‘Good point, David,’ said the commissioner, who was looking perturbed. ‘I agree with what Kate says about secrecy. However, if things blow up before we release this information, our heads and other extremities will be lopped off in a very public fashion. How long do you think we can sit on this, David?’
‘We could delay that decision until we reconvene first thing tomorrow morning. By then we should have a clearer picture.’
‘Agreed? We’ll see you all tomorrow at 7.45.a.m. And, as Kate says, we keep this strictly under wraps.’
‘Yes sir,’ came the replies in unison.
‘If you need anything from either of us, just ask, whatever time of day it is. You’ve got our mobile numbers, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Kate.
‘David and I are guests at a charity dinner at the Goldsmiths livery company this evening. In the circumstances we wondered whether we should attend. But as it’s for a good cause we thought we should. We will be nearby – must dash now; it doesn’t look good to be late.
John and Jeremy had an uneventful drive to the London College of Finance. John’s frostiness thawed as Jeremy brought him up to speed on Rafi and the leads that Kate’s team had uncovered.
Jeremy had decided that it was best to take the bull by the horns. ‘What in particular do you dislike about spooks?’ he enquired.
‘Basically too bloody secretive by half and treat the rest of us as if we couldn’t run a frigging whelk stall.’
‘Fair point,’ said Jeremy. ‘Do me a favour; if you think I’m freezing you out then tell me . . . No excuses, but from time to time we have to watch our backs. Cock-ups put people like me in danger, so we can get a bit obsessive.’
They drew up in front of a smart, white, Georgian terrace and made for the vice chancellor’s office. The reception hall could have graced any palace. No expense had been spared – the crystal chandeliers, ornate ceiling cornices, the large, period, gilt-framed mirror, the old grandfather clock and an array of oil paintings gave an air of refinement.
John walked over to the reception desk. ‘The vice chancellor, please. He is expecting us.’
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector John Dowsing, Special Branch, City of London police.’
The smartly dressed, forty-something receptionist looked uncomfortably at John and imperceptibly squirmed on her seat. ‘Sir Gerald Staniland is rather busy at the moment. If you could please wait, I’ll find out when he can see you. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?’
‘He is expecting us. How long do you think he might be?’ John looked displeased. He didn’t like to be given the runaround.
‘I really can’t say. Unfortunately, he’s left strict instructions not to be disturbed and his meeting could go on for quite some time.’
‘Tell the vice chancellor we’re here and it’s not in his best interests to mess us around.’
The receptionist picked up the phone. ‘Margery, I’ve two policemen to see the VC. They don’t want to be kept waiting. Can you help? Thank you. Gentlemen, if you could go upstairs Sir Gerald’s PA will look after you.’
Margery looked a formidable gatekeeper. Her anteroom dripped with antiques. John guessed that few students made it this far. He approached the ample, well-manicured PA.
‘Sir Gerald is expecting us,’ he announced waiving his warrant card under Margery’s nose.
‘There maybe a bit of a problem . . .’ she started.
‘Too bloody right! If he doesn’t see us here and now, he’ll spend the rest of the sodding afternoon in an interview room and he won’t be offered flaming tea and biscuits!’ said John.
Jeremy had moved in front of a pair of tall double doors. ‘This his office?’
‘You can’t go in.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jeremy as he opened the doors and beckoned John to follow him.
The vice chancellor’s office was huge. He was sitting behind an antique desk at one end of the room; in between him and the door was a set of comfortable-looking armchairs in front of an ornate fireplace to one side and, on the other side, a boardroom table which wouldn’t have looked out of place in the dining room of a stately home.
The VC looked up from his paperwork. ‘I’m busy, go away.’
Undeterred, John and Jeremy entered, closed the door and walked towards him.
‘The commissioner phoned you to ask you to see us, so here we are. If you cooperate it won’t take long, or would you perhaps like to see where we work?’ said John.
Jeremy took up the running. ‘We’re here to get information on two of your former PhD students: Jameel Furud and Basel Talal. What can you tell us about them?’
