The Hollow Man (29 page)

“I think I have a bottle.”

“At yours?”

“I don’t live far.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

K
eep your enemies close, Belsey thought. Keep them drunk. Ridpath conscientiously left his Volvo on West End Lane and they walked in silence towards Kilburn. A fine rain hung in the air. Sirens passed in the darkness and the two men glanced towards the sound with the half interest of off-duties. They got slowly drenched. They didn’t trouble with small talk.

The inspector lived on the corner of a low, red-brick terrace. His hallway contained a bicycle and a basket of men’s shoes. He led Belsey into a living room and gestured feebly towards a sagging sofa. There was an old TV and a lot of papers—work papers—and books on international finance open around the place. The house smelt of old fabrics and chip fat. Ridpath crouched down to turn on a lamp that sat on the floor. Through a doorway at the end of the room Belsey could see a kitchen that hadn’t been redecorated since the 1970s, a sink crowded with crockery, more papers on the kitchen table. He took a towel from a clothes horse in the corner and dried his hair. Ridpath opened a chest of drawers and produced a bottle of Scotch, half in wrapping paper, from among a china set. He went to get glasses. Belsey picked up the bottle. Stuck to the wrapping paper was a good-luck note from Specialist Crime,
Wishing you well, Philip
. No such thing as sideways, Belsey thought. Ridpath came back and filled their glasses and sat in an armchair that sank as he lowered himself down.

“I spent a long time wondering what it was that Devereux had,” Ridpath began. “Then I saw it was secrecy itself. That’s what he sells. There are no photographs of him known to exist. He once attended a party in Moscow for five minutes and his minders kept all the guests back until two in the morning, going through their cameras and phones. Secrecy. That’s why you never meet him. He calls it the last resource. When all the oil’s gone we’ll still have our secrets.”

“What are we going to do with them?”

“I don’t know.”

Belsey watched Ridpath. He thought about men with too much time on their hands. The devil finds work for them, but so, it seemed, do the angels of justice. What were Ridpath’s secrets? They drank. Ridpath grimaced.

“Are you meant to have ice with this?” he asked.

“Do you have ice?”

“No.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Ridpath swallowed another few mouthfuls, braced for the burn this time. “Do you know what a great explorer once said? To be having an adventure is a sign of incompetence.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Devereux would never have started this violence. Violence is the failure of crime, that’s what he said to me. Murder is the sign of absolute failure.”

“That’s what he said?”

“It was a maxim of his. He was different.”

They finished their drinks and sat for a while. There was plenty of bottle to go. But Ridpath wasn’t relaxed. Belsey watched him grip the glass. He thought of what the investigator had said and compared this Devereux, the Devereux of Ridpath’s account, to the one whose life he had become acquainted with over the last couple of days.

“I think he’d become a fraudster,” Belsey said. “He was conning people. Something had gone wrong and he wasn’t owning up. That’s how he met his end.”

Belsey felt a vague guilt at puncturing Ridpath’s fantasy of the man. When someone’s ruined your life it’s important to respect them, to feel that whatever’s destroyed you is worthwhile.

“I’m not sure,” Ridpath said.

“I think the whole London thing was a set-up.”

“Why?”

“Did you see all the catalogues at the house?”

“Yes.”

“What do you make of them?”

Ridpath made a show of considering this, although he was too good a detective not to know the answer.

“Someone setting up a front, trying to create the illusion that the house is occupied.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“But it was him.”

“So he’d changed styles.”

Ridpath nodded, already onto the next thought.

“You know what the strangest thing is?”

“What?” Belsey asked.

“The girl.”

“Jessica?”

“Yes.” Just thinking about it gave Ridpath a look of bewilderment. “A relationship. That’s the real change of MO. Falling for her.”

“Even billionaires do that sometimes, I’m told.”

“I guess they must do.” Ridpath leaned back in his chair. Belsey refilled their glasses. Ridpath sniffed his drink and stared into the glass. “I just ask myself: Why
that
girl?” he said. “Out of all the women he could have had.”

