by Mark Arundel
She said, ‘You already know him. You met him at the same time you met me.’ Charlotte didn’t speak the man’s name, instead, she said, ‘He was the first one to leave the room that day.’
It was Sir George Winchester from the Foreign Office with the Saville Row suit, or as Stafford had described him to me, some Whitehall prick in a flash whistle.
Chapter 41
If hearts are trumps, then the two of hearts can beat the Ace of clubs.
I was in my second ever old school club for gentlemen, but this time, a member hadn’t invited for midnight brandies. Charlotte had set it up. We had gone over the plan together. The way we discussed it had brought back memories.
I was wearing the identical outfit worn by the delivery staff of the firm that supplied the indoor swimming pool consumables. You see, this club for English gentlemen had an ornate Romanesque bathhouse.
I had accessed the club through the back entrance. The doorman saw my outfit and the boxes I was carrying, and he let me straight in. My knowledge of the interior came from studying a surveyor’s layout plan, which he had drawn up only six months earlier.
I made my way to the swimming pool. It was mid-morning and the club was quiet. When I got there, only two men were in the pool. They were both swimming lengths.
I chose a place to put the boxes down, made sure I had my baseball cap pulled low on my face and went into the changing room to wait.
It wasn’t long before he came in. George Winchester was holding a towel to his smooth face and leaving a trail of wet footprints. His pale skin covered a thin, weak body and his dark hair laid plastered flat to his long head.
He barely noticed me and certainly didn’t intend to acknowledge me. Tired from his exertions he sat down on the stone bench and began drying his legs and arms.
I took the prepared syringe from my pocket and held it concealed by my side. I moved towards him, but he still didn’t look at me.
He lifted one foot to dry it and I grabbed his ankle. He lost his balance and had to scrabble with his hands to stop from falling backwards. I gripped his foot, held it tight and made the injection between his two smallest toes. This little piggy went to market. The poisonous liquid entered his body. I pushed him off the bench onto the floor and then I released his ankle.
He was yelling and he backed away; clearly frightened, and then realising what had happened he began to panic. ‘You,’ he said. He had recognised me. ‘What have you done? Get me to a hospital, quickly, please. I’m going to die.’ That was the idea. The drug worked fast. I watched the change in him as the toxins took effect. His heart was malfunctioning and he was weakening rapidly. His blood pressure must have dropped and he went into cardiac arrest. I watched. He wouldn’t be getting up again.
I left the changing room and walked around the swimming pool. The other man was still doing his lengths and didn’t see me. He hadn’t heard anything. His face and ears were in the water.
As I left through the rear entrance, the one used by tradesmen, I thought of Geoffrey and realised he’d been wrong about me. I guess I was a killer after all.
File No. 2
Codename: Casanova
1
FRIDAY, 12:00—24:00
IF ANY VISIBLE SIGNS did exist to tell the man had just had sex with a prostitute then I couldn’t see them. It had taken exactly thirteen minutes and fifty-seven seconds, which was less than a quarter of an hour, which wasn’t very long. I presumed he was a busy man. I knew how long it had taken because I’d timed it using my new watch, which was expensive. It was Swiss made, the type a young diver would love to own. Charlotte had given it to me as a present. Not for any reason that I knew of, like my birthday or anything, but just because she wanted to she said. Her exact words were, “If you are going to do the job, you should at least wear a proper watch.” Then she had smiled. I’m not sure I liked it (the watch not the smile), but I didn’t tell her. It worked okay, that was the important thing: thirteen minutes and fifty-seven seconds. Accuracy is everything with these expensive Swiss watches.
The man had come out looking just the same as when he went in. His tailored business suit used every inch of its rich man’s price tag to flatter his portly frame and stop his ruddy features and cannonball head from being mistaken for those of just anyone. The man’s name was William Chester and I was watching him because Meriwether had asked me to.
Bartholomew Meriwether had called me on my phone, which was a top-up. We use them because it avoids our names going to the database. That means no trace. Apparently, we change them regularly too, just in case. If you ever see a man wearing a watch like mine buying a top-up for his phone they’re rare, so it might just be me.
Anyway, Meriwether called and gave me the details on William Chester and asked me to watch him. He wanted me to confirm whether he was visiting the Soho address that he gave me. He asked me not to tell Charlotte about it too. His exact words were, “C does not need to know about this, not at this stage, you understand.” I didn’t understand, but I didn’t tell him so. Charlotte lived in an apartment in Mayfair, so maybe she didn’t understand about prostitution. No, it couldn’t be that. I didn’t know where Bartholomew Meriwether lived. He always seemed to be at his club on St. James’s, that I did know.
William Chester was on the move. You would expect a man like him to have a chauffeur-driven car or to get a cab, but today he was riding the tube. When a man doesn’t want his whereabouts known and, more importantly, what he’s doing that he oughtn’t to be then he rides the tube. It was three stops to William Chester’s office on Fleet Street. The underground was just crowded enough for me to follow him unobserved, even if he was aware of the possibility of a tail, which I didn’t think he was. Other travellers had occupied every seat, so I stood at the far end of the carriage and held on. A young woman wearing a woollen knitted hat and gloves stood next to me. I felt her glance at me, twice. At the second stop, more passengers got on and the woman stepped closer. At the next stop, the carriage jolted and the woman fell against me. I felt her breast press against my arm. She gave me another glance, but neither of us spoke.
