48 Hours - A City of London Thriller

by J Jackson Bentley

  This was our second match of the season, after an undistinguished placing last season. We had lost the first away match at Villa Park. We were all hoping that the first home match would be one to celebrate.

  ***

  We took our padded seats in the West Stand. Dee chose to sit between Ron and me, taking advantage of Ron’s running commentary and smiling at his occasional cries of despair.

  Bolton Wanderers had a reputation for the long ball game, but it seemed to me that they never played that game when I watched them. They played the ball through the midfield with some slick passing. In fact, Liverpool play more of a long ball game when they visit. I think that there is some prejudice that augurs against the less popular clubs in the league, even when they are playing well.

  The Boleyn Ground, as we were now expected to refer to it, was bustling with over thirty two thousand fans attending. West Ham started well enough and looked in control when we were awarded a penalty; a penalty that our best player missed. The disappointment seemed to resonate with the players as much as with the crowd, and the Trotters, Bolton Wanderers, started to play.

  We reverted to the bar at half time for a Coke and a comfort break. The match was still tense. But at nil-nil we were still controlling the play. It would only be a matter of time until our efforts were rewarded, we decided after a round table discussion.

  We took our seats for the second half and were just settling down when Bolton went on the attack. The ball broke and headed towards the Bolton striker. Our reliable centre half seemed to have the situation covered, but then he was pushed and knocked the ball past our goalkeeper for an own goal. I jumped up, outraged. It was a clear foul and I yelled my opinion at the referee fifty yards below me. I looked around to confirm that Dee too was suitably disaffected, and I saw her smiling.

  “It isn’t funny,” I protested, perhaps more harshly than I intended.

  “No,” she agreed, “but you are.” I had to smile.

  When the second Bolton goal went in twenty minutes later the crowd could see the writing on the wall. There was a brief respite when we were awarded, and scored, a second penalty, but five minutes later Bolton scored again.

  We didn’t stay long after the match, as it was too depressing, and so after the crowds had subsided we made our way back to the Tube station. We were just about to exit onto Green Street, immediately outside the ground, when we saw a potential flare up. A young lad of around sixteen or seventeen had unfastened his windjammer jacket to reveal a White soccer shirt bearing the Reebok logo. He looked terrified as three older West Ham fans confronted him. Two of them looked uncertain but one was apoplectic with rage.

  Before I could stop her, Dee was at the young man’s side.

  “Are you OK?” she asked, with concern in her voice.

  “Nuffin’ to do with you, darlin’,” the enraged Hammers supporter said, sizing up the attractive brunette facing him. Dee was slightly built at around five feet eight in her trainers, but there was something in her eyes that flashed a warning. The Neolithic fan didn’t see what the rest of us saw and took his chance. His right arm stretched out to grab the young Bolton fan by the collar. The next move was so quick I almost missed it. Dee shot out her right hand and grabbed the man by the wrist. Her thumb on the back of his hand, she twisted his hand counter clockwise. He yelped with pain as the pressure on his wrist and elbow increased. Dee pulled his hand down, keeping intense pressure on the wrist and elbow, and unless he wanted a wrist or elbow injury he had no choice but to follow. In a few seconds she had him on his knees. He was silent now; he didn’t know what was coming next.

  “Now, why don’t you go home and drown your sorrows? Don’t make a bad day worse.” Dee then released her grip and helped the man to his feet. She massaged his wrist and said, “I haven’t done any damage, the soreness will wear off before you get home.” She smiled at the defeated supporter and I wondered whether he would unwisely seek retribution. He didn’t.

  “I was just having a friendly discussion about the match. I wouldn’t do nothing,” he said, rubbing his elbow.

  “I know,” Dee said sweetly. “That’s why I didn’t break your arm.”

  The three Hammers supporters walked away chanting at the tops of their voices, restoring their bravado. A car pulled up and the young Bolton fan took his place in the passenger seat. He waved at Dee as the car drove away.

  Did I display those doe eyes when I looked at her, I wondered, and concluded that it was quite possible.

 

  Chapter 27

  Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. Sunday 10pm.

