If there was one thing Michael knew, it was that the rules were different for the rich and privileged. ‘Exclusive’ defined everything about the world he moved in, and there were different standards in the world of Exclusive. Every boat had secure spaces, what others might call secret compartments. They were for storing valuables, and for many of his clients it was apparent enough that the valuables would be a few kilos of coke and other recreational substances to keep the party going.
Requests for concealed doors providing nocturnal access to other cabins to carry on covert relationships with secretaries, assistants, or ‘friends’ were commonplace. So were hidden cameras in the cabins and shower cubicles. Michael had equipped floating dungeons and outfitted playrooms for orgies without batting an eyelid. A boat was so much better than an apartment or even a villa for so many activities. There were no nosy neighbours, no paparazzi, and all the legal convenience of international waters.
There were also rumours about the other features that made a boat attractive to a certain type. If the worst happened—an overdose, sex play getting out of hand, a drunken fight—then nothing was easier than pitching a weighted body overboard. No fuss, no mess, no evidence. Barely even rumours.
You could get away with all sorts of things on a boat like that. All you needed was the money.
Michael had not been born into the world of luxury. Unlike most of those he worked with, he had made it through his native wit, hard work, and plenty of luck. It started when he blagged jobs working on boats as a teenage deckhand. After that he ended up working in boatyards on the off-season and quickly gravitated to the sales side where his true talents lay.
A sign on Michael’s desk—a present from Anne—read: “If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.” None of his customers cared about how much they spent, except to make sure that it was more than their rivals. If your boat was not the best in the marina, the one that everyone looked at enviously and asked about, it was not worth having.
If anyone had access to special medical procedures, ones not available to ordinary people, it was Michael’s clients. And one case in particular had occurred to him almost at once.
Two years ago, there had been an accident. Of all the bad luck, an owner, a dotcom entrepreneur called Roger Bridges, had been swimming off his yacht and caught his hand in the propellers of one of the runabouts, losing some fingers. Michael’s company had been in discussion with the lawyers about liability. Bridges was bad-tempered, ruthless, and capable of destroying the boat builders if he thought he had a case.
The matter had blown over in weeks. There was no mention of the accident in the press, and Michael had been surprised to see a photograph of the entrepreneur handing out some prize with an undamaged hand. They had talked about it in the office. Was it photoshopped, or an unusually good prosthesis? Someone found a video of the ceremony on YouTube: there was Bridges, shaking hands, giving a presentation, holding up a crystal statuette, unmutilated, just a month after the accident.
Michael called up the legal documents again and picked out the key paragraph: “first three digits of right hand were severed at the second joint.” There was no chance of finding severed fingers after an accident in the water like that. The legalese emphasised what a serious injury it was and how it would affect their client’s future life.
From there Michael did more searches, found more pictures and videos. It was easy enough. Bridges sought out the limelight as reptiles seek sunshine, and every week he was photographed somewhere different. There Bridges was clinking glasses with a supermodel, here he was autographing his bestselling business guide, and here he was playing a video game with a racing driver. The restoration of his hand was perfect in every way.
Whatever the entrepreneur had, Michael wanted it for Anne. It might have been impossible for normal people, but it could be done for the right people at the right price. It was just a matter of getting it. Michael went to bed satisfied that there was a way and that he had the will.
Selling was only half of Michael’s job. The other half was dealing with designers and boat builders, fitters and decorators and a dozen others to make sure customers got exactly what they wanted. If they asked for a three-metre Jacuzzi, they would not settle for two-point-eight metres whoever said it was impossible to fit it in. The builders had to make it fit. If the client changed everything halfway through, the builders would have to accommodate every last whim. Michael was an acknowledged expert in getting people to do things, with a finely calibrated sense of when to offer money and when to use threats or promises or just a little old-fashioned charm.
The next day Michael set about using his skills for his new mission. The first stage was to find out what doctor had treated the entrepreneur. Michael had plenty to start from: the details of Bridge’s lawyers, and the report which mentioned the hospital in the Côte d’Azur which had tended to him after the accident.
After feeling his way to the right contacts, he immediately started drawing blanks. The treatment had been so discreet as to be invisible. But there were ways of finding out.
Michael’s second track was embezzlement. This was going to call for money, more money than he could raise on his own. But he had access to funds. Every month he signed contracts worth millions. The countersigning was a rubber-stamp affair and was never questioned; trust was a key part of this business. Michael had idly wondered about fraud before, but there was never a need. Now there was a need. There was a risk of getting caught, but that wouldn’t happen until afterwards, and all he cared about was getting Anne’s fingers mended. He started setting things up and going through the lists of current contracts looking for the right opportunity.
He visited Anne in hospital, taking her the biggest bouquet he could find, with the good news that he would make everything all right. And if these doctors suggested otherwise, it was because they didn’t know what they were talking about. Sure, they were good, but they weren’t the sort of world-class specialists you needed for this job.
