The Hollow Man Read online

  “Of course,” Belsey said. “I don’t think anyone’s going to be messing with him anymore.”

  35

  Belsey bought a Financial Times and flicked through the domestic and international news, glancing down the pages. Eventually he got to the companies and stock information. The lead headline declared: HONG KONG GAMING SHARES DEFY DOWNTURN.

  The Saudi-owned international gambling company Hong Kong Gaming Consortium has shrugged off industry downturn with rumours of European projects pushing up value. On Friday, stock prices for the company climbed 42 percent to £30.45 from £21.39.

  According to the Wall Street Journal, HKGC, the world’s second largest casino gambling operator, has a nonbinding agreement in place with European investment company AD Development. It is known that HKGC has its sights on the UK market and is in talks with several developers to operate casinos, hotels and resorts in what is projected as a £3 billion London investment programme.

  Belsey returned to the CID office and ran an intelligence search on the Serious Crime Inquiry System. He had limited security clearance, but high-urgency requests were sent through to senior investigators who might have an interest. He typed in the names “AD Development,” “Alexei Devereux,” “Hong Kong Gaming,” but got no results. Finally he fed it “Project Boudicca.” A minute later a call came in from DCI Kosta of the Economic and Specialist Crime Intelligence Unit.

  “What’s this Project Boudicca?” Kosta asked. His voice had an edge of urgency.

  “I don’t know. I was asked to find out.”

  “By who?” Kosta demanded. Before Belsey could invent an excuse, the DCI continued: “Is it our friends in the City by any chance?”

  “Our friends in the City?”

  “We’ve had City boys calling every five minutes, asking whether we’re investigating Project Boudicca, whether their investments are safe.”

  “When was this?”

  “The last few days.”

  “Any guesses?”

  “None at all. They clearly know more than me, which they seem quite happy about. There’s something going on. How legal, I couldn’t tell you.”

  Belsey said he was unable to help, hung up and thought through sources. He had assisted enough City boys in his time to feel justified calling in a favour. He rang the offices of Sacker Capital Ltd. and asked if Ajay Khan still worked there. Miraculously he did. Belsey declined to have his call put through and decided to pay the broker a visit.

  Belsey had first met Khan in a West End nightclub, just days before the broker was arrested for insider trading. Belsey helped him with a defense lawyer and the case was eventually dropped. After that they played in a regular poker hand, together with some high-rolling City girls, a financial journalist and a cocaine dealer: an intense affair under a Fleet Street wine bar which blew itself out after a couple of years once they’d all bled each other dry. Khan always had a lot of friends in high and low places; he was a clearinghouse for information that wasn’t always meant to be cleared—and if someone somewhere made a fortune out of it, Khan was rarely left out of pocket.

  Belsey left the unmarked Peugeot in the parking lot on Limeburner Lane, next to the Old Bailey. Sacker Capital operated out of St. Bartholomew’s House, just across the road, angled so that its glass reflected the Central Criminal Court. Belsey walked into a reception with a lot of pale stone and a metal sculpture in the shape of an axe blade. He asked for Ajay Khan. The guard was good enough to put a call through. He passed the receiver over.

  “Mr. Khan’s out at the moment,” a woman said.

  “When’s he back?”

  “That’s hard to predict.”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you like to leave a message?”

  Belsey checked his fake Rolex. “That’s all right.”

  He walked out of the office block, down Newgate Street, to a doorway squeezed between a tobacconist’s and the dusty shop window of a tailor’s. It led straight onto a narrow flight of stairs which led down to another doorway with light escaping through coloured strips.

  Inside the bookies were a handful of plastic seats and a thin scattering of afternoon bettors. The air was close, heavy with artificial heat, winter sweat, lunches grabbed on the hoof. There were men in workers’ fluorescent vests, and a pensioner in a scarf and hat, but most looked like they’d walked out of the investment banks. Khan stood in the centre, in his long overcoat and pinstripes, leaning against a ledge that divided the room. He had his black hair combed back and his eyes fixed on the 14:15 at Southwell.

  Belsey stood beside him and watched the race. When it was over a couple of men balled the slips in their hands and dropped them to the floor. Khan took the newspaper from under his arm and flattened it on the counter.

  “Detective Constable Belsey,” he said. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “They were bad tips. It was a bad week, and I lost more than you did. I hope so anyway.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll give you another by way of apology. This one’s solid.” He lowered his voice. “Malting barley.”

  “How about Alexei Devereux?” Belsey said. Khan looked at him. “How about Project Boudicca?”

  Belsey passed one of Devereux’s business cards. Khan read the card, then palmed it so it disappeared, then turned his hand and it was there again. He didn’t say anything for a long while. He glanced around the rest of the room, at the men who may have been in earshot, and finally back to Belsey.

  “What do you know about this?”

  “What you’re about to tell me.”

  Khan went to a cashier’s window and pushed a slip through. He watched the boy count out two hundred pounds in twenties and pocketed them.

  “Think you can help?” Belsey said.

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s enough to get you a drink.”

  “If I’d said yes?”

  “I would have bought it for you.”

