48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (14 page)

This was our second match of the season, after an
undistinguished placing last season. We had lost the first away
match at Villa Park. We were all hoping that the first home match
would be one to celebrate.

***

We took our padded seats in the West Stand. Dee chose to sit
between Ron and me, taking advantage of Ron’s running commentary
and smiling at his occasional cries of despair.

Bolton Wanderers had a reputation for the long ball game, but
it seemed to me that they never played that game when I watched
them. They played the ball through the midfield with some slick
passing. In fact, Liverpool play more of a long ball game when they
visit. I think that there is some prejudice that augurs against the
less popular clubs in the league, even when they are playing
well.

The Boleyn Ground, as we were now expected to refer to it, was
bustling with over thirty two thousand fans attending. West Ham
started well enough and looked in control when we were awarded a
penalty; a penalty that our best player missed. The disappointment
seemed to resonate with the players as much as with the crowd, and
the Trotters, Bolton Wanderers, started to play.

We reverted to the bar at half time for a Coke and a comfort
break. The match was still tense. But at nil-nil we were still
controlling the play. It would only be a matter of time until our
efforts were rewarded, we decided after a round table
discussion.

We took our seats for the second half and were just settling
down when Bolton went on the attack. The ball broke and headed
towards the Bolton striker. Our reliable centre half seemed to have
the situation covered, but then he was pushed and knocked the ball
past our goalkeeper for an own goal. I jumped up, outraged. It was
a clear foul and I yelled my opinion at the referee fifty yards
below me. I looked around to confirm that Dee too was suitably
disaffected, and I saw her smiling.

“
It isn’t funny,” I protested, perhaps more harshly than I
intended.

“
No,” she agreed, “but you are.” I had to smile.

When the second Bolton goal went in twenty minutes later the
crowd could see the writing on the wall. There was a brief respite
when we were awarded, and scored, a second penalty, but five
minutes later Bolton scored again.

We didn’t stay long after the match, as it was too depressing,
and so after the crowds had subsided we made our way back to the
Tube station. We were just about to exit onto Green Street,
immediately outside the ground, when we saw a potential flare up. A
young lad of around sixteen or seventeen had unfastened his
windjammer jacket to reveal a White soccer shirt bearing the Reebok
logo. He looked terrified as three older West Ham fans confronted
him. Two of them looked uncertain but one was apoplectic with
rage.

Before I could stop her, Dee was at the young man’s
side.

“
Are you OK?” she asked, with concern in her voice.

“
Nuffin’ to do with you, darlin’,” the enraged Hammers
supporter said, sizing up the attractive brunette facing him. Dee
was slightly built at around five feet eight in her trainers, but
there was something in her eyes that flashed a warning. The
Neolithic fan didn’t see what the rest of us saw and took his
chance. His right arm stretched out to grab the young Bolton fan by
the collar. The next move was so quick I almost missed it. Dee shot
out her right hand and grabbed the man by the wrist. Her thumb on
the back of his hand, she twisted his hand counter clockwise. He
yelped with pain as the pressure on his wrist and elbow increased.
Dee pulled his hand down, keeping intense pressure on the wrist and
elbow, and unless he wanted a wrist or elbow injury he had no
choice but to follow. In a few seconds she had him on his knees. He
was silent now; he didn’t know what was coming next.

“
Now, why don’t you go home and drown your sorrows? Don’t make
a bad day worse.” Dee then released her grip and helped the man to
his feet. She massaged his wrist and said, “I haven’t done any
damage, the soreness will wear off before you get home.” She smiled
at the defeated supporter and I wondered whether he would unwisely
seek retribution. He didn’t.

“
I was just having a friendly discussion about the match. I
wouldn’t do nothing,” he said, rubbing his elbow.

“
I know,” Dee said sweetly. “That’s why I didn’t break your
arm.”

The three Hammers supporters walked away chanting at the tops
of their voices, restoring their bravado. A car pulled up and the
young Bolton fan took his place in the passenger seat. He waved at
Dee as the car drove away.

Did I display those doe eyes when I looked at her, I wondered,
and concluded that it was quite possible.

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.”