The stewardess offered Pole a much-needed drink. A small bottle of red wine would help with a very sad looking sandwich. He was not strictly off duty but needed a bit of help with his air travel. Pole carried on reading the lengthy mail, details of specific art pieces, values, contacts. He was starting to lose interest when a piece of information attracted his attention. Allner-Smith owned an account in Switzerland with a small private bank well known to Pole, one of the last strongholds of the much-denigrated banking secrecy. There secrecy meant secrecy. Pole had never managed to get one iota of information out of them and nor had his Swiss colleagues. Pole sat back in his seat muttering to himself.
“Now this is interesting, another coincidence? Mmmm.”
He immediately felt the heaviness of another set of eyes on him. The little boy sat in the adjacent seat did not seem amused.
“Sorry,” said Pole with a silly smile.
“Accepted,” replied the little man and dived back into his comic book.
Pole was about to make some comment but thought otherwise. Children these days, and as the thought crossed his mind, he did feel like an old fart.
Pole returned to his own stack of papers. He started constructing a plausible scenario surrounding Albert’s murder. Would Allner-Smith want to frame Henry? Could he frame Henry? It would not be too tedious to find out about Henry’s Irish links. He knew about Anthony and Henry’s rivalry. Allner-Smith had witnessed it first hand in the auction rooms of Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Motives were plentiful; greed would always be at the centre of this case, then revenge, power, vanity. All of these qualities Brett exhibited in spades. But then there was the briefcase, Pole stopped. He straightened himself up and cast an eye at the little lad next to him. He was still engrossed in his comic book now furiously chewing on a piece of gum.
Pole smiled, sitting back in his seat.
So where was he? The briefcase. Pole drew a blank. How could Allner-Smith have orchestrated the delivery of this explosive item? That is a very bad joke, thought Pole, still unrepentant for having cracked it. Maybe with the help of Albert’s wife? That did not sound right either or maybe it was – a switch in briefcases? By all accounts Allner-Smith would have wanted to stay in the background to manipulate Adeila. Discussing the delivery of the briefcase directly with her would give her immense power over him. They would be accomplices, and Allner-Smith operated on his own. No, he would want to be the sole mastermind, or so Eugene said. Then again, he had never, as far as they both could see, gone that far.
Pole stopped, took a sip of wine from the plastic glass and pulled a face. He looked at the label which was claiming a full bodied red exploding with wild berries. In short, a passable plonk. As the plane started to give a couple of small jolts, Pole emptied his glass. He spent a few minutes still considering the motive, there was a lot of money involved.
Actually, how much money exactly?
Pole reached for his colleague’s briefcase again and pulled out another document. A summary sent by Albert’s accountant of the dead man’s assets, give or take a few £100,000 read the email.
Ridiculous, but then so many things sounded ridiculous at a few thousand feet in the air. Pole shifted. Not an idea to dwell on. Back to the case.
The mail was well constructed and showed in a very concise form what a City senior MD can make in a few years of hard earnings.
1) Belgravia House (latest estimate @ 30/08/2008) £10,500,000
2) Art collection (including pieces over £1,000)
See appendix 1 for details £5,650,000
3) Jewellery
See appendix 2 for details £1,100,000
4) Flat in Nice (latest estimate @12/07/2007
Fixed @ 11/10/2008) £1,750,000
5) Investments in Funds and other £9,584,000
6) HXBK unexpired options £7,500,000
7) Cash on account £70,800
8) Aston Martin DB9 £115,000
Grand Total £36,269,800
Pole read the numbers one more time and mused at what he would do with £36 or so million. Then again did he really want that much money in the first place? He could have followed in the footsteps of his grandmother or indeed his entire family for whom art did not mean meagre revenues. He remembered the artists visiting her house, the debates, the excitement and the falling out. Her sense for talent was unique. He could have lived in her shadow, or that of his father, a remarkable saxophonist who still played, at the age of seventy-eight, with the greatest jazz fusion musicians. But he had chosen to be different. Why? Pole looked at his watch and decided to park the philosophical debate for later on knowing full well what the outcome would be.
