by SL Beaumont
“Huntly-Tait and Partners? Yes, that’s Gabe’s firm,” Kat said as a shiver ran through her. “I hope they’re not here.”
The level of noise in the hall was at a low hum. Kat estimated that there would be at least five hundred people in the cavernous space.
“Hello.” They spun around to see that Adam had joined them. Gone were the jeans and leather jacket, replaced by a tailored black suit, blue shirt, and thin black tie. Kat’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.
“What?” Adam cocked his head and looked at her. “Did you think I was a bit too common for modern art?”
Kat blushed. “No, I didn’t mean that.”
Nathan stuck out his hand to shake Adam’s, saving Kat from further embarrassment. Shamira gave him a small wave. A waiter passed by and Kat took the opportunity to replace her empty flute with a full one.
“If I could have your attention, please?” A woman’s voice echoed through the hall. The tinkling laughter and chatter among the crowd softened, and after a moment, the woman continued. “I’d like to thank you all for attending the opening of Stars, our exhibition featuring twenty of the UK’s brightest, pun very much intended, up-and-coming young artists.” There was a sprinkle of polite laughter and applause. “To officially open the exhibition, I’d like to give a very warm welcome to our principal sponsors from Capital Investment Partners, Roger Chen and Mary McFarlane.”
Adam’s eyes narrowed as the two partners stepped onto the podium and waved to acknowledge the crowd. Mary McFarlane’s diminutive form was draped in a simple sheath of a sparkling silver fabric, and her hair pulled into an elaborate up-do. A diamond choker was wrapped around her neck. Roger Chen wore a simple but elegant black tuxedo.
“Thank you for joining us at the Tate Modern tonight. We’re honoured to put Capital Investment Partners’ name to such an important showcase of young British talent,” Mary said, smiling. She paused for the ripple of applause. “We have long been patrons of the arts, and so it seemed fitting that we partner with the London Wall Gallery for what we hope will become a key event on the London arts calendar.” She paused as another wave of applause sounded.
“Roger and I, and our partners at CIP, have long been supporters of young creatives and entrepreneurs. It is in that spirit tonight that we’d like to announce an annual prize to be awarded to an up-and-coming talent each year to enable them to continue to evolve and grow as an artist.” She paused again as an excited gasp went through the crowd.
“As you may have heard in the news this week, we have suffered the tragic loss of one of our own. Henry Smyth was not only a bright, visionary financier, but he was also my friend.” Mary’s voice broke on the last word. Roger stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and turned her head to look straight at Kat and Adam, her expression becoming hard. She dragged her eyes back to the centre of the crowd and smiled.
“In his memory, it has been decided to name this award The CIP Smyth Prize,” she finished to resounding applause and moved away from the microphone. Chen stepped up.
“Wonder if they’re going to do one in the security guard’s name too,” Adam muttered.
“She didn’t look that pleased to see us,” Kat murmured.
Adam laughed and looked up at Roger Chen, who was wrapping up his remarks.
“I’d like to declare the exhibition officially open. If you’d like to make your way up to Level 3, the artists are available to discuss their work. We sincerely hope you enjoy your evening. Thank you.”
There was another round of applause, and the crowd began to disperse towards the escalators and lifts.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just find the bathroom,” Kat said.
“I’ll come too,” Shamira said, taking her arm.
Adam watched them depart and turned to Nathan.
“Kat is quite a dichotomy, isn’t she? She looks so sophisticated tonight, yet you should have seen her fighting yesterday when we were jumped in the parking garage,” Adam said.
“Yeah, she’s pretty tough,” Nathan agreed, adding with a grin. “I wouldn’t want to get on her wrong side.”
“How did she lose her hand, Nate?”
“Car accident. It was unbelievably traumatic for her, but it’s amazing how quickly she recovered and got used to using an artificial one,” Nathan said.
Adam nodded. “She doesn’t like talking about it, though.”
“No, she can be quite, um… prickly with people who ask too many questions.”
“Noted.”
