48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (9 page)

“
Yes, indeed, London City bonuses are both legendary and
generous to humble merchants like myself.”

“
Shall we get on?” Bob prompted. “The money has been
transferred.”

“
Yes, sir, I will just confirm.” The Egyptian pressed a button
on his phone and waited. After a moment he spoke a few sentences in
Arabic before switching to English. “Asif, I am so distressed to
disturb you on this special day but can you confirm that the funds
are cleared to my account as agreed?” He listened to the reply for
a moment and then bade his bank manager farewell in
Arabic.

“
My bank manager is sitting at home with his laptop and has
confirmed payment, so we may now proceed.”

Abasi Noor opened a secret drawer in his desk by sliding back
an intricately carved panel. He reached in a brought out a velvet
pouch.

“
As you requested, I have purchased only the very best round
diamonds from Antwerp. These are all classified as colourless
category D, or what we call best blue white. They are also
internally flawless, they are extraordinarily rare. They have been
cut for maximum brilliance, not for maximum carat size. But as you
will see they are all large diamonds. You may not know that a
diamond that is twice the size of another is usually almost three
times more expensive. Please, take a look.”

Even under the harsh fluorescent lighting the diamonds looked
magnificent. Bob had acquired them to sell on, but he was
reconsidering now that he had been besotted by their
beauty.

“
I have the invoice from Antwerp. Losi Van Serck cut these
diamonds personally as a favour to me and the certificate attached
to the invoice shows the quality, cut and carat.”

Bob looked at the invoice made out to Mr Nour. The Egyptian
had paid two hundred and twenty five thousand pounds for the
jewels, making an easy mark up. Usually he would have to integrate
the diamonds into a unique designer gold necklace to achieve a mark
up like that. But Bob was happy. These diamonds could be
transported anywhere in the world and were ready to be
traded.

A few minutes later Bob was walking along Greville Street in
the direction of the Farringdon Tube Station, sending the last text
on the “Josh Phone” before discarding it. After a short tube
journey to Kings Cross, where he removed the glasses, moustache,
hairpiece and garish City boy’s tie in the gentlemen’s toilets, Bob
hailed a taxi and headed back to his hotel for a celebratory
lunch.

Chapter 17

City of London Police HQ, Wood St, London. Friday,
Noon.

Dee was chatting and joking to try to distract me, but it
wasn’t working. It had been over half an hour since the money was
transmitted, and all we had seen or heard was Boniface taking an
urgent call. He had yelled “How did that happen?” and stormed out
of the office without another word.

I had a horrible feeling that my money was gone forever. My
phone was still in the dock and it buzzed again. I read the message
aloud.

“
Thanks Josh,

That was easy. Perhaps I didn’t ask for enough. Next time I’ll
be more realistic. You’ll be hearing from me again.

Bob”

I put my head in my hands. Dee put her hand on my
back.

“
He’s winding you up, Josh, now that he’s got what he wanted.
In any case, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s apprehended over the
weekend. This is a murder investigation now.”

What Dee said made sense, but I wasn’t convinced. I was still
pondering her remark when Boniface appeared, his face like thunder.
He spoke calmly despite his agitated appearance.

“
Josh, first of all let me assure you that your money is safe.
We are tracking it, but we have a problem. The account we sent your
money to is held at the Sharia Islamic Bank of Arabia close to
Regents Park. Unfortunately we can’t raise them on the telephone to
find out the customer’s details because it’s Friday and the Bank is
closed for the Muslim weekend. It’s also Ramadan, and so getting
hold of people at home is going to be tricky, as the London Central
Mosque has a variety of activities going on today.”

I wondered whether Bob had done this deliberately, or whether
he was just a lucky son of a bitch.

The day meandered on at a snail’s pace. The police were as
frustrated as I was. Bob was still their best suspect for a double
murder, after all. Tracking my money seemed the best way to track
the man. The IT guys had pinged his mobile phone several times
without success. I had a sneaking feeling that we would find it in
the hands of a homeless man sometime next week.

The good thing was that the money had not moved and so,
theoretically, I still had my quarter of a million pounds. It was
almost two o’clock when Inspector Boniface’s phone rang again.
Before the caller was put through, Boniface put the call on
conference and began recording it. He held his finger to his lips
as an instruction to us to keep quiet.

“
Inspector Boniface speaking. How can I help you?”

“
Hello, my name is Asif Al Maheel. I am the manager of the
Regents Park Branch of the Sharia Islamic Bank of Arabia. You have
been leaving messages for me.”

“
Thanks for calling back, Mr Al Maheel. First of all, let me
apologise for interrupting your weekend. I wouldn’t have done so if
this was not an urgent matter. If it is at all possible I need you
to go to the bank and check whose account had two hundred and fifty
thousand pounds paid into it at noon today.”

“
Oh, I don’t need to go to the bank for that information; I
was expecting a payment of that amount by noon today from a Mr Josh
Hammond. It arrived on time and I called my customer to inform him
so. But I am afraid I cannot disclose his details without a very
good reason, or maybe a warrant. I would have to speak to our legal
department on Sunday.”

“
Mr Al Maheel, we don’t have time to wait until Sunday, I’m
afraid. We are hot on the trail of a double murderer, and your
customer may be in danger.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment.
“Inspector, please, I hope you are being honest with me. In good
faith I will give you his name, but on the condition you do not
involve the bank.”

“
I can assure you, we just want to speak to your customer. We
are happy that the bank is not involved.”

The speakerphone chirped again.

“
My customer, and my friend, is the owner of Nour Jewellery
Design of Hatton Garden.”

“
Will he be at his premises today? I believe it is the
Sabbath?”

“
Oh, yes. Abasi is not the good Muslim that he might be.
Please call me if you have any problems. I am at your service,
Inspector. Goodbye.”

