Martin Bodenham

by The Geneva Connection

  They were both in their forties, and had known each other since school, but had married only seven years ago. She’d always known they would marry eventually. It was obvious to her. Henning, however, was not an impulsive man. He liked to take his time over significant decisions, weighing up the pros and cons and how others would be affected by his actions, before deciding what to do. It was one of the things she loved about him. She knew he was a thoroughly decent man who didn’t like to disappoint or offend anyone.

  Nora taught at a senior school in the center of town. While she walked to work, Henning always cycled to CBC’s offices. He worked hard to keep fit and, like many Scandinavians, his favorite type of exercise was cycling. On the weekend, it was not unusual for him to cycle sixty miles in a morning. He was also a creature of habit. He’d carry his road bike up the basement steps of the townhouse and onto the pavement at six thirty every weekday morning, preferring to be away early to avoid the heavy Cambridge traffic. His usual route meant he’d normally arrive at the office by six fifty. By the time he’d showered, he’d be at his desk by seven fifteen.

  That morning it was raining quite heavily when he lifted the bike to the pavement. He put on his lightweight waterproof jacket over his cycling jersey before setting off. Normally, he’d pedal slowly up King’s Parade and take in the view of King’s College and Chapel. Usually, he was amazed by these six-hundred-year-old buildings, but that morning he was preoccupied.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation he was going to have with his friend, Lucas Stromholm. How was he going to let him know his client had already invested in CBC’s fund through Tritona? He didn’t want to breach Tritona’s or Kvarnback’s confidence, but he needed to clear the confusion. How would Lucas take the news? Would his friend be offended or embarrassed to learn he didn’t know everything about his client’s personal financial affairs? Lucas had seemed pretty clear that he dealt with all of his client’s family investment matters. After all, it was his biggest client so he’d know the family’s business inside out, wouldn’t he? No doubt it would become clearer after his telephone conversation later in the day. He needed to work out a strategy first.

  As he cycled east on Newmarket Road, past the Grafton shopping center, the rain began to pelt down. It was not a cold rain, but Henning was getting soaked, and the rain was causing his goggles to mist up badly. At Elizabeth Way, the rain began to overflow the drains and run down the street. He increased his pace and moved over into the middle of the road to avoid the running water. There were few cars around at this time of the morning, so he felt safe to be further into the road.

  He approached the roundabout on Milton Road and slowed the pace. On most days, the absence of vehicles meant he could avoid stopping altogether and ride straight onto the roundabout. Just as he was turning right, his mobile phone rang in his breast pocket. For a moment he lost concentration and didn’t hear the white van racing up behind him. The vehicle smashed into his right side, throwing him twenty feet into the air. He landed against a steel lamppost. There was a loud crack as Henning’s neck snapped. He was dead by the time he hit the road. The van raced on without stopping, leaving the mangled bike lying in the middle of the road.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tara came running into Kent’s office. “The police are in reception asking to speak with you,” she said.

  “The police? And they’re asking for me?” Kent asked.

  “Yes. They said it was an important matter, but wouldn’t give any details.”

  “Okay. Bring them through into my office. It’s bound to be some claptrap about a neighborhood watch scheme or other.”

  Kent looked at his watch. Three thirty p.m.

  The squash court’s booked for four thirty, he thought. Can’t spend long with these people; it’s a league match.

  “Mr. John Kent?” asked the senior of the two police officers.

  Kent was struck by the somber mood of the officers. This is something serious.

  “It’s not Sarah is it?”

  “Who’s Sarah?” asked the officer.

  “My wife.”

  “No, this is not about your wife, sir.”

  “Thank God. I’m sorry. Please take a seat. What can I do for you?”

  “Could we first confirm that Mr. Anton Henning works at these offices?”

  “Yes. He’s a partner here. What’s this about?”

  “I regret to inform you, Mr. Kent, that Mr. Henning was killed earlier today in a road traffic accident.”

  “What? I assumed he was out at a meeting today…” Kent stopped to digest the news for a few seconds. “I’m sorry. How did it happen?”

  “I’m afraid we’re unable to share any details at the moment. We found office papers in his rucksack. They pointed us to CBC. We’d like to contact any family he might have. We assume you have personal contact details for him?”

  “You mean Nora doesn’t know about this?”

  “Is Nora his wife?”

  “Yes. I’ll get you her contact details.” Kent walked over to his door. “Tara, can you dig out Anton’s personnel file and bring it here for me right away?”

  “Sure. Is everything okay? You look pale.”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment.”

  Two minutes later, Tara returned with the file. “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “Anton’s been killed in an accident.”

  “Oh my God! How? Was he on his bike?”

  “I can tell you he was cycling this morning when the accident happened,” said the officer. “But we can’t release any further details until we have spoken with his wife.”

  “Nora doesn’t know. The police need her contact details so they can get hold of her,” said Kent.

