Текст книги "48 Hours"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Chapter 8

Dyson Brecht Offices, Ropemaker Street, London:

Thursday, 12 noon.

I was unhappy about my BlackBerry being cloned by Simon, but eventually accepted that it was necessary. Simon informed me that he would be able to monitor all incoming and outgoing calls and messages in real time, which would hopefully assist in locating Bob. Despite all of this, neither Simon nor Dee were confident that Bob would be found before the deadline expired. I decided I would just have to be careful how I used the phone until Simon terminated the shadowing of my calls and texts.

The countdown on my BlackBerry had reached twenty four hours. It had been only twenty four hours since I had spilled the beans to Toby, my boss, but it already seemed like an eternity. I was now sitting in a conference room with Dee. We sat in silence, each alone with our thoughts.

The door to the conference room opened and Toby walked in with another man. I immediately recognised the second man as Roddy McDougall, the Dyson Brecht contact at Chartered Equitable Building Society. Roddy sat and acknowledged me with a nod. Toby broke the silence.

“Miss Conrad. It’s very nice to see you again. This is Roddy McDougall. He is helping us raise the money for the ransom demand, in a manner of speaking.”

Roddy, a chubby redhead who looked out of place in a suit, spoke directly to me in a Scots accent. “I don’t know what to say, Josh. This is a crazy situation. I suppose all I can realistically do is make your life a wee bit simpler by raising the loan agreement as quickly as possible. To that end I have these papers prepared. Take your time to read them, if you want, but they’re all as we discussed yesterday.” Roddy pushed a sheaf of papers across the table towards me. Toby spoke.

“Josh, I’ve asked Terry in Legal to agree the terms of your loan agreement on your behalf so that we can spend time on finding a solution that doesn’t ruin you financially.” He paused whilst he looked at a sheet of paper lying flat on the table in front of him.

“Your flat will be valued at around three hundred and twenty thousand pounds, which is actually quite generous given the current housing slump. You will borrow two hundred thousand, repayable over twenty five years at a rate tracked to one percent over base. It’s the best we could do.” Toby looked at Roddy for confirmation, and Roddy nodded and smiled. I appreciated that this was an excellent deal in the circumstances.

“Subject to the valuer’s condition survey confirming the initial valuation, the cash can be paid to you on Tuesday next week. Until then you are mine, buddy boy. I own you.” Toby smiled, and the others in the room joined him as the mood lightened. “With my two hundred grand partner’s loan account money and your fifty grand advance against bonus and benefits, you will have the necessary quarter of a million quid in your account later today. Just be sure to leave your passport on the way out.” Dee looked surprised, but he grinned.

“Just kidding! Now, how do we deal with Bob, whoever he is?” Toby looked around the room for ideas. Dee had already explained that the Police offered little hope of finding Bob, even after the money had been paid. When the room remained silent, Toby continued.

“OK. I guess it’s down to me. I’ve had a few thoughts. Let me brainstorm them for a few minutes.” Toby stood up and walked to a large flip chart on an easel. He picked up a blue marker pen and began to write. I have watched this brilliant man develop new strategies on the hoof with just a pen, a whiteboard and his agile mind hundreds of times. I hoped that Toby’s ingenuity would help us find the elusive solution to my problem.

Toby wrote at the top of the first sheet; BOB KNOWS YOUR FINANCIAL POSITION. He then drew angled lines lower down the page. At the end of the first line he wrote; HOW? He looked at the rest of us in the room expectantly. Roddy started the brainstorming session by suggesting “The Bank”. Toby wrote it down and numbered it. Dee called out with “Friends and neighbours”. Toby duly wrote that down and added one of his own, which he numbered three. He wrote “Employers”. The exercise went on until the list comprised eight possible ways that Bob could have found out about my financial position.

“OK.” Toby said, as he picked up a red marker pen. “Let’s see if we can eliminate some of these possibilities.” I stood and walked to the board, looking at each line intently before commenting on each in turn.

“Number one; ‘The Bank’. I think we can scrub that one, as I use an internet based account and so they have no idea that I own my flat. Also a large part of my earnings are paid into investment funds and pension funds, and so no-one at the bank could have any real idea of my monthly income, let alone my net worth.” Toby drew a line through ‘The Bank’.

