Unti Peter Robinson #22 (30 page)

“Banks here.”

“Sir, it's me. DC Masterson.”

“Ah, Gerry. What can I do for you?”

“Can you talk, sir? I mean, listen. I think I can do something for you.”

“I'm on my way to have a chat with Montague Havers.”

“Then I'm just in time.”

Banks turned a corner and leaned against a brick wall. “Go on.”

“I've found out a ­couple of things that might interest you, sir.”

“What?”

“First off, there's an old murder with a bolt gun, eighteen months ago in East London. A man called Jan Wolitz. Polish. The investigating officers thought he was connected with a ­people-­trafficking outfit and suspected he'd been taking more than his cut from them, not to mention helping himself to some of the girls' favors. Young girls mostly. Prostitution. Nobody ever arrested for it and no suspects named, as far as I can gather. The police did, however, find prints at the scene that didn't belong to the victim. They led nowhere. Not in the system. He wasn't cut into pieces or anything. Just dead.”

“Can you get the prints sent up and check them against whatever Vic got from the hangar?”

“As we speak.” Banks could hear the smile in Gerry's voice.

“You're too good for this world, Gerry.”

“So they tell me, sir.”

“Where was the body found?”

“Abandoned warehouse on the Thames. I mean, it's probably gilding the lily calling it East London. More like west Essex.”

“Who owned the property?”

“Don't know yet, sir, but I can see why it might be useful to know. I'll get onto that as well.”

“Any hint of a connection between this Jan Wolitz and anyone we know? Spencer, Montague Havers, Tanner, Lane?”

“No, sir, but DI Cabbot and Doug are running down a lead on a stolen bolt pistol. It was lifted about two years ago from Stirwall's Abattoir. But he's the one I wanted to talk to you about, sir. Montague Havers. Or Malcolm Hackett, as was.”

“What about him?”

“He worked for the same stockbrokers as John Beddoes in the mid eighties. They were City boys together between the Big Bang and Black Monday. Both the same age, in their mid twenties at the time. There was a cocaine charge against Hackett back then, but it went nowhere. Small amount. Slap on the wrist. The point is, according to what I could find out from someone who also worked there at the time, the two of them were pretty thick. Socialized together and all that. Made oodles of money. When the bubble burst, Hackett went into international investment banking and Beddoes became a merchant banker before he moved to the farm.”

“Well done. That's an interesting connection, Gerry,” said Banks. “And your timing's impeccable. How are things back at the ranch?”

“Ticking along nicely. DS Jackman's still chasing down Caleb Ross's collection route.”

“All well with Alex and Ian?”

“Everything's fine, sir. We've got surveillance on them. Nothing to report.”

“Any news on Tanner?” They had had to let Ronald Tanner go when his twenty-­four hours were up early that morning.

“He's still at home. We're keeping an eye on him. AC Gervaise is with the CPS as I speak, working on possible charges. I did a bit of research into his known associates and there's a bloke called Carl Utley looks good for the driver. Muttonchops, usually wears a flat hat. He used to be a long-­distance lorry driver but he got fired when he was suspected of being involved in the disappearance of some expensive loads. Nothing proven, but enough to lose him his job. He drifted into nightclub work and that's when he met Tanner. They're good mates.”

“Excellent. Follow it up. See if you can have this Utley picked up. No further sign of Michael Lane?”

“No, nothing.”

“Keep at it. And thanks, Gerry. Get back to me as soon as you hear anything from Annie or the CPS.”

Banks ended the call and went on his way, mulling over how he could use what he had just found out against Havers.

