Andrew had been so caught up in his own misery that he had not noticed the stir in the office. The senior equity partner on the floor was being hemmed in by staff, and eventually he gave in and picked up the phone.

Andrew walked over to see what was happening. The senior partner said into the phone, “It’s true then? …… All right. Thank you. I’ll let my people know.” He replaced the receiver, clearly shaken. Eventually he looked at the expectant faces and addressed the office.

“Please listen, everyone. It seems that the rumours are true. The ‘Twittering’ is accurate, for once. Sir Max Rochester collapsed and died at Blacksmiths Hall an hour ago.” There was an audible gasp. Sir Max was this group’s largest client.

Andrew wandered back to his desk in a haze. “It has to be a coincidence, it can’t be true,” he said to himself. Then he looked at his watch. Sir Max’s forty eight hours had expired four minutes ago.

Chapter 12

Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. Thursday, 8pm.

Dee turned the laptop around so that I could see the screen. My bank account looked healthier than ever before. I had over two hundred and fifty two thousand pounds sitting in my current account.

“OK, Josh, it’s all there. Now we just wait for instructions. I guess he’ll text something in the morning, just to make sure that you’re going ahead with it.”

Dee was right. With sixteen hours to go we were ready, but I doubted whether Bob would call. He seemed to want to create as much anxiety as possible. He would probably wait until just before noon to contact me and then make me jump through hoops to transfer the money.

I was still considering how I would react to giving away a quarter of a million pounds when my cell phone rang. ‘Unknown Number’ showed up on the screen. We had placed my BlackBerry on a small unit provided by the police which looked rather like an Ipod charger with speakers. I pressed the button to answer, and the red light flashed as the unit began a digital recording. I leaned over the unit and spoke into the microphone slot.

“Hello?” There was silence for several long seconds and I thought that Bob was teasing me, unless he guessed somehow that the call was being recorded.

“Josh, I’m sorry.” Andrew Cuthbertson’s voice was cracked and faltering. “My life is over, Josh. I’ve lost everything. Tomorrow everything will come out and I’ll be ruined.” He was rambling, but I said nothing.

“I did give your details away, you were right, but I was being blackmailed too. You have to believe me. He had me over a barrel, Josh.” There was a pause as he sobbed; the man was on the verge of a breakdown. “I need to see you, to tell you the whole story. Tomorrow morning, early, before everything hits the fan.”

“OK, Andrew, just stay calm,” I said. “Who is this Bob, anyway? Do you have any idea?”

“That’s just one of his names, and none of them are his real name. I can’t tell you over the phone. I need to see you in person, to explain.”

“All right, Andrew. Get a good night’s rest and we’ll see if we can sort this out tomorrow. Where do you want to meet?”

“Let’s meet at the pedestrian footbridge at Butler’s Wharf, next to the Chop House Restaurant. It should be deserted there at seven tomorrow morning.”

“I can do that, Andrew,” I assured him. “I’ll take one of the riverboats, but it might be a few minutes after seven when I get there.”

“I understand, but try not to be too late. I’ll be waiting. Thanks, Josh.” He hung up, leaving me wondering just what my friend had got himself mixed up in.

Chapter 13

Butlers Wharf, Tower Bridge, London. Friday, 6:45am.

Alarmed by Andrew Cuthbertson’s phone call last night, and by his sudden show of conscience, Bob kept watch over the former warehouses which now housed modern apartments set around an ornamental Japanese Garden. The sun was up and the ducks on the pond were making a racket. Bob was amazed that people would pay upwards of three hundred and fifty grand for a two bedroomed apartment in an old warehouse in what used to be a rough area of London.

The complex was security gated, entry by a key fob, and so Bob stood out of sight of the pedestrian entrance gate in one of the narrow passages that still led to the waterside. He was very disappointed with Andrew. No matter how much he threatened, Andrew refused to meet him to discuss the situation. Bob had felt sure that another look at the photos of the pathetic pre-pubescent Thai girl would bring the young accountant back into line. He was wrong. Andrew had made it clear that it was too late for that, and so Bob had been waiting outside the Cuthbertsons’ apartment for an hour.

***

Andrew hadn’t slept a wink. He had decided to tell his wife everything when he arrived home, so that the blackmail threats would be useless, but as soon as he saw his perfect wife, Charlotte, and their daughter Zoe, he knew he couldn’t do it. They would find out soon enough, and then he would try to explain, if they gave him the chance.

After a quick shower in the family bathroom, so as not to disturb Charlotte, he dressed and let himself out of the ground floor flat quietly. Not that any noise he made would be heard over the ducks. One of the attractions of the flat, in addition to the security, was the fact that the buildings were grouped around a quadrangle which sported oriental gardens and small ornamental bridges over manmade ponds. His apartment had a wooden deck beyond the patio doors, where they could sit and eat in the warm weather. In the winter the ducks would come and peck on the patio doors, brazenly looking for food. Their comic antics always entertained Zoe. Andrew imagined the scene and smiled through his sadness.

The accountant exited the security gate and walked across the lane to the wooden ramp that led onto the wharf. In ten minutes the story would be told and Josh would be safe.

Andrew walked through the brick tunnel and emerged into the bright early morning sunshine as Tower Bridge came into view. Ahead of him stood a modern, stylised stainless steel pedestrian bridge with steel grating walkway. It was no longer than five metres because the only thing it spanned was an old disused unloading bay. The small pool underneath the bridge was flooded by the Thames at high tide, but now it was just a muddy quagmire with the occasional wave lapping in.

A few yards away a wooden jetty ran out into the Thames to accommodate the river taxis and tourist boats. It was still deserted. The first boat of the morning had not yet arrived. A light mist hovered low over the surface of the water, already dissipating in the morning air. The scene was bathed in the golden light of the late summer sunrise, and the few trees in the area were already beginning to show the first hint of autumn in the yellowing leaves, but the air was fresh and cool and the rays of the sun cast long shadows across his path.

Andrew was entirely alone apart from a grey squirrel which was hunting around for food, and a jogger who was moving at a pace that could easily have been exceeded by most people walking briskly. Why do they do it, he asked himself. Run or walk, but that slow jog is pathetic.

The jogger was dressed in a grey fleece training suit, his hood up against the cool river breeze. He stopped a few yards away from Andrew and did some hamstring and calf stretches, using the railings for support. Andrew leaned against the handrail to make room for the jogger on the narrow bridge. The jogger reached the small bridge and the accountant felt it move with the extra weight of the new occupant. The jogger was moving towards him, fists shadow boxing the air.

“Loony,” thought Andrew, and looked away to avoid eye contact. The jogger stopped directly behind him. Andy could feel his presence and turned around to tell him to clear off. When he saw the face beneath the hood, he froze.