48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (42 page)

Having paid the taxi driver, he had walked towards the only
aircraft showing any lights. It was a Cessna 172 with four seats.
The pilot was French speaking but was originally from Iraq, judging
by his accent and colouring. Hickstead held onto the strut
supporting the wing and lifted himself into the small aircraft. He
had paid ten thousand pounds for this journey, and to protect his
anonymity. Dozing from time to time, he dimly recollected touching
down at some deserted airfield to unload something - he didn’t want
to know what – and to refuel.

It was light by the time the plane touched down in Cyprus at
Ercan Airport, which was a charter airport and so had some basic
immigration checks, which were quickly dispensed with when his
pilot, Assif, handed an envelope to a Turkish official.

A forty minute drive took him to The Mercure Hotel in Kyrenia,
where he slept the day through in a luxury suite.

Now, almost two months later, he regretted his initial
extravagance. After a month he had been obliged to move from the
hotel into a small rented cottage to eke out his initial funds. He
was safe from extradition here. The weather was warm and dry; even
in November the daytime temperature reached the mid 20s Celsius. He
also had beautiful view over the sea where he could watch the
sunset, which made up, in part, for the modest
accommodations.

Living as Martin Wells, he had become known as Mr Martin to
those locals who had a smattering of English. In the evenings he
would sit in the bars at the local hotels and strike up
conversations with English tourists. Working class to a man, they
would generously include him in their group and buy his
drinks.

When his initial cash began to run out he sent off a letter to
the Bank in Switzerland that held the Euro Union Financial
Enterprises numbered account, requesting transfer of all funds to
Mr Martin Wells’ account at the Cyprus Turkish Bank of Commerce.
That was two weeks ago, and he had heard nothing yet, but the post
from Cyprus was notoriously unreliable and he no longer had
internet access.

In desperation he tried to make a withdrawal from his UK
Barclays current account, but the account had insufficient funds.
Presumably Brenda had cleaned out the four thousand that had been
in there. He wasn’t surprised; he had left her high and dry, after
all. If he valued his freedom he could not contact her. Brenda had
become very fragile of late, and her depression had developed into
bouts of paranoia and memory loss. She couldn’t be expected to keep
a secret.

He had just worked out that he had enough cash to pay the rent
for the next month if he ate frugally, when there was a knock at
the door. It would be Bajram, the soup man. It amazed Hickstead
that in the heat of the Cyprus day a vendor could come around the
streets and sell hot soup to locals, who brought out their own
tureens or bowls. He had to admit, though, the soup was good and it
cost almost nothing.

He walked to the door and opened it, but it wasn’t Bajram. It
was an English face he hadn’t seen in a while. For a moment he was
speechless, but finally he found his voice.

“
Josh Hammond. This is a pleasant surprise. Have you come to
kill me?”

***

The figure facing me now was a lot less prepossessing than the
Lord Hickstead I had seen previously.

“
No, Arthur, or Martin, or whatever you call yourself. That
would be more your line of work than mine.”

“
Touché,” he said. “You had better come in.”

I walked along a roughly plastered corridor with whitewashed
walls. On one side was a kitchen and on the other a bathroom. The
corridor opened into a bright lounge area that was modestly
furnished in typical holiday cottage style. There was a radio and a
TV but no air conditioning or heating. The view from the large
picture window, however, was to die for. It was spectacular. I sat
on a cane sofa with flowery upholstery and he sat in a matching
chair. From my seat I could see a tiny lobby area leading to two
bedrooms.

“
Sorry about the accommodation. I’m taking a villa on a new
development just along the coast. It’s amazing what you can get in
Northern Cyprus for around fifty thousand pounds.”

As I had been told by Inspector Boniface, Hickstead still
believed that he had over half a million pounds safely secreted
away in the Euro Union Financial Enterprises account. That account
had been closed some time ago, but the security services had asked
the bank to keep that information to themselves until he gave the
bank his permanent address.

“
So, Josh, what brings you all the way to Cyprus?” the peer
asked conversationally. “Surely you haven’t flown all the way here
just to gloat?”

“
Not at all, Arthur. I was in the area on my honeymoon and
thought I’d call in and keep you up to date with the news from the
UK.”

“
Well, well, I would have thought you would have taken the
lucky lady somewhere a little more exclusive. After all, I imagine
you now have your money back.”

“
To be honest, Arthur, Cyprus is just one port of call. An old
friend of yours has generously allowed us the use of his family
yacht and crew to cruise the Mediterranean for two
weeks.”

The former peer frowned in puzzlement, and so I expanded on my
brief explanation.

“
Jayne Craythorne and her husband Jonas have become good
friends of mine, thanks to a common interest in what happens to
Lord Hickstead. In fact, you’ve done me more than one
favour.”

“
Really?” His confusion was as enjoyable for me as his despair
would be later.

“
Oh, yes. When you threatened to kill me I was given a
bodyguard, Dee Conrad, who as of last weekend is now my wife. You
probably remember her as the woman you had kidnapped and shot
twice.”

The peer blanched and it looked as though he was going to
distance himself from the actions of the Dutch thugs in Tottenham,
but he obviously decided against it.

“
I notice that your Navitimer has gone. It was once a
fixture.”

“
Well, there really is little need for a watch these days,
especially here. I rise with the sun and sleep when I’m tired.
Anyway, what a poor host I am. Would you like a glass of
wine?”

Pain showed in his eyes, a regret at having to sell his watch
simply to survive. A regret, I fear, he had not experienced when he
killed Sir Max Rochester or Andrew Cuthbertson.

