48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (5 page)

“
We’ve got him then?” I asked hopefully as I sat forward in my
chair.

“
I’m afraid not,” Simon sighed, obviously reluctant to pile
yet more agony on me, recognising that my life span could
potentially be measured in hours.

“
The address they gave us belongs to Thomas Cook Travel Agency
in Uxbridge, where an agent sold a prepaid Mastercard to Michael
Lambaurgh, an England soccer fan who booked a trip to the World Cup
with them.”

“
Surely, they must have a record of where he lives?” Dee
interjected.

“
Yes, I’m afraid we’re ahead of you again there. The
Metropolitan Police who look after the crowds at Stamford Bridge on
match days know Michael Lambaurgh very well. It seems that Michael
ran out of money after two weeks in South Africa, and was caught
causing trouble by British Police who’d been drafted in to help
police the World Cup. To avoid his arrest and prosecution in South
Africa, he agreed to be deported. Unfortunately for us, the night
before he flew back a man with a heavy Boer dialect, probably fake,
offered to buy his card from him when it was refused for payment at
a bar. The man offered him three hundred rand, about thirty pounds,
for the card. Michael took it happily as there was less than a
pound of credit left on it.” Simon picked up a printed email that
had arrived earlier that morning.

“
According to the credit card company, the card was topped up
with five thousand rand cash at a Thomas Cook Foreign Exchange
point in Johannesburg the next day. An hour ago Michael Lambaurgh
described the man who bought the card as white European, about six
feet tall with receding dark hair. He couldn’t remember much else
about that night, as he was falling over drunk, to use his own
words.”

“
So,” Dee said, looking at me and then Simon. “We’re nowhere.”
Simon frowned again but held his palms up submissively. “I’m afraid
that about sums it up. Unless Bob starts to make some serious
mistakes, we won’t find him before Friday at noon.”

Chapter 8

Dyson Brecht Offices, Ropemaker Street, London:

Thursday, 12 noon.

I was unhappy about my BlackBerry being cloned by Simon, but
eventually accepted that it was necessary. Simon informed me that
he would be able to monitor all incoming and outgoing calls and
messages in real time, which would hopefully assist in locating
Bob. Despite all of this, neither Simon nor Dee were confident that
Bob would be found before the deadline expired. I decided I would
just have to be careful how I used the phone until Simon terminated
the shadowing of my calls and texts.

The countdown on my BlackBerry had reached twenty four hours.
It had been only twenty four hours since I had spilled the beans to
Toby, my boss, but it already seemed like an eternity. I was now
sitting in a conference room with Dee. We sat in silence, each
alone with our thoughts.

The door to the conference room opened and Toby walked in with
another man. I immediately recognised the second man as Roddy
McDougall, the Dyson Brecht contact at Chartered Equitable Building
Society. Roddy sat and acknowledged me with a nod. Toby broke the
silence.

“
Miss Conrad. It’s very nice to see you again. This is Roddy
McDougall. He is helping us raise the money for the ransom demand,
in a manner of speaking.”

Roddy, a chubby redhead who looked out of place in a suit,
spoke directly to me in a Scots accent. “I don’t know what to say,
Josh. This is a crazy situation. I suppose all I can realistically
do is make your life a wee bit simpler by raising the loan
agreement as quickly as possible. To that end I have these papers
prepared. Take your time to read them, if you want, but they’re all
as we discussed yesterday.” Roddy pushed a sheaf of papers across
the table towards me. Toby spoke.

“
Josh, I’ve asked Terry in Legal to agree the terms of your
loan agreement on your behalf so that we can spend time on finding
a solution that doesn’t ruin you financially.” He paused whilst he
looked at a sheet of paper lying flat on the table in front of
him.

“
Your flat will be valued at around three hundred and twenty
thousand pounds, which is actually quite generous given the current
housing slump. You will borrow two hundred thousand, repayable over
twenty five years at a rate tracked to one percent over base. It’s
the best we could do.” Toby looked at Roddy for confirmation, and
Roddy nodded and smiled. I appreciated that this was an excellent
deal in the circumstances.

