by Tomas Black
With the news still buzzing in his head, he decided to forego his run and have breakfast at Ives. He needed time to process the information and a brisk walk across the bridge to Leadenhall Market would help clear his head and give him an excuse to talk to Brock about their equipment failure a few days ago.
It was just after 7.30am when he finally left the office and made his way over Tower Bridge with the rest of the City commuters. February had been mild and he opted to forego a coat, preferring instead to let the crisp morning air wash over him to sharpen his thoughts. He remembered his conversation with Moretti: we have an internal security issue … someone is trying to disrupt the IPO. Murdering the lead underwriter to halt an IPO seemed extreme but, with millions of pounds on the table, anything was possible.
Drum made his way past the Tower of London and turned onto Tower Hill. He cut through to Great Tower Street at the small church of All Hallows and made his way to Fenchurch Street for the short walk to Leadenhall Market.
The area was busy at this time in the morning, with well-heeled City brokers and Lloyds underwriters having breakfast beneath the great glass roof of the Victorian market; they sat outside the cafes and restaurants that lined the cobbled streets, warmed by the cosy orange glow of the market’s many space heaters.
The Ives restaurant was just inside the entrance to the market, off Lime Street, where it occupied the premises above a fishmonger that was famous for supplying oysters and smoked salmon to the rest of the City. He climbed the rickety stairs to the spacious dining area and joined the throng of City workers waiting to be seated. In the short time that the restaurant had been open, it had gained a reputation for no-nonsense dining at a reasonable price, serving exceptional food. Brock’s speciality was fish which he sourced from the fishmonger below. The decor was best described as ‘rustic chic’ with plain, rough floorboards and bare wooden tables set amidst brightly painted cast-iron columns that supported the Victorian roof. Long downlights with glowing orange filaments gave the place a warm and cosy feel.
He hadn’t been waiting long when Brock came barrelling out of the kitchen carrying a large tray of food. He noticed Drum waiting patiently in line and gave him a nod. After he had delivered the food, he spoke to a waitress before disappearing back into the kitchen. She looked in Drum’s direction and walked over.
“Morning, Ben,” she said, giving him a broad smile.
“Morning, Emma. Busy this morning.”
“No more than usual. Your table is ready,” she said, gathering up a menu.
Emma walked him to a corner table marked ‘private’ and tucked discreetly away from the main dining area at the back of the room. “Menu?”
“I’ll have the poached eggs and haddock when he’s ready. Just bring me some coffee in the meantime.”
“Coming right up. He won’t be long. We’re just finishing up the morning rush.” And with that, she disappeared into the kitchen to place his order.
She soon reappeared with a cafetiere of coffee and a small jug of cream. He spent the time reading his emails and searching the news online. The death of Moretti at the hotel was the main feature in most news feeds. All seemed to think the motive was robbery, but none could provide details of the attack. One article caught his eye. An Inspector Morrissey had taken charge of the case and was appealing for witnesses to come forward. He sent the article to Alice.
His phone buzzed. “Hello, Phyllis.”
“I just heard.”
“Moretti?”
“Yes, McKinley called. They still want you to proceed with the assignment.”
“You’re joking!” said Drum.
“Apparently not. A major player insisted on it—or so they claim.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit odd, if not a little callous?”
There was a pause on the line. Drum wondered if Delaney had someone with her. “Listen, Ben. I understand if you want to walk away from this one. But McKinley still wants you to take the assignment.”
He remembered the dark-haired Moretti, excited over the variety of pastries at their breakfast meeting. Her killer must have been close by, watching and waiting. He didn’t think for one moment that this was a random killing—a robbery gone wrong. Whoever had killed her was after something. And there was the possibility she had inadvertently given it to him. Which now made him a target.
“Listen, Phyllis. Assuming the assignment goes ahead, who is taking Moretti’s place? Her skill set was rather unique.”
“Good question. I’ve arranged a meeting. Alice told me you’re at Ives. I’ve taken the liberty of giving Moretti’s replacement your location. She’ll be with you shortly.” There was another pause on the line and then a click. Delaney had switched lines. “Listen, Ben. I know I don’t have to tell you this, but tread carefully with this one—and keep me in the loop.”
He was about to reply when she hung up. He looked up from his phone and noticed Mei Ling Chung standing at the door, scanning the room. She saw him, gave him a wave and walked over.
“Good morning, Mr Drummond. I hope this isn’t a bad time? Ms Delaney thought you’d be amenable to a meeting.”
He stood and shook her hand, surprised to see her. She was dressed in a smart, black trouser suit that was tailored perfectly to her slim figure. She now wore her thick, black hair loose about her shoulders. It seemed improbable that, just a few days ago, he had wrapped himself around her small frame, clinging on for dear life. “Of course, Ms Chung.” He gestured for her to be seated.
“Oh, please call me Mei.”
“Drum.”
“Drum?”
“Short for Drummond.” He caught Emma’s eye and she came over. “Tell Brock we have a plus one.”
“Would you like to see a menu?” said Emma.
“What are you having?” said Mei.
“Poached eggs and smoked haddock.”
