48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (22 page)

Assistant Commissioner Bryn Evans came into the picture. “Lord
Hickstead, I am very sorry that you have been here so long, but the
suspect is in our custody. Unfortunately he did not have your
briefcase in his possession, and I’m afraid its whereabouts are
presently unknown. I fear you may not see it again.”

The camera caught a look of relief passing briefly across
Hickstead’s face, presumably because the diamonds would have tied
him into the blackmail plots and the deaths of three
people.

“
Here is your watch, Lord Hickstead. You were quite right; it
had no skin or blood or hair that we could have matched with the
suspect’s DNA profile. It’s a very nice watch, I must say. Far too
expensive for a policeman, though.” He laughed at his own joke, and
Hickstead smiled.

“
Sergeant Baines will show you out.” The two men shook hands
and the pretty and petite policewoman led His Lordship towards the
lifts. The camera view shifted to the lift lobby. After a minute of
video of the reception area we saw the Sergeant and the Peer exit
the lift and walk into a tastefully appointed area which serves as
a waiting room.

At first the Peer was so busy chatting up Sergeant Baines that
he did not look at the row of padded seats. These were occupied by
two people wearing visitor badges and looking nervous. As they
moved further into the lobby the screen split; one long shot, one
close up of Hickstead.

The screen split at almost the precise moment that Lord
Hickstead saw them sitting less than five metres away; Abasi Nour,
the jeweller, and Kelvin de Montagu, the art gallery owner. His
face registered shock, and he immediately turned his head away from
the two men.

Under strict orders Sergeant Baines said, “Oh, Your Lordship,
I’ll need your badge so that I can sign you out.” She left him
standing in the middle of the lobby with every eye looking at him,
each person wondering whether they ought to know him by
sight.

The video screen reverted to a single wide shot of the
reception area and I watched for a reaction from our two stooges.
Whilst De Montagu registered nothing more than general curiosity,
Mr Nour looked puzzled. After a moment he caught sight of the watch
and stared intently at Lord Hickstead’s face, before his jaw
dropped and his face paled.

Confirmation, as if we needed it.

***

Lord Hickstead was being escorted home, hopefully feeling
nervous, or at least unsettled, and Mr Nour was now showing on the
screen. Inspector Boniface was sitting opposite him, smiling,
trying to calm the old Egyptian.

“
Mr Nour, I’d like to thank you for coming in today. Have you
been treated well?”

“
Yes, sir, I have. The young policeman who took me through my
statement said that you were making progress. Does this mean I can
have my money back? I have done nothing wrong.”

“
Mr Nour, we will release your money very soon, I can assure
you. Now, one further question, if that’s all right. The watch you
were shown during your interview; was that the type of watch you
saw on your Josh Hammond?”

“
Yes, exactly the same. Where did you get it? They are very
rare, I know.”

“
We have our sources. Why do you ask?” the Inspector asked,
seemingly innocently.

“
I don’t know that I should say.”

“
Come along, Mr Nour, you can trust me. Anything else you can
remember will speed up the release of your money.”

The video screen showed a close up of Mr Nour. “I am not sure,
I cannot say with firmness, but a few minutes ago I saw a man
downstairs, Lord Hickwell or something.”

“
Lord Hickstead,” Boniface provided helpfully. “Yes, go
on.”

“
Well, he was wearing the same watch, and when I looked into
his eyes, they were the eyes of Mr Hammond, the man who deceived me
with his silly toupee.”

Inspector Boniface registered shock on his face. “Mr Nour, are
you saying that Lord Hickstead was the man posing as Josh Hammond
in your diamond deal?”

“
I believe so, yes, but I am sure no-one will believe me. He
is a Lord, after all, and probably has an estate in the beautiful
English countryside. But when I looked into his eyes I do believe
he recognised me. I know it sounds foolish, but it is what I
saw.”

Boniface asked Mr Nour to keep his views to himself and,
having added the latest revelation to the bottom of the witness
statement as an addendum, he had Mr Nour sign it again.

***

Mr De Montagu could add nothing to his statement and had
nothing to say about the set up in the reception area, and so he
and Mr Nour were thanked and allowed to go.

The video screen was switched off and the bank of fluorescent
lights came on. The same group sat around the table once again,
with the addition of Assistant Commissioner Evans.

Clockwise around the table I saw AC Evans at the head, sitting
under the video screen. To his left sat DS Scott and DS Fellowes,
Dee was next, and I sat beside her. Boniface and Coombes completed
the line up.

Assistant Commissioner Evans summarised the day. “So far,
today has had its ups and downs but, on the whole, I think we have
our man on the hook. Now we just need to reel him in. I think we’re
unlikely to get a warrant to search the Parliament Street
apartment, but I do believe we’ll get a warrant for CitySafe
Depository, or at least for one of its boxes.”

I was surprised at that, and said so. “Assistant Commissioner,
I thought that safe deposit boxes were sacrosanct, and that the
banks protected their customers with their lives?”

“
Mr Hammond, you’re quite right, to a degree, but these
depositories are not banks and nor do they share the same
privileges. Perhaps DCI Coombes can explain.”

We all turned to look at the grumpy policeman.

“
In 2008 I headed an investigation into money laundering, and
it led us to various safe deposit boxes at three locations; Park
Lane, Hampstead and Edgware. We raided the premises simultaneously.
There were at least fifty officers involved, and with angle
grinders and other heavy tools we opened the suspect
boxes.

Ninety percent of the boxes we opened contained evidence of
criminality. As a result we arrested a significant number of
criminals, as well as some of the depository owners, and recovered
many millions of pounds in cash, jewellery and art.”

Coombes fell silent and the Assistant Commissioner took over.
“So, as you can see, Mr Hammond, in view of the circumstantial
evidence we have, which is now rather substantial, and because of
previous good results on other cases, we have a good chance of
obtaining a warrant.”