The VC stalled. ‘When did they study here?’
‘About ten to fifteen years ago.’
‘Ah! We’ve a problem there: we archive most of our old student records; data protection and all that, you know. It doesn’t pay to get on the wrong side of the law,’ he replied looking at John over his half-moon glasses as if he were a student who had just had an appeal turned down.
‘We’ll come back to your former students in a moment. Tell us about the college’s PhD programme,’ said John.
‘We offer one of the largest PhD programmes in the field of Finance. The college takes on between fifteen and twenty-five new applicants each year and we have over 100 PhD students coming from more than fifteen countries.’
‘How many non-EU students are there at the college?’ asked John.
‘Nearly 500 out of almost 850,’ came the reply.
‘So, roughly speaking, I guess your college earns, say, £10 million a year from its overseas students . . . and without them would it be fair to say that you wouldn’t have a business?’ enquired John.
‘Er, yes, I suppose so, but that’s not relevant,’ snapped the VC.
Jeremy stepped forward. ‘It is, as I can arrange for the visas of all your non-EU students to be rescinded. It would take just one phone call.’
‘Who the ruddy hell do you think you are barging in here, threatening me with something outside your powers? The City Police can’t take away visas.’
‘Correct,’ said Jeremy, ‘but MI5 can! Here’s my identification,’ he said flashing his warrant card under the VC’s nose.
‘Now let’s start again,’ said John.
‘What do you know about Drs Furud and Talal?’
‘Nothing! Why do you ask me this banal question?’
‘OK time’s up,’ John said. ‘Gerald Staniland, I’m arresting you in connection with knowingly hindering police investigations into a terrorist activity. I must advise you that under the new anti-terrorism laws, you do not have the right to legal representation.’
A deep scowl came over the VC’s face. ‘It is Sir Gerald to you. You have no right to accuse me of some trumped up charge. Get out of my office and don’t forget to close the doors behind you.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you? You’re implicated and in the proverbial shit.’
‘You can’t talk to me like that! Get out of here or I’ll call security and have you thrown out.’
‘Gerald Staniland, I have reason to believe your college is being used as a recruiting ground for terrorists and, should you be convicted, you will formally and publicly be stripped of your title by the Palace,’ said Jeremy. ‘John, pass me your handcuffs. If the bastard wants to play hardball, so be it; read him his rights and take him away.’
The VC’s confidence crumpled. His face turned ashen grey.
‘Alright, alright, I’ll help. The files are in the registry building – the building next door. Margery knows where to find them.’ He picked up the phone.
Moments later Margery appeared at the door. ‘Vice chancellor?’
‘Please show these two gentlemen to the registry where the student files are kept.’
It was 7.20 p.m. on the Wednesday evening. It was all hands to the paperwork at Wood Street. Emma was busy printing out and collating all the docu
ments coming in from Companies House, while Rafi was sifting through them.
Arnold had been busy.
‘Emma,’ said Rafi, ‘all we need to do at this stage is to prove that the venture capital company is linked with the private companies which use the services of CGF Company Secretaries Ltd. After that we can focus on what they’re up to.’
The door swung open. ‘My goodness, you’ve been busy,’ said Jeremy as he entered the room. ‘Where on earth did all this paperwork come from?’
He was followed by John, who looked equally surprised and impressed.
‘Had a useful time?’ asked Emma, trying to sound upbeat.
‘Too right,’ said Jeremy beaming from ear to ear. ‘I reckon that the vice chancellor just aged a year or so, don’t you John?’
‘Well, he was being rather obstructive.’
‘OK, the suspense is killing us,’ said Emma, ‘what did you find out?’
‘We have three more names for you,’ replied John. ‘Jeremy has his colleagues at MI5 digging up as much as they can on them. Before we start briefing you, we’ve got a few things in our notes to sort out.’ John shot a momentary look at Jeremy, who nodded.
‘Perhaps we could chat over a bite to eat in a few minutes, while I tidy up a few loose ends with John?’
