48 Hours - A City of London Thriller

by J Jackson Bentley

  The actress stood to much applause, and raised the wooden auctioneer’s mallet for the cameras. Such was the concentration on this beautiful young woman and her daring strapless dress that no-one noticed Sir Max. He sat down rather heavily, feeling decidedly unwell. He dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with his handkerchief. A pained expression crossed his wrinkled face as he rubbed the top of his left arm and grimaced, but the pain seemed to pass and he sipped at a glass of water.

  It was a nerve wracking two minutes before Sir Max finally succumbed to the clear liquid that Bob had introduced into his whisky. Eventually he tried to stand up, clutched at his chest and collapsed. There were gasps and cries of dismay, and chairs scraped against the floor as other guests jumped to their feet nearby. Bob was the first to his side, apparently making the old man comfortable as he breathed his last. Amid the noisy chaos Sir Peter made an announcement over the PA system, asking if there was a doctor in the room. There were half a dozen, and they began to hurry forward, but they were already too late. Bob ushered everyone back whilst cradling the old man’s head. Max tried to utter a few words, but they were little more than a whisper. Bob leaned in to listen. Then he leaned over Max and whispered in his ear.

  “You should have paid me the five million, Max. You can’t spend it now.”

  Max’s eyes widened in horror as he listened to the words, then he breathed his last breath, his expired body relaxing into Bob’s arms.

 

  Chapter 11

  Atkins Garretson Palmer, College Hill, London: Thursday, 6pm.

  Andrew Cuthbertson was sitting at his desk pondering his options. He had noticed his colleagues staring at him all afternoon. It seemed that a couple of people had addressed him and he hadn’t answered. He hadn’t even heard them; he was absorbed in his own thoughts. They were concerned that the usually ebullient Andy appeared so withdrawn. He knew that in the next half hour the place would begin to clear and he could have the floor to himself. He needed to do something, but he didn’t know what to do.

  After the meeting with Josh that afternoon, Andrew had decided to call the blackmailer off. Perhaps he could threaten him with exposure if necessary, but he had to try to keep him away from Josh, at least. Andrew had never believed the man would kill anyone, anyway. He was wealthy in his own right, he had connections at cabinet level, and he was well respected around the world. When Andrew had asked him why he was doing this, there had been no explanation in reply. He was told simply to supply the information required or his wife and daughter, and his employers, would hear about the girl in Bangkok. In fact, they would see the photographs of the very young girl looking scared and bemused, not to mention bruised, after Andy had finished with her. Andrew had been stunned at the threat. How could anyone have found out? Why couldn’t they have held the Partners’ conference somewhere else, somewhere where young girls weren’t offered to you for sale as if they were a fake Rolex?

  Andrew had been so caught up in his own misery that he had not noticed the stir in the office. The senior equity partner on the floor was being hemmed in by staff, and eventually he gave in and picked up the phone.

  Andrew walked over to see what was happening. The senior partner said into the phone, “It’s true then? …… All right. Thank you. I’ll let my people know.” He replaced the receiver, clearly shaken. Eventually he looked at the expectant faces and addressed the office.

  “Please listen, everyone. It seems that the rumours are true. The ‘Twittering’ is accurate, for once. Sir Max Rochester collapsed and died at Blacksmiths Hall an hour ago.” There was an audible gasp. Sir Max was this group’s largest client.

  Andrew wandered back to his desk in a haze. “It has to be a coincidence, it can’t be true,” he said to himself. Then he looked at his watch. Sir Max’s forty eight hours had expired four minutes ago.

 

  Chapter 12

  Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. Thursday, 8pm.

  Dee turned the laptop around so that I could see the screen. My bank account looked healthier than ever before. I had over two hundred and fifty two thousand pounds sitting in my current account.

  “OK, Josh, it’s all there. Now we just wait for instructions. I guess he’ll text something in the morning, just to make sure that you’re going ahead with it.”

