Текст книги "48 Hours"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Chapter 47

New Scotland Yard, London. Thursday, 1pm.

By the time Dee and I arrived at Scotland Yard with Inspector Boniface, Lord Hickstead had been there for over an hour. So far he had been seen by a police doctor, who could find no injuries whatsoever, and he had been asked to identify the alleged mugger, which he could not do as the mugger had approached him from behind.

We were told by DCI Coombes that CCTV footage showed the incident in full, but quite honestly the mugger could have been anyone wearing dark clothing. Worse still was the fact that Constable Knott could not identify the mugger either, and he had to admit he had not actually seen the suspect getting into the car. He had assumed it was the mugger, mainly because of the timing of events and the fact that the streets were otherwise empty. A reasonable assumption, in my view, but not everyone shared that view.

“Nothing!” Detective Chief Inspector Coombes shouted in frustration. “We have nothing!” He stormed off, and Inspector Boniface rolled his eyes. We were all sitting in a meeting room, being briefed on the day’s events, trying to piece together exactly how everything had gone so horribly wrong.

“So what was in the briefcase?” Dee asked generally. Gathered around the table were Detective Sergeants Scott and Fellowes, myself, Dee and Inspector Boniface.

DS Scott answered. “We don’t know. We went through that car with a fine toothed comb, and no briefcase. We’ve even had uniform search the whole area, and they came up with nothing. The bloody thing seems to have just vanished.”

“He could have thrown it away when the car was out of sight,” Dee proffered.

“True, but why would he bother? As far as he was concerned he’d got clean away with only a courier on his trail.” DS Scott was clearly irritated, and looked thoroughly miserable.

“What about Lord Hickstead? What does he say about the briefcase?” Boniface asked.

“He says that the briefcase contained some copies of private family papers, wills and that sort of thing, all of which he can have copied by his lawyers who hold the originals. He just wants to leave, and he isn’t being particularly helpful.”

“Sounds odd to me,” I said. “Why travel halfway across London to get some copies of papers out of a safety deposit box when your lawyer has the originals? It doesn’t make sense. I assume we’re all thinking the same thing, that he’s just had the diamonds stolen from him?” All heads nodded.

“He must be worried, because Europol informed us that early this morning Van Aart transferred a quarter of a million Euros to the bank account of Euro Union Financial Enterprises, the main signatory being one Arthur Hickstead. I guess that was the payment for the diamonds,” DS Fellowes contributed.

***

“Is everything in place?” Inspector Boniface asked. It was. “Right. Thank Lord Hickstead for his assistance and offer to take him home. In any event, escort him out of the building, understood?” The person on the other end of the phone seemed to understand.

The video screen lit up, showing a blue screen bearing the name of the projector company. After a few seconds the picture changed to show a wide view of a comfortable room, where a middle aged man with a balding pate and overly long grey hair sat on a sofa.

It was my arch nemesis, Lord Hickstead. I didn’t know how I felt. I should have been angry, but he looked so defeated, so unthreatening. He must have been really shaken up by the day’s events, I thought. I had to remind myself that this was my blackmailer, and that I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for him. He looked vulnerable. It was that very vulnerability which Inspector Boniface was hoping to exploit.

Assistant Commissioner Bryn Evans came into the picture. “Lord Hickstead, I am very sorry that you have been here so long, but the suspect is in our custody. Unfortunately he did not have your briefcase in his possession, and I’m afraid its whereabouts are presently unknown. I fear you may not see it again.”

The camera caught a look of relief passing briefly across Hickstead’s face, presumably because the diamonds would have tied him into the blackmail plots and the deaths of three people.

“Here is your watch, Lord Hickstead. You were quite right; it had no skin or blood or hair that we could have matched with the suspect’s DNA profile. It’s a very nice watch, I must say. Far too expensive for a policeman, though.” He laughed at his own joke, and Hickstead smiled.

“Sergeant Baines will show you out.” The two men shook hands and the pretty and petite policewoman led His Lordship towards the lifts. The camera view shifted to the lift lobby. After a minute of video of the reception area we saw the Sergeant and the Peer exit the lift and walk into a tastefully appointed area which serves as a waiting room.

At first the Peer was so busy chatting up Sergeant Baines that he did not look at the row of padded seats. These were occupied by two people wearing visitor badges and looking nervous. As they moved further into the lobby the screen split; one long shot, one close up of Hickstead.

