Текст книги "48 Hours"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter 8 5

No.2 Parliament St. Westminster, London. Monday, 6pm.

Lord Hickstead had concluded that the life he had carefully built for himself had gone forever. With his credit cards cancelled and his bank account frozen he had to rethink his strategy.

He had around four thousand pounds in his current account that he was free to use. His other accounts had almost seventy thousand pounds deposited in them, but he would never see that money again. They would claim it as the proceeds of crime, even though it wasn’t true. He did have a very good pension with the union, but it would not pay out until next year. He did, however, have two aces up his sleeve.

Lord Hickstead made a call to his Swiss Bank and checked the balance for the numbered account in the name of Euro Union Financial Enterprises. The balance had been reduced as a result of paying Van Aart a hundred thousand Euros in compensation when the diamonds went missing. Still, the figure quoted to him was the euro equivalent of almost half a million pounds.

Several years of milking the EU coffers had served him well. When he had worked for the Trades Union they had wanted to see receipts for all his expenses. They didn’t particularly care how much was spent, but they wanted receipts. He could hardly believe his luck when he took up his new post and found he was allowed the cost of flying home on a Friday, first class, and back again after the weekend, whether he travelled or not. He could also travel widely in his role as European Commissioner for Labour Relations and rack up all kinds of alleged expenses along the way. But not until the last year or so of his posting did anyone ask for receipts. There was simply a presumption that he had travelled home each weekend at a cost of over five hundred pounds a week, and that he had indeed expended what he had claimed. He wasn’t alone in recognising that loophole.

The only other source of cash he could access was waiting for him across London, and to collect that he would need to find a way to bypass his MI5 minder at the front desk. Lord Hickstead’s problem was that, whilst there were many exits leading to external fire escapes, they were all alarmed. He couldn’t use any of those exits as he hadn’t the first idea how to disable an alarm. That left him only the front door.

***

Quite why this building was so secure Hickstead didn’t know, but then he had never researched its history. Since 1895, number 2 Parliament Street had been used solely as civil service office accommodation until apartments had been created from the offices on the top two floors during the 1970s. At that time the doorman would traditionally have been an ex-serviceman. However, following the assassination of Airey Neave on 30th March 1979, within the confines of the Houses of Parliament, there had been a sea change in security arrangements. The recently converted apartments were seen as potential targets for the IRA, as they housed senior government officials. To offer better protection, Special Branch’s SO12, ‘S’ squad, took an office suite at the back of the building and equipped it with firearms, and staffed the lobby with armed officers.

After the 11th September 2001 attacks on New York, SO12 had their hands full with other commitments and so they had been more than happy to let MI5 use the offices and also handle the doorman duties. It was also a coup for MI5. Because all of the bills for this satellite office were covered by the building owners, Crown Estates, very few people at MI5’s HQ at Thames House knew it existed. This made ‘the cubby hole’, as it was known to operatives, an ideal place to carry out operations without the continuous oversight of the bean counters at HQ.

***

Arthur Hickstead had left the apartment carrying nothing but his cash card. He knew that he could not risk taking anything with him. He had no way of knowing what bugs or transmitters they might have hidden in his personal belongings. Having come to the ground floor via the service stairs, he was now in the photocopier room close to reception. With one quick look through the small window in the door leading to the lobby, he satisfied himself that Malcolm was at his desk.

The peer lifted the internal telephone and dialled zero.

Malcolm picked up the old fashioned looking telephone that was in keeping with the decor. “Front Desk,” he said, sounding bored.

Feigning breathlessness and inflecting his voice with pain, the peer stuttered.

“This is Lord Hickstead……..chest pain……..can’t breathe……..help me!”

With that, he hung up the phone.

As anticipated, Malcolm raced up the stairs to the apartments with his mobile to his ear, yelling “Paramedics to Number two Parliament Street immediately! We have a suspected heart attack.”

Lord Hickstead smiled to himself as he let himself out of the glazed internal security doors and out of the original wooden doors onto Parliament Street. No doubt they would review the CCTV footage and realise they had been tricked, but by then he would be long gone.

Chapter 8 6

Thames House, Millbank, London. Monday, 6:30pm.

