48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (18 page)

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?

Chapter 3
7

Vastrick Security Offices, No 1 Poultry, London. Tuesday
2pm.

Dee and I were enjoying a late sandwich lunch in her office.
The sun was shining and the air conditioning was trying to keep up.
At last we were enjoying a glorious spell of late summer weather in
the Capital. We were actually having fun, despite the seriousness
of the case. We felt comfortable together; we were a good fit, or
at least I thought so. I intended to speak to Dee at some point
about our ‘relationship’ but I hadn’t found the right time yet.
Perhaps I never would. Like all of my relationships, I would have
preferred it if the girl just got the message without my having to
say it out loud.

Perhaps I had been tainted by my experience with Julie Tate.
What a great time we’d had together. We were compatible in every
way. Then, when I decided to verbalise what we both felt and where
it might go, she smiled kindly and touched my arm. She didn’t need
to say anything, I knew already, but she said it anyway.

“
Josh, of course I love you, but like a brother!”

The door to the office opened, snapping me out of my reverie.
A young woman walked in. She looked to me to be about fifteen, but
she was in her early twenties. I must be getting old, I thought.
Her name was Alana and she was pretty and slightly built. She was
one of Vastrick’s best investigators, and her nickname was Nancy
Drew.

Alana sat down at the desk with us. I cleared away the empty
Prêt a Manger sandwich cartons and made some space for Alana’s
file. Alana’s excitable manner of speaking convinced me she really
must be fifteen after all.

“
I have something here that should be of interest.” Alana sat
down and opened the file. “I searched for a link between Lord
Hickstead and Don Fisher on the internet but found nothing. I word
searched all biographies and autobiographies, but they don’t
mention each other. In the end, I had to laboriously trawl through
the NaNA.”

“
What is Nana?” I asked, showing a degree of ignorance that
the other two could not comprehend. Alana patronised me with a
patient explanation.

“
NaNA is the National News Archive. It attempts to scan all of
the newspapers published and digitise their content. It goes back
to the 1800s now and is relatively complete back as far as the
1960s.”

“
I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it,” I admitted, not
understanding how such a valuable resource had escaped my
notice.

“
That’s probably because it’s a subscription service on a
secure server, and the subscription is between six hundred and two
thousand pounds a year.” I must have looked shocked because Alana
tried to explain. “It’s good value for money if you are a
foundation member, like Vastrick. We get complete access to both
the digitised archive and the hard copies. We can print as much as
we like and as we pay so much we are allowed to use the universal
search engine, which will look for a word or phrase or person
anywhere in the archive. The regular users can only search for a
particular edition, and they have limited printing
rights.”

“
OK, I accept I might be ignorant. What did you find?” The
front page of a long defunct newspaper was pushed in my direction.
It had a blue banner with white lettering that proudly proclaimed
“TODAY, Britain’s only colour newspaper”. There was a wide angle
photo which showed three well known rock stars, including a young
looking Fisher, with five more soberly dressed men behind them. In
the background we could see the crowd of over a hundred thousand
excited rock fans.

“
Look closely, Josh, on the back line, on the extreme left.
That is a young looking Arthur Hickstead sharing the stage with the
stars of Rock Relief 88, twenty two years ago.”

Alana explained that the concert had been held in July and
that the shadow cabinet had all been on holiday and so they were
represented by a member of their party’s ruling National Executive
Council, Arthur Hickstead. As the Trades Unions were donating one
million pounds, Arthur was being interviewed just before Elton John
came on stage. The TV audience at that point was a UK record and,
as it was a simulcast with the USA, Hickstead had a chance to
address more people than the Prime Minister could hope to reach and
he obviously relished the task. When the camera came to him he was
beaming, and he began a short prepared piece about helping Africa’s
workers in being represented. But within seconds of him beginning
his speech, Don Fisher stormed into the tent studio, grabbed the
camera lens and looked straight into it. He might have been high on
something but he said, and I quote: ‘This is all bollocks, there
are kids starving out there, get your hands in your flaming pockets
and give ‘til it hurts. The suits will give their money because it
looks good on the balance sheet but we want your cash and we want
you to care.’ Arthur never appeared on camera again because, after
the foul mouthed outburst, Fisher used another F word, not flaming
as I just said. The producers cut Arthur’s speech and had the
cameras cut away to Elton John.

In the Guardian the next day, Arthur Hickstead was described
as being livid when he was quoted as saying ‘We have given a
million pounds to this charity and we expect more respect. That
foul mouthed yob won’t get another penny from us.’ Behind him a
crowd of young adults booed him and, according to the reporter, he
stormed off and boycotted the after concert event.”

That could have been a good motive for blackmail, I supposed,
being humiliated in front of the UK’s biggest ever TV audience. We
thanked Alana for her help and were about to go back to the
operations room when my BlackBerry rang. The screen informed me it
was Inspector Boniface.

