She stretched the picture gently, bringing it closer for inspection. There was no doubt. Chandler was sitting having lunch with Patrick Silverman.
CHAPTER 32
11.30pm
Tottenham
THE CALL CAME as Chief Inspector Pitcher was about to turn in for the night. It was PC Day.
“I’ve had a tip – my source. Something might be kicking off tonight.”
“Where are you?”
“Old Compton Street. Good butcher’s round. Everything looks normal. Restaurants full, crowds of tourists. It’ll be thinning out soon.”
“OK,” Pitcher was thinking.
“One thing,” Day continued. “Maybe something, maybe nothing. Walked through Chinatown. Two groups of ugly-looking Chinese youths. One in the Golden Pagoda...”
“Chang’s place?”
“That’s right.”
“The other in the Hong Kong Noodle Company.”
“What were they doing?”
“Eating.”
“Just eating?”
“Eating. Got a bad feeling...”
“Keep those coming. They’ll save your life one day. I’ll send a couple of patrol cars, and an armed response van – just in case. Low profile. Butcher on and shout at the first sign of trouble.”
Pitcher switched the television back on. No point trying to sleep, he thought, fancying a glass of something strong. Instead, he went into the kitchen and brewed dark, bitter coffee.
Match of the Day was rerunning the Arsenal versus Spurs match. Dull the first time, it badly needed a goal. He watched on, keen for a diversion as his mind raced – watched on until 10 minutes into extra time. Then he could take it no more – put on a jacket, headed for the door, and set off in his car for Soho.
It was gone 1am when he pulled into Cambridge Circus, alongside the armed unit – his phone ringing. It was PC Day.
“They’re on the move. I’ll follow at a distance. They seem to be heading for Soho Square.”
Pitcher banged on the side of the response van. “We’re off,” he said. “Soho Square.”
Three officers leapt out the van and advanced with Pitcher down a deserted Greek Street. There was no sign of Day. Pitcher’s heart pumped louder with each step. He knew what he would find when he reached the square. He’d seen it dozens of times before. Gangs facing each other off, knives twitching for blood.
Please God let’s get there before the slashing starts.
Then a nerve-shattering scream fractured the night air.
Jesus Christ, where’s Day? Pitcher broke into a run, his armed officers in the lead.
When he entered the Square, his blood froze at the gleam of a deadly blade. A vicious thug – inhuman and unrecognisable thanks to the hideous web of tattoos covering his face and razored head – was about to crack a machete down on PC Day, who stood guarding a fallen body.
“Jesus Christ, No.” Pitcher roared in horror as the killer tool started to plunge towards the young PC.
The tattoo monster braked instantly, startled by the loud noise – arm suspended mid-air.
“Put down your weapons,” one of Pitcher’s officers spoke calmly through a loud speaker. “You’re surrounded.”
Sirens announced the arrival of more police, racing down Frith Street, Carlisle and Soho Street – an ambulance tailgating.
Suddenly it was over. Tattoo-face dropped his arm and ran. The gangs vanished into thin air.
Patrols gave chase. Pitcher ran towards Day.
“You OK?” he asked, placing an unusually affectionate hand on his officer’s arm.
“I am, thanks...for a moment I thought...I was trying to stop them killing this guy.”
Pitcher knelt.
“He’s still breathing. They’ll take him to hospital. I’ll get you home.”
As they walked back to his car together, Pitcher thought how close he had come to losing one of his most valuable and promising officers.
This has to stop, he promised himself as the car pulled away.
CHAPTER 33
Friday August 20
HOW COULD I’VE BEEN so naive? Julia asked herself over and again as she tossed through the night. Silverman lied to her consistently about not seeing Chandler and not knowing where he was. Not just to her, but to everyone. To Rebecca, who deserved better. The police presumably. But why? It didn’t make any sense.
I’ve been such a fool.
