48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (11 page)

“
Do you or your father ever wear the watch, Luc?” I
asked.

“
Father never, me rarely; I would be frightened to wear it
regularly, knowing it is probably valued at five thousand pounds.
It is better on display here, as a tribute to Grandpa
Houlier.”

“
Could we just check the back of the watch, please?” the
Inspector asked.

Luc walked over to a box concealed in a wooden panel in the
wall. A small panel opened out of the wall on hinges. It had been
invisible before Luc pressed the panel to open it. The young man
flicked a switch and took out a key fob.

Standing in front of the display case, he pressed the key fob
and a minuscule diode changed from red to green. Luc then unlocked
the door with the key. He reached in and took the watch with a care
and reverence that spoke more of its sentimental value than its
cash value.

Boniface took the watch from him carefully and looked at the
rear of the case. It was marked A11022. It was the real Mc Coy but,
sadly, probably not our real McCoy. Nonetheless, Boniface took no
chances and as he passed the watch back to Luc he asked, “Has the
watch been here all day?”

Luc relocked the cabinet and replaced the key fob, resetting
the alarm.

“
Of course. I have been here alone all day and in any event
the watch has not been out of the case for months. Is there
something wrong with the watch, Inspector?”

“
Nothing at all, Luc, it isn’t the one we were looking for. If
I were you I’d take good care of it. Your Grandfather was obviously
a special man and the watch is a fitting tribute to his affection
for you.”

Boniface extended his hand and Luc shook it. I shook hands
with the young man too as we made to depart. Just before we left
Boniface said, “Where are your parents, if that is not a rude
question?”

“
If you watch the news tonight at ten o clock, you will see
them. They are with the French contingent celebrating with the
remaining Battle of Britain pilots in Kent. They will be back
tomorrow if you need to speak to them.”

“
No, that’s OK, Luc. You have been very helpful.”

It was true he had been helpful, but we hadn’t, and he must
have been left wondering what our visit was all about as we left
the house.

“
Well, that was a washout,” Boniface said, when the front door
had closed and we were walking down the path. “Let’s hope the other
two are having more success.”

As keen as I had been for one of the Houliers to be Bob, once
we had seen the photo of Luc and his father, at a Baccalaureate
awards ceremony, we knew Leon Houlier was not our man. He was a
rotund man, at best five feet six inches, a good six inches shorter
than his son. Dead end. The search continued.

Chapter 21

Atkins Garretson Palmer, College Hill, London. Friday,
6pm.

DS Fellowes had decided that walking would be the quickest way
to get to the late Andrew Cuthbertson’s offices. A phone call an
hour ago had confirmed the news that Andrew was dead, and his
colleagues were in shock. All had agreed to stay until they had
been questioned by the Detective Sergeant.

Dee matched the young detective’s long stride and they arrived
at AGP on the dot of six. Five minutes later they were sitting in
the Partner’s office discussing AGP’s staff and clients. An hour
earlier they had made certain requests and the Partner, though
initially reluctant, had arranged for a full print out of the
Personal Tax Group’s staff and clients to be made available to
them.

A young blonde girl entered the office and placed the lists on
the conference table between the DS and Dee, who were facing
Anthony Craven, partner responsible for this group.

“
You don’t have anyone on these lists called L Houlier, do
you?” Dee asked. DS Fellowes had introduced her as a consultant on
financial crimes.

“
No, no staff called Houlier at all, no personal tax clients
called Houlier. We did have a French corporate client called
Bernard Houlier, but he has returned to France now that we have
sold his business.” Dee made a note.

Tony Craven, Dee and DS Fellowes scanned the lists for any LH.
After ten minutes or so they had found only two people with those
initials. They were Lucy Huang of the Singapore Office and Lars
Halvorssen from Helsinki office. A quick check with the relevant
offices showed that Lucy Huang had been at the office all day but
had left six hours ago, as Singapore was eight hours ahead of
London, and Lars was still at his desk.