William Chester stepped through the sliding carriage doors and I followed him out onto the platform. We moved with the throng travelling upwards until we reached the street level and daylight. It was early afternoon and a keen north-easterly gave the overcast December day a rawness that made people hunch, hold their coats tight and hurry. William Chester wasn’t wearing a coat. Apparently, his burly frame was a good insulator. I followed him to his office. He went inside without a backwards glance.
I carried on walking and within four minutes found a franchised coffee shop. I knew it was under four minutes because of my watch. I looked in through the glass door. The tables were mostly empty, so I went in and ordered a plain white coffee. The girl behind the counter with her hair tied back, wearing a logo printed apron didn’t smile. I chose a table against the far wall, away from the other customers, and sat down facing the door. The Christmas decorations did their best to lift the place, but it was still uninspiring, even mildly depressing.
I called Meriwether on my top-up phone. He was a man who spoke very well and very fast but he never actually said anything that was obvious or definitive, and he rarely used a person’s given name. I had noticed this straight away.
‘What have you discovered?’ he asked.
‘He left his office, went to the address, stayed there for fourteen minutes and then went back to his office.’
‘Only fourteen minutes?’
I could sense the amusement in his voice.
‘I timed it on my watch.’
Meriwether gave an upper-class guffaw and then asked, ‘Have you eaten luncheon?’ Then without pausing for a reply said, ‘You better join me at my club; there’s quail on the menu today if you like that sort of thing; personally, I find it a bit too fiddly. I much prefer the more admirable steak and kidney pie.’ He ended the call before I could respond.
Without finish
ing my drink, I left the coffee shop and headed for St. James’s Square. It wasn’t far. On The Strand, I flagged a cab and arrived in under seven minutes (the watch again).
At the old school club for English gentlemen, an elderly man greeted me politely, although the welcome he gave had all the enthusiasm of someone who had spent most of their sixty years serving the upper classes. He seemed tired.
‘I’ll inform Mr. Meriwether of you arrival, sir.’ His wrinkled, pale face displayed unfamiliarity with emotion. ‘He’s waiting for you in the visitors’ lounge, sir.’
‘Thanks; I know the way.’
I went through and found Bartholomew Meriwether standing at the bar. He was drinking what looked like a martini and gazing at nothing in particular in that English way that was once prevalent back in the days when we still had the empire.
‘Ah, good man, you’re here. I’ve sent a message for the chef to prepare two servings of his finest steak and kidney. Do you want a drink first or shall we go straight through?’
In the dining room, we sat at a square table covered with a heavy white cloth and laid with silver and crystal. The waiter hovered, moved silently and brought things without Meriwether seemingly acknowledging his presence.
‘You’ve probably been wondering why I said not to tell C.’
I didn’t have time to reply.
‘It looks like there’s some work coming up.’
I’d been doing the job about a month and a half. After the Tenerife thing, Meriwether put me on what he called a retainer, which he paid monthly into my bank account, tax-free apparently. It was a generous sum. In addition, the job came with a furnished apartment in Pimlico overlooking the river and an account at a recommended tailor.
A more senior waiter than the one who had been serving us up until now appeared beside our table with his hands clasped behind his back and head slightly bowed.
‘The chef sends his compliments, Mr. Meriwether, but regrets he’s been unable to prepare the steak and kidney pie you requested. He recommends, instead, the breast of pheasant with a Madeira sauce. The pheasants were delivered this morning, sir, from the Glamorgan shoot and they do look quite delicious.’
Meriwether took the news well.
‘Unfortunate, I’d promised my luncheon guest steak and kidney, but there it is. I’m certain it can’t be helped.’ He then looked at me and with amusement in his eyes asked, ‘How would a nice plump breast suit... freshly plucked?’
With an ingratiating “thank-you, sir,” the waiter withdrew leaving Meriwether free to return to the matter in hand.
‘Did you know that C’s parents were killed when she was just nine?’
I didn’t know that and Meriwether knew it.
‘She was raised by her grandfather, on her mother’s side. He’s eighty-one and long retired. She’s very close to him. Do you know what line of business he was in?’
Again, I didn’t know. A couple of possibilities came to mind, but I didn’t voice either of them.
‘Banking—yes, he ran one of our biggest banks for many years. The bank has since merged with others and the name has changed, but he still keeps in touch with the board. His name is well known on Threadneedle Street.’
I considered how this information influenced matters and then I realised.
On seeing I had made the connection, Meriwether nodded and said, ‘Yes, C’s grandfather knows our Casanova.’
He was referring to William Chester. You see, when William Chester wasn’t making home visits to call girls in Soho flats he was a high-flying city banker.
‘Until I know more about what we have here I don’t want to get C involved.’
What did we have here? The question came readily to mind. I didn’t know. I knew, though, that it was going to be my job to find out.