Until the 1980s Thames House had been occupied by ICI, for whom it had been constructed in the 1930s. MI5 had moved into the building in the early 1990s, and it was then officially opened by the Prime Minister John Major in 1994. Used as a backdrop before being blown up in Skyfall, the most recent James Bond film, the impressive building overlooks the Thames and Lambeth Bridge. Tourists often visit the office block looking for the entrance familiar to them from the BBC TV series ‘Spooks’. Sadly they are disappointed, because the BBC uses Freemasons’ Hall for their external shots of MI5’s offices.

Timothy Madeley stood in his second floor office looking out over the Thames. His office was neither as ornate as M’s office in the Bond films, nor as high tech as the offices depicted in Spooks. The carpet was beyond office quality, and the furnishings were custom built, not assembled. On the wall was a fabric wall hanging from Afghanistan and an impressive oil painting, on loan from the National Gallery.

The phone rang and he walked over to his desk to pick it up. He stated his surname.

“Sir, this is Malcolm, at the cubby hole. Lord Hickstead has gone.”

There was no hint of fear in his voice, nor was there any expression of surprise from his superior.

“Excellent. Did he escape on his own, or did you have to intervene?”

Malcolm then explained how the peer had hoped to draw Malcolm away from his post, and how Malcolm had played along, pretending to call an ambulance.

“Excellent. So if another agency manages to pick him up he will be convinced he escaped. He is entirely unaware that we allowed him to go?”

“Yes sir, that is correct. Sir, are we running a sweep on this one?”

“We are, Malcolm. We’re guessing which country he runs to. Do you want in? It’s a tenner entry fee and we draw lots on Friday. If he doesn’t make it out of the country, all stakes are refunded. If he settles in a country we hadn’t considered, it goes to the nearest geographically. Agreed?”

“That’s fine, sir. I think he’ll make it across the Channel, that’s child’s play, and after that Europe and Scandinavia are open to him without him even needing a passport.”

“Malcolm, did I ever tell you that I spent a couple of years in the “cubby hole” when I was Liaison with SO12?”

“You did, sir,” Malcolm confirmed, but it made no difference. Tmothy Madeley told his funny story anyway, pausing at the appropriate points for Malcolm’s forced laughter.

Chapter 8 7

City Club Lounge, City Wall Hotel, London: Monday 7pm

The journey across London had been uneventful and now Lord Hickstead was sitting in the club lounge at the City Wall Hotel, giving instructions to the concierge. The concierge disappeared briefly, to return a few minutes later with a briefcase and a holdall.

While he was waiting for his guests he slipped into the leisure club changing room and switched from his suit and tie into a more casual travelling outfit. He placed the discarded clothes carefully in the holdall.

Back at his seat and sipping complimentary champagne which had never seen France judging by the taste of it, the concierge appeared.

“Your guests, Your Lordship,” he announced, distaste written on his features as he ushered the Iraqis into the hallowed surroundings.

The two Iraqis sat down opposite the peer and gawped at their surroundings before their client could attract their attention.

“You have the papers?”

“Yes, here they are.” Faik, the young Iraqi whom Hickstead had been championing for residency, handed over an envelope.

Hickstead looked at the papers. All were genuine; the passport had his photo and carried the name Martin Wells. Even the next of kin section had been completed with the epithet ‘Janine Wells, Daughter’. In addition to the passport he also had a birth certificate, marriage certificate, library card for Hounslow Public Library, a National Insurance Card and an E111 EU Medical Card.

The Iraqis had done well. Hickstead had given them a good start but they had done most of the work. Martin Wells had served in Northern Ireland under Hickstead and had taken a sniper round to the head. He was now in a half-way house for psychiatric patients in Camden. Martin had turned up at a public meeting where the peer was speaking, and to his credit he hadn’t asked for anything, he had simply wanted to greet a familiar face.

Hickstead had bought him a meal and listened to his terrible story. This was four months ago, and Hickstead spotted an opportunity to provide himself with a completely new identity without the chance of being caught with fake documents.

