by Parker Bilal
The city felt darker somehow and more deserted. Drunks jostled one another as they waited for the night bus to take them home. Sirens flashed by. Police, ambulances, all heading for one crisis or another. There seemed to be an almost permanent state of emergency.
Still no sign of Fender. It was almost four in the morning by then. The rain had stopped again and Drake found a bench in the park on The Mall, where he curled up to sleep for an hour or so.
It was there, exhausted, cold and in a dazed state, that he fell into an uncomfortable sleep. He was beginning to feel as though this whole excursion might not have been such a great idea. As a boy, Drake had run away from home more times than he cared to remember. Homes, would be more accurate. He had run away from countless foster homes. Before that from his mother and father in the early days, when they would be trying to stab each other in the kitchen. Both of them out of their minds on something. On one of the early occasions he had spent the whole night sleeping under a bench on Tooting Common. He was woken in the morning by the sound of people playing tennis. He was eight at the time. Somebody eventually spotted him and led him home. His father was out cold and hadn’t even noticed he was missing. His mother, to her credit, was frantic.
Just being out here like this was unsettling. It brought back the feeling of not belonging anywhere. The way he’d felt most of his life. What was scary was the sense that he could easily slip back into this. Let go and fall through the net, away from the order that kept him in line. When he’d come back from the war, he had almost lost himself this way. Questioning what it was that had made him go out to Iraq in the first place. What had he been hoping to find? He’d found something out there, but he wasn’t sure he could explain what it was.
At some point between waking and sleeping, Cal became aware of someone approaching him. He was lying half asleep. Somebody was standing in the dark, off to one side, watching him. He struggled upright, feeling so tired that it almost felt as if he was drugged. When he looked back, he saw only shadows and trees. He heard the wind strumming through the thin branches overhead. There was nobody there. He wondered if he had imagined it.
Then he realised he was cold. Not just cold, but shivering, freezing. The rain had returned, light but relentless. It had soaked through his clothes, which now felt stiff and uncomfortable. It wouldn’t make any sense if he caught pneumonia, so he decided that enough was enough. Unlike most of the people he had seen and spoken to that evening he was in the luxurious position of having a home to go to, and that was exactly what he intended doing.
He started to walk back towards the all-night parking to get his car. He was crossing under Admiralty Arch when he saw the flashing blue lights of emergency vehicles and made his way over. The commotion was on the north side. The early hour meant that there were not many onlookers. Drake caught sight of a familiar face on one of the officers putting up crime scene tape.
‘What happened?’
‘Kid was stabbed. Looks like he was sleeping rough. That’s the second this week.’
For his part, the uniform didn’t recognise Drake. The Scene of Crime Officers had still not arrived. Looking towards the crowd of police officers and paramedics gathered around the figure on the floor, Drake noticed the sleeping bag the victim was covered by.
‘Hey, mate. Sir, you can’t walk over there.’
But Drake was already past him. He was almost there when he was intercepted by a burly WPC in an anti-stab vest who put a hand up to block him.
‘Step back, please, sir.’
Drake allowed himself to be led back to the line. He had already seen enough; the wind flipped up the edge of the white sheet laid over the victim. The soft purple shape underneath told him that the victim was the young boy he had given his sleeping bag to only a few hours ago.
He stood there for a time, feeling the pulse of blue light against his face, then he turned to look at the people in the small, huddled crowd behind him. There weren’t many of them, and some were clearly sleeping rough. He wondered if the killer was amongst them.
29
The call from Heather came in as Crane was pulling up the arched drive in front of the Gothic red-brick hotel building above St Pancras station. She clicked on her earpiece as she walked through the majestic entrance.
‘I did some more digging on Howeida’s uncle.’
Crane smiled at the uniformed doorman as he tipped his hat to her.
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Well, I thought it might be an idea to look more closely at the type of places he was investing his money.’
‘Okay.’
The front lobby had the feel of a cathedral and Crane had a vague recollection that Gilbert Scott, the architect of this place, had been well known for his work on churches before he turned to buildings of the Industrial Revolution.
‘The interesting thing is that it does link to our friend Nathanson.’
‘Okay, explain.’
‘Did you know that London has been dubbed the “Death Star” of global kleptocracy? I was shocked, I have to admit. This is public money. It’s being stolen, pushed through an array of accounts and then invested here. We’ve got all kinds of evil people living in this city on their ill-gotten gains. Isn’t that terrible?
‘Shocking.’ Crane worried that Heather was about to launch into one of her rants, which were often endless and hard to make sense of.
‘Okay, so I told you about Novo Elysium, didn’t I?’
‘This is the offshore company that Nathanson and Foulkes are tied to?’
‘Oh, it’s much more complicated than that. They tuck one firm inside another. It’s like boxes, or those Russian dolls, which makes sense since much of the cash is coming out of there. Russia, I mean.’
‘But not just Russia, right?’ Crane gazed up at the elegant staircase. The weave of white stairs and black iron bannisters created a kind of domino effect, as if the whole thing might just tumble and fall.
