Prey

by L. A. Larkin

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Sackville has access to some of this country’s most politically sensitive information. We don’t know what the offshore account is for. If there’s a chance he’s selling State secrets, wouldn’t it be advisable to have MI5 involved?’

  ‘No need to involve the spooks. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, sir?’

  ‘That’ll be all.’

  5

  Wolfe weaves her Harley through London’s traffic, heading for the registered address of ZIB Trading. As far as she could tell, it has only one director: Zoe Blunt, South African. Wolfe couldn’t find anything else about the company, or its director.

  Her satnav brings her to a block of flats off Central Road in Morden. Wolfe parks around the corner so as not to draw attention to herself, then walks up a sloping paved path to the main entrance which has a buzzer entry. Through the glass door Wolfe sees key-locked mailboxes, from one to thirty-four. Rolled-up brochures stick out of most mailboxes, but not mailbox fourteen, which means that somebody has cleared the box in the last day or two. A man in his thirties leaves a ground-floor flat, a baby strapped to his chest and a black miniature schnauzer straining on a lead.

  Wolfe pretends to search for her key. The man opens the main door. The dog lurches through the gap. Wolfe holds open the door.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says.

  Wolfe slips through and takes the carpeted stairs two steps at a time. Flat fourteen is on the second floor. Pressing her ear to the door, she hears nothing. Wolfe knocks.

  No response.

  She knocks again, a bit louder this time.

  Still nothing.

  She is about to knock again when the door to number fifteen opens. A woman in her late sixties pokes her nose out.

  ‘There’s nobody there, love. Hasn’t been for a while.’ She frowns at Wolfe’s leather jacket and biker boots. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘A friend of a friend lives here. She’s selling up. Said I could look around before it goes on the market.’

  ‘They’re selling it, are they? About time. Been vacant for at least six months. I don’t like having an empty flat next door.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ says Wolfe. ‘I thought Zoe Blunt lived here.’

  ‘There’s a woman who comes to collect the post. I see her from time to time. Unfriendly. I say hello and she ignores me.’

  ‘When does she collect the post?’ Wolfe asks.

  The old lady frowns again. ‘Why would you want to know that?’

  ‘Never mind,’ says Wolfe. ‘I’ll see if I can catch her another time. Thanks for your help.’

  Wolfe heads back down the stairs, convinced a legitimate company is not being run from flat fourteen.

  6

  Ponnappa is still glued to her computer, the music blaring through her headphones so loud even Wolfe can hear it. Butcher beckons Wolfe over.

  ‘I got hold of Sackville’s last tax return,’ Butcher says. ‘Salary… dividends… some interest… a couple of investment properties in Northumberland and London. No mention of income from overseas or any offshore accounts.’

  ‘So he’s a tax cheat.’

  ‘If the account is his, which we don’t yet know. How did you go with ZIB Trading?’ Butcher says.

  ‘An empty flat used to receive mail. It’s a front.’

  ‘Found it!’ shouts Ponnappa.

  ‘You’re shouting,’ mimes Butcher.

  ‘Ah, sorry,’ says Ponnappa, removing her headphones and switching off the music.

  ‘What have you got?’ asks Wolfe, peering over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re looking at the ZIB Trading account with the Bank of Tortola in the British Virgin Islands.’

  ‘However did you do that?’ Wolfe asks.

  Ponnappa shrugs. ‘It’s what I do. Take a look at this.’

  Wolfe’s jaw drops. ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Am I reading this right?’ says Butcher. ‘Twenty million US dollars.’

  Ponnappa nods. ‘You sure are. Money comes and goes on a daily basis, but it seems to stay around fifteen to twenty million.’

  ‘Can you find out where it’s coming from and where it’s going?’ Wolfe asks her.

  ‘That could take some time. Days. Maybe weeks. Depends on how clever they are.’

  ‘I can’t see anything linking this to Harold Sackville,’ says Wolfe.

  ‘I’m keeping the best till last,’ says Ponnappa, scrolling down. ‘Get a load of that!’

  Wolfe leans in and stares at an almost illegible scribble. ‘I can see what I think is an H, and an A, but the rest is indecipherable.’

  ‘He was christened Harold Arthur,’ says Butcher.

