48 Hours - A City of London Thriller

by J Jackson Bentley

  “Does it have to be injected?” Dee asked.

  “No, but it’s colourless, and in a strong drink such as whisky it would be almost undetectable. Another reason for suspicion is that by the time the paramedics arrived on the scene, Sir Max’s whisky glass had disappeared from the table.”

  “So it was murder,” I concluded.

  “We may never get to prove that, Josh. It’s touch and go at the moment.”

  “But what about toxicology? Won’t that find the chemicals in the body?” I couldn’t believe that the team in CSI Miami wouldn’t have known with certainty it was murder. Boniface had an answer for that, too.

  “The trouble is, Josh, that when someone has a heart attack the levels of potassium are often raised in the body immediately afterwards. It’s a natural chemical reaction, caused by an enzyme being released into the bloodstream. So, higher levels of potassium may not be conclusive evidence of murder.”

  “And what about Andrew Cuthbertson? Are the police treating his death as suspicious?” Dee asked.

  “Suspicious, yes, but for the moment it looks like either an accident of some sort or a suicide, and if it wasn’t - well, you two will be considered prime candidates for interview.”

  Strangely enough I really could imagine Andrew ending it all after hearing his frantic call last night, but who would commit suicide by jumping ten feet into mud? No-one.

  We were suddenly interrupted by Andrew’s phone ringing. Boniface lifted the phone from the clear plastic evidence bag using a latex gloved hand. By the time he got it free of its container it had stopped ringing. The screen announced a missed call from Work. While he had the phone in his hand Boniface scrolled down the recent calls list. The last call was to a person listed as LH. The call had been made late last night, after he had called me.

  “LH. That could be the blackmailer.” I realised that I sounded a little desperate. Boniface lifted the phone to his ear after dialling the last number called. The phone rang out without an answer and went to an anonymous woman who asked us to leave a message after the tone.

  “I’ll get a trace on that number straight away. Maybe LH, or Bob, has made his first mistake.” Boniface stepped out of the van, holding his own phone to his ear and speaking urgently.

  ***

  Bob felt the phone vibrate in his pocket as he stepped onto Beech Street and headed back to his hotel. He knew who was calling. That cheap Nokia was reserved exclusively for speaking to Cuthbertson, and he was dead. The police had probably found his phone. Bob switched the phone off, and for the second time in twenty four hours he dismantled and discarded a cell phone.

 

  Chapter 15

  City of London Police HQ, Wood St, London. Friday, 9:30am.

  The old fashioned office carried the vague aroma of lavender furniture polish. Obviously the cleaners had been in. I let my gaze wander around the office walls. There was a good deal about the Force on view, but very little about the man. A single certificate hung on the wall behind the desk. It appeared that Inspector Boniface had completed a course with NYPD on counter terrorism in urban environments. I wondered idly whether it was a serious course or whether it had been something of a jolly.

  The door opened and Boniface walked in. “Well, we have some news, but it’s not particularly good, I’m afraid,” he stated. “The phone I was calling for LH has been switched off, probably permanently. However, as your threat comes from Bob and Sir Max was threatened by Bob, too, I think we can assume that LH might be the blackmailer’s real initials. Also, it appears that our late friend Mr Cuthbertson was being blackmailed as well. This is the text of an email sent to Andrew by LH.” Boniface laid a sheet of paper on the desk. It read:

  Andrew,

  The information on our first female client is late. Hope you aren’t getting cold feet. Don’t know what the wife would say about the little Thai girl. Was she much older than your daughter? Send the info, don’t be a martyr.

  LH

  I knew that Andrew had been in Bangkok at a partners’ conference some months before and told Boniface about it. He already knew. I guess we were both thinking the same thing; the photo must have been pretty bad to have worried Andy enough to become drawn into a murderous blackmail plot.

  “Josh, Dee. We are not making sufficient progress in identifying Bob to say with any certainty that you would be safe if you didn’t pay the money.” Boniface left the decision on whether to pay up or not to me, in the full knowledge that official police policy was always to refuse to pay blackmail demands.