He said that he needed Wells’ documents so that he could raise his case in the House and hopefully save other soldiers from suffering the same indignities. Wells cooperated fully, handing over dirty, tattered and torn certificates and an old driving licence.

Fail and Ali had set to work obtaining new copies of all the certificates and applying for a passport and a new style driving licence. With the photos of the new Martin Wells, authenticated by a Lord, the applications were successful and Lord Hickstead was now looking at his photo in Martin’s passport.

Hickstead asked if they had everything in place. They said that they had, but there was a small problem. Their contacts wanted ten thousand pounds, not five thousand as previously agreed.

Lord Hickstead was livid, but his two guests were insistent that there was nothing they could do. Reluctantly he opened his briefcase and paid them half the money he had in there.

“If your friend isn’t there when I land, the two of you will be back in Basra by the weekend. Understood?”

They nodded and left.

Time was tight, and he needed to move quickly if he was to make the ferry.

Chapter 8 8

Highbury Clinic, Blackstock Rd, North London. Monday, 8pm.

I could have stayed the night, and I wanted to stay, but tomorrow I had to show my face at the office and clear my desk, ready to start work again. With that in mind, we reluctantly agreed that I would go home and that we would talk more tomorrow. We had plans to make and now that Hickstead was out of our lives for good, we could move on. I was on the verge of leaving for the night when the bedside phone rang.

Dee answered it, and listened intently before saying, “Send her up, by all means. We would be pleased to see her.”

Jayne Craythorne walked into the room with an elegance and assurance that spoke volumes about her status. She was dressed elegantly but casually. She was every inch the multi millionaire’s wife that Jason Craythorne had married. I looked into her face as she approached Dee, and fancied that I could see some resemblance to her late father, Sir Max Rochester.

“Dee, I’m so sorry. I feel responsible for this. If I hadn’t asked you to pursue Arthur Hickstead you wouldn’t be here. I never imagined so much violence would intrude into my world so quickly.”

She held Dee’s hands firmly in her own, and tears filled her eyes as she looked at the bandages and visualised what was underneath.

“Jayne, Josh and I are pretty stubborn. We would have pursued Hickstead anyway.” I wasn’t sure that we would have, but I let it ride.

“I heard from the Commissioner that the police have enough evidence to put him away for life, even if they can’t link him with my father’s death.” Jayne turned her head and looked at me.

“I owe you a great deal, Josh. You did everything you could and more. I think I would have shot Hickstead myself if he had escaped prosecution.”

Jayne Craythorne sat down and listened as we explained everything that had happened since our last meeting in my flat. We all agreed that the whole episode seemed rather surreal, and only the deaths and injuries turned it into a terrible reality for those who lived through it.

Jayne had heard about my proposal and asked, if it wasn’t too indiscreet, whether we had any plans.

“He might not have any plans, but I do,” Dee stated. “What else is there to do when you’re sitting in a bed most of the day with only daytime TV?”

This was news to me. Perhaps this was one of the things we were going to talk about tomorrow.

“That is such wonderful news,” Jayne said warmly. “You will make a lovely couple, and don’t worry about how long you’ve known each other; I fell for Jonas inside an hour. If you’re having a traditional white wedding I can help. I have lots of friends.”

I almost said that most millionaires probably have lots of friends, but didn’t.

“I might just take you up on that. I intend to have the whitest of white weddings,” Dee said excitedly.

***

When Jayne left I accompanied her to the lift. She held my hand tightly and thanked me again, and kissed me on the cheek.

“When Dee is fit again you must both come over for dinner. We don’t get a lot of ‘real’ people over these days, and Jonas is very down to earth. He soon tires of the trendy set and their affectations. Oh, by the way – a thank you card.”

“There was no need. I’m glad we could help.” She handed me an envelope. I slipped it into my pocket and bid Jayne goodnight.

When I arrived back at the room I tossed Dee the thank you card and told her I would have to be going soon.

“Josh.” Dee was holding the card and grinning from ear to ear. “This isn’t just a card. There’s a note, too.” Dee read the note and passed it to me with a smile.

‘Thanks for everything. It will take months to get your money back. Until then Jonas has wired a quarter of a million pounds to your account. Think of it as a loan. We can discuss repayment over dinner some time. Jonas and Jayne.’

