“Is that Mr Hammond of Dyson Brecht?”
“Yes it is, Mr Hickstead.”
Chapter 24
Peppers Restaurant, Woolwich. London. Friday 9:30pm.
Once I had explained how I had first encountered Arthur Hickstead, the others acknowledged that it was probably enough to provide him with a motive for a blackmail attempt, especially as the amount of money he had lost was exactly the same amount that the blackmailer had demanded from me. However, the others did not see his arrest as imminent. I suggested that, had the blackmailer been an unemployed bus driver, he would have been on his way to the police station by now with his hands manacled behind his back. No-one disagreed, but they patiently explained that they had a long way to go before Bob could be taken before a court.
We had no actual evidence that he was the one blackmailing me. It was merely supposition. There was no physical evidence at all linking him to Andrew’s death or that of Sir Max.
What we did have, in my view, was some convincing circumstantial evidence. I reviewed the evidence with Dee over the table at Peppers Restaurant, one of the most underrated and overlooked eateries in London. We had already ordered and we were sipping a nice 2008 South African Merlot, a fruity red wine from the Western Provinces.
I ran through what we had on Arthur Hickstead.
“His Lordship is on the board at AGP; he knew Andrew well, he knew Sir Max very well. There were text messages on their phones showing that they were being blackmailed. One of those messages was from someone Andrew referred to as LH, which has to be Lord Hickstead.
Lord Hickstead was in Thailand at the same time as Andrew, and could certainly have known about the Thai girl. Thailand was also the home of the domain name 48hours.co.za.
Lord Hickstead was six feet away from Sir Max when he died, probably from poisoning, and he wears the same type of rare watch that we know the blackmailer wears.
Two people can identify him, Abasi Nour and that soccer thug guy who met him in South Africa.
If we were to raid his home, all we’d need to do is find the diamonds or one of the cell phones, or even a credit card receipt for those phones, and we’d have him cold.”
Dee smiled and reached across the table. Taking my hand, she held it in both of hers and I suddenly realised what beautiful hands she had. They were pale and smooth. They were perfectly manicured, nails short and polished with a clear varnish.
“Josh, I love your enthusiasm, and I love listening to your heartfelt views, but we have to be realistic. Lord Hickstead was a leading trade unionist and an associate of the former Prime Minister. He was an EU Commissioner and he has been ennobled in the outgoing PM’s resignation list. My guess is that he will still be welcome in Number 10 even under the new regime.” She paused as the first course arrived at the table.
“If we’re going to take him down - and we will - it will take cast iron proof.”
Dee lifted her fork and buried the prongs into her Caesar Salad. My goodness, I thought, she really is gorgeous. I froze for a moment when she looked up at me. I wondered if I had inadvertently said the words out loud, but she simply asked me why I wasn’t eating my French Onion Soup. “Too hot,” I said, covering for my embarrassment.
The meal was terrific. We both had hot roast red snapper with coconut, chilli and lime salsa, cooked in the Caribbean style. I had grown accustomed to being single, with just the occasional girlfriend, but I now appreciated how good it would be to have a permanent partner; someone I could share every day with. Someone, maybe, just like her.
We were still laughing and talking after the last customer left, and we were alone with Vincent, the owner. I called him over and paid the bill.
“You’re good for him,” he said to Dee. “Josh is a good customer but we’re getting tired of him taking a whole table to himself when we could have two covers.”
We laughed and stepped out into the hot and sticky night air, heading for my flat.
***
I spent the pleasant walk home pondering on our relationship, if indeed there was one. Would tonight be the night to make a move? I needn’t have troubled myself because others made the decision for me.
As we approached the flat Dee interlocked my arm. She spoke quietly.
“Josh, just chat to me casually as we walk. I want to take a good look at the car on the left had side of the road.”
A dark coloured saloon was parked in a resident only parking space and had two occupants, both of whom I could see quite clearly. As we came closer Dee spoke again. Her voice was quiet but urgent.
