The Hollow Man

by Oliver Harris

  “Give me a rundown.”

  “Speculator. Throws his weight around. He made a lot of money in the eighties investing in copper mines. Comes up in various corruption inquiries: unsavoury connections in Peru, naughtiness on the Ivory Coast. Likes to put money in the bank accounts of government officials and ship guns to loyal friends. But his big love is horses. Kovar spends a lot of time over in the UK checking on his thoroughbreds. He runs a major stable, got a manor in Gloucestershire he uses.”

  “What’s he up to now?”

  “No idea. The last couple of years he’s been moving a lot of capital into new media and gambling.”

  “OK.”

  “Are you still playing football? I tried to call you the other night.”

  “I’m between phones.”

  “We’ve got a match against Vice on Sunday. We need your pace.”

  “I’m not match-fit right now, Terry.”

  “We’re desperate.”

  “Not this weekend.”

  Belsey found the number for RingCentral. He had to move fast, while he had the CID office to himself. He rang RingCentral and gave Devereux’s reference number off the invoice.

  “Is that Mr. Devereux?” a cheerful-sounding woman asked.

  “That’s correct.”

  “How can we help you this morning?”

  “I believe at the moment calls to AD Development are going to an answering service, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “I’d like to divert them instead. Can you divert to this number?” Belsey gave the number for his extension at Hampstead police station.

  “That’s done for you.”

  “Fantastic,” he said.

  Kovar’s card gave a mobile number, but Belsey decided on a more subtle approach. He found the number for the Lanesborough hotel. He spent a few minutes looking at it, then lifted the receiver. His finger hovered over the buttons and then he pushed them, slowly. A hotel receptionist answered. Belsey introduced himself as Alexei Devereux and said he was looking for Max Kovar. She put him through to the Royal Suite. Belsey let it ring once, then put the receiver down.

  Three minutes later a call came in. He answered: “AD Development. Jack speaking.”

  “It’s Max Kovar. We met last night.”

  “Max, good morning.”

  “Did someone call me?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I told Alexei I met you. Maybe he called.”

  “Mr. Devereux? Well, I’m able to speak now.”

  “He’s gone. He’s in a meeting. Everything’s full steam here, as you can imagine—Boudicca, all that.”

  “Yes. You seemed like he might be open to some conversation on the subject.”

  “Oh, I don’t imagine so. I don’t see why. Well . . .” Belsey paused. “Open to conversation?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think it’s possible. Alexei’s a man of business, not conversation. But I wanted to thank you for your interest.” Kovar was silent. Belsey let whatever he was thinking go on being thought. “I’ll speak to him,” Belsey said finally. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious,” Kovar burst out, then softened. “Yes, I am serious.”

  “My apologies. Our apologies. We’ll call you if we get the chance.”

  Belsey hung up. The game was back on.

  Kovar was canny, but that was what a good con man looked for: someone clever, someone who knows good luck happens quietly if you’re clever about it. Belsey called the answering service and told them to revert to the previous arrangement.

  “Of course, sir.”

  It took all of thirty seconds for his good spirits to sour. He went to the window. A man in an expensive overcoat looked up from a bench across the road and met his eyes. Belsey saw at once that it was the blond man from the Arabic newspaper cutting, the man shaking hands, the man who’d been banging on Devereux’s door at midnight. He hadn’t changed clothes. Hadn’t shaved. Belsey stared at him and the man stared back. So it wasn’t a tail operation. Belsey didn’t know what it was.

  Belsey checked the corridor. It was empty. He took the shopping bag of money from where he’d stashed it in his desk and stuffed the notes into his pockets. He left the station by the back entrance.

  Ocean Wealth Protection was just opening up. The advisers were in a cheerful mood. The place smelt of fresh coffee.

  “Come in, come in.” They had the bonhomie of men about to close a deal. “Are you still looking for the same set-up?”

