“Thank you.” Dee and I responded almost simultaneously. There was a pause.
“Now, how are we going to manage this little rat’s nest of aristocratic villainy? What on earth is a Peer doing blackmailing folk? It’s beyond belief, and if he’s directly involved with either death, well....” Boddy let the thought hang. “Mr Hammond, you said on the phone that you had found out some historical facts about Lord Hickstead that might assist the investigation.”
“Yes,” I replied, conscious that the information was in the public domain. “It boils down to this, really. Arthur Hickstead was born in 1954 at Brighouse, close to Halifax, which is just off the M62 in Yorkshire. His parents were active in the Labour Party and when he was eleven years old his father’s Trade Union offered him a scholarship to study at a public school. They had an arrangement with Harrow on the Hill Catholic College, where scholarship boys could board at special low fees. Both sides were keen on social mobility. However, Arthur hated it, according to his biographer. He felt as though he was little more than a slave for the richer boys, and he suffered bullying and persecution because of his accent and the fact that he was a “stig”, the nickname they used for a scholarship student.
He followed some of his peers to Cambridge University and Professor Tony Bartlett was his tutor. Bartlett was arrested many times on demonstrations in the 1960s, and in the 1980s it was thought he had been working for the Soviets.
Oddly, the young Arthur chose to go into the Army for officer training at Sandhurst. The book suggests that in 1976 jobs in the City were hard to find, but retired Army officers were always sought after. He was soon disillusioned by the Army, as he saw it as an extension of the public school. He served in Northern Ireland, and was horrified at the way the officers always managed to escape punishment when a riot turned into a bloodbath, yet the ordinary squaddies would find themselves in the brig.
In 1982 he left the army, but didn’t go for a job in the City. He was head hunted for the job of Deputy to the President of the Oil, Gas and Offshore Workers Union. The unions were replacing moderate leaders with hardliners as quickly as they could, to take on Margaret Thatcher.
By 1997 he was President of UNIFY, a conglomeration of his old union and two larger unions who represented skilled tradesmen. His new position meant that he wielded enormous power in the Labour Party, but he hated New Labour with a passion, according to the book - something he denies.
Anyway, as part of the union amalgamation deal he could only serve as President for four years, then the President of one of the other unions took over the reins.
In 2001 the PM found Arthur Hickstead a role in Brussels, well away from British politics, where he had been ruining the image of New Labour that the spin doctors were building. He was there for eight years before having to return to the UK. The bank where he was a director went down, and although the government saved it, all of the shareholders lost their money. It’s thought that he lost in excess of half a million pounds, which was probably most of his pension fund.
In May 2010 he was made a Lord in the PM’s resignation list, and despite his former left wing leanings, the current government have asked for his help on re-structuring the benefits programme to target poverty more keenly.” I passed copies of my research to the two policemen. I say my research, but a nerdy lad at Vastrick had done a lot of the work for me by scanning the book with a ‘special algorithm’ he had invented. I didn’t ask what that meant, I just pretended I knew.
“DS Fellowes has picked up a lot of this from the internet, too,” Inspector Boniface noted. “I have to admit, it answers a lot of questions.”
Detective Chief Superintendant Boddy took charge of the meeting again.
“I think this confirms what we were all thinking. This man is fireproof unless we can find rock solid evidence that condemns him. I suggest we use the rest of this meeting to discuss tactics, what we know and what we need to know.”
Dee and I settled into our seats for a long session.
Chapter 31
Clapham Common Park, London. Noon.
Arthur Hickstead saw Richard Wolsey Keen approach the deserted all-weather football pitches and look around nervously. ‘Sam’ had texted the banker and told him to come here if he wanted the photos Sam had of him treating pretty young boys to dinner in the less fashionable restaurants.
Richard was standing with his overcoat over his arm, waiting.
Arthur had selected this spot because it was a well-known haunt for men to meet up for ‘friendship’. Obscured by trees, Arthur snapped some photos for good measure. He had his camera in his hand when a young Arabic boy came into the frame.
Richard turned to face the boy, who was smiling at him.
“Looking for a friend, mister?” the boy asked in a heavily accented voice.
“No, I’m meeting someone,” Richard responded.
“I’m prettier, more cooperative and less money,” the boy teased, straightening the banker’s tie. Richard was tempted for a moment. There was no-one around and the boy was attractive. Then he remembered what was at stake and he politely dismissed the boy.
To his surprise the boy produced an envelope which had “8 hours” scrawled on the front. The boy waited as he opened the envelope. He leafed through the contents, alarmed to see images of himself sitting in various restaurants, fawning over rent boys. He was stunned. There was no doubt what anyone would think if they saw these pictures, but he knew that it wasn’t like that. He just liked the company of young boys. He liked to treat them and listen to their lilting foreign accents. He liked touching them. But nothing more.
He was considering what the tabloids would do with these pictures when any remaining thoughts became a blur as he felt three blows to his back in quick succession, and he found himself gasping for breath.
***
When he came round he was looking into the face of a spotty youth with a ragged attempt at a beard and a ponytail.
