DS Fellowes came in and shook our hands. Everyone in the room was smiling. It was contagious. The Detective Sergeant gave us a rundown of what he had discovered.
“Somehow, we need to link Lord Hickstead to these photos, and if we can’t do that, we need to be able to link him to the camera that took the photos. So, when you sent me the information on the Nikon Coolpix P100 my first thought was, who stocks them and have they sold many? The bad news is that they are stocked all over the UK in their thousands. Nevertheless, I called Nikon UK, who are based at Kingston on Thames, who confirmed that it could take months to check the retailers’ records. But then I got a call back ten minutes later.”
He paused for effect, and grinned even more widely than before. “Bad luck for Hickstead but good luck for us. Nikon are running a launch promotion that gives purchasers of the camera a second year’s full warranty free of charge if they register online or by phone. They estimate that around ninety five per cent of owners are taking advantage of this offer, but that is still over eleven hundred people so far. They couldn’t supply us with the details of everyone who registered. However, they said if I gave them a name they would be able to tell me whether that person had registered a Nikon Coolpix P100 with them. It turned out that Arthur Hickstead registered for the two year warranty on a Coolpix P100 in July this year. We know from his registration that he bought it at the camera shop in Heathrow Airport Terminal Four. I contacted the shop directly, and from their records they were able to confirm that he bought it using a credit card and, for duty free purposes, his boarding card. The boarding card was for a Johannesburg flight just before the World Cup.”
He beamed at all of us, and punched the air as if he had won the World Cup all by himself. Boniface brought us all back down to earth.
“Before we all get carried away, there are eleven hundred people with this type of camera. It isn’t quite a slam dunk yet, but we are getting close. Let me tell you about our plans for later today.”
Inspector Boniface then explained his strategy for Hickstead’s visit to the Netherlands.
If all went according to plan, His Lordship could be in custody by tonight.
Chapter 41
London City Airport, London. Wednesday, 4:30pm.
Lord Hickstead stood beside his carryon luggage and checked his travel documents. There wasn’t a seat to be had in the overcrowded lounge; even standing room was at a premium. He had travelled this route hundreds of times in the last decade and the lounge was busier each time. The success of the airport owners to attract new flights was commendable, but they needed to make some changes to the facilities to accommodate the growing number of passengers.
There was a garbled public announcement directing him to the gate ready for his flight to Rotterdam. As he walked through the narrow passageway he noticed two plain clothes customs officers taking people to one side. He looked straight ahead, making every effort to avoid being selected.
The woman two places ahead of him was stopped and taken to a cubicle. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, too.
“I’m sorry about this, sir, but we have heightened security today and I have to select someone from each flight. You are the lucky one,” the officer said, in a clumsy attempt at humour. “We won’t keep you long, sir.”
The Peer stood with his arms outstretched and was patted down, the contents of his pockets in a blue tray next to his open carryon bag.
“Thank you, sir. Could you boot up your laptop now, please? While that is booting up, could you please stand in the scanner booth? I am obliged to tell you that you will not be subjected to any harmful rays, but if you decide not to be scanned we reserve the right to do a full body search.”
“The scan will be fine, officer. We have to keep the skies safe, after all,” Lord Hickstead said, without meaning a word. The scan took less than a minute.
The customs officer tapped a couple of keys on the laptop to ensure that it was a fully working computer, and then he allowed its owner to repack his case and board the plane.
***
A minute later the customs officer was standing in a small windowless office with Inspector Boniface.
“Inspector, I have to tell you that Lord Hickstead is not carrying any diamonds. I did a thorough pat down and I searched his bag. Both he and his bag were then separately scanned; there was no sign of diamonds or anything else unusual, for that matter.” There was finality in his tone. “Oh, but there was one thing. As requested I had him boot up his laptop, and he does have an Icon for Photopaint on his windows opening page.”
***
The decision not to carry the diamonds with him had been a sound one. It only needed one random security check, such as the one he’d been subjected to, to blow the whole scheme. He would meet with an old colleague from his EU days and enjoy a leisurely dinner before embarking on the late night meeting that formed the real purpose for his trip.
