48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (6 page)

“
Andrew, as you have heard I’m being blackmailed by someone
who has an intimate knowledge of my finances...”

“
So I hear,” Andrew interjected sharply. I continued, ignoring
the interruption.

“
Well, there are very few people who know my financial
circumstances. In fact, apart from me, AGP are the only people who
know all the details of my earnings, savings and property
holdings.”

Andrew’s face reddened noticeably, and in one swift movement
he stood up, pushing his chair back against the wall with a bang,
before placing both palms on the conference table a leaning over
towards me. The next words were spat out with the kind of venom I
had never seen before in Andrew Cuthbertson.

“
Let me see if I can guess where this is going. You are about
to suggest that someone at AGP is either blackmailing you or
passing information onto your blackmailer. I suggest that before
you slander yourself you give some careful thought to your next
choice of words.” The accountant glared at both of us sitting
opposite him and, without reducing the level of vitriol in his
voice, he continued. “You drag me out of an important meeting and
subject me to these baseless accusations. That’s rich, Josh, really
rich.”

I could not remember the last time that I’d lost my temper to
such an extent that I had lost all control, but I could feel anger
welling up inside me. It began with a tightening of muscles around
the stomach. I could feel adrenaline rising and my heart was
beginning to race. Dee Conrad placed her hand on my arm as a signal
that I should remain silent, and then she spoke calmly but
firmly.

“
As I recall this conversation, Josh has accused no-one of
anything. He pointed out that your firm are the only people that
know his finances, as well as he does himself, except for the
blackmailer. Now, the blackmailer must have obtained this
information from somewhere, and you have obviously considered the
possibility that it may have leaked from here, hence your outburst.
We’re leaving now, as you are clearly not interested in discussing
this calmly, and you can answer these awkward questions directly to
the police instead. Your directors can answer those same questions
to the regulatory bodies. No doubt when all of this is finally made
public, your major clients will wonder how trustworthy AGP really
are.” Dee stood up and spoke to me.

“
Come on, we’re going. Your friend here is hiding something,
and we’d better let Inspector Boniface find out what it is.” Dee
turned to the accountant. “And you had better consider what will
happen if Josh is murdered, and whether you’re prepared to spend
life behind bars as a co-conspirator.”

Andrew Cuthbertson paled visibly, and I thought I could see
him trembling. I was shaken too, but I stood up and followed Dee to
the door. Andrew spoke up, calling to us to wait. Suddenly he
seemed a lot more cordial; in fact, there was a pleading in his
voice that was quite unexpected.

“
Look, can’t we sit down and talk about this? Perhaps I spoke
rather hastily. I’m sorry. It’s been a bad morning, that’s all.
Perhaps I can see what we can do about freeing up some funds to get
you out of this hole.”

“
Mr. Cuthbertson,” Dee interjected sharply, before I could
reply. “Go back to your important meeting. I think we’re done here.
I suggest you think carefully about what Josh has told you, and if
you want to tell us how his personal information could have fallen
into the hands of his blackmailer, call him at home. You have the
number.”

Dee ushered me out of the room, and the frame rattled as the
door slammed behind us.

***

Dee was sipping her orange juice when I returned to the table
with my Grand Latte. The coffee shop was nearly empty. I set my cup
down and looked at my new friend with a new found
respect.

“
It’ll be weeks before Andrew finds his balls again, and when
he does they’ll probably be crushed beyond any reasonable
expectation of future use,” I remarked.

Dee Conrad smiled, and I suddenly realised that she had been
as stressed by the afternoon’s events as I had. She cared. “Josh,”
she whispered conspiratorially. “Andrew Cuthbertson is as guilty as
sin. It was written all over his face. His behaviour was a classic
display of guilt. He was very defensive - way over the top,
wouldn’t you agree? I would offer good odds that not only does he
know more than he’s telling you, he’s almost certainly the man
behind the leaking of your personal details.”

I pondered the prospect of one of my closest friends selling
me out. The thought was both unwelcome and unattractive. There are
some things you don’t want to know, not because you want to be
protected from a harsh reality but because, once you lose faith in
your closest allies, what does the future hold for you? Who can you
trust?

“
Before this night is over you’ll receive a desperate phone
call from Andrew Cuthbertson, I guarantee it. I would say that
someone is forcing him to cross a line that he’s uncomfortable
with. I could read conflict all over his face.”

Dee paused and looked directly into my eyes. “If, as I
believe, you’re a good judge of character, and you’ve chosen your
friends wisely, then Mr. Cuthbertson will struggle with himself for
a while and then make the right decision.”

Chapter 10

Blacksmiths Hall, Lambeth Hill, City of London. Thursday,
5pm.

Bob strode down Queen Victoria Street towards Lambeth Hill. He
was fuming. He lifted the pay as you go phone from his pocket and
looked at the message one more time. The words on the screen did
nothing to enhance his mood;

“
Dear Bob, or whoever you are, please sod off and don’t bother
me again. You are not getting a penny from me. Should you try to
hurt me in any way I’ll be the one dishing out a sound beating,
with a coward like you on the wrong end of it. Now curl up and
die.”

The white phone had a label stuck on the reverse, which read:
‘Sir Max’. Bob removed the battery and dropped it in an ornamental
black cast iron waste bin carrying the shield of the City of
London. As he walked along the main thoroughfare he removed the sim
card and dropped it into a roadside drain. Finally, as he
approached the next waste bin, he placed the handset on the ground
and stood on it, crunching it under the heel of his shiny Church’s
Roach lace up evening shoes, before collecting up the pieces and
dropping them into the bin. He felt a little better.