Flashbacks of the trip to Cornwall kept crashing her thoughts. He seemed so genuine. But he was strange in that cave, she remembered. Like someone transformed. What was that all about? Was he scared? What was his role in Lee’s death and Chandler’s disappearance? Did he mastermind it all?
She remembered, as she drove away from the castle, a chilling sense someone was watching from the shadows. Could Chandler have been on the island all the time? Was he being held against his will?
Julia left early to catch the Heathrow Express for her flight to Hong Kong. She grabbed her morning edition of the Square Mile and thrust it into her bag, as she struggled to get her suitcase out the door.
Not until the Express was whizzing its way out West, did she unravel her copy and look at the front page headline.
Empty vaults at the Bank of England – Britain’s gold reserve sold to China.
More lies lies lies, she put her head in her hands. Sitting up she read the article slowly and in full. This would never have happened if Ludgate were here. He’ll have a fit, she thought.
Fake news could bankrupt a newspaper.
Always a silver lining, she flicked to the next page. Silverman might lose his shirt.
Despite this potentially catastrophic cock-up, Julia couldn't resist a surge of excitement, as she climbed the aircraft’s steps.
Is it the lure of the East? she wondered. Or relief at running away?
The cabin was full so the view to her seat was blocked. As she neared, the file of people began to clear. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw a familiar figure. Yes, he was sitting in the aisle seat, beside her window seat - 22A.
I can’t believe this, she thought. It was Ziggy, the Ambassador's nephew.
“What a wonderful happenstance,” he greeted her. “Of all the people travelling to Hong Kong this week, what chance should we not only be on the same plane – but sitting side by side?”
No chance at all, Julia thought.
She removed her jacket, folded it, and stretched up to stow it away in her overhead locker. Ziggy stood to allow her to reach her seat. She sat, tightened her seat belt, and took the newspaper out of her bag.
“Interesting story on your front page,” Ziggy’s face lit with a mischievous grin.
Julia raised her eyebrows but didn’t speak. The plane started to taxi.
“I take it, the story’s true? It must be to secure so prestigious a slot on such an august publication?”
“Time will tell,” Julia replied without expression. Their eyes met briefly. Ziggy burst into giggles and despite herself, Julia joined in.
“Disinformation should be a crime,” Ziggy was still beaming. “Not that it happens in China naturally. Nor in London I hope.”
Julia’s snigger subsided – replaced by a stab of fury at Hopkins for turning the Square Mile into a laughing stock.
“Going to Hong Kong for business?” she changed the subject.
“Partly business, partly to catch up with friends and family. You?”
The pilot went full throttle and the plane blasted upwards.
Julia seized both arms of her seat. “Sorry, I’m not good with takeoff.”
She tipped forward feeling the full force of a kick to her stomach, straightening again as the speed of ascension eased slightly.
“Always like this,” she apologised, closing her eyes.
What’s he doing here? she wondered. Is it honestly a coincidence? Or has he been told to mind me? If so, by whom? The Embassy, the Hong Kong authorities, the Chinese People’s Republic? How will I get through nearly t
welve hours sitting next to him?
She opened her eyes. “Look, I’m sorry – not feeling great. Mind if I watch a film and then sleep? Don’t want to seem rude.”
“Of course not. Can I make a suggestion before you rest? Whatever your purpose for this trip – I’m guessing research. If you need a friend, you can always call on me - someone you can trust.”
He placed a warm palm on the back of Julia’s hand. Her heart froze.
No, not the tiniest corner of me would ever trust you.
She managed to squeeze out a smile and say “Thanks,” before snuggling down in her blanket and dimming the light overhead.
SHE SLEPT for several hours, and was woken by the clatter of dishes. Cabin lights turned up bright, stewards were serving a meal.
“Good morning Julia,” Ziggy grinned. “Breakfast’s on its way.”
“Morning. Sleep well?” Julia screwed her eyes sleepily.
“Not at all. I’ve been reading. Kim.”
“Kipling?”
“A child has to decide between East and West.”
“It’s a spy story, I seem to recall.”
“Is it? It’s a very complicated story.”
