by James Craig
‘No problem.’ Roche looked at him over the top of her cup as she sipped her coffee. ‘What about McGowan?’
‘We have to park him for the moment. At least until I get this investigation off my back.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Simon Murphy? Disappeared without a trace. Unless he turns up, we’ve got nothing.’
Roche placed her cup back in its saucer. ‘So they get away with it?’
‘Just for a change,’ Carlyle said sarcastically.
Knowing better than to try and press on with a topic when he was in such a bad mood, Roche decided on a new topic. ‘How much time do you want me to give chasing down Cole’s theory?’
‘Well,’ Carlyle asked, ‘what have we got?’
‘Dyer and Samuels have both admitted to the robbery,’ Roche replied. ‘The Smith & Wesson is confirmed as the weapon that killed Paula Coulter. We have recovered the prints of both men and each says that the other pulled the trigger . . .’
‘Let the CPS sort that out,’ Carlyle advised. ‘Even they can’t fuck this one up.’ The Crown Prosecution Service in London was a bad joke among many officers; it was widely believed that some CPS staff were being paid hundreds of thousands of pounds in bonuses while failing to get convictions. A much-discussed government report had claimed that people accused of offences were more likely to walk free in London than anywhere else in the country, thanks to weak preparation for court, poor supervision of cases, delays and inadequate protection for victims and witnesses.
‘Yeah,’ Roche laughed. ‘Maybe they can earn their monster bonuses for once.’
‘Still,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘I can’t believe that those two muppets somehow did it on their own.’
‘They are adamant that no one else put them up to it. Samuels used to go out with a cousin of Coulter. That’s how they say they got the idea.’
‘And anyway,’ Carlyle added, ‘if Cole is right, and some stuff was nicked after Dyer and Samuels legged it, presumably they had nothing to do with it.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I dunno. It seems more likely that we haven’t been able to recover all the stuff from Dyer and Samuels.’
Roche laughed. ‘They don’t really have much of a clue one way or the other. They grabbed what they could and fled.’
‘Fine,’ Carlyle said, getting to his feet. ‘Give it a little time to show willing, but don’t bust a gut.’
‘There is one thing . . .’
‘Yeah?’ Carlyle sat back down again, much to the café-owner’s disgust.
‘Hubaishi Dorning Klee. HDK Capital Management, the boutique asset management firm.’
‘God! In my day, a boutique was somewhere where you bought a shirt.’
‘They have two Nobel Laureates and a number of leading economics professors on the staff. Among other things, they own St James’s
Diamonds. Katrin Lagerbäck is one of their Associates, responsible for the day-to-day running of the business. They have stores in London, LA, Mumbai, Shanghai, Moscow and Miami.’
‘And?’
‘And last year, St James’s lost almost sixty million dollars.’
‘So?’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘What’s sixty million to a bunch of financial whiz kids. Don’t these type of guys deal in tens of billions?’
‘Yes, but HDK is reported to have lost something like thirty billion dollars of client money in the last three years.’
‘Just as well they have the Nobel Laureates,’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘Otherwise they could have lost a lot.’
‘It is currently being investigated by the authorities in both London and the US.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘How do you know all this?’
Roche smiled. ‘I have my sources.’
He gave her a don’t mess me about stare.
‘I have a good friend who works in the Financial Investigation Development Unit.’
Carlyle shrugged again. ‘Never heard of that either.’
‘They analyse Suspicious Activity Reports received by the Serious Organized Crime Agency from people working in the City. Apparently, HDK has been on their radar for more than two years.’
‘So?’
‘So, if HDK is going down the tubes, maybe Ms Lagerbäck saw this as a way of making some money before the whole thing collapsed.’
‘Maybe,’ Carlyle yawned.
‘You don’t sound too convinced.’
Getting to his feet for a second time, he stepped over to the counter to settle the bill. ‘I’m convinced enough to go and pay her a visit,’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘When?’
‘Now.’ Taking his change, Carlyle shoved it into his pocket and stepped towards the door. Holding it open, he ushered Roche outside. ‘We might as well go and have another chat with her,’ he said. ‘Apart from anything else, it keeps me out of the station.’
