Latent Hazard rkadika-1

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  The two women looked at the pizza and hesitated, thinking of the calories, then grinned at each other.

  ‘I should tuck in, you don’t know when we’ll next have time for a break,’ said Jeremy. He looked at his watch with a smile, ‘Or even time for a meal!’

  Rafi sat savouring the food and drink.

  ‘Now that Jeremy’s back and Rafi has done his thinking, let’s get started,’ said Kate. ‘First question: how does the Bishopsgate bombing fit in with your theory of what is going on?’

  ‘I’m not entirely certain,’ replied Rafi, ‘but my gut feeling is that Callum Burns was on to something in Luxembourg and his crash was no accident. It also suggests that Prima Terra and others were up to no good.’

  He paused. ‘Do we know what Jameel Furud is doing in Morocco?’ asked Rafi. ‘I thought he had work to do in Paris.’

  Jeremy flipped open his mobile and spoke to a colleague. He listened intently and hung up. ‘My colleagues tell me that Jameel’s on his way to Marrakech. If I wanted to go somewhere safe as a Muslim, Morocco would be an excellent choice. He has booked a two week stay at a luxury five-star golf hotel on the edge of the city where he is scheduled to arrive later this morning. We’ve a colleague keeping an eye on him.’

  ‘I thought he’d do a runner,’ said Rafi smiling.

  ‘Can we please move on to the spreadsheets,’ asked Emma. ‘I see that Callum identified two public quoted companies with dubious shareholders: Dewoodson plc, a property services business and Renshaw Smithers plc, a small finance house focusing on public sector projects and outsourcing companies.’

  ‘Yes that’s correct,’ replied Rafi.

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning – exactly when did Prima Terra buy into these two companies?’ enquired Kate.

  Rafi thought for a moment. ‘About two years ago. We took a large stake in Dewoodson plc when it came to the market.’

  Jeremy grimaced.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Kate.

  ‘That’s bad news. If you plan something for a couple of years you are definitely up to no good! We’re likely to be up against a very well-planned plot, whatever it might be.’

  Rafi sat there, thinking about what Jeremy had just said. Then, as if from nowhere, an associated thought flashed through his mind. He was wasn’t sure, but what if…

  ‘Are you feeling ill?’ asked Emma.

  ‘Er… No, I just remembered a company presentation I attended a few weeks ago and an incident that completely slipped my mind. Please bear with me for a moment,’ Rafi began hesitantly. ‘Let me try and recall it. It may seem like a shaggydog story, but it’s relevant, I’m sure.’

  Rafi closed his bloodshot eyes and took his mind back to a bright January morning a few weeks earlier… ‘Yes, I recall it was a Wednesday, three weeks ago. I’d had a hectic morning. The market was buoyant. I had lunch scheduled with a bank and some brokers who were launching an IPO. It was a normal sell-side promote. I was running late and took a taxi. It dropped me a couple of minutes’ walk away from their smart new office building on the South Bank; a stunning development scheme. Great attention to detail: black granite walkways, fountains for children to play in and even a small Pooh sticks stream which flows down the middle of the walkway to Tooley Street, almost 400 yards away… Sorry; I digress.’

  Rafi paused to collect his thoughts… ‘After the short presentations, the cheeky buggers pushed through lunch at a cracking pace – they were running two sittings. At 1.15 p.m. I was politely offered my coat and a couple of minutes later I was standing in front of the building feeling rather pissed off. My nice lunch had turned into a fast food experience. I stood there, taking in the view across the Thames. It was a lovely afternoon; the winter sun was out and London looked great, so as I wasn’t expected back in the office before 2.30, I decided to stretch my legs and walk back to the office rather than take a taxi.’

  Rafi smiled. ‘I set off towards Tower Bridge, along the river walkway past the London Assembly Building.’

  ‘Is that the one with the unfortunate nickname relating to a part of the male anatomy?’ enquired Jeremy.

