Текст книги "48 Hours"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter 2 7

Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. Sunday 10pm.

This had been the most enjoyable weekend I could remember for a long time, although it would have been perfect if West Ham had won. We had both agreed not to mention the case or my sudden indebtedness over the weekend. If I am being honest, I was quite relieved about being alive and free from Bob and his twisted machinations.

We had spent our time together in eating, sleeping, taking long walks and watching talent competitions on TV. As we sat relaxing on the sofa listening to Norah Jones, the door buzzer sounded. I wasn’t expecting guests.

I picked up the phone, determined not to buzz anyone in who would disrupt my evening.

“Hello, Mr Hammond, my name is Jayne Craythorne.” The name didn’t mean anything to me. “I am the daughter of Sir Maxwell Rochester.” I buzzed her up and explained how to find my flat.

I told Dee who the visitor was, and she transformed from a relaxed girlfriend into a bodyguard in a matter of seconds. Dee let Jayne Craythorne into the flat and invited her to sit on my easy chair. I sat on the sofa and Dee took the footrest. After accepting our condolences on the recent death of her father, she explained the reason for her visit.

“Josh, Dee, I’m sorry to interrupt you this late at night but I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. The police wouldn’t tell me anything, but Dad’s network of contacts was extensive and this evening I was told that the Metropolitan Police are working with the London City Police on a possible link between Dad’s death and the blackmailer who had been pestering him. They have told me that Dad might have been murdered, but that no-one knows for sure at the moment, and they may never know with certainty.” She paused for breath. “My contact said that you had been interviewed by the police and had claimed that you too were being blackmailed. Another contact was able to get your address for me. I was hoping you could bring a little clarity to what is otherwise a terribly confusing situation.”

Dee decided to take centre stage.

“Jayne, it appears that a man, possibly known to you, by the name of Lord Arthur Hickstead, has been blackmailing people in the city.”

Jayne Craythorne’s jaw dropped open and tears filler her eyes. Dee offered her a tissue. Our visitor was sobbing.

“I’m not sure that I can believe that. The man you refer to as Lord Hickstead has been known to me since I was born. He and Dad were at school together. Do you have any evidence of his involvement?”

“I’m afraid so,” Dee said. “The facts are these. Your Dad was blackmailed by a man emailing from the domain 48hrs.co.za, and so was Josh. Your Dad was texted by an anonymous mobile phone, probably bought at a supermarket in central London, and so was Josh. Andrew Cuthbertson died on Friday. He was your Dad’s accountant and he is also Josh’s accountant. Lord Hickstead’s initials were found on Andrew Cuthbertson’s mobile phone, attached to a text blackmailing him to reveal financial details of a client. A jeweller identified the blackmailer as wearing a rare watch. Lord Hickstead owns such a watch, one of just eight in circulation in the UK, and none of the others belong to a man fitting the jeweller’s description of the blackmailer. There are more remote links between Hickstead and the domain name, but he was in the right countries at the right time when the domain was established.”

Jayne’s tears had dried. She was probably my age, very stylishy dressed and superbly made up. Her modern short hairstyle was probably designed by a hairdresser whose name appears on bottles of expensive shampoo. All in all she bore all the hallmarks of a wealthy woman.

“So why haven’t the police arrested him yet?” she asked.

“We wondered the same thing, but Inspector Boniface thinks we need more evidence before we can show our hand, or we take the chance that he shuts up shop and we never get to him.” I hoped that this explanation gave her more comfort than it gave me. It became clear that it didn’t.

“Josh.” She seemed tentative. “I would like the two of you to continue your investigation until Arthur Hickstead is arrested. If you agree, I will ensure that you get your money back, one way or another.” I was surprised.

“Jayne, I have to tell you that we intend to pursue him anyway, because he’s a danger to us all as long as he remains free. In his last email to me he said he would be back for more. Quite frankly, I also want my money back.”

“My offer is still open, Josh. Dee, do you have a view?” Jayne looked at Dee, who seemed uncertain.

