48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (15 page)

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 2
9

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.”

“
Thank you.” Dee and I responded almost simultaneously. There
was a pause.

“
Now, how are we going to manage this little rat’s nest of
aristocratic villainy? What on earth is a Peer doing blackmailing
folk? It’s beyond belief, and if he’s directly involved with either
death, well....” Boddy let the thought hang. “Mr Hammond, you said
on the phone that you had found out some historical facts about
Lord Hickstead that might assist the investigation.”

“
Yes,” I replied, conscious that the information was in the
public domain. “It boils down to this, really. Arthur Hickstead was
born in 1954 at Brighouse, close to Halifax, which is just off the
M62 in Yorkshire. His parents were active in the Labour Party and
when he was eleven years old his father’s Trade Union offered him a
scholarship to study at a public school. They had an arrangement
with Harrow on the Hill Catholic College, where scholarship boys
could board at special low fees. Both sides were keen on social
mobility. However, Arthur hated it, according to his biographer. He
felt as though he was little more than a slave for the richer boys,
and he suffered bullying and persecution because of his accent and
the fact that he was a “stig”, the nickname they used for a
scholarship student.

He followed some of his peers to Cambridge University and
Professor Tony Bartlett was his tutor. Bartlett was arrested many
times on demonstrations in the 1960s, and in the 1980s it was
thought he had been working for the Soviets.

Oddly, the young Arthur chose to go into the Army for officer
training at Sandhurst. The book suggests that in 1976 jobs in the
City were hard to find, but retired Army officers were always
sought after. He was soon disillusioned by the Army, as he saw it
as an extension of the public school. He served in Northern
Ireland, and was horrified at the way the officers always managed
to escape punishment when a riot turned into a bloodbath, yet the
ordinary squaddies would find themselves in the brig.

In 1982 he left the army, but didn’t go for a job in the City.
He was head hunted for the job of Deputy to the President of the
Oil, Gas and Offshore Workers Union. The unions were replacing
moderate leaders with hardliners as quickly as they could, to take
on Margaret Thatcher.

By 1997 he was President of UNIFY, a conglomeration of his old
union and two larger unions who represented skilled tradesmen. His
new position meant that he wielded enormous power in the Labour
Party, but he hated New Labour with a passion, according to the
book - something he denies.

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?