So, it was evident that Anthony Albert had done well for himself since joining the banking world. Pole remembered the sum Albert had negotiated when he had first joined HXBK. The shy young man had learned to monetise his talents, fast. Such a quick rise in revenue, however, must have indicated only one thing, a ruthless desire to take risks, and a lot of them.
Large and risky transactions were about to come undone, or so the financial press claimed. Albert was not the sort of man who looked closely at the ethical consequences of the deals he put together. What simply mattered was the bottom line and the bonus he would derive from negotiating such large deals. The idea focused Pole’s mind again. In the context of a takeover matters became much tenser. He jotted a note down on the side of the document he was reading. Albert dealt in the subprime market. Andy to had collected a list of the latest deals Albert, with counterparties identities and revenue streams. He also had a detailed account of Albert’s bonuses in the past four years. HXBK’s HR had finally provided a list of bonus figures that were as impressive as his total wealth. The last bonus in particular was explosively large both in cash terms and HXBK options.
Interesting, thought Pole. Looks like HR are dragging their feet. Why?
Pole was interrupted when the plane gave a yet another jolt. The seatbelt sign went up. Inspector Pole grabbed the armrest. The pilot came on the intercom. They would be encountering some turbulence until they landed at Heathrow which was only twenty-five minutes away. Pole grumbled and prepared himself for a very uncomfortable twenty-five minutes.
* * *
Back on terra firma, Henry, Nancy and his barrister were about to conclude their findings. The BlackBerry incident had put a dampener on what would have been otherwise a very successful meeting. Nancy’s choice of barrister had proven to be very judicious yet Henry could not reconcile the incident. He had lost control but then again, why interfere with his business?
Gavin Pritchard QC’s voice brought Henry back to the meeting room, a large space filled with books and faded furniture. The chairs looked as if they hadn’t been changed since Pritchard had started his career, which Henry took to be a very long time ago. Yet it felt cosy, even familiar.
“I am feeling clear on all the facts and evidence surrounding your matter,” declared the barrister with confidence.
“I will step in the next time Inspector Pole wants a meeting. It is essential,” Pritchard QC leaned forward and tapped his pen on his notes.
“So far WE take the view that WE have a series of coincidences which are fortuitous. WE believe in the circumstantial nature of the events. The police of course will not accept this easily. Pole is a methodical man. Nevertheless, it is OUR intention to pursue the argument.”
“Precisely,” replied Henry.
He felt drained of energy and knowledge. Pritchard waited a few seconds. His thought process was nearly palpable to Henry. Beyond his tiredness Henry gathered Pritchard might have something else in mind.
“Excellent,” carried on Pritchard.
He jotted down a few more notes. Henry had been tense for several hours. He felt a release of pain. Fight or flight, he thought, as he gathered himself to stand up. Maybe, just maybe, he could escape further scrutiny.
“One final point if I may?”
Henry’s barrister adjusted his round glasses and pu
shed his body back in his chair. He had kept the meatiest morsel for the end.
“Your faction IRA connections?”
Pritchard had not bothered with the word alleged. To him all Irish men from Belfast had IRA connections.
“What about it?” replied Henry, non-committal.
Pritchard QC looked at his client and remained silent. He was simply waiting. Nothing Henry could say would convince him to drop the question. It hit Henry to see the anticipation of success, the challenge – and what a challenge, a banker blowing a plane out of the sky through IRA contacts. Magnificent. Even more so after the IRA had renounced violence. A splinter group would make matters more complex to defend. Possibly the challenge of a lifetime. Henry suspected he might have done it for free, but then again Pritchard would know as well as Henry did that money was not only worth the pleasure it gave, it was also a benchmark against which all professionals aspired to be measured. Was Pritchard giving him an image of his own reflection when he himself was going for the kill?