“Next, I think we can rule out friends. They have no idea what I earn. To be honest, most of my friends probably imagine I earn around a third of my actual income. Only a few close friends have been to my flat, and I think they just assumed it was rented. I never felt it necessary to disabuse them of that view.” Toby crossed the second line out, too.

“Three and four can stay for the moment.” Toby’s pen hovered over item five, ‘Inland Revenue’. “I think we can rule them out, too,” I said, “as they know about my income but they have no idea that I own other assets like the flat. They only know what’s on my tax return, and that information is unremarkable.” Line five was scrawled out.

“Line six; ‘Relatives’.” I thought hard before dismissing this one. “Only my parents and my brother have any clue as to my financial position, but even they probably underestimate my income. Dad is forever offering to lend me a couple of grand if I ever get into trouble living in London. Pete, he’s more switched on. He probably realises that I earn over a hundred thousand a year, but he probably thinks I have a huge mortgage, just like he has. No. I think we have to eliminate family.” Another crossing out in red marker followed that conclusion.

“Ex – girlfriends.” I smiled wanly before dismissing line seven. “I’m afraid none of my girlfriends stuck around long enough to understand my financial position, so that’s a non-starter.” It was eliminated in red.

“Last one.” I considered ‘Lenders and credit agencies’.

“Well, I don’t have any loans, and my credit rating is good but, again, there is no way they could know I own a flat worth over three hundred grand. That line has to go as well.”

The people in the room perused the list which now consisted of ‘3) Employer’ and, ‘4) Accountant’. Before I made my opinion known, the other three had alighted on their own preference, which in all cases was the accountant.

“Toby,” I said, “the only person at Dyson Brecht who knows about my finances is you, and I trust you with my life. I guess we need to look more closely at Atkins, Garretson, and Palmer, better known in the City as AGP.” I paused. “More specifically, I need to speak to Andrew Cuthbertson, who does my accounts.” Toby crossed out number three, ‘Employer’, and flipped the page before writing at the top ‘WHY JOSH?’

***

Sandwiches, juice and fruit having been consumed, the four of us assembled in the conference room and set our minds to answering the question “Why pick on Josh?”

Using the same flip chart as before, we listed and discarded all but one reason. Out went Envy, Hatred, Prejudice, Revenge and Ideology. It looked like a list of most of the seven deadly sins, but none of them seemed likely as a motive.

Toby summarised the discussion, which had taken almost an hour and which had been very deep at times.

“Dee, gentlemen, we are left with one category standing; Greed. I have to say that, before we began this exercise, that was my view anyway. Josh, the fact is, the texts and emails you have received have been dispassionate, even jokey. There has been no attempt to make you suffer, no rambling theses about the evils of capitalism or suggestion that you need to repent of your evil ways. No. I think that you were chosen simply because you were available and you had the funds.” The others nodded in agreement.

“I have to agree,” Roddy said. “You should see the anonymous hate mail we receive in the post. It’s as disgusting as it is inaccurate. We are accused of stealing taxpayers’ money to pay huge bonuses, but we have never been given a penny of government money and our CEO is paid a fixed salary, with no bonus at all. All of our bonuses go to the staff who run the society, and they earn modest salaries. Our profits are fed back into the mutual for the benefit of our customers. If Bob was on a mission to destroy you, or if his intentions were anything other than simple extortion, you would know about it by now.”

Toby spoke as he tore off the used flip chart pages and folded them. “Josh, Dee, the money is ready and there are still twenty two hours to go. I suggest that you speak to Andrew Cuthbertson as soon as possible and see if he can shed any light on how Bob managed to obtain your financial records.”

The meeting adjourned and, after a good deal of handshaking and best wishes, Dee and I were left alone in the room with a tray of curling sandwiches and ripening fruit. I spoke quietly.

“OK, let’s grab a cab and go see AGP.”

“Will they see us at such short notice?”

“Dee, I potentially have less than twenty four hours to live. They’ll see us.”

Chapter 9

Atkins Garretson Palmer, College Hill, London: Thursday, 3pm.

