“Transferred where?”
“To Devereux.”
“Where was this meeting?”
“We don’t know. They used codes on the phone. It would be a help if we could find the venue. It would be a step in the right bloody direction.” Gray rubbed his face with his hands. Belsey tried to imagine where in London you’d take those people, if you wanted to impress them, people who had everything, expecting the best. What would dazzle? Deborah Mullins leaned forward.
“Buckingham used the meeting to raise thirty-eight million. This was a meeting where he asked for thirty-eight mil of other people’s money just for a seat at the table. We need to know what they expected in return. This is where you come in. You looked into Alexei Devereux’s suicide—”
She was interrupted by a sudden cacophony outside, as if metal objects were falling from the sky. The bells of St. Paul’s had begun to toll, endless and discordant. Gray and Mullins winced. Belsey sat back and listened. He was so close and so far. He tried to think of various tales he could spin to Kovar and none of them struck him as impressive as Boudicca must have been. He was insane for hanging about. Belsey gazed out of the window, towards the grey stone of St. Lawrence Jewry, just visible above the nearest rooftop. Were the bells of St. Lawrence ringing? Now they seemed to come from every church in the City, howling to one another like dogs. Belsey stared at the tower of St. Lawrence, peeking above the concrete.
His pulse quickened.
He looked at the stump of spire, at its blackened bell tower and golden weathervane, and he saw the picture of Buckingham shaking hands with Prince Faisal. Beyond the tower he could just make out the turrets of the Guildhall.
The Guildhall. What had the courier’s invoice described? Three vans, £295, last Saturday.
“I wish I could help you more,” Belsey muttered, getting up quickly.
“We have a few more questions.” Gray started to look suspicious. Belsey didn’t hear the rest.
50
An alleyway called Love Lane ran beside the police station, crowded with squad cars and riot vans. Belsey strode down it, into the courtyard of the Guildhall. He unfolded the scrap of Al-Hayat with Buckingham and the Saudi prince. He turned, comparing the view. They were here. He spun 360 degrees. The Guildhall’s doors were open, staff carrying last night’s tables and chairs outside.
Belsey walked to the entrance and peered through the Gothic arch of the doorway into the banqueting hall beyond. It was immense. Stained-glass windows filled the walls. A rose-tinted light fell across men and women collapsing thirty tables beneath the soaring stone roof. Around the place stood monuments to Nelson, Wellington, Churchill, men who had hacked their names into history. It was a godless cathedral, consecrated to the City. To power. Of course he would, Belsey thought. Of course the bastard would bring them here.
A man with thin hair combed over his skull was leading two other suits through the hall, between the activity. He walked stiffly, and they turned as he pointed out details, taking photos on camera phones.
“The Great Hall hosts the Lord Mayor’s Banquet each year,” the man was explaining. “It’s where royalty and state visitors have been entertained down the centuries. It lends an entirely unique stature to any event, gentlemen.”
“Excuse me,” Belsey called, walking towards him.
The man glanced at Belsey, spoke to his guests, and approached with his hands clasped apologetically.
“I’m afraid we’re closed.”
“It’s urgent. Are you in charge here?”
“I’m events manager.” His face had a bland pomposity that seemed to qualify him for the job. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’ve got a few questions,” Belsey said.
“Perhaps you could come back tomorrow.”
“It concerns an outstanding payment.”
“Payment’s conducted through the Remembrancer’s office.”
“Is he around?”
“Not in person.” The man smiled condescendingly. Belsey produced his badge.
“I think you had some men in here last Saturday that I’d very much like to know more about. Why don’t you tell your friends to come back tomorrow?”
Something about this registered with the manager.
“Wait one moment.” He went to speak to one of his assistants. Belsey admired the statues and stone arches, the shields of the livery companies hanging down from brass flagpoles.
What a place to steal thirty-eight million.
An assistant took over the task of tour guide and the boss returned.
“What is this?”
“We’re going to try to find out,” Belsey said. “The hall was hired by an individual, for a small group of people, but he wanted the place to himself. You’re still waiting for the balance to be settled.”
“How do you know about this?”
“You wouldn’t believe what I know.”
The man led Belsey into a quiet corner.
“Who were they?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know anything more about it. Except that they were very important figures in the City and internationally.”
Belsey couldn’t help smiling. “What gave you that idea?”
“They were, weren’t they?”
“Some of them, no doubt. What happened?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“Who was working last Saturday?” Belsey said. “Any of these people?”
“No.”
“I want to speak to someone who was there, who saw the meeting.”
“You have to understand, we get some very prestigious clients. We have to respect their confidentiality.”
The man seemed torn. Belsey decided to make it easier for him.
“Do you know what the sentence is for assisting terrorism?”
“Terrorism?”
“Has anyone reported ill in the last few days?” Belsey asked, a little louder. “Rashes? Breathing difficulties?” Some of the staff turned.