Adam spotted Kat and Shamira, making their way back towards them.
“This is so cool, there’s even a DJ in The Tanks,” Shamira said, pointing below their feet. “We can have a boogie later.”
Kat snorted. “Like that’s going to happen.”
“It’s alright, Shamira, I’ll dance with you if stick-in-the-mud here won’t,” Nathan said, taking Shamira’s arm. “Let’s go and look at some stars. You can explain the pieces to me.”
“Hello, are you here in an official capacity or for pleasure?”
Adam turned at the voice. Mary McFarlane sashayed toward them, champagne flute in hand. The smile she’d given the audience during her address seemed to be a permanent fixture, although Kat noted that it didn’t reach her eyes, which were cold and assessing.
“Ms. McFarlane,” Adam replied.
“Mary, please,” she all but purred.
Kat controlled the immediate instinct to roll her eyes.
“And, I’m sorry, I forget your name,” she said as she turned to Kat, her eyes narrowed as though trying to remember.
“Kat Munro.”
“Ah yes, did you find out any more about the spot of bother you ran into in our parking garage the other day?”
“I think it was the spot of bother that ran into trouble,” Adam said. “They weren’t expecting Kat.”
“From all accounts,” Mary replied, looking Kat up and down, her eyes resting for a moment on Kat’s left hand. “It’s like one of those riddles; when is a disability, not a disability?”
Kat flinched but ignored the comment. “It was nice of you to name the prize in Smyth’s memory,” she said.
“Yes, it was the least we could do. So tragic. You never know what’s going on with someone. Anyway, I must mingle. Enjoy your evening.” She turned away to join another group, exchanging air kisses as she greeted several people.
“Do you think she could be any more insincere?” Kat said, knocking back her glass. “I keep thinking of Henry Smyth’s poor parents; I wonder if they’re here.”
Adam shook his head. “I doubt it.”
“Mary is certainly a piece of work. ‘When is a disability, not a disability?’” she mimicked Mary’s sultry voice. “When you don’t have to live with one, that’s when,” she added.
Adam studied her for a moment. “I’m sorry, Kat.”
“Don’t be,” she said, the effects of two glasses of prosecco on an empty stomach hitting her. “Let’s find the food, or I’m going to say something I really mean.”
Chapter 8
Kat was nursing a hangover. She caught up to Nathan and Shamira as they exited the tube station near their office, and together they joined the throngs of morning commuters waiting to cross at the lights. One look confirmed that they, too, were dealing with a similar legacy from the night before.
“Glad I’m not the only one,” she said.
Shamira pulled her sunglasses from her hair down over her eyes. “I would have thought all that dancing would have worked off the effects of the alcohol.”
“Not when you keep topping it up,” Nathan replied. “What say we get a fry up at that little greasy spoon around the corner?”
“Ew,” Shamira said as she wrinkled her nose.
“Come on, it’ll put hairs on ya chest,” Nathan said, elbowing her.
“Great idea, except I’m late for
a meeting,” Kat replied as they crossed the road outside the station.
“So.” Shamira turned her attention to Kat. “Where did you and our ruggedly handsome detective get to last night?”
“The bar on Level 6. We were people watching. Roger and Mary and their cohorts specifically,” Kat replied.
“So why are you looking green? I thought cops weren’t supposed to drink on duty or didn’t he join you?” Nathan asked.
“I don’t think he was officially on duty.”
“So, what did you learn?”
“Not much beyond the fact that they are obnoxious and rich, but there’s no crime in that,” Kat replied. “Although you won’t believe who was there – William Huntly-Tait.”
“Gabe’s father?”
Kat nodded.
“Did he see you?” Shamira asked.
“He didn’t acknowledge me if he did,” she said.
They arrived at the office, passed through the security turnstiles, and climbed the stairs to their floor. Adam and Charles Stephenson were already seated at one end of the conference table in the main meeting room, with the door open.
“When you’re ready, join us, Kat, and bring Nathan. Oh, and can you order coffee?” Stephenson called.