He had barely got the words out when there was a knock at the
door. An out of breath young police officer was beckoned into the
room and was eager to present something to the
gathering.

“
Sir, I have some news on the mugger. It’s rather
unexpected.”

“
All right, Constable, let’s hear it.”

The young man stood next to the Assistant Commissioner and
read out his findings, which were indeed rather surprising. Or
perhaps not.

“
Ms Conrad; gentlemen. As you know, the man apprehended has
denied any involvement in the mugging, pointing out that he was not
in possession of any stolen goods when apprehended.

He’s been calm and cooperative the whole time, and when asked
whether he wanted representation he said he was happy to talk to us
without a lawyer present, as he had done nothing wrong. However, he
asked if he could seek advice from his employers.

He was allowed the phone call and he rang an Isleworth number.
We later identified the company as the Distressed Media Group, who
are the registered owners of the car.

The driver, Gordon James Coppull, who has no criminal record
whatsoever, freely explained that he was a record producer for the
said company and that he had a personal fortune of over two million
pounds. We checked him out on the internet and before he went into
business he was lead guitarist for The Regular Enemas, a popular
grunge band from the 1990s.

As he had no history of criminality in his first thirty five
years, and as he appeared to be as wealthy as he claimed, we more
or less ruled him out of the mugging, until I received this back
from Companies House.”

The young man lifted a single page company search and read
from it.

“
Distressed Media Group is a PLC, formed in 1987. Directors
are listed as Gordon J Coppull, Dirk Millman, Joseph Pettleman,
Michael Dixon and the Managing Director is....” The young man
paused for effect, holding the name back as if he was announcing
the results on the X Factor.

“
Donald Grainger Fisher, former lead singer of ‘London’s
Burning’ and founder of Rock Relief.”

The young policeman received the reaction he must surely have
expected. Every jaw in the room dropped.

Chapter 48

No. 2 Parliament St, London. Thursday, 2pm.

It was his third glass of the Chief Whip’s Armagnac and the
forty percent alcohol content was calming Lord Hickstead’s nerves.
He stared at the colourful liquid swilling around in the balloon
glass, marvelling at the French talent for producing the world’s
best wine and then producing the world’s best brandy from that
wine. The oddly shaped bottle looked as though it should contain
Olive Oil or salad dressing. It had a long neck, bulbous body and
it was flat front and back. The label was old fashioned and
appeared to be deliberately designed to appear aged. It read Clés
des Ducs, with three stars under the name. As with other types of
brandy, it had been given the appendage VSOP as it was a five year
old Armagnac and, luckily, it was his favourite tipple.

Despite the mild alcoholic haze in his brain, his mind kept
coming back to the disastrous day that was only half over. It had
all seemed so simple in the depository. Go to Trafalgar Square,
hand over the diamonds to Van Aart’s man and drop the photos in the
post to the anonymous ‘Dr Crippin’ who published the notorious
Celebrity Leaks web site. He would have posted the Polaroids to one
of the newspapers, but there was only one out of the batch of ten
that could be considered suitable for publication by any newspaper,
no matter how broad minded the readership. Still, by this time
tomorrow the pictures would probably have appeared on a thousand
web sites and blog pages around the world, especially considering
the alleged celebrity of the subject.

He still couldn’t believe that he had been mugged. The police
seemed to think that the mugger had waited outside the depository,
evidently reckoning that there was a good chance that anyone
leaving the premises would be carrying some valuables. The police
had a suspect, but no briefcase. That was just as well. How could
he possibly have explained carrying a quarter of a million pounds’
worth of diamonds? The only provenance or receipt he had which
showed they had not been stolen would lead straight back to Abasi
Nour.

That was another disaster. He had convinced the police that he
had lost nothing of value, and they hadn’t recovered the briefcase,
so he thought he was in the clear. Then he saw Nour and De Montagu
in the police station. Presumably they were sitting there waiting
to talk to a detective about the blackmailer who used them to
launder his money.

He thought that he had seen a glimmer of recognition in Nour’s
face when they had made eye contact, but he had convinced himself
that he was over-reacting. In any event, who would believe that a
Peer of the Realm would blackmail random individuals in the City?
Nonetheless, the Egyptian had shown himself to be borderline
criminal, and so Arthur would have to wait and see what happened
next. His guess was that he would receive a call from Mr Nour and a
request for his diamonds back. But the diamonds were gone, and Nour
certainly wasn’t the person he would have given them to, anyway.
The Peer had already received polite but vaguely threatening calls
from Van Aart demanding immediate delivery of the diamonds or his
money back. The Dutch criminal also noted that if he did not
receive the diamonds he would add an extra one hundred thousand
Euros to the bill as compensation for lost profit.

Not a good day, on the whole. Almost a third of a million
pounds down, failure to humiliate that scumbag pop singer in
Isleworth, and now a very real possibility that he might have to
deal with Mr Nour.

Another glass of golden brown Clés des Ducs Armagnac slid down
his throat.

Chapter 49

New Scotland Yard, London. Thursday, 4pm.

I was back in the conference room with Inspector Boniface, DS
Fellowes and Dee. We had been summoned back by the Assistant
Commissioner’s secretary, having enjoyed a leisurely lunch in the
canteen. The canteen food proved to be much better than I had been
expecting. The roast lamb was moist, the roast potatoes crispy
brown on the outside and white and fluffy on the inside, and the
vegetables weren’t overcooked, having the perfect degree of bite to
them. The Metropolitan Police eat well, especially at those prices.
I suspected that if Dyson Brecht had such a canteen we would all be
much heavier than we are. Many of us are lazy thin; we simply can’t
be bothered to make the journey to buy food, either the healthy or
junk varieties.