“
Subject to the valuer’s condition survey confirming the
initial valuation, the cash can be paid to you on Tuesday next
week. Until then you are mine, buddy boy. I own you.” Toby smiled,
and the others in the room joined him as the mood lightened. “With
my two hundred grand partner’s loan account money and your fifty
grand advance against bonus and benefits, you will have the
necessary quarter of a million quid in your account later today.
Just be sure to leave your passport on the way out.” Dee looked
surprised, but he grinned.

“
Just kidding! Now, how do we deal with Bob, whoever he is?”
Toby looked around the room for ideas. Dee had already explained
that the Police offered little hope of finding Bob, even after the
money had been paid. When the room remained silent, Toby
continued.

“
OK. I guess it’s down to me. I’ve had a few thoughts. Let me
brainstorm them for a few minutes.” Toby stood up and walked to a
large flip chart on an easel. He picked up a blue marker pen and
began to write. I have watched this brilliant man develop new
strategies on the hoof with just a pen, a whiteboard and his agile
mind hundreds of times. I hoped that Toby’s ingenuity would help us
find the elusive solution to my problem.

Toby wrote at the top of the first sheet; BOB KNOWS YOUR
FINANCIAL POSITION. He then drew angled lines lower down the page.
At the end of the first line he wrote; HOW? He looked at the rest
of us in the room expectantly. Roddy started the brainstorming
session by suggesting “The Bank”. Toby wrote it down and numbered
it. Dee called out with “Friends and neighbours”. Toby duly wrote
that down and added one of his own, which he numbered three. He
wrote “Employers”. The exercise went on until the list comprised
eight possible ways that Bob could have found out about my
financial position.

“
OK.” Toby said, as he picked up a red marker pen. “Let’s see
if we can eliminate some of these possibilities.” I stood and
walked to the board, looking at each line intently before
commenting on each in turn.

“
Number one; ‘The Bank’. I think we can scrub that one, as I
use an internet based account and so they have no idea that I own
my flat. Also a large part of my earnings are paid into investment
funds and pension funds, and so no-one at the bank could have any
real idea of my monthly income, let alone my net worth.” Toby drew
a line through ‘The Bank’.

“
Next, I think we can rule out friends. They have no idea what
I earn. To be honest, most of my friends probably imagine I earn
around a third of my actual income. Only a few close friends have
been to my flat, and I think they just assumed it was rented. I
never felt it necessary to disabuse them of that view.” Toby
crossed the second line out, too.

“
Three and four can stay for the moment.” Toby’s pen hovered
over item five, ‘Inland Revenue’. “I think we can rule them out,
too,” I said, “as they know about my income but they have no idea
that I own other assets like the flat. They only know what’s on my
tax return, and that information is unremarkable.” Line five was
scrawled out.

“
Line six; ‘Relatives’.” I thought hard before dismissing this
one. “Only my parents and my brother have any clue as to my
financial position, but even they probably underestimate my income.
Dad is forever offering to lend me a couple of grand if I ever get
into trouble living in London. Pete, he’s more switched on. He
probably realises that I earn over a hundred thousand a year, but
he probably thinks I have a huge mortgage, just like he has. No. I
think we have to eliminate family.” Another crossing out in red
marker followed that conclusion.

“
Ex - girlfriends.” I smiled wanly before dismissing line
seven. “I’m afraid none of my girlfriends stuck around long enough
to understand my financial position, so that’s a non-starter.” It
was eliminated in red.

“
Last one.” I considered ‘Lenders and credit
agencies’.

“
Well, I don’t have any loans, and my credit rating is good
but, again, there is no way they could know I own a flat worth over
three hundred grand. That line has to go as well.”

The people in the room perused the list which now consisted of
‘3) Employer’ and, ‘4) Accountant’. Before I made my opinion known,
the other three had alighted on their own preference, which in all
cases was the accountant.