  The White Hart was one of those ancient, low-ceilinged pubs tucked into the fissures of the city like a parasite attached to its wealth. Workmen and suits drifted in and out of the pub’s dark corners, lying into their phones, having swift pints and office affairs. City of hiding places, Belsey thought.

  “It’s got to be five o’clock somewhere, right?” Khan lifted his pint. They had a nook to themselves.

  “And somewhere it’s closing.” Belsey touched his glass to the broker’s. “To better cards.”

  “Mine or yours?”

  “Mine. Talk to me.”

  Khan drank down half his lager and wiped his mouth. “What do you know about Project Boudicca?”

  “It’s killing people,” Belsey said. “What do you know?”

  “Alexei Devereux’s a big name. It’s been about a lot recently. There was a deal about to be closed. That’s all.”

  “Project Boudicca.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Where did you hear about it?”

  “A friend.”

  “Which friend?”

  Khan took another long draught. It seemed to embolden him.

  “Emmanuel Gilman.”

  “Who is he?” Belsey said.

  “The golden boy.”

  “Tell me about Gilman the golden boy.”

  “Fund manager, reputation for being a bit wild. I knew him at Cambridge when he was rumoured to be a great classicist or something. But he couldn’t sit still. Spent most of his time setting up porn and spreadbetting websites. He was recruited into a hedge fund a month before his finals. A year after that he was running one of his own.”

  “Doesn’t sound so wild.”

  “He likes to play hard. There’s a party trick where he downs a shot and eats the glass. Something like that. He’s been on fire the last couple of years, so when he
started talking about Devereux people listened. He knows everything. Your round.”

  Belsey got another pint in and a short for himself. City tongues needed lubricating. Khan picked up his drink and seemed to consider it, but he was staring into space.

  “A couple of weeks ago Emmanuel started getting very excited about Devereux. Said he had a tip-off. And his tips are electric.” Khan sipped. “Or at least they were. It’s immaterial now. I tried to call him yesterday and got a message saying they’d stopped trading.”

  “They’d stopped?”

  “They fire-saled, it’s all cash now. He got the staff in 6 a.m. on Tuesday and told them to sell everything. Said it was over. I heard they wrote off four billion, walked away with two and called it a day.”

  “What was that about?”

  “God knows.”

  “But maybe you did some poking around for him. Maybe you phoned some of your precious contacts, asking about Boudicca. Maybe they were in Economic and Specialist Crime.”

  “I made the usual calls. No one’s as friendly as they used to be. I thought it was meant to be about community policing these days.” He sighed. “The City needs help, Nick. One door closes and another door closes.”

  “It’s not a ghost town yet.”

  “It’s spookier by the day.” He drank. “You seem OK, though. You always seem OK.”

  “I seem OK?”

  “You seem lively. Have you got goodies?”

  “Only ChestEze.”

  “You don’t seem too wheezy to me.”

  “God bless ChestEze.”

  “You always seem to have things under control,” Khan said wistfully.

  “Jesus Christ.” Belsey stared at the whisky in his glass. “So what was the tip-off Gilman had?”

  “I don’t know. Why are you asking?”

  “Alexei Devereux’s left a few bills unpaid.”

  “He’s not the only one.” Khan downed his drink. Belsey considered his next move. Then he saw Buckingham walk in. His stomach turned.

  “I was thinking of joining the police,” Khan said, oblivious to the new arrival.

  “It’s a nice thing to think about.”

  “Recession-proof.”

  Buckingham sat at the bar, watching them in the back mirror, with a new expression of intent. Belsey studied the arms beside the body. Buckingham didn’t look like a man with a gun, but you could never tell.

  “Do you know the guy watching us?” Belsey asked.

  Khan glanced over, saw Buckingham staring and turned back.

  “Never seen him before,” Khan said.

  “He’s been tailing me since this morning. His name’s Pierce Buckingham.”

  “He’s staring right at us.”

  “He’s not a good tail. I’m going to leave. He’s going to follow me. Stay here. If anything happens give the Mail on Sunday a call. Ask for Charlotte Kelson.”

  “You’ve gone downmarket.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  Belsey stepped out of the bar and saw the man get up and start behind him. Belsey slipped down the side of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, around the blackened shell of the old market and then up to the Church of the Sepulchre. There was a packed service in Cantonese under way. He sat in the memorial garden; the tail stood by the gate. Belsey got up and found another gate to the street. He walked fast down Gresham Street, ducked into a wine bar and took a stool at the counter. Buckingham entered the bar a moment later.

  He took a table directly behind Belsey, no drink, just staring with deadened eyes. The bulge didn’t look like weaponry. It looked like body armour.

  Belsey walked out again and they continued beside the Bank of England. Belsey kept close to the dirty, windowless stone. It was like walking in the shadow of an immense tomb. He wasn’t running anymore. He stopped and watched the street behind him in the black glass of a Japanese restaurant and saw Buckingham waiting. Belsey lost his patience. The best way to throw a tail is to follow them. He turned round and walked towards him. Buckingham backed off. But he wasn’t running either. Belsey thought he saw the trace of a smile on the man’s face. Buckingham walked calmly into a side street, and then deeper into the rat run of passageways; Change Alley, Pope’s Head Alley. They continued like that, a few metres apart, across Cornhill, through the crowds of Old Broad Street to a drab, brown church abandoned beside London Wall. A dirty sign announced “All Hallows.” Buckingham pressed on a heavy, forbidding door and it opened an inch. He slipped inside.

