St. James just smiled.
A second email from Dozer said Denzel was continuing to watch Anna’s apartment, and there had been no break-ins.
“Saturday night, you feel like doing something?” St. James asked, buoyed by the progress.
“Wouldn’t mind some kind of entertainment.”
“What do you feel like? Music? Comedy? A play?”
“Play might be nice, depending what’s on.”
St. James googled entertainment in Portsmouth.
“Pride and Prejudice is playing at the Kings Theatre.”
“Bit too heavy for me,” Anna said quickly.
“There’s a double comedy at the New Theatre Royal.”
“I like the sound of that. Who’s performing?”
“Two British comedians I’ve never heard of.”
“Let’s do that,” she said enthusiastically.
St. James went online and booked two tickets for the 7:30 performance.
Online restaurant suggestions included a number of venues, and they settled on Las Iguanas at Gunwharf Quays.
Las Iguanas was wonderful, and the comedians made St. James laugh so hard he thought his wound might break open. They were back at the hotel by 10:30 and went straight to the Florence Arms pub next door for a nightcap.
St. James waved the bartender over. “Dry vodka martini for me, Baileys on ice for the lady.”
Anna said, “Wonderful evening, St. James.”
“I laughed so hard you may have to dress my shoulder again!”
The next morning William was waiting in the lobby when they came down at nine. They shook hands and jumped into his red Volkswagen Passat.
As William pulled away, St. James noticed a police car across the street from the hotel. He smiled.
Chief Sergeant Collingwood.
Although much shorter than his brother, William was slightly heavier with red hair. Quieter than Basil. Social but not outgoing, and certainly not as pretentious.
As soon as they arrived at the plant, William produced a file of documents, just as Basil had.
“I’ll spend some time reviewing this at the hotel,” St. James said as he took the file. “Would you be good enough to show us around?”
“Delighted to,” William replied. “Won’t be as interesting as a workday when everything’s running full tilt, but I’ll do my best.”
“If there’s something we need to see in action we’ll come back tomorrow morning,” St. James said cheerfully.
William’s plant tour was every bit as thorough and efficient as Basil’s. The building was smaller than Plymouth but just as orderly, neat, and clean.
They went through all the same questions St. James had asked Basil and Eli.
“I may want to speak to the plant accountant as well, depending on what I find reviewing the file.”
“Not a problem. We’ll make sure you have everything you need.”
William confirmed Basil and Captain Thorne’s descriptions of count-day events to be his understanding as well. St. James now felt he had as true a picture of what went on that day as he was ever going to have.
He asked William to send electronic versions of the file, just as he had with his brother, which William did while St. James and Anna were sitting in his office.
William’s office was larger than Basil’s, and better decorated too, with several floor plants, modern art, and much newer furniture.
“Did you have trawlers tied up on count day?” St. James asked, knowing the answer but wanting everyone’s confirmation independent of each other.
“No. We waited for the three that eventually ended up in Plymouth. We didn’t have catch to process that day. Shift workers were angry we brought them in for trawlers that never appeared.”
“What is the name of the accountant in Toronto assigned to your plant?” St. James asked.
“Same as Basil’s, Jennifer Quigley.”
“And your plant accountant here?”
“Kathy Holmes.”
For a half-hour or so St. James asked several questions about plant procedures and authorization policies, then thanked William for taking time out of his weekend to meet. He drove them back to the hotel, and St. James and Anna spread the files over the bed, just as they had done in Plymouth. Anna compared all count sheets, dollars, and summaries with those in the file given to St. James by Karen.
St. James sent a second set of emails to Van Hoyt and Jennifer asking for electronic Portsmouth inventory files. It being Sunday, he didn’t expect a response until Monday morning, so he was surprised to see the documents in his inbox Sunday afternoon.
While Anna traced inventory on the hard copies St. James did the same electronically. William and Jennifer’s typeface and font size were Times New Roman 12; Karen’s was Century 12.
At 4:30 the phone rang. It was William inviting them to Sunday dinner.
“I apologize for not mentioning it this morning. I was so focused on your getting everything you need it slipped my mind.”
St. James accepted the invitation enthusiastically. William would be around to pick them up at 6:00.
William Hughes’s home was not far from the hotel. His wife, Camilla, a large jolly person, greeted them at the door with a huge smile. Drinks were served before they sat down to their second roast beef and Yorkshire pudding dinner since arriving in England.
Partway through the dinner St. James said, “William what do you really make of this inventory situation?”
“Puzzled the hell out of me,” he replied casually, wine in hand. “I stopped trying to understand head office a long time ago. Now I just keep my head down and do my job as best I can.”
St. James smiled. “Smart. Did the auditors ever talk to you about it?”
“With no trawlers here there really wasn’t much point in them raising the issue. They were only concerned with count procedures and accuracy for the plant. You know, freezers and packaging. We didn’t even have catch in progress on the production line, which bothered me immensely since it affected the plant’s financial performance, which means my performance.”
“And Basil was powerless to help because Toronto was calling the shots,” St. James offered sympathetically.
“That’s the sum total of it all. Not Basil’s fault.”