“Follow me,” the man said. He ushered Belsey into a side office with wood panelling, a writing desk, an old clock. He spoke fast now. “We weren’t allowed to see. Men came in the day before, the Friday, to run a security check. They were armed. They covered the mirrors, sealed the windows, put up screens. We didn’t know anything like that was going to happen.”
“Your caterers would have seen the meeting,” Belsey suggested.
“They brought their own catering. They brought their own security and drivers. I never knew anything about how out of the ordinary it would be until last week, when they contacted me with these requests.”
“But when was it booked?”
“Three months ago.”
“Under what name?”
“The Boudicca Society.”
Three months ago, Belsey thought. He had this pinned from the start—to the day, to the hour. Who exactly was weaving this elaborate con? To do it that fast, to know his targets inside out, to let it collapse around him as he walked away with thirty-eight million. “The Boudicca Society. Had you heard of them before?”
“No. But—”
“You’re happy for prestigious clients to use pseudonyms.”
“I had no idea.”
“Was there someone in charge of the Boudicca Society?”
“The man in charge came in two hours before everyone else. The man who organised it. He came early and then left.”
“Did he give a name?”
“No.”
“What exactly did he organise?”
“He needed a large table. I don’t know why. He asked for the biggest table we had.”
“How large?”
“About five yards by five. We had to use three of our largest tables pushed together.”
“But you don’t know what for?”
“A model of some kind, I imagine. We had to have the place emptied of our staff before it arrived.”
“Show me any paperwork you have
.”
The man went through his files. He produced a booking form with the address for the abandoned AD Development office and a number that would get through to RingCentral. It also had the account number for Devereux’s overdrawn Barclays current account.
“How does the parking work here?” Belsey asked.
“Why?”
“All this security must have required vehicles.”
“You register. We have our own parking lot.”
“Then you’ll have records for the vehicles. Let me see the plates, the permits.”
“They didn’t park. They were dropped off. They didn’t want any records.”
Belsey thought. He looked around the office, searching for his final piece.
“The model, whatever sat on the table,” he said.
“Yes?”
“What happened to it afterwards?”
“It went back wherever it came from.”
Belsey racked his brains. Where was the pickup for the delivery? Thirty-three Cavendish Square. He moved past the events manager to the phone on his desk. He called directory inquiries and asked for the office block reception. Eventually he got through to a sleepy-sounding security man.
“I need the names of any companies in your building that deal with construction,” Belsey said.
The security guard grunted. He looked through the building directory until he got to one. There was only one. They were called Kilgo Vesser Architectural Associates. No one was in their office that Sunday.
51
Belsey drove towards Cavendish Square, stopping at an electrical goods store to watch the news through the window. There was a shot of The Bishops Avenue, then it panned back to a BBC reporter. Beside him was Charlotte Kelson. He thrust a microphone in her direction. Belsey couldn’t hear what she was saying but it looked like she was laying claim to her scoop. A ticker flashed LIVE. Devereux’s home rose up behind her.
It made Belsey uneasy. She had his name. One wrong word, even off camera, and they’d be onto him before he had a chance to disappear. He wanted her by his side.
He pulled a U-turn and sped to Hampstead with the sirens on.
Sky News had parked beside the gates to Kenwood House. The media throng began a few yards down The Bishops Avenue. Police tape started soon after. Inside it, forensics officers were carrying bulging evidence bags out of number 37. News cameras jostled for a shot of the house. Charlotte Kelson stood apart from the crowd, across the road, reading copy down her phone.
Belsey screeched to a halt beside her.
“Get in.”
She stared at him, then at the Met squad car. It seemed to reassure her a little. He watched her weigh up the opportunity before speaking into the phone: “I’ll call you back.”
“Tell them to hold the front page while you’re at it,” Belsey said. She put the phone away but didn’t move to the car.
“They’re taking your holiday home apart, Nick.”
“Want to see something?”
“What?”
“Project Boudicca.”
She looked sceptical. “Where?”
“Kilgo Vesser Architectural Associates. Get in.”
She climbed in. Belsey breathed her perfume.
“Keep an eye out for motorbikes,” he said. “If you see any behind us, tell me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like them.” Belsey put the blue lights on and drove towards Cavendish Square. “What have you got?”
“Growing concerns about being in this car with you,” she said, putting on her seat belt.
“I’m the only one who’s helped you on this. Remember that.”
“But why have you helped me?”
“Because you’re great in bed. Tell me what you’ve found.” He swerved down Fitzjohn’s Avenue, then weaved through the Swiss Cottage traffic.
“I looked into this Pierce Buckingham character. He was a prime bastard, with a long, dark history to his name. He was last seen trying to extract Saudi funds from the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium. It was the gaming consortium that hired PS Security. I have this from a chief inspector on Buckingham’s murder inquiry. Buckingham thought he had a deal on with the Corporation of London, but they’re denying everything. Meanwhile, some disgruntled investor has leaked correspondence between Buckingham and Alexei Devereux regarding what they call the 1871 Act.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s only two significant acts passed in 1871 as far as I can tell. One was the American Civil Rights Act, the other was Victorian legislation that vested large parts of Hampstead in the Metropolitan Board of Works. My money’s on that one. The worrying bit is the caveat: the act guarantees to preserve the natural beauty of the area in perpetuity, and to see that any future owners preserve it too.”
