‘At the moment, I might. I need to have a longer chat with Speight’s manager about the American side of his career, but I’ve had some interesting information about the European end.’
‘Interesting and relevant?’
‘Time will tell on that, but a name’s been put in the frame, a Russian who’s already lost out to Speight and would have taken another hit if he’d lived to implement a new venture he announced at his farewell party on Friday. That’s why I want to talk to Stoddart.’
‘Do you suspect he might be in danger as well?’
‘I won’t know what to think about him until I’ve spoken to him. How about you? You’ve set me on possible infiltration of the boxing business by organised crime, and Bryce Stoddart is one of its big players. Does that imply that the Service has had him under surveillance?’
‘I wouldn’t put it that way,’ the director general replied. ‘We haven’t had him under direct personal surveillance as such, but we do have a file on him, and we have looked into his financial affairs and his business relationships. His company, which is owned entirely by a family trust established by his father, has made substantial profits in the last several years, through the peak of Mr Speight’s career. It employs big-firm accountants and it pays its corporation tax. The personal tax affairs of the Stoddarts, father and son, are impeccable too.’
‘You’ve got nothing on him, in other words.’
‘No, we haven’t, but there is one small concern. The company makes an annual payment of one million sterling into a bank account in Switzerland; it’s described as being in respect of consultancy services.’
In his car, Skinner frowned. ‘Are HMRC okay with payments to a Swiss bank account?’
‘They are, because they’re backed up by invoices and because the owner of the account isn’t a secret.’
‘Are you going to tell me that it’s held by a company called Zirka?’
He heard a sigh. ‘I’m trying to remember the last time I surprised you, Bob,’ she said. ‘I have to admit that I can’t.’
‘I didn’t know I was in a race,’ he grunted. ‘Got to go now; Stoddart was expecting me ten minutes ago.’
He left his car, a Mercedes E Class that seemed modest between a Porsche and a Maserati, locked it, and walked into the hilltop hotel. It had been a large country house, designed, he imagined for a Glaswegian industrialist who had wanted an escape from the grimy, disease-ridden city. Distinctive features in its facade suggested that it might have been the work of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Its name, Beedham’s, was displayed on a brass plate beside the door, but nowhere else, a touch of discretion that explained to Skinner why he had never heard of it. The signage of the Blacksmith seemed garish by comparison.
He paused in the entrance hall, looking for a reception desk but seeing nothing obvious. However, he was spared the need to announce himself, for a man stepped forward to greet him, casually dressed in a blue twill shirt and chinos, hand outstretched.
‘Mr Skinner,’ he exclaimed. ‘Bryce Stoddart; I’ve been looking out for you.’
Skinner knew from an internet search that the promoter was forty-two years old, but he could have passed for five years younger. He was of medium height, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and his slightly crooked nose suggested that he might have been a member of a boxing stable rather than its manager.
‘Come into the lounge,’ Stoddart said. ‘It’s empty . . . not that it’s full very often. The place has ten suites, and most of the guests tend to stick to them.’
He glanced around the hall, appraising its dark-wood fittings.
‘Impressive, innit?’ his companion remarked. ‘A lot of people think it was designed by that bloke Mackintosh, but it weren’t. It was a bloke called Roberts, one of his followers.’
The accent, he judged, was faux Cockney. The online biography had made no mention of Stoddart’s education, but his cufflinks bore a crest that from the depths of his memory he recognised as Old Harrovian: the only thing the promoter had in common with Winston Churchill, Skinner guessed.
‘It had me fooled,’ he admitted. ‘You’re well informed. Do you use this place often?’
‘Every time I come up. It’s Leo’s. His property fella, Charlie Baxter, found it for him; it wasn’t quite derelict but he got it for a song, then spent three times as much restoring it. A suite here costs fifteen hundred a night, basic . . . not that I pay that, mind,’ he laughed as he led the way out of the hall. ‘The staff here speak seven languages among them, English included; Japanese, Mandarin, Spanish, German, French and Russian.’
