Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (19 page)

This time there was a reaction
when Max examined their faces.

“Who is suggesting that we had Mr Grierson killed, if that is what your implication was intended to convey?” Peter asked
, clearly affronted.

“Look, Mr Willem, no offence, mate. I have a friend in the police and he said that it was the Belgians that did for Dennis and that the police had the Eurostar and the planes watched for suspicious characters. Naturally, as you supplied Dennis, I thought....
”

There was anger in
his voice as Mr Peters replied.

“Listen to me very carefully, Patterson. If we ever did supply anything to Mr Grierson, and we deny it, we do not kill people
who owe us money. Dead men cannot pay us back. We are not violent men, we are businessmen and we deal only with businessmen. Is that understood?”

Max spoke in his best grovelling tone, fidgeting for effect.

“Yeah, man, I knew that. I never meant anything; I was just saying what the authorities were thinking.”

“The authorities are thinking what someone wants them to think, but I can assure you that neither Mr Peters nor myself, nor any of our helpers, were anywhere near London when Grierson was killed.”

“I wouldn’t of blamed you. I mean, he did lose quarter of a million pounds
’ worth of dope,” Max said, in a deliberately clumsy effort to placate.

“John, in this business, losses are inevitable. Customs, police, rivals, they all interfere with the safe delivery of goods to the user. It is a part of life. We accept such losses are unavoidable. The street value may have been higher, but the wholesale value of the lost shipment was less than one hundred thousand
Euros. We don’t terminate long-term relationships for such paltry sums. We can make good such a loss in a single shipment.” Willem Peters took a moment to compose himself, before adding more calmly, “John, we both admire your ambition, but Dennis Grierson was a spent force. He knew it and we knew it and so we have had a replacement working with him for a long time, and they are most certainly alive. We suggest that you go back to London, go back to the Trafalgar House flats. We think you know which flat you must visit, and make your peace with the new owner. He will need good people to help him distribute his goods. Your ‘cooperative’ can make your sales pitch to him.”

Max looked genuinely surprised.

“I thought that flat was gutted. I didn’t know there was anyone else running things,” he said, in an effort to elicit more information. The two men leaned in close together, heads almost touching, and spoke in a foreign tongue before Willem Peters turned his attention back to Max.

“Things move quickly in this business, John. Go home, do as we say and by the weekend you will be on the streets again making a good living. Tell the new man that Mr Peters and Mr Wiilem sent you. That is the best we can do. Now, we are all busy men and I am sure you need a drink at one of the Grand
e Place’s many bars. Goodbye.”

The two men stood, as did Max, and they shook hands once more before Max left the suite, breathing a sigh o
f relief and muttering curses under his breath.

Guy’s Hospital, Great Maze Pond, London.

Wednesday 17
th
August 2011; 11pm.

Ostensibly Ben was watching TV, but he wouldn’t have been able to say which programme if anyone had asked. He was doing it simply to pass the time; he just wanted to be at his sister’s bedside the moment she awoke. She had been so distressed when the police left four hours ago that her doctor had recommended a sedative, which she refused. She said she’d had enough drugs in her system to last a lifetime. Nonetheless, the tiredness and stress had a deeply negative impact on her ability to concentrate, and she fell asleep as she was making plans for Ben to help her with the urgent business matters that needed to be addressed if she was to remain solvent. Ben had made a list of things that he could do as her brother, and another list of things he could help her with as her lawyer.

First, he was to secure the house. The police guard was to be removed tomorrow at noon, and the house would be left empty. Security was important because, to Ben’s amazement, the large colourful painting he had seen
hanging in the imposing galleried hallway was a genuine Hockney that Grierson had bought for close to four hundred thousand pounds through an intermediary. The painting depicted a landscape with a road snaking through heather covered hills, down into a valley of pastureland below. The canvas was vibrant, bright and filled with primary colours. The painting had impressed Ben, even though he had noticed it for the first time when he had been searching the house for dead bodies.

In addition to the Hockney, Ashley had mentioned that there were three more paintings, each worth over a hundred thousand pounds, displayed around the house. Before she dozed off she also explained that the library contents were bought as a job lot from the bankrupt playboy Lord Culvington of Cleve for almost a quarter of a million pounds. Ben remembered the story playing in the New Zealand tabloids. As a result, the Rectory library housed several first editions and a household accounts ledger which contained the signatures of Josiah Wedgewood, Thomas Chippendale and Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown, all of whom had personally submitted invoices for their work on Culvington Hall, its grounds and contents. The ledger alone was probably worth the knock down price paid for the entire collection to the disgr
aced Yorkshire-born aristocrat.

Next he was to liquidate the property company
that owned the Rectory. That should be easy to do as it now belonged solely to Ashley, its only living director. The company had few creditors, but it did have a huge bank loan. The next interest payment was due any day now, and was in excess of four thousand pounds. If he could exchange contracts with the School, who desperately needed the building, within the month, he could avoid making the payment and roll up the monthly interest payment into the redemption settlement. Unfortunately, conveying a property in such a short time would have been an ambitious target even in New Zealand, where land laws were less archaic than here in the UK, but he had to try.