“What does Devereux say?”
“He says it won’t be a problem. He has this on the authority of lawyers who work for Milton Granby, a firm called Charlton and Doubret who he claims had sent a confidential fax outlining loopholes.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
“They’re denying everything.”
“Was the fax from this machine?” He told her Devereux’s fax number.
“I think so.”
“The lawyers are telling the truth for once. They didn’t send the fax.”
“So what’s going on?”
“There was a meeting,” Belsey said. “And the people in the room wired through thirty-eight million at the end of it. That bit’s true.”
“What was it for?”
“I think we’re about to find out.”
They slid down Portland Place, past expensive office space behind the department stores. Cavendish Square had a tidy Regency decorum apart from one glass-and-concrete colossus that dominated the south-east corner. Number 33. Revolving doors led into a smart reception with fake marble columns, sofas, a TV screen and security barriers before you got to the lifts. A guard slouched behind a glass-topped reception desk. Belsey checked the list of companies behind him: Kilgo Vesser were on the fifth floor.
“Someone reported a break-in,” Belsey said. The guard sat up fast. Belsey showed his badge.
“Where?”
“Fifth floor. Kilgo Vesser. Someone smashed the door.”
Now the guard looked unnerved. “I don’t think so.”
“Stay here.”
Belsey jumped the barrier. Charlotte followed. They took the stairs to the fifth floor. He found the door marked “Kilgo Vesser Architectural Associates,” picked up a steel pedal bin and rammed the lock until the wood splintered. Then he kicked it open. An alarm blasted. He walked in and turned the lights on.
The architectural model took up the whole of the front office. The ponds gave it away. It took Belsey a moment to recognise the painstaking details of trees and sloping parkland, because a racetrack looped around what had been the North Heath and was now a casino complex. The central structure rose up from beneath ground level like a long glass coffin, tiered on both sides, and beyond the track, to the west, was a new, artificial lake fringed by parking and a cinema. Tiny figures crowded the green space, some making for the casino, some walking dogs or setting out picnics and flying kites.
“Oh wow,” Charlotte gasped.
Belsey looked around the drawing boards and Macs and across crowded desks. He opened a drawer and tipped it onto the floor. Then he did another. He searched through rolls of plans and maps until he saw two relating to the casino design. He folded them into his jacket.
“Let’s go.”
They ran back downstairs, past the guard, to the empty street.
“Where now?” Charlotte said.
“I have to do something,” Belsey said. “I think you’ve got enough story here to be getting on with. I might need to run soon, though. To somewhere else.”
“OK.”
“Think you’ll be able to find me?”
He held her hand and looked at her in the light from the reception. A red dot flickered li
ke a firefly over her pale neck and up her cheek to her temple. Belsey thought it was from the guard so he looked behind him and the guard wasn’t there. He watched it. And then a wave of dread rushed through his body.
“Get down,” he said, and the reception doors blew in.
52
Belsey covered her. They crawled to the parked cars and took shelter. He could feel blood on the palms of his hands. He didn’t think it was his own. Charlotte started screaming, which was a good sign. If you can scream you can live.
The next shots hit the cars. Glass rained down. More screaming.
He moved to see her face: no head wounds, blood spreading across her blouse.
“Charlotte, listen to me. Where are you hit?”
“My arm.”
Belsey tore the sleeve. The bullet had taken a slice out of her left arm and grazed the torso. He took her scarf and balled it like a compress and fixed it to her body with the sleeves of her coat. They must have shot from an opposite building, he thought; the roof of one of the office blocks. He couldn’t see any movement.
“I’m OK,” she said.
“Press this against you. Don’t stand up. Don’t try to go anywhere.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re still alive.”
He crawled to the reception.
“Get an ambulance,” he said to the guard, who was flat on the floor. But just then an ambulance bike braked hard, a few yards away. The paramedic got off the bike with a first-aid case in his gloved hand.
“She’s here,” Belsey said. Why hadn’t he taken his helmet off? This was what Belsey was thinking. What is he carrying on his back?
He opened the case and took out a handgun and levelled it at Belsey’s face.
Belsey moved in towards the man. The mistake is always to back off. He moved closer, turning, and the gunman panicked and fired. A window smashed. Belsey moved into the cover inside, drawing him away from Charlotte. The gunman had the Dragunov slung across his back. But he had come prepared for close-range executions as well. Belsey took a fire extinguisher off the wall. A bullet sparked off one of the pillars. He pulled the pin on the extinguisher. The gunman was close now, a few feet away. Belsey aimed at the tinted visor and sprayed.
Hollow Man Page 30