  “Of course. Let me write them down for you,” said Tara. “Poor Nora. What awful news.”

  “Would you like me to come with you? It might help to have someone she knows with her when you tell her,” said Kent.

  “That would be very helpful, Mr. Kent, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Nora doesn’t have any family in this country. They’re both from Sweden.” Kent stood up and slipped on his suit jacket. “I still can’t believe it. We were just talking last night in this office, and now he’s dead.”

  The following Sunday morning, Kent woke up early. He was exhausted and couldn’t stop thinking about the accident. He could only imagine the hell Nora was going through.

  The worst point had been telling her the dreadful news of her husband’s death. Kent had tried to find the right words to comfort her, but he’d struggled. He did everything else he could to help, arranging for her sister to come over from Sweden and taking care of the formalities regarding the identification of Henning’s body. Thankfully, there were no children involved. He knew Nora would be comfortable financially, given CBC’s group life assurance cover and her husband’s vested stake in the carried interest scheme at the firm. But it was not about money or practical arrangements at that moment. She just needed emotional support. Sarah had been invaluable; she knew exactly what to say and what to do to meet Nora’s needs, leaving him to focus on the more practical issues.

  Had the police released the body, he would have offered to organize the repatriation to Sweden too. But they were not ready to do so; they’d yet to complete their inquiries.

  What’s taking them so long? It’s obvious how Henning died. Nora needs to organize a funeral.

  He got out of bed and went downstairs to pick up the newspapers, before making himself a coffee and going through to his study. He decided not to disturb Sarah as she was still asleep.

  It’s been a difficult few days for her, too, he thought. She needs the rest.

  He searched through his newspaper for the business section, junking the sports and culture sections. As his eyes scanned the first page the words jumped out at him. “CBC Partner Killed in Hit and Run.”

  Hit and run! How could someone plough into a cyclist in broad daylight and then dri
ve off?

  Suddenly he understood why the police were withholding the body and continuing their investigation.

  This isn’t just an accident. It could go on for weeks, he realized. How’s Nora going to cope?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The following morning, Kent held a partners’ meeting and updated everyone on the events of the last few days. All of them had read the Sunday Post story, but there was nothing Kent could add. He’d spoken with Nora on Sunday afternoon. She’d heard from the police, but was struggling to take it all in. They told her they were looking for a white van or small truck, but didn’t go into any more detail. Kent suggested they continue to pay Henning’s salary to Nora until the firm’s life assurance paid out. He didn’t want her worrying over money. All of the partners agreed.

  Kent returned to his office. He had a lot of work to catch up on; the previous week had been chaotic. He opened up the electronic diary on his PC and scanned the last couple of weeks to make sure there was nothing left unfinished.

  He noticed the entry from the previous Monday where Tara had noted his meeting with Henning.

  That was the last thing Henning did here.

  As he replayed that last meeting with Henning in his mind, Kent remembered Henning was going to make some inquiries about Andreas Kvarnback’s prior involvement in private equity.

  “Could you dig out the compliance file on Tritona for me?” he shouted to Tara.

  “Sure. Is there anything I can find for you in particular?”

  “No. I just need to take a look at the file.”

  Tara came back with it a few minutes later. “I think what you’re doing for Nora is very kind, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Anton was a friend. Still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “It makes you value what you have.”

  “You’re right. Easy to forget when we’re rushing around.”

  “Let me know if I can help with the file. I put it together with Kevin.”

  “Thanks. Just leave it with me. I’m not sure what I’m looking for really.”

  He sat on one of the sofas and started to read the file. There were the usual CBC checklists on the front setting out the various compliance checks that had been carried out and who’d completed them. All the boxes were initialed either by his compliance partner, Kevin Long, or by Tara.

  They’d taken copies of the various Tritona companies’ key documents, certificates of incorporation and so on. Further back were checks on the families behind Tritona, including copies of passports for each of the key family members. Tara had initialed the boxes, which confirmed that she’d compared the copy passports to the originals. Everything seemed in order.

  Kent looked at the various supporting documents: the key verification papers and agreements, including the investment agreement between the three families behind Tritona. He flipped through the passport copies of Hans Deutchman, Franz Needmeier and Andrees Kvarnback.

  Something made him take a second look, and this time it jumped out at him. “A — N — D — R — E — E — S.”

  It’s spelled wrong. It ought to say “Andreas.” He stared at the copy of the passport photo then walked over to his desk, reached for his keyboard and powered up his search engine. He typed in “Andrees Kvarnback.” The screen flashed up, “Your search — andrees kvarnback — did not match any documents.”

  This is weird.

  He punched in “Andreas Kvarnback” and the search engine came back with more than three thousand results.

  He scrolled down through the results. Most of them referred to “Andreas Kvarnback” and “Svensk Pharmaceuticals,” the SEC listed pharmaceuticals group of companies. He clicked on a few links and tracked down a PDF copy of the latest published report and accounts for the group. He turned to the chairman’s report and saw a large color photograph of the chairman, Andreas Kvarnback. Kent compared it to the passport photo on the compliance file. Definitely the same person.