Anne looked terrible. She was pale and had a sunken look around the eyes. It physically pained him to see her looking so damaged and tiny in the enormous private room.
“We’ll soon have you good as new,” he said, and she looked at him with hope and admiration. Anne had always believed in him. That was what had given him his strength. She had married beneath herself, and her parents had never quite forgiven her uneducated, barrow-boy husband. But they could not deny that he provided extremely well for her.
They had started talking seriously about children. Everything in their lives was perfect; the time was right. Anne said that September was the best time for it to be born, and she already had a schedule. Michael had already started to imagine being a father. And now it was all threatened.
The first thing was to find out how Bridges had done it. Over the years Michael had acquired contacts among the rich and influential. He approached a few of them, carefully, asking on behalf of a client about a particular medical service. None of them could help directly, but one who was in software came back a few days later with the information that the Bridges had been to a place in Surrey called the Medway Clinic, and that was all he could get. They both knew the information had not been acquired legally.
A few Internet searches and one phone call established that the Medway Clinic was dedicated to cosmetic surgery of the most discreet variety. If you wanted a facelift without the world knowing about it, then the Medway could help. There was no hint, however, of any more advanced services. As it happened, one of Michael’s clients was a figure in the world of plastic surgery, the inventor of a new and lucrative technique for breast enlargement. And he had worked at Medway. The boat Michael had supplied him with was more for business than pleasure: it had a small but well-equipped operating theatre aboard, so clients could go for a week’s cruising and come back from their holiday looking years younger and not a bandage in sight.
Michael contacted the floating doctor. He handled the conversation with th
e skill of a surgeon performing an exploratory operation. He had to be delicate, not touching any nerves or blood vessels, but he needed to extract something. He must not do anything that might be mistaken for blackmail, but he needed to apply enough pressure to get a response. It was a nerve-wracking conversation for Michael, who was used to being phoned up for a quick chat which could see a ten-million pound deal destroyed—or doubled.
Michael had picked his approach with care. The floating doctor was sympathetic and agreed to Michael’s entirely illegal and unethical request for a small piece of information about the treatment given to a certain entrepreneur under the pseudonym Roger Brown. It seemed that the entrepreneur had only used the Medway Clinic for a check-up and aftercare. There had not been any surgery there. The challenge was finding the next link in the chain, to find the elusive surgeon.
In the week that followed Anne returned home. Her hand was bandaged, and Michael encouraged her to keep it that way. He did not want her looking at it, or thinking that she had lost her fingers permanently. Everything would be all right and she would be as good as new. He told her not to tell anyone about it.
She was on a course of antidepressants. The doctor had prescribed them on the morning after the accident, to help cushion the shock. Between the effects of the drugs and the recuperation she was practically an invalid. But it would not be for long. Michael knew what antidepressants were like, and how many people got addicted to them. He knew that she would not survive for long in this state.
He had dug some way into the case and had some crucial bits of information. At first it had been like scrabbling to dig a hole with his bare hands. Now the stones he had loosened could be used as tools to deepen the hole. He went back to the files on the entrepreneur to get examples of his headed paper. Then he assembled a brusque fax to the Medway Clinic, ostensibly from the entrepreneur’s lawyers, marked IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED. This required them to send a copy of the invoice and supporting paperwork regarding the case of the pseudonymous “Roger Brown” with a crisp query over the VAT rate paid on transport costs. Attached was an authorisation from the entrepreneur to release the information, with his signature on it.
This was the first definite criminal act that could be traced to him. But Michael was not worried. The Medway Clinic required discretion; as with the yacht business, discretion was an essential part of the service. Any attempt at social engineering by phoning up and pretending to be a relative asking for information was doomed. But a full-frontal approach by a legal firm was a different matter, especially when backed by authorisation. They would know better than to try and check with Bridges. He was famous for not suffering fools gladly, or at all, and staff at Medway were skilled in not antagonising their clients. The administrator who dealt with the fax would be unlikely to know there was anything especially sensitive involved. From their point of view, the case was just a day or two of post-operative care and not a miraculous restoration of fingers.
A few hours later there was a return fax. It was almost as brusque as the original, but polite, and provided the necessary paperwork. There was just one item that he needed to see:
“Transport between the Medway Clinic W1G and Effra Hall SE19, 3 hours, £300 + £60 VAT.”
Google turned up just one Effra Hall, and Google Maps and Street View took him there in a minute.
There was no medical facility, hospital, or clinic at Effra Hall. There was a registered business, but the company reports showed it was concerned solely with maintenance and upkeep of the Hall, a historic Grade II listed building. Michael jotted down notes for further investigation.
Meanwhile, the pieces of his fraud scheme were slotting into place. Michael had set up several shell companies, each with associated bank accounts. The scam was a simple one. It took advantage of the way the multi-million-pound super-yacht contracts included regular progress payments as well as the deposit and final payment.
