitchell.'
The applause from the four hundred or so guests was loud and enthusiastic. Scott took a deep breath and stood up. He was pleased with his achievements and his ability to overcome adversity, not only as a lawyer, but perhaps more so because of his deep disappointment at never being allowed to return to Russia again – many friendships there had come to an abrupt end. True, some had kept in touch via email, Skype and social media, but he missed the physical, as distinct from, virtual face-to-face relationships. However, the new friends he'd made within the English legal fraternity, and the rekindling of old relationships that had existed in the UK before he'd gone to work in Russia, had helped him to readjust.
The award was the icing on the cake.
His parents, who'd both been killed in a car crash in 2014, would have been so proud of him. He wiped a tear from his eye, mouthed a thank-you to his cheering table colleagues and made his way to the rostrum at the head of the room, where plush blue curtains masked the famous Orangery. Many of the guests were standing and taking pictures on their phones while others remained seated and banged cutlery on the tables.
A kerfuffle erupted as Scott reached the dais. He turned round. Doors at the sides and far end of the room crashed open. Three armed and uniformed policemen, led by two men in plain clothes, presumably detectives, entered from the far end and marched between the tables towards the rostrum. Four uniformed policemen entered through the two doors in the alcove to Scott's right; they were each carrying an automatic weapon. Likewise in the alcove to Scott's left, except there were four sets of doors and eight armed police.
All went quiet before a ripple of murmuring and grunting began to echo around the roomed.
Scott squinted. He'd seen one of the detectives before, but couldn't remember where.
'Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen,' the lead detective said. 'There's no need to be alarmed. There's no emergency. Please sit down.'
Most obeyed; a few remained standing, taking photos.
If there was no emergency, why the heavy weaponry?
As if reading Scott's thoughts, the lead detective stop-ped and addressed the audience on both sides. 'I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, you're not in any danger. This is not a terrorist situation. I repeat, it is not a terrorist situation. In five minutes we shall be out of here and you can all get back to finishing your meals. Please, bear with us.'
Scott didn't move as the police approached the rostrum. If there was no emergency, it was an arrest scenario, though automatic weapons were generally only on display if the target was considered to be an immediate danger to the public or to the police themselves. And why so public? Usually the police knocked on the target's door at five in the morning, to catch them half asleep and disorientated.
Both detectives were staring straight at Scott; the only other person within their eyeline was Lord Justice Winters, behind him on the rostrum.
Scott turned to face the high court judge. The old man looked as bemused as he was.
He turned back, as the detectives stopped two paces in front of him. His tongue searched for saliva; the inside of his mouth was drying up.
'Scott Mitchell,' the lead detective said. It wasn't a question. 'I am Detective Chief Superintendent Duggan of the National Crime Agency.' He pointed to the other plain-clothes detective next to him. 'This is Detective Sergeant Westgate. I have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of laundering 250 million American dollars for the Chechen government.'
'What?'
The gasps from the lunch guests were clear and un-mistakable.
Duggan handed the warrant to Scott.
He held it firmly between his thumbs and forefingers, but stared at Duggan. The man avoided Scott's gaze, as if troubled by the arrest.
'Is this is a wind-up?' Scott said. 'Because if it is —'
'Aren't you going to read the warrant?' DS Westgate said. Unlike his boss, Westgate was smirking.
Scott skim-read the document, trying to prevent his hands from shaking. He knew it wasn't a wind-up; none of his friends or colleagues would have had the balls to play such a trick. It was much worse than a wind-up – it was a frame-up. He'd never been arrested before – not for anything. His Russian altercations with the FSB had been political and part of the regular bouts of harassment that ex-pats were expected to endure in Putin's Motherland. The British National Crime Agency was a different matter; it wasn't a political tool of the British government. Somebody was framing him. Who and why? He realised at once the seriousness of his public arrest; the media would have a field day. Maybe that was its purpose. The accusations in the warrant were specific: dates, times and amounts; they were vicious stab wounds to his innocent heart. If it wasn't the work of the National Crime Agency itself, it could be some other police unit; perhaps the South East Regional Organised Crime Unit, alluded to earlier by Lord Justice Winters in his reference to the Peckham death-in-custody case.