The screen split at almost the precise moment that Lord Hickstead saw them sitting less than five metres away; Abasi Nour, the jeweller, and Kelvin de Montagu, the art gallery owner. His face registered shock, and he immediately turned his head away from the two men.

Under strict orders Sergeant Baines said, “Oh, Your Lordship, I’ll need your badge so that I can sign you out.” She left him standing in the middle of the lobby with every eye looking at him, each person wondering whether they ought to know him by sight.

The video screen reverted to a single wide shot of the reception area and I watched for a reaction from our two stooges. Whilst De Montagu registered nothing more than general curiosity, Mr Nour looked puzzled. After a moment he caught sight of the watch and stared intently at Lord Hickstead’s face, before his jaw dropped and his face paled.

Confirmation, as if we needed it.

***

Lord Hickstead was being escorted home, hopefully feeling nervous, or at least unsettled, and Mr Nour was now showing on the screen. Inspector Boniface was sitting opposite him, smiling, trying to calm the old Egyptian.

“Mr Nour, I’d like to thank you for coming in today. Have you been treated well?”

“Yes, sir, I have. The young policeman who took me through my statement said that you were making progress. Does this mean I can have my money back? I have done nothing wrong.”

“Mr Nour, we will release your money very soon, I can assure you. Now, one further question, if that’s all right. The watch you were shown during your interview; was that the type of watch you saw on your Josh Hammond?”

“Yes, exactly the same. Where did you get it? They are very rare, I know.”

“We have our sources. Why do you ask?” the Inspector asked, seemingly innocently.

“I don’t know that I should say.”

“Come along, Mr Nour, you can trust me. Anything else you can remember will speed up the release of your money.”

The video screen showed a close up of Mr Nour. “I am not sure, I cannot say with firmness, but a few minutes ago I saw a man downstairs, Lord Hickwell or something.”

“Lord Hickstead,” Boniface provided helpfully. “Yes, go on.”

“Well, he was wearing the same watch, and when I looked into his eyes, they were the eyes of Mr Hammond, the man who deceived me with his silly toupee.”

Inspector Boniface registered shock on his face. “Mr Nour, are you saying that Lord Hickstead was the man posing as Josh Hammond in your diamond deal?”

“I believe so, yes, but I am sure no-one will believe me. He is a Lord, after all, and probably has an estate in the beautiful English countryside. But when I looked into his eyes I do believe he recognised me. I know it sounds foolish, but it is what I saw.”

Boniface asked Mr Nour to keep his views to himself and, having added the latest revelation to the bottom of the witness statement as an addendum, he had Mr Nour sign it again.

***

Mr De Montagu could add nothing to his statement and had nothing to say about the set up in the reception area, and so he and Mr Nour were thanked and allowed to go.

The video screen was switched off and the bank of fluorescent lights came on. The same group sat around the table once again, with the addition of Assistant Commissioner Evans.

Clockwise around the table I saw AC Evans at the head, sitting under the video screen. To his left sat DS Scott and DS Fellowes, Dee was next, and I sat beside her. Boniface and Coombes completed the line up.

Assistant Commissioner Evans summarised the day. “So far, today has had its ups and downs but, on the whole, I think we have our man on the hook. Now we just need to reel him in. I think we’re unlikely to get a warrant to search the Parliament Street apartment, but I do believe we’ll get a warrant for CitySafe Depository, or at least for one of its boxes.”

I was surprised at that, and said so. “Assistant Commissioner, I thought that safe deposit boxes were sacrosanct, and that the banks protected their customers with their lives?”

“Mr Hammond, you’re quite right, to a degree, but these depositories are not banks and nor do they share the same privileges. Perhaps DCI Coombes can explain.”

We all turned to look at the grumpy policeman.

“In 2008 I headed an investigation into money laundering, and it led us to various safe deposit boxes at three locations; Park Lane, Hampstead and Edgware. We raided the premises simultaneously. There were at least fifty officers involved, and with angle grinders and other heavy tools we opened the suspect boxes.

Ninety percent of the boxes we opened contained evidence of criminality. As a result we arrested a significant number of criminals, as well as some of the depository owners, and recovered many millions of pounds in cash, jewellery and art.”

Coombes fell silent and the Assistant Commissioner took over. “So, as you can see, Mr Hammond, in view of the circumstantial evidence we have, which is now rather substantial, and because of previous good results on other cases, we have a good chance of obtaining a warrant.”

He had barely got the words out when there was a knock at the door. An out of breath young police officer was beckoned into the room and was eager to present something to the gathering.

“Sir, I have some news on the mugger. It’s rather unexpected.”