  ‘Yes,’ Rafi smiled, ‘a singularly imposing building,’ he paused. ‘I then made my way up the steps of Tower Bridge. By the time I reached the far side, the cold wind had got to me. I considered being a wimp and taking a taxi back to the office, but opted for the exercise and turned down the steps that cut under the bridge, went past Dead Man’s Gate and headed out into the sunshine past the Tower of London. Whoops, sorry I’m rambling again.’

  ‘Don’t worry. As long as you remember something useful we don’t mind if you ramble on a bit,’ said Kate reassuringly.

  ‘I continued my stroll and headed along Lower Thames Street. I crossed the road and walked up St Mary at Hill, then turned into a narrow cobbled street – St Dunstan’s Lane. What prompted me to go that way, I don’t know. Perhaps it was because I was enjoying my amble and the lane, with its cobbled surface, looked quaint. It was an impulse. On the corner where St Dunstan’s Lane turns into Idol Lane there was a delivery van blocking the single carriageway.’ Rafi paused again. ‘And fifty metres up Idol Lane, was a chauffeur-driven Mercedes, with its door open waiting for someone to come out of a building.’

  Rafi stopped; time seemed to stand still. He stared towards the printer to the right of Emma’s desk. It all came flooding back as if it were an action replay. He continued with his story. ‘I walked around the corner behind the parked lorry and reappeared just in time to see someone getting into the car. At that precise moment the lorry driver leant out of his window and called to me. I turned and walked back towards him. He wanted to know where the nearest McDonald’s was. I apologised, saying that I didn’t know, but thought that there was one in Cannon Street and pointed to the end of the road. He thanked me and drove off.’

  Rafi’s eyes widened. ‘As the lorry left, it was followed by the Mercedes; no wonder the person in the car had looked familiar: it was Jameel! I looked at him and, fleetingly, our eyes met – but he didn’t acknowledge me. At the time I assumed that he was engrossed in his work. Thinking about it though, what must it have looked like to my boss? One moment I was there, the next I was hiding behind a lorry. He couldn’t have known I was speaking to the driver.’

  ‘It would have looked suspicious,’ said Emma, ‘Like you didn’t want to be seen.’

  ‘So what did you do next?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I walked to the top of the lane and passed by the building Jameel had come out of. It was nondescript, with the numbers 2 – 4 on a plain dark blue front door. There was nothing to give away who or what was based there. At the time I wondered who Jameel had been seeing but, as I didn’t think it was important, I dismissed the thought and carried on back to the office,’ said Rafi.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Kate.

  ‘That’s it!’ Rafi, looked at his audience. ‘Sorry it took a while to get to the punchline. Could I have spotted Jameel doing something he wanted to keep secret… And that is what triggered his interest in me, particularly if he thought I was spying on him? What do you think?’

  Emma looked up. ‘Rafi, did he look sheepish when he left the building in Idol Lane?’

  ‘No – just businesslike.’

  ‘I think I should get a list of all the occupiers,’ said Emma. ‘You can then see if any ring a bell. I’ll nip downstairs and raid our database.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Kate.

  A short while later Emma returned looking rather pleased with herself; she walked confidently up to Rafi’s desk and handed him three sheets of paper.

  ‘Here is the list of occupiers for Idol Lane. Bit of a rabbit warren down there. In case your boss was visiting someone nearby, I took the liberty of checking the adjoining streets as well,’ said Emma.

  Rafi ran his eyes down the list.

  ‘Emma, could you find out what AGVC does, please? And could you get me a large-scale map which shows exactly where their offices are?’ asked Rafi. />
  Only a few minutes later she had the requested information up on her screen. ‘Right, here goes. AGVC – business type: venture capital company and financiers. Any good?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Rafi. ‘That is what I was hoping for.’

  ‘They are located halfway down on the left-hand side of St Mary at Hill.’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ said Kate, ‘I thought you said you saw Jameel in Idol Lane?’

  Rafi looked at her slightly crestfallen. ‘Good memory,’ he said looking at Kate approvingly. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  Emma smiled. ‘No problem, the two properties back on to each other.’

  ‘That’s interesting. Who are the occupiers of 2-4 Idol Lane?’

  ‘Rainer Spencer and Mitchell,’ answered Emma. ‘Says here that they’re chartered accountants and company registrars.’