“I have to say I think you’re both a bit mad, but if you are both determined to snare this callous bastard, I’m prepared to run interference for you.”

We spoke for a few more minutes and then Jayne left, but not before kissing us both on the cheek and promising to keep in touch. When she left I mentioned to Dee that as well as being Sir Max’s only heir she seemed to be wealthy in her own right.

“You know she’s married to Jonas Craythorne, don’t you?” Dee said.

“No, I didn’t know. Who is he?” I asked.

“Have you ever had a burger served in an expanded polystyrene box?”

“Of course. They were everywhere at one time.”

“Well, his family owned the license for the design and the manufacture of those boxes throughout Europe. Not only is he one of Vastrick Security’s clients, he’s a multi-millionaire!”

Chapter 2 8

Vastrick Security Offices, No 1 Poultry, London. Monday 8am.

Dee and I had taken the Tube as far as Bank Station and we came out into the bright sunlight at the junction of Cornhill, Threadneedle Street and Poultry, an odd name for a city street, I always thought, but I expect there is an explanation for that.

What I do know was that there had been a road and buildings on this site since 60AD, the first buildings being burned down in the Boudican revolt. The one hundred mile long Roman Road to Bath began close to where we were standing. This rebuilt part of the city was burned down twice more, in the Roman Hadrianic period and in the Great Fire of London in 1666. Luckily the building had not burned down since I had become the loss adjuster.

We approached the postmodern building at No. 1 Poultry, designed by James Stirling, the great neoclassical architect. The imposing corner site had an arched entrance with a tower and a clock. The structure was a mass of curves, constructed from reinforced concrete and blockwork faced with red and white stone horizontal bands and glass curtain walling.

Taking the lift to the second floor, we followed the signs for Vastrick Security. The office was surprisingly busy for eight o’clock on a Monday morning, but Dee explained that many of the operatives here were shift workers. Some would have been there all night.

I was signed in by Dee and given an electronic key card that monitored my movements in the building and gave me access to selected areas. We walked into an office befitting the founder of a successful security company. On the wall was original artwork by Katy Moran, whose work I had seen before. The canvas was a swirl of bold reds, blues and black. It was quite dramatic.

Robbert T Vastrick came into the office. He was an imposing man, over six feet tall with the beginnings of a paunch, but very young looking for his sixty two years. He held out his hand and offered me a card. I asked why there were two b’s in Robbert. Vastrick explained that whilst he was American, his parents did not want him to lose sight of his Dutch heritage. He was named after the original Robbert Vastrick who settled in New Netherland, on the east coast of the USA, in the mid 1600’s.

“If I understand Dee’s email correctly, the two of you want to try to get either the diamonds or the money back from this crooked Lord. And you would like to use my facilities to do it. Is that a fair summation?” He didn’t sound terribly enthusiastic, and so I was about to explain that I was happy to pay for the service, until Dee touched my arm and shook her head.

“Tom is winding you up, Josh, don’t rise to it.” Obviously Mr Vastrick used his middle name. “That is a good summation, but there’s a lot of money floating around out there and I dare say we’ll get a share of it.”

Tom Vastrick looked at a printout on his desk. “One of the night guys did a search on Lord Hickstead, and already I don’t like him. Four reasons. One, he went to a poncey school; two, he was a trade union activist; three, he was a Eurocrat; and four, he was made a Lord for no good reason except patronage.” He paused and then added, “Oh, and five, he is a blackmailer, lowest of all the criminal classes, apart from the sickos, of course.”

By nine o’clock we had a plan of action and we had been allocated “Operations Room 3”, a secure, darkened room so filled with electronic gadgetry it looked like Jack Bauer’s CTU in the TV series 24.

As we settled into our new room, I called Toby and told him I needed a few personal days off from work. He agreed to my request without question. I think he was still relieved that I wasn’t leaving.

A young man wearing a Vastrick polo shirt handed me an electronic screen with buttons on it. “You might want to borrow this,” he said.

“I might if I knew what it was,” I replied, and Dee laughed.

