‘You really that hard up?’
‘I’m not hard up. I’m doing fine for myself if you really want to know. I’m doing brilliantly. But if you think I’m going to spend one minute with you without being paid for it, you can go take a flying jump. You’re a miserable bastard, Hawthorne. You always were and you still are. That business with Abbott. I shouldn’t have had to take the rap for that. You screwed me over and I’m only doing this fucking job now because of you.’
Do all policemen swear? Hawthorne, Grunshaw and now Lofty all had an issue with the English language that bordered on Tourette’s. My ears had pricked up, however. Derek Abbott was the suspected child pornographer that Hawthorne had pushed down a flight of stairs.
‘It was an accident.’ Hawthorne spread his hands and gave him a beatific smile. ‘These things happen.’
‘You were the one who told me to nip out for a cigarette. I thought you were being friendly but you knew what you were doing all along. One fucking smoke and it cost me my job, my pension, my marriage, my whole fucking life.’
‘Marge not with you, then?’
‘Marge dumped me. She went off with a fireman.’
Hawthorne had taken Derek Abbott down to the interview room because he had been in the custody office at the time and there was no one else around. That was when the accident had happened. Abbott had fallen down fourteen concrete steps with his hands cuffed behind him – a flying jump indeed – and as a result Hawthorne had been thrown out of the police force. Lofty was the one who should have escorted Abbott to the interview room. And he had lost his job too.
‘So are you going to tell me about Adrian Lockwood?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Fifty quid! And if you don’t get a move on, I might change my mind and make it a ton.’
Hawthorne glanced at me. ‘All right. Pay him.’
‘Me?’ But I had no choice in the matter. I took out my wallet. Fortunately, I had just enough cash. I set five £10 notes down on the table and added some change. Lofty swept it all towards him and folded it away.
‘I’m guessing you work for Graham Hain,’ Hawthorne went out.
‘You know him?’
‘We haven’t met – but I know who he is.’
Graham Hain was the forensic accountant who had been hired by Richard Pryce. Stephen Spencer had mentioned him to us. But there was something I didn’t understand. According to Spencer, Hain had been investigating Akira Anno, trying to find the secret income stream that she had refused to declare. In other words, in the Lockwood/Anno divorce, he had been very much on the Lockwood side of the proceedings. So what was Lofty doing, breaking into Lockwood’s office and now lurking outside Leconfield House? Why was he spying on his own client?
‘Lofty is a dustbin diver,’ Hawthorne explained. He glanced across the table. ‘Tell him what that means.’
Lofty was offended. ‘That’s not a term I use,’ he muttered, indignantly. ‘It says “asset trader” on my business card.’
‘You’ve got a business card? You’re definitely going up in the world.’
‘Faster than you, mate.’
‘What’s an asset trader?’ I asked. I was getting a little tired of all this banter.
Lofty took another sip of tea. When he spoke again, he was more authoritative. He might be a wreck of a human being, and I wouldn’t have wanted to enquire into his private life with or without Marge, but he knew what he was talking about. ‘These big divorces, rich bastards, you’ve got no idea! They put their money away all over the place. Jersey and the British Virgin Islands. They’ve got trusts and shell companies and offshore companies full of shadow directors and it’s impossible to work out who owns what. People like me – asset traders, which is what we’re called – help to sort it all out. We find out what’s what.’
‘Ex-cops,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Ex-journalists. Ex-security service. Funny how it always starts with an ex.’
‘I do all right,’ Lofty snapped. ‘I earn a ton more than when I was with your lot.’
‘So tell us about Adrian Lockwood.’
Lofty hesitated, already wishing he’d asked for more money. I could see it in his eyes.
‘You really make me sick, do you know that?’ he said to Hawthorne. Having got that out of his system, he continued more pleasantly: ‘I did some work on the Lockwood divorce. That wife of his, Akira Anno … she knew we were on to her. The moment we started sniffing round her finances she got nervous and’ – he flicked his fingers – ‘just like that she rolled over and gave Mr Lockwood everything he wanted. She was terrified we was going to find out just how much money she had in the bank … and that bank was probably in Panama or Liechtenstein or somewhere. So it all went hunky-dory. Mr Lockwood was happy. The courts were happy. Job done.