  ‘What’s the link?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Link?’ said Emma. ‘What if the buildings were physically linked or interconnected, this would allow Jameel to keep his visits to AGVC’s offices secret. Shall we see if the two buildings are in the same ownership?’ Emma’s fingers worked quickly over her keyboard. ‘Right, I’m into the Land Registry website; let’s take a look at AGVC’s offices first. The address and postcode?’ Before anyone could answer, Emma had cut and pasted the information into the Land Registry boxes. ‘Oh dear, not much help: the freehold is owned by British amp; Scottish Property Company.’

  ‘A major London listed property company,’ Rafi chipped in.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ said Emma. ‘I shouldn’t have been too hasty. There seems to be a long leasehold interest in the property owned by a company called PREH.’

  ‘OK, what about the building next to it in Idol Lane?’ said Kate.

  ‘Would you believe it; it’s owned by PREH as well.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, so they are connected.’ Kate was standing behind Emma, and gave her a friendly pat on the back and then did the same to Rafi.

  He almost jumped out of his skin. ‘Ooouch!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Whoops, sorry, I’ve done it again!,’ said Kate. ‘I forgot about your bumps and bruises.’ Her look turned pensive. ‘So what have we got? A venture capital business, a property company, plus a firm of chartered accountants and company secretaries. Jeremy could you ask your teams to get chapter and verse on these three businesses, and see if there are any links to Jameel Furud or Prima Terra.’

  ‘Will do… By the way, Rafi what precisely does Prima Terra do?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘They’re fund managers, with about?30 billion of funds under management,’ replied Rafi.

  ‘It’s not your money, is it?’ added Jeremy.

  Rafi looked at him. ‘No.’

  ‘So what’s to stop you flushing it down the pan?’ continued Jeremy.

  ‘Our reputations. Plus we do get bonuses if we outperform,’ replied Rafi.

  Jeremy smiled. ‘Just a thought – but in my book, bad guys don’t go around improving things, they trash them…’ He was stopped mid-sentence by his phone. He glanced at its small screen. ‘Sorry, I need to take this…’

  Several hours later, Commissioner Giles Meynell and Chief Superintendent David Pryke walked into Kate’s office, which had paper everywhere.

  Giles looked around the room. ‘Hell’s bells. Last time I came in here it looked sort of tidy!’

  ‘Sorry, sir… Things have sort of mushroomed. We found a link between Jameel and a venture capital business,’ replied Kate. ‘The link has taken us all over the place. They have a wide range of business interests. They’re into security, fish processing, have a large property investment company… And one of their businesses runs various public sector services – hospitals, prisons, schools, government buildings…’

  The door swung open and Jeremy walked in, looking pleased. ‘Sorry to interrupt – MI5 have found that Jameel and Basel both did their PhDs at the London College of Finance.’

  Kate glanced across to Giles and David. ‘Would there be any chance of borrowing DCI John Dowsing to visit the London College of Finance with Jeremy?’

  ‘Good idea. As the officer in charge of the Bishopsgate bombing, it would be sensible to have him involved with your enquiries,’ said Giles. ‘Do please keep me informed of your progress. We have to leave you now, David and I are late for another meeting.’

  ‘My MI5 colleagues,’ said Jeremy, as the door closed behind Giles and David, ‘Tell me they’re expecting another series of bombings. The consensus of opinion is that the target will be a transport hub. Security levels have been increased and leave has been cancelled. Rafi, they now think you’re a bit of a red herring. Talking of food,’ said Jeremy, ‘Would you like a cake?’ The food had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and been put on the top of a couple of filing cabinets next to Kate where it had been forgotten.

  Jeremy tucked in. ‘Yum, I must give Luigi a ring and thank him.’

  Emma looked across at Kate and smiled. She was about to add something when Jeremy caught her look. ‘If you’d spent two months living off Pot Noodles and black coffee…’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot. It’s just that we are not used to this,’ apologised Emma.

  ‘Now that I’ve topped up the food levels, where’s this London College of Finance and what’s the low down on John?’