It was a dilapidated sixties office building with about as much charm and character as the shoe box it resembled. However well Havers was doing, he hadn't moved his business into better digs, somewhere nice and trendy down in Dockland, for example. But maybe this was his cover, and maybe it didn't matter to him. Banks had learned over the years that criminals had some very odd ideas about what was the best thing to do with their ill-­gotten gains. Take Ronald Tanner, for example. He probably didn't make a fortune, but he could have afforded a larger house and a decent car. Instead he seemed to be broke and on benefits all the time. What did he spend his money on? Banks knew one safecracker who spent most of what he earned on expensive women's clothes, and they weren't gifts for a girlfriend, either. A cat burglar he had once arrested collected rare vinyl and lived in a small flat in Gipton on a diet of baked beans and toast. He didn't even own a record player. Maybe with Havers it was still coke, which could be an expensive habit, or the dogs? Or maybe he had a nice little nest egg hidden away offshore, and when the right moment came, he'd vanish to the Caymans for good. Anything was possible.

Banks took the rickety lift to the fifth floor and found the door marked Havers Overseas Investment Solutions Ltd. He'd heard that it was very much a one-­man operation, so he wasn't expecting the receptionist who greeted him when he knocked and entered.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I'd like to see Mr. Havers.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Banks showed her his warrant card.

She picked up the telephone. “If you'd care to—­”

But Banks walked straight past her and through the next door, where he found Montague Havers sitting behind a flat-­box Staples desk tapping away at a laptop computer. As soon as Havers saw Banks, he closed the lid on the computer and got to his feet. “What is this? You can't just come barging in like that.”

Banks showed his warrant card again. Havers sat down and smoothed his hair. A funny smile crossed his features. “Well, why didn't you say? Sit down, sit down. Always happy to help the police in any way I can.”

“I'm very glad to hear it,” said Banks, sitting down on a very uncomfortable hard-­backed chair. “It makes my job a lot easier.” The view, he noticed, was of the railway lines at the back of the mainline stations. A trainspotter's wet dream.

Havers wore his wavy brown hair just a trifle too long for a man of his age, Banks thought. Along with the white shirt and garish bow tie he was wearing, it gave him the air of someone who was desperately trying to look young. Banks wondered, as he peered more closely, if his hair was dyed. Or a rug, even. It looked somehow fake. Maybe that was what he spent his money on: expensive rugs. The rusty mustache on his lip didn't do much for the youthful effect.

“So what exactly can I do for you, D . . . is it DI Banks?”

“DCI, actually. Am I to call you Malcolm Hackett or Montague Havers?”

“I changed my name legally six years ago to Montague Havers.”

Banks tilted his head. “May I ask why?”

“Let's just say that in the business I'm in, it helps if you have an educated-­sounding name. Malcolm Hackett was just too . . . too comprehensive school.”

“And Montague Havers is more Eton?”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far, but that's the general idea. Yes.”

Banks looked around the small office, at the crooked blinds, the stained plasterboard walls, the scratched filing cabinets. “And the office?”

“This? Nobody comes here. You're lucky to find me in. This is just a place to keep records and make phone calls. All my business appointments take place in fine restaurants around Fitzrovia or Marylebone High Street, or at my club. The Athenaeum. Perhaps you know it?”

Banks shook his head. “I never was very clubbable. What exactly is your business?”

“What it says on the door.”

“That sounds like some sort of dodgy tax avoidance scheme to me. Offshore banking. International Investment Solutions.”

“It's a complicated world out there, and taxation is only a part of it.”

“What other ser­vices do you offer?”

Havers glanced at his watch. “I don't mean to rush you, but are you interested in becoming a client or are you just making polite small talk?”

“I'd like to know.”

“Very well. I'm part of a larger network of companies, and we offer just about any financial ser­vice—­legal financial ser­vice, mostly investment opportunities—­you can imagine.”

“All international?”

“Not all.”

“Is property development investment one of your specialties?”

“We don't mind investing in property development occasionally, as long as it seems sound. But you have to remember that I'm in the business of investing British money abroad, not in domestic markets, and it's often difficult to get a clear perspective on overseas properties. The laws can be so complicated. That doesn't apply to my personal investments, of course.”

“The Drewick airfield shopping center? Does that ring a bell?”

“Yes. I have a middling amount of my own money invested in the project, through a subsidiary.”

“Retail Perfection?”

