“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 stylishy dressed and superbly made up. Her modern short hairstyle was probably designed by a hairdresser whose name appears on bottles of expensive 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 2 8
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.