Текст книги "48 Hours"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Chapter 3 2

The Queen’s Room, House of Lords, London: Monday, 3:25pm.

The advantage of being in the Palace of Westminster at this time of year was the relative peace and quiet. The MPs and the Lords were on their long summer recess, and the staff took the opportunity to have a break themselves.

As a result the magnificent Queen’s Room, where library staff and Peers normally interface, was empty apart from Lord Hickstead who was using the internet to do some research. The few librarians who were on duty were in the main library, restoring some of the ancient tomes to their rightful places on the shelves, ready for their Lordships and Ladyships to disrupt again on their return.

The Peer looked around the historic room. It was like a library in itself, with shelves ten feet high, the top shelves accessible only by wooden ladders. The walls were panelled with the same wood that had been used for the shelving. The highly polished surface shone with hues of red and yellow that suggested rosewood to his inexpert eye.

Around the tops of the shelves and at the juncture with the ceilings intricate carvings gave some relief to the panelling. High above the shelves and embedded into the wall panelling were the coats of arms of many of the famous Lords who had graced this place over hundreds of years.

His Lordship’s eyes moved to the floor, where a brightly coloured carpet adorned the room. Predominantly reds and browns in an Axminster type pattern, it reminded him of the carpet in his grandmother’s front room. A room reserved for visitors, not for the use of grandchildren.

Even the air in the place felt old. He would miss it when he retired, and retirement was not far away. He was tired of it all. Arthur Hickstead had stopped being an active socialist and committed politician years ago; he liked the high life too much. Looking back, he was now faintly embarrassed by his antics in the Trade Union Movement. Ironically, now he was wanted by the Conservatives in the new coalition to report on the benefits culture, a poisoned chalice if ever there was one.

Richard had confirmed by text that the money had been transferred as he had requested, and he now awaited one more call and it would all be over. Well, almost.

The white mobile phone allocated to Richard’s case vibrated. Looking around, Lord Hickstead ensured that he was alone when he answered.

“Richard Wolsey Keen.” The accent he used was clearly West Country.

“Mr Wolsey Keen, just a call to let you know that the money is in our account and your purchase is ready to collect. Though, of course, we would be more than happy to deliver it to your offices.”

“No, I would prefer to collect it myself,” he answered. “We don’t want an item of such value in the hands of some philistine security man in the office, do we?” He was warming to the character he was playing, and the accent became more noticeable.

“Indeed not, sir. In that case, just call in at your convenience. We had already arranged to stay open until nine to accommodate you.”

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

Chapter 3 3

St. James’ Gallery, Ryder Street, London: Monday, 4:20pm.

Despite its name, the St James’ Gallery was on Ryder Street just off St James’ Street, a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace. Surrounded by the historic buildings that populated the Green Park/St James’ Park area, the Gallery occupied the ground floor of a modern office building. There were two marked private parking spaces outside and the taxi pulled up and parked in the first space.

Lord Hickstead gave the cabbie a twenty pound note and asked him to wait, using his pronounced West Country accent. The Peer was back in role playing mode. He was wearing a charcoal suit with a wide pinstripe. He was wearing red braces on his trousers and a matching red handkerchief flopped effeminately from his top pocket. The look he had adopted screamed banker.

Kelvin De Montagu, the gallery owner, smiled effusively as his customer entered the shop. The man was a typical city spiv. The customer’s toupee was poorly fitted, and contained much less grey than the rest of his hair and moustache. His glasses had thick black frames with tinted lenses.

“Mr Wolsey Keen,” gushed the owner. “So nice to see you again. As I said on the telephone, the fee was paid into my account a short while ago. Of course, I never expected anything less from the acclaimed London Mercantile Investment Bank.”

Lord Hickstead handed over one of Richard’s business cards.

“Sorry I didn’t have one of these handy at our last meeting. Did you receive my ID papers?”

“Yes, Mr Wolsey Keen, they were popped through my letter box the very next day. Thank you.” The documents were identical to those he had given to Mr Nour, except for the name change, of course. Faik had worked his magic again, and the colour copies of the forged passport and driving licence once again went unquestioned.