TWENTY-SIX
They were shown into a massive, minimalist office in Piccadilly, with views over Green Park. The back wall, behind a large cherrywood desk, was dominated by a black and white print three feet by one foot of a female nude. Shot from behind, the woman’s face was turned slightly towards the camera, eyes lowered as if she was admiring her own muscular and sculpted behind. Conscious of Roche’s gaze upon him, Carlyle tried not to stare. However, it was one hell of an arse and he found it simply impossible not to look.
‘Do you like it?’ Katrin Lagerbäck glided into the room, followed by a male assistant carrying a tray. On the tray was a cafetière filled with coffee, a plate of almond biscotti and three small cups. Lagerbäck was dressed far more demurely than on their previous meeting, the leather outfit and biker boots replaced by a grey business suit with a skirt that ended just above the knee. Her hair was perhaps slightly blonder than he remembered it, and she was wearing minimal make-up. Even so, she still looked very much like Cameron Diaz’s hotter little sister.
With Roche grinning at him, Carlyle felt himself blush. ‘It’s quite something,’ he agreed.
Lagerbäck let the assistant place the tray on the desk and waited for him to make his exit. ‘Thank you, Rupert.’
Half-bowing, half-running, the young assistant made his exit. As the door closed behind him, she glanced at Roche before smiling at Carlyle. ‘I’m glad you think my backside looks good.’
The inspector had no idea what to say to that. ‘Ah.’
‘Well,’ Lagerbäck corrected herself, ‘my backside as it was more than fifteen years ago.’ She patted her right buttock. ‘Although, I think it’s held up pretty well since then.’
Carlyle lowered his gaze to the carpet.
‘Please.’ Lagerbäck gestured to a pair of leather armchairs in front of the desk. ‘Take a seat.’
While they waited for her to pour the coffee, Roche gestured at the photograph. ‘Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable to have that up there?’
‘Not at all.’ Lagerbäck handed her a cup. ‘As you can see, it’s quite a talking-point. It’s a great icebreaker with clients.’
I can imagine, Carlyle thought.
‘I was very lucky,’ said Lagerbäck, passing Carlyle his coffee. ‘I was seventeen and still in Berlin—’
‘You’re German?’ Roche asked.
Lagerbäck offered them the biscotti. Roche declined, so Carlyle felt at liberty to take two. He felt his mobile buzz in the breast pocket of his jacket. Sticking one of the biscotti in his mouth, he lifted it out and glanced at the screen. Seeing it was Ambrose Watson, he let it fall back into the pocket.
‘My mother was Danish,’ said Lagerbäck, pouring herself some coffee and taking a sip, ‘and my father Spanish. I was born in Copenhagen, but we moved to Berlin when I was three. Anyway, I was in the Kaisersaal of the Staatliche Museen looking at photographs when this old guy approached me and said he wanted to take my picture. By then, I was getting quite used to being pestered by dirty old men and told him to fuck off.’ She laughed at the memory of it. ‘Turns out it was Helmut Newton. I had no idea who he w
as but, once I realized he was a great photographer and he wanted to shoot me, it was like, “let’s do it!” ’
‘Interesting,’ the inspector nodded, nibbling the second biscotti and wondering if it would be too rude to snaffle a third.
‘It was great fun,’ Lagerbäck agreed. ‘Helmut was an incredible guy. I was so fortunate to get the chance to work with him.’
This is the standard patter that you dish out to your clients, Carlyle thought, giving in to his impulse and reaching for another biscuit.
‘His family was Jewish. They spent the Second World War in Australia before he came back to Europe.’
‘I really like the work of his wife,’ said Roche.
Carlyle gave her a look, but she ignored him.
‘Yes, indeed.’ Lagerbäck seemed somewhat nonplussed at having her spiel turned into a dialogue.
‘Apart from anything else,’ Roche continued, ‘anyone who calls themselves Alice Springs has got to have a lot going for them.’
Carlyle laughed. ‘What a great name!’
‘She chose it by sticking a pin in a map, apparently,’ Roche explained.