“
Actually I have something better than the local wine,” I told
him. “It’s a small gift.”

I lifted a bottle of Clés des Ducs Armagnac from my bag and
handed it to him.

“
How perceptive of you!” he beamed, surprised. “It’s my
favourite. Would you like a glass? It is an excellent
brandy.”

“
Actually, the brandy is a gift from DCI Coombes and the newly
promoted DCI Boniface. They noted your preference when they cleared
your belongings from the Chief Whip’s apartment.”

The forlorn figure facing me took the bottle. He opened it,
and poured a generous portion into a tumbler. As he took his first
taste he closed his eyes. The pleasure he took in savouring the
taste was obvious. This was just one more thing he missed from his
old life.

“
Well, Josh,” he said after a few moments. “I imagine you
would like to get back to screwing your wife in the master suite of
the Craythornes’ yacht, so what’s the news you are bringing to
me?”

I ignored his jibe and his vulgarity.

“
Well, first of all you’ve been listed as missing, not dead,
and so all of your assets are taking some sorting out. Brenda’s
sister has sold the house and the furnishings, as Brenda is unable
to do so herself. If you’re interested, Brenda is in a really
pleasant care home on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors, and she is
now well enough for her sister to take her shopping and on outings.
I went to visit her a little while ago and she thought I was
someone called Danny.”

I paused when I saw him flinch. His sister in law had
explained that he and Brenda had one child, Daniel, who had died in
his cot, and with no apparent cause of death his passing was
ascribed to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. They had never been able
to have more children, but Brenda was adamant that he had survived
and had grown to adulthood.

“
The care home is expensive, but the funds from the sale of
the property will keep the payments going for around three
years.”

“
How did she manage to sell the house? It was in joint names.
I should be entitled to half of that money.” His lack of concern
for his wife was sickening.

“
Well, I was able to help there. I found an underwriter who
would issue a single premium insurance policy that would pay out
your share should you ever return and make a claim. I think you
have five years.

By the way, they sold most of your belongings, too, but there
was one thing they thought you might want to keep.”

I lifted the second package out of the bag. It was a varnished
oak box with a hinged lid and brass clasp.

“
How did you get that through customs?” he asked, taking hold
of the box and opening it.

“
What customs? When you land at the Marina there is a notice
above a telephone which states that if you have anything to
declare, pick up this phone.”

I looked at Hickstead as he carefully lifted his old service
pistol out of the velvet lined box. I could see memories flooding
back as he felt the weight of the gun in his hand. The Browning Hi
Power 9mm semi automatic handgun had replaced the old Webley
Service Revolvers in 1963 and the army were still using them in
many units. I had taken the precaution of ensuring that there was
no ammunition in the box.

“
Arthur, you will be pleased to hear that when your pension is
due next year the Union are paying it to Brenda to pay for her
care. They said it was the least they could do, as you had gone
missing. Unless, of course, you pass away before then, in which
case the whole pension pot is paid to her as a lump
sum.”

Hickstead clamped his teeth together; he had obviously made
other plans for that pension.

I continued. “On the employment front, things have moved along
quite quickly and quietly. The coalition government, at the request
of the Lords, passed a bill allowing you to be expelled from the
House of Lords and for you to have all your attendant privileges
withdrawn. But I guess you were expecting that. There is some good
news, though. Alan Parsons, your solicitor, won’t be charging you
for his services now that he knows you are
impoverished.”

The former peer bristled at this.

“
Tell him to submit his bill, for all the use he was. I am
expecting a large sum of money soon, and he will get his
money.”

I went into the nearly empty bag one more time.

“
As I was coming to see you anyway, I was asked to bring you
this letter.”

The franking on the accurately addressed envelope denoted that
it came from his Swiss Bank. He opened it and looked at the
statement. I already knew that there were only five transactions
shown on it. The last was the most important. It was dated the day
he fled London. It read:

‘
Transfer to UK Security Holdings Ltd. €645,000.00, balance
remaining €1,326.00.’

Hickstead stared at the letter. I watched his eyes dart to and
fro across the words as he read and reread the contents. When he
finally spoke, he was almost shouting.

“
This isn’t right! This is a disgrace! It’s a clear
infringement of my human rights. In fact, it’s downright criminal.
I’ll sue the bank and whoever took the money!”

Hickstead was seething, but he knew that his prospects of
recovering any of his money were now zero. He was almost penniless,
and unless he returned to the UK he would never see any of the
money that had been taken from him. He was clearly tired of me now,
and suggested rather impolitely that I leave.

“
Yes, I need to get back, but you might want a copy of this.”
I withdrew a sheet of paper from my inside pocket and handed it to
him.

“
It’s a European Arrest Warrant for Arthur Hickstead, also
known as Martin Wells. It seems that whilst the Turkish authorities
will not deport you, they will notify Interpol if you leave Cyprus,
and if you fly through European airspace or land anywhere in Europe
you will be arrested on landing and returned to the UK. By the way,
I’m sure you know already, but the arrest warrant also applies to
the southern half of Cyprus, which is administered by
Greece.”

I stood and walked to the door. He followed.

“
You want me to go back to the UK and be tried for my crimes,
don’t you? That’s what this whole exercise was all
about.”

I smiled, because he still had not worked it out.

“
Arthur, nobody wants you back. You are already in a prison of
your own making. You’re stuck in the northern half of a small
island. Even worse than that, you have no money and no earnings and
you’re living in a down market holiday apartment where you wouldn’t
have dreamed of staying overnight two months ago.”