Kelvin disappeared for a few moments and returned carrying a titanium case with the dimensions of an oversized briefcase. He laid it on the counter, opened it and turned it around to face his customer. Inside, protected by inorganic wrapping and embedded in foam, was a painting approximately sixty centimetres tall by forty centimetres wide. It was entitled ‘Chartwell Sunrise with Horse’, and the signature was that of Winston Churchill.

“I think this will be a fine addition to the Bank’s collection, sir. It would grace any city boardroom,” Kelvin suggested. “All of the provenance papers, and the documents from the painting’s last sale at auction, are in an envelope under the foam padding. Works by Churchill have doubled in price in the last ten years, sir, and I think this will be a great investment as well as a beautiful piece of art. It is rumoured that he was painting this very piece whilst unsuccessfully campaigning against Clement Atlee and the Labour Party in 1945.”

Kelvin closed the case and passed it to his customer, who signed a form to say he had received it. After promising to visit Kelvin again in a month or two with a view to securing a further investment piece, Lord Hickstead left with a one million pound painting in his possession.

***

The taxi dropped the Peer off at The Royal Horseguards Hotel, a magnificent Victorian edifice which had once been the home to the National Liberal Club. He could have gone straight to his flat, but taxi drivers always seemed to have incredible memories when questioned by the police. He might just as well leave a false trail, in case anyone decided to follow it later.

After a quick drink in the Churchill Bar, the irony of which made him smile, and still in character, he slipped into the exquisitely appointed men’s toilets and removed his braces, toupee, glasses and moustache. Depositing them in the refuse bin, he smoothed his thinning hair and picked up his case.

He left the hotel and walked the short distance to his flat in Whitehall. He would be glad to rid himself of this tawdry City suit, purchased from a supermarket back in Yorkshire.

***

Sitting comfortably in his borrowed flat, swishing brandy around in a large balloon shaped glass and admiring his new painting, Lord Hickstead picked up the white mobile phone and dialled a preset number. It was answered immediately.

“Hello, Picture Desk.”

The Peer followed his prepared monologue and delivered it perfectly in a Cockney accent that would have put London actors to shame.

“I have pictures of that rogue, Richard Wolsey Keen, picking up a rent boy on Clapham Common and with some of his other young friends.”

“OK. And if we decided to use them, how much would you want?” the sub editor asked.

“Nuffing at all. Just to see that slime bag banker suffer, that would be enough. We all bail the bank out and he walks away with a massive pension. It just aint right. I’ll email ‘em to you now.”

The sub editor was surprised, but if the photos were genuine he wasn’t going to worry about why a punter didn’t want any money for them.

Chapter 3 4

London Mercantile Investment Bank, Canary Wharf, London: Monday, 6:25pm.

A warning message had flashed up on Nicky Taylor’s screen over two hours ago and, in the absence of his boss, he investigated the warning. Convinced that there was a problem he couldn’t resolve, he was nervous; agitated. He had never uncovered a problem of this magnitude before, and he did not have the courage to interrupt the Director of Security whilst he was meeting with the Chairman. Nicky was just about to leave another message when the door opened and his boss walked in.

“For Pete’s sake, Nicky, I’ve only been gone a couple of hours and I’ve got three missed messages from you.”

After five minutes listening to what Nicky had to say, the Director of Security was also beginning to feel unsettled. He consulted an internal telephone directory and dialled.

“Richard Wolsey Keen speaking.”

“Ah, hello Richard, this is Michael from Security. We have a bit of a problem. Can I come down and see you?”

“Look, Michael, I was just about to leave. Can we do this tomorrow?”

“No, I’m afraid it can’t wait,” said Michael Grazeley, Director of Security, leaving no room for discussion.

***

Shortly after six thirty Richard Wolsey Keen sat facing his tormentors from security. He was still wearing his overcoat and he was still sweating. Michael Grazeley spoke. There was respect in his tone of voice, and Richard relaxed, but only a little.

“The thing is, sir, you exceeded the daily floor limit of a million pounds today. That’s a good thing, really, because if it had been a million or less the system wouldn’t have flagged up this potential problem.”

Richard listened and frowned as if puzzled. “Whist your purchase is for a million pounds, you paid to express clearance of the payment and a fee of four thousand pounds was charged by the clearing system. It was the fee that pushed the purchase over the floor limit.”

