by Andrew Smyth
That took me aback. Another meeting that wasn’t exactly turning out as I had suspected. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I said lamely. ‘It’s early days yet.’
Rogers stood up, but didn’t offer his hand. ‘Bear it in mind.’ He gestured to Warren to show me out. ‘And your colleague outside, take him with you.’
5
I’d phoned Greta and asked her to meet me back at the barge. I thought that if I was going to destroy her theories about her father, then it should be to her face. First, I had to tell Paul that his career as a private eye was going to be short-lived – I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d been rumbled. He seemed disappointed, although whether this was because he wasn’t going to be making any money or because he had rather fancied himself as a super-sleuth, I couldn’t tell. He said he didn’t have anything better to do, and since he hadn’t seen my new home, we went back to Wapping.
‘I’d get this fixed, if I were you, before someone falls in,’ Paul said as he clambered up the gangplank. He looked around and nodded approvingly. ‘Neat. You could give some good parties here, though you’d have to have a lifeguard on duty and make sure that all the guests could swim. You could give them water-wings as they get on board.’ I took him into the saloon, which I admit still wasn’t looking at its best. ‘Have you had a break-in?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘You know I could help you with this. Get it sorted in no time.’
‘Can’t afford you. Besides, it’s good therapy. Keeps my mind off my future, assuming I have one. Don’t touch that.’ Paul was playing with the boat controls while making “broom-broom” noises. ‘It’s not a racing car,’ I said. ‘I’ve got someone coming to look at the engines next week. I’ve no idea whether they work or not – I haven’t dared to try them out.’
‘Not much danger of you making a moonlight flit then, unless you go downriver with the tide. So how come you’ve got time for this investigation business? What happened to the army?’ I hadn’t had the courage to tell him that I’d been thrown out – which was what it was, despite the “honourable resignation” label. I explained that I’d had enough and wanted to try something else. Perhaps that wasn’t too far from the truth.
‘Is this your client now?’ Paul was looking across the pontoon where Greta was heading for the boat. We watched anxiously as she pulled herself up the gangplank holding hard onto the handrail.
When she came on deck, I introduced her to Paul and explained that I’d asked him to keep watch on the Tribune offices that morning. I held open the saloon door and we followed her in. I cleared the chair again and this time she sat without checking. I turned to Paul and suggested that he might have better things to do elsewhere, which of course he didn’t, but he took the hint and left us alone.
‘I joined Paul there,’ I said. ‘Since you recognised the person at the hospital, there didn’t seem much point in delaying. I managed to speak to Brendan Rogers.’
Greta looked surprised. ‘He agreed to see you?’
‘I said it was about your father’s death so he couldn’t really refuse.’
‘And the man in the photograph, did he admit that he worked for them?’
‘He did better than that, he introduced me to him. His name’s Warren Bidwell and he’s their security consultant.’
‘So they didn’t try to hide it then?’
‘Not at all, but they said he was only checking out your father’s operation. It seems they’re a suspicious lot, Tribune.’
‘Lots of people, including me, are suspicious of them,’ said Greta. ‘They’re the sort of people who breed suspicion. I’m not sure how my father ever joined up with them and although I often asked him, he was always quite evasive. I suppose given where their money comes from, suspicion is a way of life.’
‘He didn’t end up with a decapitated horse at the end of his bed, so I suppose they must have trusted one another up to a point. So where does the money come from?’
‘As I told you the other day, it’s very unclear. The only thing I know is that it doesn’t come from here but from overseas. They don’t list a single UK investor and most of the investors they do list are anonymous corporations in the Cayman Islands or some such.’
‘Presumably your father checked them out, and you said that he’d done previous work with them, so he at least must have thought they were above board.’
‘He and Brendan Rogers seemed to get along well together and he’d made them quite a lot of money in the past. What did you think of them?’
I shrugged. ‘They’ve got some pretty fancy offices for a start, and if they’re not short of money, they’re not short of good taste either. Walls covered with Warhols and Lichtensteins – they even had a couple of Richard Hamiltons. But I can’t see how they would risk anything illegal if the source of their money is suspect. It would bring them too much attention and that’s probably the last thing they want. I’m almost sorry to say this, but I don’t think they had anything to do with your father’s death.’
‘What about the life insurance? Did they tell you about that?’
‘Key Man insurance? Yes. They explained that it was routine. They take out insurance on all their partners but they said it wasn’t enough to cover any losses. They also said that your father had managed to turn the project around and there might not be any.’
‘That’s not what my father was telling me just before he died. Mind you, it would be typical of him to exaggerate the problems so he could take all the more credit if he managed to sort it out.’
‘Why don’t we go and have a look ourselves? See what’s happening to it – could you arrange that?’
‘I suppose I could.’ She shook her hair out of her eyes in an almost coquettish gesture but it was clearly something she did without thinking. ‘I haven’t had much time to think about it, but as far as I know my father left me everything so I suppose the development company is mine now. I had a sort of paralysis and couldn’t really face up to anything. I did check with the staff in his office and they told me they’d had to put construction on hold while they checked the legal situation with Tribune Investments. But it seemed that everything was under control so they carried on, but I’m really not sure that it’s worth continuing with. Perhaps I should cut our losses and sell it on.’