“What happened to me?” Richard asked, still dazed.
“You’ve been punk’d, mate.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Someone shot you three times with a paintball gun. Suit’s a write off, I reckon.”
The young Arab boy had gone, as had the envelope, but Richard knew what he had to do.
***
It was three o’clock - five hours to go to his deadline - when the Banker arrived back at the London Mercantile Investment Bank Headquarters at Canary Wharf. He was sweating and red faced due to having to wear his overcoat on a warm day. How else could he cover the red stains on his suit jacket?
Melanie, a blousy middle aged woman with a Hertfordshire accent, approached him.
“Ah, Richard, you’re back. Shall I take your coat?”
“No!” he snapped. “Just leave me alone. I have things to do in my office. No calls or visitors. Understand?”
Melanie was taken aback, but these rich bankers were a strange lot even on a good day and so she returned to her desk, wondering why her boss was wearing his overcoat indoors.
Richard did not have a million pounds. Nowhere near it. He had a big pension pot which he couldn’t touch for another five years, and he had sifted away money over the years, concealing it from the prying eyes of the taxman and his spendthrift wife. Nonetheless, if he didn’t pay up he would die, and that was a strong motivation. Even if he wasn’t killed, once those photographs came out he might as well be dead. Sam was in control, and Richard was smart enough to know it.
Given enough time Richard could have filched a little money from here and there, built the million up slowly, written off some as investment losses and covered his tracks, but there was no time for finesse. He would have to wire the money now and find a way to make it up later.
Nervously he tapped the keyboard and a new window opened on his screen. He tapped another key and the Bank’s bespoke software package opened.
“Cordex SecSoft welcomes you, Hello Richard.”
&nb
sp; Richard ran down the client accounts until he reached Sylvia Patterson. The lady had two point eight million pounds in her account waiting for the new trading period, but more importantly, she was in a care home and her investments were audited just once a year.
Richard transferred one million pounds into the temporary trading account which bore his name.
“Nature of transaction?” the machine asked.
Option for purchase of development land in Seychelles, Richard typed.
“When are the securities expected?” Richard decided to give himself some time.
14 day settlement account, he typed.
“Select bank from drop down list?”
Yes. Then Richard selected the bank Sam had nominated. He typed in the account number he had been given.
“Transfer to daily accounts or hold position?” This was the last step.
Hold position, he typed.
That should be enough to keep the internal security boys from finding the transaction until he had covered his tracks. He pressed the final confirmation button, and one million pounds left his trading account and whizzed across the ether to Switzerland. With one million in from Mrs Patterson’s account and one million going out, Richard’s trading account would show up as zero again, for the time being.
Satisfied that he had covered his tracks as well as he could, Richard now had fourteen days to find Mrs Patterson some land options or return her money. That was more than enough time.
Chapter 32
The Queen’s Room, House of Lords, London: Monday, 3:25pm.
The advantage of being in the Palace of Westminster at this time of year was the relative peace and quiet. The MPs and the Lords were on their long summer recess, and the staff took the opportunity to have a break themselves.
As a result the magnificent Queen’s Room, where library staff and Peers normally interface, was empty apart from Lord Hickstead who was using the internet to do some research. The few librarians who were on duty were in the main library, restoring some of the ancient tomes to their rightful places on the shelves, ready for their Lordships and Ladyships to disrupt again on their return.
The Peer looked around the historic room. It was like a library in itself, with shelves ten feet high, the top shelves accessible only by wooden ladders. The walls were panelled with the same wood that had been used for the shelving. The highly polished surface shone with hues of red and yellow that suggested rosewood to his inexpert eye.
Around the tops of the shelves and at the juncture with the ceilings intricate carvings gave some relief to the panelling. High above the shelves and embedded into the wall panelling were the coats of arms of many of the famous Lords who had graced this place over hundreds of years.
His Lordship’s eyes moved to the floor, where a brightly coloured carpet adorned the room. Predominantly reds and browns in an Axminster type pattern, it reminded him of the carpet in his grandmother’s front room. A room reserved for visitors, not for the use of grandchildren.
Even the air in the place felt old. He would miss it when he retired, and retirement was not far away. He was tired of it all. Arthur Hickstead had stopped being an active socialist and committed politician years ago; he liked the high life too much. Looking back, he was now faintly embarrassed by his antics in the Trade Union Movement. Ironically, now he was wanted by the Conservatives in the new coalition to report on the benefits culture, a poisoned chalice if ever there was one.
Richard had confirmed by text that the money had been transferred as he had requested, and he now awaited one more call and it would all be over. Well, almost.
The white mobile phone allocated to Richard’s case vibrated. Looking around, Lord Hickstead ensured that he was alone when he answered.
“Richard Wolsey Keen.” The accent he used was clearly West Country.
“Mr Wolsey Keen, just a call to let you know that the money is in our account and your purchase is ready to collect. Though, of course, we would be more than happy to deliver it to your offices.”
