48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (16 page)

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.

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.”