“All right, Constable, let’s hear it.”

The young man stood next to the Assistant Commissioner and read out his findings, which were indeed rather surprising. Or perhaps not.

“Ms Conrad; gentlemen. As you know, the man apprehended has denied any involvement in the mugging, pointing out that he was not in possession of any stolen goods when apprehended.

He’s been calm and cooperative the whole time, and when asked whether he wanted representation he said he was happy to talk to us without a lawyer present, as he had done nothing wrong. However, he asked if he could seek advice from his employers.

He was allowed the phone call and he rang an Isleworth number. We later identified the company as the Distressed Media Group, who are the registered owners of the car.

The driver, Gordon James Coppull, who has no criminal record whatsoever, freely explained that he was a record producer for the said company and that he had a personal fortune of over two million pounds. We checked him out on the internet and before he went into business he was lead guitarist for The Regular Enemas, a popular grunge band from the 1990s.

As he had no history of criminality in his first thirty five years, and as he appeared to be as wealthy as he claimed, we more or less ruled him out of the mugging, until I received this back from Companies House.”

The young man lifted a single page company search and read from it.

“Distressed Media Group is a PLC, formed in 1987. Directors are listed as Gordon J Coppull, Dirk Millman, Joseph Pettleman, Michael Dixon and the Managing Director is....” The young man paused for effect, holding the name back as if he was announcing the results on the X Factor.

“Donald Grainger Fisher, former lead singer of ‘London’s Burning’ and founder of Rock Relief.”

The young policeman received the reaction he must surely have expected. Every jaw in the room dropped.

Chapter 48

No. 2 Parliament St, London. Thursday, 2pm.

It was his third glass of the Chief Whip’s Armagnac and the forty percent alcohol content was calming Lord Hickstead’s nerves. He stared at the colourful liquid swilling around in the balloon glass, marvelling at the French talent for producing the world’s best wine and then producing the world’s best brandy from that wine. The oddly shaped bottle looked as though it should contain Olive Oil or salad dressing. It had a long neck, bulbous body and it was flat front and back. The label was old fashioned and appeared to be deliberately designed to appear aged. It read Clés des Ducs, with three stars under the name. As with other types of brandy, it had been given the appendage VSOP as it was a five year old Armagnac and, luckily, it was his favourite tipple.

Despite the mild alcoholic haze in his brain, his mind kept coming back to the disastrous day that was only half over. It had all seemed so simple in the depository. Go to Trafalgar Square, hand over the diamonds to Van Aart’s man and drop the photos in the post to the anonymous ‘Dr Crippin’ who published the notorious Celebrity Leaks web site. He would have posted the Polaroids to one of the newspapers, but there was only one out of the batch of ten that could be considered suitable for publication by any newspaper, no matter how broad minded the readership. Still, by this time tomorrow the pictures would probably have appeared on a thousand web sites and blog pages around the world, especially considering the alleged celebrity of the subject.

He still couldn’t believe that he had been mugged. The police seemed to think that the mugger had waited outside the depository, evidently reckoning that there was a good chance that anyone leaving the premises would be carrying some valuables. The police had a suspect, but no briefcase. That was just as well. How could he possibly have explained carrying a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of diamonds? The only provenance or receipt he had which showed they had not been stolen would lead straight back to Abasi Nour.

That was another disaster. He had convinced the police that he had lost nothing of value, and they hadn’t recovered the briefcase, so he thought he was in the clear. Then he saw Nour and De Montagu in the police station. Presumably they were sitting there waiting to talk to a detective about the blackmailer who used them to launder his money.

He thought that he had seen a glimmer of recognition in Nour’s face when they had made eye contact, but he had convinced himself that he was over-reacting. In any event, who would believe that a Peer of the Realm would blackmail random individuals in the City? Nonetheless, the Egyptian had shown himself to be borderline criminal, and so Arthur would have to wait and see what happened next. His guess was that he would receive a call from Mr Nour and a request for his diamonds back. But the diamonds were gone, and Nour certainly wasn’t the person he would have given them to, anyway. The Peer had already received polite but vaguely threatening calls from Van Aart demanding immediate delivery of the diamonds or his money back. The Dutch criminal also noted that if he did not receive the diamonds he would add an extra one hundred thousand Euros to the bill as compensation for lost profit.

Not a good day, on the whole. Almost a third of a million pounds down, failure to humiliate that scumbag pop singer in Isleworth, and now a very real possibility that he might have to deal with Mr Nour.

Another glass of golden brown Clés des Ducs Armagnac slid down his throat.

