48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (12 page)

“
Can’t they give you a proper clipboard, then?” I asked
frivolously.

“
Spending cuts,” he grumbled. “They’ll be asking us to bring
our own water next, you mark my words. By the way, why did you come
down that old rutted track? Why didn’t you use the tarmac road?
Much better for your fancy car, I’d have thought.” Rod pointed to a
beautiful tarmac road leading off into the distance. He smiled when
he saw the frown on my face.

We sat and chatted for around five minutes. It seemed that the
lady of the house had been clearing rubbish and had decided to pile
it all up and start a bonfire; not a great idea when the landscape
is tinder dry, after a particularly dry winter and spring. In Rod’s
view she hadn’t built the fire properly, and when the wind swung
around it blew flaming debris and flying sparks onto the roof of
the single storey extension. The flat roof was still littered with
dried leaves and twigs from the previous autumn, and these quickly
caught fire. The lady panicked and, instead of securing the house,
she ran next door for help. By the time help arrived, in the shape
of the fire crew, the flat roof was well ablaze and flames had
leapt in through an open window and ignited the curtains. There was
little left to save. At least no lives had been lost. The owners
had moved out earlier in the week, and the lady of the house had
been tidying up the grounds for the new owner.

“
You’ll be needing to speak to Brenda; she’s the owner and the
policyholder. She’s next door with Mrs Withers,” Rodney told me
without lifting his eyes from his report.

***

Brenda was a slight woman unsuited to her name, in my opinion.
I don’t know why, it just seemed to me she would have suited a more
delicate name like Emma or Florence. She had obviously been pretty
in her younger days but she had aged quickly. She was forty seven
years old but could have been ten years older. Perhaps her
appearance owed more to her distress over the house burning down.
Her eyes were puffy and red with crying. Her face was smudged with
soot.

Obviously in this business you learn to show sensitivity as
you are often dealing with people who have suffered a loss of
property, and sometimes a loved one. I eased into the questioning
by asking Brenda if she had lost anything irreplaceable in the
fire, although I already knew that the house was empty. She
brightened immediately as she began to realise that, disastrous
though the fire had been, she had lost only a house that they were
vacating in any event. Her belongings had been moved out, and were
all safe.

After more, gentle questioning I was able to determine that
the house had been sold and contracts should have been exchanged
last Friday. She told me that she should have been in Brussels by
now. Unfortunately the exchange had been delayed and was now due to
take place on Monday. Somehow I couldn’t see that
happening.

“
Brenda, this is the situation,” I began. “Once contracts are
exchanged, the new owner is responsible for insuring the property,
and so if you had exchanged last Friday it would have been their
problem and probably a legal argument would have ensued. To be
honest, this way is simpler. Can you tell me what you insured the
buildings for? The rebuilding costs, I mean?”

“
Yes, the insurance is set at half a million pounds, for
buildings only,” the weepy lady replied.

“
OK, Brenda. That should be more than enough. I think that the
RICS Rebuilding index will probably suggest around a hundred and
seventy five thousand, but we need to add around twenty five per
cent to that because the house is so far out in the countryside.
Even so, we’re only talking two hundred and twenty five thousand or
so, depending on the standard of finishing you had
inside.”

“
Oh, it was beautiful inside, always was, and Brenda had all
the bathrooms and the kitchen done last year, didn’t you, Brenda?”
Mrs Withers interjected helpfully. Brenda looked close to tears
again as she nodded her agreement.

I discovered that Brenda was due to fly out to Brussels to
join her husband, who had bought a flat in the Belgian capital so
that he could fulfil his new role as the EU Commissioner for Labour
Relations. I was impressed.

My phone rang, which was amazing way up here in the
hills.

“
Josh, are you alone?” It was Eddie from Dale County
Insurance, Brenda’s insurer.

“
Hold on,” I said as I excused myself from the presence of the
two middle aged women. “OK, I’m outside, and I’m on my
own.”

“
Josh, I’m sorry to do this to you, mate.” I knew what was
coming and I dreaded it. “The duty staff at head office have dug
out the policy and they thought that they had better call me at
home.”

“
Come on, Eddie,” I sighed. “Don’t tell me there’s a problem
with the policy. The poor woman is in pieces already.”

“
Look, mate, I’m going to see what I can do, but she doesn’t
have a policy with us anymore. She wrote to us last month,
cancelling the policy as of last Friday, and we have already
refunded the balance of her premium.”

I sighed, and swore under my breath. When would people learn?
They decide to terminate their insurance, the sale date slips and
they aren’t insured against loss. I see it time and time again.
People save fifty pounds on the premium, but then something goes
wrong and suddenly they are faced with a bill of tens of
thousands.

Eddie and I spoke for a few moments more and then, feeling
sick to my stomach, I went back inside to see Brenda.

***

It was a month since I had seen Brenda driven away in the
ambulance. I had tried to be positive and I explained to her that
the insurers would see what they could do, but to no avail. Brenda
started hyperventilating and then she passed out.

In the intervening period the insurers had been under extreme
pressure from the new EU Labour Relations Commissioner, and they
may have given in had it not been for a stubborn refusal by the
underwriters to accept the loss.

I personally took calls from the local MP, a Minister at the
DTI and the Insurance Ombudsman. Nothing could change the facts.
Brenda had cancelled the policy a week before the fire.

Eddie rang, his voice panicky. The tone of his message was
that Brenda was back in the UK, staying with her sister whilst her
husband calmed down. He blamed her, the grasping insurers and the
unconscionable loss adjusters, according to Eddie, who had just put
the phone down after a tirade from Brussels.

