by Mark McKay
‘Must be them.’
‘Anyway,’ said Simms, ‘the “Persian Star” got to Copenhagen on August 27. Stayed two days, then left. For where, we don’t know.’
The question was, did it leave with or without Sylvie and Le Roux? And why go to Denmark? Was there another buyer in Denmark?
‘The ship must show up somewhere, sooner or later,’ said Nick.
‘There’s an all ports alert out on it now. If it shows up somewhere in the western world, we’ll know.’
‘What’s the next move, then? Did Special Branch deign to share that with you?’
‘Halloran thought he’d check out European billionaires with a taste for fine art who’d been to Crete recently. He said something about talking to your contact at Sotheby’s.’
Nick thought Halloran might get a frosty reception from Clive Jameson after what had happened to Kate.
‘Did he tell you about Japan?’ he asked Simms.
‘He told me you’d been upgraded as a result of something you found out there. I thought you were on holiday. And what the hell did he mean by “upgraded”?’
‘I’ve become an honorary member of Special Branch.’
He brought Simms up to speed. The other man listened intently. He knew how sensitive this information was and could be trusted not to divulge it to anyone not directly connected to the case.
‘My guess is,’ concluded Nick, ‘that the lions were flown to Japan from Denmark. We should start checking freight flights out of there, after August 27.’
‘Won’t Halloran already be doing that?’
‘I didn’t tell him how they got to Japan. I’ll update him later today.’
Nick attended training as usual on the Wednesday evening. The two hour class was a breeze after the daily schedule he’d been subjected to in Japan. The effects of such an intensive immersion in Aikido was noticeable in all the students who had attended, they were just a little more spontaneous and effective with their locks and throws than they had been previously. When the class was over, Nick approached Oyama.
‘Sensei Mashida said I should ask you to teach me the ki exercises. I’m not sure what he meant, exactly.’
Oyama looked at him for a long moment, before replying. ‘Yes, perhaps you could learn them. Not difficult to do the exercises, as for results…’
He wished Oyama wouldn’t be so bloody mysterious. ‘What are they for?’
‘Mmm, how do I explain?’ He stood there and considered the question. ‘So, as you know, internal power comes from relaxation and using energy from the centre, here, the hara.’ He patted his abdomen. ‘You do Aikido long enough, you begin to understand this. The exercises Mashida is talking about accelerates the process.’
‘Why teach me, though?’
‘For such a poor student as you, I have no idea,’ said Oyama, smiling. ‘But actually he does this because he worries about your safety. When Yamada’s people come for you, he wants you to be ready.’ He wasn’t smiling now.
Nick was taken aback. ‘He really expects that to happen?’
‘We think it is a possibility. You need to be aware of possible danger, at all times. The exercises increase your inner power, which can be used if necessary. But they also increase your sensitivity to the world around you. All energy is vibration. If a bad vibration is directed at you from a distance, you will know.’
This sounded a little too fantastic to comprehend. ‘From what distance, exactly?’
Oyama shrugged. ‘At first, maybe ten feet. In a year, 200 yards, in ten years, who knows?’
‘When do we start?’
‘Right now, if you like. It will take an hour to show you. Are you ready?’
The exercises consisted of a series of meditations involving breath and visualisations, all done in a defined sequence. Oyama told him to do this for half an hour, morning and evening. In as little as a week he should begin to notice an expansion in his daily awareness. He had to concentrate to understand what he was being told, Oyama wouldn’t write it down. He told Nick to begin the following morning.
‘I found somewhere for my forge,’ said Oyama, when the instruction concluded.
‘That was quick. Where is it?’
‘A small house in the country, just outside Sevenoaks. No neighbours, so nobody to disturb with all my noise.’
Sevenoaks was in Kent, not that far from Chislehurst.
‘Does this mean you’re leaving London? Not teaching here, anymore?’
Oyama shook his head. ‘Still teaching, but not so much. And when I am making a sword, someone else may take the class for a while.’