No clients had the initials LH, so just to be thorough they
also checked the initials HL and came up only with Harriet
Levershulme.

Dee Conrad was convinced that someone connected with AGP was
involved, probably someone at the Partners’ conference, otherwise
how would they have known about Andrew and the Thai
girl?

“
Tony, do you have a list of people who attended the partners’
conference in Bangkok recently?” she asked, hoping that this would
help.

The accountant reached into his desk and pulled out a table
menu. On the reverse of the menu were seating assignments. This was
the definitive list of Partners who attended. It seemed that
attendance was compulsory at such events, if you valued your
future.

They scoured the list for clues but all to no avail. DS
Fellowes collected together all of the data, including the menu,
and looked across at Dee. Her face wore a defeated expression. They
were about to leave when the Detective decided to try one more
approach.

He pulled out the spreadsheet with the list of Breitling Old
Navitimer owners without saying what the list showed.

“
Do you recognise any of the names on this list, by any
chance?” he asked.

Tony Craven studied the list with concentration. He really
wanted to help find the person who had driven Andy to
suicide.

“
Only one, I’m afraid. At least, I’m assuming it’s him.” He
pointed to A Hickstead of Leeds. “If it’s who I think it is, the A
stands for Arthur. He should be on the client list but he is also
on the Management Board. He’s a much admired character in here,
despite his having been a left wing trade unionist in his early
days.”

Dee’s interest was piqued. She asked, “Wouldn’t he have been
at the conference too?”

“
Yes, of course, all of the management board were
there.”

“
It’s just that he doesn’t appear on the seating list,” she
noted.

“
No, he wouldn’t be on the list, as he was on the top table.
When he comes into the office he insists on being called Art, and
he acts like one of the lads, but when he’s on company business it
is Your Lordship all the way.”

Dee Looked Puzzled. “His Lordship?”

“
Yes of course. Arthur Hickstead. You must have heard of him,
surely? Lord Hickstead of Brighouse.”

DS Fellowes raised his hand for a high five and Dee slapped it
as they both spoke simultaneously. “LH. Yes!”

Tony Craven looked at them, trying to work out what he had
said that was causing so much jubilation.

Chapter 2
2

Atkins Garretson Palmer, College Hill, London. Friday
7:35pm.

The car was silent as we drove back into town. I think we were
both disappointed at what had seemed to be a firm lead. We were
heading towards College Hill to meet up with the others when
Inspector Boniface’s phone rang. It was DS Fellowes calling. The
Inspector pressed the loudspeaker button and answered.

“
OK Fellowes, you’re on loudspeaker. We’re just coming into
College Hill. I’m afraid we hit a dead end.”

There was an electric excitement on the other end of the phone
that transmitted across the ether just as surely as did the
voices.

“
We think we might have found LH,” Fellowes said, almost in
harmony with Dee. They were keen to tell us all, but Boniface asked
them to save it for the car as we were pulling up the AGP’s
offices.

A few moments later Dee and DS Fellowes virtually sprang out
of the doors and headed to the cars, laughing and chatting as if
they were having fun. I felt a pang of jealousy.

They opened the car door and slid into the seat next to me. As
soon as they were seated they began explaining how they had
uncovered an LH after all, and when they explained that the L
signified Lord and was not in fact a name, both Boniface and I took
a sharp intake of breath.

It seemed incredible that a Lord would stoop to blackmail.
Moreover, why choose me? Lord Hickstead. It was unfathomable. Yet
something seemed to tug at the furthest recesses of my memory. I
knew that name from somewhere, I was sure. Then something clicked,
the realisation hitting me like a train.

“
Oh, no, no, no!” I said out loud, and everyone in the car
looked at me.

“
What is it?” asked Dee. “Are you all right?”

I was fine, but I had just put the pieces together and it hit
me like a revelation. I now knew why a peer of the realm would
target me, a mere loss adjuster.

Chapter 2
3

Dyson Brecht Offices, Park Street, Leeds: Friday 15th
June,

6pm. Nine Years Earlier.