‘Anyway,’ said Lagerbäck, suddenly now all business, ‘what did you want to see me about?’
Carlyle wiped a stray crumb from his mouth. ‘How did you get from there,’ he gestured at the photo, ‘to here?’
‘I left Berlin to study at the Sorbonne in Paris. After that, I came to London to make some money. I worked for an American bank for a while, but I’ve been at HDK for, God, almost eight years now.’
‘Forgive my ignorance,’ said Carlyle, ‘but what does Hub . . .’
‘Hubaishi Dorning Klee,’ Roche helpfully reminded him.
‘What do you actually do?’
The first sign of annoyance crept across Lagerbäck’s face. ‘We are a boutique asset management firm.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘Yes, but in layman’s terms, what does that mean?’
‘It means,’ Lagerbäck sighed, ‘that we invest in companies—’
‘Like St James’s Diamonds,’ Roche interjected.
‘We invest in companies like St James’s Diamonds,’ Lagerbäck repeated, ‘that we believe are either significantly undervalued, for one reason or another, or have great upside potential.’
‘And it pays well?’ Roche asked.
Lagerbäck gestured around the office, as if the answer was obvious. ‘Sure. Of course it’s not just about the money.’
Of course not, Carlyle thought.
‘I also want to go to bed at night and feel like I’m doing a good job.’
‘And are you doing a good job,’ Carlyle asked, ‘with St James’s?’
Lagerbäck raised her eyes skywards and laughed. ‘You sound like my Board!’
Carlyle shrugged apologetically.
‘Actually,’ she smiled, sitting back in her chair, ‘I think we’re doing satisfactorily, under the circumstances. The business was struggling under too much leverage when we came in but it was fundamentally sound and there was scope to expand in key markets. We did a deal on the debt, kicked out the old management and invested in targeted expansion. The downturn hasn’t helped, of course, but our high net-worth customers still like to shop and we can afford to see it through. All in all, I think we have a good chance of achieving a satisfactory exit in an acceptable timeframe.’
‘I see,’ said Carlyle, not having a clue what she was talking about.
‘Presumably, something like the robbery can put a bit of a spanner in the works,’ Roche mused.
Lagerbäck frowned. ‘Spanner?’
‘Cause you problems,’ Carlyle translated.
Lagerbäck made a face. ‘Not really. It’s a matter for the insurance company, isn’t it?’ She looked from one officer to the other. ‘I mean, of course, we were very upset that one of our staff colleagues was killed.’ Her brow furrowed, as if on cue.
Her acting skills seem to have improved somewhat, Carlyle observed.
‘The Board has written to Paula’s family,’ Lagerbäck continued. ‘We will offer them any assistance we can.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Roche said, her head slightly bowed in apology, ‘we have not been able to recover all of the stolen items.’
‘So far, at least,’ Carlyle added.
Lagerbäck smiled graciously at the limited but willing public servants in front of her. ‘I think you have done an amazing job.’ She focused her gaze on Roche. ‘Especially you, Sergeant, if I understand correctly.’
‘Thank you.’ Roche tried not to smile in the presence of her boss.
‘We will also be writing to your superiors to make sure that they understand how impressed we have been with the way in which the Metropolitan Police have handled this very difficult matter.’
If only Paula Coulter’s parents could say the same, Carlyle thought ruefully. Crossing his legs, he sat up in his chair. ‘There is just one final thing.’
Lagerbäck arched an inquisitive eyebrow in the inspector’s direction. ‘Yes?’
‘There has been a suggestion,’ Carlyle said, ‘that some of the missing items were taken after the robbery.’
Lagerbäck didn’t miss a beat. ‘By whom?’ she asked.
‘That,’ said Roche evenly, ‘is something that we were wondering if you might be able to help us with.’
‘Are you telling me,’ Lagerbäck’s voice had taken on a much harder edge, ‘that I need a lawyer?’
