The meeting broke up and Don Fisher approached Dee and I. “Sorry about all of this. If my interference stops you getting your money back, just let me know. OK?”
“OK,” I agreed, and he left the room to receive his Caution.
“We could be rich after this,” Dee said. “Two people have each offered us a quarter of a million pounds to put Lord Hickstead away.” She smiled and linked my arm.
“We,” I teased. “When did it become we? Surely you mean me?”
“Oh no, you obviously haven’t read the small print of our agreement. All recovered monies are split fifty-fifty. Why do you think I’ve been so nice to you?”
My face obviously fell as I searched hers to gauge whether or not she was serious, because finally she could hold it no longer and she laughed out loud.
“For a cynical City loss adjuster you are pretty gullible. By the way, did you know that the word gullible is not in the dictionary?”
I frowned, and she laughed out loud again.
Chapter 50
Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. Thursday, 11pm.
I was lying flat on my back with my hands between my head and the pillow. I couldn’t sleep. It seemed to me that if I was on a jury I would convict Lord Hickstead on the basis of the evidence that was already available. Although I understood that much of it was circumstantial, it was beginning to become overwhelming.
The police were testing the Polaroids for fingerprints and were quite hopeful of finding definite proof. When the fingerprint technician collected the photos, he said that the chemical process used by Polaroid to develop the picture in the camera leaves a soft residue on the surface which brings out the ‘ridges and whorls’ of a fingerprint very nicely.
The police had been busy, and had tracked down photos and other details of all those known to own an Old Navitimer Mecanique by accessing the DVLA database of driving license photos and the Passport Agency’s database, which included details such as height and distinguishing marks. Lord Hickstead was the only man on the spreadsheet, provided by Breitling, who matched the description given by Nour and De Montagu in terms of height, build, ethnicity and eye colour. Nikon UK had helpfully taken the Breitling list and checked it against their registered owners of the P100. The only match had been Lord Hickstead.
Vastrick Security had also been working hard to build a full profile of Lord Hickstead, from his schooldays to the present. The file was thick with copies of his school reports and certificates, his university papers, his Trade Union activities, his numerous complaints about me and his insurers, press cuttings and a video from YouTube showing him being humiliated on screen by Don Fisher. There was whole section dedicated to his relationships with the victims of his blackmailing scheme. It consisted of lists of names derived from school, university, Trade Union Membership records, director information from Companies House and AGP’s list of individuals who travelled to the Partners’ meeting with Andrew Cuthbertson.
Between them, the police and Vastrick could connect Hickstead with three dead bodies and two living blackmail victims. They could also place him in South Africa and Thailand, where 48hrs.co.za was based and registered.
Dee came out of the en suite bathroom and looked at me. She scowled.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Hmmm. Typical man,” she murmured, climbing into bed and back towards me.
“Have I done something wrong, Dee?”
“You don’t even know, do you?”
I scoured my memory banks for what I could have done to offend her, and came up blank. I tried again.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind. Have I missed something?”
Without turning around she said sharply, “Last night was our first week anniversary and you said nothing, did nothing and just let it pass. Hmmm.”
I was taken aback. I hadn’t realised that Dee needed that kind of reassurance. I turned on my side and placed my hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, Dee, it was thoughtless of me.”
Her shoulders shook under my hand. Was she sobbing? She turned over and lay on her back and now I could see that she was laughing uproariously. I’d been had again. Was this the way it would always be; me as her comedy sidekick?
“You just like making fun of me, don’t you?” I said, by way of statement rather than as a question.
There was amusement in her voice when she answered. “I do, for two reasons. One, you are an easy target and two, Josh Hammond, I think I might just be falling for you.”
I was speechless, but happier than I could remember ever being before.
“Go to sleep Josh. We’re bound to be busy tomorrow.”
“I can’t sleep,” I answered. “I don’t feel tired.”
“I can help you there. If I place my hand on your shoulder and neck like this, and squeeze here, I’ll cut off the blood supply to your brain, and you will be out in fifteen seconds.”
“No, that’s quite all right,” I laughed nervously, switching off the bedside lamp. “I suddenly feel very tired.”
Chapter 51
No. 2 Parliament St, London. Friday, 8:30am.
It had been a long night, and Arthur Hickstead had slept for a maximum of an hour or two of it. The two hours he had managed to sleep at all had been snatched in fifteen minute spells.
Yesterday afternoon and evening had been hectic. He had spent most of the time online, and on the phone to his bank, trying to send Van Aart his money back. Hickstead had explained about the mugging and Van Aart had seemed sympathetic. Nevertheless, he explained that the buyers he had lined up would be looking for compensation. Eventually the Peer decided that it was not in his best interests to upset one of Europe’s most violent gang leaders. As a result, he had lost the diamonds and one hundred thousand Euros of his own. He had risked his liberty to blackmail that slippery loss adjuster and recover the insurance money he had been denied after his house had caught fire, only to end up worse off than he had been before. If he hadn’t already had a hangover he would have had a drink to settle his nerves.
The console on the wall buzzed. It was Jeff, the doorman. The Peer picked up the handset.
“Lord Hickstead,” he announced.
“Sir, we have two police detectives at the door who say they have recovered your briefcase.”
Hickstead could feel the panic rising in his midriff. He had to stay calm; he could talk his way out of this. He took a deep breath.
“OK, Jeff, send them up, please.”
***
DCI Coombes and DS Scott rode up to the fourth floor on what was the oldest and most elegant elevator they had ever seen. It had rich dark walnut panelling and a burnished brass console with worn enamelled buttons bearing the numbers of each floor. The door was a pair of iron lattice gates which had to be pulled across before the lift would move. A plate in the elevator proclaimed that the Otis Elevator Company had installed the lift in 1904. DCI Coombes was holding the briefcase in a clear plastic bag and so DS Scott operated the lift. As they arrived at the fourth floor, and opened the lattice gates, a door opened in front of them. They stepped out, then DS Scott closed the gates and the lift departed.
The detectives tapped on the apartment door and entered, closing it behind them.
“This way, gentlemen,” a voice called from inside the apartment.
As they walked into what was probably called a sitting room, they marvelled at the ornate decor which was probably original. The painted walls were earthy colours but were not necessarily what one might choose for a modern house. Somehow, though, they seemed to work in these 19th Century surroundings.
Lord Hickstead was sitting in a high backed winged armchair with green leather upholstery; buttons secured the leather to the chair. He gestured to them to sit down on a matching Chesterfield sofa.