  Dee spoke to me directly. “Bob hasn’t sent you the bank details yet. Maybe he’s running scared after the Andrew Cuthbertson debacle.” She didn’t sound very convincing, even to herself.

  We sat in silence for a moment and then discussed the arrangements for the bank transfer, should it be necessary. The money would be transferred from my account, temporarily, to an account held by the Serious Financial Crimes team. They would then send the money electronically to the bank account Bob nominated. The transfer file accompanying the money would have an invisible electronic tag which carried a code, alerting the bank and overseas law enforcement agencies that this was a tracked payment and that the tag must be left in place for subsequent transfers or transactions. Apparently the major banks have an arrangement with the law enforcement authorities that precludes them from notifying their customer that the money is being tracked.

  Now it was simply a question of waiting.

  ***

  Bob had showered and shaved. He felt refreshed after the morning’s tribulations. He was back on track. His clothes from his morning jaunt were with the hotel laundry and, when returned, would be donated to the Salvation Army. There was no point in taking any unnecessary risks.

  Bob looked at his Breitling watch and read the time as ten thirty. Time for a couple of calls, he decided. He took the phone labelled with the name Josh, inserted the battery and switched it on. He dialled the last number called. The phone rang out for a moment and a man picked it up.

  “Abasi Nour speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hello Abasi, this is Josh Hammond. Are we still OK for twelve noon?” Bob’s voice was higher than normal and had the dialect most associated with the East End of London. Bob was rightly proud of his range of dialects.

  “Mr Josh, yes, I am ready. The goods are here.” The Egyptian paused for a moment. “I will confirm that this is a private transaction, between two men of honour?”

  Bob replied and confirmed that he would pay the money directly into Mr Nour’s personal bank account and not into the business account. The merchant gave Bob his bank account details and wished him well until they met at noon.

  ***

  It was almost half past eleven when Josh’s phone buzzed with a text message. The phone was back on the docking station that the police were using to trace the caller. Josh, Dee and Inspector Boniface peered at the small screen.

  “Hi Josh,

  Just an half an hour to go until payment is due or...... well we won’t go into that. Here are the details of my bank account. If I don’t hear that my account has been credited by noon the deal is off. By the way, make sure that your money is labelled as coming from you. There is a lot of activity in my account and I wouldn’t want to miss your payment.

  Bob.”

  Boniface was reading the bank account number from the screen and repeating the numbers and the sort code to someone on the other end of the telephone line.

  “Right, Josh, your money will be there in five minutes. As soon as we receive the electronic receipt we’ll trace the account holder and start tracking the money. My guess is that it will bounce around the world for a few hours and settle In Grand Cayman or Switzerland overnight.”

  Boniface seemed confident that the money could not escape the police net. I was not so sure. It seemed to me that Bob had been a step ahead of us all along, and whilst I didn’t know how it could be done, I suspected that Bob had found a way of transferring
the money - my money - without leaving a trail. I had an uncomfortable feeling that I would not be getting it back.

 

  Chapter 16

  Nour Jewellery Design, Hatton Garden, London. Friday, 11:50am.

  The shop was small but beautifully furnished. It had the appearance of a consulting room as there were no gems on display, but each of the two magnificent carved walnut desks carried a brochure showing exquisite jewellery. Abasi Nour was a neat Egyptian man with a pencil moustache and a linen suit which was unsuited to the weather. He rose from his chair as Bob entered the shop, having been buzzed in through the security door.

  “Mr Josh, how nice to see you again,” the shop owner said cheerily as he greeted the tall moustached man with the unconvincing toupee. His own hair was dyed jet black and carefully styled to cover his whole head.

  The two men sat down and Bob handed over his business card. It read “Josh Hammond, Senior Loss Analyst.”

  “Mr Nour, as you know this first transaction....”