A minute later Bob had reached Lambeth Hill, so he turned left
and walked down towards the River Thames. After walking a further
one hundred and fifty metres he reached the Blacksmith’s Hall, a
medieval hall that had been rebuilt many times in its history. The
most recent version faced him now. The hall had been built in the
early 19th century for the Worshipful Company of Blacksmiths, in a
mock gothic style, which gave it the look of a church. Specially
commissioned stained glass showed scenes of ancient smithies at
work on some of London’s famous landmarks.

Bob stepped inside the cavernous hall and handed his
invitation, bag and coat to an attendant. He received a ticket in
return, which he placed in the right hand pocket of his dinner
jacket. Before removing his hand he checked one last time that he
had the vial of clear liquid safely secured there.

No-one ever entered the great halls of London without being
awed by the enormity of the space, the incredible craftsmanship of
the masonry and the complex network of roof timbers, many of which
had been reclaimed from old warships. The great hall looked just
like the dining hall at Hogwarts, as depicted in the Harry Potter
films.

A young man in a white linen jacket approached him and offered
him a glass of cheap champagne. Bob took the bubbly, along with a
flyer emblazoned with the words “The Maximillian Rochester Fund for
Sick Children”.

Bob began to circulate, but it was proving rather difficult as
the floor was crammed with people. The charity event had been
blessed with a huge turnout. As he headed towards the top table,
where he would shortly be sitting, an older, grey haired man called
out to him in a plummy voice.

“
It’s the scholarship boy!”

“
It’s the thick rich kid!” Bob responded, in a pronounced and
exaggerated Lancashire accent.

Forty years had passed since Bob had boarded at Harrow on the
Hill Catholic College for Boys. He had won his place there as an
eleven year old on a scholarship awarded by his father’s trade
union. The scholarship’s aim was to improve social mobility, but it
actually resulted in social misery. The paying boarders such as Max
never let the other boys forget that they were unworthy of such an
elite establishment. Even now, Max believed that greeting Bob in
this way was just a measure of friendly camaraderie. He had no idea
of the resentment that Bob harboured for his old prefect, either
then or now. Still, it had always suited Bob to play along. That
role playing, however, was about to come to an abrupt end, after
Max’s earlier text message.

If Sir Max had suspected that his blackmailer was in the room,
and he had lined up every one of the five hundred people present
this evening, hoping to find the culprit, he would have failed
miserably, doubtless alighting on the real Bob almost at the last
pick. Sir Max felt safe and comfortable among his friends, and
would certainly not have suspected any of them capable of doing
such a thing.

The older man took the scholarship boy by the shoulder and led
him to a quiet alcove. “Listen, old chap, I really must thank you
for having a word in the PM’s ear. We received a significant
contribution under the government’s ‘Big Society’ plan. That is
really going to help put the hospices on a firm
footing.”

“
Not at all, Max. As a trustee it was my duty,” Bob replied.
“Now, what are you drinking? I’m off to the bar.”

“
I’ll have my usual, thank you, but do ask for the twelve year
old malt, there’s a good chap, otherwise they’ll serve up any old
tosh. Oh, and make it a double, if you would.” Sir Max winked. Bob
smiled and fought his way to the bar.

***

Bob flushed the empty vial down the toilet, then left the
cubicle and washed his hands. A few minutes later he was back in
his seat, just two places away from Max. The aging malt whisky sat
untouched in a glass in front of his old College prefect. Bob tried
not to stare at it.

Sir Peter Maitland-Buckley opened the proceedings, which would
auction off donated goods, experiences and outings to rich lawyers
and bankers and bring in a large amount of much needed cash for the
charity.

“
Before we begin, I’m delighted to welcome our patron, Sir Max
Rochester, who has agreed to say a few words,” he
announced.

Sir Max picked up his whisky and sank it in one gulp before he
stood. The whisky mixed with the potassium chloride and slid
smoothly down his throat, warming his insides, as the applause died
down.

“
Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the Maximillian Rochester
Fund for Sick Children I would like to extend a warm welcome to all
of you who are attending this event. May I thank you all for
turning out in such numbers. I trust you have all brought suitably
large amounts of money with you.” There was a ripple of laughter,
and Sir Max smiled with satisfaction. He cleared his throat, then
brushed a hand across his forehead as he continued. “Now, ladies
and gentlemen, let us remember why we are here. Most of us present
will count ourselves blessed to have enjoyed comfortable and
healthy childhoods, for the main part, and so now is the time to
show our largesse and bring some joy into the lives of those
children who are sick and dying.” Sir Max paused and shook his head
as if trying to clear it. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in
welcoming our charming guest auctioneer this evening, the English
born Hollywood actress Kate Jarret.”

The actress stood to much applause, and raised the wooden
auctioneer’s mallet for the cameras. Such was the concentration on
this beautiful young woman and her daring strapless dress that
no-one noticed Sir Max. He sat down rather heavily, feeling
decidedly unwell. He dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead
with his handkerchief. A pained expression crossed his wrinkled
face as he rubbed the top of his left arm and grimaced, but the
pain seemed to pass and he sipped at a glass of water.

It was a nerve wracking two minutes before Sir Max finally
succumbed to the clear liquid that Bob had introduced into his
whisky. Eventually he tried to stand up, clutched at his chest and
collapsed. There were gasps and cries of dismay, and chairs scraped
against the floor as other guests jumped to their feet nearby. Bob
was the first to his side, apparently making the old man
comfortable as he breathed his last. Amid the noisy chaos Sir Peter
made an announcement over the PA system, asking if there was a
doctor in the room. There were half a dozen, and they began to
hurry forward, but they were already too late. Bob ushered everyone
back whilst cradling the old man’s head. Max tried to utter a few
words, but they were little more than a whisper. Bob leaned in to
listen. Then he leaned over Max and whispered in his
ear.

“
You should have paid me the five million, Max. You can’t
spend it now.”