  ‘Okay, we need to confirm this is his signature. Do you remember last year the Home Secretary walked out of Number Ten with Brexit costings visible and a photographer took a snap?’

  ‘Yes, it was front page news.’

  Wolfe searches for the article on her phone.

  ‘Well, Sackville’s signature was on it. Let me just find it… here we go.’ She peers closely at the document in question. ‘There it is,’ Wolfe says, passing her phone to Ponnappa so she can compare the two.

  ‘A perfect match,’ says Ponnappa.

  Butcher whistles through his teeth. ‘Our Chancellor is an extremely wealthy man.’

  ‘Where in God’s name did he get that kind of money?’ asks Wolfe.

  ‘Ah, well, it isn’t all his,’ says Ponnappa.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘The account has two signatories. Look.’

  Ponnappa scrolls down her screen a little further. Wolfe scrutinises the second signature.

  ‘At least this one is legible,’ says Wolfe. ‘But who on earth is Mazwi Ximba?’

  ‘Good question,’ says Butcher.

  Wolfe taps the name into Google.

  ‘Too many hits. It’s too common a surname. Especially in South Africa and Zimbabwe.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ says Ponnappa. ‘I’ll find him.’

  ‘I’d better see Moz,’ says Wolfe, referring to The Post’s editor, Mozart Cohen. ‘This could be delicate, to say the least. I need him onside if we’re going to take on a senior cabinet minister.’

  7

  Mozart Cohen, the six-foot-three, praying mantis-like editor of The Post, leans forward in his chair, bony forearms resting on his desk, eyeballing Wolfe as if he were about to spring forward and bite her head off.

  ‘Turn that fucking thing off or get out of my office.’

  Her phone is ringing. She switches it to silent and shuts his door.

  ‘Seen the news?’ Cohen asks. ‘Your old mate Caroline Bloom has been made Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs.’

  ‘Wow!. She’s in the cabinet. She’ll be so happy.’

  Wolfe hasn’t been in contact with Caroline for years. Time to put that right.

  ‘She should be slashing her wrists,’ says Cohen. ‘It’s a career killer. Even worse than Immigration, and that’s saying something.’ He raps his knuckles on the desk’s surface. ‘What have you got for me?’

  Outside his office, the open-plan news floor is a hive of frenetic activity.

  ‘Moz, I think I’m onto something,’ Wolfe says, struggling to stay upright on a yellow monstrosity of a sofa which sucks its victims in like the carnivorous pitcher plant.

  Cohen clasps his hands together and forms a steeple with his long middle fingers, examining her from beneath wiry grey eyebrows that twist and curl like antennae. ‘Go on.’

  Wolfe fills him in on what she knows about Harold Sackville, the offshore account, and suspicious death of her informant.

  ‘How much money?’ Cohen asks.

  ‘Twenty million US dollars.’

  ‘So, the penny-pinching Chancellor is secretly hoarding millions?’ He grins. ‘Are you absolutely sure it’s
Sackville’s account?’

  ‘I saw his signature with my own eyes. There’s a second signatory. A Mazwi Ximba. I’ve no idea who he is, or how he’s connected. Butcher and Ponnappa are looking into it.’

  Cohen rolls his eyes. ‘And I suppose they’ll want to be paid?’

  ‘Don’t be such a tight-arse.’

  ‘Times are tough, Liv.’ Cohen exhales loudly. ‘Tell me about your dead informant.’

  Wolfe tells him what she knows, including what she learnt from Casburn.

  ‘I agree with Casburn. If she died because she blabbed about Sackville, you too could be at risk. So be careful.’

  ‘I always am.’

  He snorts. ‘Bollocks. Have you spoken to Powell?’

  ‘Yes, he told me nothing. Sounded terrified. There’s something else you should know. Casburn did his best to scare me off.’

  ‘Okay, that says to me someone high up wants to hush this up. So, what do you want to do? Publish what you’ve got, or keep digging?’

  ‘My gut says there’s more here. It’s dirty money, I know it.’

  Cohen nods, deep in thought. ‘This could be a dirty great big scandal.’ He pauses. ‘Okay, write me a millionaire Chancellor fiddling his tax piece. Today. If it looks like someone else is onto the story, we’ll run it. If not, I’ll sit tight. In the meantime, find out where all that dosh came from and where it’s going.’

