At that moment the early dawn broke, shafting a bright light through the trees.
“What the ...” Grace gasped, too stunned to scream. The owl hooted in a continuous pulse, ringing alarm.
When the scream finally came, it woke everyone – except the dead.
“IT CAN’T BE MORNING,” Chief Inspector Pitcher stretched to stop the piercing ring of his phone. It was nearly 4am.
“This had better be good,” he shouted down the receiver. He listened to the station officer recounting details of a call from a Mrs Cadbury at the Chigwell Girl Guides camp.
“Pull the other one,” Pitcher scoffed.
“No Sir, it’s for real. Body hanging among the trees. Looks like the victim was hacked to death. Meat cleaver buried in his back.”
“Found by two little girls?”
“Only what we’ve been told, Sir. Scenes of crime are on their way.”
Pitcher dragged himself out of bed, dressed, splashed some water on his face and without stopping to eat or drink, drove East. He hated the Epping Forest. Sure, it was pretty and treasured by millions of East Enders. It was also London gangland’s favourite burial ground. As a young copper, he spent half his life traipsing through the woods looking for bodies.
A corner of paradise? I don’t think so. No one will ever know how many corpses are buried beneath its soil.
This was his first call to the Girl Guides camping site on the boundary between Hainault and Epping – landing it firmly in the Met’s district. As London expanded, so did the reach of its police.
A few yards East and the Essex squad could be singing the dawn chorus, he grumbled to himself.
Chief Guider Mrs Cadbury waited for him at reception, along with a WPC from the local station.
“I hope this isn’t a Friday 13th practical joke,” he said to the WPC.
“It’s for real I’m afraid, Chief Inspector.”
The three of them walked down a narrow path, which opened into a huge field, sloping towards a coppice. Pitcher eyed various cabins and huts called things like St Pancras and Charing Cross.
“So the girls feel at home,” Mrs Cadbury explained. Other long timber blocks – washhouses he guessed – bordered the opposite end of the field with names like Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly. Canvas tents clustered in various corners of the vast meadow, deserted now the girls were bussed home to safety.
They trudged down the field until they reached the coppice. Scenes of crime officers were already there working on the body.
“Blood everywhere,” Pitcher swallowed hard, as bile pumped into his throat.
“I can’t tell you how distressing for the two girls,” said Mrs Cadbury. “One actually slid in the disgusting gunge – covered in it. She’ll need help coming to terms with all this.”
That’s an understatement, Pitcher thought moving towards the team on the ground.
“What can you tell me officers?”
“Looks like a savage machete attack.”
“Here?”
“Probably not. Guides here all day – would have seen something. Possibly nearby.”
“How long’s he been dead?”
“Not long. Blood still dripping.”
“This is the tree he was hanging from?” Pitcher pointed up.
The officer stood.
“That’s right.” He moved his arms to show where the rope would have hung. “He was hoisted under his shoulders. Already fatally wounded. Haven’t counted the slashes in his back. Left to bleed dry.”
“Death by a thousand cuts,” Pitcher muttered under his breath.
“If you say so, Sir.”
Pitcher shifted towards a bagged item on the floor.
“This the weapon?” he stared at the blooded meat cleaver. “Find anything else?”
“No sir.”
Pitcher strained his neck to look up again at the tree.
“One thing,” the Soco officer added, almost as an afterthought. “There was an orchid in his breast pocket.”
CHAPTER 26
Tuesday August 17
JULIA SAT UP WITH A jerk – woken by an ear-splitting ringing. She grabbed her phone. Have you gone mad Cody? It’s 5.30am, she cursed, when she saw the number.
“Yes,” she barked down the line.
“Good morning Julia, great to hear your voice,” he sounded maddeningly perky. “Couple of things we need to talk about.”
“Not at this time we don't. Call me later in the office.”
“I've been trying to call you for two days. I can't get through.”
“Look, I'll be back in our office soon, I promise.”
“I need to speak to you urgently. Can I come round now? It’s about the Trust.”
“No Cody. Absolutely not. This is a ridiculous time. I need my sleep. Then I'm going for a quick swim.”
She rubbed her shoulders, and winced as a sharp pain stabbed. Huckleberry Finn, I need to get some oxygen into these muscles. Factory journalism’s killing me. She had worked fourteen hours a day since returning on Thursday.
“Then I'm heading straight to Square Mile,” she was firm. “You’ll have to wait.” She clicked off the phone, snuggled back down in the bed, but sleep had fled. She tried her mindfulness exercises, but wakeful thoughts refused to co-operate. She tossed, she turned, she wriggled.
No! It’s no good. I’ll never get back to sleep, she thought, swinging her legs out of bed. She pulled on her swimsuit, tracksuit on top, put work clothes in a holdall, poured coffee into a portable cup and headed out to Southwark Leisure Centre.
The water felt cool and releasing as she swam her first couple of lengths. She was not alone – 6am swims were popular. She rolled on her back. Sheer heaven, suspended in nothingness.