  Dee was right. With sixteen hours to go we were ready, but I doubted whether Bob would call. He seemed to want to create as much anxiety as possible. He would probably wait until just before noon to contact me and then make me jump through hoops to transfer the money.

  I was still considering how I would react to giving away a quarter of a million pounds when my cell phone rang. ‘Unknown Number’ showed up on the screen. We had placed my BlackBerry on a small unit provided by the police which looked rather like an iPod charger with speakers. I pressed the button to answer, and the red light flashed as the unit began a digital recording. I leaned over the unit and spoke into the microphone slot.

  “Hello?” There was silence for several long seconds and I thought that Bob was teasing me, unless he guessed somehow that the call was being recorded.

  “Josh, I’m sorry.” Andrew Cuthbertson’s voice was cracked and faltering. “My life is over, Josh. I’ve lost everything. Tomorrow everything will come out and I’ll be ruined.” He was rambling, but I said nothing.

  “I did give your details away, you were right, but I was being blackmailed too. You have to believe me. He had me over a barrel, Josh.” There was a pause as he sobbed; the man was on the verge of a breakdown. “I need to see you, to tell you the whole story. Tomorrow morning, early, before everything hits the fan.”

  “OK, Andrew, just stay calm,” I said. “Who is this Bob, anyway? Do you have any idea?”

  “That’s just one of his names, and none of them are his real name. I can’t tell you over the phone. I need to see you in person, to explain.”

  “All right, Andrew. Get a good night’s rest and we’ll see if we can sort this out tomorrow. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Let’s meet at the pedestrian footbridge at Butler’s Wharf, next to the Chop House Restaurant. It should be deserted there at seven tomorrow morning.”

  “I can do that, Andrew,” I assured him. “I’ll take one of the riverboats, but it might be a few minutes after seven when I get there.”

  “I understand, but try not to be too late. I’ll be waiting. Thanks, Josh.” He hung up, leaving me wondering just what my friend had got himself mixed up in.

 

  Chapter 13

  Butlers Wharf, Tower Bridge, London. Friday, 6:45am.

  Alarmed by Andrew Cuthbertson’s phone call last night, and by his sudden show of conscience, Bob kept watch over the former warehouses which now housed modern apartments set around an ornamental Japanese Garden. The sun was up and the ducks on the pond were making a racket. Bob was amazed that people would pay upwards of three hundred and fifty grand for a two bedroomed apartment in an old warehouse in what used to be a rough area of London.

  The complex was security gated, entry by a key fob, and so Bob stood out of sight of the pedestrian entrance gate in one of the narrow passages that still led to the waterside. He was very disappointed with Andrew. No matter how much he threatened, Andrew refused to meet him to discuss the situation. Bob had felt sure that another look at the photos of the pathetic pre-pubescent Thai girl would bring the young accountant back into line. He was wrong. Andrew had made it clear that it was too late for that, and so Bob had been waiting outside the Cuthbertsons’ apartment for an hour.

  ***

  Andrew hadn’t slept a wink. He had decided to tell his wife everything when he arrived home, so that the blackmail threats would be useless, but as soon as he saw his perfect wife, Charlotte, and their daughter Zoe, he knew he couldn’t do it. They would find out soon enough, and then he would try to explain, if they gave him the chance.

  After a quick shower in the family bathroom, so as not to disturb Charlotte, he d
ressed and let himself out of the ground floor flat quietly. Not that any noise he made would be heard over the ducks. One of the attractions of the flat, in addition to the security, was the fact that the buildings were grouped around a quadrangle which sported oriental gardens and small ornamental bridges over manmade ponds. His apartment had a wooden deck beyond the patio doors, where they could sit and eat in the warm weather. In the winter the ducks would come and peck on the patio doors, brazenly looking for food. Their comic antics always entertained Zoe. Andrew imagined the scene and smiled through his sadness.

  The accountant exited the security gate and walked across the lane to the wooden ramp that led onto the wharf. In ten minutes the story would be told and Josh would be safe.

