48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (26 page)

“
That does not conform to what the mugger claims. He says that
the contents were quite different. In fact, he is certain that the
contents were as you saw them this morning.”

Boniface waited, even though he had not asked a question. The
lawyer filled the silence.

“
Inspector Boniface, I have to express some surprise that you
are prepared to take the word of a criminal over the word of a Peer
of the Realm who has served this country with
distinction.”

“
Mr Parsons, in common with all policemen and lawyers it is my
duty to believe the person who is telling the truth, irrespective
of their social standing, and the reason for these questions is to
see who has been honest with us and who has not.”

“
I can assure you that I have been honest and helpful,
Inspector,” Hickstead said through gritted teeth.

“
Good. Then let us proceed. When we recovered the briefcase we
found that the mugger had left it behind as he fled the scene. He
left it just a hundred metres away from the site of the attack,
whilst being pursued by police. When we recovered the briefcase it
was kept closed, until I opened it in this building with other
officers present.

When we opened it the briefcase contained two sealed
envelopes, which are here in evidence bags.” Boniface placed them
on the table. “Do you recognise these envelopes, Your
Lordship?”

The peer whispered to his lawyer and then answered.

“
I recognise these envelopes as the envelopes I saw for the
first time this morning, when Mr Coombes and his partner opened
them. I’d like to make it clear I had not seen them prior to this
morning.” Satisfied with his answer, he leaned back in his
chair.

“
Before we move on, perhaps I should summarise for the tape,”
Coombes interjected, flipping open his notebook. “You signed out of
the depository at twelve minutes past eleven yesterday morning, and
then at around thirteen minutes past eleven, you were mugged. A
witness chased the mugger, losing sight of him for no more than ten
seconds. The mugger was then seen leaping into his car at around
fourteen minutes past eleven, and was apprehended just two minutes
later, at sixteen minutes past, without the briefcase. There are,
therefore, three possibilities; Number one; the mugger, in the
space of a few seconds and whilst running away, discarded your
family papers, which have never been found, and replaced them with
a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and some Polaroid
photographs, before leaving the case behind.” Coombes looked up and
was pleased to see the lawyer’s jaw drop. Clearly he hadn’t been
fully briefed.

“
Number two; after the mugger left the case behind, and before
we recovered it, an unnamed person stole your family papers and
replaced them with a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of diamonds
and the Polaroids. Number three; you were mistaken about the
contents of the briefcase at the time it was taken from
you.”

Coombes looked across the table. The Peer was poker faced. The
lawyer was fidgeting with a pen. His nerves were beginning to show,
but he rallied.

“
My client does not have to explain how those items came to be
in his briefcase after he lost possession of it. He has stated
already that these items were not his, and surely no-one would
disown diamonds of such value. It makes no sense.”

Coombes looked down at DS Scott’s detailed notes of the
morning interview as Inspector Boniface lifted the photos on to the
table, still inside the transparent evidence bag.

“
My word!” the lawyer blurted out. “These photographs are
shocking!” Nonetheless, he examined them closely.

“
Lord Hickstead, this morning you said that the envelope
containing these photos did not belong to you and that it was not
in your briefcase when it was stolen. You have confirmed that again
in the last few minutes. Could you also confirm your statement from
this morning, to the effect that you had never seen these
photographs before?”

“
Yes, I can indeed confirm that they don’t belong to me and I
hadn’t seen them before they were shown to me this morning. I would
have remembered seeing material of this nature, believe
me.”

His lawyer interjected.

“
Come on, now. Lord Hickstead has already stated explicitly
that he did not have these items in his briefcase and that they
were not his. Can we move on, please? It is Friday afternoon, after
all.”

“
Of course,” Boniface said politely. “If I could close this
subject with one final question, please.”

The Peer and his lawyer seemed relieved, and Boniface
continued.

“
Perhaps you could explain, Lord Hickstead, how your
fingerprints come to be on each and every Polaroid photograph in
this set, when you claim that you haven’t seen them before, you
don’t own them, and they were never in your briefcase.”

***

Lord Hickstead was preparing for his identity parade. The
interview had terminated after his lawyer had advised him not to
answer the detective’s last question. Parsons, the lawyer, was
standing in the corridor, speaking confidentially to Inspector
Boniface.

“
You know, Joseph, you were meant to be a Barrister, not a
bloody policeman. Wasting all that expensive education. It’s a
shame. Your father was deeply disappointed.”

“
Alan, you are the only person, apart from Dad, who calls me
Joseph. I’ve been using my middle name since college.”

Alan Parsons shook his head. “In any case, what are you doing
working with the Met? You don’t normally play well
together.”

Boniface smiled. “I’m not going to tell you anything, Alan.
I’ll always be grateful for your help with my Masters degree, but
you have to believe me when I tell you that the man you are
representing has a wicked streak in him.”

“
Everyone has a right to a defence, Joseph, whether good or
bad, innocent or guilty,” Parsons stated.

Chapter 5
5

New Scotland Yard, London. Friday, 5pm.

Lord Hickstead looked decidedly uncomfortable, standing as he
was at number four in a line-up of six. He had been advised that he
could stand in any position in the line-up that he chose, and he
chose number four. Inspector Boniface, DCI Coombes and Alan Parsons
watched the proceedings.

The first person into the identification room was Mr De
Montagu. He was informed that the man who had posed as the rich
banker may or may not be in the line-up, and that he must only
identify the man if he was absolutely sure.