Kat gave him the thumbs-up sign and continued on to her desk.
“I don’t know why he can’t order his own coffee,” she grumbled, dumping her bag.
“I’ll do it, you two just get in there,” Shamira offered.
Adam was back to his usual attire of jeans and leather jacket. “Morning,” he grinned as Kat and Nathan walked into the room. “Oh, I’ve seen you two look better.”
Stephenson looked confused.
“I bumped into some of your team at the opening night of an exhibition at the Tate Modern last night,” Adam explained.
Stephenson raised an eyebrow.
“CIP sponsored it, and Nathan managed to score three tickets,” Kat explained.
“Ah,” Stevenson said. “Anyway, now that you’re here, DS Jackson is ready for our update on CIP’s partners. I thought I’d sit in.”
Kat nodded and sat down beside Adam as the receptionist entered carrying a tray with freshly brewed coffee.
“Here we are, these look like they are much needed,” she said, patting Kat’s shoulder with her free hand.
“Oh, yes.” Kat took a grateful sip and opened the file on her iPad. She shared the content with the large screen on the wall at the end of the table. “Nate, jump in if I miss something,” she said before beginning. “Capital Investment Partners or CIP is the brainchild of four thirty-something rock star investment bankers.” A picture of the CIP building flicked up on the screen. “It was established four years ago and has gone from strength to strength. Recent reports show that they have £2.25 billion under management.”
“That’s from a zero base in four years?” Stephenson asked.
Kat nodded. “Yes, and their profits have grown exponentially.” She tapped her screen for the next slide displaying an earnings graph.
“The founding partners are Roger Chen, Mary McFarlane, Henry Smyth, and Eduardo Diaz.” As she spoke, a photo of each popped up on the screen.
“They all worked together at the International Bank of Commerce, IBC, before leaving to set up CIP. It’s an industry full of acronyms, so stop me if you need me to explain,” she said to Adam. He nodded.
“Roger Chen and Mary McFarlane are usually the public faces of the enterprise, Henry Smyth and Eduardo Diaz are considered the brains,” Kat continued.
“I can’t imagine Eduardo Diaz being a great PR man from our meeting with him the other day,” Adam agreed.
Kat nodded. “Okay, so Roger Chen.” She tapped her screen, and Roger’s image enlarged over the others. “Roger was born in London to Chinese immigrant parents who own a takeaway in Lewisham. He’s a scholarship kid who left Cambridge with a first in economics. He moved through the ranks quickly at IBC making VP within three years.
“Mary McFarlane is Irish.” Mary’s glamorous image filled their screens. “Educated at Trinity College in Dublin, Mary comes from a privileged background. She’s a little older than the other three, and founded then sold several successful start-up businesses before settling on a career in finance. She is often in the society pages with a revolving door of actors and musicians on her arm.
“Henry Smyth was at Cambridge a year ahead of Roger Chen. He got a blue for rowing, worked hard, played hard, and had a reputation for being something of a playboy. His financials are clean. No secret payments or hidden accounts that we could find, his taxes are filed, and he was a regular generous donor to several charities. He was a very wealthy man with a large well-diversified investment portfolio, a house in the country, a ski chalet, and his London penthouse. He was astute and well-liked by all accounts.”
Stephenson nodded. “I met him on a couple of occasions. He seemed like a nice chap.”
“And finally, Eduardo Diaz. Eduardo was born Eddie Doors in Essex,” Kat began as Henry’s image was replaced by Eduardo’s grinning face.
Adam threw his head back and laughed. “Brilliant.”
“Eddie grew up on a fairly rough council estate and left school aged sixteen working various jobs. He eventually managed to talk his way into a job as a junior bond trader at The International Bank of Commerce. And by all accounts, he was fantastic; ruthless, nerves of steel and flamboyant. Somewhere along the way, as his fortune grew, he changed his name and reinvented himself as Eduardo. He owns an apartment around the corner from Harrods. He has a Porsche, a Ferrari, and a Lamborghini parked in his garage.”