‘Pardon?’ said Kate.
‘Oh, we stopped off at Luigi’s and ordered a selection of things to keep us going – a sort of buffet supper. It should be here shortly. In the meantime John and I will tidy up our notes,’ said Jeremy with a grin.
Minutes later the food arrived in reception and the two Js, deep in conversation, went off to collect it.
‘I’ve no idea what we’ve got here,’ said Jeremy as he came back in. ‘I hope you find something you like. Help yourselves. We’ve organised our notes. Shall we bring you up to speed whilst we eat? John, do you want to start or shall I?’
‘OK, I’ll go first. The vice chancellor we visited is living the life of Riley. He’s on a different planet,’ said John.
‘Lord Muck was well out of order. He tried to take the piss. Didn’t take John seriously, refused to help. We sort of leant on him, didn’t we John?’ interjected Jeremy with a cheeky grin.
John quickly finished his mouthful. ‘Jameel Furud and Basel Talal were part of a clique of PhD students. There were two others: Sheikh Akram Tufayl and Miti Lakhani, an Asian–African. They were thick as thieves for the three years they studied together. There was another member of the clique: Maryam Vynckt, Talal’s younger sister, who was studying for a Masters in Law around the corner.’
‘Bloody hell! I think she must be related to the Luxembourg financier that Callum visited just before he died,’ said Rafi. ‘Sorry; do go on.’
‘We tracked down one of their contemporaries, Dr Mario Lutchins, a senior lecturer at a business school in London. We dropped in to see him on our way back,’ said Jeremy, reaching over to help himself to more food, whilst John took up the running.
‘To cut a long story short, it transpired that the VC is caught between a rock and a hard place. His problem is that Sheikh Tufayl agreed to make a hefty donation of half a million pounds a year, but he is most worried, as the sheikh has a signed and witnessed letter requiring the donation to remain secret or else the money becomes repayable. Without the money the VC’s lifestyle would go down the pan.’
It was now Jeremy’s turn. ‘The four individuals certainly made an impression on Dr Mario Lutchins. He was going out with a secretary in the Faculty Office. Jameel turned on the charm, had his way with her and then dumped her. It was part of a bet, I believe. Mario has never forgiven him. He has subsequently followed Jameel’s and his colleagues’ activities with a sinister interest. And has been most helpful in filling in the gaps.’
Jeremy looked down at his notes. ‘Tufayl, Furud, Miti, Talal and his sister frequented the same mosque. Sheikh Akram Tufayl was the man with the money. He had a lovely duplex flat in NW8 overlooking Regent’s Park, close to the Central London mosque. He led the high life.’ Jeremy took a mouthful of food and John continued.
‘Sheikh Tufayl was outwardly religious, a driven man, always on the go. He was seriously wealthy, with money seemingly of no object and enjoyed a Western lifestyle. He thought that studying for a PhD was a great way to live, particularly as it kept his father off his back. He liked to hypothesise and seemed to be more interested in the big picture side of things.’
John looked down at his notebook. ‘To quote Mario, “The sheikh despised us for Iraq, couldn’t stand our meddling and aggressive foreign policies. And he thought the UK had become too soft and trusting and forgotten one of the key rules of economic and personal survival – when the chips are down, the oil-rich countries look after themselves. Or put another way: if a country runs out of energy, it’s stuffed.’ John paused and took another mouthful.
‘The sheikh completed the last eighteen months of his PhD from home in the Gulf, following his father’s death in a freak skiing accident. My MI5 source tells me,’ continued Jeremy, ‘that he fell into a small ravine. The fall didn’t kill him, but he was injured sufficiently badly that he wasn’t able to climb out. He died from hypothermia. Sadly for him, his mobile phone’s battery was knackered. Sheikh Tufayl, who was on holiday with his father, moved shortly afterwards from London back home to take over the running of the family business, or should I say, the oil wells that were now his. Two years after, the sheikh received his PhD; the VC hosted a reception to acknowledge Sheikh Tufayl’s support for a high profile annual finance lecture. The great and the good were invited; the sheikh turned up and mixed with them. The sumptuous dinner afterwards was at one of the oldest livery companies. The vice chancellor planned it personally with military precision and it has subsequently turned into an annual event.’