“Get ready to run on my say so. Get into the house and call the police. I’ll handle these two.”
As we drew level with the car, the driver’s side door opened. Dee stood in front of me and faced down the driver. He looked puzzled for a moment and then flashed a warrant card. He spoke directly to me.
“Metropolitan Police. We would like you to join us at the police station. We have questions about a suspicious death you may be able to assist with.”
“Am I under arrest?” I asked.
“No, but that would be the next step if you refuse to accompany us to Southwark Police Station.”
Dee and I conferred, with our backs to the officers, and decided to go along with them, after making a phone call.
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Dee asked. “It’s been a long day.”
“Obviously not,” the plain clothes policeman responded. “But that isn’t my decision.”
Toby picked up the phone as soon as it rang; there was music and jollity in the background.
“Josh, I’ve heard you made good progress today.”
“Not that good, Toby. I’m being taken to Southwark Police Station to be interviewed in relation to Andrew’s death.”
“Right,” Toby said, taking immediate control of the situation. “Don’t say anything, either in the car or at the station. I’ll get a lawyer to meet you there as soon as possible.”
Chapter 25
Southwark Police Station, Borough Rd. London.
Saturday 12:20am.
The Metropolitan Police accommodations were not as quaint as the London City Police Station in Wood Street. The room we were waiting in had bare plastered walls with some kind of shiny paint that may have been blue at some time but which now looked faded and grey.
The furniture, however, was new and the chairs were comfortable and brightly upholstered in a wine coloured fabric. The desk and chairs were probably chipboard but they were faced with the blonde wood so beloved of offices everywhere.
The lighting was provided by a number of spotlights on two tracks on the high ceiling. The odour was provided by an over-zealous cleaner who had obviously disinfected the room before our arrival.
Dee gripped my hand under the table and smiled at me. She had made me agree that I wouldn’t say a word until my lawyer arrived. I accepted her advice, which was timely because I soon spotted the CCTV camera in the corner and I had no doubt that the room was wired for sound.
We had been cautioned in the car and we were warned that anything we said could be written down and used later, and that if we chose not to answer questions our silence could be considered by a court in deciding our guilt or innocence.
I asserted my right to representation and explained that I had already let someone know where we were. So, now we were waiting for our lawyer to arrive.
We had been in the room about twenty minutes when the door opened and Inspector Boniface stepped inside.
“Josh, Dee, I’m sorry about this. I had my chief petition the Met’s Superintendant in Charge but they wouldn’t give way. They wouldn’t even hold off until Monday. So, my advice is to tell the truth and get out of here as soon as you can, and come and see me Monday.”
He crossed to the door, squeezing my shoulder as he went, and made a beckoning gesture. Just before the beckoned person arrived at the door Boniface smiled at me and said, “Look who I found lurking in the corrido
r.”
A man of around forty in a Savile Row suit and a silk tie that cost more than any of my suits entered our little room. The last time I had seen him he had been wearing white sports kit and he was thrashing me at squash.
“Colin, I never expected to see you.” Boniface closed the door as Colin and I hugged; a manly hug, admittedly, but a hug nonetheless. I turned to Dee.
“Dee, meet Colin Penworthy, senior partner at Kellaways.” Dee shook hands with my close friend and squash partner, a man who had famously represented an errant member of the Royal Family against her creditors.
“Colin, I thought you were civil cases only, or I would have called you myself.”
“Josh, Toby sends his regards. I was at his house partying when I got the call. Luckily I’d gone their straight from work, hence the togs. Anyway, if you both agree I will represent the two of you.” We gave our assent.
Colin turned to the CCTV camera and said, “Can I see the officer in charge, please?” Within a minute an untidy man in his late forties appeared and introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Terry Coombes. He had short hair which was a mixture of dark and grey, and carried a little extra weight than might have been advisable for his height, which was similar to mine. He wore a suit which looked as though he might have slept in it, although his white shirt was crisp and his tie probably silk. A man not to mess with, I concluded.
