The Hollow Man

by Oliver Harris

  “I don’t know. Somewhere far, Jess said. But she couldn’t decide.”

  “Couldn’t decide what?”

  “Whether to go with him.”

  Belsey thought once more about the letter in the handbag. She’d decided. The question was why Devereux never made the rendezvous to find out. Lucy began to cry. She reached for a box of tissues beside her pillow. Her father opened the bedroom door.

  “What’s going on?” he said. The mother appeared beside him in a matching dressing gown, clutching a small white dog.

  “Lucy?” she said. “Precious?”

  The mother had good teeth. The whole family had good teeth.

  44

  Belsey tore back into town to meet Max Kovar at the Ritz. On Charing Cross Road he stopped and ducked into an adult video emporium. Its ground floor was disguised as a bookstore. Most people headed straight for its basement, leaving the shelves of yellowing hardbacks deserted. Belsey found a glossy monograph with a painting of a horse on the cover, shook the security tag onto the floor and walked out. In the pub next door he asked for a pen. He wrote “To Max Kovar” on the first page, and signed Devereux’s name beneath.

  Details. A con rides on the details; the subconscious.

  Belsey arrived at the hotel just in time. The Rivoli was shifting clientele, from dining tourists to late-night bar sharks. It was as splendidly tasteless as he remembered. He called Charlotte’s mobile from the bar’s phone.

  “Hey, Charlotte. I know it’s late.”

  “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  “I remembered you,” Belsey said. “I got you a present. He’s called Pierce Buckingham and he died in EC4 this evening.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s being played quiet, so feel special.”

  “I heard there’d been a shooting in the City. They haven’t released a name. I didn’t hear any more.”

  “You probably won’t, unless you hear it from me. Pierce Buckingham: that’s your name. But move fast because they’re going to try to suffocate this. Buckingham connects to investors going by the name of the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium. He was drinking with Devereux a week last Wednesday.”

  “Where do I look?”

  “You could start with an investigations firm called PS Security. You’ve already met one of their operatives. Take a look at their working relationship with serving police officers close to Chief Superintendent Northwood. At the very least it will give you some leverage.” Belsey watched Kovar walk in. “Listen, Charlotte,” he said. “Do me a favour and call back on this number in three minutes, say it’s Alexei Devereux.”

  “What?”

  “It would be doing me a huge favour. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait—”

  Belsey hung up and told the barman he was expecting a call. Kovar had taken a table at the back. Belsey joined him.

  “You’re punctual,” he said. They shook hands. Belsey saw a few dark suits in the lobby outside who may have been security, and may have belonged to Kovar, but the speculator had come into the bar alone. “Here.” Belsey gave him the book. He watched him open it and read the inscription.

  “Well, that’s very kind. Where’s Mr. Devereux?”

  “There’s been some trouble.” Belsey glanced around the bar with what he hoped looked like a combination of caution and impatience. “He’s sorting it out.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “You’ll see. It might work in your favour.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Belsey fixed Kovar with a stare. “The thing you told us about Pierce Buckingham—well, we acted.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “You were right. And now we’d like to reward you with a proposal.”

  “Like what?”

  The barman came over. “You have a phone call, sir. An Alexei Devereux.”

  “Oh.” Belsey glanced at the watch. “Would you excuse me?” he said to Kovar. The message had had an electrifying effect on the speculator. He excused Belsey. Belsey took the call at the bar.

  “What is this?” Charlotte said.

  “I think you’re very special,” Belsey said. He hung up and came back. “Well, the good news is he likes you or he wouldn’t have phoned to apologise.” Kovar nodded. “The bad news is that he sends his apologies.”

  Kovar took this well, all things considered.

  “The proposal,” he said.

  “What proposal?”

  “When Mr. Devereux called, you were saying you had a proposal.”

  “Thirty percent. That was the slice Buckingham was responsible for and now we need it covered. That was going to be the Hong Kong Gaming share but they’re out of the picture. A clean thirty percent and it’s yours if you want it.”

  “Thirty percent of what?”

  Belsey rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Max. Mr. Devereux told me you’d be hard, but now you’re testing my patience.”

  “Listen,” Kovar said. “Before I put money into a project I like to smell it. Do you understand? I smell what I’m investing in. I touch it, I taste it. That’s why I travel. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Delay your flight. I’ll give you something in the next twenty-four hours and you can taste it or do whatever you want with it. I can get you another room if you need one. You can use one of our jets if you have a problem arranging travel.”

  “Delay my flight? Can you give me some indication of what I can look forward to?”

  “Do you really not know?” Belsey said.

  “No.”

  “I can’t talk about it here. Will you be in London tomorrow?”

  “I guess I’ll have to be.” Kovar was exasperated. He looked like someone who’d never been played before. Now he was the one chasing, and that was the best way to remind someone they wanted something. When someone sees themselves chasing it’s hard for them to believe they’re wrong.