‘No, no, no,’ said Carlyle cheerily, getting to his feet. Taking one last peek at Lagerbäck’s nude bum in all its glory, he brushed some biscotti crumbs from his trousers. ‘We are simply looking into the possibility. Most likely, the two geniuses who robbed the place have it stashed somewhere. However, if anything comes to mind, please let me know.’
Already out from behind the desk, Lagerbäck gave him a clipped ‘of course’ as she led them to the door.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Still in no hurry to return to the police station, Carlyle ushered Roche into Green Park. After buying two bottles of water from the kiosk on Queen’s Walk, they found a free bench and sat down. For a few moments Carlyle sat in silent contemplation, thinking through the details of their meeting with Lagerbäck. Finally, he turned to Roche, who was fiddling with her mobile phone. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think I wish I had her arse,’ Roche laughed.
‘The picture was taken quite a while ago.’
‘Yeah, but still.’ Roche took a sip from her bottle. ‘What kind of person has a larger than life-size picture of their bum hanging on the wall in their office?’
‘Mm.’
‘I don’t think she nicked anything though.’
‘Oh?’ Carlyle watched a couple wobble past on rollerblades. ‘Why not?’
‘People like that,’ Roche replied, following his gaze, ‘they don’t need to steal anything. They’re all set up to get people to give them money willingly.’
Carlyle scratched his head. ‘I suppose.’
‘The woman is what, in her mid-thirties? She appears very well-off. She’s definitely very sure of herself and has a smooth business operation going. If people like that need cash, they don’t rob their own store; they just go and tap up a few rich investors.’
‘But if her firm is in trouble . . .’
‘If HDK is floundering, the numbers being talked about dwarf the value of the goods stolen in the raid, even at retail price. It would not make the slightest difference.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, firms go bust all the time. All you do is set up another one.’
Carlyle knew that was true, although the idea of just walking away from your debts was something at odds with the Calvinist DNA that his parents had brought down to London from Scotland almost half a century earlier.
‘That’s the thing,’ Roche continued. ‘You always hear stories about these people who make millions, billions even. But where does all the money come from? Not everyone can be a winner. The losers keep their mouths shut.’
‘If they
’ve got any sense,’ Carlyle grunted. Taking the cap off the bottle, he drained the contents in three quick gulps.
‘These kinds of people are definitely not stupid.’
‘No,’ Carlyle agreed. Crushing the plastic bottle in his fist, he tossed it in the direction of the trash can at the end of the bench. When it missed, he cursed, got to his feet, picked it up and dropped it in the bin. ‘So what do we do now?’ he asked, looking down at Roche.
‘I would leave Lagerbäck for now,’ she advised. ‘The store manager and the security guy were on CCTV all the time until the first units arrived. Then they were with officers all the time until they came back to the station. So I would rule them out. And I can’t believe any of our people would do that. The most likely scenario is still that Dyer and Samuels took the stuff and we haven’t found it yet. I’ll talk to them again.’
‘Good.’
‘I won’t waste too much time on it though. Those two are toast anyway. If we don’t get the stuff back, like you say, the insurance can take care of it.’
‘Don’t let Trevor Cole hear you say that,’ Carlyle laughed.
‘He seems a reasonable enough guy.’
‘I think he is.’
Roche got to her feet. Putting the cap back on her bottle, she dropped it in the rubbish even though it was still more than half-full. ‘You can’t do his kind of job without being pragmatic. We’ve got a result for him on this one.’
‘Yes, we have.’ Carlyle’s mobile started ringing. Checking the name on the screen, he decided this time to answer it. ‘Ambrose,’ he said cheerily, ‘how’s it going?’
‘Inspector!’ said a low, hoarse voice. ‘What has happened to you?’
‘Apologies,’ said Carlyle, turning away from Roche, ‘but we have been tied up on a rather pressing investigation.’
‘Superintendent Buck,’ said Ambrose, lowering his voice further, ‘is extremely unhappy. She was expecting to talk to you today. And your sergeant.’
Stepping further away from Roche, Carlyle scanned the horizon in search of some tranquillity. ‘Give the superintendent my apologies, but remind her that I did not consent to any meeting today. Moreover, I will not be taking part in any interview without my Federation representative being present.’