“On the contrary. I think we could persuade the CPS to drop the case and we could issue you with a conditional caution, if you were to be helpful to me.”
Michael liked the idea of a caution; no jail time, he could keep his nose clean for a few months and he would be clear. He wouldn’t even have to spend his weekends picking up needles and condoms in the park.
“What do I have to do?” he asked.
Chapter 54
New Scotland Yard, London. Friday, 3pm.
I was well aware that I would have to be back at work full time from next week, and so this would be my last day of sleuthing on the blackmail case. I was sure that Dee would help the police see it through to its conclusion, but I could take no more time off. I now had a mortgage to pay once again, until I got my money back - if indeed I ever did.
As predicted, Lord Hickstead had been awkward when the police asked him to accompany them to the Yard. He had demanded to speak to the Commissioner, the Home Secretary and his lawyer. By the time His Lordship arrived at Scotland Yard, the Commissioner had already taken calls from the former Labour Home Secretary, as well as one of the candidates in the race for the Labour Party leadership.
It was all to no avail, however, and His Lordship was now in the interview room waiting to take his place in an identification parade. The screen in our room would remain blank until the Peer had been cautioned and told that the session was being videoed and recorded. Apparently, if he objected to the videoing, they would have to resort to audio recording only and we would have to wait for a summary from Boniface or Coombes.
There had evidently been no objection, because within a few moments the screen flickered into life and a wide angled shot of the stark interview room appeared. I was in the Robert Peel Room with Dee, DS Scott and DS Fellowes. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation.
***
“Now that we are recording, I would just like to say that my client is a victim here and he is being treated like a common criminal. Furthermore, we strongly object to his being here at all,” the pompous lawyer bleated, with obvious disdain for the two policemen facing him, both of whom he seemed to regard in much the same way as he might have looked at something stuck to the sole of his shoe.
“Mr Parsons, we aim to treat all suspects the same, whether common or uncommon. Now, shall we begin?” Inspector Boniface was smiling genially. DCI Coombes was not. He took over the interview.
“Lord Hickstead, would you give us permission to open your safety deposit box and examine the contents, please? Our enquiries in this regard relate to the investigation of a serious crime, and we have reason to believe that an examination of your safety deposit box will assist us.”
“No, I most certainly will not give permission. Next question.” Lord Hickstead spoke tersely, without consulting or even looking at his lawyer.
DCI Coombes opened the folder in front of him and extracted a piece of paper.
“This is a warrant which gives us permission to search that safety deposit box, with or without your cooperation.” Coombes smiled unpleasantly.
“This is outrageous,” the lawyer puffed, obviously caught unawares.
Hickstead leaned over to the lawyer and whispered to him for a few seconds.
“My client has papers in that safety deposit box that relate to European Commission business, and as such those documents are to be kept private, even from the police, under the Treaty of Rome. The box has a form of diplomatic immunity, if you like.”
“Nonsense,” Boniface retorted, and the lawyer looked affronted. Boniface continued. “My Masters degree is in European law, and under the Treaty of Rome there is no such restriction. The warrant is valid.”
“This warrant, Inspector Boniface, is issued by an inferior court, and if you wish to terminate the day’s proceedings while I race over to the High Court and obtain an injunction, we will do that. I’m sure that your Master’s degree covered injunctions.” The lawyer looked smug again, but the policemen had anticipated the refusal to allow them access to the box.
“Mr Parsons, we will not execute the warrant until noon on Monday, which gives you an opportunity to apply for an injunction, but I assure you we will be represented at any injunction hearing.”
Lord Hickstead smiled, but the smile disappeared when DCI Coombes spoke.
“We had the box sealed this morning; the depository will not allow it to be opened until Monday at noon, assuming that no injunction is obtained. Furthermore, we have placed a uniformed officer outside the depository to ensure that your client’s important papers are secure.”
The lawyer and his client held a whispered mini conference before the lawyer spoke again.
“My client is most unhappy about the situation and will certainly make a complaint about your precipitate action but, as the papers are safe, he will wait until he has the injunction before opening the box privately and without hindrance.”
“That will be fine,” Boniface said as he lifted the brown leather briefcase onto the table. “For the purposes of the record, this is the briefcase which was shown to Lord Hickstead this morning by DCI Coombes and DS Scott. As agreed this morning, it is the same briefcase that was stolen from Lord Hickstead yesterday. We know this because it contains fingerprints from both the mugger and His Lordship.”
Turning the briefcase to face the lawyer and his client, he asked, “Can you confirm for the record that this is the briefcase that you had with you when you left the depository?” The Peer nodded.
“For the tape, please, Your Lordship.”
“Yes,” the Peer said out loud, a little rattled.
“Turning to the contents, you reported that the briefcase contained only some family papers, is that correct?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“That does not conform to what the mugger claims. He says that the contents were quite different. In fact, he is certain that the contents were as you saw them this morning.”
Boniface waited, even though he had not asked a question. The lawyer filled the silence.
“Inspector Boniface, I have to express some surprise that you are prepared to take the word of a criminal over the word of a Peer of the Realm who has served this country with distinction.”