‘Let’s take a look first. You could come with me and see for yourself. We could go there in the morning.’
The development was on a brownfield site in Camden, north London. It had once been an old piano factory, but that had been back in the days when people were taught piano as a matter of course. These days it was only a privileged few and piano-making in the UK was now almost defunct. We found the site office in a large cabin in one corner and introduced ourselves to the site agent, who had been told to expect us. He already knew Greta who introduced us. ‘Charlie Atwell. He’s worked with my father on and off for years.’ His fluorescent hi-vis jacket only partly concealed his gut which was hanging over his waistband. He must have been pushing sixty, although his deeply lined face might have been deceptive. Certainly he looked as though he’d had a hard physical life.
‘And a better boss you couldn’t hope for,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘It’s a great loss.’ He sighed. ‘Not that we always saw eye to eye. We’ve had some right old barneys over the years, but it was never personal. He always listened to his people. Sure, he made the final decision, but he listened and you can’t say that about many people these days. He didn’t come the big “I am” – didn’t need to, he owned the company so it was his loss if it went wrong.’
‘And did it?’ I asked. ‘Go wrong, I mean?’
‘This one’s certainly had its moments. It’s not often that someone was able to put one over on Greg, but they managed it here. The agent didn’t tell him about the soil condition and the first surveyor missed it. It’s delayed us months.’
‘But you’re back working now?’
‘I’ll show you. Here,’ he said holding out hard hats for us both. ‘You’d better
put these on.’
I took mine and looked around the site. Two huge drilling machines, rather like giant corkscrews, were being set up.
‘We’ve excavated the contaminated top soil already,’ Atwell said. ‘The drilling machines had already been delivered to site so they’ve been sitting around doing nothing but racking up bills. Then,’ he hesitated, looking at Greta, ‘after your father died we had to stop again while they sorted out the financing. But, we’re up and running again and we’ll start piling in the morning.’
We followed him along the scaffolding boards that ran around the site. Wooden pegs marked out the limits of the construction and the varying levels. We watched as the workmen moved the machines into position, but it was impossible to work out where they were going to be building.
‘London clay,’ Atwell said. ‘Our worst enemy. We’ve had to put in these deep piled foundations and then support the concrete foundation beams off the top of them. In a building up the road cracks started appearing within a few months of moving in. Sad, really,’ he said. ‘It was an old people’s home so they had to move everybody out and pull the building down and then rebuild it. I imagine a few lawyers got rich on that one. Here, I’ll show you the plans.’
Inside the office, he pulled out a set of drawings from a plan chest. It was a fairly typical residential development with shops and offices on the ground floor and flats above. The building was set around a courtyard in the centre, which the plans showed as landscaped with a small pond. ‘That’s a swimming pond,’ Charlie said. ‘They’re all the rage these days. Entirely natural, no heating, just plants and pond animals to keep the water clean.’
‘Quite a smart address for a newt.’ I couldn’t guess who would be more surprised when they came across each other, the swimmer or the newts and I wondered how long it would be before they gave up on it and filled it in and paved it over. Charlie showed us some typical flat layouts and then told us how much they were asking for them. ‘You have to be joking. Are the walls lined with gold leaf?’
Charlie ignored this. ‘There’s such a demand for flats, especially in Camden. Industrial units are being bought up, pulled down and rebuilt as housing. Lord knows where the people are going to find jobs. The people who used to work in places like this have been forced out.’ Charlie turned to Greta. ‘Your father’s investors went through the figures and realised that the delays could be turned to their advantage because rising prices might mean they could put them up. In fact, with prices rising as fast as they are, there might be more money in leaving them empty until they level off. That’s what happened in the early seventies. I was working for Wimpey at the time. Office rents were going up so fast that the owners made more money keeping their buildings empty. Remember Centrepoint? Empty for years after they’d built it. “Unacceptable face of capitalism” it was called. Ironic that it gave its name to a charity for the homeless.’
‘So even with all the delays, you think you could still come out ahead?’ Greta asked.
‘I’m not the money man, but from what I gathered it’ll still manage to wash its face. Greg seemed to have a golden touch that didn’t desert him even… even…’ His voice trailed off. ‘We’ll miss him,’ Charlie added finally. He looked around the site. ‘He used to love it on site. Any excuse and he’d come by and have a chat. I think it was his personal touch that made him successful. He was very open with everyone and treated them all the same whoever they were. I remember one time when the police came, all puffed up, he had them eating out of his hands in no time.’
‘What police?’
‘Someone walking past had seen him injecting himself and thought he was a junkie, so they called the police.’
‘Injecting himself? Why? What was he–?’
‘I didn’t tell you,’ Greta interrupted. ‘My father was diabetic.’
I was too astonished to reply. That’s rather an important detail you’ve kept from me, I thought and wondered if there was anything else I hadn’t been told.