‘Only then something happened. All along, Mr Pryce had been having doubts about his client … like he wasn’t being straight with him. And he wasn’t happy about that. Not at all.’
‘You’re talking about Adrian Lockwood,’ I said.
‘That’s right. Mr Pryce knew straight off Mr Lockwood was a villain. I bet half his clients were as crooked as the A157.’
‘The A157? What are you talking about, Lofty?’ Hawthorne said.
‘It’s the road from Louth to Mablethorpe. It’s got a lot of bends.’
I wanted to laugh but Hawthorne just sighed. ‘Get on with it.’
‘The thing about Mr Pryce was that he always was a bit prissy, coming over all vicar’s daughter at the best of times. Anyway, the case is finished. Akira has pissed off and everyone’s smiling, but suddenly he’s talking to the people I work for, Navigant, and he’s asking them, very discreetly, to take a quick look at Lockwood’s assets.’ He paused, rolling his eyes. ‘He was very specific. He wanted to know about expensive wine.’
‘Wine.’ Hawthorne repeated the word.
‘That’s right. He wanted to know if Lockwood liked the stuff … I mean, really liked it. How much of it he drank. What vintages. All that sort of thing. How many bottles he had stashed away. That made it a lot easier for me, narrowing the field. And it didn’t take me very long to find what he wanted.
‘To say that Adrian Lockwood is into wine is putting it mildly. He’s a bleeding fanatic. I’ve seen his credit card slips from the Ritz and from Annabel’s. An Échezeaux Grand Cru at £3,250. A Bollinger Vielles Vignes at £2,000 …’ Lofty mangled the French but not the prices. ‘And that was just the start of it. I took a look in the basement of his home in Antibes …’
‘How did you get in there, Lofty?’
‘That’s my business, Hawthorne. It’s what I do. And the amount of booze I found underneath all that dust? You wouldn’t believe it! I had to look some of the names up. I’d never heard of them. And the prices! They were fucking incredible. I mean, you’re only talking about a mashed-up grape!
‘So one thing led to another and I found my way to Octavian. You ever heard of it?’
I shook my head. Hawthorne said nothing.
‘Octavian wine cellarage in Corsham. They’re a company. They store wine for hedge-fund managers and people like that. It’s a funny thing. Even people who live nearby don’t know much about it but you go in there, you’ll find some of the best wines in the world – millions of quids’ worth – tucked away in the darkness, a hundred feet under the Wiltshire hills. And of course there are all sorts of tax advantages. It’s a bonded warehouse. No VAT. And no capital gains tax either because you’re talking about a wasting chattel.’
I wasn’t quite sure what that meant but I didn’t interrupt. Lofty was in full flow.
‘It was easy enough to find out that Mr Lockwood was one of their clients,’ he went on. ‘But finding out what he had there was the devil’s own business. They’re not stupid and they’ve got a lot of security. I went down to Corsham and had a sniff around but that wasn’t going to work …’
‘So you broke into his office,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I didn’t break in.’ Lenny was offended ag
ain. ‘I just waited until Mr Lockwood went for lunch and walked in off the street. Easiest thing in the world. Told them I was from the IT company. The receptionist showed me into Lockwood’s office and even gave me the password for his computer, silly bitch. That way I was able to access his account at Octavian and find out how much capital he had invested.’
‘And how much was that?’
‘Just shy of three million quid, all paid for by one of his companies working out of BVI. Of course, Mr Pryce hit the bloody roof when he heard that. I don’t suppose any of it had ever shown up on his Form E.’
All along we had assumed that Richard Pryce had been investigating Akira Anno and that when he had rung up his partner, Oliver Masefield, on the day of his death, muttering about the Law Society, he had been thinking of her. But that wasn’t the case. It was his own client, Adrian Lockwood, who had rung the alarm bells. Lockwood was the one who had concealed his wealth, lying to his solicitor – not a great idea when the solicitor was known as the Blunt Razor.