Nathan let out a low whistle. “Hope we get to audit those.”
“So, your conclusions, Kat?” Stephenson asked, stroking his chin.
“They all live well beyond the means of your average Londoner. They regularly dine out at expensive restaurants, own multiple properties, expensive toys, and take luxurious holidays abroad if their social media accounts are any indication. But they have each made a fortune as traders and investment bankers, which, if invested well, would provide that lifestyle. So we can’t use the usual red flag of living beyond their means. They each take a £1 million salary annually from CIP along with bonuses and dividends. The company and their personal taxes appear to be up to date. But, they’re almost too clean, if you know what I mean.”
Stephenson nodded. “You thought that about CIP yesterday, Kat. Perhaps they are just diligent business people. The risk in our business is that we end up being suspicious of everyone and go looking for issues where there are none.”
Kat nodded. “That’s true.”
“This is useful background, but it doesn’t get us any closer to who murdered Henry Smyth or why,” Adam said. “Greenwood expects to have all of the other information on Smyth’s financial situation for you later this morning. In the meantime, my team is looking into the other aspects of Henry Smyth’s life. I should have access to his phone and email records by the time I get back to the office.”
Chapter 9
When Kat rushed through the door of the restaurant at one p.m. the following day, her parents were already seated perusing menus. Phil Munro was a fit-looking man in his late sixties, and his wife Maggie, with her short-cropped light auburn hair and trim figure, looked younger than her years.
The restaurant was modern and airy, located on the top floor of the National Theatre with an outlook towards Westminster. The tables, set with crisp white cloths, sparkling glasses, and shiny silverware, were mostly full. The buzz of conversation interspersed with the clink of cutlery against china filled the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” Kat said as the maître d’ guided her to their table. “The traffic was horrible.” She kissed them both on their cheeks. She registered the pile of shopping bags on one chair and grinned.
“I don’t have to ask how your morning was, Mum,” she teased.
Her father rolled his eyes but gave her mother an indulgent smile.
“Oh, ju
st one or two bits for the new season,” she replied. “I have to make the most of my trips up to London, they’re not happening as much as they used to, are they, Phil?” She gave Kat’s father a pointed glare.
“And looking at that haul, you wonder why, Maggie?” he said.
Kat smiled and sat down, accepting a menu and a glass of water from the waiter hovering near the table.
“So, what’s been happening with you?” Maggie asked, leaning across the table and patting Kat’s arm.
“No, I haven’t been on any dates. No, I don’t have anyone I’m interested in, and no, I won’t be settling down anytime soon and providing you with grandchildren,” Kat replied.
Maggie removed her hand with a click of her tongue. “Oh, I wasn’t asking any of those questions.”
“Sure, Mum,” Kat replied, winking at her father, who busied himself looking at his menu.
The waiter arrived back at the table to take their orders, and Kat steered the conversation toward her parents, and let them fill her in on the gossip from their small village.
“I went to the opening of an exhibition at the Tate Modern a couple of nights ago. Nate got some free tickets,” she said at a pause in the conversation. “It was called Stars and had some cool pieces.”
Maggie rummaged in one of her shopping bags. “Is this it?” she asked, handing Kat a flyer that she’d picked up somewhere. Kat nodded.
“Is it sponsored by CIP?” Phil asked, taking it from her.
“Yeah. How do you know CIP, Dad?” Kat took a sip of water.
“I invest with them,” he replied.
Kat choked on her water. ‘Since when?” she spluttered and put her glass down.
“Oh, it’s been a while now, a couple of years. One of the guys at the golf club put me onto them. He was bragging about the spectacular returns he saw on his investment portfolio. Hence, a few of us put some money in too, the best thing I ever did. The returns have been fantastic with low fees,” Phil explained.
“What exactly are you invested in?” Kat asked. “The markets have had a rocky run for the last couple of years.”
“A diversified international portfolio. These guys are brilliant because if one region or industry does badly, it’s more than compensated for by another area or industry doing well,” Phil said. “In fact, I just added some additional funds last week.”
