Finally there was an invoice from a courier company, Goldstar International. It was for a job the previous Saturday, 7 February; the day before Devereux died. But it was the amount owed that made Belsey take a closer look. The job cost £295. It involved three vans. Whatever required this amount of transportation had been collected from 33 Cavendish Square, 11:40 a.m.; delivery to postcode EC2V.
Belsey typed the full drop-off postcode into his office PC and it came up as the Guildhall.
The Guildhall was the City’s own grand banqueting house, its town hall, a fifteenth-century status symbol with roots down through the Middle Ages to Roman London. Most of the City admin got done in a modern building to the north, leaving the opulent space available for corporate hire. What was Devereux doing?
Belsey thought he might have better luck with the pickup address, but he was wrong. Thirty-three Cavendish Square was a huge tower behind Regent Street, providing office space to twenty-seven separate companies, from Dental Protection Ltd., Coller Capital, Esselco Services and Sovereign Chemicals to Star Capital Partners, Advisa Solicitors, Lasalle Investment Management, MWB Business Exchange, TOTAL Holdings UK Ltd., Coal Pension Properties Ltd.
The names swam before his eyes in shades of corporate grey. The invoice didn’t list anything but the address and there was no obvious place to start. None of the names looked familiar from paperwork he’d seen at Devereux’s home or office.
Belsey called the couriers themselves.
“Goldstar.”
“Hi. I’ve just received an invoice for a job—but we don’t have any record of it this end.”
There was a groan.
“Have you got the reference there?”
Belsey read the reference.
“Well,” the man said, “we certainly did it, because I remember it.”
“What was it?”
“Very large, very fragile boxes. You tell me.”
“Which company did you pick them up from?”
“If it’s not on the invoice I’m not going to know.”
“Can you remember what the event was?”
“The event? Look, we just delivered them—”
“How many boxes was it?”
“I didn’t count. You were the one being secretive about it.”
“It’s escaped me. Are there any of the drivers there? Perhaps they remember what it was about.”
“They’re working. There’s no doubt we did the job. Maybe it was so sensitive that’s why you’ve forgotten all about it.”
Belsey hung up. He thought about the delivery address. Guildhall: the City. Milton Granby’s domain. It was one of the few leads open to him. Belsey found a number for the Chamberlain’s office and got through to a humourless woman with an affected accent who said that Granby was unavailable.
“When can I catch him?”
“What does the request concern?”
“It’s personal.”
“Try tomorrow.”
“What’s he doing today?”
“He’s taking schoolchildren around the Barbican, for Community Week.”
“Is it Community Week?”
“Yes.” She hung up.
Belsey signed out an inconspicuous black Peugeot 307 and drove to the Barbican. It was all simple, really. He would discover what Project Boudicca was and how it killed Devereux, steer the Jessica Holden investigation in the right direction, use the knowledge to play Kovar, avoid getting killed, avoid falling in love, avoid whoever was playing games with his head, leave the country, re-establish some quality of life . . . Rain dripped down the surfaces of the grey complex. He cruised past Cromwell Tower, Shakespeare Tower, searching through the desolate shards of concrete for signs of Community Week. Eventually he found school buses parked beside the Museum of London and, a little farther on, some security guards and a photographer from the local paper. Beyond them was Granby’s entourage.
Milton Granby stood in the centre of a crowd once more, this time an adviser, PA, some interns and a makeup girl. Everyone was busy apart from Granby, who looked a little queasy and unstable without the tuxedo. The makeup girl was putting life into his cheeks. The hangover made him irritable. Granby shouted something at the adviser and one of the interns, something Belsey couldn’t hear. The schoolchildren kept their distance. This was going to be interesting, Belsey thought. The PA walked in his direction. He saw what was happening too late.
“Are you here for the shoot?” she asked.
“I’m a police detective.”
“OK.” It didn’t seem to ruffle her. “Follow me.” She moved him to the crowd in front of a sign that said “Building Communities Together.” “We thought you’d be in uniform,” she said.
Belsey had his picture taken with the Chamberlain and the schoolchildren. The children made a lot of noise and the Chamberlain gritted his teeth. After five minutes the photographer had what he wanted. The crowd broke up, with some words of wisdom regarding life opportunities from Milton Granby, and then he was being called away by his adviser. Granby made for the cars. Belsey caught up with him.
“Nick Belsey, Detective Constable from Rosslyn Hill.”
“Honoured to meet you, sir.” He shook Belsey’s hand with the sincerity of someone who had to fake it often enough. Belsey could see, underneath the pomp of office, that Granby was a bruiser of a type you could find in any bar from Mile End to the Palace of Westminster. He strode along beside the Chamberlain. “Police are central to my vision for the City of London,” Granby said.
“By necessity.”
The Chamberlain thought about this. He looked at Belsey again.
“Rosslyn Hill isn’t in the City,” he said.
“I’d like to talk to you about a man called Alexei Devereux.”
Now Granby stopped and shielded his eyes against the winter glare to get a better look at Belsey.
“What is this?” he said.