Why wasn’t Hawthorne more excited? As far as I could see, this blew the entire case to smithereens. But he had just finished his coffee and had taken out a cigarette, which he was rolling back and forth along the table. ‘Two more questions, Lofty,’ he said. ‘What were you doing at Leconfield House just now? And why did you run off like that?’
‘What do you think?’ Lofty sneered. ‘Mr Pryce was my client. I liked him and I feel responsible for him. I’m quite interested to know who killed him and I’m wondering if Lockwood was responsible.’
‘That’s not possible,’ I said. ‘He was with someone on the Sunday evening at exactly the time Pryce was killed.’
‘Who says they didn’t both do it? Anyway, I’ve been keeping an eye on him just in case he meets someone or does something that blows the lid off what actually happened.’
‘And you ran … ?’
‘Because there’s been a murder and funnily enough I worry about my health. It’s often necessary in my line of work. When I see someone I’ve never met before running towards me, I generally turn and run the other way. Of course, as soon as I got your call, I realised there was no need for it. Not that I ever wanted to see you again, Hawthorne, just so you know.’
Hawthorne considered. ‘So you’ve been watching him,’ he said. ‘Found anything yet?’
Lofty slid his chair back and stood up. He had left half the tea. ‘If I had, I wouldn’t tell you,’ he said.
‘You’re still upset!’
‘Yes. I am still upset. Bloody upset. That’s the truth of it. You screwed up my life and I don’t know why I’ve told you as much as I have. Anyway, that’s it. You’ve had all you’re getting for fifty quid. Fuck off and leave me alone.’
He hurried out of the coffee bar.
‘Who was Abbott?’ I asked. I was thinking about the child pornographer Hawthorne had pushed down the stairs, but I knew nothing about what had happened.
‘Just someone I met at work. There was a health and safety issue. Lofty was a staff officer and he got the rap. I don’t know why he blamed me.’
Hawthorne looked at me with eyes that could not have been more perfectly innocent but I knew he was lying to me. Just like he always did.
19
Sword and Sorcery
Adrian Lockwood was unable to see us, or so we were told by the prim young receptionist perched behind a desk shaped like a comma in a small outer office in Leconfield House. Presumably she had replaced the girl who had allowed Lofty in – and she had certainly passed an advanced class in superciliousness.
‘I’m afraid he has a conference call.’
‘We can wait.’
‘He has another meeting straight after.’
We were forty-five minutes late so I suppose this was fair enough. But even so I wondered if Lockwood wasn’t sitting quietly behind one of the closed doors, listening to us being put in our place. In the end we agreed to come back at five o’clock. That left us with a few hours to kill.
Hawthorne was on his mobile before we had even got out into the street. I heard him introducing himself and asking for a meeting with Dawn Adams – ‘a police-related matter’ – and the next thing I knew, we were in a taxi on our way to Kingston Books. Akira Anno had told us that her friend lived in Wimbledon, which was right next to Kingston, but her offices were in central London, in Bloomsbury as it turned out.
The worldwide success of the Doomworld series was evident before we even entered the building. The publishing house occupied a handsome four-storey office on the corner of Queen Square with prominent signage on the front door and about a dozen books on display in the window. They were the only business there and quite possibly owned the whole building. Kate Mosse, Peter James and Michael Morpurgo were just three of the big-name authors who had signed up with them.
The front door led into a generous entrance hall with original Quentin Blake artwork on the walls and a giant glass bowl of sweets and chocolates on the reception desk. The receptionist here seemed much happier to see us.
‘Yes, Dawn is expecting you.’
No surnames here. A young guy, perhaps an intern, appeared and escorted us to an office on the first floor with two windows looking out over the square. There was a desk piled high with books and contracts but Dawn was waiting for us to one side, a very elegant black woman, sitting on a sofa behind a low coffee table with her knees together and her legs folded. She was in her fifties, about the same age as Akira Anno. Everything about her was impressive, from her quietly expensive clothes and the diamond ear studs to the designer glasses on a thin silver chain around her neck.