“It is a Kindle E Reader, it displays electronic books. I’ve loaded up a book you may be interested in.” Dee leaned over and switched it on. It was a large screen with navigation buttons for page turning. The screen showed black print on a white background, just like a real book.

The book title page came up as we all looked. It read “Red Art – An Unofficial Biography of Arthur Hickstead by Robin Treadwell”. Treadwell was a right wing journalist for a well known tabloid. The book was published by Cornwell Books, a reactionary publishing house with a deeply conservative bias. Dee showed me how to use the Kindle and I started to read whilst she set up the case on the Vastrick System. I could have laughed when I saw the code name she had chosen for the computer files, and for the case as a whole – “Peer Down”.

“Josh, don’t mention our investigation to anyone, because if DCI Coombes gets wind of our involvement we can expect another midnight interview.”

“Dee, I agree, but we have to continue to help Inspector Boniface where we can. He’s been a real friend.”

“Of course we will, but he knows better than anyone that to bring down a peer of the realm he will need irrefutable evidence, or he will be jumped on by everyone from the Home Secretary down.”

In three hours we were due to meet with Boniface, and so I decided to skim read the biography of the blackmailing Lord Hickstead.

Chapter 2 9

Breakfast Car, London Bound East Coast Train. Monday 8am.

Lord Hickstead was feeling quite pleased with himself. Jim and Bob had gone, along with all links to the individuals they were blackmailing. So far his revenge plan had netted him one million pounds in cash and diamonds. Of course his big pay day, five million from Sir Max, hadn’t worked out, but at least the old bully who’d made his life hell at school was now dead, which was fair compensation.

The peer finished his Great British Breakfast – too late to worry about the calories or the cholesterol now – and looked at his BlackBerry. He had meetings lined up all week, and on Wednesday he would fly to Rotterdam from London City Airport at five in the evening, returning early the next morning. He already had a buyer for the gems. He was surprised at how affected he had been by the glittering diamonds; he had even contemplated keeping them. There was a hypnotic attraction to their cleanly cut beauty. He knew that he had no option but to sell them, though. They were evidence.

As the train drew into Stevenage he smiled to himself. By the time the Dutch buyer had paid the agreed sum for the diamonds – in US dollars – into his Cayman Islands bank account, exchange rates would mean he had banked almost exactly a quarter of a million pounds.

Reaching into his pocket he retrieved a cheap white mobile phone that had been allocated to the terrorising of Richard Wolsey-Keen, banker to the rich and famous. Former chairman of the collapsed Bank of Wessex, he had persuaded Arthur Hickstead to join him on the board and invest five hundred thousand pounds, which he guaranteed would double. The bank had thrived for a couple of years, but the government had to bail it out at the start of the credit crunch, and the shares were now worthless. Arthur was livid when the man who led the bank into near bankruptcy escaped with a hefty pension and a new job with an Investment Bank in the City.

“Dear Richard,

12 hours to go. By way of reminder I don’t accept any excuses for delay. By the way, best not wear your favourite suit today.

Sam

Lord Hickstead sent the text message to the banker and looked forward to an outing to Clapham Common, which he felt sure would secure Richard Wolsey– Keen’s one million pound ransom demand.

Chapter 30

City of London Police HQ, Wood St, London: Monday, noon.

The sign on the door said ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Boddy’. We were on the first floor of the police headquarters for the first time. I noticed that the decor and furnishings were more lavish up here.

The young constable ushered us into the room where Inspector Boniface and an older heavier man in full uniform were sitting around a small but well polished conference table. They both stood, in deference to Dee, I supposed, and offered their hands. We shook hands with the new man who, I had correctly guessed, was DCS Boddy.

We sat down and the DCS spoke up straight away.

“Mr Hammond, Ms Conrad. On behalf of both the City Police and the Metropolitan Police, I would like to apologise for your treatment on Friday night. It was unnecessary, and the use of old school detective tactics is to be regretted. DCI Coombes will continue his investigations into the deaths of Andrew Cuthbertson and Sir Max, and we will cooperate wherever our paths cross. Inspector Boniface has assured the Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner that you will both help with our enquiries, but for the time being if they need to speak to you again it will be here, and in conjunction with the Inspector.”