‘Oh, no. There’s money coming from all over the place. That’s what makes it so hard to pin down. All of your Kazakhstans and Azkabans and what have you.’
‘I’m not sure Azkaban is actually a real place.’
‘Well, you know what I mean. Their regulatory systems are non-existent. The point of these offshore havens is that they are not covered by respectable banking authorities.’
‘So there’s nobody ruling the movement of the money?’
‘Exactly. It all gets mixed up. The only thing we can be sure of is that some of it is very dodgy. But the point is …’ Heather paused to compose her thoughts. ‘The money comes back and is then funnelled into London property. It’s estimated there’s nearly a hundred thousand properties owned that way. It runs into the billions.’
‘So the London property market is a money-laundering merry-go-round?’
‘You said it.’ Crane could hear crunching coming down the line and knew that Heather was tapping into her biscuit supply. ‘Novo Elysium has an impressive portfolio of clients from around the world – Kuwait, Russia, Ukraine, China, the oil rich states of Central Asia. You name it.’
‘All of them investing in property here in London?’
‘Exactly.’
Crane changed the subject. ‘I’m about to meet Howeida’s uncle, Heather, so I need to know what you’ve got on him.’
‘Ah, well. Mr Almanara is also a property owner, of course. I found this out through a friend who works at an estate agent. They know all the tricks. You should see where she lives. I mean, it’s like walking into a film. I’m always really careful. You can’t really sit down anywhere because you’re afraid of disturbing the tone.’
‘Doesn’t sound very practical.’
‘I know. I couldn’t live like that, but it is gorgeous.’
‘Howeida’s uncle?’ Crane tried to nudge Heather back on track.
‘Right, well, Mr Almanara owns quite a number of properties, mainly in the Knightsbridge and Edgeware Road areas, as well as in the Shard. He ha
s a place up there apparently. I have to say it would make me feel a little queasy to live in a place like that. It looks as though it could fall down if the wind blew too hard.’
Crane closed her eyes to try not to lose track. ‘So, he owns these through a company?’
‘Yes, absolutely, didn’t I say that?’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Well, I meant to. The thing is that my friend Ilsa, that’s the one who works for the posh estate agent, she called this company. I mean, she knows everybody. Anyway, she heard an interesting story. Apparently, Mr Almanara was about to invest in a firm called YDH. Ypres Development Holdings. I haven’t been able to find out much about them.’
‘Okay, and what happened?’
‘Well, he pulled out at the last minute.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No. That was all she could get out of them.’
‘Okay, we need more on that. Also on this other company, YDH.’
‘I’ll get on to her. She loves this kind of thing. Actually, she’s a bit of a gossip, if truth be told.’
‘Well, ask her to be discreet.’
‘I shall instruct her to remain clam-like.’
‘Gotta go. Sorry, Heather. Speak later.’
Crane clicked off and tucked her phone away.
Abdelhadi Almanara was waiting for her in the Gilbert Scott bar above the station. The stone arches, brass rails and old railway lamps gave it a timeless feel. He was younger than Crane had expected. Dressed in a dapper grey suit and open-necked white shirt with tan leather shoes. Casual, but clearly classy. He rose to his feet to meet her. His hand in hers was as soft as a bird.
‘So delighted you could make it.’
‘I couldn’t afford to let the opportunity slip away,’ she smiled.
He had chosen a seat close to the high windows.
‘I hope you don’t mind meeting here. It’s the most convenient place for me, as I have just flown in and I am due to catch a train up north to see my horses.’
‘Sounds very nice.’
‘Yes. I have three of them at stables outside Doncaster. I love travelling by train, especially in this country.’
‘Some would view that as a special kind of masochism.’
He laughed at that. ‘Of course, I understand, but for me it is a novelty. I rarely travel by train. I go from one airport to another and they are all the same. But this …’ He gestured at the splendour of the room they were in. ‘Such magnificence is rare to come by.’
‘So, how did an Emirati prince become a fan of the architecture of the Industrial Revolution?’
‘Good question, although I would have to correct you on one point. I am not a prince.’
‘I thought you were all princes, one way or another.’
He bowed gracefully. ‘Tell me, your background is Persian?’
‘On my mother’s side.’
Almanara beamed. ‘The beauty of Persian women is legendary. You have no idea how many poems were written about it.’
‘I have some idea. My mother specialised in poetry.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded appreciatively. ‘Hafiz, Saadi Shirazi.’ The waiter came over and took their order. Almanara suggested Manhattans and Crane agreed, partly to go along with him. She was interested to see how far he would take this liberal portrayal of himself.
‘Perhaps you could tell me why you agreed to meet me.’
‘As you know, I am very concerned about Howeida. It is now ten days since she was last seen.’
‘Is it true that you are cousins?’
‘We are first cousins, directly. My mother and her mother are half-sisters. They have the same father but different mothers.’
‘Okay. I’m not sure that qualifies as first cousins, but let’s say it does. Why did you want to see her in London?’
‘Howeida and I were due to be married. It was a family thing. I understood that she wanted to come here to complete her studies and I applauded this.’ Almanara’s face darkened slightly. ‘There were unkind tongues at home saying this was wrong, for an unmarried woman to come here to London alone. I disagreed.’