Chapter 49

New Scotland Yard, London. Thursday, 4pm.

I was back in the conference room with Inspector Boniface, DS Fellowes and Dee. We had been summoned back by the Assistant Commissioner’s secretary, having enjoyed a leisurely lunch in the canteen. The canteen food proved to be much better than I had been expecting. The roast lamb was moist, the roast potatoes crispy brown on the outside and white and fluffy on the inside, and the vegetables weren’t overcooked, having the perfect degree of bite to them. The Metropolitan Police eat well, especially at those prices. I suspected that if Dyson Brecht had such a canteen we would all be much heavier than we are. Many of us are lazy thin; we simply can’t be bothered to make the journey to buy food, either the healthy or junk varieties.

As soon as we were told that Don Fisher had been implicated in the mugging the Assistant Commissioner had blown his top and ordered DCI Coombes to “find him and drag him in, if necessary”. No such action was necessary, however, as Fisher was already on his way to Scotland Yard to get his friend Gordon out of trouble.

DS Scott came in with Don Fisher and a churlish looking man whom I took to be Gordon James Coppull. They were followed a moment later by a man who was obviously a lawyer. He was carrying a green Harrods bag.

Introductions were affected, and then we sat down to await AC Evans. When he arrived he looked at Fisher and failed to completely mask his anger. Fisher had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Mr Fisher, you seem to have completely ruined a complex international surveillance operation, stolen a briefcase from a good friend of the Home Secretary, and put a suspect on notice that he is under investigation. Well done, and all in a single day.”

James Loftus, the lawyer, began to speak, but Fisher caught his arm and shook his head. “I probably deserved that. However, I’ve got the briefcase here. None of my guys touched the handle or the locks, so you should be able to confirm it belongs to Hickstead.”

The lawyer lifted the Harrods bag on to the table, the briefcase still inside. Inspector Boniface carefully slid the brown leather briefcase out onto the desk.

“Are you sure no-one has touched the handle or the locks?”

The former rock star nodded.

“We’ll need your prints, of course, for elimination purposes,” Boniface told him as he turned the briefcase to face him. Using a silver retractable ballpoint pen the Inspector pushed the right had side button toward the edge and the spring loaded fastener shot up. He repeated the operation for the left had side and, using the pen again, he opened the lid. It smelled of new leather. The inside was pristine. I suspected that Hickstead had bought it specifically for the diamond handover.

Inside the briefcase lay a large padded Jiffy bag and a plain manila envelope. Nothing else.

Inspector Boniface reached inside his pocket and took out a plastic ziplock bag containing a pair of pristine white cotton gloves. After slipping them on, he extracted the Jiffy bag. It was sealed. He looked at the Assistant Commissioner. He nodded and said, “The chain of evidence has already been broken, so you might as well open it.”

I knew enough about these things to understand that any incriminating evidence we found would be unusable because the briefcase had not moved directly from Lord Hickstead’s possession to the police, who would have sealed it to preserve any forensic evidence and recorded its processing from collection to trial.

Boniface carefully opened the Jiffy bag and removed a black velvet pouch. It had to be the diamonds. He opened the top of the drawstring pouch and looked inside. For a moment he said nothing, he simply stared at the contents. He then took the blue cardboard envelope file he had been carrying and placed in on the table where all of us could see it.

“Inventory please, Sergeant.” DS Fellowes opened his notebook to a clean yellow page. The inspector carefully tipped the contents on to the blue folder. There were fifteen stones of different sizes, which meant they were worth an average of sixteen thousand pounds each. I could well believe it. I had never seen diamonds as large, as pure or so beautifully cut, and I see a lot of jewellery and gems as a loss adjuster. They sparkled from whichever angle one looked at them, even under the fluorescent lighting.

For the second time that day there was a collective sharp intake of breath around the table. DS Fellowes photographed the diamonds and the pouch from various angles, with his mobile phone. Taking great care, Boniface replaced the diamonds in their velvet pouch. He then placed the pouch in an evidence bag and sealed it, passing it to Fellowes, who wrote something on the label.

Inspector Boniface returned to the briefcase and lifted out the plain brown envelope, which was also sealed. Written on it were the words ‘Dr. Crippin’. He carefully unsealed the gummed flap and then started to open the envelope.

“Stop!” Don Fisher shouted. “I need to explain something.” The lawyer immediately advised him not to say anything that might incriminate himself. Don Fisher told him that they had gone too far for that, and that he needed to protect his family.