“
You’re next on his list, buddy. Prepare yourself.”

I reviewed the papers on the case. The house was due to be
sold for four hundred thousand pounds, and as the owners had
neither the time nor the funds to rebuild, the plot was now being
offered for sale, with the plans, for just one hundred and fifty
thousand.

Between the three of us - Eddie, Brenda and me - we were
bearing the brunt of the blame for the loss of a cool two hundred
and fifty thousand pounds.

The phone rang and I picked it up. “Josh Hammond
speaking.”

“
Please hold for the European Commissioner,” a slightly
accented female voice requested. A moment’s silence followed, and
then barely controlled anger.

“
Is that Mr Hammond of Dyson Brecht?”

“
Yes it is, Mr Hickstead.”

Chapter 2
4

Peppers Restaurant, Woolwich. London. Friday
9:30pm.

Once I had explained how I had first encountered Arthur
Hickstead, the others acknowledged that it was probably enough to
provide him with a motive for a blackmail attempt, especially as
the amount of money he had lost was exactly the same amount that
the blackmailer had demanded from me. However, the others did not
see his arrest as imminent. I suggested that, had the blackmailer
been an unemployed bus driver, he would have been on his way to the
police station by now with his hands manacled behind his back.
No-one disagreed, but they patiently explained that they had a long
way to go before Bob could be taken before a court.

We had no actual evidence that he was the one blackmailing me.
It was merely supposition. There was no physical evidence at all
linking him to Andrew’s death or that of Sir Max.

What we did have, in my view, was some convincing
circumstantial evidence. I reviewed the evidence with Dee over the
table at Peppers Restaurant, one of the most underrated and
overlooked eateries in London. We had already ordered and we were
sipping a nice 2008 South African Merlot, a fruity red wine from
the Western Provinces.

I ran through what we had on Arthur Hickstead.

“
His Lordship is on the board at AGP; he knew Andrew well, he
knew Sir Max very well. There were text messages on their phones
showing that they were being blackmailed. One of those messages was
from someone Andrew referred to as LH, which has to be Lord
Hickstead.

Lord Hickstead was in Thailand at the same time as Andrew, and
could certainly have known about the Thai girl. Thailand was also
the home of the domain name 48hours.co.za.

Lord Hickstead was six feet away from Sir Max when he died,
probably from poisoning, and he wears the same type of rare watch
that we know the blackmailer wears.

Two people can identify him, Abasi Nour and that soccer thug
guy who met him in South Africa.

If we were to raid his home, all we’d need to do is find the
diamonds or one of the cell phones, or even a credit card receipt
for those phones, and we’d have him cold.”

Dee smiled and reached across the table. Taking my hand, she
held it in both of hers and I suddenly realised what beautiful
hands she had. They were pale and smooth. They were perfectly
manicured, nails short and polished with a clear
varnish.

“
Josh, I love your enthusiasm, and I love listening to your
heartfelt views, but we have to be realistic. Lord Hickstead was a
leading trade unionist and an associate of the former Prime
Minister. He was an EU Commissioner and he has been ennobled in the
outgoing PM’s resignation list. My guess is that he will still be
welcome in Number 10 even under the new regime.” She paused as the
first course arrived at the table.

“
If we’re going to take him down - and we will - it will take
cast iron proof.”

Dee lifted her fork and buried the prongs into her Caesar
Salad. My goodness, I thought, she really is gorgeous. I froze for
a moment when she looked up at me. I wondered if I had
inadvertently said the words out loud, but she simply asked me why
I wasn’t eating my French Onion Soup. “Too hot,” I said, covering
for my embarrassment.

The meal was terrific. We both had hot roast red snapper with
coconut, chilli and lime salsa, cooked in the Caribbean style. I
had grown accustomed to being single, with just the occasional
girlfriend, but I now appreciated how good it would be to have a
permanent partner; someone I could share every day with. Someone,
maybe, just like her.

We were still laughing and talking after the last customer
left, and we were alone with Vincent, the owner. I called him over
and paid the bill.

“
You’re good for him,” he said to Dee. “Josh is a good
customer but we’re getting tired of him taking a whole table to
himself when we could have two covers.”

We laughed and stepped out into the hot and sticky night air,
heading for my flat.

***

I spent the pleasant walk home pondering on our relationship,
if indeed there was one. Would tonight be the night to make a move?
I needn’t have troubled myself because others made the decision for
me.

As we approached the flat Dee interlocked my arm. She spoke
quietly.

“
Josh, just chat to me casually as we walk. I want to take a
good look at the car on the left had side of the road.”

A dark coloured saloon was parked in a resident only parking
space and had two occupants, both of whom I could see quite
clearly. As we came closer Dee spoke again. Her voice was quiet but
urgent.

“
Get ready to run on my say so. Get into the house and call
the police. I’ll handle these two.”

As we drew level with the car, the driver’s side door opened.
Dee stood in front of me and faced down the driver. He looked
puzzled for a moment and then flashed a warrant card. He spoke
directly to me.

“
Metropolitan Police. We would like you to join us at the
police station. We have questions about a suspicious death you may
be able to assist with.”

“
Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“
No, but that would be the next step if you refuse to
accompany us to Southwark Police Station.”

Dee and I conferred, with our backs to the officers, and
decided to go along with them, after making a phone
call.

“
Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Dee asked. “It’s been a long
day.”

“
Obviously not,” the plain clothes policeman responded. “But
that isn’t my decision.”

Toby picked up the phone as soon as it rang; there was music
and jollity in the background.

“
Josh, I’ve heard you made good progress today.”