‘Where does the name come from?’
‘It belongs to a mate of Charlie’s; he thought it sounded distinguished, so he suggested it to Leo.’
The lounge could not have accommodated all the guests if the hotel were full. ‘Mainly used for meetings,’ Stoddart volunteered, reading his thoughts. ‘Like this one. Where do you fit into the investigation, Mr Skinner?’
‘Insurers. I’m representing their interests.’
That one-sentence reply seemed to satisfy the promoter. He nodded sagely. ‘I guessed as much. You look too distinguished to be a cop. I helped Gino negotiate that policy for Leo, so I know its terms. I bet your clients are cacking themselves right now.’
Skinner smiled. ‘You could say that.’
‘I guess your job’s to prove that he weren’t murdered . . . although it’s pretty obvious the police are sure he was, even if they haven’t used the word. What do you want to ask me?’
‘Who’d have wanted to murder him? That’ll do for openers.’
‘Nobody I can think of.’ He chuckled. ‘Other than that woman of his, maybe, if she thought she was going to lose her court case.’
‘Mmm? Which woman? I gather Leo had several relationships.’
‘Faye, her name is.’ Stoddart winked. ‘Mind you, if she did him in, it’ll be covered up. Her sister’s a cop. Joking!’ he added. ‘About Faye doing it, that is.’
Skinner raised an eyebrow as he nodded. ‘Yes, let’s take that as read. How about his professional life?’
‘Boxing?’
‘Yes. Your business is international, Mr Stoddart, and there are huge sums of money involved. You must deal with some fairly colourful people, to put it mildly.’
For the first time since the two men had met, the promoter frowned. ‘Yes, okay,’ he conceded, ‘there are some hooligans out there, internationally, but what you’ve got to remember, sir, is – you said it yourself – there’s shedloads of money to be made in boxing for the right match marketed in the right way, and put like that, Leo Speight was absolute bleedin’ gold dust. He made everybody rich.’
‘You mean you did, by promoting him.’
‘No, I don’t. I mean what I said: Leo did. I might have been his promoter, I might have made the matches for him, but he picked the opponents, he picked the venues and he dictated the terms, then he told me to get on with it. Same with Gino Butler. He and Gino were good mates, and Leo presented him as his manager, but in reality he was more of an assistant.’
‘Is that your way of telling me that Leo Speight was a control freak?’
Stoddart frowned again as he considered the question. ‘No,’ he decided eventually, ‘I wouldn’t say that. There was no freakery about it. Basically, he delegated tasks and left Gino and me to get on with our jobs. Mine – Stoddart Promotions, that is – was making the matches and staging the fights. Gino’s was, among other things, making sure that the training camps were set up and that the media were controlled. We did our stuff and he got on with his job: getting himself into perfect physical and mental shape, promoting the shows, and, finally, executing.’
Skinner nodded. ‘He made money for everyone when he was active, Mr Stoddart, but last Friday’s party, hours before he died, was held to celebrate his retirement. I’m told that at the party he annou
nced a new business venture. He said he was going to become a promoter himself. Wouldn’t the consequence of that have been him taking money from the people he had previously enriched, by becoming their competitor?’
‘Ah, well . . .’
‘Yes it bloody would!’
At the sound of the guttural outburst, both men turned and looked towards the doorway, which framed a middle-aged woman. She was short, with frizzy silver hair, and a perma-tanned face with glaring brown eyes.
‘Oh dear,’ Bryce Stoddart sighed. ‘Mr Skinner, this is Genevieve Alderney. She’s our matchmaker; she’s also my father’s other half. Gene, Mr Skinner’s representing Leo’s insurers.’
‘Is your father here too?’ Skinner asked.
‘No, he and Gene live in Scottsdale, Arizona. He would have been at the party, but he’s had a chest infection and decided not to travel.’
He looked at the woman, who had advanced into the room and was standing in front of him. ‘Do I take it you weren’t too keen on Mr Speight’s new venture?’