‘Now let’s turn to the number two in the clique: Basel Talal,’ continued John. ‘According to Mario he was moderately wealthy by Arab standards – bloody rich by yours or mine. He lived within walking distance of the sheikh in a smart apartment block. He had an incisive and practical brain, and paid great attention to detail. He was an excellent manager and manipulator. He’s been successful in the venture capital business, but he’s kept a surprisingly low profile. Mario believes that Basel has a wealthy offshore backer. His guess is that the money comes from the sheikh.’
‘Oh, did we mention that Basel was the sheikh’s cousin?’ interjected Jeremy.
‘And now on to number three in the clique: your erstwhile boss Jameel Furud,’ continued John. ‘He was a close friend of the sheikh and his cousin, but lacked their money. He shared their interests in discussing economic strategies and how markets worked, and whether they could be manipulated. He loved the high life and his particular talent was his ability to charm the ladies. This talent went down especially well with the sheikh, who loved to party and to have a beautiful woman on his arm. After his PhD, Jameel spent time setting up and running a fund management business in the Gulf. He was very successful. He looked after the sheikh’s newfound wealth and over time the business grew to include the money of the sheikh’s friends. The business moved from the Gulf to Zurich for a short while, before moving to London where it was rebranded as Prima Terra. Mario found it strange that since his return to the UK, Jameel never promoted the fact that he had a PhD.’
‘I suppose he likes his wheeler-dealer image,’ said Rafi.
‘According to Mario the fourth member of the group was Maryam Talal, now Mrs Maryam Vynckt. She’s the younger sister of Basel and of course cousin to the sheikh. She was educated at top private schools in the UK,’ said John. ‘This was followed by a gap year in the Gulf and then she read Law at Cambridge, followed by a two-year Masters in Law in London. Her dissertation was on “Cross border investment vehicles and cross border taxation.” According to Mario, she possesses a grace and Eastern beauty that makes her very attractive. She’s a fantastic linguist – speaks most of the main European languages as if they were her native tongue.’
‘John, you’re losing out on the food,’ commented Jeremy. ‘Let me do the next bit. Maryam, as a specialist on structuring funds and minimising taxes, visited Hubert frequently and he became a valuable client of hers. Then Hubert made Maryam an offer she couldn’t refuse: head up his private clients division and a wedding ring. They married and she moved to Luxembourg. Then, out of the blue, her division was bought by the Gulf Trade Bank. Maryam, as CEO, merged the private clients side of CPR with that of the Bank. She now works from the Bank’s headquarters in the Gulf and from its offices in Luxembourg, which are in the same building as Hubert’s CPR Investment Funds.’
Rafi sat bolt upright. ‘Bloody hell! I bet Callum met her before he died.’
‘Good point, I’ll get that checked out,’ said Jeremy.
‘According to Mario,’ said John, ‘gossip has it that she was very close to her cousin the sheikh, and they were more than just good friends. Whether her relationship with the sheikh continued after university is anyone’s guess. Mario reckons that Gulf Trade Bank is part of the sheikh’s business empire and that the bank’s acquisition of Hubert’s private clients division was the sheikh’s way of ensuring that Maryam was nearby. Ah yes, I nearly forgot. Mario says Maryam is the most driven of the clique.’
‘That leaves us with the last member: Miti Lakhani,’ said Jeremy. ‘He struggled to make ends meet whilst in London. It seems that the money was there but his father wanted his son to work and not play and so kept Miti on a tight financial rein. Unfortunately, after five years he went home to Mogadishu with an MPhil and not the expected PhD. He drew the short straw. His supervisor, it seems, was more interested in his consultancy work than tending to his academic flock. Miti’s family owns thriving import/export businesses in Sudan and Somalia. Mario reckons they also own a lot of land there.’
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