“Because she was no one,” Belsey said. “A teenage escort. She was a blank slate. Maybe he could pretend he was young again. Maybe he felt he was. No one ever denied that fucking an eighteen-year-old could do you wonders.” Ridpath looked up from his glass. “Maybe he even believed she loved him,” Belsey said.

“You don’t think they loved each other?”

“I’ve no idea if they loved each other. That’s not my business. I’m saying that if they did it wasn’t by coincidence.” The inspector considered this. “She’d have been after rich men, a bit of glamour,” Belsey elaborated. “Maybe she thought that would give her more of something, more life, whatever. She probably thought she deserved whatever he had to offer. Maybe she was right.”

They were silent for a long time.

“You belittle people,” Ridpath said.

“I haven’t belittled anyone. I saw her. She seemed a nice girl.”

“You saw her?”

“I was there, nearby, when the shooting happened,” Belsey said carefully.

Ridpath looked at him. Belsey hoped it wasn’t with suspicion.

“Did she say anything?”

“Latte with vanilla. Not to me.”

“And you make it a professional job?”

“Forty-eight hours on and no one makes it anything. You don’t get that without being professional. Letting off guns in central London, twice now. I think we’re dealing with someone international, maybe not worked the UK before, but costs. Someone paid handsomely to get back at Devereux for something, employed by men who keep their fat, manicured hands clean, and give him the resources and intelligence product to perform.” Ridpath nodded. Belsey wasn’t sure if he was talking to his friend or his enemy or both, but he felt that talking to the inspector was getting him closer to understanding Devereux. Ridpath was very good at letting you do the talking, though. Belsey imagined he could be ruthless in an interview room. “Are you chasing the credit cards?” he said.

“I’ve got contacts in Card Fraud. I’ve requested CCTV footage.”

“When are they going to move on it?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?” Belsey said.

“Soon as I can convince them that this is serious. We’re meant to be speaking to people first thing tomorrow about getting hold of the tapes: councils, shop owners. There are certain parties who are beginning to realise the significance of someone using Alexei Devereux’s identity.”

Belsey stood up and felt his heart flutter.

Bravo, Echo, Lima, Sierra, Echo, Yankee.

India, Sierra.

Foxtrot, Uniform, Charlie, Kilo, Echo, Delta.

A familiar, ominous dismay returned. The tension reached his muscles. He paced, looking along the shelves, thinking hard. Tucked under the old legal volumes were notifications of awards: Association of Police Authorities Award, Queen’s Police Commendation. They were incredibly sought-after pieces of card, and usually framed in an office. Ridpath had not got around to framing them.

“You said someone called Kovar was under the impression that Devereux’s still in business,” Belsey said.

“That’s right.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Max Kovar? He crosses our radar often enough.”

“He has access to a lot of money, right?”

“Kovar is shady. If I was a businessman like Alexei Devereux I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. I’m not sure Devereux ever did.”

“What do you think Kovar would offer in return for a bite of this London project?”

“To grease the wheels? I don’t know. Why?” Ridpath gave a curious smile. “Whatever he wanted, I imagine. Kovar and Alexei Devereux? Money is not an issue there.” He stood up and pointed a remote control at the TV set. News came on. “City Shooting” with footage of the busy chaos that had descended upon the St. Clement’s Court crime scene. “Met and City on Gun Alert,” they said. Then a picture of Northwood last Christmas, raising a glass with the Home Secretary, then footage of families criticising the police.

They watched in silence for a few minutes before Ridpath turned it off. He left the room and returned a second later with a blanket and threw it on the sofa.

“Crash here if you want. In a couple of hours we can go to Card Fraud and see if they’ll help us find Devereux’s identify thief.”

The hospitality took Belsey by surprise, even if it was offered grudgingly. It wasn’t a bad idea. He felt a lot more likely to stop Ridpath getting his hands on the images by being with him. He pictured himself accidentally wiping a disk, dropping it down a hole.