After that bombshell, we stayed a while looking around the site, while Charlie pointed out some of the more innovative features of the development. ‘The sort of detail Greg brought to the project to make his developments special,’ was how he explained it.
We took a taxi back to the West End and Greta’s office. ‘That should satisfy you that Tribune didn’t want your father dead,’ I said. ‘The project wasn’t losing money, even if it wasn’t going to make as much as they hoped.’
‘There’s still the life insurance.’ Greta clearly didn’t want to give up on her pet theory without a fight.
‘I really don’t think an organisation like Tribune Investments is going to have people killed for their life insurance. They’d be better off burglarising Hatton Garden diamond vaults than risking themselves in anything as extreme as murder. Think about it for a moment and you’ll realise how far-fetched it was. I agreed to look into it for you and speak to the hospital and I’ve done more than that.’
Greta was staring out of the taxi window. ‘But I’m sure that something happened,’ she said finally. ‘There was no way he should have died like that, so suddenly. What can I do now?’ she asked, showing an unusual helplessness.
I like to think my training has made me pretty tough and I don’t allow much to get to me, except for an attractive woman, that is, especially one on the verge of tears. Does it every time. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll give it one last shot but it really will be the last. Incidentally, where did your father live?’
‘St John’s Wood, north of Regent’s Park. In a mansion block not far from Lord’s cricket ground. He was a member and used to watch the cricket quite often.’
‘And have you still got it? I mean, is it still as he left it?’ There wouldn’t be much point looking around an empty flat.
‘I haven’t even begun to think about it yet,’ Greta said. ‘It’s still too early. I took his things back from the hospital and left them there and I haven’t been back since.’
‘Why don’t I meet you there later and we can go through his things together? See if there’s anything that looks unusual. It’s not likely, but it might be worth a try.’ She gave me the address of her father’s flat and we arranged to meet there during her lunchtime. She asked me not to be late since she didn’t want to be there on her own.
By now the taxi had stopped outside Greta’s office; she worked for one of those large accountancy firms identified only by their initials which meant they weren’t really identified at all, since they all sounded interchangeable with each other and with advertising agencies. Gentleman that I am, I allowed her to pay and then took the Underground back to the barge to do a couple of hours’ work before our meeting.
It was on the way back that I saw a face looking at me in the next compartment. It was a fleeting glance before he turned away, but I realised I’d seen him before, though I couldn’t remember where. London is a big city and you don’t see the same person twice in different places at different times. Not unless he’s following you, that is. From what Brendan Rogers had told me, this was probably one of Tribune’s “precautions” though what they thought they would learn by following me I had no idea. As I got back to the boat I wondered whether, if I saw him again, I should offer him a paintbrush and ask him to help. He was going to be very bored otherwise.
By the time I got to St John’s Wood later that day, Greta was already there, pacing the pavement anxiously. I hadn’t noticed whether I was still being followed, but I thought it best not to look around too often. If my tail thought that I’d noticed him, then I didn’t want him to think that I was acting for his benefit, rather than mine. Equally, I couldn’t tell whether Greta was being followed but thought it would upset her if I asked.
She took me up in the lift and unlocked both locks and ushered me inside. There was a musty smell in the flat and I suggested she open the windows to make the place feel less depressing. There was a large living room with full-width sliding windows opening onto a huge terrace. In the
distance, I could see the stand of the MCC cricket ground at Lord’s, although the pitch itself was hidden. Pity, I thought, otherwise with a good pair of binoculars and the radio turned on, he could have enjoyed the comfort of test matches from his own home.
I followed Greta into one of the bedrooms which had obviously been fitted out as an office. Using another of her keys, she unlocked the bureau in the corner and then the filing cabinets next to it. Most of the cabinets were almost empty. ‘He only kept personal files here,’ Greta explained. ‘All the papers relating to his developments were kept in the office.’
I went through them without any idea of what I might be looking for. There were albums of photographs of his developments in one drawer, and correspondence with the Inland Revenue in another. I read some of the letters, but they were all routine and none indicated any possible problems. I sat down at the bureau, which was a fine piece of period furniture and probably worth a good few thousand. The pigeon holes contained old postcards, along with cheque stubs going back decades. Greg Satchwell appeared to be someone who didn’t like throwing things away.
‘Did he live alone?’ I asked Greta, suddenly aware of how little I knew about her father.
‘He had on-and-off lady friends, but nothing permanent. No one who’d taken up occupation.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She died a few years ago. We used to live in a house quite close by, but my father moved here after she died. I’d already got a flat of my own so he didn’t want to be rattling around in a big house where everything was a reminder of her. Also, a flat meant fewer ties. If he wanted to go away he only had to shut the front door and leave, but a house meant there was too much that needed looking after.’
‘Did he have any help?’
‘There was a woman who came in a couple of times a week to tidy and clean, but otherwise he looked after himself. He was out somewhere most evenings so he didn’t cook much. Although, actually, he was quite a good cook,’ she added.