Nick was pleased for Oyama, he could see that the sensei was keen to reacquaint himself with the art of sword making. He thought it would have been easier if Oyama had simply stayed in Japan. No doubt he had his reasons. He congratulated the sensei on his new property and walked out into the night.
As he walked to station, he reflected on what he’d just learned. He’d always known about the concept of ki. It wasn’t exclusive to Japanese martial arts, it cropped up as chi in Chinese medicine and prana in Indian yoga. He’d even felt intimations of it himself, or thought he had. He knew Oyama and Mashida were anything but stupid and if they were teaching him some fantastic esoteric method of fast tracking this energy, he was up for the ride. The only down side was that he’d have to set the alarm clock half an hour earlier. And he needed to explain why to Lauren. As a fellow Aikido practitioner he knew she would be intrigued, at the very least. It was certainly no crazier than consulting a colour psychologist and then choosing serene green and orange for your baby’s nursery.
He had an email alert the next day. A transfer had been made from the account number Yamada had given him. Shortly afterwards, Halloran called.
‘The account number you gave me is registered in France,’ he said. ‘It’s a private bank. They were reluctant to disclose anything initially, probably because they failed to report the fact that a deposit of $120 million was received recently. But after I spoke with your friend Bonnaire, he applied a little pressure.’
‘Who is it registered to?’
‘A holding company. The director is named as a “Jean-Claude Vernier”, the address turns out to be a post office box in Paris.’
Not much use. ‘Have they given you statements?’
‘The account has only had two transactions. One to an account in the Cayman Islands for $20 million. That could take some time to trace. And the transfer today. For 500,000 euros, to a company in London.’
‘And who are they?’
‘Laval Network Systems, in Southwark. Not far from you. They supply computer hardware and support services to the financial services industry.’
‘Like banks in Canary Wharf,’ muttered Nick.
‘Correct. We’ll be paying them a visit, in one hour. Want to come?’
The Laval offices were in a side street behind London Bridge station. It was a two storey concrete affair, with tinted windows all the way around.
‘We’d like to see your Managing Director,’ said Halloran, flashing his ID at the startled receptionist.
‘Which one? Mr Laval, or Mr Stone?’
‘Either or both will do.’
While the girl picked up the phone and dialled, Halloran signed to the two plainclothes men with him to stay in this area. Nick looked around. There were a number of framed certificates on the walls attesting to Laval Systems’ expertise in the computer hardware and connectivity business. A huge photograph of a computer chip on a circuit board hung behind the receptionist, with the words ‘Silicon and Seamless - Laval Integration’ running diagonally across it. Perhaps it was meant to inspire confidence in potential clients.
‘Mr Laval is on his way,’ said the receptionist.
There was a lift to one side of reception. A minute later the doors opened to reveal a tall and gangly man of about 35, dressed in jeans and t-shirt. He had a lean, pockmarked face and close-cropped dark hair. At first glance you might mistake him
for a stereotypical computer nerd, until you realised that the jeans were Armani and the t-shirt was some other designer brand. The face displayed a keen intelligence, with sharp hazel eyes that were now trained on the new arrivals with an open curiosity.
‘Dominic Laval,’ he said. ‘And you are?’
Halloran made their introductions. Laval seemed unfazed by the arrival of several police officers. He studied them for a moment and then invited Halloran and Nick up to his second floor office.
‘Where’s your other director?’ asked Nick, once they were seated. There were two large desks in here, one of which was obviously vacant.
‘Ian Stone? He’s pitching a client somewhere in the City. He’s the front man. I do the more technical stuff.’
‘How many employees have you got?’ There were several rows of desks visible from the office, through the partition window. About half of them were occupied.
‘Twenty on this floor, mostly sales and support. The installation team are downstairs. Another twenty or so. What exactly can I do for you?’
‘You were paid 500,000 euros this morning. We want to know where it came from.’