“Mr Parsons, in common with all policemen and lawyers it is my duty to believe the person who is telling the truth, irrespective of their social standing, and the reason for these questions is to see who has been honest with us and who has not.”
“I can assure you that I have been honest and helpful, Inspector,” Hickstead said through gritted teeth.
“Good. Then let us proceed. When we recovered the briefcase we found that the mugger had left it behind as he fled the scene. He left it just a hundred metres away from the site of the attack, whilst being pursued by police. When we recovered the briefcase it was kept closed, until I opened it in this building with other officers present.
When we opened it the briefcase contained two sealed envelopes, which are here in evidence bags.” Boniface placed them on the table. “Do you recognise these envelopes, Your Lordship?”
The peer whispered to his lawyer and then answered.
“I recognise these envelopes as the envelopes I saw for the first time this morning, when Mr Coombes and his partner opened them. I’d like to make it clear I had not seen them prior to this morning.” Satisfied with his answer, he leaned back in his chair.
“Before we move on, perhaps I should summarise for the tape,” Coombes interjected, flipping open his notebook. “You signed out of the depository at twelve minutes past eleven yesterday morning, and then at around thirteen minutes past eleven, you were mugged. A witness chased the mugger, losing sight of him for no more than ten seconds. The mugger was then seen leaping into his car at around fourteen minutes past eleven, and was apprehended just two minutes later, at sixteen minutes past, without the briefcase. There are, therefore, three possibilities; Number one; the mugger, in the space of a few secon
ds and whilst running away, discarded your family papers, which have never been found, and replaced them with a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and some Polaroid photographs, before leaving the case behind.” Coombes looked up and was pleased to see the lawyer’s jaw drop. Clearly he hadn’t been fully briefed.
“Number two; after the mugger left the case behind, and before we recovered it, an unnamed person stole your family papers and replaced them with a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and the Polaroids. Number three; you were mistaken about the contents of the briefcase at the time it was taken from you.”
Coombes looked across the table. The Peer was poker faced. The lawyer was fidgeting with a pen. His nerves were beginning to show, but he rallied.
“My client does not have to explain how those items came to be in his briefcase after he lost possession of it. He has stated already that these items were not his, and surely no-one would disown diamonds of such value. It makes no sense.”
Coombes looked down at DS Scott’s detailed notes of the morning interview as Inspector Boniface lifted the photos on to the table, still inside the transparent evidence bag.
“My word!” the lawyer blurted out. “These photographs are shocking!” Nonetheless, he examined them closely.
“Lord Hickstead, this morning you said that the envelope containing these photos did not belong to you and that it was not in your briefcase when it was stolen. You have confirmed that again in the last few minutes. Could you also confirm your statement from this morning, to the effect that you had never seen these photographs before?”
“Yes, I can indeed confirm that they don’t belong to me and I hadn’t seen them before they were shown to me this morning. I would have remembered seeing material of this nature, believe me.”
His lawyer interjected.
“Come on, now. Lord Hickstead has already stated explicitly that he did not have these items in his briefcase and that they were not his. Can we move on, please? It is Friday afternoon, after all.”
“Of course,” Boniface said politely. “If I could close this subject with one final question, please.”
The Peer and his lawyer seemed relieved, and Boniface continued.
“Perhaps you could explain, Lord Hickstead, how your fingerprints come to be on each and every Polaroid photograph in this set, when you claim that you haven’t seen them before, you don’t own them, and they were never in your briefcase.”
***
Lord Hickstead was preparing for his identity parade. The interview had terminated after his lawyer had advised him not to answer the detective’s last question. Parsons, the lawyer, was standing in the corridor, speaking confidentially to Inspector Boniface.
“You know, Joseph, you were meant to be a Barrister, not a bloody policeman. Wasting all that expensive education. It’s a shame. Your father was deeply disappointed.”
“Alan, you are the only person, apart from Dad, who calls me Joseph. I’ve been using my middle name since college.”
Alan Parsons shook his head. “In any case, what are you doing working with the Met? You don’t normally play well together.”
Boniface smiled. “I’m not going to tell you anything, Alan. I’ll always be grateful for your help with my Masters degree, but you have to believe me when I tell you that the man you are representing has a wicked streak in him.”
“Everyone has a right to a defence, Joseph, whether good or bad, innocent or guilty,” Parsons stated.
Chapter 55
New Scotland Yard, London. Friday, 5pm.
Lord Hickstead looked decidedly uncomfortable, standing as he was at number four in a line-up of six. He had been advised that he could stand in any position in the line-up that he chose, and he chose number four. Inspector Boniface, DCI Coombes and Alan Parsons watched the proceedings.
The first person into the identification room was Mr De Montagu. He was informed that the man who had posed as the rich banker may or may not be in the line-up, and that he must only identify the man if he was absolutely sure.
One by one all six men in the line stepped forward, and spoke the agreed words, “David Cameron is our current Prime Minister”. Then they stepped back and joined the line again. All six men were roughly the same height. They were all clean shaven, and they had varying degrees of hair loss.
Mr De Montagu asked for number four to step forward again and repeat the line. His Lordship did just that before stepping back into line.