“
Toby,” I said, “the only person at Dyson Brecht who knows
about my finances is you, and I trust you with my life. I guess we
need to look more closely at Atkins, Garretson, and Palmer, better
known in the City as AGP.” I paused. “More specifically, I need to
speak to Andrew Cuthbertson, who does my accounts.” Toby crossed
out number three, ‘Employer’, and flipped the page before writing
at the top ‘WHY JOSH?’

***

Sandwiches, juice and fruit having been consumed, the four of
us assembled in the conference room and set our minds to answering
the question “Why pick on Josh?”

Using the same flip chart as before, we listed and discarded
all but one reason. Out went Envy, Hatred, Prejudice, Revenge and
Ideology. It looked like a list of most of the seven deadly sins,
but none of them seemed likely as a motive.

Toby summarised the discussion, which had taken almost an hour
and which had been very deep at times.

“
Dee, gentlemen, we are left with one category standing;
Greed. I have to say that, before we began this exercise, that was
my view anyway. Josh, the fact is, the texts and emails you have
received have been dispassionate, even jokey. There has been no
attempt to make you suffer, no rambling theses about the evils of
capitalism or suggestion that you need to repent of your evil ways.
No. I think that you were chosen simply because you were available
and you had the funds.” The others nodded in agreement.

“
I have to agree,” Roddy said. “You should see the anonymous
hate mail we receive in the post. It’s as disgusting as it is
inaccurate. We are accused of stealing taxpayers’ money to pay huge
bonuses, but we have never been given a penny of government money
and our CEO is paid a fixed salary, with no bonus at all. All of
our bonuses go to the staff who run the society, and they earn
modest salaries. Our profits are fed back into the mutual for the
benefit of our customers. If Bob was on a mission to destroy you,
or if his intentions were anything other than simple extortion, you
would know about it by now.”

Toby spoke as he tore off the used flip chart pages and folded
them. “Josh, Dee, the money is ready and there are still twenty two
hours to go. I suggest that you speak to Andrew Cuthbertson as soon
as possible and see if he can shed any light on how Bob managed to
obtain your financial records.”

The meeting adjourned and, after a good deal of handshaking
and best wishes, Dee and I were left alone in the room with a tray
of curling sandwiches and ripening fruit. I spoke
quietly.

“
OK, let’s grab a cab and go see AGP.”

“
Will they see us at such short notice?”

“
Dee, I potentially have less than twenty four hours to live.
They’ll see us.”

Chapter 9

Atkins Garretson Palmer, College Hill, London: Thursday,
3pm.

Meeting with Andrew Cuthbertson was not as simple as I had
hoped it would be. Despite my explaining the death threat and the
deadly timetable to the receptionist, Andrew’s PA and Andrew
himself, AGP were having difficulty excusing the accountant from an
allegedly important meeting. It took a call from Toby to ensure
that Andrew met us at all, and when he did he did not look at all
happy.

We were sitting in another anonymous conference room almost
identical to the one we had just left. Even the view across London
was similar. Andrew strode into the room and threw his pad down
onto the desk before sitting opposite Dee and myself. He wore an
expensive suit and a cream linen shirt, finished off with a red
silk tie. His cufflinks matched his tiepin. His brown hair was
immaculately styled, as if he’d just auditioned for a shampoo
commercial. He was good looking in a rugged sort of way, and
usually his brown eyes twinkled with friendliness, but not today.
The accountant did not exchange any pleasantries, nor did he ask
who Dee was or what she was doing there. Instead, he glared at me
and spoke harshly.

“
OK, Josh, you have managed to drag me away from a very
important meeting for fifteen minutes, so I’d start talking, if I
were you.” Andrew looked at his watch and pressed a button on the
side of the watchcase. I guessed it was a timer, but it was also
meant to signal to us that he would not be staying a minute longer
than he had to. Dee was looking puzzled, as I had described Andrew
Cuthbertson as a friend, an easy going squash partner and sometime
five a side teammate. The man sitting opposite was wound up like a
spring and frowning as if trying to win a prize for gurning. Faced
with this hostility I kept cool and spoke quietly but
assertively.