Two chairs had been placed opposite her and when, at her invitation, we sat down, we found ourselves looming over her. It was quite deliberate, a sort of reverse psychology. We would have to adjust our behaviour if we were not to seem like bullies. Sitting comfortably on her sofa, some distance below us, she had arranged things so that she was quietly in command.
I was surprised when she smiled at me. ‘Anthony, how nice to see you,’ she said. I had no memory of having met her. ‘How are things at Orion?’
‘They’re fine, thank you,’ I said.
‘I really enjoyed The House of Silk. It made me wonder if you’ve read Solo yet?’
William Boyd had just published a James Bond novel – following on from Sebastian Faulks and Jeffery Deaver. ‘Not yet,’ I said.
‘I think it would be a fantastic idea if they got you to write a Bond next. I know the Ian Fleming estate. I could have a word with them if you like …’
‘Well, I’d certainly be interested.’ I tried to sound non-equivocal when actually it was something I’d wanted to do all my life.
‘I’ll talk to them.’ She turned to Hawthorne and now she was a little cooler. ‘I’m not sure how I can help you.’
‘I told you on the phone. I’m investigating the murder of Richard Pryce.’
‘Yes. Well, apart from one brief encounter in a restaurant when I didn’t even speak to him, I hadn’t seen Mr Pryce for over a year and I had no further dealings with his practice. I only knew he was dead when I saw the story in the newspapers and I can’t say I shed too many tears.’
‘I can understand that, Ms Adams. You first met him at the time of your divorce.’
‘I never actually met him one-to-one, Mr Hawthorne. He wrote to me. He also wrote about me. He drew a picture of me in court as a woman entirely dependent on the financial acumen of my husband, even though said husband was a drunk and a womaniser who had inherited all his wealth from his equally squalid father. At the time, I’d spent seven years putting all my efforts into building up my own publishing business and perhaps you can imagine how humiliating and offensive that depiction of me was. Or perhaps you can’t.’ She drew a dismissive hand across the air. ‘At any event, I had absolutely nothing to do with his demise, although, as I say, it’s just possible that I raised a glass of Chablis when I heard of it.’
‘Well, that’s not quite true, is it,�
�� Hawthorne returned. ‘You say you’ve got nothing to do with his “demise”, but you’ve been involved, on the sidelines, from the very start.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You were with Akira Anno at The Delaunay restaurant when she threatened Mr Pryce. And you were with her a second time, as it happens, on the night of the murder. At first, Ms Anno suffered an unfortunate memory loss. She said she was at a cottage in Lyndhurst. But when that was disproved, she was forced to admit she was with you.’
I thought Dawn would fight back, but, ignoring Hawthorne, she turned to me. ‘What exactly are you doing here?’ she asked, quite pleasantly.
‘I’m writing about him,’ I replied. There seemed to be no point lying. Dawn Adams knew who I was. She might as well know what I was doing.
She was surprised. ‘For the newspapers?’
‘For a book.’
‘True crime?’
‘Yes. Well, sort of. I have to move a few things round and change some names, but it’s all basically true.’
She considered for a moment. ‘That’s interesting. Have you got a publisher yet?’
‘I’ve signed a three-book deal with Selina Walker at Penguin Random House.’
She nodded. ‘Selina’s very good. Just don’t let her bully you with deadlines.’ She turned back to Hawthorne. ‘In response to your remarks, first of all, Akira never threatened Richard Pryce. The two of us had been having dinner together at The Delaunay and she saw him on the other side of the room. Inevitably we started talking about him and that was when we discovered that we’d both had similar experiences. It’s possible we’d had a little too much to drink but Akira got it in her head to create a scene. She went over to his table – he was there with his husband. She picked up his glass of wine and poured it over his head. It was a stupid thing to do. I’d be the first to admit it. But at the same time it was deeply satisfying.’
The Sentence is Death Page 21