The Hollow Man (20 page)

34

H
e woke in mid-formulation of a plan. It got him to his feet. The knife fell to the floor. He put it back in the kitchen and walked outside to the garden to breathe the dawn. He thought, in the half light, he might be able to discern which of his ideas were dreams and which belonged to the daytime. It was a pitiless light: everything in the garden seemed carved from stone; the plants, the tennis court. He had expected the dream to disperse but what evaporated with the night was doubt. Doubt fed on options, and he could see only one.

Belsey went to the Somali brothers and bought all the newspapers he could find. Saturday 14 February. Valentine’s Day. Front page of the
Telegraph
: a photo of flowers left among broken glass. A picture of Jessica on a school trip, beaming. They’d decided her hobbies were acting and dancing and that she wanted to be a teacher. The school was planning a special memorial assembly. Meanwhile the Chinese student was out of hospital. The Ugandan was having his immigration papers looked at. Police were looking for a young man described as being of Asian or North African appearance, but even the tabloids were hesitant about splashing this. There was a map of the supposed escape route; he would have gone straight past Belsey. He hadn’t.

Along the side they’d pushed a separate, more personal feature: how a peaceful morning turned into carnage. “Sharon Green was taking her two sons to nursery when she heard the shots . . .” It came with more quotes from the local celebrities, former models and political activists of Hampstead, all of whom could imagine this happening anywhere but NW3. “Leafy Hampstead,” the papers kept saying, until you wondered if the leaves might have been in on it.

They hadn’t pieced together a motivation yet. The tabloids were still filling space with victim stories, getting itchy to switch on the hate. Police were giving nervous quotes about a culture of “respect killings” among London gangs, and had released a dubious E-FIT of a square-jawed, grey-skinned man with deep-set eyes. Someone was E-FIT-ing their own nightmares.

Belsey found Kovar’s business card.
Max Kovar
, it said, and didn’t feel the need to specify a job or company. Belsey went into the CID office and spun his Rolodex of contacts. He called a friend in the Branch Intelligence Unit—a subdivision of Specialist Crime. Belsey used to play football with them. They played filthy. And they had connections; they played with men who weren’t police officers, describing themselves as Civil Service, which Belsey took to mean MI5. The unit’s switchboard put him through to DS Terry Borman.

“Terry,” Belsey said. “You’re up early.”

“I’m up late. One of those weeks. How can I help?”

“If my paths crossed with a character called Max Kovar would you be interested?”

“I know the name.”

“Can you know more than that?”

“Let me call you back.”

Belsey had expected as much. He’d be checking the files, but he’d also be checking the heat. When they operated on the edge of a big grey shadow called the secret services even men like Terry Borman went suddenly quiet on you.

Borman called back in ten.

“Which bit of him are you interested in?”

“Give me a rundown.”

“Speculator. Throws his weight around. He made a lot of money in the eighties investing in copper mines. Comes up in various corruption inquiries: unsavoury connections in Peru, naughtiness on the Ivory Coast. Likes to put money in the bank accounts of government officials and ship guns to loyal friends. But his big love is horses. Kovar spends a lot of time over in the UK checking on his thoroughbreds. He runs a major stable, got a manor in Gloucestershire he uses.”

“What’s he up to now?”

“No idea. The last couple of years he’s been moving a lot of capital into new media and gambling.”

“OK.”

“Are you still playing football? I tried to call you the other night.”

“I’m between phones.”

“We’ve got a match against Vice on Sunday. We need your pace.”

“I’m not match-fit right now, Terry.”

“We’re desperate.”

“Not this weekend.”

Belsey found the number for RingCentral. He had to move fast, while he had the CID office to himself. He rang RingCentral and gave Devereux’s reference number off the invoice.

“Is that Mr. Devereux?” a cheerful-sounding woman asked.

“That’s correct.”

“How can we help you this morning?”

“I believe at the moment calls to AD Development are going to an answering service, is that correct?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“I’d like to divert them instead. Can you divert to this number?” Belsey gave the number for his extension at Hampstead police station.

“That’s done for you.”

“Fantastic,” he said.