  Mr Nour held up his hand to stop Bob speaking. “Halima, could you leave us please?” The spectacularly attractive olive skinned girl at the other desk rose, smiled and exited through the door at the back of the shop.

  “Sorry, Mr Josh, but we cannot be too careful. Now, you were saying.”

  “Mr Nour, this is the first bonus payment of the year. There is another due later in the year, which will be a little larger, I hope. And I would like to do the same again if this transaction is beneficial.”

  “Yes, indeed, London City bonuses are both legendary and generous to humble merchants like myself.”

  “Shall we get on?” Bob prompted. “The money has been transferred.”

  “Yes, sir, I will just confirm.” The Egyptian pressed a button on his phone and waited. After a moment he spoke a few sentences in Arabic before switching to English. “Asif, I am so distressed to disturb you on this special day but can you confirm that the funds are cleared to my account as agreed?” He listened to the reply for a moment and then bade his bank manager farewell in Arabic.

  “My bank manager is sitting at home with his laptop and has confirmed payment, so we may now proceed.”

  Abasi Noor opened a secret drawer in his desk by sliding back an intricately carved panel. He reached in a brought out a velvet pouch.

  “As you requested, I have purchased only the very best round diamonds from Antwerp. These are all classified as colourless category D, or what we call best blue white. They are also internally flawless, they are extraordinarily rare. They have been cut for maximum brilliance, not for maximum carat size. But as you will see they are all large diamonds. You may not know that a diamond that is twice the size of another is usually almost three times more expensive. Please, take a look.”

  Even under the harsh fluorescent lighting the diamonds looked magnificent. Bob had acquired them to sell on, but he was reconsidering now that he had been besotted by their beauty.

  “I have the invoice from Antwerp. Losi Van Serck cut these diamonds personally as a favour to me and the certificate attached to the invoice shows the quality, cut and carat.”

  Bob looked at the invoice made out to Mr Nour. The Egyptian had paid two hundred and twenty five thousand pounds for the jewels, making an easy mark up. Usually he would have to integrate the diamonds into a unique designer gold necklace to achieve a mark up like that. But Bob was happy. These diamonds could be transported anywhere in the world and were ready to be traded.

  A few minutes later Bob was walking along Greville Street in the direction of the Farringdon Tube Station, sending the last text on the “Josh Phone” before discarding it. After a short tube journey to Kings Cross, where he removed the glasses, moustache, hairpiece and garish City boy’s tie in the gentlemen’s toilets, Bob hailed a taxi and headed back to his hotel for a celebratory lunch.

 

  Chapter 17

  City of London Police HQ, Wood St, London. Friday, Noon.

  Dee was chatting and joking to try to distract me, but it wasn’t working. It had been over half an hour since the money was transmitted, and all we had seen or heard was Boniface taking an urgent call. He had yelled “How did that happen?” and stormed out of the office without another word.

  I had a horrible feeling that my money was gone forever. My phone was still in the dock and it buzzed again. I read the message aloud.

  “Thanks Josh,

  That was easy. Perhaps I didn’t ask for enough. Next time I’ll be more realistic. You’ll be hearing from me again.

  Bob”

  I put my head in my hands. Dee put her hand on my back.

  “He’s winding you up, Josh, now that he’s got what he wanted. In any case, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s apprehended over the weekend. This is a murder investigation now.”

  What Dee said made sense, but I wasn’t convinced. I was still pondering her remark when Boniface appeared, his face like thunder. He spoke calmly despite his agitated appearance.

  “Josh, first of all let me assure you that your money is safe. We are tracking it, but we have a problem. The account we sent your money to is held at the Sharia Islamic Bank of Arabia close to Regents Park. Unfortunately we can’t raise them on the telephone to find out the customer’s details because it’s Friday and the Bank is closed for the Muslim weekend. It’s also Ramadan, and so getting hold of people at home is going to be tricky, as the London Central Mosque has a variety of activities going on today.”

  I wondered whether Bob had done this deliberately, or whether he was just a lucky son of a bitch.