  Belsey followed, swiftly, before his prey had time to hide or prepare an ambush. It was dark in the church. What leaden light there was came from windows high above them. Dead leaves covered the floor. Buckingham continued to a pew at the front. He took a seat, staring up at a painting above the altar: a confusion of robed bodies before a blinding white light. Belsey sat in the row behind him, angled so he could see the man’s face.

  “What do you want, Pierce?” Belsey said.

  It was freezing. A smell of cedarwood and incense remained. Buckingham spoke with a steady voice.

  “I want them to kill you before they kill me.” Buckingham stared at the altar. The dirty windows lit his wide eyes. He had a dusting of fair stubble, and grime on the collar of his white shirt. Someone who hadn’t been home for a while. Belsey saw the black Velcro fastenings of a bullet-proof Kevlar vest underneath his jacket. “I want to know why I’m going to die.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Not whoever you think I am.”

  “Where’s Alexei Devereux?” Buckingham asked.

  “Dead.”

  Buckingham absorbed this.

  “Are you dead?” he asked. He wore that awful smile again. He still hadn’t turned. Now Belsey saw a folding knife in his hand: box-fresh, with a stubby black handle and a three-inch blade.

  “Not yet,” Belsey said.

  Buckingham laughed. “This won’t be over for you when I die.”

  “When will it be over?” Belsey said. He kept an eye on the blade. It was held carelessly. The muscles weren’t tensed, and Belsey would be able to turn before it did damage. But it didn’t seem very friendly.

  “I don’t know,” Buckingham said. “Maybe they’re saving you until last. I’ve told them you’re the one they want.”

  “Who did you tell that to?”

  “You won’t walk away. You know that. Whoever you are. When they get me, I want you to remember you’ll be next.”

  Belsey took out the page of Al-Hayat and unfolded it. “What’s this, Pierce?”

  Buckingham turned to look at the clipping. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You looked pretty happy about it.”

  “Happy?” Buckingham said. “Yes.” His breath stank. He looked into Belsey’s eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Tell me what Project Boudicca is,” Belsey said. Buckingham’s face creased with confusion and a terrible disbelief.

  “Tell me who you are,” he whispered.

  A motorbike choked to life outside. It was enough to startle Buckingham to his feet. He slashed wildly. Belsey backed out of reach as the blade cut through air. Then Buckingham was spinning on his heel and running out of the church, knocking a pew over, reaching through the darkness to the doors and crashing through them.

  Belsey remained for a minute staring at the doors, waiting for a sound, waiting for a shot. When none came he stepped back down the aisle, through the dead leaves, into the cold diminishing daylight.

  36

  The CID office smelt of grease. Rosen had his nose in a bag of fried chicken. He put his meal down when he saw Belsey.

  “So who’s Charlotte Kelson?” he asked. Belsey looked at his colleague while he formulated a response. He couldn’t read
anything off the face.

  “Just someone I had a thing with. It’s a bit awkward.” They had never discussed personal lives. Rosen had fielded a few calls for Belsey in his time. Once, late at the pub, Rosen asked where he got his hair cut. That was as personal as it got: a fascinating glimpse, but no more.

  “Why?” Belsey said.

  “Listen to your answering machine.”

  Belsey played his answering machine.

  “Nick, this is Chris Starr from PS Security Consultancy. Been a while, I know. Got a favour to ask—a journalist, your neck of the woods—Charlotte Kelson. Looking for any previous, any gossip, run-ins, controversies, et cetera. You know the score. Give me a call and I’ve got a twenty-year-old malt with your name on.”

  Belsey turned to Rosen. He was concentrating on his food again. Belsey could never tell if he was feigning oblivion.

  “Did you get one of these messages?” Belsey said.

  “Everyone got one.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  “No.”

  PS Security provided a second income for a lot of talented detectives and a few senior uniforms as well. They did work for embassies, royalty, banks, Russian and American corporations and some high net individuals who wanted police without involving the police. It was run by Chris Starr, a former Flying Squad detective. According to one version of the story, Starr found a police officer’s salary was never going to support his love of Italian cars so went private. In another version he made a quiet exit from the force, sidestepping the Directorate of Professional Standards and half a dozen charges of perverting the course of justice. But he retained a valuable address book, and rumour suggested that it included Northwood and those in the chief’s circle of influence. Belsey had met Starr briefly at a Drugs Squad birthday party. Starr had been out of the force two years by then, and he looked the healthiest person there. He was only a few years older than Belsey. Starr came over to him late in the evening. “Got a minute?” His eyes shone. He led Belsey out to a parking lot with a yellow Alfa Romeo in it.

  “Paid in cash,” he said, tapping the hood.