“Thank you.” Dee and I responded almost simultaneously. There was a pause.

“Now, how are we going to manage this little rat’s nest of aristocratic villainy? What on earth is a Peer doing blackmailing folk? It’s beyond belief, and if he’s directly involved with either death, well....” Boddy let the thought hang. “Mr Hammond, you said on the phone that you had found out some historical facts about Lord Hickstead that might assist the investigation.”

“Yes,” I replied, conscious that the information was in the public domain. “It boils down to this, really. Arthur Hickstead was born in 1954 at Brighouse, close to Halifax, which is just off the M62 in Yorkshire. His parents were active in the Labour Party and when he was eleven years old his father’s Trade Union offered him a scholarship to study at a public school. They had an arrangement with Harrow on the Hill Catholic College, where scholarship boys could board at special low fees. Both sides were keen on social mobility. However, Arthur hated it, according to his biographer. He felt as though he was little more than a slave for the richer boys, and he suffered bullying and persecution because of his accent and the fact that he was a “stig”, the nickname they used for a scholarship student.

He followed some of his peers to Cambridge University and Professor Tony Bartlett was his tutor. Bartlett was arrested many times on demonstrations in the 1960s, and in the 1980s it was thought he had been working for the Soviets.

Oddly, the young Arthur chose to go into the Army for officer training at Sandhurst. The book suggests that in 1976 jobs in the City were hard to find, but retired Army officers were always sought after. He was soon disillusioned by the Army, as he saw it as an extension of the public school. He served in Northern Ireland, and was horrified at the way the officers always managed to escape punishment when a riot turned into a bloodbath, yet the ordinary squaddies would find themselves in the brig.

In 1982 he left the army, but didn’t go for a job in the City. He was head hunted for the job of Deputy to the President of the Oil, Gas and Offshore Workers Union. The unions were replacing moderate leaders with hardliners as quickly as they could, to take on Margaret Thatcher.

By 1997 he was President of UNIFY, a conglomeration of his old union and two larger unions who represented skilled tradesmen. His new position meant that he wielded enormous power in the Labour Party, but he hated New Labour with a passion, according to the book – something he denies.

Anyway, as part of the union amalgamation deal he could only serve as President for four years, then the President of one of the other unions took over the reins.

In 2001 the PM found Arthur Hickstead a role in Brussels, well away from British politics, where he had been ruining the image of New Labour that the spin doctors were building. He was there for eight years before having to return to the UK. The bank where he was a director went down, and although the government saved it, all of the shareholders lost their money. It’s thought that he lost in excess of half a million pounds, which was probably most of his pension fund.

In May 2010 he was made a Lord in the PM’s resignation list, and despite his former left wing leanings, the current government have asked for his help on re-structuring the benefits programme to target poverty more keenly.” I passed copies of my research to the two policemen. I say my research, but a nerdy lad at Vastrick had done a lot of the work for me by scanning the book with a ‘special algorithm’ he had invented. I didn’t ask what that meant, I just pretended I knew.

“DS Fellowes has picked up a lot of this from the internet, too,” Inspector Boniface noted. “I have to admit, it answers a lot of questions.”

Detective Chief Superintendant Boddy took charge of the meeting again.

“I think this confirms what we were all thinking. This man is fireproof unless we can find rock solid evidence that condemns him. I suggest we use the rest of this meeting to discuss tactics, what we know and what we need to know.”

Dee and I settled into our seats for a long session.

Chapter 31

Clapham Common Park, London. Noon.

Arthur Hickstead saw Richard Wolsey Keen approach the deserted all-weather football pitches and look around nervously. ‘Sam’ had texted the banker and told him to come here if he wanted the photos Sam had of him treating pretty young boys to dinner in the less fashionable restaurants.

Richard was standing with his overcoat over his arm, waiting.