‘What I do know is that a large sum of money has disappeared,’ Meriwether said.
‘...disappeared?’
‘Yes, disappeared,’ he repeated. I left it.
He continued. ‘Now that the Treasury and the Old Lady have had a good look at the books, a financial hole has been uncovered, a very large financial hole and Casanova’s sticky paw prints are all around the edge.’
Since William Chester was a government appointee, albeit at supposed arm’s length, there existed a real danger of exposure and of extremely damaging political chagrin.
‘Yes,’ he said. Meriwether could see I was keeping up with his usual cryptic-style briefing. ‘In the current situation, egg on the face would be a mere inconvenience compared to the potential repercussions both financially and politically.’
The pheasant breasts arrived draped in a thick, pale-yellow sauce.
‘Nothing you and I can’t take care of, though, one way or another.’
He tucked his napkin into the front of his jacket and said, ‘What lovely plump breasts. This was a good choice don’t you think?’
The first thing Meriwether wanted me to do was to pay the call girl a visit. As he put it “until we know more let’s gather a little primary intelligence of our own. Find out for us will you what takes fourteen minutes and needs a professional instead of the loyal Mrs. Chester at home.”
There were two good things about my new job. One was the credit card Meriwether had given me, which allowed me to pay for anything connected to my work regardless of the cost; and the other was the false identification, which was quite genuine in appearance and showed me to be a senior officer with Interpol. Apparently, Meriwether uses Interpol because it’s a government agency and each of the individual member states holds its own jurisdiction. Therefore, it’s quite straightforward for each country to control its own patch, as it were. I had been fully briefed by a man at VX [VX: Vauxhall Cross] who detailed everything it was thought I would need to know in order for me to convince people I was a real officer with Interpol. I thought it highly unlikely I would fool anyone. After all, I was a soldier, not a policeman, but I went along with it. I learnt many new things, for example, Interpol stands for The International Criminal Police Organisation and their mission is to prevent international crime. It’s amazing what you can pick up in just a few short hours.
I left the club on St. James’s and headed back to Soho. The cold north-easterly was now depositing flurries of snow as if someone was emptying a hole-punch above my head. I found my black woollen hat from my jacket pocket and pulled it on over my ears. Wearing the hat when I hadn’t shaved for a few days, like now, made me look more like a criminal than an international criminal catcher, but in the snow who could tell.
As I approached the bend in the road from where I’d observed William Chester entering and leaving the flat only a few hours earlier, I got that feeling I used to get when I was still a soldier. The one when my stomach knots from the sudden jolt of an unexpected fatal event.
The spinning blue lights on the roof of the police car and ambulance bounced around the road and stabbed at my eyes. A small crowd had gathered to watch. They were probably neighbours and passers-by drawn to the macabre and held by the chill of horror. Someone was dead.
An unmarked police car arrived and a woman and a man wearing plain clothes got out, pushed through the onlookers and then disappeared inside.
I crossed the road and walked over casually. I joined the edge of the crowd at the back and watched silently for a few seconds. I asked the man standing just in front of me, ‘what’s happened?’ He turned to look at me and then answered, ‘the girl in 5b has been found dead.’
5b was the prostitute’s flat.
‘Who found her?’
‘...a neighbour. She said the door was open and she went in and found her on the bedroom floor. She said it looked like she’d been strangled.’
I turned away and crossed the road. There wasn’t any point in hanging about. It would be a while before they brought her out, and anyway, I didn’t know what she looked like, so I couldn’t make a positive identification. In any case, she would be inside a body bag.
I left the rotatin
g blue lights reflecting off the faces of the ghoulish crowd and walked until I found a Soho cafe. I ordered a strong coffee and sat in the corner away from the door. Then I made a phone call.
‘So, maybe, that’s what takes fourteen minutes and can’t be done at home.’ Meriwether gave me his first reaction to the news.
‘We don’t know for sure it’s the same girl or who did it.’
‘I’ll take odds-on it’s the same girl, but you’re right, it may not have been Casanova.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t. I watched him come out and then followed him back to his office. He wasn’t behaving like a man who’d just killed someone.’
‘No, you’re probably right. Umm, well, who did kill her and why? Intriguing isn’t it?’ Meriwether sounded more as if he was discussing a difficult clue in a crossword puzzle rather than the murder of a young woman.
‘Yes, very intriguing,’ I said.
‘I’ll make some enquiries and call you back.’
‘...enquiries?’
‘Yes, we’ll need to know the name of the investigating officer.’
‘Why?’
‘The police in this country do a first rate job. They are excellent at collecting useful intelligence. The officer from Interpol will have to make friends with the investigating detective in charge of the case.’
Oh, good, just what I wanted—the opportunity to test my fake Interpol disguise on a real police officer.
‘Was he wearing gloves?’
‘...Casanova?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, he wasn’t.’
‘Then his prints will be all over the flat.’
I didn’t respond.
‘Did anybody else see him enter or leave?’
‘I didn’t see anyone, but it’s possible.’
‘I wonder if his DNA has ever been put on the database for any reason. We may not have long before the police arrive at his door. I think it might be better to find out what’s going on before they do.’