Henry stared at his lawyer, anger rising. The moment passed. Henry kept looking intensely at the face in front of him, to make it give in but the smooth round oval did not budge. The slightly overarched eyebrows, the large forehead etched with waves of lines, all was calm and decisive. Henry inhaled deeply. Pritchard would not take the case unless he knew. Henry sat back in his chair.
“Where do I start?”
“The beginning is usually a good place,” said Pritchard picking up his pen once more. He leaned forward with avidity.
“It was a long time ago.”
* * *
The officer at passport control greeted Pole with the requisite stern face when Pole handed over his passport. Pole had received news from Nurani by BlackBerry. He was trying to reach her now that matters had moved decidedly forward in Ireland. He was concerned. Bobby was a dangerous man, hardened to the core with a hint of lunacy thrown in for good measure. Pole had tried many times to imagine what the IRA decommissioning would do to such an extreme mind. Bobby was a zealot, his dedication to the cause more a way of life rather than a political battle. Over the years Pole had suspected that the reasons why had become secondary to the means. Nothing else really mattered. It was all about the fight, regardless of the peace process.
Pole had recognised the impact Henry’s upbringing in Northern Ireland had had on him. The violence would have been in the background, a constant present, an unseen filter potent enough to distort all that it touched. Pole remembered reading a book a few years back describing life in Belfast: the prejudices, the people trying to make a living out of so very little, but above all the bombs. The book’s description of one bomb blast had made a lasting impression on him. It was not so much the torn bodies and the atrocious violence that made an impression on him. It was the incomprehension, even the absurdity so clearly exposed. The stubborn attitude of the perpetrators, the total disconnect between rhetoric and death. Pole did not believe in God or indeed that the Church had any valid role to play in guiding man on his ethical search but he believed in humanity. The ringtone of his mobile brought him back to the now. Nurani was calling.
“What news?” asked Pole without further greetings.
“Bobby is refusing to talk at the moment,” replied Nurani, eager to give her news. “We still don’t know why he turned up there, probably to see Liam. However, things are getting more complicated. We are almost certain it is a hostage situation.”
“What do you mean by ‘almost certain’ about the hostage situation?”
“Bobby got in as people were leaving. One person has not arrived home yet. We have to presume he is still in there unless we hear from him.”
“Agreed, we are not taking chances,” replied Pole now regretting he was in London. “Who is on the scene?”
“The situation is pretty advanced. Pat called his contacts in Dublin. Special forces are there as well as a hostage negotiator.”
“Can you deal with it?” asked Pole abruptly, unconcerned about sparing Nurani’s feelings.
“Yes, Jon, I can,” she replied with absolute certainty.
“Very well, what are you suggesting?”
“Bobby has already fired a few rounds. The guys in Dublin are very concerned. The Docks are a popular district for business. They are deciding whether to storm the premises or not. The only thing that stops them at the moment is the hostage story. An IRA incident is not what the authorities want at the moment, even if this comes from a splinter group.”
“Pat has no jurisdiction over that part of the world though.”
“Yeah, but he knows the boys in Dublin pretty well. And he knows the O’Connor brothers even better. The Dublin guys have already asked him for his opinion and they now know that we have Liam in custody – to storm or not to storm?”
Pole took it in. Nurani had accustomised herself to the situation. She was hard and uncompromising, she would do well.
“Pat is prepared to cut a deal. Liam gets to reason with his brother to give himself up and gets him out of this alive but–” .
“Liam gives us Henry,” Pole interrupted
Nurani coughed.
“OK, do it,” replied Pole after another brief silence. “I am on my way to the office and will call you two from there. I want to discuss the terms of this agreement if there is going to be one.”
Pole dashed into his waiting cab.