“Sounds great. I’ll have the same.”
He held up the cafetière. “And a refill please.”
“Sure thing,” said Emma, and went back to the kitchen.
“I’m a little confused,” said Drum. “You’re working for McKinley?”
“Not directly, you understand,” she said, looking around her. “Nice place.”
Emma came back with more coffee. “Sorry,” said Drum. “Would you prefer tea?”
Mei smiled. “Coffee’s fine." She poured herself a black coffee. “I represent the interests of the Independent Bank of Shanghai. IBS has recently acquired a major stake in the IPO and my job is to see that it is not disrupted in any way.” She sipped her coffee. “Will that be a problem?”
Drum considered this. “And you want to start straight away?”
“We do. Any delay could seriously affect investor confidence. They’re already spooked over Moretti’s untimely death.”
“Did you know her?” asked Drum.
“I met her briefly at a conference on Machine Learning but did not know her socially. I understand she was a very competent analyst and passionate about the investment opportunities in Artificial Intelligence. In that respect, we shared a common interest. Her death is a terrible loss.”
Emma came out of the kitchen with two steaming plates of food. “The boss sends his apologies and says to start without him. He’ll be out when he can. Enjoy.”
“This looks amazing,” said Mei. She scooped up a forkful of haddock and took a bite. “Interesting.”
Drum smiled. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“Not at all,” said Mei, between mouthfuls of haddock and egg.
They continued to chat over breakfast. He tried to persuade her to put back the assignment until they knew more about Moretti’s death, but she was set on starting immediately. She pushed her plate away and relaxed. “That was great. I must come here again.”
“I’ll tell Brock you enjoyed it.”
“Brock?”
“The owner—my climbing partner. The guy with the white streak of hair.”
Just then Broc
k came out of the kitchen with a mug of coffee in his hands. “Sorry I missed breakfast. Last-minute panic from a group of underwriters.” He smiled warmly when he saw Mei. “Mei Ling. Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand. “Has he thanked you yet?”
“Thanked me?” said Mei. “For what?”
“For saving his life.”
Mei grinned. “He’s buying me breakfast—which was lovely by the way.” She stood and gathered up her bag. She turned to Drum. “I’ve booked us into a hotel, close to Cambridge city centre. Salenko Systems is on the outskirts of town. We don’t want to stay near there. I’ll be driving up. Perhaps I can give you a lift and we can chat on the way.”
“That works for me,” said Drum, and gave her his address.
She was about to leave then hesitated and reached into her bag, pulling out a broken carabiner. “This is yours, I believe.”
Drum stood and examined the ring. It was badly mangled. It looked as if someone had prised it open. “Where did you get this?”
“I was curious about the accident and went back and looked over all the equipment. These devices don’t fail in this way. You might want to speak to the safety officer.” With that, she turned and walked out of the restaurant.
Brock picked up the carabiner. “She’s right, you know. These things don’t fail like this. It’s time we had a word with Charles.”
Drum sat back and brought his friend up to speed on the events of the last few days.
“Is Mei Ling really an investment banker?” said Brock.
“What makes you say that?” asked Drum.
“I caught her checking out each of the security cameras like a real pro.”
“Really,” said Drum. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Good grief, Drum. One smile from a pretty face and all your training goes out of the window.”
Drum rolled his eyes. “Perhaps she’s just a security conscious investment banker. Who knows? Nothing about this case surprises me any more.”
“So you’ll be leaving for Cambridge then,” said Brock.
“Looks like it.”
“Say hi to Stevie. I miss the cheeky little mite.”
Drum smiled. “I will. In the meantime, I’m heading back to the Gherkin and having a word with Charles.”
Brock stood and picked up his coffee mug. “Can you do it without me? I’m still finishing up.”
“No problem,” said Drum, and started to make his way to the door.
“And Drum,” said Brock. “Be careful.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Renshaw
Drum left Ives at nine. He walked through the centre of the market, less busy now that the City patrons had left for their offices, and made his way along Lime Street past the Lloyds building and onto St. Mary Axe and the Gherkin. The building’s lobby was relatively empty when he arrived. He walked up to the front desk and was greeted by one of the security guards.
“Morning, Mr Drummond. Dropping in on us again so soon?”
One of the receptionists behind the desk giggled.
“Morning, Joe. Yes, hilarious. I’m looking for Charles. Is he around?”
“Not come in today.” He turned to the giggling receptionist for confirmation. She checked her computer.
“No, he’s not swiped in. Do you want to leave him a message?” she said, smiling.
“No thanks,” said Drum. “I’ll catch him later.”
The receptionist burst into another fit of giggles.
Drum smiled. Everyone’s a comedian, he thought as he exited the building and stepped back onto St. Mary Axe. He dialled Alice.
“Hi, any luck with DCI Chambers?”
“Good morning,” replied Alice. “As we suspected, the City of London division has no record of the man. They’d like you to come in and make a statement though.”
Fair enough, thought Drum. “Right. I’ll do it this afternoon.”
“Will you be coming back to the office?” asked Alice.
“Back around mid-day. I have to visit an old friend.”