As was bound to be the case, the buyer, Mr Van Aart, turned out to be a shady character, and so not carrying the diamonds was probably a good thing. In any case, Mr Van Aart had his own methods of moving diamonds around the world and Arthur Hickstead didn’t want to know what they were.
Chapter 42
Cafe Zwart, Schiekade 640, Rotterdam. Wednesday. 11:45pm
Hickstead knew that the potential buyer already had the certificates, the photos and that he had spoken to the diamond cutter. Van Aart had confirmed that he was satisfied that he could move the diamonds at a profit, as long as Arthur was prepared to be reasonable.
Arthur had chosen to stay at, and eat at, the Best Western Crown Hotel, which was conveniently close to the rail link for the airport. He was now sitting in a coffee shop less than a hundred yards from his hotel, waiting for the Dutch buyer.
The door opened and a bell suspended on a wire jangled as it was displaced by the head of the door. The man who entered was well over six feet tall, and completely bald. More accurately, his head was shaven. He did not seem at all threatening, however, and he smiled under a typically bushy Dutch moustache. Arthur hadn’t bothered with a disguise, but he wore a hat and glasses which obscured much of his head and face.
“Mr Bob Smith?” Van Aart asked as he stood at the only table occupied by a customer. Arthur nodded, and they shook hands. Van Aart shouted something in Dutch to the owner and then turned to his seller.
“Bob, I am very impressed with the gems. I am even more impressed that they are legitimate and not stolen. This makes resale more.....” - he struggled for the word in English - “.....profitable.”
The cafe owner brought a coffee over, along with a pastry containing half a peach covered in white icing. “Fruit; you have to get it where you can, eh, to stay healthy and to live long.” Arthur suspected that the sugar in the icing alone made the Dutchman’s efforts at hitting his ‘five a day’ redundant.
The negotiations took almost fifteen minutes, and as soon as they had shaken hands on an agreed price they heard a melodious clock strike twelve. Arthur was a little disappointed at receiving only a quarter of a million Euros rather than a quarter of a million pounds, but it was still around two hundred and ten thousand pounds. Van Aart would pay the money directly into an account in Brussels, held under the name Euro Union Financial Enterprises. That particular account was already heavily loaded with money and expenses accumulated over the last ten years, and kept well away from the inquisitive noses of the UK Exchequer.
Tomorrow morning the Peer would go to his safety deposit box, remove the diamonds and hand them to the courier in the shadow of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square, and the transaction would be complete.
***
Ever the gentleman, Lord Hickstead held open the hotel door for the attractive Dutch lady who had come in behind him. She smiled and thanked him before heading to the bar. He wondered whether he should follow her. After all, it had been a successful trip so far, but he had to be up early for his flight and so he took the elevator and headed off to
bed.
As soon as the elevator doors closed the woman, who had been following him since he had left the airport, watched the display above the doors, recording that it stopped at the sixth floor. She took her mobile phone out of her pocket and walked to a quiet spot in the lobby.
“Commissaris, this is Imka. The target has left the hotel only once for a meeting in a coffee shop, and now he has retired to bed, I think.”
“Good work, Imka. I will tell the English Inspector. They are one hour behind us, he will still be available.”
“Commissaris, the man he met with was Walt Van Aart.”
“Are you sure, Imka? I have surveillance photographs of him in Paris this morning, sent to me from Europol.”
“I am certain it was him, Commissaris. I was on the surveillance team in Delft when he met with the Russians.”
“Thank you, Imka. I will send the English police his file, summarised of course. We cannot jeopardise our own prosecution for the sake of a few diamonds.”
Chapter 43
London City Airport, London. Thursday, 8:30am.
DS Fellowes stood on the platform at the City Airport Docklands Light Railway Station. He was waiting for the next train to Bank Station in the City. His mobile phone rang. The voice was one he knew well.