Both his legs quivered.
'You do not have to say anything,' Duggan continued, 'but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.'
Scott scanned the room. Many of the guests were sitting silently staring at him, waiting for his next move. Two were still standing and taking photos on their phones.
He had to think fast, literally on his feet, while at the same time remaining calm. Nothing would be gained by vociferous protests of innocence in front of his peers and goodness knows how many others who were party to the "breaking news", courtesy of video uploads. He was determined not to become a ranting showpiece for the media.
He leant across to the nearest table and picked up an empty wine glass. 'Is this clean?' he asked a startled guest.
'Er ... yes, I ... I think so,' the guest replied.
Scott filled the glass with water from the jug next to it, tensing his muscles as he did so; his hand was rock-steady. He took a drink and replaced the glass on the table. 'Thank you.'
His own phone rang. He took it out of his pocket.
Duggan snatched the phone before Scott could see who was calling.
The detective looked at the screen. 'Who's Dave C?'
He was the concierge at Scott's apartment block.
The DCS, a portly man as tall as Scott, with a mop of thick brown hair and an avuncular demeanour, straightened up as he waited for Scott's response – a head teacher saying to a naughty child, 'Well, young man, what have you got to say for yourself?' Though Duggan, again, soon displayed his unease by looking everywhere except at Scott.
The ringing stopped.
Anything you do say may be given in evidence. 'No comment.'
Duggan pocketed the phone. 'Let's go,' he said to nobody in particular.
DS Westgate stepped forward, grinning. 'We've got you ... you fucking yoghurt-knitter,' he whispered. 'We've got you.' He began to secure Scott's wrists with restraints.
'We don't need those,' Duggan said to Westgate.
The detective sergeant cursed, put the restraints back in his pocket and gripped Scott's arm with unreasonable force.
That was it! Westgate had been on the South East Regional Organised Crime Unit; not one of the officers whose evidence Scott had destroyed in the witness box, but one of their team nonetheless.
Scott glanced back at Lord Justice Winters. He was sitting at the top table, stone-faced.
'This way,' Westgate said, increasing his grip.
Scott stifled a large quantity of acid reflux while maintaining his silence as he accompanied Westgate out of the room; his mind blank, except for an image of the photo on his bookshelf at home – his proud parents toasting him at a celebration on the day he was admitted to the Roll of Solicitors.
CHAPTER 2
Day One: 8.30 pm
'Where were you on the 9th of March this year?' DCS Duggan said.
'No comment.'
Scott had never been to Paddington Green police station, but he knew that many police interview techniques comprised psychological manipulation, which began with the interview room. It was designed to maximise the suspect's discomfort and sense of powerlessness. His chair was rickety and a cheap wooden desk, on which lay the recording machine and two closed folders: one green, the other red, separated him from Duggan and Westgate. Three of the walls were grey stone-coloured and blank. The fourth supported the mandatory two-way mirror. Scott resolved not to look at it; his facial expressions might betray his inner anxiety.
He'd decided on his course of action during the two-mile car journey from the Dorchester Hotel to the police station. At this stage, he wouldn't make a fuss about his publicly staged arrest. He wouldn't make any threats of suing the police for false arrest. He wouldn't demand an apology from the Home Secretary. He would, instead, make the police disclose their evidence, by refusing to answer their questions and remaining quiet. The silence would force them to put issues to him which they hoped would make him talk, on the basis that everybody had their breaking point. But they didn't know Scott Mitchell; his days of uncontrolled outbursts were over. Of course, the police may not disclose their evidence at such an early stage, but Scott believed they would break before he would.
Duggan glanced at the recording machine. 'Would you like to reconsider that response, Mr Mitchell?'
'No comment.' He knew where he was on the 9th of March. It had nothing to do with money laundering or the Chechens.