“
Hello, Inspector.”

“
Josh, can you come to the station as soon as possible? Don
Fisher wants to speak to you.”

Chapter 3
8

City of London Police HQ, Wood St, London. Tuesday
4pm.

I have to admit that at school and college I was a radical. I
was very anti-establishment, but there was something that irked me
even more than the establishment, and that was sell-outs. I loved
punk rock music and its sentiment, but I naively believed that the
bands were shunning riches, the high life and celebrity that they
claimed to hate so much. So, when they all made their money and
joined the very establishment they had purported to be rebelling
against, I was disgusted and disappointed. To me, principles are
for life, and I know some very rich people who are still radical
and anti-establishment. To see millionaire pop stars living the
high life they raged against when they were struggling sickened
me.

In my opinion Don Fisher was both a sell-out and a hypocrite.
He looked like a rebel, his grey and receding hair usually worn in
a ponytail, suit jacket over torn jeans, unshaven, but he wasn’t. I
recalled seeing him in an interview on TV two years ago, when he
told working class parents not to take their families to McDonald’s
or out to dinner but to give the money to his charity instead. The
interviewer, who had been a well-known left wing agitator in his
youth, asked Don why his eldest daughter was out on the town
wearing six hundred pound shoes and carrying a designer bag of
equal value if he was so concerned about families wasting money.
Don replied that his kids were grown up, and they made their own
choices. The interviewer pointed out that two of his kids were in
full time education and one had an internship earning her fifteen
thousand a year. He must be subsidising their jet set lifestyle, he
suggested. Don hadn’t liked the questions about his family or his
partying with the very establishment figures he made his reputation
disparaging, and stormed out of the interview.

It was mainly for this reason that I was unlikely to be star
struck by meeting a singer who had made most of his fortune by
being a famous foul mouthed charity promoter, and not by his
singing.

***

Dee was still not leaving my side, and so when I went into the
conference room she came with me, of course. I think she also
wanted the chance to see Don Fisher close up.

We were ushered into the room, and Don Fisher was polite
towards us, shaking hands and flirting with Dee. Then in an instant
he changed, and with a wave of his hand he dismissed his solicitor
and the uniformed policeman who had been taking his
statement.

“
Get out; I want to talk to these two alone.” In their
position I would have slapped him, but they left the room somewhat
meekly, smiling deferentially. When we were alone he leaned forward
and spoke quietly.

As I looked at him I realised that he looked much older than
his forty six years. His complexion was beyond pale; his hair was
grey, wiry and lacked condition. I noticed that his eyes were
rheumy and yellow in the corners. His face was heavily wrinkled,
especially the eyes and forehead. He had the lines most associated
with those who have squinted through a lifetime of smoking to keep
the smoke out of their eyes. His thick Birmingham accent seemed
more pronounced as he kept his voice down.

“
This bastard threatened my daughter and I’m going to see him
dead. Are you going to help me?”

“
No,” I answered, equally quietly.

He frowned, paused and hissed. “If I was you I would
cooperate.” There was a distinct threat behind the words that made
me angrier than I had ever been.

I answered in a barely controlled voice. “How do you even know
it was Lord Hickstead who blackmailed you?”

“
Who else would it have been?” he snarled.

“
Oh, I don’t know,” I postulated, unable to keep the sarcasm
out of my voice. “Maybe it could be one of those lowlifes who shag
your daughter on a one night stand, take sordid photos of her and
post them on the internet for everyone to see.”

The aging rocker leapt to his feet, his face purple with rage.
I stood up and faced him, ready for a fight. Dee pushed me down in
my seat.

“
That’s enough, Josh. He might be rude but he’s a victim, too,
and that last comment was below the belt.” She turned to Don Fisher
next. “And you can sit down too, before I put you down.”

He sat down abruptly, and I apologised. I felt calmer
now.

“
I’m sorry. Your daughter is still only twenty, and we all
make mistakes when we’re young. She’s a pretty girl and no one
deserves to have their life threatened.”

He was calmer, too, when he spoke. “Bloody kids! My parents
told me ‘what goes around comes around’ when I was rebelling and
making their lives hell. I hated them then, now I realise I love
them more than life itself and always did. Wisdom comes a bit too
late for some of us. My two youngest won’t get the same
freedom.”

Dee brought us back to the point.

“
Look, Don, I don’t know if you remember Arthur Hickstead?” He
shook his head; he had no idea who Arthur was. “Well, in 1988 at
the Rock Relief concert he was giving a live TV interview, and was
about to take credit for a million pound donation when you burst in
and made your famous, ‘get your hands in your pockets’ rant. He
felt humiliated, according to the newspapers the next
day.”