It surprised the couple when the front doorbell rang. Not knowing if it might be a friend of the Towneley Family who were not aware that they were away, Butters quickly tidied himself as he went up to answer the front door. The bell rang a third time as he reached the door but, just before opening it, he peered through the peep hole in the door. There was a young police couple at the door, both probably constables. Considering the recent spate of burglaries, in this, probably the most expensive and tempting area of London, it was nice to see the two of them on the beat again.
He undid the chains, unbolted the door but, as he opened it, was shocked to be thrust aside as the two police barged past him into the house and, turning quickly, slammed the door shut behind them. This was immediately followed by the young male constable thrusting a gun up into Butter’s throat.
‘Not a squeak.’ he said, and then he added, ’how many in the house?’
‘Just myself and my wife,’ replied Butters, his voice quaking.
‘And where is she?’
‘Downstairs in our sitting room, watching television.’
The policeman nodded to the police girl who left the two of them in the hallway and went off downstairs to find her. In the small, snug sitting room she went over to Maisie Butters, put a gentle hand on her shoulder and smiled down at her.
‘No need to disturb your viewing,’ she said bending down close to the old lady. ‘Constable Smithers and I are just upstairs with your husband – we’re just checking out the alarm systems and windows, can’t be too careful these days.’ Maisie looked back up at her, smiled and nodded her head in agreement.
The young police woman then pretended to check the windows whilst looking round the room. Surreptitiously, she pocketed up a mobile telephone on the side table and, with Maisie once again intent on the television, she wound the telephone wire round her hand a couple of times and, with a sharp pull, yanked the connection out of the wall socket. She smiled broadly again at Maisie, gave a little wave and left the room to search the rest of the large downstairs area. She pulled out the telephone wires of one other extension and also pocketed a second mobile phone she found in the kitchen.
She then returned upstairs, to join the other two. Smithers had got Butters to give him the full layout of the upstairs rooms and the three of them then proceeded together on a thorough search of the house for telephones and a safe.
It was in Sir Jeremy’s study that they found what they had come for – a small laptop hidden away in a bottom drawer of the bookcase. They took it and its charging cable. Butters, trembling by now, swore on his children’s lives that they had disabled all the telephones in the house and that there were no more mobile telephones either. He was taken downstairs told to sit and watch the television and constable Smithers then used the key to their sitting room which Butters had taken off a large key-ring and locked the two of them in. The two police then left the house, and hurried round to a side street where they had parked their car.
The young police couple, had they not been on a tight schedule, might have done more to ensure that Butters and his wife could not give them away for many hours. After a few minutes had passed, however, Butters explained as gently as he could to Maisie what had happened upstairs and then quietly, as though the young police might still be in the house, rose from the sofa and went over a tall dresser against the wall near the door. Here he scrummaged around in the back of one of its drawers and soon found what he was looking for – a spare master key for the downstairs rooms. Unlocking their sitting room door, he crept back upstairs, and crossed the hall towards the dining room. Just to the left of the dining-room door, tucked away out of sight for discretion, behind a heavy curtain, there was another telephone. He rang both the real police and then Sir Jeremy Towneley at Craithe.
* * * * *
Wheeler arrived at the Antelope pub in Eaton Terrace, and no sooner had he settled into his usual seat in the small snug bar at the back of the pub, than his mobile telephone rang.
‘Hello, Max,’ said the voice the other end, ‘we’ve made a good start on your project and I’ve already got some interesting information for you – when can we meet?’
‘Ah, good, Jock,’ replied Wheeler, ‘I’ve a short meeting with someone in a few minutes, immediately after which my client gets back from Switzerland and I’m seeing him at his place. Why don’t we get together after those two meetings? I can then see what you’ve got for me. Shall we say nine at the Antelope Pub in Eaton Terrace?’
‘Okay, see you there at nine.’
Wheeler took a sip of the pint that had been put on his table while he was on the phone. His mind turned to Jock Hunter’s call. He was pleased with such a quick response for he had first contacted the Major only a few hours ago – soon after his call to Nat Matthews in St Moritz. His urgent need to get on with Matthews’s insistence on sorting matters out by Monday night had left him with little choice but seek out Jock – or, rather the Major as he liked to be known.
He thought about him for a moment. He knew that Jock was not really a major at all but, chameleon-like played the part well – it was better for his mercenary-broking business to have been a commissioned officer than a Sergeant-major. Still, right now, choosing the Major seemed to confirm that he had been right to pick him – already having some ‘interesting information’ for him.
Whilst waiting for Mina, he looked about him, the reassuring familiarity of the Antelope a peaceful counter to the new anxieties of the current situation. The pub had been allowed to remain unchanged in its decor for over sixty years, though the yellow-ocre patina of years of smoke haze had been painted out soon after the smoking ban was introduced in pubs. About the only thing that had changed was that a number of the older pub regulars had moved on to celestial bars, replaced by the likes of Wheeler. He had been coming here, his ‘local’ ever since an unexpected inheritance had helped him to buy a two floor flat in one Cliveden Place’s extremely expensive houses round the corner from here. He knew both the faces and names of some of the regulars. None were his friends however, as he used this as an extension of his house, as a kind of extra office rather than for leisure. Most of the regulars knew that Wheeler used the quiet comfort of the panelled room this way – no one listened in his conversations, no one asked questions, some of them used the place for the same reasons.
