“I do, and I'm the man in the office, remember?” Pitcher scowled. “The office which costs taxpayers millions of pounds a year. What's wrong with reporting back to me there, like normal constables?”
“Look,” PC Day pointed at two glasses on the heavy oak bar. “I've bought you a pint.”
Pitcher mellowed slightly. “Hmm, drinking on duty. Against all the rules. Maybe you do have management potential.”
He sipped the head off the top of his glass. “Let's sit down, before someone sees us.” Pitcher knew word of his presence in Soho spread like wildfire. “Can you order me a steak and kidney pie? I haven't eaten.”
The Lyric was one of Pitcher's favourite boozers, one of the last traditional English pubs in the quarter. He retreated to a table in a corner where they could not be overheard.
“So what was so urgent I had to hotfoot it over here?” Pitcher asked as PC Day joined him.
“I've got some information I think you'll find interesting. Only picked it up this morning. I've also asked someone to meet us here.”
A female bartender approached and placed a plate before the senior cop.
“Thank you,” he said, squeezing lashings of brown ketchup from a bottle on the table.
“Well?” he looked up at the junior officer, mouth full of food. “Lost your tongue?”
“Actually Sir, I was lost in thought.” PC Day swallowed hard as he stared at the Chief Inspector’s plate.
“Unfamiliar territory is it...another country and all that?” Pitcher took a sip of his beer. “Want a bit of this pie?”
PC Day shook his head, swallowing again. “Err, no thanks Sir.”
“OK, get started,” Pitcher pointed his knife commandingly.
“I've managed to trace Adam Lee's movements on the day of the murder. Well most of them. I haven't quite joined all the dots.”
“And?”
“We think he met someone in the British Museum.”
“Cabbie?”
“A driver looked at a picture and confirmed he dropped Lee off at about 10am. We also have a receipt from the Great Court restaurant for morning coffee and pastries for two.”
“Any leads on his companion?”
PC Day shook his head.
“CCTV?” Pitcher quizzed.
“We're on to it, but the museum thinks in millennia. It takes time.”
“Good, keep up the pressure. Is there more?”
“Oh yes, and this is the real deal. He came to Soho for lunch.”
“Do we know where?”
“Prepare for a shock.”
“I doubt it. I'm unshockable these days.”
“The Golden Pagoda.”
“Chang's place?” Pitcher's voice softened.
“Exactly.”
Pitcher picked up his glass and drew deeply. Could I have been wrong about Chang? He set his mouth into a firm line as he savoured the taste, a vein throbbing in his neck.
“The Chang’s have no record of him being there,” PC Day continued, “and no recollection – or so they claim. No plastic slip.”
“You've checked with the banks?”
“Of course. Must have paid with cash. You know how busy that place can be.”
“How do you place him there?”
“CCTV shows him going in at 12.30pm and coming out about an hour later.”
“Was he with someone?”
“Not on the cameras. Doesn't mean he didn't meet someone there.”
“Or after...” Pitcher scratched his jaw.
“The attack was a couple of hours later. No one saw a thing. Chinatown,” PC Day raised his eyebrows. “It might have nothing to do with the Changs. Coincidence.”
“Possible...but not likely. Then there was the fire...murky murky murky. Nothing’s ever as it seems...”
“In Chinatown.”
The lady bartender came to clear their plate and empty glasses. Pitcher ordered a refill for both. While they waited for her to return, the two policemen went back over the day of the murder.
An anonymous tip came into Scotland Yard sometime after 3pm. Ambulance arrived first on the scene, with Scenes of Crime Officers hard fast. Medics pronounced him dead. Given the butchery this was a formality. All the hallmarks of a professional hit. A pro could garrote a victim in a flash, slice eyes out in seconds. The assassin could have walked slowly down any of the escape routes offered by Wardour or Lisle Street, before the crime was detected. Within minutes he could have disappeared into the mobs thronging Leicester Square.”
“I thought meat cleavers were the Triads’ weapon of choice?” Pitcher thought aloud.