St. James ate the last of the Yorkshire pudding apportioned to him. “Did you and Basil talk about it at the time?”
William nodded. “I never saw Basil so upset with Toronto. The three trawlers didn’t arrive at his plant until around four that day. The auditors had already left, so his teams were forced to count trawler catch alone. The three captains were wild with anger, worried quality would deteriorate and they’d receive less on settlement when the delay wasn’t their fault.”
St. James nodded.
“Would you like some more, Hamilton?” Camilla asked.
“It was wonderful, Camilla, but I’m too full.”
“You’re a fabulous cook, Camilla,” Anna said graciously. “I could learn a thing or two from you.”
“Thank you, Anna. You’re very kind.”
Table discussion drifted to the possible real-estate investment William and Basil were contemplating.
“Have the two of you been planning this for a while?” St. James asked as Camilla placed crème caramel in front of him.
“We’ve put away a couple thousand pounds each year now for some time to have a smaller mortgage. We’re very conservative people. Not big risk-takers.”
“Good planning,” St. James said on the last bite of dessert.
They chatted over coffee for a while, then thanked the hosts for their wonderful hospitality. William arranged a cab to drop them back at the hotel at 8:30, and as usual they stopped for a nightcap.
“So, do you think the brothers were in cahoots on this inventory thing?” Anna asked when drinks were served.
“No. They don’t have enough control over the system. They live modestly, save to make investments rather than borrow. Not th
e profile of a crook.”
“What is the profile of a crook?” Anna said quizzically.
“They are usually high-livers. Spend beyond their means, make a big show of everything: expensive cars, houses, that sort of thing. Overconfident. Cocky.”
They finished their drinks, signed the bill to the room, and headed off to bed.
Monday was a beautiful day with a warm, gentle breeze. Noisy seagulls greeted them when they emerged from the hotel.
St. James concluded he didn’t need anything further from William and could think of nothing the plant accountant could provide he didn’t already have, so they decided to spend the day touring Portsmouth.
The lady at the front desk suggested a hop-on, hop-off bus tour of the city. Tickets were available a couple of blocks away, and fifteen minutes later they hopped off one bus to tour the HMS Warrior, the fastest warship of Queen Victoria’s time. They were back on the bus an hour later and off again at Fort Nelson and the Royal Garrison Church, finally landing at Azzurro’s in Gunwharf Quays for drinks and an early pasta dinner at four-thirty.
“I think I might change my travel arrangements, Anna. Go straight to Washington,” St. James said out of the blue.
Anna was surprised. “Why?”
“For the Stevens case: Jensen needs a second go-around from me. The case is moving along nicely now, but I do have to clear up some details, see if I can turn theory into proof.”
“That means you know what happened.”
St. James smiled. “No, not for sure. For the moment it’s just a theory to prove or disprove. Loose ends. Still need to examine Jensen’s investments, grill him on dealings with certain shareholders, perhaps go to Cayman to trace money.”
“Care to share the theory, at least?”
“Not yet.”
Chapter 48
Tuesday afternoon St. James hired a car and driver to take them to Heathrow where they checked into the Airport Hilton for the night, convenient for travelling to North America on early Wednesday morning flights. Then he went online and changed Wednesday’s flight destination from Ottawa to Washington and made hotel arrangements there. Anna elected to stick with her Ottawa flight.
Exhausted, they chose room service over the restaurant downstairs.
Anna fell asleep shortly after dinner. But St. James was restless and went to the lobby bar and climbed onto the first available stool.
The bar was crowded, and it took a while to be served. Eventually St. James ordered a double Forty Creek on the rocks.
Halfway through his drink a bald man, about forty-five, climbed on the stool next to him. Wearing a cheap grey suit and a white shirt bulging at the waist, the man looked as if he’d fallen on hard times. He introduced himself as Harry Jameson.
Harry turned out to be a talker, and a loud one at that, with little discretion when it came to his own personal affairs. He bragged about the money he made, his net worth, and several big names he knew in Washington.
The president of his own business, Harry imported everything from booze to women’s apparel into the United States. He was in London on a buying trip and on his way home next morning; as it turned out, on the same flight as St. James.
It wasn’t long before Harry got around to asking St. James what he did for a living. St. James simply said he was a CPA. Any more information than that St. James was convinced would be all over Washington by next Tuesday.
“Well, well, a CPA?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you with a firm in Washington?”
“No. I’m kind of on my own.” St. James said cautiously.
“Are you taking on new clients?” he asked enthusiastically.
St. James didn’t like where this was going.
“Afraid I’m at capacity at the moment.”
“Too bad,” he said, staring down at his glass. “My accountant disappeared.”
St. James looked at Harry.
“On holiday?”
“Nope. Just disappeared … some time ago. Gone. Nobody knows where. Something about missing money.”
Harry waved at the bartender for another drink. St. James did the same.
“Did you know him well?” St. James asked casually.
“Not really. The wife and I had dinner at his house a couple of times. Very uncomfortable. He and his wife were obviously unhappy together and tried to hide it. Not well, I might add.”