The breakfast trolley reached their seat. The steward offered noodles or rice. Julia picked noodles and Ziggy rice.
“Where are you heading when we land?” Ziggy asked. “A car’s picking me up. I can drop you somewhere if you like.”
Julia hesitated. A lift would be helpful, but she wanted to keep her distance from Ziggy.
“I’m staying close to the Foreign Correspondents’ Club at the Pottinger Hotel.”
“Good choice. Very central, but pricey. Square Mile paying? It’s one of the oldest streets in the city. Named after the first British Governor Sir Henry Eldred Curwen Pottinger.”
“Curwen. That’s a new one on me. I’ll be surrounded by history will I?”
“You know Hong Kong. Brash modernity side by side with British colonialism and oriental gentility. In the past, this district was the centre of trade, with warehouses, labourers plying their wares, fisherman, porters, dockers and ship captains.”
“All human life eh? Like our docklands?”
“Similar, in some ways – very different in others.”
“You make it sound exciting.”
“It was, and still is. Every bit as exciting as you want it to be.”
As I want it to be, Julia wondered. Is that a promise or a threat?
CHAPTER 34
Friday August 20
Scotland Yard
PITCHER LOOKED up as the Duty Sergeant entered his office.
“And?” he raised questioning eyes.
“Nothing Sir.”
“Nothing?” he bellowed.
“They disappeared. The lads gave chase – difficult terrain. Scum bags disappeared into cellars, attics and sewers around Soho. We assume it was some sort of gang fight. We know they were Chinese.”
“Part of a war?”
“Maybe. Goes with the territory in those parts. Descend, kill or maim, then disappear as quickly. Injured individual’s in intensive care. Unconscious. When he comes round, maybe...”
“ID?”
“Not yet, but it’s not all bad news. We’ve got a possible ID on the body out at Epping,” he said, stooping to pick up some papers discarded on the floor. “Name Walter Halamanning keeps coming up. Desk’s taken several calls after the appeal in the local press. Lives in Wanstead and works in the City. Shall I pass it on to the City of London Police?”
“Tempting,” Pitcher scratched his jaw. “He was found on our patch, and lives in Wanstead. Strictly speaking, he’s ours. Let’s get an ID confirmed then maybe let the City boys know. Anything else?”
“I printed off a biog I found on the internet. Respected City figure, or so it says. Does a lot of charity work apparently – list of places he advised. Why would he be found hacked to death in Epping? Doesn’t add up.”
“When does it ever add up? Great work, thanks. Get family liaison round to talk to the family. See what they can find out.”
The Duty Sergeant left. Pitcher scanned the article. One name leapt out. The Whittingdale Trust.
“So you had a finger in the fund that’s now missing a million,” he said aloud. “Maybe we’ve found Cody’s missing Treasurer.”
Why was he left at the Guide Camp? He’s certainly upset someone.
“Damn, why isn’t Julia here? This is her area,” he said aloud, tapping his desk three times. Then he stood, put on his jacket, left the office, and drove to Bermondsey Street, parking outside Julia’s office.
“You can’t park there,” said Mr Bardetti, who was standing at the door of his Deli.
Pitcher climbed out his car, nose twitching at the wonderful Mediterranean aromas emanating from the Deli. He bent and reached back inside, placing a police hazard light on the roof, with a flourish of his arm.
“I think you’ll find I can,” he said, smiling broadly at Mr Bardetti. “God, you get my juices going. Skipped breakfast, what do you suggest?”
“No, problem, come inside. I’ll fix you a wrap. Now what do you fancy? Dried tomatoes, ham, salami, mozzarella cheese, lettuce, red pepper, red onions and artichoke?”
“With some olives on the side. Heaven.” Pitcher licked his lips. “And Julia would want you to put it on her tab.”
“She’s not here you know,” he gave the Chief Inspector a sideways glance as he assembled the wrap.
Pitcher nodded. “I know.”
“You’re here an awful lot,” the barista drizzled dressing over the ingredients.