Dee then explained that Don Fisher was paying all of the bills for Vastrick, including a six figure sum in compensation for Dee’s injuries. He also wanted to give me my quarter of a million pounds back because his cash would be returned very quickly, whereas my money was tied up until after the trial.

As excited as I was, I didn’t think I could accept the money. Nevertheless, this was the happiest we had been for days, and so I didn’t want to dampen the mood.

Unfortunately the mood wasn’t destined to last. My phone rang. I answered it, and swore. As soon as I had finished the call Dee asked me what was wrong.

“Bloody MI5! They’ve let Hickstead escape! He’s on the run!”

Dee didn’t seem at all surprised.

Chapter 8 9

Bogaz, Northern Cyprus. November 20th 2010, 2pm.

The journey to Turkish controlled Cyprus had been much easier than he had anticipated. Despite security checks at the Port of Dover, the Border Agency staff had not been looking for a Michael Wells and luckily Arthur Hickstead was average height, average build and Caucasian. The crossing was quick, and he was able to secure a taxi to the Aero Porte Calais-Dunkerque at Marck, just a few miles from Calais.

When he arrived at the white painted aerodrome it was deserted but well lit. The restaurant displayed a sign announcing its permanent closure, and another building announced that customs had to be contacted twenty four hours in advance of any arrivals to arrange attendance. The aerodrome was in the middle of grass pastureland but it had a well maintained tarmac apron, taxiway and runway.

Having paid the taxi driver, he had walked towards the only aircraft showing any lights. It was a Cessna 172 with four seats. The pilot was French speaking but was originally from Iraq, judging by his accent and colouring. Hickstead held onto the strut supporting the wing and lifted himself into the small aircraft. He had paid ten thousand pounds for this journey, and to protect his anonymity. Dozing from time to time, he dimly recollected touching down at some deserted airfield to unload something – he didn’t want to know what – and to refuel.

It was light by the time the plane touched down in Cyprus at Ercan Airport, which was a charter airport and so had some basic immigration checks, which were quickly dispensed with when his pilot, Assif, handed an envelope to a Turkish official.

A forty minute drive took him to The Mercure Hotel in Kyrenia, where he slept the day through in a luxury suite.

Now, almost two months later, he regretted his initial extravagance. After a month he had been obliged to move from the hotel into a small rented cottage to eke out his initial funds. He was safe from extradition here. The weather was warm and dry; even in November the daytime temperature reached the mid 20s Celsius. He also had beautiful view over the sea where he could watch the sunset, which made up, in part, for the modest accommodations.

Living as Martin Wells, he had become known as Mr Martin to those locals who had a smattering of English. In the evenings he would sit in the bars at the local hotels and strike up conversations with English tourists. Working class to a man, they would generously include him in their group and buy his drinks.

When his initial cash began to run out he sent off a letter to the Bank in Switzerland that held the Euro Union Financial Enterprises numbered account, requesting transfer of all funds to Mr Martin Wells’ account at the Cyprus Turkish Bank of Commerce. That was two weeks ago, and he had heard nothing yet, but the post from Cyprus was notoriously unreliable and he no longer had internet access.

In desperation he tried to make a withdrawal from his UK Barclays current account, but the account had insufficient funds. Presumably Brenda had cleaned out the four thousand that had been in there. He wasn’t surprised; he had left her high and dry, after all. If he valued his freedom he could not contact her. Brenda had become very fragile of late, and her depression had developed into bouts of paranoia and memory loss. She couldn’t be expected to keep a secret.

He had just worked out that he had enough cash to pay the rent for the next month if he ate frugally, when there was a knock at the door. It would be Bajram, the soup man. It amazed Hickstead that in the heat of the Cyprus day a vendor could come around the streets and sell hot soup to locals, who brought out their own tureens or bowls. He had to admit, though, the soup was good and it cost almost nothing.

He walked to the door and opened it, but it wasn’t Bajram. It was an English face he hadn’t seen in a while. For a moment he was speechless, but finally he found his voice.

“Josh Hammond. This is a pleasant surprise. Have you come to kill me?”