A whooshing sound disturbed her peace, as someone splashed into the pool beside her. It was Cody. This can’t be real.
“No, don't stop swimming. I could do with a splash myself. We can synchronise side by side. I'll talk while you listen.”
Despite herself, Julia laughed. He’s certainly got what it takes when it comes to tenacity, she thought.
She let her feet drop to the bottom of the pool. “Cody you can be a real pain in the butt, but you’ll go far one day. I give up, shoot.”
She lay back in the water. Cody reeled over and paced his strokes to match her.
“Your friend, the forensic accountant, thought there were a few anomalies in those accounts. He kept digging and now says a million pounds is missing. Numbers don't add up.”
“The accounts have been audited, they must add up,” said Julia. “Have you spoken to the Chairman of the trust?”
“I'll come back to the auditors. I called the Chairman, without giving too much away and he said to speak to the Treasurer.”
“And?” They reached the pool’s edge, spun for the return lap, back-stroke arms swinging in sync.
“No one knows where he is. They can't find him. Coming into the office less and less, sending apologies to meetings etc. Apparently, no one’s seen him for a couple of months.”
“Are you telling me he’s disappeared?” Julia swivelled onto her front, picking up speed.
“Here comes the clincher,” said Cody mirroring her manoeuvre. “The auditors don't exist. They did, old family firm etc. They audited the accounts free for years, because it was a charity. Anyway that firm closed a bit over a year ago.”
“Who's been signing off the accounts?” they reached the shallow end. Julia stood to face him.
“Without jumping to any conclusions, I'd say someone’s been pretending to be the auditor and signing them off fraudulently. With the Treasurer gone, it's not hard to wonder who?”
“That's quite an allegation.”
“Not really. Treasurer’s role, like the auditors, was voluntary. When people do good deeds for nothing no one looks too closely. Too noble to come under suspicion. I've got some pals in the post room of the accountancy firm where he worked. Apparently, he'd started splashing money around �
� said he'd come into an inheritance.”
“Which is why someone sent us those documents – smelt a rat. Come on, let's get out of here. You need to tell me everything you know.” Julia hauled herself out of the pool.
They regrouped by the coffee vending machine – the cafe wasn't opened yet – then sat at a round table by the huge glass frontage. A tide of people flooded along the pavement, walking to work, or the tube. Buses were packed like sardines.
“Now tell me everything you know about this trust. It's run by City Hall?”
“No, No, I've already told you all this. If I go through it again, will you listen?”
“Sure,” Julia looked apologetic.
“The Whittingdale Trust is an independent charity going back hundreds of years – to Shakespeare's day. The City was always a centre of money and wealth, and many people, not just Dick Whittington, enjoyed massive – what we today would call – social mobility.”
“Rags to riches?”
“Indeed. Once they made it, many saw it as a duty to take care of the less fortunate. So, they left money to the church for the poor. Of course some may have wanted to wipe the slate clean before arriving at the pearly gates – after a lifetime of supping with the devil.”
“Buying their way into heaven eh?” Julia patted her hair dry with a towel.
“Feared the final reckoning? Quite possibly.”
“I'm guessing, being the City, the money was wisely invested,” Julia shook her hair free.
“Absolutely, pretty soon these churches were sitting on piles of gold, while at the same time, the poor had disappeared.”
“I'm sorry?” Julia raised eyebrows.
“Of course, the poor are always with us,” Cody continued. “But they weren't living in the Square Mile any more. They were in the East End and well let's face it, right here in Southwark. They moved with the jobs industrialisation brought.”
“So the churches were left with vast wealth but no congregations and no one to give it too?”
“Pretty much. In 1878 Parliament stepped in and merged all these small parish legacies, and gave them a new purpose. Instead of feeding stomachs, it ordained the money should be used to feed minds and promote good health.”
Julia made a wheel-winding motion with her right hand to speed Cody along.
“Their new role was to promote education, libraries, art galleries etc and also to encourage public health by buying up open spaces.”
“I've never heard of all this.”
“For a reason. It always guarded its privacy. Kept a low profile while doing good. Discreet.”
“Sounds like another secret society.”
“In some ways it was, and still is. Today it has an income of about £49 million annually – largely from rents and endowments. It gives all this away in grants and more.”
“And the income comes from?”
“It owns oceans of the Square Mile, plus huge tracks of Essex, Kent and down as far as Sussex and Hampshire. It's one of the biggest property owners in the South East.”
“A fortune. Have we got a list of these assets?”
“No, that's another weird thing. There doesn't seem to be one, not publicly available. As I said, the trust is very secretive. The Guildhall archivist implied there may be no definitive list. To find out what properties are involved, you might have to go back to the original wills and trust deeds held by the individual churches.”
“So we think there's a million missing?” Julia looked at her watch.
“Something of this order,” Cody confirmed.
“And no one knows where the Treasurer is?”
He nodded.
“Walk with me for a bit will you?”
“Sure.”
They pushed through the swing doors, out onto Elephant and Castle and made for the Tube.
“Good work Cody.”