Kovar’s card gave a mobile number, but Belsey decided on a more subtle approach. He found the number for the Lanesborough hotel. He spent a few minutes looking at it, then lifted the receiver. His finger hovered over the buttons and then he pushed them, slowly. A hotel receptionist answered. Belsey introduced himself as Alexei Devereux and said he was looking for Max Kovar. She put him through to the Royal Suite. Belsey let it ring once, then put the receiver down.

Three minutes later a call came in. He answered: “AD Development. Jack speaking.”

“It’s Max Kovar. We met last night.”

“Max, good morning.”

“Did someone call me?”

“No, I don’t think so. I told Alexei I met you. Maybe he called.”

“Mr. Devereux? Well, I’m able to speak now.”

“He’s gone. He’s in a meeting. Everything’s full steam here, as you can imagine—Boudicca, all that.”

“Yes. You seemed like he might be open to some conversation on the subject.”

“Oh, I don’t imagine so. I don’t see why. Well . . .” Belsey paused. “Open to conversation?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think it’s possible. Alexei’s a man of business, not conversation. But I wanted to thank you for your interest.” Kovar was silent. Belsey let whatever he was thinking go on being thought. “I’ll speak to him,” Belsey said finally. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Kovar burst out, then softened. “Yes, I am serious.”

“My apologies. Our apologies. We’ll call you if we get the chance.”

Belsey hung up. The game was back on.

Kovar was canny, but that was what a good con man looked for: someone clever, someone who knows good luck happens quietly if you’re clever about it. Belsey called the answering service and told them to revert to the previous arrangement.

“Of course, sir.”

It took all of thirty seconds for his good spirits to sour. He went to the window. A man in an expensive overcoat looked up from a bench across the road and met his eyes. Belsey saw at once that it was the blond man from the Arabic newspaper cutting, the man shaking hands, the man who’d been banging on Devereux’s door at midnight. He hadn’t changed clothes. Hadn’t shaved. Belsey stared at him and the man stared back. So it wasn’t a tail operation. Belsey didn’t know what it was.

Belsey checked the corridor. It was empty. He took the shopping bag of money from where he’d stashed it in his desk and stuffed the notes into his pockets. He left the station by the back entrance.

Ocean Wealth Protection was just opening up. The advisers were in a cheerful mood. The place smelt of fresh coffee.

“Come in, come in.” They had the bonhomie of men about to close a deal. “Are you still looking for the same set-up?”

Belsey trimmed his ambitions. Five grand got him an office address in Liechtenstein, a checking account with the Bank of the South Pacific and a company called International Metal Holdings, registered in the Dominican Republic.

“It’s a nice one. Records go back four years. You’ve got three directors. All yours to start trading whenever you want.”

It was enough to sink some money out of reach for the moment, and it left him with a grand to play with.

“Do you take cash?” Belsey said, and they laughed. “I suppose you know where to put it,” he said. They didn’t laugh at that.

B
elsey took his new paperwork and left the office. He walked to a newsagent’s on Belsize Lane. They stocked five Arabic papers in a rack at the front along with all the major European and American dailies. He compared his clipping of the men shaking hands to the newspapers on offer—
Al-Ahram
,
Alarab
,
Asharq Alawsat
. None quite matched.

Hampstead station shared a pool of Arabic interpreters with the rest of Camden Borough but none were around that morning. Belsey stashed the ownership documents for his new business corporation in his desk. He felt a pride at the hard evidence of his new life and its burgeoning infrastructure. Now he needed to get some money in it. Which meant taking on the mantle of Project Boudicca. He made some calls. There was an Iranian police constable at Holborn station but the mosque was closer.

Belsey walked to the Regent’s Park mosque. Since his first, tense visit, the day after the bombings, he had grown to like the place, and its imam Hamid Farahi in particular. The worn lustre of its golden dome rose above the bare branches of the park, facing the apartment blocks of St. John’s Wood. Through the doorway Belsey could see an expanse of red prayer mats, temporarily abandoned but for two men prostrate beneath the huge chandelier. The sunrise prayers had finished a while ago, early-morning devotees dispersed to work, to the coffee shops.

Belsey slipped his shoes off, went in and asked an attendant if Farahi was about. A moment later the imam appeared.

“Salaam, Nicholas.”

