Casanova

Mark Arundel

Codename: Casanova

[FILE NO.2]

First Published 2012

© Mark Arundel 2012

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Mark Arundel asserts his right to identification as the author of this work in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

Laughing Gulls

To the memory of Ann Arundel

1

FRIDAY, 12:00—24:00

IF ANY VISIBLE SIGNS did exist to tell the man had just had sex with a prostitute then I couldn’t see them.

It had taken exactly thirteen minutes and fifty-seven seconds, which was less than a quarter of an hour, which wasn’t very long. I presumed he was a busy man. I knew how long it had taken because I’d timed it using my new watch, which was expensive. It was Swiss made, the type a young diver would love to own. Charlotte had given it to me as a present. Not for any reason that I knew of, like my birthday or anything, but just because she wanted to she said. Her exact words were, “If you are going to do the job, you should at least wear a proper watch.” Then she had smiled. I’m not sure I liked it (the watch not the smile) but I didn’t tell her. It worked okay, that was the important thing: thirteen minutes and fifty-seven seconds. Accuracy is everything with these expensive Swiss watches.

The man had come out looking just the same as when he went in. His tailored business suit used every inch of its rich man’s price tag to flatter his portly frame, and stop his ruddy features and cannonball head from being mistaken for those of just anyone. The man’s name was William Chester and I was watching him because Meriwether had asked me to.

Bartholomew Meriwether had called me on my phone, which was a
top-up
. We use them because it avoids our names going on the database. That means no trace. Apparently, we change them regularly too, just in case. If you ever see a man wearing a watch like mine buying a top-up for his phone they’re rare so it might just be me.

Anyway, Meriwether called and gave me the details on William Chester and asked me to watch him. He wanted me to confirm whether he was visiting the Soho address that he gave me. He asked me not to tell Charlotte about it too. His exact words were, “C does not need to know about this, not at this stage, you understand.” I didn’t understand but I didn’t tell him so. Charlotte lived in an apartment in Mayfair so maybe she didn’t understand about prostitution. No, it couldn’t be that. I didn’t know where Bartholomew Meriwether lived. He always seemed to be at his club on St. James’s, that I did know.

William Chester was on the move. You would expect a man like him to have a chauffeur-driven car or to get a cab but today he was riding the tube. When a man doesn’t want his whereabouts known and, more importantly, what he’s doing that he oughtn’t to be then he rides the tube. It was three stops to William Chester’s office on Fleet Street. The underground was just crowded enough for me to follow him unobserved, even if he was aware of the possibility of a tail, which I didn’t think he was. Other travellers had occupied every seat so I stood at the far end of the carriage and held on. A young woman wearing a woollen knitted hat and gloves stood next to me. I felt her glance at me, twice. At the second stop, more passengers got on and the woman stepped closer. At the next stop, the carriage jolted and the woman fell against me. I felt her breast press against my arm. She gave me another glance but neither of us spoke.

William Chester stepped through the sliding carriage doors and I followed him out on to the platform. We moved with the throng travelling upwards until we reached street level and daylight. It was early afternoon and a keen northeasterly gave the overcast December day a rawness that made people hunch, hold their coats tight and hurry. William Chester wasn’t wearing a coat. Apparently, his burly frame was a good insulator. I followed him to his office. He went inside without a backward glance.

I carried on walking and within four minutes found a franchised coffee shop. I knew it was under four minutes because of my watch. I looked in through the glass door. The tables were mostly empty so I went in and ordered a plain white coffee. The girl behind the counter with her hair tied back, wearing a logo printed apron didn’t smile. I chose a table against the far wall, away from the other customers, and sat down facing the door. The Christmas decorations did their best to lift the place but it was still uninspiring, even mildly depressing.

I called Meriwether on my
top-up
phone. He was a man who spoke very well and very fast but he never actually said anything that was obvious or definitive, and he rarely used a person’s given name. I had noticed this straight away.

‘What have you discovered?’ he asked.

‘He left his office, went to the address, stayed there for fourteen minutes and then went back to his office.’

‘Only fourteen minutes?’

I could sense the amusement in his voice.

‘I timed it on my watch.’

Meriwether gave an upper-class guffaw and then asked, ‘Have you eaten luncheon?’ Then without pausing for a reply said, ‘You better join me at my club; there’s quail on the menu today, if you like that sort of thing; personally, I find it a bit too fiddly. I much prefer the more admirable steak and kidney pie.’ He ended the call before I could respond.

Without finishing my drink, I left the coffee shop and headed for St. James’s Square. It wasn’t far. On The Strand, I flagged a cab and arrived in under seven minutes (the watch again).

At the old school club for English gentlemen, an elderly man greeted me politely, although the welcome he gave had all the enthusiasm of someone who had spent most of their sixty years serving the upper classes. He seemed tired.

‘I’ll inform Mr. Meriwether of you arrival, sir.’ His wrinkled, pale face displayed unfamiliarity with emotion. ‘He’s waiting for you in the visitors’ lounge, sir.’

‘Thanks; I know the way.’

I went through and found Bartholomew Meriwether standing at the bar. He was drinking what looked like a martini and gazing at nothing in particular in that English way that was once prevalent back in the days when we still had the empire.