  Belsey trimmed his ambitions. Five grand got him an office address in Liechtenstein, a checking account with the Bank of the South Pacific and a company called International Metal Holdings, registered in the Dominican Republic.

  “It’s a nice one. Records go back four years. You’ve got three directors. All yours to start trading whenever you want.”

  It was enough to sink some money out of reach for the moment, and it left him with a grand to play with.

  “Do you take cash?” Belsey said, and they laughed. “I suppose you know where to put it,” he said. They didn’t laugh at that.

  Belsey took his new paperwork and left the office. He walked to a newsagent’s on Belsize Lane. They stocked five Arabic papers in a rack at the front along with all the major European and American dailies. He compared his clipping of the men shaking hands to the newspapers on offer—Al-Ahram, Alarab, Asharq Alawsat. None quite matched.

  Hampstead station shared a pool of Arabic interpreters with the rest of Camden Borough but none were around that morning. Belsey stashed the ownership documents for his new business corporation in his desk. He felt a pride at the hard evidence of his new life and its burgeoning infrastructure. Now he needed to get some money in it. Which meant taking on the mantle of Project Boudicca. He made some calls. There was an Iranian police constable at Holborn station but the mosque was closer.

  Belsey walked to the Regent’s Park mosque. Since his first, tense visit, the day after the bombings, he had grown to like the place, and its imam Hamid Farahi in particular. The worn lustre of its golden dome rose above the bare branches of the park, facing the apartment blocks of St. John’s Wood. Through the doorway Belsey could see an expanse of red prayer mats, temporarily abandoned but for two men prostrate beneath the huge chandelier. The sunrise prayers had finished a while ago, early-morning devotees dispersed to work, to the coffee shops.

  Belsey slipped his shoes off, went in and asked an attendant if Farahi was about. A moment later the imam appeared.

  “Salaam, Nicholas.”

  “Salaam,” Belsey said. They shook hands. Farahi was elegant in his white robes. Belsey had initially been surprised by how young he was. But he carried himself with the authority of his position.

  “I’ve got some translation work for you,” Belsey said. “If you have a moment.”

  They walked into a library and cultural centre next door to the mosque and took a seat among the bookshelves. Belsey removed the clipping from Devereux’s wallet and handed it over. The imam held it at some distance, as if it was safer that way.

  “This is Al-Hayat.”

  “Tell me about Al-Hayat,” Belsey said.

  “One of the big Arabic newspapers: respected, pro-West, owned by a Saudi prince.”

  “Do you see many in London?”

  “Yes. Any shop selling Arabic newspapers will sell Al-Hayat. It prints in Europe.”

  “What does the circled article say?”

  The imam produced a pair of glasses from within his dishdasha and flicked them open. He peered closer and read: “ ‘Hong Kong Gaming and its major stakeholder, Saud International Holdings, believes sport is a language we all understand. It is the model for a global community.’ ” The imam looked up with a derisive smile.

  “What is this
project they’re talking about?”

  Farahi examined the article.

  “Some investment in London. It doesn’t say. It says ‘the UK entertainment and leisure sector.’ Some big project with these people, AD Development. It was agreed last Saturday. They have just agreed something. They are shaking hands.”

  “It doesn’t say what?”

  “A development in the UK gambling sector. It will see big investment in London. That’s all it says.”

  “Who’s the blond guy?”

  Hamid read the article again. “Pierce Buckingham. Representing AD Development.”

  “Pierce Buckingham.”

  “That’s right.”

  Belsey looked closer at the untrustworthy Buckingham. One more piece for the puzzle.

  “Does it say who the other man is?”

  “Prince Faisal bin Abdul Aziz, the gaming consortium’s majority stakeholder.”

  “Where was this picture taken?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  Belsey studied the spire in the photograph: it had a weathervane on the top, glinting: an arrow on top of a ball. The spire capped a square, stone tower. Between the men and the church was an empty space, like a courtyard, with modern buildings at either side.