“No, I would prefer to collect it myself,” he answered. “We don’t want an item of such value in the hands of some philistine security man in the office, do we?” He was warming to the character he was playing, and the accent became more noticeable.
“Indeed not, sir. In that case, just call in at your convenience. We had already arranged to stay open until nine to accommodate you.”
“I’ll be there within the hour.”
Chapter 33
St. James’ Gallery, Ryder Street, London: Monday, 4:20pm.
Despite its name, the St James’ Gallery was on Ryder Street just off St James’ Street, a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace. Surrounded by the historic buildings that populated the Green Park/St James’ Park area, the Gallery occupied the ground floor of a modern office building. There were two marked private parking spaces outside and the taxi pulled up and parked in the first space.
Lord Hickstead gave the cabbie a twenty pound note and asked him to wait, using his pronounced West Country accent. The Peer was back in role playing mode. He was wearing a charcoal suit with a wide pinstripe. He was wearing red braces on his trousers and a matching red handkerchief flopped effeminately from his top pocket. The look he had adopted screamed banker.
Kelvin De Montagu, the gallery owner, smiled effusively as his customer entered the shop. The man was a typical city spiv. The customer’s toupee was poorly fitted, and contained much less grey than the rest of his hair and moustache. His glasses had thick black frames with tinted lenses.
“Mr Wolsey Keen,” gushed the owner. “So nice to see you again. As I said on the telephone, the fee was paid into my account a short while ago. Of course, I never expected anything less from the acclaimed London Mercantile Investment Bank.”
Lord Hickstead handed over one of Richard’s business cards.
“Sorry I didn’t have one of these handy at our last meeting. Did you receive my ID papers?”
“Yes, Mr Wolsey Keen, they were popped through my letter box the very next day. Thank you.” The documents were identical to those he had given to Mr Nour, except for the name change, of course. Faik had worked his magic again, and the colour copies of the forged passport and driving licence once again went unquestioned.
Kelvin disappeared for a few moments and returned carrying a titanium case with the dimensions of an oversized briefcase. He laid it on the counter, opened it and turned it around to face his customer. Inside, protected by inorganic wrapping and embedded in foam, was a painting approximately sixty centimetres tall by forty centimetres wide. It was entitled ‘Chartwell Sunrise with Horse’, and the signature was that of Winston Churchill.
“I think this will be a fine addition to the Bank’s collection, sir. It would grace any city boardroom,” Kelvin suggested. “All of the provenance papers, and the documents from the painting’s last sale at auction, are in an envelope under the foam padding. Works by Churchill have doubled in price in the last ten years, sir, and I think this will be a great investment as well as a beautiful piece of art. It is rumoured that he was painting this very piece whilst unsuccessfully campaigning against Clement Atlee and the Labour Party in 1945.”
Kelvin closed the case and passed it to his customer, who signed a form to say he had received it. After promising to visit Kelvin again in a month or two with a view to securing a further investment piece, Lord Hickstead left with a one million pound painting in his possession.
***
The taxi dropped the Peer off at The Royal Horseguards Hotel, a magnificent Victorian edifice which had once been the home to the National Liberal Club. He could have gone straight to his flat, but taxi drivers always seemed to have incredible memories when questioned by the police. He might just as well leave a false trail, in case anyone decided to follow it later.
After a quick drink in the Churchill Bar, the irony of which made him smile, and still in character, he slipped into the exquisite
ly appointed men’s toilets and removed his braces, toupee, glasses and moustache. Depositing them in the refuse bin, he smoothed his thinning hair and picked up his case.
He left the hotel and walked the short distance to his flat in Whitehall. He would be glad to rid himself of this tawdry City suit, purchased from a supermarket back in Yorkshire.
***
Sitting comfortably in his borrowed flat, swishing brandy around in a large balloon shaped glass and admiring his new painting, Lord Hickstead picked up the white mobile phone and dialled a preset number. It was answered immediately.
“Hello, Picture Desk.”
The Peer followed his prepared monologue and delivered it perfectly in a Cockney accent that would have put London actors to shame.
“I have pictures of that rogue, Richard Wolsey Keen, picking up a rent boy on Clapham Common and with some of his other young friends.”
“OK. And if we decided to use them, how much would you want?” the sub editor asked.
“Nuffing at all. Just to see that slime bag banker suffer, that would be enough. We all bail the bank out and he walks away with a massive pension. It just aint right. I’ll email ‘em to you now.”
The sub editor was surprised, but if the photos were genuine he wasn’t going to worry about why a punter didn’t want any money for them.
Chapter 34
London Mercantile Investment Bank, Canary Wharf, London: Monday, 6:25pm.
A warning message had flashed up on Nicky Taylor’s screen over two hours ago and, in the absence of his boss, he investigated the warning. Convinced that there was a problem he couldn’t resolve, he was nervous; agitated. He had never uncovered a problem of this magnitude before, and he did not have the courage to interrupt the Director of Security whilst he was meeting with the Chairman. Nicky was just about to leave another message when the door opened and his boss walked in.
48 Hours - A City of London Thriller Page 11