Mina was prompt as always, and as soon as Wheeler spotted her coming through from the front bar, he caught Harry the barman’s attention. With nothing said, Harry poured a large glass of Chardonnay and Mina collected it from the bar on her way over to join Wheeler – a procedure seemingly well-practiced between the three of them.
She was in a good mood. Not only did Wheeler owe her for the information she had emailed to him earlier, she still had the memory stick with her. Though she was now well practiced in pretending to Wheeler that she was only a part of his team of informants because of the money she could send to her supposedly impoverished family, she quickly reminded herself to maintain the charade as she reached his table.
There was no small talk, no time wasted on ‘catching up’. They got straight down to business. As soon as she was seated next to Wheeler, she delved into her large floppy leather bag and, after a moment of rummaging around, brought her hand out with the tiny memory stick in it. Wheeler held his hand out for it but instead of handing it over to him she said, ‘how much for the email and for this as I’ve more even than those two?’ Unlike her demeanour with Cape, there was no trace of an accent when dealing with Wheeler and a stranger overhearing her might have thought her a native Londoner.
‘Five hundred for the email,’ said Wheeler, ‘same again depending on what’s on the memory stick. After that, we’ll see what your other information is worth to me’,
At five hundred pounds, she handed over the memory stick.
Wheeler pulled out a small laptop from behind him, opened it and plugged Mina’s memory stick into it. He opened the files and began working through them. Twice he said ‘sh
it’ as he read through the files. Whilst he did this, Mina pretended to be looking round the photographs on the panelled walls and she amused herself by wondering just how much each use of the word ‘shit’ was going to be worth in money to her.
As she was getting near to the end of her glass of Chardonnay, he snapped the laptop shut and put it to one side taking the memory stick out of it and putting it in his pocket. He then picked up his half-finished pint and downed the rest of it.
‘Another?’ he asked. Mina just nodded.
On returning with the drinks, instead of his usual bargaining stance he simply said, ‘You’ve done well, Mina.’
She was quite shocked. All they usually discussed was money, but this comment of his sounded close to praise. She smiled – and, come to think of it, the smile was probably the first she had ever given him since her recruitment.
‘So that‘s five-hundred for the email,’ he said, returning her smile, ‘and five hundred for the memory stick. And I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you another five hundred, if you’ll keep an eye on Mr Cape over the weekend… Can you manage that or do you have other plans?’
She smiled back at him. ‘No other plans, but I’m already going to a conference with Mr Cape tomorrow morning – something to do with the launch of this Athena.’
‘That’s good. So fifteen hundred it is,’ said Wheeler, ‘and, for that, I need you to ring or contact me by email or text the moment anything significant happens, can you do that?’
‘I manage,’ she replied in a rare lapse of English grammar.
Wheeler checked the money put it into an envelope and handed it her between the two of them and out of sight of the others in the bar. Mina took the envelope, got up, smiled gratefully down at him and, after promising to keep in touch, left the Antelope.
Chapter 12
Thursday evening,
Wilton Crescent, London W1
As with most things organised by Gustave at the Palace Hotel, Nat Matthews’s journey home was impeccably arranged. It was both fast and comfortable, and took just over three hours in all. From the Helipad near the hotel he was whisked in a Eurocopter to Zurich’s Engadin Airport. There a chartered Cessna six-seater jet flew him direct to London’s City Airport and he alighted from his taxi at Wilton Crescent at seven twenty-five. The journey, pampered all the way, also put new fight into him to deal with the potential demise of his company.
At exactly eight o’clock, Wheeler rang the doorbell at Matthews’s house. It was opened to him by a butler who welcomed him in and took his coat. Although Wheeler had extricated Matthews out of some embarrassing situations, and regarded himself to being as close to Matthews as anyone, it was his first visit here. He liked to think of himself as ‘a man about town’ and that there was therefore little that would surprise or shock him. He was wrong about that. As he looked about him in the hall and up the elegant unsupported spiral Georgian stairway of this classical house, he let out an involuntary gasp; never before had he seen such an extravagant, outlandish display of wealth. Gone were the staid furnishings and understated simplicity of its previous aristocratic owner’s taste in decoration. In its place, there was now a profusion of both pictures and furniture and as much gold leaf as might have rivalled an Austrian Baroque church.
‘Well, you’d better come up here, then,’ came Matthews’s voice from beyond the top of the stairs; it had a sharp edge to it. The Butler laid Wheeler’s coat temporarily on a small chair near the front door, led him up the stairs and ushered him into the drawing-room. This bright thirty by forty-foot room, with three tall windows looking out onto Wilton Crescent, was, like the rest that Wheeler had seen, over-furnished and decorated. There was an incongruous mix of classic Dutch School still-life paintings next to minimalist modern works in garish colours; it had an un-lived-in air, and it made Wheeler feel even more uncomfortable than before. Matthews himself had already crossed the room and seated himself in a large wing chair to the left of an ornate white marble fireplace.