“Sarge, our man has arrived and is heading to the DLR station as predicted, so I am now handing him over to you. He should be standing on the platform any second.”
Fellowes saw Hickstead arrive on the platform, and smiled in approbation when he noted the next Bank train was scheduled in one minute’s time.
“Okay, thanks Andy, I’ll take it from here.” Fellowes ended the call just as the driverless train approached.
No matter how many times he travelled this route, Arthur Hickstead felt uncomfortable about riding a train with no driver. It was disconcerting to stand at the front of the train and watch as the rails passed beneath it at fifty miles per hour. In the middle of the carriage sat DS Fellowes, apparently immersed in the pages of a fantasy novel. The chances of losing His Lordship were nil, but they didn’t want to risk missing a clandestine meeting where diamonds could change hands.
Brad Fellowes wondered whether the Peer knew who he was getting into bed with when he was dealing with Walt Van Aart. A quarter of a million pounds in diamonds was small beer to a crook like Van Aart; the Dutch Police seemed surprised that he would bother to meet Lord Hickstead personally. Unless, of course, Van Aart was aware of the real identity of the seller, and felt that he could use His Lordship’s European political clout to his own advantage at some time in the future.
The file said that Van Aart led an organisation known as the Geest Mafia, which in English means the Ghost Mafia. The trafficking of people, diamonds and drugs in the southern half of the Netherlands, including all of Amsterdam south of the river, was their speciality. Another gang called the Matroos, or the Seamen in English, ruled the northern half of the Netherlands. Van Aart was dangerous.
The train terminated at Bank station and Brad Fellowes tailed the Peer until he stood on the platform waiting for the next westbound Circle Line train. So far they had guessed his route correctly, and Brad nodded to DS Scott of the Met., DCI Coombes’ sidekick, who would take up the trail from here.
DS Fellowes left the tube station and headed towards the Vastrick Offices at Number 1 Poultry, less than a hundred metres away.
Chapter 44
Vastrick Security, No. 1 Poultry, London. Thursday, 9:30am.
Dee Conrad’s Operation Peer Down and the Police Operation Peer Pressure were going well. Our own file was thick with incriminating evidence, albeit mostly circumstantial. Inspector Boniface had been really good about keeping us informed as to what was going on, even to the extent of a midnight call the previous night.
He had also called Don Fisher to inform him that the Peer had flown to Rotterdam without the diamonds but nonetheless to assure him that we were getting close, and that the blackmailer would be punished. Apparently Don wasn’t particularly impressed, and Boniface got the impression that he still wanted to kill the “old geezer”. Odd that Fisher should refer to Hickstead as the old geezer when he was only six years older than the aging rocker himself.
A phone rang. We all went for our mobiles but it was DS Fellowes who received the call. He spoke for a while and the DS hung up, after issuing the instruction, “Stay with him, we’ll get back-up.”
He turned to the rest of us. “OK, that was DS Scott. It seems that Lord Hickstead has just entered number 2 Parliament Street, opposite the Palace of Westminster. According to the doorman, probably an MI5 operative, he’s staying in the Chief Whip’s private apartment on the fourth floor. DS Scott virtually had to get a warrant to extract that information.”
“Thanks, Brad,” Dee said in reply. I felt a small stab of disapproval. When had she started calling him by his first name? “That would explain why you couldn’t find him registered at a hotel. If only we could get in there we might be able to close this case. He must be hiding the money, painting and diamonds somewhere.”
We looked up the address on Google Streetview; it was a white rendered building which had probably been several separate buildings at one time. I had passed it many times and never looked at it twice, yet now it might be at the heart of the case against Hickstead. It was galling to hear that we were more likely to get a search warrant for Windsor Castle than for the Chief Whip’s private apartment.
Chapter 45
No. 2 Parliament Street, London. Thursday, 9:30am.