  8

  Wolfe is rarely in Notting Hill, but tonight she rides her Harley-Davidson along Portobello Road, dropping speed as she searches for the cobblestone mews where Caroline and Tom Bloom live. Wolfe hasn’t been to their house for almost two years, so her memory is a bit hazy. How could she have left it so long?

  Wolfe met Caroline when she was studying journalism at university. Caroline, not surprisingly, was studying politics. They became flatmates and then best mates. Wolfe started working at The Post. As Caroline’s political career took off, their friendship came under strain. Politicians and journalists have an uneasy relationship and, if she was honest, she had been as single-minded as Caroline. Wolfe’s appointment as foreign correspondent was the final nail in the coffin; she was constantly overseas, often in war zones or up to her eyeballs investigating some scandal or other. Their email correspondence dwindled and eventually stopped altogether.

  So, when Wolfe took the plunge and phoned Caroline to congratulate her on her cabinet appointment, she was surprised her olive branch was so readily accepted, and even more surprised when Caroline invited her to dinner that night.

  Wolfe spots an armed police officer standing to one side of a narrow, cobbled mews and pulls up. Through the stone arch are two rows of quaint terraced houses, five on each side. Hanging baskets of petunias, ivy-clad walls and stable-style garage doors give the mews a country feel. Caroline’s is the house at the far end.

  ‘Olivia Wolfe to see Caroline Bloom,’ Wolfe says, voice raised, so the officer can hear her above the rumble of the Harley’s engine.

  ‘Take off your helmet and show me photo ID.’

  Wolfe obliges. The cop compares her driver’s licence to her face.

  ‘Are you expected?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, we’re having dinner.’

  The police officer makes a call, and Wolfe gets the all clear. She leaves her bike outside her friend’s white-painted house. A dog barks on the other side of the door, which opens and a Cavalier King Charles spaniel rushes at her, tail wagging furiously.

  ‘Lady B!’ Wolfe says, kneeling down and giving the excited dog a pat. ‘She was a puppy when last I saw her.’

  ‘She remembers you.’

  Tall and lanky, Caroline’s wavy brown hair is cut to shoulder length these days, her green eyes framed by tortoiseshell glasses. Still the same charming smile that has, ever since Wolfe can remember, been able to disarm even the most combative of adversaries.

  ‘It’s been too long,’ Caroline says, embracing Wolfe.

  ‘It has.’

  In black slacks, white business shirt and pumps, her make-up immaculate even after a long day, they make an odd couple, Wolfe thinks, who stands there in Harley insignia jacket, an old black T-shirt, lived-in jeans, lace-up biker boots, and no make-up.

  ‘Come in,’ Caroline says. ‘I’ve got a bottle of your favourite tipple.’

  Wolfe hangs her jacket on a hook by the door and leaves her helmet and gloves on the vestibule table, then follows her host up a flight of stairs to an open-plan kitchen and sitting room, the front of which has a large bay window with a view down the length of the mews. Lady B curls up on her dog bed and closes her eyes.

  Wolfe sits on a tall stool at the kitchen’s island bench where Caroline pours them each a glass of Côte-Rôtie.

  ‘To you,’ says Wolfe, clinking glasses. ‘Congratulations! I’m so very proud of you.’

  Wolfe sips her wine. Caroline puts the glass down, her drink untouched.

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ Caroline says, smiling, ‘a cabinet minister at thirty-nine. And a woman. Not bad, huh?’

  ‘Bloody brilliant. And you so deserve it. Tom must be very proud.’ Wolfe looks around the room. ‘Is he joining us?’

  ‘Away on business.’ Caroline looks down. Fiddles with the stem of her glass.

  ‘Charlie? What’s the matter?’

  When they were close friends, Wolfe called her Charlie. It feels good to use the name again.

  ‘Nothing. Just wish… Tom wasn’t away right now.’ She shrugs and drinks from a tumbler of water. Something is definitely not right.

  ‘It means a lot, you inviting me here,’ Wolfe reaches out and squeezes Caroline’s hand. ‘I want to clear the air. Tonight, I’m here as your friend, not a reporter. Let’s relax and have fun, like old times.’