“Times change, Sir. Speaking plainly, a chopping or slashing is usually a warning, intended to maim perhaps, but not to kill.”
This boy knows his stuff, Pitcher thought.
“This was unnecessarily brutal. Why? We have to puncture this bubble of silence.”
“We will, Sir, we will.”
At that moment, a well-dressed young Chinese man entered the bar and made straight for where PC Day was sitting. He addressed the young officer in Chinese.
Pitcher's eyes widened. “I didn't know you could speak Chinese.” He noticed the new comer had a small tattoo on the soft inner tissue of his elbow. A magpie.
“How d’you think I get through all those tenants meetings?”
Why a magpie? Pitcher thought, as PC Day continued speaking to his Chinese friend.
Strange. Aren’t they a symbol of bad luck?
CHAPTER 13
7.55am Thursday August 5
Penzance
THE TRAIN pulled into a platform siding by the sea. Julia spotted him immediately she stepped out the carriage. Funny little man, she thought, like a character from a story book. Celtic in stature for sure, with multi-toned wayward hair. He held a board with her name on it, and waved as she walked towards him.
“Call me Trigg,” he beamed a likable smile, while a bear-of-a-paw shook her hand warmly. “Good trip?” he added, reaching for her bag. “The nightsleeper's proper 'ansum, they say. Motor’s outside,” he jerked his head to the right. “’Fraid you’ll not see much sun today.”
Julia craned her head to look up as they left the station. She shuddered. The sky was black. The air tasted salty.
“That's the Castle rock slap in the middle of Sharks Bay,” Trigg pointed to a craggy rock, topped by a Disneyesque fortress. “Forty-two miles from Crocodile Point to Dolphin Head. Widest bay in Britain.”
He opened the door of the Land Rover, helped Julia in, and fired the engine before swinging out of the harbour car park. The coast road wound its way to the Castle in less than six minutes. Boats bobbed on the tide.
Trigg turned to her. “Mr Silverman sends his apologies. Called out last night. Be with us as soon as he can.”
“Called out?”
“On a shout. Lifeboat crew.”
Julia gazed up at the ominous horizon. “To a boat in trouble?” An iron claw of fear grabbed her heart. She lost someone she loved to the sea.
“Call came in about 3am. Not sure what happened. Should be back before long.”
Trigg parked close to the harbour wall.
My, my, so our city slicker is a part-time RNLI volunteer.
“This is a dangerous coast isn't it?” she said. “Famous for shipwrecks.”
“Not the coast that's dangerous, but the sea. Tide’s in. Short boat ride OK?”
“Preferable to swimming,” she laughed.
Trigg took her bag from the back, locked up, and led the way across the wide white sand to a rock, where a boat was waiting. He cast off. The boat, called Katharine, mounted the waves with a kick. Ice wind bit into her face. Huckleberry Finn, that stings like chards of glass.
“Good to get some fresh air into your lungs, after the city, I'll be bound?” Trigg shouted over the breeze.
Julia nodded enthusiastically, while actually thinking the opposite. She clung to the side of the boat as it crashed and reared across the top of the wave
s. I'll be lucky to make it home alive, she thought.
“Most beautiful sight in the world, I reckon,” Trigg pointed to a steep rock jutting out the waves, standing legs agape, balancing perfectly into the surf’s giddy dance.
Julia braced herself for a eulogy on shipwrecks, pirates, mermaids and magic – Cornwall's theme park mythology. Trigg left it at that, and concentrated on steering the craft into the Castle harbour.
Inky clouds threatened rain. Against the dark sky, the shadow of the castle towered portentously. Julia felt guilty – she had been unkind.
“A bleak beauty, I suppose,” she shouted across to him.
The heavens opened as they stepped out of the boat onto stone steps, winding up the harbour wall. A flash of lightning tore across the sky.
Creepy, she shuddered. She drew her coat closer, and leaned into the wind. Gusts battered as she climbed the stone steps. Glad that’s not the only way up, she thought noticing a rickety iron ladder pegged to the granite wall.