***

As we waited on the pavement for a car to pick us up, Dee took
me to one side. Her hazel eyes were bright with intent. Her face
was perfect. Dee was probably in her early thirties. Her hair
always shone. She had a pert nose and a generous mouth beneath it.
Her make-up was generally understated, but great cheekbones made
cosmetics redundant. I had never really met a woman like her
before. No more than five feet eight inches tall, she looked
elegant and well proportioned, but I had been assured that in a
fight she could take out men twice her size.

“
Josh, theoretically my assignment is over but I want you to
know that I’m going nowhere until I think you’re safe. Are you
comfortable with that?” I nodded dumbly. I could have kissed her,
but then again I had felt like kissing her since we’d
met.

An unmarked car pulled up and Boniface slid in beside the
driver, leaving Dee and I to take the back seat. As soon as the
doors were closed we moved off at speed towards the Barbican. The
driver could easily have been a cabbie; he knew all the shortcuts.
We drove down Long Lane before cutting up onto Charterhouse,
avoiding the one way system. A minute later we were skirting around
St Etheldreda’s Church and onto Hatton Garden. About half way up on
the right hand side we found ‘Nour Jewellery Design’.

We left the car and walked towards the shop. Unlike every
other shop in Hatton Garden, which is famous throughout the world
for its wall to wall jewellery stores, Nour had no jewellery on
display, just large decals showing the most lavish pieces I have
ever seen. The writing on the windows made it clear that Nour would
procure the best diamonds and finest gold for you and then fashion
them into unique works of art that you could wear.

Boniface pressed a button on the wall and held his warrant
card against the glass. The door buzzed and he pushed it open. We
followed him in. A stunning olive skinned girl sat at the desk
facing us.

“
Can I help you?” she asked. The accent was more East End than
Middle East. Boniface asked for Mr Nour and the girl slipped her
long perfectly manicured fingers under the edge of the desk, almost
invisibly. A moment later Mr Nour opened the door at the back of
the shop. He beamed in anticipation of doing business with wealthy
customers.

“
Welcome, gentlemen. How may I help you?” He stopped beaming
when he saw the warrant card. In fact, I thought I saw fear in his
eyes as he looked quickly from the Inspector to me. That was not
unusual. Some of my Middle Eastern clients only ever saw their
police when they were about to be taken into custody so that they
could be given the opportunity to confess.

“
You are Mr Abasi Nour, with a bank Account at the Sharia
Islamic Bank of Arabia, Regents Park?” The nervous Egyptian nodded.
“You have just had two hundred and fifty thousand pounds
transferred into your account from a Mr Josh Hammond?” The man
nodded again. “Then meet Mr Josh Hammond in person.” Mr Nour
blanched, and collapsed into his chair.

***

Five minutes passed whilst Halima made her ashen boss some hot
sweet tea. Mr Nour was normally a swarthy man with typical Middle
Eastern colour, but now his complexion was pallid and yellow. He
looked ill.

Inspector Boniface had explained earlier that there was no
chance that Mr Nour was Bob. He simply didn’t fit the profile. He
was sure that Bob had used Mr Nour to break the chain between me
and my money. With any luck we would get our first description of
Bob.

Under gentle questioning from the Inspector the whole story
unfolded. Just over forty eight hours ago, Wednesday afternoon, Mr
Noor had received a call from a man claiming to be Josh Hammond. He
said he had been recommended by Sir Max Rochester, who was a
respected customer.

This Josh had been paid a bonus of a quarter of a million
pounds (I wish) and wanted to hide it from his ex wife’s lawyers.
He wanted to convert it into something small and transportable that
he could hide easily. Diamonds had seemed the perfect option. The
trouble was that he needed to do it quickly, because next week the
auditors would be looking to split the marital proceeds.

Mr Nour had agreed to purchase the finest diamonds available
from Antwerp, apparently the world centre for the supply of fine,
cut diamonds. He had even managed to procure diamonds cut
personally by Losi Van Serck, the acclaimed artist in the field of
diamond cutting. The diamonds had arrived this morning, and Josh
Hammond had apparently collected them.

‘
Mr Hammond’ had visited the shop twice and on each occasion
he had stayed for only a few minutes. Mr Nour handed over a
business card. It was my business card, or at least on first pass
it looked like my business card. On closer inspection it had
different phone numbers. The landline number was correct, but it
had a red pen stroke through the middle. The fax number and the
mobile number were not my numbers.

“
He told me not to call him at work because calls could be
recorded,” Mr Nour explained.

“
Presumably you asked for some form of identification?” Mr
Nour’s eyes brightened as if he had suddenly been redeemed. He
opened a drawer and withdrew two sheets of A4 paper. On the first
was a scan of a driving licence; on the second was a scan of a
passport. In both cases the name was Josh Hammond but the details
were all wrong. The photo was of a middle aged man who looked
nothing at all like me, with a mane of unkempt hair and a big
moustache. Neither photo was flattering.

“
He emailed those to me when he made the order. It must have
been a different Josh Hammond. This has all been a confusing
error.”

“
Mr Nour, do you have CCTV coverage of your meeting with Mr
Hammond?”

The Egyptian disappeared into the back of the shop and
returned a moment later with a shiny CD Rom.

“
This is today’s CCTV coverage,” he explained, handing over
the CD. Boniface laid it to one side and spoke quietly.

“
Mr Nour, the money you received for your diamonds will be
frozen in your account until we have resolved whether or not it is
yours to keep.” Boniface saw the look on my face and shook his head
almost imperceptibly, inviting me to remain silent. “If this man
contacts you again you must call me immediately. Now I need three
things - a police technician to examine your computer, a
description of the man who claimed to be Josh Hammond, and a full
description of the diamonds you handed over.”