The Hollow Man Read online

  “Max, at last,” Belsey said. Kovar pumped his hand, as if working some machinery on which their relationship would embark. “I’m on my way out of here, though. I’m sorry.” He found Devereux’s wallet and removed a business card. “Do you have these details? You can call me tomorrow.”

  Kovar frowned at the AD Development card. “You’re his assistant?”

  “That’s right. I’m helping him settle into the UK.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Kovar pocketed the card and shouted at the catering staff. “Bring us a bottle of champagne and glasses.”

  Drinks in the parking lot, Belsey thought. It seemed like Kovar wanted Belsey to himself. A girl brought them a bottle and glasses, served with the air of someone who was meant to clock off two hours ago. Kovar watched her walk away. Then he turned to Belsey and poured the drinks.

  “Your boss is a hard man to get hold of,” Kovar said, holding two glasses in one gloved hand.

  “He always says, if you can’t get hold of him he probably doesn’t want to speak to you.” Belsey laughed. He took his glass and watched Kovar’s smile freeze. “I’m kidding. Mr. D has heard good things about you.”

  “He has?”

  “Yes. I’ve got to run in a second, though.”

  “You cut me out,” Kovar said abruptly.

  Belsey tried to read him. He couldn’t place the accent: mid-European, with a touch of transatlantic. Generally offshore. If anonymous accounts could speak they would probably sound like Max Kovar. An expensive scent of pine and leather emanated from his person. No strong alcohol on his breath. He carried himself with the blunt arrogance of someone who was both rich and large.

  “Perhaps we could speak for a moment,” Kovar said. “Take a walk.”

  “We’re speaking,” Belsey said. “Let’s walk.”

  They made their way to the sunken garden, slowly circling the pond. The temperature was plummeting now. The pond had gained a thin film of ice. It was a clear night, with a lot of stars. Their breath clouded around their faces.

  “Don’t trust Buckingham,” Kovar said.

  Belsey nodded. “You don’t think so?”

  “If I were you I’d shake free of him. I do my business tidily. Buckingham is a fool. I was disappointed to hear you were in discussions with him.”

  “We discuss things with people, it doesn’t always mean anything.”

  “I know this territory.”

  “Of course.”

  “Buckingham’s a fly-by-night, a criminal.”

  “OK.”

  They walked to the pagoda and turned. Kovar put his glass down and took a knife from his pocket. Then he produced a cigar. Kovar chopped the cigar and lit it with a silver lighter. They were a couple of hundred yards away from everyone. The smoke hung blue and steady in the cold air.

  “I’m only over here for a few days,” Kovar said. “Then I’m off again.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” He nodded. “Did Mr. Devereux get my letter?”

  “I’m sure he did. He’s not very good at correspondence. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I was disappointed he couldn’t find time to meet me.”

  “He’s so busy.”

  “You know it is a sector close to my heart.”

  “Of course.”

  “And there is so much room for growth.”

  “Yes.”

  “We both know that. You would find it easier working with me.” He handed over a business card and looked away as he did it, as if embarrassed. The statement hung in the air. It was a threat, Belsey could tell that much. “When I’m in London I stay at the Lanesborough.”

  “It’s meant to be a good hotel.”

  “Let me tell you something,” Kovar said. “I see myself as an artist first, a businessman second. I’m like Mr. Devereux in that respect.” Kovar’s sly face looked pleased with the words coming out of it.

  “I can see that about you,” Belsey said.

  “I think the beauty of our line of work is that we introduce new things into the world.”

  “Yes.”

  “People call us gamblers. Yes. There are men who make the right guesses. But very often they are the ones who have determined the outcome.”

  “They’re the men I don’t play cards with,” Belsey said.

  Kovar slapped him on the back.

  “I have confidence in your boss. I don’t have confidence in many men. Seize the crisis. That’s what you say, isn’t it?”

  “Every morning.” Belsey could hear his old St. Petersburg acquaintances approaching and wanted to be on the move. Kovar raised his champagne, gripping it, white-knuckled.

  “To Project Boudicca,” he said. He said it like someone who has discovered something meant to be secret. He winked, waiting, as if it was time for Belsey to grant him admission. Belsey tried to see his face more clearly in the shadows. He could make out teeth, which might have been a smile or a snarl. He made out that dark glimmer behind the eyes.