“I’m worried that people are making trouble for you unnecessarily.”
“You’d be amazed,” Granby said tightly.
“I think I can help.”
“What do you want?”
“A chat.”
Granby waved the waiting car away and told the rest of his entourage to follow, saying he’d see them at the office. They left, casting suspicious glances in Belsey’s direction.
“What about Alexei Devereux?” Granby said.
“He might have got himself in trouble. Before he did, he wanted a visa. He came to you. Do you remember?”
“I’ve never met him.”
“Is that right?”
“I’ve tried to meet him. If you know how I can meet him, please tell me. But contrary to what the Ham & High might claim, we remain strangers to this day.”
“But you don’t deny sponsoring him.”
“He’s an international figure. I was happy to encourage his presence in London.”
“Do you sponsor many applications?”
“No.”
“What did you get for it?”
“Nothing.”
“How’s the Children’s Fund?” Granby looked around, exasperated. “Didn’t Cicero once say be nice to policemen?” Now Granby fixed Belsey with narrowed eyes.
“I don’t believe he did.” The Chamberlain’s hands had developed a distinct tremor.
“Why don’t we get a drink?” Belsey said. “You can tell me about Cicero and explain the situation so I can make sure no one gives you trouble over this again.”
They ducked into a wood-panelled bar-cum-dining club on the corner of St. John Street and were offered a table at the back. The staff seemed to know the Chamberlain. They seemed to know what he’d be drinking. Belsey ordered a vodka and Coke.
Granby fiddled with his cutlery while they waited for the drinks to arrive.
“Mr. Devereux’s a very successful and respected businessman interested in investing in our city. He’s an asset. We should be bloody grateful.”
“How much did he give the Children’s Fu
nd?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Tell me about Project Boudicca instead.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s the reason Devereux came to London. Not ring any bells?”
“No. But if it brings money in then I wish him luck. We need some new tricks around here. Listen, Detective . . .” A gin and tonic arrived and he lifted it and took a gulp before the rattling ice could draw too much attention. His voice emerged gritty and low. “We are an inch away from disaster. We need to be very, very bloody resourceful.”
“You in particular?”
“No, not me in particular. Everyone.”
“What’s Devereux’s idea?”
“Who’s your sergeant?”
“What did he need to send to your Guildhall in three vans?”
“My Guildhall? That’s nice. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Belsey recognised a look of ignorance when he saw one. Granby had no idea. “I’ve never met Devereux and I know remarkably little about him. I’m sure that’s how he would choose to have it.”
“I think you’ve met Devereux.”
“No one’s met Devereux. I don’t need to lie.”
“No one?” Belsey downed his drink. “Have another on me,” he said. He wanted another minute of the Chamberlain’s time. They ordered two more drinks and stepped out to the beer garden, picnic tables on their sides against the wall, umbrellas dripping wet. The Chamberlain lit a cigarette. He didn’t offer one to Belsey, but he’d softened.
“If I had my way I’d fill every house in this town with men like Alexei Devereux. And there’s enough of them out there. One day they’ll stop coming and we’ll miss them, we’ll wonder where all the money went.” He put a hand on Belsey’s shoulder. “Tourism. That’s what Devereux understands. There will always be rich people and they will come to London if we give them reason.”
“Like what?”
“The thrills rich people seek. Have you seen the Financial Times today? Devereux means business. Don’t mess with him. Can I rely on you for that?”
“Of course,” Belsey said. “I don’t think anyone’s going to be messing with him anymore.”
35
Belsey bought a Financial Times and flicked through the domestic and international news, glancing down the pages. Eventually he got to the companies and stock information. The lead headline declared: HONG KONG GAMING SHARES DEFY DOWNTURN.
The Saudi-owned international gambling company Hong Kong Gaming Consortium has shrugged off industry downturn with rumours of European projects pushing up value. On Friday, stock prices for the company climbed 42 percent to £30.45 from £21.39.
According to the Wall Street Journal, HKGC, the world’s second largest casino gambling operator, has a nonbinding agreement in place with European investment company AD Development. It is known that HKGC has its sights on the UK market and is in talks with several developers to operate casinos, hotels and resorts in what is projected as a £3 billion London investment programme.
Belsey returned to the CID office and ran an intelligence search on the Serious Crime Inquiry System. He had limited security clearance, but high-urgency requests were sent through to senior investigators who might have an interest. He typed in the names “AD Development,” “Alexei Devereux,” “Hong Kong Gaming,” but got no results. Finally he fed it “Project Boudicca.” A minute later a call came in from DCI Kosta of the Economic and Specialist Crime Intelligence Unit.
“What’s this Project Boudicca?” Kosta asked. His voice had an edge of urgency.
“I don’t know. I was asked to find out.”
“By who?” Kosta demanded. Before Belsey could invent an excuse, the DCI continued: “Is it our friends in the City by any chance?”
“Our friends in the City?”
“We’ve had City boys calling every five minutes, asking whether we’re investigating Project Boudicca, whether their investments are safe.”
“When was this?”