Nick thought he detected a flicker of alarm in Laval’s eyes. He seemed calm enough.
‘I would imagine it’s in payment of one invoice or another. Let me think.’ He paused, then punched a number into the desk phone.
‘Yes, Dominic?’ said a female voice.
‘Sally, have we just been paid for the job we did in Germany? 500,000 euros.’
‘Let me check… Yes. This morning.’
‘Bring in the paperwork, would you?’
Sally appeared a moment later; a young brunette with horn-rimmed glasses, tight jeans and vertiginous high heels. She thumped a file on the desk and promptly departed. Laval checked the contents of the file and then passed it across to Halloran.
‘Feuerbach Investment Bank, Frankfurt. We did a server and operating system upgrade. Completely re-cabled the place, too.’
Halloran spent a minute studying the documents and then passed them to Nick. He turned back to Laval.
‘The account from which you were paid. We think it belongs to a wanted terrorist suspect. How do you explain that?’
Laval looked taken aback, but not too much.
‘We invoice our clients and as long as they pay, the account they choose to do it through is something I don’t concern myself with.’ He threw his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of help. If what you say is true, best to start asking questions in Frankfurt.’
Halloran gave him a cold stare. ‘I’ll do that. We’d like a copy of these documents.’
‘I’ll get Sally to do you a copy. Do you want some coffee while you wait?’
They collected the copied documents and left Laval Systems. Halloran had told Laval to make himself available, if required. Laval had been only “too happy” to comply.
‘Can we freeze the account in France?’ Nick asked Halloran, as they walked across London Bridge.
‘I’m working on it. Not possible at the drop of a hat.’ Halloran was irritated. ‘That arrogant arsehole knows more than he’s telling us.’ He thrust the file in Nick’s direction. ‘Will you go straight back to Bishopsgate and contact Feuerbach Bloody Investment Bank?’
Nick took the file. ‘Yes, I can be there in ten minutes. I’ll let you know what I find out.’
It was late afternoon in London and Germany was an hour ahead. Someone answered his call at Feuerbach, but the accounts department had all left for the day. He had no option but to try again in the morning.
He got up ridiculously early the following day in order to fit in his new meditation regime, before calling again from the flat. The receptionist on the other end of the phone spoke perfect English, for which he was grateful. The man he was put through to in accounts was not so fluent and there was a short delay while he was transferred to someone who was. Nick asked for confirmation of the payment to Laval.
‘I can’t give out financial information over the phone,’ came the reply.
‘What can you tell me?’
‘In terms of payments made or received, nothing. However, can you give me the company name again? Plus what they did and when.’
Nick told him. He was put on hold and listened to most of the first movement of Beethoven’s fifth symphony, before the call resumed.
‘Laval Network Systems, you’re sure?’ asked the German.
Nick was sure.
‘We have no relationship with any such supplier. And the last time we had a network upgrade was two years ago. Does that help you?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ He hung up. It was just after 8am. He decided to head straight down to the Laval Systems office in Southwark.
‘What train are you getting?’ he shouted at Lauren, who was getting dressed in the bedroom.
‘The 8.30. Why?’
‘Give me five minutes. I’m coming with you.’
If the receptionist at Laval’s was surprised to see him again, she hid it well.
‘If you’re looking for Dominic, he isn’t here.’
‘Are you expecting him?’
‘He had an appointment at 9am, so yes, we are.’
‘What about Ian Stone, the other director?’
‘Not till this afternoon, I’m afraid. Is there anything I can help you with?’
‘Yes, I want Dominic Laval’s home address and his mobile phone number. Now.’
Nick phoned Yvonne and asked her to come pick him up. Twenty minutes later they were on their way to Laval’s place, in North London. Nick tried the mobile number twice, but there was no answer. He wondered if they were wasting their time, Laval had probably made a run for it. He called Halloran with the news.
‘Arrest him,’ said Halloran. ‘I’ll track down the other director.’