  “Listen, Max, I’ll give you a piece of advice, because I think you’d be good to work with. Buckingham was a crook, but he made Mr. D feel loved. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “The window of opportunity, the window in which to demonstrate your love, is becoming increasingly small. We’ll be moving on from London in the next day or so.”

  “I see.”

  “So prepare yourself for a speedy handover. If there was anything you wanted to give Mr. Devereux. And don’t pay too much attention to what they’re going to say on the news.”

  “About what?”

  “About Pierce Buckingham’s death.”

  Kovar looked bewildered. Belsey shook his hand and got up from the table, moving rapidly out of the bar, towards Piccadilly Circus.

  City of London Police divided into two territorial divisions, with stations at Snow Hill and Bishopsgate, and an HQ at Wood Street. The shooting was geographically closest to Wood Street, and Wood Street was the base for Specialist Crime. Belsey guessed this was where he’d find them. He walked into the front inquiry office and there was a crowd of detectives lining up beside the reception desk, saying they’d been requested to attend by Chief Inspector Walker, regarding the shooting.

  “He’s in an urgent meeting with senior officials,” the duty constable explained. “You can wait in the office.”

  They shook their heads wearily and went up. Belsey walked around the block, found an empty box file in a Dumpster and came back, flashing his badge.

  “Nick Belsey for Chief Inspector Walker.”

  “He’s not taking anyone at the moment. Everyone’s waiting in the office.” Belsey sighed. The door buzzed and he walked through to the stairs.

  The Specialist Crime office was big enough to accommodate ten separate workstations, with three more offices to the side and a door to a conference room at the far
end. It had already filled with officers, and the air was stale. Thirteen men and women gathered beneath harsh fluorescent strip lights: inspectors, sergeants, detective constables, waiting in the open-plan area. They leaned on desks or paced, gripping paper cups of coffee, all with one eye on the conference-room door. There were a lot of anxious faces.

  “Where’s the chief?” Belsey said. One nodded to the conference room. Belsey headed for the door.

  “I wouldn’t if I was you.” This came from a DS with a moustache and a south London accent, restlessly tapping an unlit Benson on its packet.

  “We’re all waiting,” said a second man: a lanky grey inspector Belsey half recognised from the Money Laundering Unit. Belsey stood exasperated in the centre of the room.

  “So what the fuck’s going on here?” he said. He went and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Are you from Murder Squad?”

  “Operation Fortress. City Gun Crime Unit.”

  “Walker’s in with brass. We’ve been told to hold tight.”

  Belsey asked the frustrated officers what they knew. It seemed that something about Buckingham had set off a silent alarm. According to the waiting talent, two MPs, a civil servant and several officers from Special Branch were holed up in the conference room, with a total media ban imposed, which left a lot of elite detectives sitting on their hands and shooting theories.

  “It can’t be Buckingham,” Belsey said.

  “It would be about time,” someone muttered.

  “Bucking Bronco?” Another officer laughed. “I always said he’d dig himself a hole.”

  Belsey propped himself discreetly in a corner. He imagined going to sleep. He listened.

  “Not exactly short of enemies,” one man chipped in.

  “We were a couple of days from getting our hands on his Italian accounts when the judge fell out of a window.”

  The phone rang. The tall money-laundering expert picked it up and then turned to the room. “It’s Bronco, no doubts,” he announced.

  “Well, no one’s going to be shedding many tears.”

  “I am,” the DS said. “This is going to be a bloody nightmare.” He picked up a lighter and headed out.

  A DI from Snow Hill station flicked through a file. “Financial adviser,” she snorted. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

  “Glorified arse-kisser to the criminal elite.”

  They passed around Buckingham’s sheets: a lot of work in West Africa and Egypt and finally the United Arab Emirates, where he was first linked to the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium. The DS with the moustache came back in, clutching his mobile.

  “We might as well go home.”

  According to the DS, staff from the FBI London bureau were on their way now. The rumour was rendered more plausible when the Snow Hill DI spoke.

  “We got a request from the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission four days ago, saying they had an investor who thought Buckingham was up to no good. The next day the SEC call again saying the whole thing had been taken off their hands and we should forget we ever heard about it. Buckingham had connected to certain friends in the East. Key associates.”

  “Maybe that’s who was flying in,” the lanky inspector said. “I heard the Branch have got details of eight private flights into London last Saturday. Big boys. No one knows why they were here, but Buckingham’s name came up as party organiser.”

  “Can I see the file?” Belsey asked.

  “Be my guest,” the woman from Snow Hill said tiredly.

  Belsey flicked through the sheaf of notes and forms. He found the memo from a Lieutenant Stephen Maynard of the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission, responding to a complaint by a Texan investor with “significant concerns” over a deal between the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium and AD Development. There was a further memo regarding an Austrian Sparbuch account that might have been the home for bribe money. He felt a jolt of familiarity at the account number. He gave the file back.

  Still no one was touching the phones. The conference-room door remained shut. Seeing Devereux’s account in the file had been like coming across something personal, details of a dream he had never told anyone. But this dream was shared.