“Salaam,” Belsey said. They shook hands. Farahi was elegant in his white robes. Belsey had initially been surprised by how young he was. But he carried himself with the authority of his position.

“I’ve got some translation work for you,” Belsey said. “If you have a moment.”

They walked into a library and cultural centre next door to the mosque and took a seat among the bookshelves. Belsey removed the clipping from Devereux’s wallet and handed it over. The imam held it at some distance, as if it was safer that way.

“This is
Al-Hayat
.”

“Tell me about
Al-Hayat
,” Belsey said.

“One of the big Arabic newspapers: respected, pro-West, owned by a Saudi prince.”

“Do you see many in London?”

“Yes. Any shop selling Arabic newspapers will sell
Al-Hayat
. It prints in Europe.”

“What does the circled article say?”

The imam produced a pair of glasses from within his dishdasha and flicked them open. He peered closer and read: “ ‘Hong Kong Gaming and its major stakeholder, Saud International Holdings, believes sport is a language we all understand. It is the model for a global community.’ ” The imam looked up with a derisive smile.

“What is this project they’re talking about?”

Farahi examined the article.

“Some investment in London. It doesn’t say. It says ‘the UK entertainment and leisure sector.’ Some big project with these people, AD Development. It was agreed last Saturday. They have just agreed something. They are shaking hands.”

“It doesn’t say what?”

“A development in the UK gambling sector. It will see big investment in London. That’s all it says.”

“Who’s the blond guy?”

Hamid read the article again. “Pierce Buckingham. Representing AD Development.”

“Pierce Buckingham.”

“That’s right.”

Belsey looked closer at the untrustworthy Buckingham. One more piece for the puzzle.

“Does it say who the other man is?”

“Prince Faisal bin Abdul Aziz, the gaming consortium’s majority stakeholder.”

“Where was this picture taken?”

“It doesn’t say.”

Belsey studied the spire in the photograph: it had a weathervane on the top, glinting: an arrow on top of a ball. The spire capped a square, stone tower. Between the men and the church was an empty space, like a courtyard, with modern buildings at either side.

“Have you heard of these people?”

“Not Pierce Buckingham. The other man, yes. The prince is a great-grandson of the first king of Saudi Arabia. Not a good man.”

“Why?”

“He’s a thief. He’s draining the country of its money, state money, for his own projects. Many people there are suffering and he invests all the resources in Europe and America. This newspaper is owned by his cousin.” He prodded the paper.

“OK. Thanks.” Belsey took the clipping back. “You’ve been a help.”

He dropped into Swiss Cottage Library on his way to Hampstead. The library kept old issues of the
Ham & High
: the last month’s out on a rack, the last five years filed in a cabinet behind the issue desk. What had Charlotte said? There was a news story about Devereux moving to London but only the
Ham & High
ran with it. Belsey found last week’s edition and turned through the pages until he saw the headline:
NEW OLIGARCH IN TOWN UPSETS LOCALS
.

Alexei Devereux is the latest in a long line of Russian billionaires to set up home on Hampstead’s luxurious Bishops Avenue.

But local residents have expressed concern over his sudden arrival.

Devereux’s investment company, AD Development, has courted controversy in the past with its aggressive approach to land acquisition, seeking room for an ever expanding gambling and entertainment empire. Now Devereux’s new neighbours fear that the might of AD Development is in London for a reason. The Russian has made no secret of his wish to make an impact on his favourite European city. Nor is he short of political connections, all of whom refused to comment yesterday.

Belsey didn’t have to go far to find the
Ham & High
offices. They took up a floor of the cream-coloured 1980s block beside the library. Belsey went in and said he had a meeting with Mike Slater and was sent up.

Slater’s office went for a theme of organised chaos: a bicycle wheel and repair kit on the floor, half-empty mugs on top of stacks of books. The walls were decorated with old covers, various scoops, mostly concerning corruption on the council, and several awards for best local coverage: the environment, education, policing. Slater got up from his battered chair when he saw Belsey and grasped him with a double-handed shake. He appeared to be the one who’d had less sleep. One arm of his glasses was fixed with tape and his greying hair was a mess. His desk was covered with information on Jessica Holden.