“OK,” Belsey said.

“I’ll be getting up at five,” Ridpath said on his way out of the room. “I’m not a big sleeper.”

Belsey waited, listening to the inspector upstairs, running a tap, closing a door, the creak of bed springs. Belsey lay down. He wondered what Charlotte Kelson was doing, and pictured her sleeping. He barely knew her but he knew what she looked like sleeping.
Does love always mean knowing someone?
What a strange note that had been. He felt mystery settling in layers, like snow.

He gave it half an hour, until he thought he could hear snoring, then tiptoed to the kitchen and lifted the phone off the wall. He eased the kitchen door shut. He dialled Kovar’s suite. The man answered on the sixth ring.

“I know it’s late,” Belsey said. He spoke very quietly, which was just fine. He spoke like someone in a house with people they didn’t want to wake, which was how he imagined very powerful men might speak.

“Not at all.” Kovar cleared phlegm from his throat. “I saw the news.” It was the first time Belsey had heard Kovar sounding less than commanding.

“You were right about him,” Belsey said. “He brought us nothing but trouble.”

“I hope I haven’t caused yourself or Mr. Devereux any complications.”

“It’s a world of complications, Max. You don’t have to cause them, they’re just there.” Belsey imagined he could hear the room Kovar was in; he heard the plush carpet, the wood. He could hear the smoke of the cigar ascending. “The reason I’m calling at this hour,” Belsey said, “was that it occurred to me you might need some more precise indication of what we need from you.”

Kovar coughed. “I think it’s best we are straight with one another.” His voice was thick with sleep.

“I’ve just been talking to Alexei, and I told him how discreet you are compared to Pierce Buckingham. Because now there are sensitivities as well as complications and these sensitivities are costing us.”

“I’m sure,” Kovar said.

“I’ll be straight with you. Mr. D loves presents.”

“I know,” Kovar said very carefully.

“Something to calm him down after the last few days.”

“I need things too.”

“Sure.”

“If I know this is going ahead, I will make sure that Mr. Devereux is not left feeling unappreciated.”

“That’s a good way of putting it, Max. We’re talking hours rather than days. So long as you know that. I’m going to call you very soon, to finalise the handover.”

“I will need those details,” Kovar said.

“Of course.”

“If everything is in order, the gift will be ready.”

“Excellent.”

“Good night, Jack.”

Belsey returned to the living room and lay down, heart pounding, watching headlights cross the ceiling and thinking about the things that money can buy. He hadn’t expected to sleep but the whisky must have done its job because at some point he woke up. The door was open. Belsey saw the inspector’s silhouette approaching slowly. Ridpath moved, one step at a time, towards him and touched the pile of Belsey’s clothes on the rug and finally touched the blanket. So, Belsey thought, that was the score. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. But Ridpath wasn’t his type.

Belsey made a good deal of noise turning over, making like he’d been disturbed but not fully woken. It was enough to bring the blanket around him tighter, to say he was on the verge of waking and maybe even causing a scene. Ridpath backed off. After another second the door closed again and Belsey almost felt sorry for him.

That’s how it works, Belsey thought. You dig down, through the layers of mystery, the crime and obsession, and you get someone trying to touch someone else’s skin. A bit of warmth, a moment of contact all wrapped up in a lot of trouble and fuss.

He didn’t go back to sleep. Ten minutes later he got up, dressed quietly and slipped out of the front door.

49

N
orth again, across a silent West End Lane, over the deserted junction of Swiss Cottage to Hampstead. He collected the Peugeot from The Bishops Avenue and returned it to the police station. Then he walked to South End Green. Instinct had led him to Hampstead. Instinct now kept him away from Devereux’s old home. Ridpath’s appearance had infected Belsey’s sense of The Bishops Avenue as a secure hiding place: that and the attention of Pierce Buckingham, the soon-to-be attention of City Police . . . He would not be sleeping on The Bishops Avenue again.

