48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (24 page)

Her shoulders shook under my hand. Was she sobbing? She turned
over and lay on her back and now I could see that she was laughing
uproariously. I’d been had again. Was this the way it would always
be; me as her comedy sidekick?

“
You just like making fun of me, don’t you?” I said, by way of
statement rather than as a question.

There was amusement in her voice when she answered. “I do, for
two reasons. One, you are an easy target and two, Josh Hammond, I
think I might just be falling for you.”

I was speechless, but happier than I could remember ever being
before.

“
Go to sleep Josh. We’re bound to be busy
tomorrow.”

“
I can’t sleep,” I answered. “I don’t feel tired.”

“
I can help you there. If I place my hand on your shoulder and
neck like this, and squeeze here, I’ll cut off the blood supply to
your brain, and you will be out in fifteen seconds.”

“
No, that’s quite all right,” I laughed nervously, switching
off the bedside lamp. “I suddenly feel very tired.”

Chapter
51

No. 2 Parliament St, London. Friday, 8:30am.

It had been a long night, and Arthur Hickstead had slept for a
maximum of an hour or two of it. The two hours he had managed to
sleep at all had been snatched in fifteen minute spells.

Yesterday afternoon and evening had been hectic. He had spent
most of the time online, and on the phone to his bank, trying to
send Van Aart his money back. Hickstead had explained about the
mugging and Van Aart had seemed sympathetic. Nevertheless, he
explained that the buyers he had lined up would be looking for
compensation. Eventually the Peer decided that it was not in his
best interests to upset one of Europe’s most violent gang leaders.
As a result, he had lost the diamonds and one hundred thousand
Euros of his own. He had risked his liberty to blackmail that
slippery loss adjuster and recover the insurance money he had been
denied after his house had caught fire, only to end up worse off
than he had been before. If he hadn’t already had a hangover he
would have had a drink to settle his nerves.

The console on the wall buzzed. It was Jeff, the doorman. The
Peer picked up the handset.

“
Lord Hickstead,” he announced.

“
Sir, we have two police detectives at the door who say they
have recovered your briefcase.”

Hickstead could feel the panic rising in his midriff. He had
to stay calm; he could talk his way out of this. He took a deep
breath.

“
OK, Jeff, send them up, please.”

***

DCI Coombes and DS Scott rode up to the fourth floor on what
was the oldest and most elegant elevator they had ever seen. It had
rich dark walnut panelling and a burnished brass console with worn
enamelled buttons bearing the numbers of each floor. The door was a
pair of iron lattice gates which had to be pulled across before the
lift would move. A plate in the elevator proclaimed that the Otis
Elevator Company had installed the lift in 1904. DCI Coombes was
holding the briefcase in a clear plastic bag and so DS Scott
operated the lift. As they arrived at the fourth floor, and opened
the lattice gates, a door opened in front of them. They stepped
out, then DS Scott closed the gates and the lift
departed.

The detectives tapped on the apartment door and entered,
closing it behind them.

“
This way, gentlemen,” a voice called from inside the
apartment.

As they walked into what was probably called a sitting room,
they marvelled at the ornate decor which was probably original. The
painted walls were earthy colours but were not necessarily what one
might choose for a modern house. Somehow, though, they seemed to
work in these 19th Century surroundings.

Lord Hickstead was sitting in a high backed winged armchair
with green leather upholstery; buttons secured the leather to the
chair. He gestured to them to sit down on a matching Chesterfield
sofa.

“
It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it?” Lord Hickstead said as he
looked around. “One could be in a country house anywhere in
England. Sadly, it’s not mine.” He smiled and looked at the
briefcase.

“
I’m DCI Coombes and this is Detective Sergeant Scott. We
believe that we have found your stolen briefcase.”

“
Oh, good,” Hickstead responded, trying his best to sound
pleased. “I’m delighted. Are my papers still inside? They are quite
confidential.”

“
No, I’m afraid not, but shall we take a look inside, so that
you can be sure that the case is yours?” DCI Coombes carefully set
the briefcase down on a glass topped table in front of him. He
suspected that if he broke the table it would cost his monthly
salary to replace it. He looked at their host.

“
This is your briefcase, isn’t it, Lord Hickstead?”

“
Yes, I believe it is, though they all look the same from the
outside.”

“
We recovered the briefcase when the mugger eventually
confessed that he had discarded it as he was being chased,” Coombes
explained. “It was found less than a hundred yards from where you
were attacked. It has your fingerprints on the handle, and his on
the sides. Once he heard about that, he knew the game was
up.”

Coombes opened the briefcase. Inside lay a sealed Jiffy bag
and another sealed envelope addressed by hand to Dr Crippin. The
police had carefully resealed the envelopes for the purposes of
this morning’s visit.

“
Are these yours, sir?” DS Scott asked. “It’s just that you
didn’t mention them in your statement, and we were reluctant to
open them without you present.”

Arthur Hickstead was on the horns of a dilemma. If he denied
all knowledge of the envelopes, it meant that he lost the diamonds
forever. If he confirmed they were his, he could be linked with the
blackmail plots. He had to think quickly.

“
No, they weren’t in there when the case was taken,” he said
calmly.

“
Are you quite certain of that, sir?” Coombes asked, looking
Hickstead squarely in the eyes.”

Hickstead felt a quickening of his heart rate. He didn’t like
the way this interview was going. Nevertheless, he answered calmly.
“That is a puzzle, detective, but not one I can help you with, I’m
afraid. Those packages do not belong to me. I’ve never seen them
before.”

DS Scott wrote copiously, being careful to record the Peer’s
words accurately.

