DCI Coombes stood and offered his hand to Lord Hickstead.

“Sorry to have taken up your time, sir. We will return the briefcase to you in due course, but I’m afraid it could be a while.”

“Not to worry, Chief Inspector, it wasn’t expensive. As I explained, I was more interested in recovering my personal papers, which aren’t inside any longer.”

After the policemen had left, Lord Hickstead collapsed onto the Chesterfield sofa in a rage. He yelled out many obscenities but he didn’t repeat any one of them twice.

Chapter 52

New Scotland Yard, London. Friday, 10:30am.

It had been almost a week, one hundred and sixty eight hours to be precise, since I had lost my money, and the net was closing in on my blackmailer. The police told me that the chances of me recovering my money had improved now that they had the diamonds and the frozen bank funds.

We were standing outside Scotland Yard with its iconic rotating triangular sign above our heads. Dee was on her mobile phone, with a finger in her other ear to try to hear the caller over the noise of the traffic.

I looked at her closely. She really was beautiful. Her hair was down today and the rich auburn locks were swept back over her shoulder and came to an end at her shoulder blades. Dee was slim but not thin. She was strong, but not muscular. I could easily see how someone might underestimate her. On the surface she was a beauty with a handsome cleavage, flat stomach and legs to die for. I was admiring her derriere when I felt a touch on my arm. Roused from my daydream, I discovered that a Japanese man was addressing me, more in sign language than in words.

“Please. You take photo. Me and wife?” A small Japanese woman next to him smiled hopefully at me.

“Of course,” I smiled, nodding at him. He handed me a Sony camera and I framed the picture so that it included the couple and the world famous rotating sign. I showed them the resulting image when it appeared on the screen at the back. The couple seemed happy with the result, and bowed their thanks graciously. I wasn’t sure whether I should bow in return, and ended up half bowing, half nodding.

A car pulled up and out stepped Inspector Boniface and his boss Chief Superintendant Boddy. Both were wearing immaculate suits.

Dee finished her call and joined us.

“Ms Conrad, you look stunning today,” Boddy commented, admiring her tailored suit and tight skirt.

“Chief Superintendent, you are such a flatterer,” Dee responded as she flirtatiously slipped her arm through his. “Shall we go inside?” she asked as she led the blushing Chief into the building, though I noticed he made no effort to extricate himself. Boniface and I shared a smile.

***

The Assistant Commissioner and DCI Coombes were already in the room when we entered. We briefly reacquainted ourselves, and each took a seat in the same video conference room as before. For the first time I noticed that the room was called the Sir Robert Peel Conference room, after the founder of the police force.

I listened and made notes as we were updated on the latest developments. The first piece of news made me smile. Europol and the Dutch Police were closing in on Mr Van Aart and a Commissaris Bokhuis confirmed to the Met that Mr Van Aart’s account had just been credited with three hundred and fifty thousand Euros, the money indisputably coming from Lord Hickstead’s coffers. I was not alone in noticing that His Lordship had repaid the Dutch criminal about eighty five thousand pounds more than he had received.

Coombes explained in great detail what had happened that morning when they returned with the briefcase to Parliament Street. Having seen the Peer’s reactions, the Met detectives were now more convinced than ever that Hickstead was guilty of murdering both Andrew Cuthbertson and Sir Max Rochester.

The video screen flickered into life, but instead of moving pictures a computer start screen was showing. A disembodied arrow floated across the screen and double clicked. A photo appeared of the diamonds, spread out on the lid of a brown leather briefcase. I was wondering why we were looking at a picture of the diamonds when the arrow clicked on ‘more info’ and the details of the photo came up beside the picture.

DSC100154

Nikon Coolpix P100

Autoflash on. Used.

1/60th sec

F5.6

Lord Hickstead’s Nikon not only matched the previous shots but the numbering showed that the first shot of the diamonds was numbered as picture 100154, the next number in sequence after the shots of Richard Wolsey Keen, which finished at 100153.

“As you can imagine, bringing in a Peer of the Realm for questioning is a rarity, in fact until the ‘Cash for Questions’ investigation, during the last Parliament, no Lord had been summoned for many years,” the Chief Superintendent told us. “This means that both the Commissioner, who knows Lord Hickstead personally, and the Home Secretary, who has worked with Lord Hickstead in parliamentary committees, really need to be convinced that we have a case. I can happily report that they both agree the time is right to bring our man in for questioning under caution.

Additionally, we are bringing back Mr Nour and Mr De Montagu for an identity parade, for which Inspector Boniface will also invite an old friend of ours.

If we can reconvene here at three o’clock this afternoon, we should be able to proceed. A car is on its way to pick up His Lordship now. MI5 have confirmed that he is still in the apartment, as they have the responsibility for protecting those premises and their occupants.”

Dee leaned across and squeezed my hand; she looked as happy as I felt.

Chapter 5 3

West London Magistrates & County Court, Talgarth Road, London. Friday, 12 noon.

Michael Lambaurgh paced restlessly around the small room, wondering what was going on. He had been in this courthouse a dozen times at least, and he had never been locked in a room before. Maybe this was a bad sign. Perhaps community service wasn’t an option this time. He was nervous; this could mean a custodial sentence.

“Bloody stupid berk! Why did I have to kick the kebab shop door in?” he chastised himself aloud. He had been to the Chelsea match in between drinking sessions that ran from eleven in the morning until two o’clock the following morning. He had been out of his head by the time he decided he wanted a kebab. Unfortunately, by the time he arrived at Kebab Heaven the shop had been closed for an hour, and Michael was starving. In his drunken state he saw the light on in the flat above, and he reasoned that if he banged hard enough on the door they would come down and sell him a kebab. So he banged on the door.

Unfortunately for Michael, however, he always seemed to be unlucky with the police, and at that moment a patrol car had been passing by. The policemen, who recognised him, got out of their car to try to persuade him to go home. They were tired of arresting him, but one thing led to another and, in a fury, he kicked the door of the kebab shop, shattering the bottom pane of glass.

Now, three months later, here he was in the modern brick built courthouse with the grey architectural cladding. It was nicer than most of the magistrates’ courts he had been in, but it smelled the same. If there had been a window he could have looked out and watched the traffic going over the Hammersmith Flyover, but the room was windowless.

***

The door opened and a smartly dressed man entered. Michael was puzzled, but he said nothing.

“Hello Michael, I am Detective Inspector Boniface.”

“Detective Inspector, bloody Norah!” Michael exclaimed. “I kicked in a kebab shop door, I didn’t rob a bank. Am I in real trouble this time?”