Chapter Twenty-One
Henry was walking home. He had left Nancy behind with little ceremony. He needed to be on his own and desperately wanted to replace his lost BlackBerry. It took some considerable time for Henry to find what he had in mind. He had not previously taken the trouble to investigate the multiple options that were available to him. His PA Morag always chose the most up-to-date version available, irrespective of whether it made sense or not. One simply had to have the latest at GL. Henry never had the time or indeed the inclination to be a ‘gig’, however the subject matter had become of intense interest to him and the young woman who first tried to serve him did not fare well. Henry could not admit it, thinking himself a progressive, but he had to be very convinced before he relied on a woman for anything technical.
Her boss had spotted the issue and moved in to help. It was too late and Henry had already worked himself into a contentious mood. He was furiously enquiring about functions and apps that he had barely noticed let alone used, and then, of course, the phone was too bulky, the keys too small, the iPhone he was offered did not have the right security protocol. The intervention of another sales assistant only made matters worse until Henry eventually looked at his watch.
He decided upon a particular model much to the disbelief and relief of the exhausted staff. Henry left the box behind, had the SIM card installed, grumbled a final question about mail access and pocketed his phone. Walking down Chancery Lane, he walked slowly, revisiting his time with Pritchard QC. He would not be a man easy to lie to. Could Henry risk jeopardising the relationship with his defence lawyer? The thought of succeeding gave him a pang of excitement. He had done well but the day was young and he would not presume his success.
Henry was about to cross Holborn when he spotted a small cafe on his left. He decided to do what he often did in the City when he needed to take a step back. He settled himself in the window of the cafe shop with a large Assam tea and a biscotti. For a while he observed the passers-by. He tried to guess which firm or employment the men and women who walked past were coming from. The young man with a white shirt, sober but noticeable red tie, and clean-shaven was unmistakably Goldman Sachs, the middle-aged woman with her severe black suit and large briefcase one of the barristers. Henry could not help but notice that none of these people had a smile on their faces. No matter how much he tried to brush it away it kept coming back. He looked at his watch, he should be going home despite a half-drunk cup and unopened biscotti. Yes, home – he saw his lounge, his favourite armchair, the collection of expensive antiquities and art. Henry listed his prized pieces, his beloved
Guanyin he had stolen from the shady Allner-Smith and the miniature terracotta warrior he had won from Anthony Albert. What a coup it had been. The savagery of triumph stirred him up. Albert was a coward. He would never had matched him when the price became truly hot and he certainly would never have opposed his wife. But now there was The Raft of the Medusa. Everything he had chosen up to now had created a sense of wealth, an easy decor to live with. Had it been all for show? Nancy had made the point and he had to admit reluctantly that she might be right. Was it an attempt at piercing what art truly meant for him or a message of doom? Henry shrugged. What a ridiculous idea!
But no, Henry pretended all was good, opened the biscuit wrapper and wolfed it down. He washed it down with the now lukewarm tea. It occurred to him that he had had no desire to see any of his friends. This thought put a derisory smile on his lips, the only man he would want to speak to at this moment in time was Liam. There never would be any confidants in his City friends. Friendships had been built on a show of power or self- interest. He had made particular choices and was not surprised by them.
But then there was Pam. The debacle with Wooster QC’s sabbatical had left him raw. Forgiveness was impossible, his throat tightened up. Henry shifted on his chair, struggling with his feelings. He praised his ability to stay detached and clear-headed but was it not a lot of nonsense? Henry had to laugh, he was anything but detached. He simply did not want to admit he cared. Pam was safe, she was his lawyer, she was forbidden territory for a man of Henry’s ambition. He saw her face close to his in the pub in Dublin. She had drunk Guinness from his glass and pulled a face. He had moved a strand of hair away from her eyes, hardly brushing the skin of her forehead.
His BlackBerry started to buzz, he hesitated for a second not yet prepared to let Pam’s face fade away. He finally pressed the answer button. The voice at the other end startled him.
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