He walked into the Royal Free Hospital. It was hushed, the nocturnal city of vigil keepers, ER nurses, cleaning staff going about their businesses without noise. It always made him feel safe. He passed the cafe, the medical school library, the Radiology Unit, and arrived at the multi-faith chapel. Lights flickered on as he entered. Faith reduced to its common ground looked like the waiting room of an upmarket dentist’s surgery: magnolia walls and fake plants in white vases. A single, carpeted step led up to an altar. Belsey knelt on the step with his forehead against the laminated wood and then he curled up behind the altar and slept.

H
e woke to the sound of trolleys rattling down the corridor. It was Sunday. It felt like the last time he would ever wake up in London.

He walked back through the ground floor, sliced the binding on a block of papers outside the hospital shop and stole a selection. The
Times
went with
CITY EXECUTION KILLING
and a picture of Monument in a web of red-and-white tape. The
Guardian
led with
DARK SIDE OF THE CITY: DEAL UNRAVELS WITH BLOODY CONSEQUENCES
. They had also got hold of Buckingham’s name and had been busy untangling his associates. But only the
Mail on Sunday
made the leap, placing Buckingham’s photograph side by side with one of Jessica Holden. The photograph of Buckingham showed him on a catamaran, smiling, in mirrored shades. They tagged him as an “independent financier,” which was polite. The headline declared
POLICE: “SHOOTINGS CONNECT.”
Charlotte Kelson got the credit. But when you turned to the continuation on page 4 it became clear that not all police were promoting this link. In fact, within the story was another one of splits in senior command—and in the centre was Chief Superintendent Northwood.

Charlotte threw a lot of flak in his direction, using unnamed sources to suggest he was out of his depth and possibly compromised. It closed with a tantalising nod to “private investigations firm PS Security,” who had refused to comment on their involvement. Belsey was impressed. It wouldn’t have taken her long to see that Northwood lacked the necessary skills for true corruption. But his friends in PS and their lack of discrimination over clients had dragged him in.

At 8 a.m. on a Sunday he expected the CID office to be empty. But from the first-floor corridor he could see someone sitting at his desk. Belsey held back. It was Inspector Tim Gower, rifling through the drawers. He had Belsey’s files open and their contents stacked across the surface. Belsey walked in.

“What’s going on?” he said.

Gower looked up. His face bore the grey tension of someone who’d been woken by his bosses at 3 a.m. and wasn’t going to get back to bed any time soon.

“City Police want you to go into Wood Street,” he said.

“Why?”

“This shooting yesterday. Have you heard about it?”

“Just the headlines.”

“It’s an individual called Pierce Buckingham. He’s been associated with a man who died recently in Hampstead called Alexei Devereux. I believe you dealt with the body.”

“That’s right.”

Gower glanced up, then continued sifting.

“Well, I’m told this is going to explode in the next few hours, and they want to speak to you.”

“OK.”

“And there’s some balls-up with the IPCC thing—I’ve not had anything from them in the internal.”

“I got a call from Nigel Herring. He said they sympathised with my position and were doing everything possible to keep me in my job.”

“OK.” Gower barely seemed to hear this. “Wood Street want you to take any relevant paperwork in with you.” He shifted a pile of papers back into Belsey’s drawer and sat back, wiping his brow. “Nick?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did we overlook anything? Was there cause for suspicion?”

“It was a straightforward suicide. I’m sure the coroner agreed. I’ll check.”

B
elsey took a squad car and drove by The Bishops Avenue. Two police cars and a forensics van sat outside Devereux’s home. He sped up and continued down to East Finchley. He still had almost forty pounds of Cassidy’s payment left. Forty pounds didn’t seem the foundation for the new life he had anticipated. He imagined Kovar waiting for his call, with a million pounds in a case by the phone. Belsey just needed to know what Devereux had been selling. That was all the speculator wanted to hear.