  “Boudicca,” Belsey said, and they touched glasses.

  33

  He was out of the grounds in minutes, back in the comforting speed of a Mercedes.

  “Drop me at Hampstead police station,” Belsey said when they were approaching Golders Green. The driver looked at him again, but didn’t say anything. “You know where it is?” Belsey said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s get some speed on.”

  The night had emptied. Mist wound its way around Hampstead’s brickwork. A panda car crawled through the empty streets, fog lights on. That would be PCs Andrews and Robinson, Belsey thought, probably silent together, thinking of their families. He had moved past tiredness, on his own night duty. He had always thrived on it: the brief moment when the sleepless gained possession of all; when the nocturnal made their plans.

  The Merc pulled up on Rosslyn Hill. Belsey checked the police station windows. The first-floor lights were off.

  “It’s all on the account?”

  “It’s all on the account.”

  “Thank you.” Belsey got out. He wondered if you were expected to tip chauffeurs. “Here.” Belsey offered him Devereux’s fake Rolex. “You’ve been excellent.”

  “No, sir. Please.” The driver declined the gift. Belsey waited as he drove off, then put the watch back on and headed into the station.

  Three forty-five a.m. A civilian worker sat in the canteen, in the light of a muted TV. Occasionally a man in one of the cells would break into a few lines of song. Belsey climbed the stairs to the CID office. He left the lights off and turned on his computer.

  Max Kovar had no domestic criminal record but he came up flagged on an international list, linked with a racetrack operator who shot his accountant in Berlin on New Year’s Eve 2003. There was an investigation into some of Kovar’s Madrid property deals the following year, involving a local official found at the bottom of a swimming pool, but no charges. Kovar was found in possession of seven doctored horse passports on the border of the United Arab Emirates, 23 June 2007, but he was shifting stallions sold to him by the Al Nhayan royal family and didn’t even have to pay a fine.

  Kovar had seemed very keen. He had seemed very rich. Belsey wondered if he had been given an easier means of exploiting Devereux’s identity. He felt a tingle of anticipation. Kovar believed Belsey was a direct line to the oligarch. Belsey had been trying to steal Devereux’s past, but what about his achievements still to come?

  The City Children’s Fund came up online as a registered charity. It had been set up to help deprived children of inner-city London. It also came up linked to stories of foreign donors buying favours through the back door. A group called Campaign for Open Government pointed out that it was set up at a time when several investigations were under way, looking at anonymous foreign donations to Granby and his
associates. Milton Granby sat on the Fund’s board of trustees.

  Belsey gathered everything on Granby that was in the public domain. The Chamberlain lived on a very secluded residential road in the Vale of Health. The Vale was a privileged Hampstead enclave that got its name from being the only part of London to escape the plague. The Vale of Wealth, officers called it. St. John’s would have been his local AA meeting; Charlotte was on the right track. Hampstead police had him on the VIP list for fast response in case of emergency.

  Most of the information regarding Granby appeared on the City of London website. The pocket of ancient parishes in the heart of London had been brandishing gold and autonomy for close to a millennium.

  A state within a state, a City within a city. Its new website preserved the proud tradition, flaunting the City’s history. But then it had a lot of it.

  The City of London is the oldest continuous municipal democracy in the world. It pre-dates Parliament. Its constitution is rooted in the ancient rights and privileges enjoyed by citizens before the Norman Conquest in 1066. From medieval to Stuart times the City was the major source of financial loans to monarchs, who sought funds to support their policies at home and abroad.

  Loan shark to the warmongers. That gained you a fair bit of independence over the years. The website made some attempt at explaining the idiosyncrasies of City government. They retained a medieval structure of aldermen, derived from the wise “elder men” of Saxon London. They had a Remembrancer, responsible for ceremonies and protocol. It was a fine and solemn name, Belsey thought: London should have more of them. Then, of course, they had the Chamberlain.

  The Chamberlain is the Finance Director of the City of London. He is the financial adviser, accountant, receiver and paymaster and is responsible for the City of London’s local and private funds. In addition, he is also responsible for making arrangements for the investment of the City of London and other funds.