Meeting with Andrew Cuthbertson was not as simple as I had hoped it would be. Despite my explaining the death threat and the deadly timetable to the receptionist, Andrew’s PA and Andrew himself, AGP were having difficulty excusing the accountant from an allegedly important meeting. It took a call from Toby to ensure that Andrew met us at all, and when he did he did not look at all happy.

We were sitting in another anonymous conference room almost identical to the one we had just left. Even the view across London was similar. Andrew strode into the room and threw his pad down onto the desk before sitting opposite Dee and myself. He wore an expensive suit and a cream linen shirt, finished off with a red silk tie. His cufflinks matched his tiepin. His brown hair was immaculately styled, as if he’d just auditioned for a shampoo commercial. He was good looking in a rugged sort of way, and usually his brown eyes twinkled with friendliness, but not today. The accountant did not exchange any pleasantries, nor did he ask who Dee was or what she was doing there. Instead, he glared at me and spoke harshly.

“OK, Josh, you have managed to drag me away from a very important meeting for fifteen minutes, so I’d start talking, if I were you.” Andrew looked at his watch and pressed a button on the side of the watchcase. I guessed it was a timer, but it was also meant to signal to us that he would not be staying a minute longer than he had to. Dee was looking puzzled, as I had described Andrew Cuthbertson as a friend, an easy going squash partner and sometime five a side teammate. The man sitting opposite was wound up like a spring and frowning as if trying to win a prize for gurning. Faced with this hostility I kept cool and spoke quietly but assertively.

“Andrew, as you have heard I’m being blackmailed by someone who has an intimate knowledge of my finances...”

“So I hear,” Andrew interjected sharply. I continued, ignoring the interruption.

“Well, there are very few people who know my financial circumstances. In fact, apart from me, AGP are the only people who know all the details of my earnings, savings and property holdings.”

Andrew’s face reddened noticeably, and in one swift movement he stood up, pushing his chair back against the wall with a bang, before placing both palms on the conference table a leaning over towards me. The next words were spat out with the kind of venom I had never seen before in Andrew Cuthbertson.

“Let me see if I can guess where this is going. You are about to suggest that someone at AGP is either blackmailing you or passing information onto your blackmailer. I suggest that before you slander yourself you give some careful thought to your next choice of words.” The accountant glared at both of us sitting opposite him and, without reducing the level of vitriol in his voice, he continued. “You drag me out of an important meeting and subject me to these baseless accusations. That’s rich, Josh, really rich.”

I could not remember the last time that I’d lost my temper to such an extent that I had lost all control, but I could feel anger welling up inside me. It began with a tightening of muscles around the stomach. I could feel adrenaline rising and my heart was beginning to race. Dee Conrad placed her hand on my arm as a signal that I should remain silent, and then she spoke calmly but firmly.

“As I recall this conversation, Josh has accused no-one of anything. He pointed out that your firm are the only people that know his finances, as well as he does himself, except for the blackmailer. Now, the blackmailer must have obtained this information from somewhere, and you have obviously considered the possibility that it may have leaked from here, hence your outburst. We’re leaving now, as you are clearly not interested in discussing this calmly, and you can answer these awkward questions directly to the police instead. Your directors can answer those same questions to the regulatory bodies. No doubt when all of this is finally made public, your major clients will wonder how trustworthy AGP really are.” Dee stood up and spoke to me.

“Come on, we’re going. Your friend here is hiding something, and we’d better let Inspector Boniface find out what it is.” Dee turned to the accountant. “And you had better consider what will happen if Josh is murdered, and whether you’re prepared to spend life behind bars as a co-conspirator.”

Andrew Cuthbertson paled visibly, and I thought I could see him trembling. I was shaken too, but I stood up and followed Dee to the door. Andrew spoke up, calling to us to wait. Suddenly he seemed a lot more cordial; in fact, there was a pleading in his voice that was quite unexpected.

“Look, can’t we sit down and talk about this? Perhaps I spoke rather hastily. I’m sorry. It’s been a bad morning, that’s all. Perhaps I can see what we can do about freeing up some funds to get you out of this hole.”