He called Wood Street from East Finchley tube station.

“This is Nick Belsey. I believe you wanted to speak to me.”

“Yes. You know something about Alexei Devereux.”

“Very little. I found the body, that’s all.”

“Can you come in?”

It was a male officer. He sounded reasonable, not suspicious; intelligent even. If they had something on Belsey they would jump him in the street, not play games. But it wouldn’t be long now.

“You want me in today?” Belsey said.

“Immediately. We believe your suicide case connects to something called Project Boudicca.”

“Boudicca?”

“So does the man who got shot last night.”

“Oh,” Belsey said.

“We’ve found quite a few interesting things about Boudicca.”

“What are they?”

“When can you come in? Shall we send a car?”

B
elsey drove himself to Wood Street, through the silent City, its gleaming monoliths abandoned to security guards and the occasional tourist. Twice he thought he saw a motorbike following; twice it disappeared. He concentrated on the immediate threat, and formulated a story to give the City detectives. It was that of a police officer who found a body; who felt something might not be right but didn’t chase it. He hoped none of the men and women present at Wood Street last night would still be around to recognise him. If it came to it, he was ready to sprint.

In the event there were only five people in the Specialist Investigations office. None were survivors from the previous night’s excitement. The man Belsey had spoken to, DCI Malcolm Gray, was in his thirties. He appeared alert and upwardly mobile. His colleague, DI Deborah Mullins, was short and fiery in executive pinstripes.

“Thanks for coming in,” they said. They shook his hand and ushered him into the conference room that had been so impregnable a few hours ago. It had been cleaned and aired. A varnished oval table occupied the centre of the room, crowded with overlapping copies of files. One dirty double-glazed window looked down over the City.

They had a map of EC4 up on a flip chart, with an X for the body. Beside it was a whiteboard with a name: Pierce Buckingham, caught in a web of individuals and corporations associated with the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium. On the right-hand side was a list of times from 2 a.m. the previous morning to the hour of his death—with known locations, calls, addresses, including sightings by Hampstead police station and one close to All Hallow’s Church. Belsey felt the touch of Buckingham’s hand.

On a separate board they had written the name Alexei Devereux.

Around it, they’d filled in some of his business interests—TGT, Polsky—but it was a work in progress. Finally, at the far end of the room, they had taped sheets with lists of flight details—times, countries of origin—and then hotels in London—Sheraton, Park Lane Hilton, Grosvenor. Everything converged on Saturday 7 February, where they’d written “Location of London Meeting” and then a big, red question mark.

Gray opened a notebook.

“Talk me through what you know about Alexei Devereux.”

Belsey started with the missing person report. He talked about having an initial look at the property, getting called back, finding the safe room. He gave them a bit on his Internet research and the
Ham & High
article so as not to seem wilfully ignorant. He left out Ridpath’s SAR, the faked petition, Milton Granby.

“What did you find in the home?” Gray said.

Belsey thought his way through. He told them. He talked about conspicuous wealth and the odd undertone of transience. He didn’t say “a vision of myself as someone better,” or “a way out of the insolvent cul-de-sac my life had become.”

“Anything make you suspicious?”

“The fact he’d hidden himself away, the note. There were some papers about a project.” He felt them freeze, their eyes on him. “The name. You mentioned it on the phone.” He glanced around the flip chart and whiteboards.

“Boudicca,” Gray said.

“That’s the one. What is it?”

The City officers hesitated, unsure whether to admit Belsey into their privileged circle. Gray gestured at the wall of flight details.

“These are the clues we have. A9C-BI is the Bahrain registration for a Gulfstream 200 jet belonging to Prince Faisal bin Abdul Aziz, head of Saud International Holdings investment group; B-KZB is a Hong Kong-registered Learjet known to be used by Young-Jin Choi, billionaire casino magnate and occasional colleague of the prince. They were among eight private jets that landed in Farnborough on the morning of Saturday the seventh. Eight of the richest men in the world flying into south-east England. We believe they deliberately avoided the London airports so as not to draw attention to themselves: the travellers included two chief executives of Internet gambling sites and a lot of heavy security. They were personally met by Pierce Buckingham.”