  Emma, on the ball as ever, had found the vice chancellor’s address and that of the administration department. She walked over to the printer, collected the sheet and passed it to Jeremy.

  Kate picked up the phone. ‘Hi John,’ she said in a friendly tone, ‘Would you have a spare moment? I need some help, please. We’ve unearthed something that has a direct bearing on the Bishopsgate bombing. I could do with a seasoned brain to give Jeremy Welby, our MI5 friend, a hand. Yes… Yes, I know you’re very busy and dislike spooks.’

  She paused and listened. ‘Yes, I appreciate everyone thinks it’s going to hit the fan. But we’ve come up with an angle which opens up a whole new dimension. I need your input and not that of a sidekick, please… Fantastic, thanks. Jeremy’s on his way down to your car. He will brief you on the way. I owe you.’

  Kate looked across to Jeremy. ‘John will meet you downstairs. Don’t be put off by his manner. He can be a bit of a gruff old codger, but he’s got a great nose for information and has a good sense of humour once you get to know him.’ She smiled. ‘One other thing, Jeremy, time may well be of the essence… So be as quick as you can, please. And good luck’

  Jeremy nodded and left.

  ‘Let’s see what we can dig up and reconvene at, say, 5 p.m.,’ said Kate.

  John and Jeremy had an uneventful drive to the London College of Finance. Initially, though, John had been somewhat taciturn. Jeremy had decided that it was best to take the bull by the horns. ‘What in particular do you dislike about spooks?’ he enquired.

  ‘Basically too bloody secretive by half and treat the rest of us as if we couldn’t run a frigging whelk stall.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Jeremy. ‘Do me a favour; if you think I’m freezing you out then tell me… No excuses, but from time to time we have to watch our backs. Cock-ups put people like me in danger, so we can get a bit obsessive.’

  John’s frostiness thawed as Jeremy brought him up to speed on Rafi and the leads that Kate’s team had uncovered.

  They drew up in front of a smart, white, Georgian terrace and made for the vice chancellor’s office. The reception hall could have graced any palace. No expense had been spared – the crystal chandeliers, ornate ceiling cornices, the large, period, gilt-framed mirror, the old grandfather clock and an array of oil paintings gave an air of refinement.

  John walked over to the reception desk. ‘The vice chancellor, please. He is expecting us.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector John Dowsing, Special Branch, City of London police.’

  The smartly dressed, forty-something receptionist looked uncomfortably at John and imperceptibly squirmed in her seat. ‘Sir Gerald
Staniland is rather busy at the moment. If you could please sit over there, I’ll find out when he can see you. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee while you wait?’

  ‘He is expecting us. How long do you think he might be?’John looked displeased. He didn’t like to be given the runaround.

  ‘I really can’t say. Unfortunately, he’s left strict instructions not to be disturbed and his meeting could go on for quite some time.’

  ‘Tell the vice chancellor we’re here and it’s not in his best interests to mess us around.’

  The receptionist picked up the phone. ‘Margery, I’ve two policemen to see the VC. They don’t like being kept waiting. Can you help? Thank you. Gentlemen, if you could go upstairs Sir Gerald’s PA will look after you.’

  Margery looked a formidable gatekeeper. Her anteroom dripped with antiques. John guessed that few students made it this far. He approached the ample, well-manicured PA.

  ‘Sir Gerald is expecting us,’ he announced waving his warrant card under Margery’s nose.

  ‘There may be a bit of a problem…’ she started.

  ‘Too bloody right! If he doesn’t see us here and now, he’ll spend the rest of the sodding afternoon in an interview room and he won’t be offered flaming tea and biscuits!’ exclaimed John.

  Jeremy had moved in front of a pair of tall double doors. ‘This his office?’

  ‘You can’t go in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jeremy as he opened the doors and beckoned John to follow him.

  The vice chancellor’s office was huge. He was sitting behind an antique desk at one end of the room; in between him and the door was a set of comfortable-looking armchairs in front of an ornate fireplace to one side and, on the other side, a boardroom table which would not have looked out of place in the dining room of a stately home.

  The VC looked up from his paperwork. ‘I’m busy, go away.’