  This had been the most enjoyable weekend I could remember for a long time, although it would have been perfect if West Ham had won. We had both agreed not to mention the case or my sudden indebtedness over the weekend. If I am being honest, I was quite relieved about being alive and free from Bob and his twisted machinations.

  We had spent our time together in eating, sleeping, taking long walks and watching talent competitions on TV. As we sat relaxing on the sofa listening to Norah Jones, the door buzzer sounded. I wasn’t expecting guests.

  I picked up the phone, determined not to buzz anyone in who would disrupt my evening.

  “Hello, Mr Hammond, my name is Jayne Craythorne.” The name didn’t mean anything to me. “I am the daughter of Sir Maxwell Rochester.” I buzzed her up and explained how to find my flat.

  I told Dee who the visitor was, and she transformed from a relaxed girlfriend into a bodyguard in a matter of seconds. Dee let Jayne Craythorne into the flat and invited her to sit on my easy chair. I sat on the sofa and Dee took the footrest. After accepting our condolences on the recent death of her father, she explained the reason for her visit.

  “Josh, Dee, I’m sorry to interrupt you this late at night but I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. The police wouldn’t tell me anything, but Dad’s network of contacts was extensive and this evening I was told that the Metropolitan Police are working with the London City Police on a possible link between Dad’s death and the blackmailer who had been pestering him. They have told me that Dad might have been murdered, but that no-one knows for sure at the moment, and they may never know with certainty.” She paused for breath. “My contact said that you had been interviewed by the police and had claimed that you too were being blackmailed. Another contact was able to get your address for me. I was hoping you could bring a little clarity to what is otherwise a terribly confusing situation.”

  Dee decided to take centre stage.

  “Jayne, it appears that a man, possibly known to you, by the name of Lord Arthur Hickstead, has been blackmailing people in the city.”

  Jayne Craythorne’s jaw dropped open and tears filler her eyes. Dee offered her a tissue. Our visitor was sobbing.

  “I’m not sure that I can believe that. The man you refer to as Lord Hickstead has been known to me since I was born. He and Dad were at school together. Do you have any evidence of his involvement?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Dee said. “The facts are these. Your Dad was blackmailed by a man emailing from the domain 48hrs.co.za, and so was Josh. Your Dad was texted by an anonymous mobile phone, probably bought at a supermarket in central London, and so was Josh. Andrew Cuthbertson died on Friday. He was your Dad’s accountant and he is also Josh’s accountant. Lord Hickstead’s initials were found on Andrew Cuthbertson’s mobile phone, attached to a text blackmailing him to reveal financial details of a client. A jeweller identified the blackmailer as wearing a rare watch. Lord Hickstead owns such a watch, one of just eight in circulation in the UK, and none of the others belong to a man fitting the jeweller’s description of the blackmailer. There are more remote links between Hickstead and the domain name, but he was in the right countries at the right time when the domain was established.”

  Jayne’s tears had dried. She was probably my age, very stylishly dressed and superbly made up. Her modern short hairstyle was probably designed by a hairdresser whose name appears on bottles of e
xpensive shampoo. All in all she bore all the hallmarks of a wealthy woman.

  “So why haven’t the police arrested him yet?” she asked.

  “We wondered the same thing, but Inspector Boniface thinks we need more evidence before we can show our hand, or we take the chance that he shuts up shop and we never get to him.” I hoped that this explanation gave her more comfort than it gave me. It became clear that it didn’t.

  “Josh.” She seemed tentative. “I would like the two of you to continue your investigation until Arthur Hickstead is arrested. If you agree, I will ensure that you get your money back, one way or another.” I was surprised.

  “Jayne, I have to tell you that we intend to pursue him anyway, because he’s a danger to us all as long as he remains free. In his last email to me he said he would be back for more. Quite frankly, I also want my money back.”

  “My offer is still open, Josh. Dee, do you have a view?” Jayne looked at Dee, who seemed uncertain.

  “I have to say I think you’re both a bit mad, but if you are both determined to snare this callous bastard, I’m prepared to run interference for you.”