“I believe that the man who took the painting is standing at number four,” De Montagu said, “but I can’t be sure without the disguise. Could you get him to affect a West Country accent?”
“No, I’m sorry, that would be prejudicial, but thank you for your help,” Boniface said, shaking the art dealer’s hand.
Mr Nour was ushered in and given the same instructions. As he looked along the line at each of the six men, his eyes immediately went to number four. The man looked different in a Metropolitan Police blue polo shirt, but he was certain this was the rogue who had tricked him. The polo shirts had been Alan Parsons’ suggestion, whereas the instruction that no-one in the line-up wore a watch was at the police’s request.
Each man stepped forward one by one, and Mr Nour remained silent until he was asked whether he recognised any of the men. The Egyptian spoke boldly and confidently.
“I am sure that number four is the man who posed as Mr Josh Hammond in my shop, and is the man to whom I handed the diamonds.”
Alan Parsons blanched, and looked decidedly uncomfortable. He had been told by the police that documentary evidence proved that the diamonds he had been shown earlier were the same diamonds that Mr Nour passed to the man posing as Josh Hammond.
Mr Nour was thanked and then dismissed, and in came a rougher looking man dressed in an ill-fitting suit. The collar on his shirt was probably an inch too small for his neck. Nonetheless, it was fastened with a tasteful red tie.
Michael Lambaurgh, Medical Representative and sometime soccer vandal, took his place in front of the one way glass.
Boniface was ready to guide him through the process, to prevent him from saying anything inappropriate or ruining the identification process, but he need not have worried. Michael had switched on his medical representative persona; even his accent had been moderated. He came across as the well-educated catholic schoolboy that he was.
“The man who bought my credit card in South Africa was number four, though he had a South African twang then, not the plummy accent he used today.”
After making sure that everyone was happy with the way the line-up had been arranged and executed, the participants were excused.
***
Boniface and Coombes were on their way out of the room when Alan Parsons called them back. The expressions on their faces told the lawyer that they were intrigued to hear what he had to say.
“I am sure that the three of us are patriots, and that this country means a great deal to all of us. Surely you can see that if a Peer of the Realm, a respected European Commissioner and friend of government ministers, past and present, was to stand trial, there would be public outrage. This would knock the expenses scandal into a cocked hat. This country would be a laughing stock.”
“We can’t let the guilty go free just because it would cause a stink,” Coombes snarled.
“I don’t remember anyone conceding guilt, gentlemen, but, guilty or not guilty, the country would suffer. If I can persuade him, could we work out a deal with the powers that be?”
“I don’t think the Crown Prosecution Service will go for a deal, Alan,” Boniface said, shaking his head.
“Look, I’m sure that you two have conducted a sound investigation, but whether this case is ever prosecuted will be decided several levels above the CPS. And, I suspect, the decision will not be made on the evidence alone, no matter how distasteful that may be to you and me.”
***
Twenty minutes later Coombes was boiling mad, a
nd was pacing up and down the Commissioner’s office. Boniface appeared almost as angry, but was sitting at his allotted seat in front of the Commissioner’s enormous desk.
The Commissioner tried to cool the atmosphere down.
“I quite understand that you are both disappointed, but there is no value in formally charging him today. We have agreed that he will stay within the confines of Westminster until Monday. Then, when we open the safety deposit box, as we surely will, we may find evidence that ties him into one or more of the deaths. At present he knows that he can’t escape the Hammond blackmail charges, but he might just squirm out of the other two charges unless we can tie him to the painting and the cash. Take the weekend off. He’ll still be here on Monday.”
Coombes muttered loud enough for the other two to hear. “I bloody well hope so, for all our sakes.”
Chapter 56
No. 2 Parliament Street, London. Friday, 7pm.
At the start of the day, Lord Hickstead could never have imagined how rapidly it would deteriorate, nor how quickly everything would begin to unravel. He had been so careful. Why had he allowed them to take his fingerprints after the mugging? Complacency, arrogance, everything he despised in others. He was evidently no longer the driven individual who had fought his way up from a rented house in Yorkshire to a seat in the House of Lords.
There were too many sycophants around him, telling him he was wonderful, powerful, influential and almost invincible. When he had embarked on the blackmail plot, he had convinced himself that it was a fight for justice. He wanted to right the wrongs which had destroyed him financially and robbed him of the opportunity of national recognition and, possibly, high office. His dear wife, Brenda, had sunk into a deep depression after the house fire, and his unnecessary tirade about her cancelling the insurance too soon hadn’t helped. Despite all of the help she received, and despite being back in Yorkshire with her family, only strong antidepressants prevented her from attempting to take her life again.
What had begun as a righteous crusade had become an exciting, dark alternative life that set the heart racing and the adrenaline pumping. He had, quite simply, got carried away, and had gone too far.
Sir Max was a buffoon, but everyone knew it. He didn’t carry the respect of his peers, just that of his blind followers. Arthur had killed him because he wouldn’t pay a small fraction of his fortune to save his own life, and because he had insulted Arthur Hickstead one time too many.
48 Hours - A City of London Thriller Page 18