“Mr. Cuthbertson,” Dee interjected sharply, before I could reply. “Go back to your important meeting. I think we’re done here. I suggest you think carefully about what Josh has told you, and if you want to tell us how his personal information could have fallen into the hands of his blackmailer, call him at home. You have the number.”

Dee ushered me out of the room, and the frame rattled as the door slammed behind us.

***

Dee was sipping her orange juice when I returned to the table with my Grand Latte. The coffee shop was nearly empty. I set my cup down and looked at my new friend with a new found respect.

“It’ll be weeks before Andrew finds his balls again, and when he does they’ll probably be crushed beyond any reasonable expectation of future use,” I remarked.

Dee Conrad smiled, and I suddenly realised that she had been as stressed by the afternoon’s events as I had. She cared. “Josh,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Andrew Cuthbertson is as guilty as sin. It was written all over his face. His behaviour was a classic display of guilt. He was very defensive – way over the top, wouldn’t you agree? I would offer good odds that not only does he know more than he’s telling you, he’s almost certainly the man behind the leaking of your personal details.”

I pondered the prospect of one of my closest friends selling me out. The thought was both unwelcome and unattractive. There are some things you don’t want to know, not because you want to be protected from a harsh reality but because, once you lose faith in your closest allies, what does the future hold for you? Who can you trust?

“Before this night is over you’ll receive a desperate phone call from Andrew Cuthbertson, I guarantee it. I would say that someone is forcing him to cross a line that he’s uncomfortable with. I could read conflict all over his face.”

Dee paused and looked directly into my eyes. “If, as I believe, you’re a good judge of character, and you’ve chosen your friends wisely, then Mr. Cuthbertson will struggle with himself for a while and then make the right decision.”

Chapter 10

Blacksmiths Hall, Lambeth Hill, City of London. Thursday, 5pm.

Bob strode down Queen Victoria Street towards Lambeth Hill. He was fuming. He lifted the pay as you go phone from his pocket and looked at the message one more time. The words on the screen did nothing to enhance his mood;

“Dear Bob, or whoever you are, please sod off and don’t bother me again. You are not getting a penny from me. Should you try to hurt me in any way I’ll be the one dishing out a sound beating, with a coward like you on the wrong end of it. Now curl up and die.”

The white phone had a label stuck on the reverse, which read: ‘Sir Max’. Bob removed the battery and dropped it in an ornamental black cast iron waste bin carrying the shield of the City of London. As he walked along the main thoroughfare he removed the sim card and dropped it into a roadside drain. Finally, as he approached the next waste bin, he placed the handset on the ground and stood on it, crunching it under the heel of his shiny Church’s Roach lace up evening shoes, before collecting up the pieces and dropping them into the bin. He felt a little better.

A minute later Bob had reached Lambeth Hill, so he turned left and walked down towards the River Thames. After walking a further one hundred and fifty metres he reached the Blacksmith’s Hall, a medieval hall that had been rebuilt many times in its history. The most recent version faced him now. The hall had been built in the early 19th century for the Worshipful Company of Blacksmiths, in a mock gothic style, which gave it the look of a church. Specially commissioned stained glass showed scenes of ancient smithies at work on some of London’s famous landmarks.

Bob stepped inside the cavernous hall and handed his invitation, bag and coat to an attendant. He received a ticket in return, which he placed in the right hand pocket of his dinner jacket. Before removing his hand he checked one last time that he had the vial of clear liquid safely secured there.

No-one ever entered the great halls of London without being awed by the enormity of the space, the incredible craftsmanship of the masonry and the complex network of roof timbers, many of which had been reclaimed from old warships. The great hall looked just like the dining hall at Hogwarts, as depicted in the Harry Potter films.

A young man in a white linen jacket approached him and offered him a glass of cheap champagne. Bob took the bubbly, along with a flyer emblazoned with the words “The Maximillian Rochester Fund for Sick Children”.

Bob began to circulate, but it was proving rather difficult as the floor was crammed with people. The charity event had been blessed with a huge turnout. As he headed towards the top table, where he would shortly be sitting, an older, grey haired man called out to him in a plummy voice.

“It’s the scholarship boy!”

“It’s the thick rich kid!” Bob responded, in a pronounced and exaggerated Lancashire accent.