  Andrew walked through the brick tunnel and emerged into the bright early morning sunshine as Tower Bridge came into view. Ahead of him stood a modern, stylised stainless steel pedestrian bridge with steel grating walkway. It was no longer than five metres because the only thing it spanned was an old disused unloading bay. The small pool underneath the bridge was flooded by the Thames at high tide, but now it was just a muddy quagmire with the occasional wave lapping in.

  A few yards away a wooden jetty ran out into the Thames to accommodate the river taxis and tourist boats. It was still deserted. The first boat of the morning had not yet arrived. A light mist hovered low over the surface of the water, already dissipating in the morning air. The scene was bathed in the golden light of the late summer sunrise, and the few trees in the area were already beginning to show the first hint of autumn in the yellowing leaves, but the air was fresh and cool and the rays of the sun cast long shadows across his path.

  Andrew was entirely alone apart from a grey squirrel which was hunting around for food, and a jogger who was moving at a pace that could easily have been exceeded by most people walking briskly. Why do they do it, he asked himself. Run or walk, but that slow jog is pathetic.

  The jogger was dressed in a grey fleece training suit, his hood up against the cool river breeze. He stopped a few yards away from Andrew and did some hamstring and calf stretches, using the railings for support. Andrew leaned against the handrail to make room for the jogger on the narrow bridge. The jogger reached the small bridge and the accountant felt it move with the extra weight of the new occupant. The jogger was moving towards him, fists shadow boxing the air.

  “Loony,” thought Andrew, and looked away to avoid eye contact. The jogger stopped directly behind him. Andy could feel his presence and turned around to tell him to clear off. When he saw the face beneath the hood, he froze.

  ***

  Bob saw the shock on Andrew’s face and took his opportunity. A leather sap, or cosh, filled with lead pellets swung up and caught the young accountant directly under the chin. Bob saw the young man’s eyes roll back into his head and his body go limp. He knew he didn’t have long. Having scoured the wharf for signs of life a minute earlier as he’d feigned stretching, he knew they were alone. Taking the weight of Andrew’s body, he leaned him against the railing and tipped him over.

  The young accountant toppled face down into the muddy quagmire as Bob looked on. After a few seconds Andrew shuddered and began to come round. Thrashing wildly, he could do no more than pull himself deeper into the mud; his manic efforts to save himself did not last long, and after a few moments one had to look hard to see a body at all.

  Bob looked up as a maritime horn sounded. The first Thames Clipper of the day was approaching. He turned his back and walked away in the direction he had come from, as though nothing at all had happened.

 

  Chapter 14

  Butlers Wharf, Tower Bridge, London. 7:05am.

  We picked up the Thames Clipper at Greenwich at five minutes to seven, and the high speed catamaran skimmed along the Thames at the speed limit for less than ten minutes before we reached our destination. On those occasions when I took the glass sided Clippers, with their spectacular views of the bridges and the city, I always promised myself that I would use them more often and abandon the overcrowded Tube. On a morning like this, with a clear blue sky and just a light breeze, it seemed especially appealing.

  We alighted at Tower Bridge and I looked around in the early morning sunshine, searching for Andrew.

  Dee hadn’t been to this area of London before and was surprised at how upmarket it had all become. Two of London’s most popular restaurants were within a stone’s throw of where we stood. We walked along the South Bank in the direction of Butler’s Wharf and the stylish post-modern pedestrian bridge. There was no sign of Andrew, but it was only just after seven, so we agreed to give him until seven fifteen before calling him.

  We stood on the bridge for a while, taking in the fresh air and just talking. I explained how the Shad Thames area had turned from a derelict warehouse district into a thriving community occupied by aspirational professionals. As I looked around, I noticed that many of the businesses and buildings which we could see housed companies which were in our company insurance portfolio.

  Dee was becoming concerned, and suggested that we call Andrew. By now it was almost seven fifteen. I called Andrew’s number up on my list of most recently called numbers and pressed the green telephone symbol.