***

The figure facing me now was a lot less prepossessing than the Lord Hickstead I had seen previously.

“No, Arthur, or Martin, or whatever you call yourself. That would be more your line of work than mine.”

“Touché,” he said. “You had better come in.”

I walked along a roughly plastered corridor with whitewashed walls. On one side was a kitchen and on the other a bathroom. The corridor opened into a bright lounge area that was modestly furnished in typical holiday cottage style. There was a radio and a TV but no air conditioning or heating. The view from the large picture window, however, was to die for. It was spectacular. I sat on a cane sofa with flowery upholstery and he sat in a matching chair. From my seat I could see a tiny lobby area leading to two bedrooms.

“Sorry about the accommodation. I’m taking a villa on a new development just along the coast. It’s amazing what you can get in Northern Cyprus for around fifty thousand pounds.”

As I had been told by Inspector Boniface, Hickstead still believed that he had over half a million pounds safely secreted away in the Euro Union Financial Enterprises account. That account had been closed some time ago, but the security services had asked the bank to keep that information to themselves until he gave the bank his permanent address.

“So, Josh, what brings you all the way to Cyprus?” the peer asked conversationally. “Surely you haven’t flown all the way here just to gloat?”

“Not at all, Arthur. I was in the area on my honeymoon and thought I’d call in and keep you up to date with the news from the UK.”

“Well, well, I would have thought you would have taken the lucky lady somewhere a little more exclusive. After all, I imagine you now have your money back.”

“To be honest, Arthur, Cyprus is just one port of call. An old friend of yours has generously allowed us the use of his family yacht and crew to cruise the Mediterranean for two weeks.”

The former peer frowned in puzzlement, and so I expanded on my brief explanation.

“Jayne Craythorne and her husband Jonas have become good friends of mine, thanks to a common interest in what happens to Lord Hickstead. In fact, you’ve done me more than one favour.”

“Really?” His confusion was as enjoyable for me as his despair would be later.

“Oh, yes. When you threatened to kill me I was given a bodyguard, Dee Conrad, who as of last weekend is now my wife. You probably remember her as the woman you had kidnapped and shot twice.”

The peer blanched and it looked as though he was going to distance himself from the actions of the Dutch thugs in Tottenham, but he obviously decided against it.

“I notice that your Navitimer has gone. It was once a fixture.”

“Well, there really is little need for a watch these days, especially here. I rise with the sun and sleep when I’m tired. Anyway, what a poor host I am. Would you like a glass of wine?”

Pain showed in his eyes, a regret at having to sell his watch simply to survive. A regret, I fear, he had not experienced when he killed Sir Max Rochester or Andrew Cuthbertson.

“Actually I have something better than the local wine,” I told him. “It’s a small gift.”

I lifted a bottle of Clés des Ducs Armagnac from my bag and handed it to him.

“How perceptive of you!” he beamed, surprised. “It’s my favourite. Would you like a glass? It is an excellent brandy.”

“Actually, the brandy is a gift from DCI Coombes and the newly promoted DCI Boniface. They noted your preference when they cleared your belongings from the Chief Whip’s apartment.”

The forlorn figure facing me took the bottle. He opened it, and poured a generous portion into a tumbler. As he took his first taste he closed his eyes. The pleasure he took in savouring the taste was obvious. This was just one more thing he missed from his old life.

“Well, Josh,” he said after a few moments. “I imagine you would like to get back to screwing your wife in the master suite of the Craythornes’ yacht, so what’s the news you are bringing to me?”

I ignored his jibe and his vulgarity.

“Well, first of all you’ve been listed as missing, not dead, and so all of your assets are taking some sorting out. Brenda’s sister has sold the house and the furnishings, as Brenda is unable to do so herself. If you’re interested, Brenda is in a really pleasant care home on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors, and she is now well enough for her sister to take her shopping and on outings. I went to visit her a little while ago and she thought I was someone called Danny.”

I paused when I saw him flinch. His sister in law had explained that he and Brenda had one child, Daniel, who had died in his cot, and with no apparent cause of death his passing was ascribed to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. They had never been able to have more children, but Brenda was adamant that he had survived and had grown to adulthood.

