Border Angels by Anthony Quinn Page B

its inhabitants.
    “I was sent by the government to track down peace funds that went missing after the collapse of the property market,” said Bennett. “The day before he died, Jack Fowler told the authorities he no longer knew the whereabouts of almost £3 million in funding from the European Peace Fund. According to him, the money had dissolved after it was transferred into the coffers of the regeneration group.”
    “What do you think happened to it?”
    “There is only one explanation possible. The money really did dissolve, as Fowler said.”
    Daly stopped midstride to study Bennett’s face, trying to determine whether he had missed something.
    There was a measured richness to Bennett’s voice as he held Daly’s attention.
    “Speaking more precisely, the funds were stolen.”
    “How? We’re not talking about a gang of armed robbers.”
    Bennett squinted in the low sunlight. “I’ve already examined the accounts and collected a stream of anecdotes from the people who worked for Mr. Fowler. In the hours after the money arrived in the regeneration group’s bank account, there was a flurry of international transactions. The funds were first sent to an account in a Maltese bank, and then debited to Vestbank in Frankfurt. There the sum was converted back into Sterling and sent to the Marlborough bank in London. A day later, it was transferred to Maguire Holdings, a cover name for a property investment group with a large portfolio in Tyrone and Armagh.”
    They had reached a terrace of ruined houses. Behind them, Daly could make out the thin green of broken fields patterned with thorn trees. Brambles trailed everywhere, ready to snare the heel of an unsuspecting property investor.
    “You could say the money rolled like a set of dice flung by a desperate gambler until it came to rest here.”
    They stared at the buildings. Some of the roofs were grassed over and full of holes. The gleam of the low sun caught shards of glass and spiderwebs haunting the darkness within.
    “With the money, Maguire Holdings bought this row of buildings and most of the land lying behind the village.”
    “For £3 million?”
    Bennett grimaced. “The money really did dissolve. However, it was the sudden drop in house prices that brought about its dissolution.”
    The picture became clearer in Daly’s head.
    Bennett continued: “Fowler’s plan was to announce a major redevelopment of the village, promising jobs, business start-up funding, new shop fronts, a sports hall, and a health center. House prices would then shoot up, enabling him to sell this run-down terrace for a handsome profit.”
    “Surely that’s breaking the law.”
    “The plain fact is that no one in the governing bodies had any way of knowing whether or not the funds had been improperly used. When the homes were sold to new investors, Fowler intended to return the money to the regeneration company’s coffers.”
    “I take it that when the economy went bust, the hammer of reality struck, and Fowler was left with a collection of ruins he couldn’t sell.”
    “That’s correct. We suspect this type of fraud was perpetrated on a large scale ever since peace funds began flooding the country.”
    “A system works according to the people running it,” said Daly.
    “That’s the problem when you pour money into the pockets of former paramilitaries.”
    “From what I read in the newspapers, a lot of people got greedy. Not all of them were former freedom fighters.”
    “True. It wasn’t just the Jack Fowlers of this world who were up to no good. The banks were at it, too. And politicians. Even the financial watchdogs turned a blind eye.”
    “Did Fowler confess to you?”
    “I spoke to him before he died. He was adamant he had done nothing wrong. He’d used the funds to bolster the local economy, he claimed. It was not so much a crime as an error of timing. If the property crash had been delayed by a month or two, the houses would have been sold and no one