Colin rose and shook his hand. “I need a few minutes with my two clients and, as the conversations are privileged, I expect the camera and audio to be switched off, is that clear?”
“Yes, I’ll see to it,” the policeman answered, in a rather surly manner. He departed, closing the door with an ominous click.
***
For the next ten minutes we explained exactly what had happened in relation to Andrew and his part in the blackmail plot. Now Dee was in another room and I was sitting with Colin, opposite Detective Chief Inspector Coombes and a Detective Sergeant Scott. A digital machine nearby was recording our conversation. The DCI introduced us all, stated the time and asked if I was happy that I had been properly cautioned. I accepted that I had been, twice.
I was asked to explain the events surrounding Andrew’s demise, beginning at my visit to his office on Thursday afternoon. As I ran through the story, DS Scott scribbled wildly on a writing pad.
“Mr Hammond, let me be clear here. We don’t want any misunderstandings.” He said the last part looking at my lawyer. “The initial examination of Mr Cuthbertson shows that his lower mandible is broken. It is likely that the blow that inflicted this damage also rendered the victim unconscious as there are signs of a serious concussion in the brain pan. The forensic scientists suggest that, having been rendered unconscious, probably by someone he knew – no defensive marks present – he was pushed over the railing, falling face down in the mud. The marks and abrasions on his back are consistent with the joining piece on the bridge hand rail. Do you have any comment on that, Mr Hammond?”
I was about to answer when Colin gripped my knee under the table.
“Mr Hammond obviously does not want to speculate on the manner of Mr Cuthbertson’s death, as he was not present, but I am sure that for the purposes of this interview he will accept the scientific evidence of how events unfolded.”
I nodded at the appropriate time.
“Thank you,” the DCI said without meaning it. “We are of the opinion that to break a man’s jaw would take a significant blow from a fit man of at least medium height. In fact, Mr Hammond, a man not unlike you. Could I see your hands, please?”
At Colin’s nod I showed my hands palm up. Coombes turned them over to examine my knuckles. The policeman looked closely and set my hands down, thanking me.
“Let the recording show that my client Mr Hammond’s hands displayed no signs of injury, damage or abrasion when examined some seventeen hours after the death of Mr Cuthbertson.” Colin smiled and the policemen scowled.
“Mr Hammond, it is also possible that someone trained in unarmed combat might also be capable of causing such an injury, even a woman. You had Ms Delia Conrad with you when you met Mr Cuthbertson this morning, didn’t you?”
“First of all, Mr Cuthbertson was dead by the time we arrived at the bridge, and secondly Ms Conrad and I were together the whole time and I can assure you that neither of us caused anyone any harm. She will confirm that.”
The DCI spoke whilst looking down at a file in a brown manila folder.
“This is not the first time Ms Conrad has appeared in this station for questioning about an assault on a man.” He looked up to gauge my reaction, and I suppose I registered surprise. Colin interjected.
“Josh, you will recall that the Detective explained that she had been ‘questioned’, not arrested or charged. It would be unusual for a close protection officer to go through her entire career without having to restrain someone. What was the exact outcome in the instance you are referring to, Chief Inspector?”
“I don’t know,” he answered sullenly. “It wasn’t my case.” He closed the file. “I think that will be enough for now, unless you have any comments.”
“You do realise that I have been working closely with the Police in trying to apprehend a blackmailer and possible murderer?” I pointed out.
“Yes, I do realise that. In fact, it’s the acrimony between yourself and Mr Cuthbertson, relating to his alleged betrayal of you, which gives you a motive for his manslaughter or murder. My own feeling is that someone got angry enough with Mr Cuthbertson to punch him so hard they knocked him out, and in their anger they tipped him into the river to teach him a lesson. Perhaps they had no intention of killing him. It may even have been self-defence. A confession at this stage would almost certainly be looked upon favourably when deciding on charges.”