“Don’t recall hearing about this,” St. James said. “Which firm would this be?”
“Stevens, Gables & Strong.”
“Never heard of them,” St. James lied.
“Good firm. But as a client you have to wonder. If there’s one bad apple there could be more. Can I trust them to do my work, is what I’m thinking.”
“What did he do?”
“Took a client’s money ... a lot of money … millions, I believe, and flew the coop.”
“You think it’s true?”
“Why would he run if it wasn’t?” Harry insisted.
“Don’t know. Maybe he has a girlfriend.”
They chatted a few more minutes until St. James exhausted what little bit of substance there was to Harry. On the way up to the room he wondered if Jameson and his wife were the couple Beth Stevens had talked about, the drunken husband who had embarrassed his wife. Harry certainly fit the bill.
On Wednesday morning St. James and Anna went through airport security together as far as they could, kissed, then went their separate ways to different departure lounges.
The flight to Washington was smooth and on time. Harry Jameson sat four rows ahead but made no attempt to connect. Just to be sure, St. James kept his nose well and truly buried in a murder mystery he had bought in the airport bookstore, a signal to Harry he wasn’t looking for company.
It was 4:30 Washington time when St. James checked into the InterContinental The Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue. He unpacked and opened his laptop to find emails from both Dozer and Smythe.
Dozer reported that Samuel Franklin had admitted to being a crony of Gyberson’s, but denied knowing Jensen, or Stevens, or anything about $23 million disappearing. Not surprising. Dozer pushed him hard to learn if he knew Long, Martin Clayton, and Clint Wagner, but Franklin was steadfast in his denial. Nor did he know anyone from Montreal named Sterling.
He had admitted to doing business with Adam Derringer, Amanda Fletcher, and Bertram Cook though, but refused to say what sort of business. Dozer grilled the man for over two hours only to conclude he most likely had nothing to do with the attempts to kill St. James. Franklin’s story appeared bulletproof to Dozer, which to St. James meant it was. If Franklin had something to hide, sooner or later he’d crack under Dozer’s methods.
According to Smythe, Nathan Strong’s lawyers had successfully obtained the court order to freeze the Cayman bank account and Higgins Johnson would be applying to Cayman’s Grand Court to enforce it this coming Friday.
When St. James finished reading emails, he wrote Mary DeSilva to bring her up to date. He would interview Jensen again tomorrow, or the day after, depending on Jensen’s availability.
Last but not least he called Anna. She had arrived home safely and was about to have a sandwich before heading off to bed.
“You should stay up as late as possible to adjust to Ottawa time,” St. James suggested.
“No, I’m going to bed right now. To hell with adjusting,” she said. “I’m too tired.”
“That’s my girl.”
When they disconnected St. James went to the bar and spent a very comfortable scotch evening talking about various models of automobiles with a bartender named Mack. Next stool over was a fellow named Cyril, an Iowa farmer, in Washington to lobby about something or other to do with pigs. Mack and Cyril didn’t follow hockey and St. James didn’t follow baseball. Cars were their only common interest.
Chapter 49
Next morning St. James got on the phone with Jensen. The large man was amenable to meet at eleven, provided St. J
ames came to his office. Most likely he assumed a meeting would speed up a cheque from Global.
At 10:50 St. James hailed a cab that dropped him in front of Jensen’s four-story grey brick office building on K Street, where Jensen Holdings occupied the top two floors. It was the first meeting to be held at Jensen’s office, the previous one had occurred in hotel board rooms.
The morning was cold and damp, a reminder that winter wasn’t far off, and having come from England, St. James wasn’t properly dressed. Cold, he wasted no time getting inside.
The building directory said Jensen’s reception was on the fourth floor.
When the elevator opened St. James was greeted by a plain-looking young lady who immediately escorted him down a long, narrow, pictureless hallway to dark-brown double doors that opened into Jensen’s private office.
She announced St. James’s arrival and returned to her post.
St. James eyed the room for a long moment, stunned by its size. Statues of naked women were scattered unevenly among the six granite columns that guarded either side of the rectangular room. An overabundance of abstract art crowded the walls. The floor was white marble. The drapes, made of a heavy maroon fabric, were accented by elaborately painted ceiling murals. Stuffed African animals stood here and there. It was a confusing mess of Roman and African culture all wrapped up to look more like a French brothel than an executive office. St. James’s eye saw only god-awful-ugly.
Then there was Jensen’s desk, the largest St. James had ever seen. It had to be fifteen feet wide. Most likely custom-built proportional to Jensen’s size. Hand-carved gargoyles were embedded in the solid oak; a reflection of Jensen’s exaggerated self-importance.
A sickening cloud of stale cigar smoke filled the air.
Jensen made no effort to come from behind the grotesque desk to shake St. James’s hand.
Jensen was as red-faced as the day they had met, and was wearing the same three-piece blue pinstriped suit, white shirt, and red tie he wore to every meeting. St. James had come to think of it as the man’s uniform.
Jensen sat there, larger than life, chomping on an unlit cigar, looking disgusted.
“When do I get my cheque?” he barked before St. James could even take a seat.
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