“The last few days.”
“Any guesses?”
“None at all. They clearly know more than me, which they seem quite happy about. There’s something going on. How legal, I couldn’t tell you.”
Belsey said he was unable to help, hung up and thought through sources. He had assisted enough City boys in his time to feel justified calling in a favour. He rang the offices of Sacker Capital Ltd. and asked if Ajay Khan still worked there. Miraculously he did. Belsey declined to have his call put through and decided to pay the broker a visit.
Belsey had first met Khan in a West End nightclub, just days before the broker was arrested for insider trading. Belsey helped him with a defense lawyer and the case was eventually dropped. After that they played in a regular poker hand, together with some high-rolling City girls, a financial journalist and a cocaine dealer: an intense affair under a Fleet Street wine bar which blew itself out after a couple of years once they’d all bled each other dry. Khan always had a lot of friends in high and low places; he was a clearinghouse for information that wasn’t always meant to be cleared—and if someone somewhere made a fortune out of it, Khan was rarely left out of pocket.
Belsey left the unmarked Peugeot in the parking lot on Limeburner Lane, next to the Old Bailey. Sacker Capital operated out of St. Bartholomew’s House, just across the road, angled so that its glass reflected the Central Criminal Court. Belsey walked into a reception with a lot of pale stone and a metal sculpture in the shape of an axe blade. He asked for Ajay Khan. The guard was good enough to put a call through. He passed the receiver over.
“Mr. Khan’s out at the moment,” a woman said.
“When’s he back?”
“That’s hard to predict.”
“Sure.”
“Would you like to leave a message?”
Belsey checked his fake Rolex. “That’s all right.”
He walked out of the office block, down Newgate Street, to a doorway squeezed between a tobacconist’s and the dusty shop window of a tailor’s. It led straight onto a narrow flight of stairs which led down to another doorway with light escaping through coloured strips.
Inside the bookies were a handful of plastic seats and a thin scattering of afternoon bettors. The air was close, heavy with artificial heat, winter sweat, lunches grabbed on the hoof. There were men in workers’ fluorescent vests, and a pensioner in a scarf and hat, but most looked like they’d walked out of the investment banks. Khan stood in the centre, in his long overcoat and pinstripes, leaning against a ledge that divided the room. He had his black hair combed back and his eyes fixed on the 14:15 at Southwell.
Belsey stood beside him and watched the race. When it was over a couple of men balled the slips in their hands and dropped them to the floor. Khan took the newspaper from under his arm and flattened it on the counter.
“Detective Constable Belsey,” he said. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“I doubt it.”
“They were bad tips. It was a bad week, and I lost more than you did. I hope so anyway.”
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll give you another by way of apology. This one’s solid.” He lowered his voice. “Malting barley.”
“How about Alexei Devereux?” Belsey said. Khan looked at him. “How about Project Boudicca?”
Belsey passed one of Devereux’s business cards. Khan read the card, then palmed it so it disappeared, then turned his hand and it was there again. He didn’t say anything for a long while. He glanced around the rest of the room, at the men who may have been in earshot, and finally back to Belsey.
“What do you know about this?”
“What you’re about to tell me.”
Khan went to a cashier’s window and pushed a slip through. He watched the boy count out two hundred pounds in twenties and pocketed them.
“Think you can help?” Belsey said.
“Maybe.”
“That’s enough to get you a drink.”
“If I’d said yes?”
“I would have bought it for you.”
The White Hart was one of those ancient, low-ceilinged pubs tucked into the fissures of the city like a parasite attached to its wealth. Workmen and suits drifted in and out of the pub’s dark corners, lying into their phones, having swift pints and office affairs. City of hiding places, Belsey thought.
“It’s got to be five o’clock somewhere, right?” Khan lifted his pint. They had a nook to themselves.
“And somewhere it’s closing.” Belsey touched his glass to the broker’s. “To better cards.”
“Mine or yours?”
“Mine. Talk to me.”
Khan drank down half his lager and wiped his mouth. “What do you know about Project Boudicca?”
“It’s killing people,” Belsey said. “What do you know?”
“Alexei Devereux’s a big name. It’s been about a lot recently. There was a deal about to be closed. That’s all.”
“Project Boudicca.”
“Maybe.”
“Where did you hear about it?”
“A friend.”
“Which friend?”
Khan took another long draught. It seemed to embolden him.
“Emmanuel Gilman.”
“Who is he?” Belsey said.
“The golden boy.”
“Tell me about Gilman the golden boy.”
“Fund manager, reputation for being a bit wild. I knew him at Cambridge when he was rumoured to be a great classicist or something. But he couldn’t sit still. Spent most of his time setting up porn and spreadbetting websites. He was recruited into a hedge fund a month before his finals. A year after that he was running one of his own.”
“Doesn’t sound so wild.”
“He likes to play hard. There’s a party trick where he downs a shot and eats the glass. Something like that. He’s been on fire the last couple of years, so when he started talking about Devereux people listened. He knows everything. Your round.”
Hollow Man Page 21
