Anyway, as part of the union amalgamation deal he could only serve as President for four years, then the President of one of the other unions took over the reins.

In 2001 the PM found Arthur Hickstead a role in Brussels, well away from British politics, where he had been ruining the image of New Labour that the spin doctors were building. He was there for eight years before having to return to the UK. The bank where he was a director went down, and although the government saved it, all of the shareholders lost their money. It’s thought that he lost in excess of half a million pounds, which was probably most of his pension fund.

In May 2010 he was made a Lord in the PM’s resignation list, and despite his former left wing leanings, the current government have asked for his help on re-structuring the benefits programme to target poverty more keenly.” I passed copies of my research to the two policemen. I say my research, but a nerdy lad at Vastrick had done a lot of the work for me by scanning the book with a ‘special algorithm’ he had invented. I didn’t ask what that meant, I just pretended I knew.

“DS Fellowes has picked up a lot of this from the internet, too,” Inspector Boniface noted. “I have to admit, it answers a lot of questions.”

Detective Chief Superintendant Boddy took charge of the meeting again.

“I think this confirms what we were all thinking. This man is fireproof unless we can find rock solid evidence that condemns him. I suggest we use the rest of this meeting to discuss tactics, what we know and what we need to know.”

Dee and I settled into our seats for a long session.

Chapter 31

Clapham Common Park, London. Noon.

Arthur Hickstead saw Richard Wolsey Keen approach the deserted all-weather football pitches and look around nervously. ‘Sam’ had texted the banker and told him to come here if he wanted the photos Sam had of him treating pretty young boys to dinner in the less fashionable restaurants.

Richard was standing with his overcoat over his arm, waiting.

Arthur had selected this spot because it was a well-known haunt for men to meet up for ‘friendship’. Obscured by trees, Arthur snapped some photos for good measure. He had his camera in his hand when a young Arabic boy came into the frame.

Richard turned to face the boy, who was smiling at him.

“Looking for a friend, mister?” the boy asked in a heavily accented voice.

“No, I’m meeting someone,” Richard responded.

“I’m prettier, more cooperative and less money,” the boy teased, straightening the banker’s tie. Richard was tempted for a moment. There was no-one around and the boy was attractive. Then he remembered what was at stake and he politely dismissed the boy.

To his surprise the boy produced an envelope which had “8 hours” scrawled on the front. The boy waited as he opened the envelope. He leafed through the contents, alarmed to see images of himself sitting in various restaurants, fawning over rent boys. He was stunned. There was no doubt what anyone would think if they saw these pictures, but he knew that it wasn’t like that. He just liked the company of young boys. He liked to treat them and listen to their lilting foreign accents. He liked touching them. But nothing more.

He was considering what the tabloids would do with these pictures when any remaining thoughts became a blur as he felt three blows to his back in quick succession, and he found himself gasping for breath.

***

When he came round he was looking into the face of a spotty youth with a ragged attempt at a beard and a pony tail.

“What happened to me?” Richard asked, still dazed.

“You’ve been punk’d, mate.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Someone shot you three times with a paintball gun. Suit’s a write off, I reckon.”

The young Arab boy had gone, as had the envelope, but Richard knew what he had to do.

***

It was three o’clock - five hours to go to his deadline - when the Banker arrived back at the London Mercantile Investment Bank Headquarters at Canary Wharf. He was sweating and red faced due to having to wear his overcoat on a warm day. How else could he cover the red stains on his suit jacket?

Melanie, a blousy middle aged woman with a Hertfordshire accent, approached him.

“Ah, Richard, you’re back. Shall I take your coat?”

“No!” he snapped. “Just leave me alone. I have things to do in my office. No calls or visitors. Understand?”

Melanie was taken aback, but these rich bankers were a strange lot even on a good day and so she returned to her desk, wondering why her boss was wearing his overcoat indoors.

Richard did not have a million pounds. Nowhere near it. He had a big pension pot which he couldn’t touch for another five years, and he had sifted away money over the years, concealing it from the prying eyes of the taxman and his spendthrift wife. Nonetheless, if he didn’t pay up he would die, and that was a strong motivation. Even if he wasn’t killed, once those photographs came out he might as well be dead. Sam was in control, and Richard was smart enough to know it.

Given enough time Richard could have filched a little money from here and there, built the million up slowly, written off some as investment losses and covered his tracks, but there was no time for finesse. He would have to wire the money now and find a way to make it up later.

Nervously he tapped the keyboard and a new window opened on his screen. He tapped another key and the Bank’s bespoke software package opened.

“Cordex SecSoft welcomes you, Hello Richard.”

Richard ran down the client accounts until he reached Sylvia Patterson. The lady had two point eight million pounds in her account waiting for the new trading period, but more importantly, she was in a care home and her investments were audited just once a year.

Richard transferred one million pounds into the temporary trading account which bore his name.

“Nature of transaction?” the machine asked.

Option for purchase of development land in Seychelles, Richard typed.

“When are the securities expected?” Richard decided to give himself some time.

14 day settlement account, he typed.

“Select bank from drop down list?”

Yes. Then Richard selected the bank Sam had nominated. He typed in the account number he had been given.

“Transfer to daily accounts or hold position?” This was the last step.

Hold position, he typed.

That should be enough to keep the internal security boys from finding the transaction until he had covered his tracks. He pressed the final confirmation button, and one million pounds left his trading account and whizzed across the ether to Switzerland. With one million in from Mrs Patterson’s account and one million going out, Richard’s trading account would show up as zero again, for the time being.

Satisfied that he had covered his tracks as well as he could, Richard now had fourteen days to find Mrs Patterson some land options or return her money. That was more than enough time.

Chapter 3 2

The Queen’s Room, House of Lords, London: Monday, 3:25pm.

The advantage of being in the Palace of Westminster at this time of year was the relative peace and quiet. The MPs and the Lords were on their long summer recess, and the staff took the opportunity to have a break themselves.

As a result the magnificent Queen’s Room, where library staff and Peers normally interface, was empty apart from Lord Hickstead who was using the internet to do some research. The few librarians who were on duty were in the main library, restoring some of the ancient tomes to their rightful places on the shelves, ready for their Lordships and Ladyships to disrupt again on their return.

The Peer looked around the historic room. It was like a library in itself, with shelves ten feet high, the top shelves accessible only by wooden ladders. The walls were panelled with the same wood that had been used for the shelving. The highly polished surface shone with hues of red and yellow that suggested rosewood to his inexpert eye.