“What for?” Belsey said.

“We don’t know. That’s what we were hoping you could help us with. A lot of these men connect to the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium. We believe they came in for a meeting.” He pointed at the question mark. “The meeting was held eight days ago, Saturday afternoon in central London. I don’t know what transpired, but two of the men present have died and a lot more have stopped answering their phones.”

Belsey nodded, studying the names. “What’s your money on?” he asked.

Mullins pitched in: “Something messed up. In the two days following the meeting there are three hundred calls from Pierce Buckingham’s mobile to numbers run by various call-forwarding services. It seems he couldn’t get through. He then calls a lot of men with no official job titles in private rooms in Riyadh and Beijing and Monaco, all waiting to hear about a project he’s putting their money into. I don’t think they were very happy with what he had to say.”

“They were investors?”

“Not according to their lawyers. Let’s just say there’s a lot of people lying low, people who say they’ve never heard of Buckingham or Devereux. Half of them claiming they’ve never heard of themselves. Everything’s gone hush, so I think Pierce Buckingham was shipping a hell of a lot of backers through to this Project Boudicca, and no one wanted to know how naughty it was. Now it turns out it was crooked to the core, people are writing off big sums and going on holiday.”

“And killing Buckingham.”

“Maybe.”

“Are there witnesses for the shooting?”

“No one saw anyone with a gun.”

“What kind of bullet?”

“A 7.62mm hollow tip.” There was another shared glance between the detectives.

“It’s the same story as the Hampstead Starbucks,” Belsey said.

Gray and Mullins nodded in unison. They made a nice couple for a policing nightmare. The book of unwritten rules told every detective: Don’t say sniper, don’t say gang war. Don’t introduce the spectre of lawlessness that can reduce a peaceful city to war footing in one headline.

“Let’s return to Alexei Devereux,” Gray said firmly. “Buckingham called this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It seems to have got people excited. Is there anything you saw or heard about Devereux that might suggest what it was exactly?”

“I’m not sure.” Belsey got to his feet and walked over to the chart. They didn’t stop him. “Can you tell what the project was from the people involved?”

“The list includes the IT people who helped Hong Kong Gaming set up their Snake Eyes website. There are also figures from architecture and construction who worked with the consortium in Dubai and Pennsylvania. But we don’t know who was running the London project. The architect hasn’t broken cover.”

“So Devereux was building something.”

“Something big. Shares in HKGC rocketed in the last week. The head of its European strategy, Vincent de Groot, was on holiday in the Maldives. He flew in especially. According to Special Branch, he visits London on the seventh of February, stays at the Grosvenor, sleeps with three lap dancers, spends nine grand on golf clubs and meets Buckingham. He and several other individuals and twenty security personnel go for a walk on the Heath. He wants in on the project. No one knows what the project is.”

“The Heath?”

“Ten hours later one of the attendees is picked up on intercept arranging a contract for three thousand cubic feet of concrete and two hundred tonnes of glass.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I don’t know what Buckingham said but serious sums of money transferred in the hours afterwards.”

“Transferred where?”

“To Devereux.”

“Where was this meeting?”

“We don’t know. They used codes on the phone. It would be a help if we could find the venue. It would be a step in the right bloody direction.” Gray rubbed his face with his hands. Belsey tried to imagine where in London you’d take those people, if you wanted to impress them, people who had everything, expecting the best. What would dazzle? Deborah Mullins leaned forward.

“Buckingham used the meeting to raise thirty-eight million. This was a meeting where he asked for thirty-eight mil of other people’s money just for a seat at the table. We need to know what they expected in return. This is where you come in. You looked into Alexei Devereux’s suicide—”