  “Have you heard of these people?”

  “Not Pierce Buckingham. The other man, yes. The prince is a great-grandson of the first king of Saudi Arabia. Not a good man.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a thief. He’s draining the country of its money, state money, for his own projects. Many people there are suffering and he invests all the resources in Europe and America. This newspaper is owned by his cousin.” He prodded the paper.

  “OK. Thanks.” Belsey took the clipping back. “You’ve been a help.”

  He dropped into Swiss Cottage Library on his way to Hampstead. The library kept old issues of the Ham & High: the last month’s out on a rack, the last five years filed in a cabinet behind the issue desk. What had Charlotte said? There was a news story about Devereux moving to London but only the Ham & High ran with it. Belsey found last week’s edition and turned through the pages until he saw the headline: NEW OLIGARCH IN TOWN UPSETS LOCALS.

  Alexei Devereux is the latest in a long line of Russian billionaires to set up home on Hampstead’s luxurious Bishops Avenue.

  But local residents have expressed concern over his sudden arrival.

  Devereux’s investment company, AD Development, has courted controversy in the past with its aggressive approach to land acquisition, seeking room for an ever expanding gambling and entertainment empire. Now Devereux’s new neighbours fear that the might of AD Development is in London for a reason. The Russian has made no secret of his wish to make an impact on his favourite European city. Nor is he short of political connections, all of whom refused to comment yesterday.

  Belsey didn’t have to go far to find the Ham & High offices. They took up a floor of the cream-coloured 1980s block beside the library. Belsey went in and said he had a meeting with Mike Slater and was sent up.

  Slater’s office went for a theme of organised chaos: a bicycle wheel and repair kit on the floor, half-empty mugs on top of stacks of books. The walls were decorated with old covers, various scoops, mostly concerning corruption on the council, and several awards for best local coverage: the environment, education, policing. Slater got up from his battered chair when he saw Belsey and grasped him with a double-handed shake. He appeared to be the one who’d had less sleep. One arm of his glasses was fixed with tape and his greying hair was a mess. His desk was covered with information on Jessica Holden.

  “I was a bit short on the phone yesterday,” Belsey said.

  Slater waved this away. “All is forgiven. You couldn’t have come at a better time. I’ve been trying to get my hands on a detective for five hours. It’s a cock-up, right? The shooting. We’re not getting any results from local gangs, criminals, police. I’m thinking it was one God almighty cock-up.”

  “I don’t know, Mike. Maybe. I’m here about Alexei Devereux.” Slater looked puzzled. “You were interested in him,” Belsey said. “At least you were last week.”

  “It was a quiet week. Am I in trouble?”

  “Why would you be?”

  “Because of the article we ran: the petition.”

  “Why would that get you in trouble?”

  “Because something’s wrong with it. And because he’s suddenly dead.”

  Belsey sat down. “Talk to me.”

  “I knew the name, Alexei Devereux.” Slater collapsed into his worn chair, hands gripping the arms. “I knew he was one of the oligarchs, expanding his empire. I’d heard the rumours about his interest in the casino and gaming industry, and that he had a reputation for liking bribes, kickbacks, call it what you will. This was the first I’d heard about him moving to London. But I ran a check and it seemed right, he was on The Bishops. I never saw the petition until it was too late. A new boy cleared the story. I would never have run it without a thorough check. Not where someone like Alexei Devereux is concerned.”

  “Then you heard he’d died.”

  “Well, you can imagine I had mixed feelings. I got a tip-off from someone in the hospital that he was dead—that he’d killed himself. I imagine he had bigger things to worry about than the Ham & High, but at the same time it didn’t fill me with a sense of good tidings.”

  “In the article it mentions Devereux’s political connections. Who are they?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I do know Devereux was turned down for a visa two years ago because he was wanted on fraud charges. This time around he had Granby’s name on the application and he was invited in. I know Granby helps those who help himself. And conveniently there are a lot of ways to help Milton Granby without your name appearing anywhere inconvenient. He’s a local character. I can’t pretend to know anything about his involvement with Alexei Devereux.”