Forty years had passed since Bob had boarded at Harrow on the Hill Catholic College for Boys. He had won his place there as an eleven year old on a scholarship awarded by his father’s trade union. The scholarship’s aim was to improve social mobility, but it actually resulted in social misery. The paying boarders such as Max never let the other boys forget that they were unworthy of such an elite establishment. Even now, Max believed that greeting Bob in this way was just a measure of friendly camaraderie. He had no idea of the resentment that Bob harboured for his old prefect, either then or now. Still, it had always suited Bob to play along. That role playing, however, was about to come to an abrupt end, after Max’s earlier text message.

If Sir Max had suspected that his blackmailer was in the room, and he had lined up every one of the five hundred people present this evening, hoping to find the culprit, he would have failed miserably, doubtless alighting on the real Bob almost at the last pick. Sir Max felt safe and comfortable among his friends, and would certainly not have suspected any of them capable of doing such a thing.

The older man took the scholarship boy by the shoulder and led him to a quiet alcove. “Listen, old chap, I really must thank you for having a word in the PM’s ear. We received a significant contribution under the government’s ‘Big Society’ plan. That is really going to help put the hospices on a firm footing.”

“Not at all, Max. As a trustee it was my duty,” Bob replied. “Now, what are you drinking? I’m off to the bar.”

“I’ll have my usual, thank you, but do ask for the twelve year old malt, there’s a good chap, otherwise they’ll serve up any old tosh. Oh, and make it a double, if you would.” Sir Max winked. Bob smiled and fought his way to the bar.

***

Bob flushed the empty vial down the toilet, then left the cubicle and washed his hands. A few minutes later he was back in his seat, just two places away from Max. The aging malt whisky sat untouched in a glass in front of his old College prefect. Bob tried not to stare at it.

Sir Peter Maitland-Buckley opened the proceedings, which would auction off donated goods, experiences and outings to rich lawyers and bankers and bring in a large amount of much needed cash for the charity.

“Before we begin, I’m delighted to welcome our patron, Sir Max Rochester, who has agreed to say a few words,” he announced.

Sir Max picked up his whisky and sank it in one gulp before he stood. The whisky mixed with the potassium chloride and slid smoothly down his throat, warming his insides, as the applause died down.

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the Maximillian Rochester Fund for Sick Children I would like to extend a warm welcome to all of you who are attending this event. May I thank you all for turning out in such numbers. I trust you have all brought suitably large amounts of money with you.” There was a ripple of laughter, and Sir Max smiled with satisfaction. He cleared his throat, then brushed a hand across his forehead as he continued. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us remember why we are here. Most of us present will count ourselves blessed to have enjoyed comfortable and healthy childhoods, for the main part, and so now is the time to show our largesse and bring some joy into the lives of those children who are sick and dying.” Sir Max paused and shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming our charming guest auctioneer this evening, the English born Hollywood actress Kate Jarret.”

The actress stood to much applause, and raised the wooden auctioneer’s mallet for the cameras. Such was the concentration on this beautiful young woman and her daring strapless dress that no-one noticed Sir Max. He sat down rather heavily, feeling decidedly unwell. He dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with his handkerchief. A pained expression crossed his wrinkled face as he rubbed the top of his left arm and grimaced, but the pain seemed to pass and he sipped at a glass of water.

It was a nerve wracking two minutes before Sir Max finally succumbed to the clear liquid that Bob had introduced into his whisky. Eventually he tried to stand up, clutched at his chest and collapsed. There were gasps and cries of dismay, and chairs scraped against the floor as other guests jumped to their feet nearby. Bob was the first to his side, apparently making the old man comfortable as he breathed his last. Amid the noisy chaos Sir Peter made an announcement over the PA system, asking if there was a doctor in the room. There were half a dozen, and they began to hurry forward, but they were already too late. Bob ushered everyone back whilst cradling the old man’s head. Max tried to utter a few words, but they were little more than a whisper. Bob leaned in to listen. Then he leaned over Max and whispered in his ear.

“You should have paid me the five million, Max. You can’t spend it now.”

Max’s eyes widened in horror as he listened to the words, then he breathed his last breath, his expired body relaxing into Bob’s arms.