  The doors to the conference room opened and Chief Inspector Walker emerged, his face pale and strained.

  “Can anyone tell me why Pierce Buckingham was running around last weekend, trying to raise thirty-eight million pounds in twenty-four hours?”

  45

  Belsey left the room. He walked down the corridor to a deserted office, picked up a phone and dialled 9 for an outside line. When it connected he called up the Raiffeisen Zentralbank. Thirty-eight million, he thought. He looked around the office: a chart of investment banks and corporate ownership, a list of names and pending Suspicious Activity Reports. He was in Economic Crime. He laughed. The bank answered on the third ring.

  “Guten Tag,” Belsey said.

  “Guten Abend. Can I have your account number, sir?” It was a man this time. Belsey gave the account number. For all his gall, he didn’t feel reckless. What could be less conspicuous than a call to an Austrian bank from an Economic Crime office? An office no one would ever know he’d been in?

  “Is that Mr. Devereux?” the man said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can I have your password?”

  “Jessica,” Belsey said. He spelt it for him. He waited.

  “Thank you, one moment.” He didn’t dare breathe. “I’m just bringing up your details,” the man said.

  Belsey’s heart soared. The door handle turned. Four officers walked in. They frowned at the sight of him, and he hung up.

  “The wife’s not happy,” Belsey said.

  He drove back to north London, buzzing on triumph. He could see his future and it was lavish. What a dumb password. People think their obsessions are the most secret part of them. But they are all the same. Nothing’s more obvious than a secret—you learn that as a detective. That’s why you attend to the mundane: the brand someone smokes, how they take their coffee; everything they don’t think about.

  He parked on the street and sprinted into Devereux’s home, calling the Austrian bank from the study and giving the password.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want to make a transfer to a company account held with the Bank of the South Pacific.”

  “How much?”

  “Everything. In instalments of ten grand a day until it’s empty.”

  “Were you intending to pay a sum into your account first?”

  “No. Why?”

  “There is currently a balance of two euros.”

  “Two euros.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Belsey hung up. He poured a drink. The fantasy caved in and left an awful silence.

  The U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission operated out of Atlanta. It was 9 p.m. in Atlanta. Belsey thought of the memo of theirs he had seen in Wood Street and wondered what they knew about Devereux’s secret Sparbuch account. After ten minutes being passed around the voice mail of various U.S. departments he was put through to the Office of International Affairs, and when he told them what he was calling about they gave him the number for Maynard’s “cell phone.” The lieutenant answered in a noisy restaurant.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Lieutenant Maynard? I’m calling from New Scotland Yard. It’s about Alexei Devereux.”

  “Hang on.”

  Belsey heard the lieutenant push through doors to somewhere silent.

  “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Detective Constable Nick Belsey. I work in the Financial Investigations Unit of New Scotland Yard, London. I came across your name in conjunction with AD Development and Alexei Devereux.”

  “What’s going on with him?”

  “I think I can help,” Belsey said. �
�What is it you’re investigating?”

  “We got a heads-up from an individual who’d been approached about an AD Development project. This is a very influential person coming to us in confidence. He felt something wasn’t quite right so I agreed to look into the company. By the time I got there it had disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The draw-down started 7 a.m. Monday morning, three accounts in the name of AD Development closed for good, funds emptied into eight shell companies on the British Virgin Islands. Half a million in cash is withdrawn. The person then opens two new accounts on the islands and splits the cash between them. Then he closes these down. We can only trace one half, which is moved over two days through eight front companies in Andorra. He uses one of those companies to buy twenty-seven more dormant companies stretched from Luxembourg to Delaware. That’s where the paper trail ends. I think the banks he’s using are ones he bought himself, offshore, licences paid in the last twelve months. That’s why we’re having no luck with them, and aren’t likely to any time soon. Do you know anything about this guy?”

  “He died last Sunday.”

  “Well, he’s been busy in hell.”

  Every penny had been shipped out of reach. Someone a lot slicker than Belsey had drained Devereux dry. You can’t take it with you, they say, but he was starting to feel like Devereux might have tried.

  “Did you see London activity from him?” Belsey asked Maynard.

  “No, I checked all EU countries and couldn’t turn up one report.”

  “There was one Suspicious Activity Report,” Belsey said. “From Christie’s auction house in London, dated 29 January.”

  “There isn’t any SAR from London. I checked.”

  “You didn’t see one? Five hundred grand cash.”

  “I didn’t see anything. I’m struggling over here. I’m saying this is one of the biggest frauds I’ve seen and no one gets it.”

  Belsey hung up and called New Scotland Yard. The phone was eventually answered by a night duty officer for the Specialist Investigations Department. It took another five minutes to persuade him to run a check on the SAR. Ten minutes later he could confirm there was no Suspicious Activity Report. They hadn’t logged any SARs from Christie’s for eight months. It seemed Inspector Philip Ridpath was inventing his own excuses to chase Devereux.