“Well, really! Surely you haven’t made me wait here just because I expended a few thousand pounds that the client will pay anyway?” Richard tried to sound angry.

“No. That isn’t the real problem. Nicky here tried to clear the warning by raising an exception notice, which you could have signed in your own time, and all would have been well. But the system wouldn’t accept the exception notice because your purchase was for land in the Seychelles, but the bank account you paid the money into was in Switzerland and belongs to an art gallery.”

Richard had no idea who owned the account that ‘Sam’ had nominated for his million pound payoff. He had automatically assumed that it would be Sam’s own account. The banker needed time to think. He tried a bluff.

“Michael, you know what things are like here. They change by the minute. About five minutes after I typed the request and sent it, I had a call to say that the land was off the market and so I diverted the investment into fine art for the client. I managed to pick up a marginal sale, and so Mrs Patterson pays one million and four thousand pounds, plus our fees, and she gets artwork worth approximately one point one million. We all win.”

“Richard, we are not questioning your judgement. I am sure you will make the bank and the client money. No, the problem is the artwork itself. It appears that you arranged to pick it up in person.”

Richard was now in deep water but he had to propagate the lie. “Yes, I wanted to deliver it personally.”

“Well, that’s the problem. Nicky checked your swipe card. You haven’t left the office since mid-afternoon.”

“That’s right.” Richard wondered which direction this was going, and whether he was clever enough to stay ahead of the security chief.

“When Nicky rang the gallery to confirm they had received our transfer, the owner told him you had already picked up the painting. The description the owner of the gallery gave of his Richard Wolsey Keen does not fit you. It appears that our artwork has been stolen. We need to call the police.”

Richard said nothing. The colour drained from his face. The security director squeezed his shoulder gently.

“Don’t you worry, Richard, we will get to the bottom of this. We’ll get your artwork back.”

The security team left, and Richard dropped his head into his hands. It was all over. Tomorrow the whole story would come out. He was ruined.

The phone rang. He answered it.

“Hello, Richard. This is Callum Rogerson of UK Newspaper Group. We were wondering whether you had any comment on tomorrow’s front page.”

Richard knew all too well that UKNG owned two scurrilous tabloids as well as their broadsheet papers and radio interests.

“How would I know? I haven’t seen it, and even if I had I wouldn’t give you the time of day.” He slammed the phone down. How much longer would the debacle at Northern & National Bank make front page news? When he checked he saw that new mail had arrived in his inbox from Callum Rogerson. He wanted to ignore it, but he knew he couldn’t.

Richard clicked on a PDF file attachment called ‘Front Page’ and a piece of software called Adobe Reader opened on his desktop. Slowly a facsimile of the newspaper front page built before his eyes. The headline was bad enough:

“The Fabulous Banker Boys!”

Below the headline was a telephoto shot of the young Arabic boy touching Richard’s tie. The photo was taken from such an angle that the boy’s face was obscured, but such was the young man’s short build that he looked even younger from behind. The soft, puppy dog expression on Richard’s face made the photo even more damning.

The text of the article had been carefully worded.

“....assignment on Clapham Common at a place known to be a regular haunt of older men looking for younger partners.” “Dinner at the intimate Carannas Restaurant where the clientele is almost exclusively male...”

The reference to further photographs inside chilled the banker to the core.

Richard realised that more damage would be caused by what was not said than what had actually been written. Readers already enraged at his big payoff wouldn’t hold back; they would fill in the blanks with their own sordid story. Couldn’t people see that he was treating these poor boys, not exploiting them?

The banker did not know how he could hope to face his wife or children again, especially his teenage son, when they had no idea that he had a predilection for attractive young men. His friends and colleagues would not understand, either. They would be shocked, possibly disgusted, and he foresaw only social exclusion and humiliation.

Richard took off his overcoat and jacket. His shirt was stained red at the back but he didn’t care about that any more. He opened his desk drawer extracted a half full bottle of whisky and a smaller bottle.

Within a short time, the banker was lying down on the sofa in his darkened office. The whisky bottle in his hand was almost empty, and tears streamed down his face.