At the top, Trigg steered her left, towards a steep path. “This way Miss.”
“Hang on a minute,” Julia walked towards a bench and sat down. “If it's OK, I'd like to change into my trainers.”
As she struggled to shoe-horn her foot into the tight-fitting sportswear, she heard an engine noise and looked up to see a jet ski racing across the waves. Tying her laces, with her back to the wind, she sensed a figure emerge at the top of the sea wall, not by the steps as they had, but by the rickety ladder.
“Exhausted already?” said a tall figure clad in water-proofs.
“Not at all. Just changing into suitable footwear.”
“As must I. Change that is. Excuse me.” He set off up the mountain path like an Olympic runner.
“All OK Mr Silverman?” Trigg called after him.
“All fine Trigg,” the reply carried on the wind.
The trainers put a spring in her step. Even so, the climb to the top tested her. This bloody rain, she thought as it lashed her face. Once inside she faced more steps as the steep climb continued. She followed Trigg up and up and up. Finally, they arrived in a smallish book-lined room. This must be Silverman's office.
“Make yourself comfortable, I'm sure Mr Silverman won't be long.”
Alone, Julia couldn't resist walking to the window and gawking down the rock face, battered by a turbulent sea.
Why does Silverman live in a fortress, she wondered? What's he hiding from? Why volunteer with the lifeboats? Is he punishing himself for something or an adrenalin junkie?
She turned on hearing the door open.
Ah! The man himself.
“Ms Lighthorn, sorry to keep you waiting.” He was transformed by chinos and open-necked white shirt with an Armani flash at the cuff.
“I hope the journey was,” he paused, “genial.”
Broad shoulders narrowed to trim hips. Golden streaks highlighted thick fairish hair above a broad forehead and deep-set blue eyes. Warm yet piercing, she thought. Arrogant for sure. Yet she detected a fleeting unease. Curious mixture of half panther, half panda. He looked tired, but then he'd been up half the night. A man not entirely comfortable in his own skin, she guessed. Sometimes, it didn't pay to be too clever or too rich.
He brushed past her to reach his desk. Sitting, he pointed to a chair opposite for her to do likewise.
“It was long, but the sleeper was civilized,” she replied, bristling as she remembered his description of her work as garbage. Down tiger.
“Your night must have been considerably worse out on the high seas?” she continued with polite concern.
“You want to discuss the financial crisis?” he changed the subject.
“Partly. I also feel I should defend myself against your criticism of my work. I take anyone who damages my reputation seriously.”
“As do I.”
“Garbage? Surely a little over the top?” she said, with a killer stare.
“Yes, you’re probably right.” His face broke into a warm smile. “Fainites,” he raised two crossed fingers, giving her a cute grin.”Isn't that how we used to make a truce in the playground? Let's start again.”
Help, he’s very handsome when he smiles, Julia swallowed. OK, I’ll be big-hearted and turn the other cheek. Let's start again and do it his way.
“The markets are extremely volatile, but they bounce at the end of the day. Are they testing floors to see how low they can go? Or is there something worse ahead, do you think?” she asked.
“You’re not recording my opinions? You haven't got a notebook out.”
Before she could think of a smart reply, he answered his own question. “Because you’re not interested in them, are you? Not really. There are hundreds of people you could interview in London, why come all this way for more hot air?” he winked at Julia.
Startled, her face froze. Then the penny dropped. He’s got a nervous blink, a tic, she realised. He’s not as chilled as he pretends.
The door opened and a middle-aged woman entered pushing a trolley with coffee, croissants and one cooked breakfast.
“Good morning Margaret,” Silverman said.
“Good morning to you, too, Mr Silverman, and you m’dear,” she nodded to Julia. “Hear they all got off in one piece. You'll be starving,” she placed a tray in front of him, with scrambled egg, bacon, sausages and toast.
“They did Margaret, thank you, but that's more than can be said for the boat.”
