48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (41 page)

Arthur Hickstead had left the apartment carrying nothing but
his cash card. He knew that he could not risk taking anything with
him. He had no way of knowing what bugs or transmitters they might
have hidden in his personal belongings. Having come to the ground
floor via the service stairs, he was now in the photocopier room
close to reception. With one quick look through the small window in
the door leading to the lobby, he satisfied himself that Malcolm
was at his desk.

The peer lifted the internal telephone and dialled
zero.

Malcolm picked up the old fashioned looking telephone that was
in keeping with the decor. “Front Desk,” he said, sounding
bored.

Feigning breathlessness and inflecting his voice with pain,
the peer stuttered.

“
This is Lord Hickstead……..chest pain……..can’t breathe……..help
me!”

With that, he hung up the phone.

As anticipated, Malcolm raced up the stairs to the apartments
with his mobile to his ear, yelling “Paramedics to Number two
Parliament Street immediately! We have a suspected heart
attack.”

Lord Hickstead smiled to himself as he let himself out of the
glazed internal security doors and out of the original wooden doors
onto Parliament Street. No doubt they would review the CCTV footage
and realise they had been tricked, but by then he would be long
gone.

Chapter 8
6

Thames House, Millbank, London. Monday, 6:30pm.

Until the 1980s Thames House had been occupied by ICI, for
whom it had been constructed in the 1930s. MI5 had moved into the
building in the early 1990s, and it was then officially opened by
the Prime Minister John Major in 1994. Used as a backdrop before
being blown up in Skyfall, the most recent James Bond film, the
impressive building overlooks the Thames and Lambeth Bridge.
Tourists often visit the office block looking for the entrance
familiar to them from the BBC TV series ‘Spooks’. Sadly they are
disappointed, because the BBC uses Freemasons’ Hall for their
external shots of MI5’s offices.

Timothy Madeley stood in his second floor office looking out
over the Thames. His office was neither as ornate as M’s office in
the Bond films, nor as high tech as the offices depicted in Spooks.
The carpet was beyond office quality, and the furnishings were
custom built, not assembled. On the wall was a fabric wall hanging
from Afghanistan and an impressive oil painting, on loan from the
National Gallery.

The phone rang and he walked over to his desk to pick it up.
He stated his surname.

“
Sir, this is Malcolm, at the cubby hole. Lord Hickstead has
gone.”

There was no hint of fear in his voice, nor was there any
expression of surprise from his superior.

“
Excellent. Did he escape on his own, or did you have to
intervene?”

Malcolm then explained how the peer had hoped to draw Malcolm
away from his post, and how Malcolm had played along, pretending to
call an ambulance.

“
Excellent. So if another agency manages to pick him up he
will be convinced he escaped. He is entirely unaware that we
allowed him to go?”

“
Yes sir, that is correct. Sir, are we running a sweep on this
one?”

“
We are, Malcolm. We’re guessing which country he runs to. Do
you want in? It’s a tenner entry fee and we draw lots on Friday. If
he doesn’t make it out of the country, all stakes are refunded. If
he settles in a country we hadn’t considered, it goes to the
nearest geographically. Agreed?”

“
That’s fine, sir. I think he’ll make it across the Channel,
that’s child’s play, and after that Europe and Scandinavia are open
to him without him even needing a passport.”

“
Malcolm, did I ever tell you that I spent a couple of years
in the “cubby hole” when I was Liaison with SO12?”

“
You did, sir,” Malcolm confirmed, but it made no difference.
Tmothy Madeley told his funny story anyway, pausing at the
appropriate points for Malcolm’s forced laughter.

Chapter 8
7

City Club Lounge, City Wall Hotel, London: Monday
7pm

The journey across London had been uneventful and now Lord
Hickstead was sitting in the club lounge at the City Wall Hotel,
giving instructions to the concierge. The concierge disappeared
briefly, to return a few minutes later with a briefcase and a
holdall.

While he was waiting for his guests he slipped into the
leisure club changing room and switched from his suit and tie into
a more casual travelling outfit. He placed the discarded clothes
carefully in the holdall.

Back at his seat and sipping complimentary champagne which had
never seen France judging by the taste of it, the concierge
appeared.

“
Your guests, Your Lordship,” he announced, distaste written
on his features as he ushered the Iraqis into the hallowed
surroundings.

The two Iraqis sat down opposite the peer and gawped at their
surroundings before their client could attract their
attention.

“
You have the papers?”

“
Yes, here they are.” Faik, the young Iraqi whom Hickstead had
been championing for residency, handed over an envelope.

Hickstead looked at the papers. All were genuine; the passport
had his photo and carried the name Martin Wells. Even the next of
kin section had been completed with the epithet ‘Janine Wells,
Daughter’. In addition to the passport he also had a birth
certificate, marriage certificate, library card for Hounslow Public
Library, a National Insurance Card and an E111 EU Medical
Card.

The Iraqis had done well. Hickstead had given them a good
start but they had done most of the work. Martin Wells had served
in Northern Ireland under Hickstead and had taken a sniper round to
the head. He was now in a half-way house for psychiatric patients
in Camden. Martin had turned up at a public meeting where the peer
was speaking, and to his credit he hadn’t asked for anything, he
had simply wanted to greet a familiar face.

Hickstead had bought him a meal and listened to his terrible
story. This was four months ago, and Hickstead spotted an
opportunity to provide himself with a completely new identity
without the chance of being caught with fake documents.

He said that he needed Wells’ documents so that he could raise
his case in the House and hopefully save other soldiers from
suffering the same indignities. Wells cooperated fully, handing
over dirty, tattered and torn certificates and an old driving
licence.