They turned into a tree-lined street in Muswell Hill about 40 minutes later. Laval was at number 72. It was a semi-detached Edwardian three storey house, with a lush front garden that set it well back from the street. Yvonne found a parking space and shortly afterwards they were ringing the front doorbell.
‘Nothing,’ said Yvonne. ‘Shall I try round the back?’
Nick nodded. ‘The girl at Laval Systems said he had a black Range Rover. Parked out front, by the look of it.’
There was a wooden door set into a concrete arch at the side of the property, leading to the rear garden. Yvonne tried it. It opened and she went through. Nick went back to the street to check the Range Rover. He phoned the registration number through to DCI Simms at the station.
‘Yes,’ said Simms, after running it through the database. ‘Registered to Mr. Dominic Laval.’
It didn’t mean a lot. Laval could have taken the tube, driving in the London rush hour wasn’t the fastest or most pleasant way to get anywhere.
‘Sir!’ Yvonne was waving at him from the front door, which was now open. ‘In here.’
He ran back and followed her in to the house. There was a spacious entrance hall with coat racks, an umbrella stand and a table sporting a tall Chinese vase with a dragon motif. The hall narrowed to the right, leading to the kitchen. Straight ahead, it opened into a large combined dining and living room, with French doors that opened into the garden beyond.
‘How did you get in?’ he asked Yvonne.
She pointed at the French doors. ‘Someone cut a perfect circle in one of the panes. All I had to do was reach in and open the door.’
There was nobody down here. ‘Check upstairs, but it looks like nobody’s home.’
While Yvonne went upstairs, Nick checked the French doors. Yvonne wasn’t exaggerating, a circular piece of glass had been neatly removed and placed on the ground outside. If it was a burglary, what had they taken? The place looked undisturbed.
He followed Yvonne upstairs. On this floor there were doors leading to what he imagined must be bedrooms and a bathroom. Yvonne emerged from the second door along.
‘In here.’ Her face
was ashen.
It was the master bedroom. The curtains were almost completely drawn, but there was enough sunlight piercing the gap to reveal the shapes of a man and a woman in the king-size double bed. Laval lay on his back, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. The woman lay on her side, with an arm thrown across his chest and her face nuzzling his shoulder. He’d been shot in the forehead and her in the back of the neck, probably as they slept.
‘Christ,’ breathed Nick. He looked at Yvonne. ‘You OK?’
She nodded. ‘Think so. I might just go outside into the garden for a bit. Get some fresh air.’
As far as he knew, this was Yvonne’s first murder scene. ‘Take five minutes to get yourself together. Then call the Scene of Crime boys and get them down here. I’ll call Special Branch.’
Once he’d advised Halloran of the situation, he opened the curtains and looked around. There were two passports on the bedside table next to a wallet stuffed with Australian dollars. He checked the passports. The woman was his wife, Theresa. It was impossible to match the face of the dead woman on the bed to the passport photo, what he could see of her was in profile and partially obscured by her long black hair. He couldn’t contaminate the scene by turning her over, so confirmation would have to wait. There were three suitcases on one side of the bed, stacked one on the other. They were obviously ready to go, and soon. He found the boarding passes on the vanity table. A flight to Sydney from Heathrow, at 5am this morning. They’d missed it. He gave the room one more visual sweep and then checked the rest of the house. Another two guest bedrooms and a bathroom on the top floor yielded nothing of interest. Back in the living room he found a small desk tucked in one corner, with a wireless router on top and a printer underneath, but no computer.
‘Look for a laptop and mobile phones’ he said to Yvonne, who had come inside again. Her time in the garden had seemingly settled her nerves and some colour had returned to her face.
‘SOCO will be here in half an hour,’ she said. ‘I’ll check upstairs.’
They found nothing. When the Scene of Crime team arrived, he left them to it. He and Yvonne were on their way back to Bishopsgate, when Halloran called.