Colin spoke for me. “Thank you Chief Inspector. If we happen to find the killer before you do we will be sure to mention those options to him or her.” Coombes muttered something under his breath.
With that my interview ended and I left the room, to be replaced with Dee, or more correctly, Delia. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her full name.
***
I waited in the corridor for the interview to conclude. I desperately wanted to be in there protecting her, making sure she was comfortable, and then I remembered that she would consider two burly men as no competition and three burly men as a challenge.
It was almost two in the morning when we shook hands with Colin and he noted that his fee invoice would be in the post. I hoped he was joking, as I knew he charged around four hundred pounds an hour and I was already two hundred and fifty grand poorer than this time yesterday.
We took a cab back to my flat, and with late night supplements it came to nearly thirty five pounds. I was dead on my feet and forgot to wait for my change, so the cabbie escaped with a five pound tip.
Inside Dee said she was desperately tired and asked if she could sleep in the bed tonight.
“Of course,” I agreed gallantly. “You’ve been a star today. I’ll take the sofa tonight.”
“No need,” she said, flinging off her shoes. “It’s a double bed.”
Chapter 26
Upton Park Tube Station, Green Street. London. Saturday 1pm.
We had taken the DLR from Greenwich up to Bow Road and then we switched to the Tube for the short hop to Upton Park. I had a season ticket for the Legends Restaurant, with seats in the West Stand. It had not been difficult getting another seat for Dee, and it wouldn’t be until West Ham started seeing some success.
We walked along Green Street past the kebab shops and soon the ground came into view. I still got a great feeling as I looked along the road and saw the old stadium with its claret railings and blue roof trim. The twin castellated towers at the entrance, enhanced by West Ham shields, were a bit Disneyworld, but this place was once a field of dreams and the supporters surrounding us hoped that one day it would be again.
On the journey we had been comfort
able sitting together in silence. That had given me time to contemplate the events of last night. I would have liked to remember the night as being filled with slow but passionate love making, each of us investigating the other’s body, taking time to feel textures, absorb fragrances and grip one another tightly in ecstasy. Sadly, the reality was that we made love clumsily, quickly, with an urgency that was unnecessary, laughed at our amateur performance and promptly fell asleep.
Dee had awoken first at around ten; she just lay in bed waiting for me to stir. When I did it took us a while to make it out of the bedroom. We moved quickly once I remembered it was West Ham United versus Bolton Wanderers today and that I needed to buy another ticket.
We arrived at the ground and Dee looked suitably impressed. She confessed that she had not attended a football match before. I was a taken aback. First I find her name is really Delia, and now I find she isn’t a football fan. Could this relationship work? Yes, after last night I knew it most certainly could.
We walked in through the glass fronted main entrance and made our way to the Legends restaurant, where a three course lunch was served from one o’clock on match days. The lunch was served carvery style, and so we helped ourselves from large silver domed tureens. The food was always plain and simple but beautifully cooked.
We took our seats and I introduced Dee to the regulars at our table. Actually I didn’t, she introduced herself when I suddenly realised that I couldn’t really describe her as my close protection officer and the term girlfriend seemed too presumptuous. Dee filled the silence by saying that she was a colleague. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
As we ate and drank our Foster’s lager, Dee chatted non stop with Ron and Danny, lifelong supporters who lived for their families and West Ham, not necessarily always in that order. Danny and Ron were plant fitters at the Ford plant in Dagenham and they invested a goodly proportion of their wages on these twenty one matches a season, in the best seats. We had nineteen home league games and the ticket also included the first round matches of the Carling Cup and the FA Cup.
I often cursed commentators who pointed at decent hard working guys like these and dismissed them as corporate guests who were not really interested in the match but only interested in the hospitality. All because they chose to pay for the best seats from a relatively small income. These guys were real supporters.
48 Hours - A City of London Thriller Page 9