DS Scott was standing on the other side of Parliament Street, from where he could see the entrance to the apartment building, and he was engaged in conversation with a motorcycle courier dressed in black with gold lettering on his jacket, which read City Slicker Couriers. The courier looked just like thousands of others in and around the City, but this one was very different. Constable Knott was a police motorcyclist from the traffic section, seconded to CID for covert surveillance. The reasoning behind the disguise was that no-one in London gives couriers a second look.
As they stood together talking, their attention was on the apartment entrance. The team felt sure that His Lordship would pass on the diamonds sometime soon and they wanted to be there when he did. Such had been the police focus on the Peer since he landed at City Airport that morning that they had not noticed he was also being followed by someone else.
***
Dirk stood at the corner of the street, watching the latest policeman to follow Lord Hickstead. It had been a busy morning. Dirk had been warned that the police would have a tail on the Peer, and so he knew he must be careful. Dirk had dutifully waited at the airport until Hickstead appeared. He hung back and watched as a plain clothes policeman followed at a distance, radioing in his location. The man then dropped back and allowed the target to head towards the DLR platform. Dirk felt a little uncomfortable. The boss had insisted he got himself a haircut and buy a dark suit. Dirk couldn’t remember the last time he had worn a collar and tie.
Hickstead stepped onto the train and a casually dressed young man entered the same carriage, his eyes fixed on the target. The man had a phone fixed to his ear. Dirk was convinced he had spotted the new tail.
After an uneventful journey into the City, and a mad dash across Bank Station, the police tail nodded to a man standing on the platform and then walked away, almost brushing past Dirk as he exited.
The policeman who had picked up the tail at Bank Station was now standing opposite the building that Hickstead had entered an hour ago.
Dirk lifted his mobile phone to his ear. “Gordo, you still close by?”
“Yep, I can see you standing on the corner, but it’s really difficult to keep parking up here. I’ve been moved on three times already.”
“I need you in case he takes a taxi. If he leaves on foot I’ll follow on my own, OK?”
“OK, Dirk.”
***
Lord Hickstead had chan
ged his clothes and was now standing at the kerb holding a briefcase. The doorman had walked to the corner to hail a cab for him. Luckily it was sunny and the cabs were looking for customers. In the rain you couldn’t get a cab for love nor money.
“I think we’re off,” Sergeant Scott said to the motorcycle cop, who put on his full face helmet before testing the built in microphone. HQ answered immediately and made it clear that they wanted a running commentary.
The Peer stepped into the black cab, and after a moment it did an illegal U turn and headed towards the Palace of Westminster. As it passed Big Ben, or St Stephen’s Tower as it is more accurately known, it had been joined by a motorcycle courier and a blue Vauxhall Corsa.
“Bloody hell, Gordo, couldn’t we run to something better than this?” Dirk asked as he slid the seat as far back as it would go, realising he was still bent nearly double in the compact space.
“Boss said it had to be something inconspicuous,” Gordo muttered apologetically.
***
The unwitting convoy of cab, motorbike and Corsa proceeded along Victoria Street and then north along Grosvenor Place, skirting Buckingham Palace Gardens.
Against the odds, they all made it around an exceptionally congested Hyde Park Corner to exit onto Knightsbridge and the A4. They hadn’t travelled far along Knightsbridge when the black cab turned into Brompton Road and indicated a right turn. The motorbike followed, but the Corsa, a few cars behind now, had to wait to turn.
Dirk and Gordo both swore, but they need not have worried because the convoy came to an abrupt stop just a hundred metres away on Cheval Place. By the time the Corsa arrived on the scene, Lord Hickstead was climbing the steps into a building. The wall next to the front entrance bore a brass plaque on which was engraved the words CitySafe Depository.
This area of London was unfamiliar to the Corsa driver, but he soon discovered that Cheval Place was actually a mews. It was very narrow and, whilst the motorbike could pull over to one side, the Corsa was not going to be able to squeeze past the cab, which was still standing outside the depository. Gordo turned right onto a one way Street called Rutland Street, and then he turned right again onto Fairholt Street so that he was parallel to Cheval Place.
48 Hours - A City of London Thriller Page 14