  “The petition was about racecourses,” Belsey said.

  “Supposedly. It said he was a bad influence on the area. It was one of the vaguest things I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’d like to take a look at it.”

  Slater led Belsey into a back room crowded with box files. It had a safe in the side wall. The editor opened the safe, removed a file and after a moment produced the fax. It contained a list of 150 people who didn’t like Devereux moving into the neighbourhood, but very little indication of their exact grievance. Slater had marked the list with question marks and crosses.

  “What are these?” Belsey asked.

  “After the event, when I started to get a funny feeling, I called around. I ran a check on these names. A question mark means they deny knowing anything about it.”

  “What does a cross mean?”

  “It means they’re dead. Been dead two or three years in most cases.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Dead and still indignant. That’s Hampstead for you.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know. Someone using an old tax roll. Someone with an axe to grind. A business rival, maybe.”

  Belsey looked at the number from which the fax had been sent. It felt naggingly familiar.

  “Have you traced the fax number?”

  “No.”

  “Send something through to it. A blank sheet.”

  “OK.” They went back to the main office and Slater did as he was instructed. “Now what?”

  “Can I take this?” Belsey said, lifting the fax.

  “I’ll run you a copy.”

  He used the same machine to run Belsey a copy of the petition.

  “Did Devereux contact you about the article?” Belsey said.

  “No.”

  “Is that strange?”

  “The whole thing’s strange. It’s going to get a
hell of a lot stranger once news of Devereux’s death becomes established. The rumours are just starting. Soon there will be a storm.”

  Belsey wondered how that would impact on his own business. He had to get his plan in place quickly.

  “Do you know of a Pierce Buckingham?” he asked.

  “Rich boy. Helps Middle Eastern companies invest in Europe. Nasty piece of work as far as I’m aware.”

  “How do you know about him?”

  “I read the papers. It’s part of my job. Why are you interested in Pierce Buckingham?”

  Belsey produced the Al-Hayat clipping. Slater admired it but didn’t have anything to add. It was a handshake about a London investment. That much Belsey knew. Something facilitated by Granby, was his guess. Something that brought a lot of money in, but not enough to keep Devereux or Jessica Holden above the ground.

  Slater gave him a copy of the faxed petition. Belsey thanked him and headed for the door.

  “Nick,” Slater said.

  “What?”

  “You haven’t explained why you’re here.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “No.”

  “I appreciate you keeping me out of the paper, Mike. Thank you for that. I owe you a drink.”

  Belsey walked to The Bishops Avenue and checked the fax machine. One blank fax had come through from the offices of the Hampstead & Highgate Express, forty-five minutes ago. The number on the machine matched the anonymous leak to the Ham & High. Devereux was complaining about himself.

  He walked out of the front door, wondering why Devereux would do that. He grabbed Devereux’s post as he left. It kept coming, more each day, eight envelopes of various sizes. Then he looked up to see Pierce Buckingham standing on the other side of the road.

  Belsey crammed the envelopes into his jacket and started at a brisk pace away from the house. He let his stalker follow him back to Hampstead police station. Buckingham kept a steady distance of twenty or thirty yards between them. Belsey rehearsed what he knew of him. Buckingham and Prince Faisal connected—he had a newspaper clipping of that lucrative-looking handshake. Max Kovar didn’t like that. Maybe he wanted to be the man in the picture. Don’t trust Buckingham. Belsey didn’t. But if Buckingham was going to hurt him he would have done it by now, surely. And maybe he needed the opportunity to speak. Maybe Belsey could ask him what exactly Project Boudicca involved that might have left a very empty home on The Bishops Avenue. And as he walked down Rosslyn Hill, thinking about the faked petition, he started wondering to what extent it had ever been occupied.