***

Bob saw the shock on Andrew’s face and took his opportunity. A leather sap, or cosh, filled with lead pellets swung up and caught the young accountant directly under the chin. Bob saw the young man’s eyes roll back into his head and his body go limp. He knew he didn’t have long. Having scoured the wharf for signs of life a minute earlier as he’d feigned stretching, he knew they were alone. Taking the weight of Andrew’s body, he leaned him against the railing and tipped him over.

The young accountant toppled face down into the muddy quagmire as Bob looked on. After a few seconds Andrew shuddered and began to come round. Thrashing wildly, he could do no more than pull himself deeper into the mud; his manic efforts to save himself did not last long, and after a few moments one had to look hard to see a body at all.

Bob looked up as a maritime horn sounded. The first Thames Clipper of the day was approaching. He turned his back and walked away in the direction he had come from, as though nothing at all had happened.

Chapter 14

Butlers Wharf, Tower Bridge, London. 7:05am.

We picked up the Thames Clipper at Greenwich at five minutes to seven, and the high speed catamaran skimmed along the Thames at the speed limit for less than ten minutes before we reached our destination. On those occasions when I took the glass sided Clippers, with their spectacular views of the bridges and the city, I always promised myself that I would use them more often and abandon the overcrowded Tube. On a morning like this, with a clear blue sky and just a light breeze, it seemed especially appealing.

We alighted at Tower Bridge and I looked around in the early morning sunshine, searching for Andrew.

Dee hadn’t been to this area of London before and was surprised at how upmarket it had all become. Two of London’s most popular restaurants were within a stone’s throw of where we stood. We walked along the South Bank in the direction of Butler’s Wharf and the stylish post-modern pedestrian bridge. There was no sign of Andrew, but it was only just after seven, so we agreed to give him until seven fifteen before calling him.

We stood on the bridge for a while, taking in the fresh air and just talking. I explained how the Shad Thames area had turned from a derelict warehouse district into a thriving community occupied by aspirational professionals. As I looked around, I noticed that many of the businesses and buildings which we could see housed companies which were in our company insurance portfolio.

Dee was becoming concerned, and suggested that we call Andrew. By now it was almost seven fifteen. I called Andrew’s number up on my list of most recently called numbers and pressed the green telephone symbol.

Almost immediately I heard a sound like an old fashioned telephone bell. Assuming that Andy must be somewhere close by, I looked around for him but couldn’t see him. Dee looked around, too, clearly as puzzled as I was. The ringing stopped and my call went to voice mail. It was definitely his phone which we had heard ringing.

I rang the number again and we listened carefully. The tone seemed to be coming from underneath the bridge. Dee looked through the steel grating that formed the walkway and saw the phone lighting up with each ring. She caught her breath and pointed at it. I rang off and, kneeling down, I looked more closely. The phone was lying on debris at the bridge parapet, just inches away from the muddy water which was splashing around down there. Dee held my jacket as I climbed over the guard rails and stood on the exposed muddy bank. I had to hold onto the bridge to avoid slipping into the quicksand-like mud in the basin. I picked up the mobile phone from amongst the stones. It was dirty but it appeared largely undamaged. I was checking that it was still working when another Thames Clipper passed about fifteen metres away and the wash pushed river water into the basin, washing over my feet and soaking my socks and shoes. I swore loudly. Then I thought I saw something in the muddy morass.

As the river water washed over the mud I was sure I saw a face appear just below the surface, but then the water withdrew like a receding wave and the face was gone. I was convinced that I must have imagined it, until I noticed the toe of a brown shoe breaking the surface of the mud just a few metres away. I didn’t want to believe what I knew must be true.

I climbed back onto the bridge and told Dee what I had seen. She looked into my eyes.

“Is it Andrew?” she asked.

“I hope not, but it does seem to be rather too much of a coincidence,” I replied, feeling a depth of sadness that surprised me.

Dee dialled the number for Inspector Boniface and twenty minutes later we heard the River Police boat approaching, sirens blaring.

***

An hour later the body had been recovered from the mud before the tide could come in and sweep it away. I unofficially confirmed it was Andrew, and Dee nodded her agreement as I spoke. The official identification would be done by Charlotte later, after the body had been cleaned and a cause of death had been established.

Dee and I were sitting in a police transporter with Inspector Boniface.

“Josh, this is outside my jurisdiction, it’s a job for the Met boys, so be wary. Remember, you have a motive and also opportunity, so you are bound to be questioned.”

“I have Dee as an alibi,” I responded, feeling mildly annoyed that anyone would consider me a suspect in Andrew’s death.

“I understand that, Josh, but...” he looked at Dee. “....Ms Conrad was heard threatening Andrew less than twenty four hours ago. I’m just warning you both to be prepared for some hard questioning. Now, I’m going to take you both back to the City Police HQ. I’ve told the investigating officer that you are crucial witnesses to a blackmail plot and potentially two murders.”

“Two murders?” Dee looked puzzled.

“Yes. When the Scene of Crimes Officers looked at Sir Max Rochester’s phone last night they discovered a number of texts.” I guessed what was coming, but I let the Inspector continue unabated. “The upshot of it is that he, too, had been given forty eight hours to deliver a rather larger sum than yours, and he refused to play ball. He died within a few minutes of the deadline expiring.”

“My God, this man is serious about killing his victims!” Dee Conrad seemed surprised, but I wasn’t. I fully expected to die if I didn’t pay. Otherwise why would I shell out a quarter of a million pounds?

“Obviously this is a working theory at the moment because the death looks like natural causes, possibly a heart attack, but hopefully a toxicology report will provide some answers.” Boniface paused for the inevitable question. I asked it.

“Is it possible for someone to induce a heart attack, then?”

“The short answer is yes. It doesn’t strictly cause a coronary infarction but you can interfere with heart function with a sufficient dose of potassium chloride. They use it as one of the components for chemical executions, more politely referred to as lethal injections in the USA. Anyone who knew that Sir Max had heart problems could reasonably assume that a large dose of potassium chloride would be enough to kill him.”

“Does it have to be injected?” Dee asked.

“No, but it’s colourless, and in a strong drink such as whisky it would be almost undetectable. Another reason for suspicion is that by the time the paramedics arrived on the scene, Sir Max’s whisky glass had disappeared from the table.”

“So it was murder,” I concluded.

“We may never get to prove that, Josh. It’s touch and go at the moment.”

“But what about toxicology? Won’t that find the chemicals in the body?” I couldn’t believe that the team in CSI Miami wouldn’t have known with certainty it was murder. Boniface had an answer for that, too.