“The care home is expensive, but the funds from the sale of the property will keep the payments going for around three years.”

“How did she manage to sell the house? It was in joint names. I should be entitled to half of that money.” His lack of concern for his wife was sickening.

“Well, I was able to help there. I found an underwriter who would issue a single premium insurance policy that would pay out your share should you ever return and make a claim. I think you have five years.

By the way, they sold most of your belongings, too, but there was one thing they thought you might want to keep.”

I lifted the second package out of the bag. It was a varnished oak box with a hinged lid and brass clasp.

“How did you get that through customs?” he asked, taking hold of the box and opening it.

“What customs? When you land at the Marina there is a notice above a telephone which states that if you have anything to declare, pick up this phone.”

I looked at Hickstead as he carefully lifted his old service pistol out of the velvet lined box. I could see memories flooding back as he felt the weight of the gun in his hand. The Browning Hi Power 9mm semi automatic handgun had replaced the old Webley Service Revolvers in 1963 and the army were still using them in many units. I had taken the precaution of ensuring that there was no ammunition in the box.

“Arthur, you will be pleased to hear that when your pension is due next year the Union are paying it to Brenda to pay for her care. They said it was the least they could do, as you had gone missing. Unless, of course, you pass away before then, in which case the whole pension pot is paid to her as a lump sum.”

Hickstead clamped his teeth together; he had obviously made other plans for that pension.

I continued. “On the employment front, things have moved along quite quickly and quietly. The coalition government, at the request of the Lords, passed a bill allowing you to be expelled from the House of Lords and for you to have all your attendant privileges withdrawn. But I guess you were expecting that. There is some good news, though. Alan Parsons, your solicitor, won’t be charging you for his services now that he knows you are impoverished.”

The former peer bristled at this.

“Tell him to submit his bill, for all the use he was. I am expecting a large sum of money soon, and he will get his money.”

I went into the nearly empty bag one more time.

“As I was coming to see you anyway, I was asked to bring you this letter.”

The franking on the accurately addressed envelope denoted that it came from his Swiss Bank. He opened it and looked at the statement. I already knew that there were only five transactions shown on it. The last was the most important. It was dated the day he fled London. It read:

‘Transfer to UK Security Holdings Ltd. €645,000.00, balance remaining €1,326.00.’

Hickstead stared at the letter. I watched his eyes dart to and fro across the words as he read and reread the contents. When he finally spoke, he was almost shouting.

“This isn’t right! This is a disgrace! It’s a clear infringement of my human rights. In fact, it’s downright criminal. I’ll sue the bank and whoever took the money!”

Hickstead was seething, but he knew that his prospects of recovering any of his money were now zero. He was almost penniless, and unless he returned to the UK he would never see any of the money that had been taken from him. He was clearly tired of me now, and suggested rather impolitely that I leave.

“Yes, I need to get back, but you might want a copy of this.” I withdrew a sheet of paper from my inside pocket and handed it to him.

“It’s a European Arrest Warrant for Arthur Hickstead, also known as Martin Wells. It seems that whilst the Turkish authorities will not deport you, they will notify Interpol if you leave Cyprus, and if you fly through European airspace or land anywhere in Europe you will be arrested on landing and returned to the UK. By the way, I’m sure you know already, but the arrest warrant also applies to the southern half of Cyprus, which is administered by Greece.”

I stood and walked to the door. He followed.

“You want me to go back to the UK and be tried for my crimes, don’t you? That’s what this whole exercise was all about.”

I smiled, because he still had not worked it out.

“Arthur, nobody wants you back. You are already in a prison of your own making. You’re stuck in the northern half of a small island. Even worse than that, you have no money and no earnings and you’re living in a down market holiday apartment where you wouldn’t have dreamed of staying overnight two months ago.”

The truth hurt, and he remained silent.

“I think it’s safe for me to give you these now.”

I handed over half a dozen 9mm parabellum bullets.

“Enjoy your freedom, Arthur.”

He slammed the door behind me as I left, and I walked down the street. I hadn’t gone far when a young MI5 operative stepped out of the shadows.

“All done?” he asked, and I nodded.