  Almost immediately I heard a sound like an old fashioned telephone bell. Assuming that Andy must be somewhere close by, I looked around for him but couldn’t see him. Dee looked around, too, clearly as puzzled as I was. The ringing stopped and my call went to voice mail. It was definitely his phone which we had heard ringing.

  I rang the number again and we listened carefully. The tone seemed to be coming from underneath the bridge. Dee looked through the steel grating that formed the walkway and saw the phone lighting up with each ring. She caught her breath and pointed at it. I rang off and, kneeling down, I looked more closely. The phone was lying on debris at the bridge parapet, just inches away from the muddy water which was splashing around down there. Dee held my jacket as I climbed over the guard rails and stood on the exposed muddy bank. I had to hold onto the bridge to avoid slipping into the quicksand-like mud in the basin. I picked up the mobile phone from amongst the stones. It was dirty but it appeared largely undamaged. I was checking that it was still working when another Thames Clipper passed about fifteen metres away and the wash pushed river water into the basin, washing over my feet and soaking my socks and shoes. I swore loudly. Then I thought I saw something in the muddy morass.

  As the river water washed over the mud I was sure I saw a face appear just below the surface, but then the water withdrew like a receding wave and the face was gone. I was convinced that I must have imagined it, until I noticed the toe of a brown shoe breaking the surface of the mud just a few metres away. I didn’t want to believe what I knew must be true.

  I climbed back onto the bridge and told Dee what I had seen. She looked into my eyes.

  “Is it Andrew?” she asked.

  “I hope not, but it does seem to be rather too much of a coincidence,” I replied, feeling a depth of sadness that surprised me.

  Dee dialled the number for Inspector Boniface and twenty minutes later we heard the River Police boat approaching, sirens blaring.

  ***

  An hour later the body had been recovered from the mud before the tide could come in and sweep it away. I unofficially confirmed it was Andrew, and Dee nodded her agreement as I spoke. The official identification would be done by Charlotte later, after the body had been cleaned and a cause of death had been established.

  Dee and I were sitting in a police transporter with Inspector Boniface.

  “Josh, this is outside my jurisdiction, it’s a job for the Met boys, so be wary. Remember, you have a motive and also opportunity, so you are bound to be questioned.”

  “I have Dee as an alibi,” I responded, feeling mildly annoyed that anyone would consider me a suspect in Andrew’s death.

  “I understand that, Josh, but...” he looked at Dee. “....Ms Conrad was heard threatening Andre
w less than twenty four hours ago. I’m just warning you both to be prepared for some hard questioning. Now, I’m going to take you both back to the City Police HQ. I’ve told the investigating officer that you are crucial witnesses to a blackmail plot and potentially two murders.”

  “Two murders?” Dee looked puzzled.

  “Yes. When the Scene of Crimes Officers looked at Sir Max Rochester’s phone last night they discovered a number of texts.” I guessed what was coming, but I let the Inspector continue unabated. “The upshot of it is that he, too, had been given forty eight hours to deliver a rather larger sum than yours, and he refused to play ball. He died within a few minutes of the deadline expiring.”

  “My God, this man is serious about killing his victims!” Dee Conrad seemed surprised, but I wasn’t. I fully expected to die if I didn’t pay. Otherwise why would I shell out a quarter of a million pounds?

  “Obviously this is a working theory at the moment because the death looks like natural causes, possibly a heart attack, but hopefully a toxicology report will provide some answers.” Boniface paused for the inevitable question. I asked it.

  “Is it possible for someone to induce a heart attack, then?”

  “The short answer is yes. It doesn’t strictly cause a coronary infarction but you can interfere with heart function with a sufficient dose of potassium chloride. They use it as one of the components for chemical executions, more politely referred to as lethal injections in the USA. Anyone who knew that Sir Max had heart problems could reasonably assume that a large dose of potassium chloride would be enough to kill him.”