  Henning was right; his friend’s client was the chairman and controlling shareholder in Svensk Pharmaceuticals and this client was, indeed, one of the investors in Tritona. But why didn’t Henning’s friend know of his client’s investment in Tritona? Kent continued staring at the copy of the passport photo page and at the computer screen in front of him. The incorrect spelling in the passport makes no sense. Surely, Andreas Kvarnback himself would have picked up a mistake in his own passport?

  What the fuck is this all about? Was this why Henning was so worried? Had he taken the time to look at the compliance file and found the same thing? He’d always been a stickler for detail.

  He stood up, grabbed the file and ran downstairs to the security reception to speak to Chapman.

  “Do you have a moment, Bill?”

  “Of course, Mr. Kent,” replied Chapman, from behind the desk.

  “Good. Let’s use this office for a moment.”

  They walked into a small office just across the hall from the security desk, and Kent closed the door behind them.

  “Am I being fired?” asked Chapman. “Tell me straight.”

  “No. What makes you think that?”

  “It’s just we’ve never discussed anything before other than at my desk. Now we’re standing in an office behind a closed door.”

  “No. Relax, Bill. I need your help. That’s all. Grab a seat.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  They both sat at the small table. “What I’m about to share with you has to remain absolutely confidential. I mean no one can know about this,” Kent said, lowering his voice.

  “I can assure you it will remain only with me. Whatever it is.”

  “It’s a delicate matter.”

  “How I can help? Is it a staff problem? Has someone been stealing?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Oh.” Chapman looked disappointed.

  “Are you still in contact with any of your old army intelligence colleagues?”

  “Tell me what you need, and I’ll let you know if I can help.”

  Kent opened the file in his hand and placed it in front of them. “You see this passport photo page? Does anything jump out at you?”

  Chapman studied the copy for a few moments. “Can I take it off the file?”

  “Sure.”

  Chapman held the document up to the light, turned it around, then upside down, narrowing his eyes as he did so.

  “Anything,” asked Kent.

  “No. Not really.”

  “That’s what I thought. I need to know if there’s anything not right about this passport.” He decided not to mention the spelling of the passport holder’s name.

  “It’s obviously not a British passport.”

  “Yes, but I mean anything else besides that.”

  “Is there anything in particular you have in mind? Can you give me a clue what you’re looking for?”

  “I just need to know there’s nothing wrong with it. That’s all. Call it, in-depth verification, if you like.”

  “There are a couple of retired contacts I have who know a thing or two about identification papers. You know, driving licenses, work permits, passports, and so on. I’d be happy to run this by them.”

  “I’d really appreciate that. Let me make a few good quality photocopies for you.” Kent stood up and grabbed the file. “I’d prefer you not to say anything about CBC when you speak to your contacts.”

  “There’s no reason for me to say anything to them about the firm. I’ll just give them copies of the page and ask if anything appears unusual to them. They don’t need to know who’s interested or why.”

  “I owe you one for this.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m happy to help. It’s nice to start using the old gray matter again.”

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  “Give me a few days, and I’ll let you know what turns up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A week later, as Kent arrived at work, Chapman suggested it would be a good idea if t
hey could meet at some point in the day. Kent arranged to meet him midmorning; he was already scheduled to meet with a management team who were coming in at nine a.m. to discuss a potential transaction with him and George Townsend, another of Kent’s partners. He thought about canceling the meeting as he wanted to hear what Chapman had to say, but it could wait another couple of hours. He’d thought about little else over the past few days, trying to rationalize the passport and why Henning’s friend knew nothing about his client’s involvement in private equity. None of it made sense.

  The meeting with the management team dragged on, and Kent found it difficult to concentrate on the potential deal. He was anxious to find out what Chapman had learned. He hoped it would put his mind at rest or, at least, provide some answers. In the end, he made his excuses and left Townsend to finish off the meeting on his own.

  Just after eleven thirty, he ran downstairs to see Chapman.

  “I had a word with one of my contacts, as I said I would,” said Chapman, closing the door behind him.

  “Great. What did they say?”

  “I don’t know if it’s good news or bad.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s a forgery.”

  Kent slumped in one of the chairs, exhaling loudly through his nose. He didn’t say anything for a few moments as he digested the news.

  Jesus, what the hell does this mean?

  “And they could tell that from a photocopy?”

  “There’s no doubt about it.”

  “How?”

  “Take a look at the passport.” Chapman drew up a chair next to Kent and pointed to the photocopy. “It’s only two years old. According to my contact, Sweden adopted the standard format of the European Union passport three years ago. Although unexpired, old-style passports would still be valid, all new passports had to follow the EU format.”

  “So what style is this one?”

  “The old style which means it can’t be legit.”