Finally, Grierson had never been told that Ashley was not his biological child, and so he had named her as his sole beneficiary and provided her with a copy of his will in an effort to rebuild their relationship. Ben would have to negotiate with the police as to how much, if any, of Grierson’s estate would be sought by the eager accountants in the new UK National Crime Agency under the guise of ‘recovery of the proceeds of crime’. The police had already conceded that the Rectory and its contents were outside of its remit
, because they were originally funded by legitimate loans and were purchased with funds that had been cleared in accordance with money laundering regulations. Lawrence’s company records made it clear that Grierson’s money had been used to secure the loan and to carry out undisclosed amounts of renovation. Ben felt sure that SOCA, the forerunner of the National Crime Agency, would avoid undertaking the impossible job of separating out any criminal funds from the predominantly legitimate funds, given that the Rectory would sell for around 1.2 million pounds and the legitimate funding already expended was in excess of that. No, the National Crime Agency would probably target Grierson’s more obvious criminal funds and assets. Ben hoped that the NCA did not bother to consult the Arts and Antiques squad before giving the go ahead for the sale of the Rectory and its contents.

As he pondered his upcoming workload, Ashley stirred. Ben looked over as her eyelids fluttered
, and she mumbled as if she were caught in the midst of a dream. After a moment of uttering words that were all but incomprehensible, she awoke with a start. Seemingly puzzled by her surroundings, she tensed her body. Ben took hold of her arm until she relaxed back into her pillow and smiled at him.

“Bad dream?” he asked.

“I was dreaming that everything was back to normal. Lawrence was at work and I was tending the garden when a man with a foreign accent appeared behind me. He grabbed me from behind and told me I had been very wicked and that my parents had sent him to punish me from beyond the grave. All very confusing.”

Ben didn’t know what t
o say, and so he said nothing.

“Ben, you really must go home and get some rest. I’ll still be here when you come back. The police are guarding me, and I just want to sleep all the ti
me anyway. Go and get some sleep. Keep yourself busy with your lawyer work, and when I’m ready to go home I’ll call you.”

Ben didn’t argue. He was dead on his feet. He felt like he hadn’t slept in days.

“OK, Ashley, I’ll get started on the settlement of the estate and I’ll call you mid morning to see how you’re getting along.
”

Ashley leaned over towards her twin brother and kissed him on the forehead before whispering, “Ben, I need you fit and healthy. You are the only one who can help me. The company will stop paying Lawrence’s salary soon. His life insurance will be held up for months, if not years, because of his murder, and all I have is my salary
, which provides less than a third of our normal household income. Inside a month I would be bankrupt. Lawrence just had too much debt. Without your help I’ll lose my home and be saddled with financial obligations that swallow up all of my income before I could even begin to think about paying for somewhere to live and eat.”

There were tears in her
eyes. Ben smiled reassuringly.

“Ashley, don’t worry. I have money, my dad has money and, whilst you’ve been sleeping, Lawrence’s dad called to speak to you. He told me to tell you that he knew all about Lawrence’s foibles and that he would eventually have bailed him out again. He wants you back at work again and in his life. He said I was to tell you that he is heartbroken that he’s lost a son
, of course, but that in you he has a daughter he cannot bear to lose. I’m sure he’ll settle Lawrence’s liabilities; after all, the man is a multi millionaire.”

Ben kissed Ashley’s hand tenderly a
nd stood to leave. She smiled.

“I love you
, bro,” Ashley said to her departing twin. Ben grinned, but any vocal response was caught behind the lump in his throat as he looked at the frail but beautiful woman he would have to learn to love.

Vine Street Crescent, Tower Hill, London.

Saturday 20
th
August 2011; 9am.

Ben was looking forward to a day away from sorting out the Grierson estate. This afternoon he was attending the West Ham United soccer match with Dee Hammond’s husband, Josh. Dee normally attended with her husband, but with her heavily pregnant body she found it difficult to get comfortable and so she donated her season ticket to Ben, assuming that, as an All Blacks rugby player, he would like all ball sports. She was right; Ben had loved soccer as a kid, and British soccer was his favourite. He was just sorry that West Ham had been relegated a division and were now no longer in the Premier League. Still, he was sure it would be fun, and Josh seemed like a nice guy.

Over the last few nights Ben had slept badly, tortured with recurring nightmares about his sister and their ordeal in the Rectory. He just couldn’t settle. Something nagged at him, lodged in the back of his mind, and it stubbornly refus
ed to come any further forward.

The press had hounded him out of the hotel and he had been lucky to find an apartment right in the city, close to Tower Bridge. The apartment occupied the third floor of the middle house in a small crescent, hidden from view in the middle of a commercial and light industrial area. It was a haven from the hustle and bustle of the city, and it was tucked away no more than a hundred yards from ‘Minories’, a major thoroughfare to Tower Bridge. Vine Street Crescent
itself was approached by passing under a dark archway used mostly for covered parking by motorcyclists. The road under the archway was called Hammett Street, which was flanked by large commercial office blocks. Vine Street Crescent was largely concealed from view, unseen by most Londoners and visitors due to its unprepossessing approach.

The furnished apartment belonged to a well known former England footballer who was currently plying his trade in the USA and Italy. It was normally kept empty for the soccer player and his family to use on their visits home, but Ben knew Alex Carter quite well and they shared the same agent. So, when Ben had told his agent about the tabloid press invasion, Nick had spoken to Alex in LA and agreed a short term let. Ben promised the youngest Carter boy an All Blacks jersey and agreed a nominal rent, and he had found himself in the apartment the same day.

Ben looked through the paperwork for the estate. The paintings and the contents of the library were now safely in the hands of Bonhams, the long established valuers and auctioneers. The five lots to be sold were carrying a reserve of over one and a half million pounds. George Plessey, the auctioneer, had told him that, in the current climate, where investors were wary of the stock market, Hockney was a very popular alternative investment. It seemed that there were hundreds of dealers and enthusiasts, each of whom had a few hundred thousand pounds sitting around earning no interest, and so they wanted to invest in something tangible, something original, something they could show off to their friends. Hockney met all the criteria. George believed that the Hockney alone could go for more than half a million pounds, although the reserve was three hundred and fifty thousand.