Chapter 3 5

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

We had spent much of yesterday afternoon with the City Police, and so I was surprised to get a call from DS Fellowes on the stroke of eight the following morning. The young policeman wanted to meet with us urgently, and would be bringing along an ex colleague. He was reluctant to say what this was all about on the phone, and so we invited him around.

Dee and I were gradually becoming more intimate as the days passed. I was hoping that this was a continuing trend, although I did occasionally have doubts when I remembered that sick people sometimes fell in love with their nurses. I wondered if the Florence Nightingale syndrome extended to bodyguards.

We sat in the operations room, each at our own console, working through the evidence until our visitors arrived. We gathered in the conference room and the Detective Sergeant introduced us to a former police inspector who now worked in private security.

“Josh Hammond, Dee Conrad, this is Michael Grazeley of the London Mercantile Investment Bank.” We shook hands and sat down. “I’m going to let Michael explain, and then we can decide what we need to do.”

We sat back as Michael Grazeley explained that at nine o’clock last night he had been called back to the office because Mr Richard Wolsey Keen was discovered lying dead in his office, with an empty whisky bottle and an empty bottle of pills. A note apologising to his wife and rambling on relatively incoherently lay on the printer in his office. It was an apparent suicide.

The police, in cooperation with Michael and his assistant, sought answers as to why the banker might have taken his own life. Their first thoughts centred on the loss of a painting which he had bought for a client, but that was before they looked at his phone and computer.

Martin Grazeley opened his briefcase and removed a printed copy of the front page of one of the country’s most scurrilous tabloids. The story was sordid and suggestive, probably ruinous for the banker’s career, and yet the photos were relatively innocent on the surface, more suggestive than explicit. Nonetheless, the message was clear; rich banker exploits young men for sexual favours.

Dee spoke out first. “I saw the front page of that paper on a news stand on the way in this morning, and it had a different headline.”

“Yes. When we found the front page we rang the paper and asked them where they got the photos. They were emailed anonymously from...” Michael looked down at the file to find the domain name.

“[email protected]?” Dee suggested. She was brilliant at this.

“Absolutely right. The name used was Sam,” Martin said, looking impressed.

“It would seem that, in view of the circumstances, even this awful excuse for a newspaper decided it would be in bad taste to run that front page,” DS Fellowes added.

I was now full of questions and so I cut in quickly. “Was there any indication of a specific threat to his life, or was it just the pictures?” Michael looked at DS Fellowes for permission before he answered. The DS nodded his assent.

“He had been threatened by Sam around forty eight hours earlier. The pictures were first mentioned in a text yesterday. Someone – we believe it was Sam -shot Mr Wolsey Keen three times with a paintball gun. His shirt and jacket were stained and his back was bruised.”

“We know the blackmailer as Bob,” I added. “How much did he ask for?”

“He asked for a million pounds to be express transferred to a Swiss bank account in the name of a London art gallery. He then picked up the painting yesterday, claiming to be Richard. We appear to have lost both the money and the painting. There’ll be hell on in the office today.”

“Let me guess,” said Dee. “The man was around six feet tall, slimly built, bad toupee, moustache, glasses and an East End accent.”

Michael showed less surprise this time. “Almost right, except that he had a strong West Country accent.”

“It seems His Lordship changes his accents with his names.” Those of us who knew what she was talking about nodded in agreement.

Fellowes spoke. “That makes three suspicious deaths now, and a small fortune in ransoms paid. The Chief is really on our backs over this. In fact, the inspector is probably being bawled out at this very moment.”

Dee looked thoughtful, and then she smiled as she passed comment. “Either the man is reckless, or he has no idea that we know who he is. That has to be in our favour.”

Chapter 3 6

City of London Police HQ, Wood Street, London: Tuesday, 11am.

We were back upstairs in the more lavishly appointed part of the police HQ. On this occasion we sat at a large walnut conference table which held a tray of different kinds of mineral water and two plates of biscuits. I had never really thought about the police sitting around a conference table having the same kinds of boring minuted meetings that were held in the rest of the City. There was also a video projector on the ceiling and one of those black conference table telephones with microphones on four sides.

I was sitting with Dee and DS Fellowes. Sitting opposite us was DCI Coombes of the Metropolitan Police, along with his sidekick from Friday night, Detective Sergeant Scott. The bigwigs were outside in the corridor, talking.