Some people go Barbados for the summer. Some go to Spain. I
get to go to Leeds. Now, there is nothing wrong with Leeds. It’s a
great city; plenty to do, plenty of women, but somehow I would have
preferred Barbados. Unfortunately, as Toby explained to me, the
Barbados office didn’t have a manager in hospital with a burst
appendix, whereas the Leeds office did. That was how I found myself
standing in, holidays on hold, looking forward to a few weeks in
Yorkshire. My main regret was that, as the football season had
already ended, I would not get the chance to watch Leeds United at
Elland Road.

Norman was the last to leave the office on that particular
day, as he usually was. A typical dour Yorkshireman, he was steady
and reliable. If I were in Toby’s shoes I would have left him in
charge rather than sending in a relatively inexperienced
23-year-old Londoner. I packed my briefcase and headed towards the
door. The Balti House on the ground floor was opening up in
readiness for its evening customers, and the cooking smells wafted
in through the open windows. Up on the sixth floor it smelled
delicious.

I closed the last window as the phone rang. It was the
landline. I reluctantly picked it up, dread hanging heavy in the
pit of my stomach like an undigested meal. “Dyson Brecht, good
evening.”

“
Josh, Josh, Josh, you’re a lifesaver!” The voice was heavy
with local dialect. I recognised it as belonging to Eddie from Dale
County Insurance, the Leeds office’s biggest customer.

“
I haven’t agreed to anything yet, Eddie,” I
replied.

“
I know, but you’ll help us out on this, won’t you, lad? It’s
my anniversary this weekend, and I promised the wife I’d take her
somewhere nice. You know how it is. Anyway, that fire I’m supposed
to be looking at, well, I can’t really do it, but you can, can’t
you, lad?”

I sighed. Another excuse. Two weeks ago it had been his
daughter’s birthday which had prevented him from attending to his
work duties. I wondered what he might come up with next. I hoped
his grandmother was in good health, or she might well be the reason
why he couldn’t cover the weekend yet again, in two weeks’ time.
Grannies do tend to have a habit of passing away at inconvenient
moments, especially when a good excuse is required.

“
OK, Eddie. Give me the details, and please tell me it’s not
out in the wilds.” I looked at the address I had written down. It
didn’t get much wilder. But hey, it was a balmy evening, almost
midsummer. It wouldn’t be fully dark until nearly midnight, if it
got dark at all. It seemed like a great opportunity to go for a
nice drive in the green, rolling hills of Yorkshire.

***

The road up to where the house was situated wasn’t even on my
map, and I would have struggled to find it at all without the pall
of smoke and flashing blue lights to guide me. A makeshift sign
read Cobben Lane, and I was looking for Crest House. I drove up the
badly rutted road that mainly served farm vehicles, worrying every
inch of the way about my deposit on the hired Volvo. At the very
least the suspension would be wrecked, and at the worst I would
tumble down the hillside, the edge of which seemed to be no more
than six inches from my wheels.

I drove past a stone built longhouse, typical of the rural
buildings in this area. The longhouse had proved to be the ideal
farmhouse in days gone by. The animals would be stabled in stone
barns either side of the house, the warmth from their bodies
providing extra heat as well as a wind barrier to the human
habitation in the middle.

Ahead of me stood the smouldering remnants of a house. The
occupants had clearly enjoyed a magnificent view across the valley
from their windows. I parked up and strode over to the firemen who
were cooling down the embers. I didn’t recognise anyone, so I hand
signalled ‘who is in charge’ knowing that my spoken words would be
lost amidst the noise of the pumps and the gushing water, and would
not penetrate the protective headgear of the firemen. They nodded
towards the second fire tender. As I passed the fire engine I
spotted the red van parked on the tarmac. Inside was Rodney Killip,
the area fire investigator. He signalled for me to join him in the
van. I climbed in. He was filling in a pro forma fire report that
was bulldog-clipped to a piece of plywood.