“That's the one. You have done your research. Anyway, I have a number of small investments in shopping centers. Can't go wrong with them in a consumer society like this one.”

“As long as ­people have the money to spend.”

“Oh come, come. That's hardly an issue. ­People will spend whether they have any money or not. That's the nature of capitalism.”

“Maybe so. But I'm still interested in Drewick. Do you keep up to date on what's happening there?”

“I trust Venture Properties to keep me informed. As far as I know, there's been no movement for some time. Some minor problem with zoning laws. We expect it to be settled soon.”

“But Venture would let you know as soon as any impediments to progress were removed?”

“Of course. I should think so.”

“I see.” That meant Havers would be in a good position to switch operations from Drewick to some other location if he did happen to be involved in rural crime. “I understand you visited North Yorkshire recently.”

“My, my, am I under surveillance?”

“Don't tell me you didn't know.”

“Well, I very much doubt you'd be here if they didn't know I know, if you see what I mean.”

“Exactly. So who were you visiting up there?”

“My wife's brother and his wife live in Richmond.”

“And you stayed with them?”

“Of course.”

“All the time? Sunday to Tuesday?”

“Why wouldn't I? I happen to get on well with them, and I like the Dales.”

“Did your wife accompany you?”

Havers looked down at his desk. “My wife is dead, Mr. Banks.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“It's been some years now. But Gordon, Cathy and I have always been close. We still maintain strong family ties. Is there anything else?”

“Were you with them all the time?”

“Of course not. I did a bit of touring around by myself. The weather was bad, though, so that dampened my spirits. Still, it's a fine part of the world.”

“Did you visit Belderfell Pass?”

“No. I know it, of course, but I'd avoid it in such poor conditions.”

“Visit any farms in Swainsdale?”

“No. I didn't visit Swainsdale at all. What is it you're after? I just drove around a bit, went for a pub lunch here and there, looked in a few antique shops—­I collect antiques—­and I spent some time with my family. We had a trip to Castle Bolton. It's always been one of my favorite historical spots. Very manageable. What's your problem with that?”

“I have no problem with Castle Bolton, Mr. Havers. It's just the timing. Did you meet with a Ronald Tanner, Carl Utley, Michael Lane or Morgan Spencer?”

“I can't say I've ever heard any of those names.”

“What about John Beddoes?”

“Doesn't ring a bell.”

“Are you sure the name John Beddoes doesn't ring any bells?”

“I'm afraid not. Should it?”

“Indeed it should. You worked with him in the stockbroking business in the mid eighties. You were friends. You socialized together. Snorted coke. Drank champagne from the bottle. Painted the town red.”

“Now hang on a—­ Just a minute.” Havers snapped his fingers. “Of course! Bedder Beddoes. How could I forget? Yes, I knew him, back in the day. It was a long time ago, though.”

“Bedder Beddoes?”

“Use your imagination, Mr. Banks. We were young and free.”

“A lot of coke gone up the nasal passages since then?”

“That was one mistake. I don't do that sort of thing anymore. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't.” He patted his chest. “Heart.”

“Are you telling me you have one, or that there's something wrong with it?”

“Ha-­ha. Very funny. I'm saying I've had two heart attacks. Cocaine would kill me. I'm allowed two units of wine a day. Do you know how hard that is?”

Banks could only imagine. “So we've established that you do know John Beddoes, and you did work with him some years ago, but you didn't visit him in Yorkshire last week? Did you know he now owns a farm there?”

“Bedder? No. I didn't even know he lived there. We were good mates once, it's true. But you know how it goes. You drift apart over time. And those times, well, they were heady indeed. Fueled by coke and champagne, as you say. The memory tends to fade quickly, if indeed it registers at all. It went by in a whirl, I'm afraid. I'm only lucky I still had my wits left when the bubble burst. I was able to get into international banking. That's where I learned most of what I know about overseas investments.”

“So if we were to dig into your financial affairs, the financial affairs of your company and your movements over the past while, we wouldn't find any sort of intersection with John Beddoes and his interests?”