“Don’t worry Mr Bardetti. I’m not going to steal her away from you. We help each other out.”
“That’s not what I worry about. You need to take better care of her. She puts a lot of noses out of joint. You and me both know, angry people can be dangerous.”
“I do tell her. Right now she’s on the other side of the world, so there’s not much I can do.”
“When she gets back, you take care of her,” Bardetti repeated. A broad smile lit up his face as he handed over the wrap. “Enjoy Chief Inspector.”
“Ciao,” Pitcher waved as he made his way to Julia’s office entrance. He turned back, thinking about Bardetti’s words. “Great you’re here, too,” he said.
He took the stairs to Julia’s office two at a time.
“What can I do for you Chief Inspector?” Cody asked looking up from a desk awash with papers.
“I need your help,” the detective sat opposite him. “But first I need to taste this delicious creation,” he bit into the wrap.
“Cool,” the young reporter said, watching its contents ooze all over Pitcher’s face. He handed him a tissue.
“We’ve got an unconfirmed ID on the body at the Guide Camp,” Pitcher said, when he finished wiping his mouth and fingers. “We think it could be your missing Treasurer from the Whittingdale Trust. Can you run through with me again all you know about this trust, and what exactly you think’s missing?”
Cody recounted how an anonymous envelope had arrived the morning after Adam Lee was murdered, and Julia asked him to look at the contents. With the help of the librarian at the Guildhall library, he discovered the papers were accounts relating to the Whittingdale Trust.
“How d’you manage that?”
“There were loads of clues, names of directors, offices, so forth. But I couldn’t work out what the story was, so Julia put me in contact with her friendly forensic accountant.”
“And he said there was a million missing?”
“At least, he couldn’t be sure. But yes money was gone. I contacted the Chairman of the Trust, James Montague, and he told me to speak to the Treasurer – only he was nowhere to be found.”
“Until now,” Pitcher said.
“Not sipping Martinis in Panama after all – ” Cody threw the debris from Pitcher’s wrap in the bin.
“We can’t be sure but possibly not. Who would want him dead?”
&
nbsp; “And why take the money in the first place? Maybe someone was blackmailing him?
“Why?”
“Or he had an accomplice – and they fell out?”
“The orchid. It can’t be a coincidence.”
“I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m not quite following you.”
“Adam Lee had an orchid in his top pocket. So did Halamanning. It has to be a sign of something. They both worked in finance. There has to be a connection.”
“Well, maybe there was,” he slid a wad of papers across the desk.
“If you look at last year’s list of Trustees, you’ll see a name you might recognise. Julia certainly would. Jonathan Silverman – Patrick Silverman’s father.”
Pitcher scratched his head. “No, you’ve lost me there.”
“Golden Boys, I think they called them. Adam Lee, Stephen Chandler and Patrick Silverman, all worked together at Peak Bank for a while.”
“What! Adam Lee, Stephen Chandler and Patrick Silverman all knew each other. Why wasn’t I told this before now? And Silverman’s father was involved in this trust, where a million pounds is missing. Adam Lee’s dead and Halamanning murdered. Chandler’s disappeared.”
“Silverman’s the last man standing. What d’we do next?”
Pitcher belched. “Well, I know what Julia would say.”
“That would be?”
“She would say, write it, for tomorrow’s edition. The deadline should be looming – it always seems to be for her. She would say – what’re you waiting for Cody? You can do this.”
“I’ve never written anything this big,” the young reporter said tentatively.
“Come off it, there’s nothing to it. The fuss these journalists make. If I can confirm the ID in a couple of hours, which I’m hoping, you’re ready to roll.”
PITCHER DID CONFIRM and Cody's story rocked the charitable sector. A major London charity – a £1 million black hole in the accounts – the Treasurer found dead. The other Trustees resigned on mass. The next day the Chairman, Sir James Montague, was admitted to London Bridge hospital with a heart attack.
Cody was downcast.
Take A Thousand Cuts Page 17