“Dr. Crippin is a filth monger,” he explained. “He runs a website called CelebrityLeaks.org. It specialises in publishing private pictures, stolen movies and long lens shots of celebrities. Just yesterday he posted a video of that TV weathergirl showering topless on the beach in the French Riviera. Already that video has almost a million hits, and the ads on that page alone are raking in a small fortune.

I believe what you’ve got in that envelope are pictures of my daughter Lavender and some of her so-called friends, taken in Spain last year. I was approached by a German man who said he had ten Polaroids that he was sure I would rather have destroyed. He asked for a paltry sum of money, and I wish I’d paid him, but I get calls like that regularly and most of them are rubbish.”

I thought to myself that he might be right, but Lavender was well known as something of a self publicist, and if the Paparazzi don’t snap her for a month she allegedly tells them where they can find her while she’s out in some celebrity pool or on a beach, splashing around topless. Brand Lavender needed the oxygen of constant publicity.

Don Fisher was still talking. “Yesterday I got this text from the blackmailing shite, Lord Hickstead, signing himself off as Jim. It says, Thanks for the cash but keep your eye on CelebrityLeaks.org where your fragrant daughter will soon be making an appearance.”

“So, that’s why you had your men tail Hickstead and steal his briefcase after he had visited his safety deposit box?” Boniface asked.

“Yes. Believe me, that girl is in the deepest trouble of her short life. I told the TV company she’s been working with to get her home today from Italy. They whined about their shooting schedule. I told them if she wasn’t home tonight it would be a different and more fatal kind of shooting they would have to worry about. I was bloody angry.”

“And you believe that these Polaroid photographs in this envelope are intimate shots of your daughter?”

The old rocker nodded unhappily.

“Then, why didn’t you open the case and destroy them?” the Assistant Commissioner asked.

“Because, as much as I want to protect my family, I need the scum we keep calling Lord Hickstead to go down, to lose everything, to understand first hand the disgrace that Lavender faces. I realise that the boys got a little bit overzealous and made an executive decision to snatch the photos before he could sell them on. But remember that Gordo here and Dirk have known Lavender since she was born; we have video footage of them both bottle feeding her at the studio. She’s like a daughter to them. She might need a short sharp shock from you boys to bring her into line, but nobody deserves photos like those to be published on the internet.”

“So she has admitted to you that the photos exist, and she has described their subject matter?” It was the Assistant Commissioner again.

“No. She can’t remember. She was probably out of her head. It was the German boy who told me what was on them, but I wouldn’t believe him.”

“You realise, of course, that these photos are evidence that could be used to convict Hickstead. They will probably have his fingerprints on them, and that would be enough evidence to bring him in and sweat him, probably enough to get a warrant to search his safety deposit box.”

The father nodded silently. There were tears in his eyes.

Inspector Boniface spoke gently to Don Fisher, father to father.

“Don, if we use these photos at all it will be to get him off the streets. I assure you that between the Met and the City Police we will be looking at charges that go way beyond threatening to post these shots on the internet. In which case, these photos will never see the light of day in court.”

Somewhat mollified, Fisher thanked the Inspector.

“Mr Loftus, as Mr Fisher’s legal representative you need to advise him that he and his two colleagues will be asked to accept a Simple Caution, and that whilst a Caution is a not criminal record, their fingerprints and DNA may be retained under the appropriate Acts of Parliament.”

“Is this really necessary, Bryn?” the lawyer queried, revealing his familiarity with the Assistant Commissioner.

“Jim, you know full well that I am putting my neck on the block offering a Simple Caution at all. We should really be referring this to the Crown Prosecution Service.”

Assistant Commissioner Bryn Evans responded reasonably.

The meeting broke up and Don Fisher approached Dee and I. “Sorry about all of this. If my interference stops you getting your money back, just let me know. OK?”

“OK,” I agreed, and he left the room to receive his Caution.

“We could be rich after this,” Dee said. “Two people have each offered us a quarter of a million pounds to put Lord Hickstead away.” She smiled and linked my arm.

“We,” I teased. “When did it become we? Surely you mean me?”

“Oh no, you obviously haven’t read the small print of our agreement. All recovered monies are split fifty-fifty. Why do you think I’ve been so nice to you?”

My face obviously fell as I searched hers to gauge whether or not she was serious, because finally she could hold it no longer and she laughed out loud.

“For a cynical City loss adjuster you are pretty gullible. By the way, did you know that the word gullible is not in the dictionary?”

I frowned, and she laughed out loud again.