‘Ah, good man, you’re here. I’ve sent a message for the chef to prepare two servings of his finest steak and kidney. Do you want a drink first or shall we go straight through?’

In the dining room, we sat at a square table covered with a heavy white cloth and laid with silver and crystal. The waiter hovered, moved silently and brought things without Meriwether seemingly acknowledging his presence.

‘You’ve probably been wondering why I said not to tell C.’

I didn’t have time to reply.

‘It looks like there’s some work coming up.’

I’d been in the job about a month and a half. After the Tenerife thing, Meriwether put me on what he called a retainer, which he paid monthly into my bank account, tax-free apparently. It was a generous sum. In addition, the job came with a furnished apartment in Pimlico overlooking the river and an account at a recommended tailor.

A more senior waiter than the one who had been serving us up until now appeared beside our table with his hands clasped behind his back and head slightly bowed.

‘The chef sends his compliments, Mr. Meriwether, but regrets he’s been unable to prepare the steak and kidney pie you requested. He recommends, instead, the breast of pheasant with a Madeira sauce. The pheasants were delivered this morning, sir, from the Glamorgan shoot and they do look quite delicious.’

Meriwether took the news well.

‘Unfortunate, I’d promised my luncheon guest steak and kidney, but there it is. I’m certain it can’t be helped.’ He then looked at me and with amusement in his eyes asked, ‘How would a nice plump breast suit... freshly plucked?’

With an ingratiating “thank-you, sir,” the waiter withdrew leaving Meriwether free to return to the matter in hand.

‘Did you know that C’s parents were killed when she was just nine?’

I didn’t know that and Meriwether knew it.

‘She was raised by her grandfather, on her mother’s side. He’s eighty-one and long retired. She’s very close to him. Do you know what line of business he was in?’

Again, I didn’t know. A couple of possibilities came to mind but I didn’t voice either of them.

‘Banking—yes, he ran one of our biggest banks for many years. The bank has since merged with others and the name has changed but he still keeps in touch with the board. His name is well known on Threadneedle Street.’

I considered how this information influenced matters and then I realised.

On seeing I had made the connection, Meriwether nodded and said, ‘Yes, C’s grandfather knows our Casanova.’

He was referring to William Chester. You see, when William Chester wasn’t making home visits to call girls in Soho flats he was a high-flying city banker.

‘Until I know more about what we have here I don’t want to get C involved.’

What did we have here? The question came readily to mind. I didn’t know. I knew, though, that it was going to be my job to find out.

‘What I do know is that a large sum of money has disappeared,’ Meriwether said.

‘...disappeared?’

‘Yes, disappeared,’ he repeated. I left it.

He continued. ‘Now that the Treasury and the Old Lady have had a good look at the books, a financial hole has been uncovered, a very large financial hole and Casanova’s sticky paw prints are all around the edge.’

Since William Chester was a government appointee, albeit at supposed arms length, there existed a real danger of exposure and of extremely damaging political chagrin.

‘Yes,’ he said. Meriwether could see I was keeping up with his usual cryptic-style briefing. ‘In the current situation, egg on the face would be a mere inconvenience compared to the potential repercussions both financially and politically.’

The pheasant breasts arrived draped in a thick, pale-yellow sauce.

‘Nothing you and I can’t take care of though, one way or another.’

He tucked his napkin into the front of his jacket and said, ‘What lovely plump breasts. This was a good choice don’t you think?’

The first thing Meriwether wanted me to do was pay the call girl a visit. As he put it “until we know more let’s gather a little primary intelligence of our own. Find out for us will you what takes fourteen minutes and needs a professional instead of the loyal Mrs. Chester at home.”

There were two good things about my new job. One was the credit card Meriwether had given me, which allowed me to pay for anything connected to my work regardless of the cost; and the other was the false identification, which was quite genuine in appearance and showed me to be a senior officer with Interpol. Apparently, Meriwether uses Interpol because it’s a government agency and each of the individual member states holds its own jurisdiction. Therefore, it’s quite straightforward for each country to control its own patch, as it were. I had been fully briefed by a man at VX [
VX: Vauxhall Cross
] who detailed everything it was thought I would need to know in order for me to convince people I was a real officer with Interpol. I thought it highly unlikely I would fool anyone. After all, I was a soldier not a policeman but I went along with it. I learnt many new things, for example, Interpol stands for The International Criminal Police Organisation and their mission is to prevent international crime. It’s amazing what you can pick up in just a few short hours.

I left the club on St. James’s and headed back to Soho. The cold northeasterly was now depositing flurries of snow as if someone was emptying a hole-punch above my head. I found my black, woollen hat from my jacket pocket and pulled it on over my ears. Wearing the hat when I hadn’t shaved for a few days, like now, made me look more like a criminal than an international criminal catcher, but in the snow who could tell.

As I approached the bend in the road from where I’d observed William Chester entering and leaving the flat, only a few hours earlier, I got that feeling I used to get when I was still a soldier. The one when my stomach knots from the sudden jolt of an unexpected fatal event.

The spinning blue lights on the roof of the police car and ambulance bounced around the road and stabbed at my eyes. A small crowd had gathered to watch. They were probably neighbours and passers-by drawn to the macabre and held by the chill of horror. Someone was dead.