Michael knew exactly how and why fraudsters got caught. They spent their money—of course, why else would they steal it?—on things that were too visible. They bought cars, or foreign villas, or even boats that they could not possibly afford. Their associates who were not as smart tried to skim money and got caught. They were shopped by wives who found out about their mistresses, or mistresses when they were dumped. Mainly, though, they were caught because they always got greedy. Having pulled a scam once, they kept doing it for greater and greater amounts. And people never got more careful, they got less careful as they got more confident with every success. Until they got caught.
Michael did not have any co-conspirators to let him down. His wife, the only one who would know, would never give him away. And no money would be spent on anything visible. Nobody would ever know or even suspect.
Some of Michael’s clients would switch their monthly payments to a company that sounded like a subsidiary of the boat builders. After a slight delay, the boat builders would receive payments from companies that looked like subsidiaries of their clients. All the payments would be made.
It was the same as damming a stream. Water stopped flowing downstream until the lever rose and it overtopped the dam. The stream then ran on as before, and nobody downstream would suspect the presence of a new lake. In Michael’s case, the depth of the dam was around two million pounds.
He was effectively borrowing money from the boat builder on a continuing basis, paying it back, and borrowing more. At some point he would have to make good the difference. But that could wait. What mattered now was that he had the money at his disposal and his plans could go ahead.
II
The next afternoon Michael guided the Mercedes down the side of a park in Norwood to where Effra Hall stood. It was in the bottom of a valley; the park, once part of the grounds, had been acquired by the local council for public use in the mid-nineteenth century. The gatekeeper’s cottage was no longer part of the property. The pastel curtains and clean stone made it look like the fashionable young daughter of the battered old remnant behind it. Even the upstart Victorian Gothic piles that lined the park gave a better appearance of stately grandeur than their ancient neighbour. He parked next to an old Landrover in the driveway.
Michael was dressed for business: charcoal-grey suit, cream shirt, and peach silk tie. His shoes were new and immaculate. He had a slim attaché case, mainly for effect. Door-to-door salesmen do not carry stylish cases.
The man who answered the door was exactly what Michael expected. He could have been the headmaster of a boy’s public school, a man whose height was emphasised by his ramrod posture. His clothing was what Michael had anticipated: the comfortable frayed corduroy and patched tweed uniform of a Surrey landowner. Old clothes did not necessarily mean poverty, but there was no scent of wealth here, and Michael’s nose was sharp. Michael knew Sir Harold was in his seventies, and he was old for his age, gaunt and with lines of care etched deep into his face. His arms were thin as sticks.
“Good afternoon, Sir Harold,” he said. “I’m Michael Nichols. I think we can help each other a great deal.”
Never start with an apology. Be pleasant, but always be one step ahead of them.
“Is this a convenient time for a quick chat?” Michael continued. “It’ll only be ten minutes. Or should I come back later?”
Don’t give them the option of saying no.
“What’s this about?” asked Sir Harold. He sounded more concerned than anything, as though he might be dealing with a debt collector. Michael could see the muzzle of a wolfhound behind him, straining to see the visitor. “The house is not for sale, at any price.”
Its market value was eight million five, Michael knew from the local estate agents. It needed a lot of work.
“It’s not the house,” said Michael.
“What then?”
“If you have a minute, I’ll explain the whole thing,” said Michael, gesturing with the attaché case to suggest elaborate paperwork.
Moving with arthritic slowness, Sir Harold led him to a drawing ro
om where the furniture stood on clawed feet and the walls were crammed with gloomy canvases. The ceiling was painted to look like a sky scattered with cumulus, and the wallpaper imitated leaves. Michael took a minute to make friends with the wolfhound, letting it sniff his hands and patting it. Always make friends with pets.
“My wife was in a serious accident a few weeks ago,” said Michael, and went on to give an account of her injury and her reaction to it. He produced his iPhone to show some pictures of her: the wedding day, holding a bouquet, after the accident with her hand bandaged, a picture of the X-ray showing cleanly severed bones. He fumbled through other pictures to find them, as though this were not a well-rehearsed presentation.
Michael watched with a salesman’s acuity, picking up the exact moment when Sir Harold caught the connection and nodded minutely without changing expression. Watched to see which words and phrases he responded to.
“I gather you might be able to help us,” Michael went on. “And whatever it costs, I’m determined to restore her hand. Literally, whatever it costs.”
“Who told you I could help?” asked Sir Harold.
“Don’t worry, nobody broke a confidence. I had to do a lot of detective work to find you, and I have resources.”
“Do you mind telling me how you did it?”
“Certainly, but perhaps we can discuss my problem first.” Michael was not going to give everything away at this stage.
“I can’t help you,” said Sir Harold, shaking his head. “I’m very sorry for what’s happened to your wife, but I can’t help you.”
“You have helped others before,” Michael said gently.
There was a distant subterranean boom, as though a part of the foundation had crumbled away. Sir Harold ignored it, but Michael noted how his eyes flicked away distractedly.
The Dulwich Horror & Others Page 10