“I took it you breakfasted on the train,” she turned to Julia. “If you'd like a cooked breakfast...”
“I'm fine,” Julia smiled.
“Coffee and croissant, then,” she said.
“Just coffee, thank you.”
Margaret finished serving, then closed the door behind her.
“Tell me about Adam Lee,” Silverman began again, cutting into a sausage.
Julia exhaled slowly. So this is the true reason for the invite. She moved her tongue slowly around the inside of her teeth, thinking carefully.
“I don't know much,” she hedged, stirring her coffee deliberately. “You probably know more than I do. He was found dead in Chinatown in London.”
“You guys work closely with the police, don't you? What do they make of it?”
“I don't think they know what to make of it. Hong Kong banker murdered in London. Round up the usual suspects.”
“As in?”
“Spurned lover, bitter business partner, angry debtor...”
“Are there any?”
Julia shrugged her shoulders. “You worked with him for a short while didn't you? Any theories?”
“I only know what I’ve read.”
“What did you think of him? Did you like him? Did you trust him?”
“People have lost a great deal of money,” Silverman dodged. “They’re going to lose even more. Lee always flew close to the wind. People in the Far East have a different outlook on risk and reward. When they’re doing well, they’re happy. When things go wrong, they want someone to blame.”
“So you believe his murder was in some way connected with the bank? With money?”
“As I said, I’ve no information. What other motive for murder is there?”
“Hundreds I should’ve thought.”
“You must know enough about First State to appreciate that some of its clients, what should we say – well their affairs wouldn't bear much investigation. These people really don't like losing money. Explaining the vagaries of the market is probably going to be a tad,” he paused, “challenging.”
“Surely it could be some other entirely personal motive. An acrimonious romance? Or just bad luck. I heard on the news London's murder rate’s outstripped New York. Wrong place, wrong time?”
“You said yourself those avenues of investigation were drawing blanks.”
“What about Stephen Chandler?”
Silverman looked down, and slowly buttered his last piece of toast.
“Stephen is a friend.” A veil had fallen.
“Do you know where he is?”
Julia waited as Silverman crunched his triangle of crisp bread. Finished, he pushed the plate away, slowly wiping his hands with a linen napkin.
I'm not going to get an answer am I? Julia watched him push his chair back and stand.
“Let me show you the Great Hall,” he stretched out a hand.
They left the room together and he opened another door into the historic space.
“It's stunning,” Julia said “It was a monastery originally, wasn't it?”
“Yes, for nearly 1,000 years. Eighth century to the Reformation. This hall was used as the monks’ refectory, until it became the Great Hall in Georgian times. In this very room...” he stopped, as if caught short by a painful memory.
“What was in this room?”
“There were six of us.”
“You all worked for Peak Bank?”
“The bank was buffeting its capital limits,” Silverman’s voice drifted away, lost in another world.
“Running out of money?”
“Not exactly, but there was no room left to grow. Not a great place to be with China breathing down our necks. So Warwick Mantel...”
“Your boss?”
Silverman nodded. “Brought us here to brainstorm a solution.”
“Did you?”“
“Let's put it this way. Eight years ago, the bank was worth £25 billion. Today its market cap is five times that.”
“How d’you pull it off?”
“Why do banks need capital?”
“To cushion against risk, against Armageddon. If the economy goes into recession, and people don't repay their loans, banks will still have enough cash to keep their doors open.”
Or not, as with Pendle, Julia couldn't help thinking.
He nodded. “What if you remove the risk of your loans going bad, by trading that credit risk too,” he continued. “If you could sell all your risk, then capital ceases to be a problem. You no longer need to hold it. You can lend to as many people as you want.”
“Who would buy your bad risks?” she asked. “Isn't that the point of dodgy loans, no one wants them.”
Silverman walked towards the masterfully-carved stone fireplace, and leaned a hand on the rich oak mantel. “No one in their right mind obviously – at any price. What if you packaged your risks in mixed bags? Good risks mixed with bad.”
Take A Thousand Cuts Page 6