‘You weren’t trying to take her home?’
‘No, not at all.’ The frown deepened. ‘If you knew her, you would never make such a suggestion. The women in her family are very strong-willed. Howeida is no exception.’
Crane sat back. She was having a hard time reconciling this story with what she had heard from Howeida’s flatmate, Savannah.
‘So how do you explain her disappearance?’
‘I can’t, and frankly that is why I am so concerned.’ He tapped a finger on the table’s dark varnish. He cleared his throat. ‘I realise, of course, that there are certain parties interested in painting me as some kind of monster.’
‘By certain parties, you mean my client Marco Foulkes?’
‘Also his accomplice, the lady from Virginia.’
‘Accomplice?’ Crane sipped her drink. ‘You think they are working together against you?’
‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘What makes you think they would do that?’
He exhaled slowly. ‘That is an interesting question. There are obvious reasons, and there are the more general … shall we say, assumptions.’
‘You’re saying they have a biased opinion of you.’
‘We live in an age of ignorance and prejudice.’ Almanara gave a half-smile. ‘To some people, I can appear as a threat.’
‘And you’re here to convince me that you are not?’
‘I am not a monster.’
Crane smiled. ‘Isn’t that what all monsters say?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, and left it at that.
He certainly didn’t look like a monster. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, which was often. Clearly Abdelhadi Almanara had rather a fond view of himself. A bit of a ladies’ man, if you like. Old-fashioned, too. Like the carefully trimmed moustache, which added a touch of Omar Sharif.
‘I didn’t come here to accuse you,’ said Crane. ‘Or to confirm the beliefs, right or wrong, of my client. I’m here because I am concerned about the welfare of your cousin, Howeida.’
‘Then,’ he said, lifting his chin, ‘we are on the same side. I share your concerns. Why else would I be here, meeting you like this, if I had something to do with her disappearance?’
‘Because you are rich and powerful and this is the best way to save face?’
‘I don’t need to save face. I am a wealthy man. I love horses and trains, but if you told me that I must leave this country and never come back, I would not shed a tear.’
‘So, not the emotional type?’
‘I deal in facts. I am concerned that what is happening here is not what it appears.’
Crane swirled the ice in the bottom of her glass and Almanara waved a hand for the waiter to bring them another round.
‘Tell me about Howeida.’
Almanara’s expression lifted. ‘She was always the most outspoken, the most spirited and the most intelligent person in the family, male or female. Also the most amusing.’ Almanara laughed. ‘She is younger than me by about fifteen years.’ He held up a hand. ‘I know, perfect marriage material because in my part of the world we are all paedophiles by nature, right?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to.’ He drew a sketch with his finger. ‘It’s written in the air.’
‘I’m not here to condemn you.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Almanara. ‘Let us begin again. Tell me what I can do to help you.’
‘First, I’d like to ask about your connection to Marco Foulkes.’
‘Well, it’s very simple really. I had never heard of him until I contacted my cousin. I was over here on business, so naturally I called her. She told me she had met the most amazing man. A writer. Naturally, I was intrigued.’
‘Not jealous?’
‘Perhaps a little bit.’ Almanara squinted at her. ‘Our families wanted us to
marry, but I was not prepared to marry her against her will. With a woman like that it would never work, whatever our families wished. I knew that I needed to give her space.’ He heaved a deep breath. ‘I thought, if I give her freedom then perhaps she might come to me.’
‘A bit of a risk, isn’t it? Letting her come here?’
‘We don’t live in a medieval age, no matter how much we like to pretend we do. People see what is going on in the world. They watch films and television, they connect. In short, I had no choice.’
‘So you must have expected that someone like Marco might turn up.’
‘Not exactly. A fellow student perhaps. I was prepared for that. Someone her own age. Marco is older. He is famous. He can show her another side to life, one that I can’t.’
‘So you were jealous, at least a little bit.’
‘When I heard about him I felt I had to re-establish myself in her life.’
‘Hence the restaurant and the expensive wine?’
‘Ah, of course. That is why you agreed to meet me.’ Almanara nodded to himself. ‘Am I a liberal, or did I simply order expensive wine to give that impression? This is the question you have been asking yourself. And now, what is your conclusion?’
‘I’m not sure I’m ready to draw one yet.’
‘Ms Crane, I agreed to meet for the simple reason that I am concerned about Howeida. This is a foreign country. I would be happy to hire your services, but I suspect that since you are already working for Mr Foulkes you would perceive that as a conflict of interests.’
The fresh drinks arrived. Crane knew that many men from the Gulf were regular drinkers, not in public but at home, or abroad. There was nothing too remarkable about Almanara drinking.
‘As you say, working for Mr Foulkes puts me in a difficult position.’
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Perhaps we should try to assume we are on the same side.’
‘I would appreciate that.’ Almanara raised his glass. ‘But first I have a confession to make. I do not drink alcohol as a rule. When I am abroad, I find it is useful when dealing with clients. They expect it. More than that, they do not trust a man who does not drink. But my choice at the restaurant was pure guesswork.’