The two men stared at each other, a rare moment when Duggan looked him straight in the eyes.
'Maybe I can jog your memory, Mr Mitchell,' Westgate said. 'It was a Wednesday.' The ruddy-faced detective ended the sentence with a contemptuous smile, no doubt expecting a response.
Scott folded his arms and said nothing. Westgate's comment was a statement, not a question.
Duggan opened the green folder and removed an A4-size photograph in a transparent plastic file cover. He slid it across the desk towards Scott. 'Do you recognise the person in this photo?'
Scott didn't touch it, but studied it without displaying any emotion. It was a picture of him standing at the kerbside on a street in Valletta, the capital of Malta. It was dated 9 March 2016. He felt his heart pumping and steeled himself. In any other circumstances he would have let his feelings be known: How the hell did you get that? Am I under surveillance? But this wasn't the occasion for such an outburst. There was more evidence to come; he was sure of it.
'No comment.' Though thank you for this vital piece of information, Detective Chief Superintendent, albeit your line of enquiry is misguided.
He wasn't worried that his silence might harm his defence if the matter came to trial. It was a mantra the police had to recite in the caution. Experienced lawyers knew it was bollocks.
Duggan put the photograph back in the folder and removed three more similar file covers containing documents. He spread them in front of Scott. 'You were standing outside the offices of the Maribor Kredit Bank in Valletta, Malta on Wednesday the 9th of March. Maribor is a Serbian bank.' He tapped on an image. 'This is a copy of an account statement from that bank. You will see that the account holder is named as Caruana Financial Services SA, which is a company incorporated in the British Virgin Islands. The account was credited with fifteen million US dollars on that Wednesday and there was a transfer out on the same day of one hundred thousand dollars to a bank account in Cyprus.'
Again without touching the evidence, Scott leant forward and examined the statement. He'd never heard of the bank or Caruana Financial Services.
He said nothing.
'This ...' Duggan tapped on the second file, also containing a document. 'This, Mr Mitchell, is an official copy of the certificate of incorporation of Caruana Financial Services.'
Scott again studied the document. He noticed the date of incorporation: 8th day of August 2015.
'And this ...' Duggan tapped on the third file. 'This is the original sworn affidavit from the company formation agent confirming that the company was formed on your personal instructions.' He tapped his finger on the first paragraph of the affidavit. 'You will see that his name is Jürgen Beck and he is based in Hong Kong.' Duggan sat back. 'What have you to say about these documents?'
'Oh dear, what a tangled web we weave,' Westgate said. 'What a tangled web.'
The affidavit was a perjured document; somebody was going to a lot of trouble to bring him down. Scott wanted to explode, he could feel the anger welling up inside of him, but he had to keep true to his strategy of silence as the police evidence came trickling out. He picked up the file and read the affidavit, trying to remember as much of its contents as possible. He was relieved that he couldn't see any connection between the affidavit and the real reason why he was in Malta on that day; he would have been surprised if there was.
'And note what the agent says in paragraphs 8 and 9,' Duggan said.
Scott flipped it over and read, and reread, the two paragraphs. They stated, amongst other things, that Beck had formed the company on Scott's personal instructions. That was absurd; he'd never heard of the man. He memorised the address of Beck's office – a trip to Hong Kong had to be scheduled into his itinerary, assuming the police hadn't confiscated his passport.
'Specifically, that you formed the company for your own personal use,' Duggan continued. 'Not for any of your clients ... Your pension vehicle, you called it.'
Scott felt himself beginning to frown, and stopped. At best this was weak, circumstantial, albeit falsified, evidence of possible tax evasion – nowhere near a slam-dunk case of money laundering for the Chechens. More importantly, he now doubted that it was the South East Regional Organised Crime Unit who were framing him. He couldn't imagine that the UK government would fund a regional crime squad with the sterling equivalent of fifteen million US dollars for the purposes of paying it into a Serbian bank account, just to fit him up.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Dancing With Shadows"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Adrian Churchward.
Excerpted by permission of SilverWood Books Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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