Fail and Ali had set to work obtaining new copies of all the
certificates and applying for a passport and a new style driving
licence. With the photos of the new Martin Wells, authenticated by
a Lord, the applications were successful and Lord Hickstead was now
looking at his photo in Martin’s passport.

Hickstead asked if they had everything in place. They said
that they had, but there was a small problem. Their contacts wanted
ten thousand pounds, not five thousand as previously
agreed.

Lord Hickstead was livid, but his two guests were insistent
that there was nothing they could do. Reluctantly he opened his
briefcase and paid them half the money he had in there.

“
If your friend isn’t there when I land, the two of you will
be back in Basra by the weekend. Understood?”

They nodded and left.

Time was tight, and he needed to move quickly if he was to
make the ferry.

Chapter 8
8

Highbury Clinic, Blackstock Rd, North London. Monday,
8pm.

I could have stayed the night, and I wanted to stay, but
tomorrow I had to show my face at the office and clear my desk,
ready to start work again. With that in mind, we reluctantly agreed
that I would go home and that we would talk more tomorrow. We had
plans to make and now that Hickstead was out of our lives for good,
we could move on. I was on the verge of leaving for the night when
the bedside phone rang.

Dee answered it, and listened intently before saying, “Send
her up, by all means. We would be pleased to see her.”

Jayne Craythorne walked into the room with an elegance and
assurance that spoke volumes about her status. She was dressed
elegantly but casually. She was every inch the multi millionaire’s
wife that Jason Craythorne had married. I looked into her face as
she approached Dee, and fancied that I could see some resemblance
to her late father, Sir Max Rochester.

“
Dee, I’m so sorry. I feel responsible for this. If I hadn’t
asked you to pursue Arthur Hickstead you wouldn’t be here. I never
imagined so much violence would intrude into my world so
quickly.”

She held Dee’s hands firmly in her own, and tears filled her
eyes as she looked at the bandages and visualised what was
underneath.

“
Jayne, Josh and I are pretty stubborn. We would have pursued
Hickstead anyway.” I wasn’t sure that we would have, but I let it
ride.

“
I heard from the Commissioner that the police have enough
evidence to put him away for life, even if they can’t link him with
my father’s death.” Jayne turned her head and looked at
me.

“
I owe you a great deal, Josh. You did everything you could
and more. I think I would have shot Hickstead myself if he had
escaped prosecution.”

Jayne Craythorne sat down and listened as we explained
everything that had happened since our last meeting in my flat. We
all agreed that the whole episode seemed rather surreal, and only
the deaths and injuries turned it into a terrible reality for those
who lived through it.

Jayne had heard about my proposal and asked, if it wasn’t too
indiscreet, whether we had any plans.

“
He might not have any plans, but I do,” Dee stated. “What
else is there to do when you’re sitting in a bed most of the day
with only daytime TV?”

This was news to me. Perhaps this was one of the things we
were going to talk about tomorrow.

“
That is such wonderful news,” Jayne said warmly. “You will
make a lovely couple, and don’t worry about how long you’ve known
each other; I fell for Jonas inside an hour. If you’re having a
traditional white wedding I can help. I have lots of
friends.”

I almost said that most millionaires probably have lots of
friends, but didn’t.

“
I might just take you up on that. I intend to have the
whitest of white weddings,” Dee said excitedly.

***

When Jayne left I accompanied her to the lift. She held my
hand tightly and thanked me again, and kissed me on the
cheek.

“
When Dee is fit again you must both come over for dinner. We
don’t get a lot of ‘real’ people over these days, and Jonas is very
down to earth. He soon tires of the trendy set and their
affectations. Oh, by the way - a thank you card.”

“
There was no need. I’m glad we could help.” She handed me an
envelope. I slipped it into my pocket and bid Jayne
goodnight.

When I arrived back at the room I tossed Dee the thank you
card and told her I would have to be going soon.

“
Josh.” Dee was holding the card and grinning from ear to ear.
“This isn’t just a card. There’s a note, too.” Dee read the note
and passed it to me with a smile.

‘
Thanks for everything. It will take months to get your money
back. Until then Jonas has wired a quarter of a million pounds to
your account. Think of it as a loan. We can discuss repayment over
dinner some time. Jonas and Jayne.’

Dee then explained that Don Fisher was paying all of the bills
for Vastrick, including a six figure sum in compensation for Dee’s
injuries. He also wanted to give me my quarter of a million pounds
back because his cash would be returned very quickly, whereas my
money was tied up until after the trial.

As excited as I was, I didn’t think I could accept the money.
Nevertheless, this was the happiest we had been for days, and so I
didn’t want to dampen the mood.

Unfortunately the mood wasn’t destined to last. My phone rang.
I answered it, and swore. As soon as I had finished the call Dee
asked me what was wrong.

“
Bloody MI5! They’ve let Hickstead escape! He’s on the
run!”

Dee didn’t seem at all surprised.

Chapter 8
9

Bogaz, Northern Cyprus. November 20th 2010, 2pm.

The journey to Turkish controlled Cyprus had been much easier
than he had anticipated. Despite security checks at the Port of
Dover, the Border Agency staff had not been looking for a Michael
Wells and luckily Arthur Hickstead was average height, average
build and Caucasian. The crossing was quick, and he was able to
secure a taxi to the Aero Porte Calais-Dunkerque at Marck, just a
few miles from Calais.

When he arrived at the white painted aerodrome it was deserted
but well lit. The restaurant displayed a sign announcing its
permanent closure, and another building announced that customs had
to be contacted twenty four hours in advance of any arrivals to
arrange attendance. The aerodrome was in the middle of grass
pastureland but it had a well maintained tarmac apron, taxiway and
runway.