“
We didn’t want to risk your safety, your Lordship, and so we
scanned the packages for incendiary devices,” Coombes said. “They
were both cleared, which is why we have brought them here, but I
think you might be rather sorry you didn’t claim ownership of the
Jiffy bag. That is, of course, if the scanner operator is right in
his assumption as to what it contains.”

Coombes opened the Jiffy bag and slid out the velvet pouch. He
closed the briefcase, and very carefully he tipped the diamonds
onto the brown leather lid.

“
Bloody hell!” DS Scott exclaimed, acting his part well, and
then added somewhat sheepishly, “Sorry, Lord Hickstead.”

“
No need to apologise to me, young man. ‘Bloody hell’ seems to
cover it rather appropriately,” the Peer replied, gazing at the
stones with envy. “I suppose it’s too late for me to claim the
Jiffy bag now,” he continued, smiling at his quip, even though he
didn’t feel like smiling at all.

“
I’m afraid so, sir. DS Scott, could you take a record
photograph, please?”

“
Sorry, guv,” Scott said, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t
bring the camera with me.” Coombes seemed to be bristling with
anger, and Scott added, “You didn’t say anything to me about
bringing a camera.”

The situation seemed as though it might soon become
embarrassing and so Lord Hickstead spoke up.

“
Gentlemen, I have a digital camera you can use.” He turned to
open a Pilot case behind him. Coombes, unseen by the Peer, winked
at Scott. The practised double act had worked again. His Lordship
turned back to face them and handed a Nikon Coolpix P100 to the
DS.

Scott took two photographs of the diamonds, and pressed the
display button to check that the resulting images were
satisfactory. He then pressed the back button surreptitiously, but
there were no more photographs on the card. It didn’t matter. They
had what they wanted.

“
I’ll transfer the photos from the card onto my eBook,” DS
Scott said as he took a tiny Acer Notebook Computer from his bag
and slotted the SD card into it.

***

When the stones had been safely restored to their pouch, DCI
Coombes turned his attention to the other envelope and spoke
solemnly to their host.

“
Sir, I do not mean to offend you in any way, but the scans
show that this envelope contains dense photo paper, the type
usually associated with Polaroid cameras. Could there be any
Polaroid photographs in here that may cause you
embarrassment?”

Lord Hickstead laughed. “If that is your overly polite way of
asking whether the photos are of me in indiscreet circumstances,
then no. I’m a bit to old for all that sort of thing.”

“
All right, sir, I am now opening the envelope,” Coombes
explained, “but I must warn you that the contents could either be
innocent or explicit, we have no way of knowing.”

“
I think we are all men of the world here,” Hickstead smiled.
“I don’t think I will be offended.”

The photos dropped out of the envelope, and DCI Coombes
slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and arranged them inside a
transparent evidence bag so that they could all be seen. The
reality, of course, was that they had all seen them before; indeed,
the forensics lab had already extracted Lord Hickstead’s prints
from the Polaroids.

“
Lord Hickstead, have you seen any of these photos before, or
do they in fact belong to you?” Coombes asked. Scott waited to
write down anything His Lordship might say, verbatim, when he
denied all knowledge of the photos which carried his fingerprints,
as he surely would.

The photos were in random order, but they all showed a girl,
probably in her late teens, evidently inside a house. She appeared
in various states of undress with two different men. Only one of
the men appeared in the frame at any one time, suggesting that the
other was taking the pictures. The girl seemed semi-conscious in
most of the shots. Her tired, half closed eyes were unfocussed, her
pupils massively dilated. Lines of what might have been cocaine
could be seen on the table in front of the sofa the girl was
kneeling on. Any one of these photos would end the burgeoning
career of a young woman in the public eye and make any serious
romantic relationship a thing of the past.

“
No,” Lord Hickstead responded after a moment’s silence. “I
have never seen these photographs before. Do you know who she
is?”

DS Scott wrote assiduously in his notebook, as Coombes
answered.

“
I’m afraid not, Lord Hickstead. She might be a singer or a
film star or something, or she just might be an ordinary girl. I’m
afraid I’m not au-fait with current pop culture.”

Both men looked at DS Scott, who was still in his
twenties.

“
Don’t look at me,” he said defensively. “I’m a married man. I
have no idea who she is, either.”

Coombes slipped the evidence back into the briefcase, speaking
as he did so.

“
Well, whoever she is, these pictures are unlikely to see the
light of day, which is very fortunate for her. They will probably
be destroyed, after they have been tested for
fingerprints.”

DS Scott had been watching the Peer closely, waiting for a
reaction, and he got it. At the mention of the photos being dusted
for fingerprints, the Peer blanched for a moment before regaining
his composure.

“
Is it really possible to lift decent fingerprints from
photographs?” Hickstead asked, trying to sound
nonchalant.

“
Oh, yes,” DS Scott replied. “As a matter of fact, the
secretions from the human eccrine glands are particularly
responsive to the chemicals used for film emulsions. In the
seventies and eighties criminals would use Polaroids to photograph
banks and shops when planning robberies and the like. More than one
gang has been sent down by their careless handling of Polaroid
photos.”

DCI Coombes stood and offered his hand to Lord
Hickstead.

“
Sorry to have taken up your time, sir. We will return the
briefcase to you in due course, but I’m afraid it could be a
while.”

“
Not to worry, Chief Inspector, it wasn’t expensive. As I
explained, I was more interested in recovering my personal papers,
which aren’t inside any longer.”

After the policemen had left, Lord Hickstead collapsed onto
the Chesterfield sofa in a rage. He yelled out many obscenities but
he didn’t repeat any one of them twice.

Chapter
52

New Scotland Yard, London. Friday, 10:30am.

It had been almost a week, one hundred and sixty eight hours
to be precise, since I had lost my money, and the net was closing
in on my blackmailer. The police told me that the chances of me
recovering my money had improved now that they had the diamonds and
the frozen bank funds.