  The day meandered on at a snail’s pace. The police were as frustrated as I was. Bob was still their best suspect for a double murder, after all. Tracking my money seemed the best way to track the man. The IT guys had pinged his mobile phone several times without success. I had a sneaking feeling that we would find it in the hands of a homeless man sometime next week.

  The good thing was that the money had not moved and so, theoretically, I still had my quarter of a million pounds. It was almost two o’clock when Inspector Boniface’s phone rang again. Before the caller was put through, Boniface put the call on conference and began recording it. He held his finger to his lips as an instruction to us to keep quiet.

  “Inspector Boniface speaking. How can I help you?”

  “Hello, my name is Asif Al Maheel. I am the manager of the Regents Park Branch of the Sharia Islamic Bank of Arabia. You have been leaving messages for me.”

  “Thanks for calling back, Mr Al Maheel. First of all, let me apologise for interrupting your weekend. I wouldn’t have done so if this was not an urgent matter. If it is at all possible I need you to go to the bank and check whose account had two hundred and fifty thousand pounds paid into it at noon today.”

  “Oh, I don’t need to go to the bank for that information; I was expecting a payment of that amount by noon today from a Mr Josh Hammond. It arrived on time and I called my customer to inform him so. But I am afraid I cannot disclose his details without a very good reason, or maybe a warrant. I would have to speak to our legal department on Sunday.”

  “Mr Al Maheel, we don’t have time to wait until Sunday, I’m afraid. We are hot on the trail of a double murderer, and your customer may be in danger.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. “Inspector, please, I hope you are being honest with me. In good faith I will give you his name, but on the condition you do not involve the bank.”

  “I can assure you, we just want to speak to your customer. We are happy that the bank is not involved.”

  The speakerphone chirped again.

  “My customer, and my friend, is the owner of Nour Jewellery Design of Hatton Garden.”

  “Will he be at his premises today? I believe it is the Sabbath?”

  “Oh, yes. Abasi is not the good Muslim that he might be. Please call me if you have any problems. I am at your service, Inspector. Goodbye.”

  ***

&
nbsp; As we waited on the pavement for a car to pick us up, Dee took me to one side. Her hazel eyes were bright with intent. Her face was perfect. Dee was probably in her early thirties. Her hair always shone. She had a pert nose and a generous mouth beneath it. Her make-up was generally understated, but great cheekbones made cosmetics redundant. I had never really met a woman like her before. No more than five feet eight inches tall, she looked elegant and well proportioned, but I had been assured that in a fight she could take out men twice her size.

  “Josh, theoretically my assignment is over but I want you to know that I’m going nowhere until I think you’re safe. Are you comfortable with that?” I nodded dumbly. I could have kissed her, but then again I had felt like kissing her since we’d met.

  An unmarked car pulled up and Boniface slid in beside the driver, leaving Dee and I to take the back seat. As soon as the doors were closed we moved off at speed towards the Barbican. The driver could easily have been a cabbie; he knew all the shortcuts. We drove down Long Lane before cutting up onto Charterhouse, avoiding the one way system. A minute later we were skirting around St Etheldreda’s Church and onto Hatton Garden. About half way up on the right hand side we found ‘Nour Jewellery Design’.

  We left the car and walked towards the shop. Unlike every other shop in Hatton Garden, which is famous throughout the world for its wall to wall jewellery stores, Nour had no jewellery on display, just large decals showing the most lavish pieces I have ever seen. The writing on the windows made it clear that Nour would procure the best diamonds and finest gold for you and then fashion them into unique works of art that you could wear.

  Boniface pressed a button on the wall and held his warrant card against the glass. The door buzzed and he pushed it open. We followed him in. A stunning olive skinned girl sat at the desk facing us.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. The accent was more East End than Middle East. Boniface asked for Mr Nour and the girl slipped her long perfectly manicured fingers under the edge of the desk, almost invisibly. A moment later Mr Nour opened the door at the back of the shop. He beamed in anticipation of doing business with wealthy customers.