‘Neither of us were, Bryce nor me. He, Leo, sprung it on us a month ago, no discussion. He was planning mixed shows, boxers and MMA, male and female, something that’s never been done before, not in Britain at any rate. He was going to run one bill a month, on a new internet service.’
‘Doesn’t MMA use a cage rather than a ring? Isn’t it a different shape?’
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Alderney snapped back at him. ‘That’s just a gimmick.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Stoddart intervened, ‘but Leo was going to use a cage for everything, a circle rather than an octagon.’ Skinner noticed that his Mockney accent had disappeared. ‘We’ve all grown up thinking that boxing has to take place in a square enclosure, but it doesn’t.’
‘He was going to do this on his own?’ Skinner asked. ‘Without you?’
‘That’s how it was looking. But Gene’s wrong; there was a discussion. She wasn’t part of it, that’s all. Leo offered to do it as a joint venture. He and I discussed it, but I argued that we’d be competing with ourselves on the boxing side. I felt that we should only do it if it was MMA exclusively, but Leo said that mixed-bill promotions were the whole point. He wanted to capture fans of both sports and bring them together. Eventually he was going to have crossover fights as well, putting fighters from one discipline up against the other.’
‘I see. I can tell what you think of that, Ms Alderney.’
‘Too damn right,’ she hissed. ‘I thought he was bloody ungrateful, too. Benny more or less took him in as a kid; he made him what he became.’
‘Rubbish!’ Stoddart exclaimed. ‘Leo made himself. He’d a God-given talent when he was brought to Dad as an amateur, and he was well aware of it even then. Sure, the old man invested in his education, but over the years he’s repaid that investment a hundred times.’
‘Yeah?’ Alderney fired back. ‘Well we’re fucked without him. Who else have we got in our stable that’s remotely near his class? Nobody. We’ve got Afobe, the Ghanaian cruiserweight with one of the minor world championship belts; Giff Evans, the Welsh super-featherweight, who’s got loads of potential but will never have the stamina to fulfil it; and Joe McBride from Edinburgh. A few decent fighters, but no superstars. Since your father retired, Bryce, you’ve been obsessed with Leo, and the rest of the business has gone to pigs and whistles. You think you’ll hold on to your TV deal with what we’ve got? Only if you get your finger out right now, and even then only because Leo’s dead and his new promotion with him. Fucking convenient that was,’ she added sarcastically.
‘Fuck off, Gene!’ the promoter exploded.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘Let’s just calm down, okay. You’re both rattled by what’s happened, I understand that, but going off at each other will not help anyone.’
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ the woman announced. ‘Fucking insurance companies,’ she muttered as she headed for the door. ‘Do anything to avoid paying, they will.’
‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Skinner,’ Stoddart said as the door closed on her. ‘I’m sure she just stuck her nose in to see what was going on.’
‘Yes, she’s a proper ray of sunshine. You realise she just offered you up as a potential murder suspect?’ He smiled. ‘You didn’t poison Leo, did you?’
‘God forbid! No, I loved Leo; he was my mate, as well as my fighter. Between you and me, I was actually ready to go along with the new set-up, and take any of my stable in that wanted to sign up with us. Mind you, nobody else needs to know that.’
‘Especially not Ms Alderney?’
‘God, no!’
‘What’s your father’s backstory?’ Skinner asked.
‘He did a bit of boxing in his youth. He won more than he lost but he knew he’d never be even British championship level, so he quit and became a licensed manager instead. It wasn’t his main business at the time; my grandfather was a demolition contractor in south London, and Dad worked with him.’
‘When did he become a promoter?’
‘About thirty years ago. He did that for the boxers he managed rather than for himself. A very few people ran professional boxing in those days; they controlled it very tightly and most of the fighters got paid peanuts. My father rebelled against that. In the mid eighties he got a promoter’s licence and started running his own small shows around London and the Midlands.’
‘How did the regime take that?’