“Ok,” said Alice. She paused. “By the way, Delaney called—”
“Yes, I know. She tracked me down at Ives. Looks like our Cambridge trip is on.”
“Oh, good,” said Alice. “I’ll give Stevie a call and continue looking for that temp.” And with that, she hung up.
Drum searched his phone for Renshaw’s contact details and dialled his number. He got a busy signal but no voicemail. He flagged down a black cab and gave the driver an address just off the Mile End Road. Mei Ling’s revelation that someone had tampered with their equipment hadn’t come as a complete surprise. Drum recalled the big man on the safety platform just before the incident. But he couldn't contemplate Charles Renshaw being complicit in the affair.
Colour Sergeant Charles Renshaw, NCO of her Majesty’s Royal Engineers, retired, had been a major influence during the early part of Drum’s Army career. The man was a legend in the service and admired by the legions of recruits that he had drilled and trained. It was Renshaw who had taken a raw, brash and undisciplined Benjamin Drummond and shaped him into the man he was today. Drum credited Sergeant Charles Renshaw’s training with keeping him alive through several tours of Afghanistan and a tour of Iraq. Others in his unit had said the same. He smiled when he recalled one of the Sergeant’s many pieces of advice. If you stick the end of your rifle in the mud one more time, Drummond, I’ll stick it where the sun don’t shine.
Renshaw had retired at more or less the same time as Drum. He had found it difficult to adapt to civilian life and had fallen on hard times like many ex-service personnel after a lifetime in the Army. Not that he had no transferable skills, it was just that after years of giving orders, he found it difficult taking them. So he and Brock were pleased when he had snagged the job as a safety officer for one of London’s most prestigious buildings.
The cabbie left the City limits via Aldgate and made his way along Whitechapel, eventually turning off the Mile End Road into a part of East London that Drum had not visited for many years. He told the cabbie to follow the Stepney Green road, which eventually led them to a cul-de-sac called Bootmakers Court and a small tower block overlooking a narrow leg of the Regent’s Canal. Renshaw had a small apartment on the fourteenth floor of the building, optimistically named Ocean View.
Drum paid the cabbie who offered him some sage advice before driving off: “Don’t hang around ‘ere, mate.”
The building entrance was gated, so Drum loitered by the door, dialling Renshaw’s number several more times without success. Eventually, a young mother, struggling with a pushchair, obliged Drum with the security code for the door so he could assist her. They rode the elevator together up to the fourth floor, where she thanked him before parting company. Drum continued up to floor fourteen where he exited and followed the signs to Flat 14b.
The tower block was a throw-back to the eighties and had been recently refurbished with slick cladding and balconies alternating between floors where the residents could relax on hot summer days and enjoy the occasional barbeque. Drum remembered Renshaw complaining about the fire risk. The corridors and communal spaces were free from the usual graffiti and looked well-maintained, including the doors which were painted in a variety of glossy colours. Renshaw’s door was slightly less glossy and was ajar, having received several well-placed kicks from a large boot which had left its mark embedded in the paintwork and had splintered the doorframe.
Drum gave the door a push, causing it to creak open a little further on its broken hinges. “Charles?”
“Er, what you doing,” said a voice behind him. “You the police?”
Drum turned to find two teenagers, aged fifteen or so, standing behind him. They each did their best to strike what they considered to be a threatening pose.
Drum straightened up to his full height. “No, I’m a friend of Charles—Charles Renshaw.”
The shorter of the two boys took a step back, leaving his friend to do the talking. “You know Charlie,
do you? What’s he look like then?”
“Shorter, older than me. Neatly trimmed moustache. Army man,” said Drum. “You know him?”
The boy relaxed. “Yeah, nice bloke. Helped fix my bike. Walks around like he has a rod up his arse.” His friend sniggered.
Drum smiled. “What happened here?”
“Big man, scar down one eye, evil-looking bastard, came banging on the door late last night. We live in the flat below. Heard a bit of a racket.”
“Did you call the police?”
The two boys looked at each other in amusement. “Nah, Charlie owed people money. We figured he was due a reminder. You know how it is. Sometimes when you fall behind, they send someone to jog your memory. He didn’t stay long.” He peered around Drum at the shattered door. “I guess Charlie had fallen behind a lot.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sahil. My brother is Rafan.”
“Listen, Sahil. I’m going in to check on Charlie. Stay here.”
He walked into the apartment’s small entrance. The walls were plainly decorated in an off-white colour that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in several years. A bunch of keys and Charles’ building keycard lay in a small wooden bowl on a rickety table below a coat rack where a hi-vis jacket hung. There was a familiar musty smell in the air. He passed a small bedroom with a neatly made bed that any sergeant major would be proud of, and a small kitchenette that had the remains of a meal congealing on a plate on a small Formica table. Apart from the front door, nothing else looked damaged.
He moved through into the lounge which was spacious compared to the other rooms, and which had a view onto the canal below. A set of large double-glazed French doors gave access to a small, compact balcony. Charles sat slumped in the centre of the room in an old leather armchair that had seen better days. He looked to be asleep but, from the deathly pallor of his face, Drum knew he was dead.