  We spoke for a few more minutes and then Jayne left, but not before kissing us both on the cheek and promising to keep in touch. When she left I mentioned to Dee that as well as being Sir Max’s only heir she seemed to be wealthy in her own right.

  “You know she’s married to Jonas Craythorne, don’t you?” Dee said.

  “No, I didn’t know. Who is he?” I asked.

  “Have you ever had a burger served in an expanded polystyrene box?”

  “Of course. They were everywhere at one time.”

  “Well, his family owned the license for the design and the manufacture of those boxes throughout Europe. Not only is he one of Vastrick Security’s clients, he’s a multi-millionaire!”

 

  Chapter 28

  Vastrick Security Offices, No 1 Poultry, London. Monday 8am.

  Dee and I had taken the Tube as far as Bank Station and we came out into the bright sunlight at the junction of Cornhill, Threadneedle Street and Poultry, an odd name for a city street, I always thought, but I expect there is an explanation for that.

  What I do know was that there had been a road and buildings on this site since 60AD, the first buildings being burned down in the Boudican revolt. The one hundred mile long Roman Road to Bath began close to where we were standing. This rebuilt part of the city was burned down twice more, in the Roman Hadrianic period and in the Great Fire of London in 1666. Luckily the building had not burned down since I had become the loss adjuster.

  We approached the postmodern building at No. 1 Poultry, designed by James Stirling, the great neoclassical architect. The imposing corner site had an arched entrance with a tower and a clock. The structure was a mass of curves, constructed from reinforced concrete and blockwork faced with red and white stone horizontal bands and glass curtain walling.

  Taking the lift to the second floor, we followed the signs for Vastrick Security. The office was surprisingly busy for eight o’clock on a Monday morning, but Dee explained that many of the operatives here were shift workers. Some would have been there all night.

  I was signed in by Dee and given an electronic key card that monitored my movements in the building and gave me access to selected areas. We walked into an office befitting the founder of a successful security company. On the wall was original artwork by Katy Moran, whose work I had seen before. The canvas was a swirl of bold reds, blues and black. It was quite dramatic.

  Robbert T Vastrick came into the office. He was an imposing man, over six feet tall with the beginnings of a paunch, but very young looking for his sixty two years. He held out his hand and offered me a card. I asked why there were two b’s in Robbert. Vastrick explained that whilst he was American, his parents did not want him to lose sight of his Dutch heritage. He was named after the original Robbert Vastrick who settled in New Netherland, on the east coast of the USA, in the mid 1600’s.

  “If I understand Dee’s email correctly, the two of you want to try to get either the diamonds or the money back from this crooked Lord. And you would like to use my facilities to do it. Is that a fair summation?” He didn’t sound terribly enthusiastic, and so I was about to explain that I was happy to pay for the service, until Dee touched my arm and shook her head.

  “Tom is winding you up, Josh, don’t rise to it.” Obviously Mr Vastrick used his middle name. “That is a good summation, but there’s a lot of money floating around out there and I dare say we’ll get a share of it.”

  Tom Vastrick looked at a printout on his desk. “One of the night guys did a search on Lord Hickstead, and already I don’t like him. Four reasons. One, he went to a poncey school; two, he was a trade union activist; three, he was a Eurocrat; and four, he was made a Lord for no good reason except patronage.” He paused and then added, “Oh, and five, he is a blackmailer, lowest of all the criminal classes, apart from the sickos, of course.”

  By nine o’clock we had a plan of action and we had been allocated “Operations Room 3”, a secure, darkened room so filled with electronic gadgetry it looked like Jack Bauer’s CTU in the TV series 24.

  As we settled into our new room, I called Toby and told him I needed a few personal days off from work. He agreed to my request without question. I think he was still relieved that I wasn’t leaving.

  A young man wearing a Vastrick polo shirt handed me an electronic screen with buttons on it. “You might want to borrow this,” he said.

  “I might if I knew what it was,” I replied, and Dee laughed.

  “It is a Kindle E Reader, it displays electronic books. I’ve loaded up a book you may be interested in.” Dee leaned over and switched it on. It was a large screen with navigation buttons for page turning. The screen showed black print on a white background, just like a real book.