“There’s something else. I’ve been looking into a secret society like you asked. Rather, I’ve been staking out the newish Chinese Cultural Association in West London – Hammersmith way. Its membership has grown rapidly, and word is it could be a front for various Triads. Remember Triads are often little more than trade associations, like the old guilds here in London.”
“Not a comparison I would make publicly.”
“Maybe. The biggest operates like a well-oiled corporate machine, supports the Arts and show business. Main backer behind the West End’s latest hit musical. On the face of it a pillar of respectability.”
“How touching.”
“Anyway, I’ve got some pictures here. People coming and going. Thought you might like to look at them,” he handed her an envelope.
They had reached the tube. Julia stopped to flick through the pictures quickly.
“Know anyone?”
She froze.
“Oh yes.” He Len’s face stared out of three of them.
I would recognise you anywhere.
“He seems involved with one called the De Brazzas. It’s a kind of gorilla – also known as swamp monkeys.”
Julia burst out laughing.
How apt, she thought, remembering the Alpha beasts in the Hong Kong Zoological gardens and their boisterous ballet.
“Can you leave all this with me for a few hours? I need to think what to do next about.”
“OK.”
“Great work, Cody. Keep digging, but carefully.”
CHAPTER 27
JULIA left Cody and took the tube to work. As soon as she stepped into the office, Ludgate signalled for her to join him in his bubble. His face looked grim. He asked her to close the door behind her, but did not invite her to sit.
Door closed, he pointed to his computer screen and asked what the email displayed on it meant. She moved behind his desk to read it.
This is awkward, she thought, feeling flustered invading his space. He stepped closer to her, arms folded tightly, a deep scowl furrowing his brow.
He’s furious. The vibes were unmistakable. She leant over his desk to read the email, sent from her email address – a long rant of poison, criticising the newspaper, his leadership in particular and tendering her resignation.
“I didn't write this,” she said. “It's a prank. Someone's hacked my email account.” She paused before adding, “It's malicious.”
He took his phone from his pocket and began dialling a number.
Oh no, he’s lost interest already, she thought.
Deciding better of it, he threw the phone on the desk. “I realise you didn't write it.” Journalists knew each others' writing style as intimately as lovers their sexual partners. “You've never been able to spell anathema correctly.” His foot strummed impatiently.
“Too many a’s and e’s,” she joked, trying to lighten things up. He ignored her, waving his hand for her to move to the other side of the desk.
He rubbed his jaw, as if carefully weighing his next words. “I also realise you're not happy here. We're in the middle of the biggest financial story of our lives, but you seem entirely pre-occupied elsewhere. Lesser journos are running rings round you. You're at odds with senior colleagues you're supposed to be working closely with...”
Is it any wonder with spiteful pranks like this? she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. She needed to salvage something of her relationship with her editor, or her career would go up in flames, the moment she stepped out of his bubble.
“I need team players Julia, and let's face it, you can't run with the pack. You never have.”
I’m about to get the sack, she thought, swallowing hard.
He took a deep breath. “So where do we go from here? Do you want me to make a huge fuss about this email, find and discipline the culprit and potentially unsettle the entire office, when I need everyone focussed on the big story?”
Julia stared down at her feet, nausea mounting in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know how to respond.
Finally, she looked up and said gently, “You’re right. I'm not happy here. Maybe you’re also right, I've l
ost focus. I can't move for loose ends and I can't tie any of them up.”
For the first time in the interview, he looked her straight in the face, his voice softening. “All I need you to do is concentrate day-by-day. Take each step at a time. You of all people know that's the way to build the picture and nail the story.”
She shook her head.
“Not this time. It's no good chasing stories day-by-day. What's coming will be bigger than anything any of us have lived through. I need time and space to join the dots. I'm almost there, I promise you.”
He looked at her intensely, as if trying to read her mind. She knew he wanted to help.
“I'll give you a month to come up with something good.”
“Can I go back to my office?” she asked.
He sighed, but nodded reluctantly.
“Now get out of here, and stop wasting my time,” he sat and reached for his phone. Interview over.
Julia didn't hang around, but hit the floor running.
“Leaving so soon?” Matthew Hopkins walked towards her. He couldn't resist gloating. Whether he wrote that email or not, she knew without a shadow of doubt he was behind the assassination attempt.
“It's been a blast,” he said, shoulders bouncing with stage laughter.
She ignored him. I’m not rising to your bait.
Smiling, as she waited for the lift, she whispered her favourite Chinese proverb. If you sit by the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies come floating past.
She exited the main door without a look behind her, walked through St Paul’s gardens, then took the Millennium Bridge back to the Southside. It was already crowded with tourists heading for Tate Modern. A few business people flowed against the tide.
She picked up her pace to stem the tears pricking the back of her eyes. Tears of anger, frustration and hurt. The row with Ludgate had upset her. I’ll get over it, she tossed her head defiantly.
Hopkins I’ll never forgive, she swore under her breath. But, hey, tempus fugit, all things are passing, I can do without the Square Mile.
Take A Thousand Cuts Page 13