One by one all six men in the line stepped forward, and spoke
the agreed words, “David Cameron is our current Prime Minister”.
Then they stepped back and joined the line again. All six men were
roughly the same height. They were all clean shaven, and they had
varying degrees of hair loss.

Mr De Montagu asked for number four to step forward again and
repeat the line. His Lordship did just that before stepping back
into line.

“
I believe that the man who took the painting is standing at
number four,” De Montagu said, “but I can’t be sure without the
disguise. Could you get him to affect a West Country
accent?”

“
No, I’m sorry, that would be prejudicial, but thank you for
your help,” Boniface said, shaking the art dealer’s
hand.

Mr Nour was ushered in and given the same instructions. As he
looked along the line at each of the six men, his eyes immediately
went to number four. The man looked different in a Metropolitan
Police blue polo shirt, but he was certain this was the rogue who
had tricked him. The polo shirts had been Alan Parsons’ suggestion,
whereas the instruction that no-one in the line-up wore a watch was
at the police’s request.

Each man stepped forward one by one, and Mr Nour remained
silent until he was asked whether he recognised any of the men. The
Egyptian spoke boldly and confidently.

“
I am sure that number four is the man who posed as Mr Josh
Hammond in my shop, and is the man to whom I handed the
diamonds.”

Alan Parsons blanched, and looked decidedly uncomfortable. He
had been told by the police that documentary evidence proved that
the diamonds he had been shown earlier were the same diamonds that
Mr Nour passed to the man posing as Josh Hammond.

Mr Nour was thanked and then dismissed, and in came a rougher
looking man dressed in an ill-fitting suit. The collar on his shirt
was probably an inch too small for his neck. Nonetheless, it was
fastened with a tasteful red tie.

Michael Lambaurgh, Medical Representative and sometime soccer
vandal, took his place in front of the one way glass.

Boniface was ready to guide him through the process, to
prevent him from saying anything inappropriate or ruining the
identification process, but he need not have worried. Michael had
switched on his medical representative persona; even his accent had
been moderated. He came across as the well-educated catholic
schoolboy that he was.

“
The man who bought my credit card in South Africa was number
four, though he had a South African twang then, not the plummy
accent he used today.”

After making sure that everyone was happy with the way the
line-up had been arranged and executed, the participants were
excused.

***

Boniface and Coombes were on their way out of the room when
Alan Parsons called them back. The expressions on their faces told
the lawyer that they were intrigued to hear what he had to
say.

“
I am sure that the three of us are patriots, and that this
country means a great deal to all of us. Surely you can see that if
a Peer of the Realm, a respected European Commissioner and friend
of government ministers, past and present, was to stand trial,
there would be public outrage. This would knock the expenses
scandal into a cocked hat. This country would be a laughing
stock.”

“
We can’t let the guilty go free just because it would cause a
stink,” Coombes snarled.

“
I don’t remember anyone conceding guilt, gentlemen, but,
guilty or not guilty, the country would suffer. If I can persuade
him, could we work out a deal with the powers that be?”

“
I don’t think the Crown Prosecution Service will go for a
deal, Alan,” Boniface said, shaking his head.

“
Look, I’m sure that you two have conducted a sound
investigation, but whether this case is ever prosecuted will be
decided several levels above the CPS. And, I suspect, the decision
will not be made on the evidence alone, no matter how distasteful
that may be to you and me.”

***

Twenty minutes later Coombes was boiling mad, and was pacing
up and down the Commissioner’s office. Boniface appeared almost as
angry, but was sitting at his allotted seat in front of the
Commissioner’s enormous desk.

The Commissioner tried to cool the atmosphere down.

“
I quite understand that you are both disappointed, but there
is no value in formally charging him today. We have agreed that he
will stay within the confines of Westminster until Monday. Then,
when we open the safety deposit box, as we surely will, we may find
evidence that ties him into one or more of the deaths. At present
he knows that he can’t escape the Hammond blackmail charges, but he
might just squirm out of the other two charges unless we can tie
him to the painting and the cash. Take the weekend off. He’ll still
be here on Monday.”

Coombes muttered loud enough for the other two to hear. “I
bloody well hope so, for all our sakes.”

Chapter 56

No. 2 Parliament Street, London. Friday, 7pm.

At the start of the day, Lord Hickstead could never have
imagined how rapidly it would deteriorate, nor how quickly
everything would begin to unravel. He had been so careful. Why had
he allowed them to take his fingerprints after the mugging?
Complacency, arrogance, everything he despised in others. He was
evidently no longer the driven individual who had fought his way up
from a rented house in Yorkshire to a seat in the House of
Lords.

There were too many sycophants around him, telling him he was
wonderful, powerful, influential and almost invincible. When he had
embarked on the blackmail plot, he had convinced himself that it
was a fight for justice. He wanted to right the wrongs which had
destroyed him financially and robbed him of the opportunity of
national recognition and, possibly, high office. His dear wife,
Brenda, had sunk into a deep depression after the house fire, and
his unnecessary tirade about her cancelling the insurance too soon
hadn’t helped. Despite all of the help she received, and despite
being back in Yorkshire with her family, only strong
antidepressants prevented her from attempting to take her life
again.

What had begun as a righteous crusade had become an exciting,
dark alternative life that set the heart racing and the adrenaline
pumping. He had, quite simply, got carried away, and had gone too
far.

Sir Max was a buffoon, but everyone knew it. He didn’t carry
the respect of his peers, just that of his blind followers. Arthur
had killed him because he wouldn’t pay a small fraction of his
fortune to save his own life, and because he had insulted Arthur
Hickstead one time too many.