‘Have a seat,’ he said, indicating a similar chair to his own the opposite side of the fireplace. Wheeler sat down on the front edge of it and looked back at Matthews with a degree of trepidation. He had witnessed the other’s temper before.
Matthews’s face was blotchily red and his small pale blue eyes darted here and there, agitated; his close-cropped hair glistened slightly − with sweat, Wheeler surmised. Sweating, darting eyes, red face, danger-signs Wheeler knew well. He quickly rehearsed again the opening lines he had practiced earlier.
‘I’m sorry to have dragged you away from your holiday, but as I told you on the ‘phone, I thought…’
Matthews cut his sentence short. ‘If I properly understood your call to me in St. Moritz, the Matthews Finch Hedge Fund has been hacked into over the internet and my unique trading algorithms have been illegally tampered with. Have I got that right?’
Wheeler had barely time to open his mouth to reply than Matthews continued, at pace. ‘This effing hacking team’s mucking about with the company’s trading may have lost us millions already; I’ll be checking that in detail in due course. Those losses, however, pall into insignificance against what will happen as soon as any of my clients discover that the money they have invested with the Fund is no longer under our complete control. Am I right in that too?’
‘I’m afraid that’s also true, but…’
‘And I told you over the telephone I needed two things right away. The first I said I needed a top PR storyline to be held in readiness in case this hacking story gets out. The second thing was for you and all your fancy contacts to make a start on getting this fixed. As you’ve had more than four hours since we spoke, where are we with those?’
Wheeler put up his hand as might a child in class; this time Matthews allowed him to speak.
‘First John Struthers and I felt that we needed to look at all the options open to us,’ he replied, pausing so that Matthews might get the point that rushing into immediate, frenzied action might not be the best way forward. ‘Would you like me to run through the options which we considered?’
‘I suppose so.’ Matthews let out a grunt of irritation. ‘But make it brief – all I want to know what you decided to actually do about this…this outrage.’
‘Okay,’ replied Wheeler, clearing his throat. ‘To start with, as this hacking operation seems to be under the auspices of the Bank of England, we ruled out trying to do anything like getting an injunction or mounting a legal challenge. We also thought these pointless as we felt we’d never get anything done along legal lines with the holiday weekend upon us. Next, bearing in mind the over-riding need to be trading normally come Tuesday morning, we decided that whatever we decided to do, it should be as under-cover or secret as possible,’
‘That sounds good to me,’ said Matthews. ‘So what exactly does that translate into?’
‘You’ll be pleased to hear, I think, that I’ve already got the first lot of people on board with this. I’m confident that they and another group I’m contacting shortly will have everything back to normal – as though nothing had happened – by Monday night.’
‘Well that sounds better.’ Matthews’s eyes closed for a moment as though he was lost in thought. ‘But that’s not very specific is it? Who are these people and what exactly are they going to do? If you can give me the outcome, it can’t be that difficult to tell me how they’re going to get there, can it?’
‘That brings me to one of only two conditions I need in all of this,’ replied Wheeler.
‘Conditions?’ Matthews face instantly reddened further and Wheeler noticed his hands go from a loose clasp to tight fists. Wheeler reacted to this apparent escalation in Matthews’s state of agitation. He did so by getting to his feet and going over to stand in front of the fireplace. From this vantage, he looked back down at Matthews. ‘You’ll recall that last year I got you out of that mess in Budapest and also dealt with the fiasco in Siena the year before that…?’
Matthews said noth
ing, struck silent by this unexpected turn in the conversation.
‘What you probably don’t realise,’ continued Wheeler, ‘is that I have sometimes have to do things to get clients out of trouble which it’s far better the clients know nothing about, do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, I understand, and I appreciate what you’ve done for me in the past. Are you now saying that it would be better I don’t know what people you take on or what they might have to get up to?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ replied Wheeler. ‘You’re a notable City figure and a partner in a well-known company; not only must you not be involved in any way with what now needs to be done, but it will also be much better for you if you know nothing of what we may need to get up to.’
‘I understand,’ said Matthews. He looked down at his hands which were now just loosely clasped in his lap once again.
‘All you really need to know is of a satisfactory outcome once it’s all over, don’t you think?’
.Matthews gave a nod, his face now expressionless, though at least he now looked relaxed for the first time and some of the heightened colour had gone from his face.
‘I can’t tell you more for a further reason,’ continued Wheeler. ‘Because of the time-constraints, we’re going to have to use what I might call a gloves-off approach, a way which I believe this situation requires. Do you understand that too?’
‘Gloves off? That’s fine by me’ said Matthews. ‘A moment ago you said you had two conditions, one is that I don’t ask any questions about what you’re doing, what’s the other one?’
‘Money,’ said Wheeler but then quickly added, ‘to get the results we both want, I’m going to be using only the best of people, those with proven track records. You’ll just have to steel yourself to the fact that if you want to get your company back safe within this tight time-frame, is going to cost you. Do you need to talk to Paul Finch, about that?’
Betrayed: (A Financial and Conspiracies Thriller – Book 1 in the Legacy Thriller Series) Page 9