After a few moments the door opened, and Inspector Boniface entered followed by two uniformed policemen with plenty of silver decoration on their blue serge tunics. One of them had his highly decorated hat under his arm.

The two uniformed men took their seats at the head of the table and Boniface sat next to me. I recognised the first uniformed man, and recalled that he was the London City Detective Chief Superintendant, DCS Boddy. He stood and introduced himself and then his uniformed counterpart from the Met, Assistant Commissioner Bryn Evans, former Assistant Chief Constable for South Wales. Boddy sat down, and Assistant Commissioner Evans took the chair and spoke clearly and concisely in that pleasant sing song manner associated with soft spoken Welshmen.

“Gathered around the table here today we have representatives of the two London Police Forces, and one of the victims of this blackmailer and possible murderer. To date the Metropolitan Police have restricted their investigations to the death of Andrew Cuthbertson, with the City Police looking into the blackmail allegations. These two cases are strands in the same rope, as far as I can see.” The AC picked up a sheet of paper. “We also have two other deaths to consider. The death of Sir Max Rochester, which the toxicology reports suggest may be a suspicious death, and the apparent suicide of Richard Wolsey Keen.”

The Welshman paused to look around the table. “Whilst the toxicology report indicated high levels of potassium in Sir Max’s blood, Sir Max suffered from heart problems and had recorded high potassium levels previously in routine blood tests. Nonetheless, we are not ruling out foul play, especially in the circumstances. Mr Keen’s demise, on the other hand, is probably what it appears to be, which is suicide. Excessive amounts of alcohol were found in his bloodstream and stomach, along with a huge number of painkillers. The pills he took were prescribed to him by his doctor, and they contained codeine, which can apparently convert into morphine in the human body. As few as six could kill, and he had taken almost four times that amount. I’ll now hand you over to Inspector Boniface, who has some new information.”

Inspector Boniface passed around a profile of a man we all recognised, although his photo did him no justice.

“This is the profile of rock star and humanitarian Don Fisher. He came to prominence in the late 1970s with his band ‘London’s Burning’. After one major mainstream hit they played mainly to their own fans. At that point they may have faded into obscurity if Don had not married a high profile bleached blonde rock journalist who was making a name for herself by swearing on mainstream television in a popular punk rock programme. Three oddly named children later, he teamed up with a few others and launched one of the most successful charities in recent history. Anyone under forty will probably not remember his singing career, but they will certainly know him for his charity work and high profile daughters.”

We were all of an age where Don Fisher was known to us; his violent language on live TV, urging people to donate, had become a favourite clip on TV news items whenever his name popped up in connection with a charity event, or when one of his daughters managed to attract the attention of the media for some sort of unwise comment or misdeed. Boniface explained why we were looking at the CV of the former rock star.

“In accordance with money laundering regulations, the banks always let us know if they see any suspicious activity. Just over a week ago they contacted the Financial Crimes Unit and reported that Mr Fisher had asked for one million pounds in cash. He wanted it within forty eight hours. The bank tried to persuade him to use bankers’ drafts or electronic transfer, but he refused, and turned up with two heavies to pick up the money in cash. The Financial Crimes Unit followed up with Mr Fisher the next day, but his solicitor told them to mind their own business and the enquiry was put on the back burner, until DS Fellowes saw the file when he searched the Serious Crime Database for related cases this morning.”

DCS Boddy interjected with some further interesting snippets.

“An hour ago Mr Fisher agreed to discuss the matter with us, in the presence of his solicitor, later today. What we do know, courtesy of the paparazzi, is that his eldest daughter was the victim of an apparent prankster last week, who shot her with a paintball gun as she exited her favourite nightclub by the rear exit to avoid the Press. Photos of the tearstained daughter, covered in red paint, appeared in the celebrity columns on Saturday.”

It seemed that everyone else in the room was doing the maths, as I was. His Lordship had apparently netted a million in cash, a million in art and my quarter of a million in diamonds.

The meeting continued for another hour as assignments were made, and we were asked to remain available but not to hinder the investigation. The codename for the operation was to be Operation Peer Pressure. How many more neat sound bites could be extracted from this heinous man’s campaign of hate, I wondered?