Arthur had selected this spot because it was a well-known haunt for men to meet up for ‘friendship’. Obscured by trees, Arthur snapped some photos for good measure. He had his camera in his hand when a young Arabic boy came into the frame.

Richard turned to face the boy, who was smiling at him.

“Looking for a friend, mister?” the boy asked in a heavily accented voice.

“No, I’m meeting someone,” Richard responded.

“I’m prettier, more cooperative and less money,” the boy teased, straightening the banker’s tie. Richard was tempted for a moment. There was no-one around and the boy was attractive. Then he remembered what was at stake and he politely dismissed the boy.

To his surprise the boy produced an envelope which had “8 hours” scrawled on the front. The boy waited as he opened the envelope. He leafed through the contents, alarmed to see images of himself sitting in various restaurants, fawning over rent boys. He was stunned. There was no doubt what anyone would think if they saw these pictures, but he knew that it wasn’t like that. He just liked the company of young boys. He liked to treat them and listen to their lilting foreign accents. He liked touching them. But nothing more.

He was considering what the tabloids would do with these pictures when any remaining thoughts became a blur as he felt three blows to his back in quick succession, and he found himself gasping for breath.

***

When he came round he was looking into the face of a spotty youth with a ragged attempt at a beard and a pony tail.

“What happened to me?” Richard asked, still dazed.

“You’ve been punk’d, mate.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Someone shot you three times with a paintball gun. Suit’s a write off, I reckon.”

The young Arab boy had gone, as had the envelope, but Richard knew what he had to do.

***

It was three o’clock – five hours to go to his deadline – when the Banker arrived back at the London Mercantile Investment Bank Headquarters at Canary Wharf. He was sweating and red faced due to having to wear his overcoat on a warm day. How else could he cover the red stains on his suit jacket?

Melanie, a blousy middle aged woman with a Hertfordshire accent, approached him.

“Ah, Richard, you’re back. Shall I take your coat?”

“No!” he snapped. “Just leave me alone. I have things to do in my office. No calls or visitors. Understand?”

Melanie was taken aback, but these rich bankers were a strange lot even on a good day and so she returned to her desk, wondering why her boss was wearing his overcoat indoors.

Richard did not have a million pounds. Nowhere near it. He had a big pension pot which he couldn’t touch for another five years, and he had sifted away money over the years, concealing it from the prying eyes of the taxman and his spendthrift wife. Nonetheless, if he didn’t pay up he would die, and that was a strong motivation. Even if he wasn’t killed, once those photographs came out he might as well be dead. Sam was in control, and Richard was smart enough to know it.

Given enough time Richard could have filched a little money from here and there, built the million up slowly, written off some as investment losses and covered his tracks, but there was no time for finesse. He would have to wire the money now and find a way to make it up later.

Nervously he tapped the keyboard and a new window opened on his screen. He tapped another key and the Bank’s bespoke software package opened.

“Cordex SecSoft welcomes you, Hello Richard.”

Richard ran down the client accounts until he reached Sylvia Patterson. The lady had two point eight million pounds in her account waiting for the new trading period, but more importantly, she was in a care home and her investments were audited just once a year.

Richard transferred one million pounds into the temporary trading account which bore his name.

“Nature of transaction?” the machine asked.

Option for purchase of development land in Seychelles, Richard typed.

“When are the securities expected?” Richard decided to give himself some time.

14 day settlement account, he typed.

“Select bank from drop down list?”

Yes. Then Richard selected the bank Sam had nominated. He typed in the account number he had been given.

“Transfer to daily accounts or hold position?” This was the last step.

Hold position, he typed.

That should be enough to keep the internal security boys from finding the transaction until he had covered his tracks. He pressed the final confirmation button, and one million pounds left his trading account and whizzed across the ether to Switzerland. With one million in from Mrs Patterson’s account and one million going out, Richard’s trading account would show up as zero again, for the time being.

Satisfied that he had covered his tracks as well as he could, Richard now had fourteen days to find Mrs Patterson some land options or return her money. That was more than enough time.