‘Badly would be an understatement. Someone put a bomb in his car. No,’ he added, ‘it didn’t go off. The police said it wasn’t meant to, that it was just a warning. Either way it didn’t work; Dad kept on going. The big breakthrough was his signing a deal with ITV for ten shows a year, each one with a championship fighter as top of the bill. I was at school by that time.’ He held up his right hand, displaying his cufflink. ‘I saw you clock these,’ he said. ‘Dad didn’t send me there,’ he added. ‘My grandfather did. My mother had left by that time, and with my father’s lifestyle, Grandad reckoned that the best thing for me was to go to boarding school. He picked the best and he was right. I know people from those days that I can still call on if I need a favour.’
‘And do you?’ Skinner asked.
‘Every now and then. If you need approval to sell an extra few thousand tickets at a big outdoor venue in London, it helps if you know the Mayor’s executive assistant.’
‘And Gene?’
‘I saw her at a few shows without knowing who she was; then about ten years ago, she moved in with my father. I’ve never liked the woman, but she does a fair job of looking after him.’
‘She’s been around for a few years, you said.’ He smiled. ‘She didn’t have anything to do with the bomb in your father’s car, did she? From what I’ve seen, I wouldn’t put anything past her.’
‘No,’ Stoddart replied, his eyes hooded, ‘but the old cow probably knew who ordered it.’
‘And is that person still around?’
The eyes widened. ‘As a matter of fact, he isn’t. A few years after that incident, he drowned off the Costa Blanca when his jet ski overturned. Hey, Mr Skinner, if you’re thinking what I think you are, you’re letting your imagination run away with you.’
‘Of course. That said, a friend of mine gave some thought a few years ago to starting a literary festival down there, but he gave it up when I suggested to him that most of his punters would be characters in true-crime books.’
The promoter laughed. ‘I’m with you.’
‘These days,’ Skinner continued, ‘most of them would be Russian. Not that I’m even hinting you’d deal with that sort.’
‘Of course not.’
‘As a matter of interest, who are Zirka?’
Bryce Stoddart’s mouth opened; not quite a full jaw-drop, but close to it. He stared at his visitor. ‘Who?’ he exclaimed.
‘You know w
ho they are. I hope you do, since your company pays them a million a year.’
‘Yes, I do know them,’ Stoddart admitted, ‘but I’m surprised that you do.’
Skinner shrugged. ‘Really?’ he said, ad-libbing. ‘With the amount of money that Speight was insured for, and with the special clause in the policy, didn’t you assume that the underwriters would instruct a complete investigation of everyone in the boxing business?’
The other man seemed to relax a little; he settled back into his chair. ‘I suppose I should have,’ he conceded. ‘Zirka is a Russian promotion company; its principal is a retired fighter named Yevgeny Brezinski. He and Leo had history in the amateurs, and they were always bound to settle things as professionals. When they met, it was in Russia, but Leo insisted that his American cable TV backers should have the pay-per-view rights. It could have got nasty, but I forestalled that by cutting a deal with Brezinski that I would pay his company a million a year for as long as Leo was active. It’s legit, I promise you. Our auditors declare it to HMRC every year.’
‘I see. What does Zirka do now?’
‘It’s a promoter of mixed martial arts in eastern Europe and in Germany.’
Skinner scratched his chin, pausing more for effect than for thought. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured. ‘That could have made Mr Brezinski a loser twice over, wouldn’t it? Leo’s retirement would put an end to his annual pay-off, plus the new venture, if it had gone ahead, might have made a big hole in his market.’
‘Put that way, I have to agree, but how does it affect your clients?’
‘It could make things very messy. The police may decide to treat Brezinski as a suspect in Leo’s death . . . once it’s confirmed officially that he was murdered. Let’s say they couldn’t gather enough evidence to bring charges, but kept the file open so that it remained officially unsolved. My clients might find themselves on the end of a claim by the Speight estate for a payout in full of the special clause, relating to death at the hands of a third party.’
A Brush With Death Page 15