  The book title page came up as we all looked. It read “Red Art – An Unofficial Biography of Arthur Hickstead by Robin Treadwell”. Treadwell was a right wing journalist for a well known tabloid. The book was published by Cornwell Books, a reactionary publishing house with a deeply conservative bias. Dee showed me how to use the Kindle and I started to read whilst she set up the case on the Vastrick System. I could have laughed when I saw the code name she had chosen for the computer files, and for the case as a whole - “Peer Down”.

  “Josh, don’t mention our investigation to anyone, because if DCI Coombes gets wind of our involvement we can expect another midnight interview.”

  “Dee, I agree, but we have to continue to help Inspector Boniface where we can. He’s been a real friend.”

  “Of course we will, but he knows better than anyone that to bring down a peer of the realm he will need irrefutable evidence, or he will be jumped on by everyone from the Home Secretary down.”

  In three hours we were due to meet with Boniface, and so I decided to skim read the biography of the blackmailing Lord Hickstead.

 

  Chapter 29

  Breakfast Car, London Bound East Coast Train. Monday 8am.

  Lord Hickstead was feeling quite pleased with himself. Jim and Bob had gone, along with all links to the individuals they were blackmailing. So far his revenge plan had netted him one million pounds in cash and diamonds. Of course his big pay day, five million from Sir Max, hadn’t worked out, but at least the old bully who’d made his life hell at school was now dead, which was fair compensation.

  The peer finished his Great British Breakfast - too late to worry about the calories or the cholesterol now - and looked at his BlackBerry. He had meetings lined up all week, and on Wednesday he would fly to Rotterdam from London City Airport at five in the evening, returning early the next morning. He already had a buyer for the gems. He was surprised at how affected he had been by the glittering diamonds; he had even contemplated keeping them. There was a hypnotic attraction to their cleanly cut beauty. He knew that he had no option but to sell them, though. They were evidence.


  As the train drew into Stevenage he smiled to himself. By the time the Dutch buyer had paid the agreed sum for the diamonds - in US dollars - into his Cayman Islands bank account, exchange rates would mean he had banked almost exactly a quarter of a million pounds.

  Reaching into his pocket he retrieved a cheap white mobile phone that had been allocated to the terrorising of Richard Wolsey-Keen, banker to the rich and famous. Former chairman of the collapsed Bank of Wessex, he had persuaded Arthur Hickstead to join him on the board and invest five hundred thousand pounds, which he guaranteed would double. The bank had thrived for a couple of years, but the government had to bail it out at the start of the credit crunch, and the shares were now worthless. Arthur was livid when the man who led the bank into near bankruptcy escaped with a hefty pension and a new job with an Investment Bank in the City.

  “Dear Richard,

  12 hours to go. By way of reminder I don’t accept any excuses for delay. By the way, best not wear your favourite suit today.

  Sam

  Lord Hickstead sent the text message to the banker and looked forward to an outing to Clapham Common, which he felt sure would secure Richard Wolsey- Keen’s one million pound ransom demand.

 

  Chapter 30

  City of London Police HQ, Wood St, London: Monday, noon.

  The sign on the door said ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Boddy’. We were on the first floor of the police headquarters for the first time. I noticed that the decor and furnishings were more lavish up here.

  The young constable ushered us into the room where Inspector Boniface and an older heavier man in full uniform were sitting around a small but well polished conference table. They both stood, in deference to Dee, I supposed, and offered their hands. We shook hands with the new man who, I had correctly guessed, was DCS Boddy.

  We sat down and the DCS spoke up straight away.

  “Mr Hammond, Ms Conrad. On behalf of both the City Police and the Metropolitan Police, I would like to apologise for your treatment on Friday night. It was unnecessary, and the use of old school detective tactics is to be regretted. DCI Coombes will continue his investigations into the deaths of Andrew Cuthbertson and Sir Max, and we will cooperate wherever our paths cross. Inspector Boniface has assured the Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner that you will both help with our enquiries, but for the time being if they need to speak to you again it will be here, and in conjunction with the Inspector.”