  The website gave Granby’s CV: as a stockbroker, working through the usual range of investment positions, and as a climber in the Corporation of London, rising through the ranks of various City guilds: a livery man, an alderman, a member of the Worshipful Company of Makers of Playing Cards. In his spare time Milton Granby enjoyed travel, walking, golf and theatre. It didn’t mention booze.

  Institutions for which he is responsible extend far beyond the City boundaries and include the Barbican Centre, Central Criminal Court at the Old Bailey and ten thousand acres of open space including Epping Forest and Hampstead Heath.

  This caught Belsey’s eye. Apparently the Corporation of London took on ownership of the Heath following the abolition of the Greater London Council in 1989.

  Granby didn’t make many headlines. He made one in the last week, after an interview with the Times: CHAMBERLAIN EXPRESSES CONCERNS OVER CITY’S FINANCES:

  Very challenging, if not severe conditions lie ahead. The City Corporation’s own finances have not been sheltered from the raging storms which have had a major impact on our investment incomes. There is little doubt that all of us face a very difficult financial environment for some time to come, and some equally difficult decisions.

  Belsey wondered what decisions Granby was making, as his car sped back through the night. The City desperate. Devereux ingratiating himself. What was that coincidence about?

  Don’t trust Buckingham. Kovar’s solemn warning had stayed with him. It was the only name left unexplored. No Buckingham came up on any recent local crime reports. Beyond that was the full archive of the Police National Computer which, as Belsey expected, swamped him with information. Seventy-nine Buckinghams had come to the police’s attention in the last year in London alone. Two hundred and thirteen in the country at large. He didn’t have the resources to sift that. He made a mental note not to trust any of them.

  Belsey switched the computer off and left the police station. There was something he wanted to see. He walked to the Heath, onto the pale track that followed the side of the ponds into the blackness. Belsey could find his way without sight. He headed north. Bats swung erratic loops out of the trees above his head. Athlone House appeared as a deeper shade of night in the distance, on the horizon. Then he had passed it. He saw Kovar’s smile, and he heard the voice of the Chamberlain: The budget should be balanced, the Treasury should be refilled and public debt should be reduced. Then he heard the Heath gardener: I want to show you something . . .

  The yellow crosses appeared like a shriek from within the woods. They caught the moonlight. Belsey rubbed his thumb over the painted bark. He tried to follow their trail south, stumbling in banks of rotting leaves, but he got lost near the model-boating pond. He sat down and wondered about the crosses, and if there was any possibility that they connected to the moneyed world he had just passed through. He became cold.

  Belsey climbed into the landscaped gardens by Kenwood House and crossed them, back towards The Bishops Avenue. The road was empty but for its heritage lamps. Everything was very still and silent. Belsey approached number 37 on the far side of the street. The gentle curve of the road gave him cover. It allowed him to see the house before it saw him, along with any cars parked up, the windows of the house opposite and the walls behind which someone might hide. The memory of Charlotte Kelson walking into the casino sobered him. Someone, somewhere, had been watching them. They knew he’d been investigating Devereux. Did they know he’d been sleeping in his bed?

  Belsey opened the front door slowly and stepped into the hall. A photograph had been pushed beneath the door. He picked it up. It showed a naked male body on a concrete surface. The man’s nose and ears had been removed and the face was veiled in blood. He assumed the exact identity may have been less important than the implication it carried for himself.

  Belsey took a chopping knife from the kitchen drawer. He turned the CCTV on, then the alarms, and gave a bleak laugh. He was turning into a good little Hampstead resident.

  He went to Devereux’s study and found the correspondence from lawyers representing the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium. “Subject: Project Boudicca.” As agreed, 80 percent will be paid direct to AD Development and 20 percent to a/c K9767 with Raiffeisen Zentralbank Austria.

  Belsey took the paperwork and the knife to the living-room sofa. He turned the sofa to face the door. He held the knife and put Sky News on and let the adrenaline slowly leak out of his system.

  What did he say you’d get here? Information about the Starbucks shooting. Someone called Nick Belsey . . . Exhaustion began to claim him. Through his half-open eyes he saw Jessica Holden. She filled the screen, looking at him. To the reporters she was Jess now, with that familiarity we assume with the young and dead. But it was just the same old photographs; a shot of her home, a shot of the devastated Starbucks. It was a tragic loss. It was a mystery. Hampstead was pulling together in its grief.

  34

  He 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?”