  Caroline stares at her, as if performing long division in her head. ‘I have to be careful. Especially now. You understand?’

  ‘I do. But not with me. Not tonight,’ Wolfe says.

  Caroline abruptly turns her back on Wolfe and opens the fridge. ‘How does lasagne and salad sound?’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  Caroline peers into the fridge, the chilled air spilling into the kitchen. She doesn’t remove any food. Just stares. Wolfe sips her wine, waiting, but when Caroline doesn’t say anything, Wolfe breaks the silence.

  ‘So, when do you start?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’m flying to Geneva for UN climate change talks. Later in the week, an endangered species convention. In between, I’m reviewing our position on fracking, then environmental impacts of a new housing development, windfarms off the Sussex coast, and a whole load of stuff I haven’t yet been briefed on.’

  Caroline still has her back to her. Wolfe gets off her bar stool and stands close to her friend. Wolfe is startled to see she is close to tears and gives her friend a hug. ‘What’s wrong, Charlie?’

  ‘You have to promise you won’t tell anyone. This is so off the record it’s not funny.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Caroline grabs a tissue from a box and blows her nose. ‘You know Tom and I tried for a baby, and never had any luck?’

  ‘Yes, of course I remember the IVF.’

  ‘And the miscarriages?’

  ‘I do. It was terrible, but you got through it.’

  ‘We gave up trying. Moved on. I never thought…’ her voice peters out.

  ‘You’re pregnant?’

  Caroline nods. ‘Thirteen weeks.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Really wonderful.’

  ‘But the timing, Liv. It couldn’t possibly be worse. I’ll soon be a very pregnant minister.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘It’s a lot all at once, Liv. I mean, what if I throw up in the House?’

  Wolfe chuckles. ‘You’ll power on. You always do. Is this why you’re all glum?’

  Caroline nods.

  ‘It’s more than that, isn’t it?’

  ‘I want to be taken seriously.’

  ‘And you think those stuffy middle-aged politicians
can’t handle a pregnant cabinet minister?’

  ‘Of course I do. It’s still a boys’ club.’

  ‘Don’t let that bother you. You’re at the pinnacle of your political career, have a lovely husband, and you’re having a baby. You’ll not only be the best mum, but the best environment minister too.’

  Caroline wipes her eyes. ‘I hope you’re right. I’ve been so weary lately. Probably the pregnancy.’

  ‘And the fourteen-hour days,’ Wolfe says. ‘Why don’t you put your feet up? I’ll do dinner, okay?’

  Caroline allows Wolfe to shepherd her to a sofa from where she can see the kitchen.

  ‘So nobody’s guessed?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘The PM knows. He wanted to announce my appointment first, then the pregnancy.’

  ‘So stop worrying.’

  ‘Stay the night, Liv. There’s a spare room; the bed’s already made up.’

  Wolfe would rather sleep at home, but senses Caroline would like the company. ‘I’d love to.’ She switches on the oven.

  ‘So, how’s the man?’ Caroline asks.

  ‘What man?’

  ‘You know, the big Russian.’

  ‘Ah, you read about that did you?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m so sorry I didn’t get in contact as a friend. Your lot really gave you a pasting.’

  Wolfe takes a bag of rocket from the fridge. ‘I’ve put it behind me. I had to.’ She starts slicing tomatoes. Then stops. Looks up at Caroline. ‘He wasn’t all those terrible things they said.’

  ‘What was he then?’

  ‘Someone I’d like to be with. But that can’t happen.’

  9

  Magdalen College, University of Oxford, UK

  Saneliso Simelane’s unzipped jacket blows open in a gust of wind and he tugs it back around his skinny frame as he hastens along the barely-lit cloister. The sound of his footsteps on the centuries-old limestone is loud and lonely to his ears. He glances nervously across the immaculately grassed Great Quad which, at this late hour, is empty. In the moonlight, the ugly gargoyles peering down at him cast eerie shadows. Simelane is the last to leave Professor Allcomb’s tediously boring book launch: he is failing miserably at his undergraduate studies and needs to garner some goodwill. To make matters worse, his father is visiting from Swaziland in two weeks’ time expecting to hear his son’s studies are going swimmingly.