“The trouble is, Josh, that when someone has a heart attack the levels of potassium are often raised in the body immediately afterwards. It’s a natural chemical reaction, caused by an enzyme being released into the bloodstream. So, higher levels of potassium may not be conclusive evidence of murder.”

“And what about Andrew Cuthbertson? Are the police treating his death as suspicious?” Dee asked.

“Suspicious, yes, but for the moment it looks like either an accident of some sort or a suicide, and if it wasn’t - well, you two will be considered prime candidates for interview.”

Strangely enough I really could imagine Andrew ending it all after hearing his frantic call last night, but who would commit suicide by jumping ten feet into mud? No-one.

We were suddenly interrupted by Andrew’s phone ringing. Boniface lifted the phone from the clear plastic evidence bag using a latex gloved hand. By the time he got it free of its container it had stopped ringing. The screen announced a missed call from Work. While he had the phone in his hand Boniface scrolled down the recent calls list. The last call was to a person listed as LH. The call had been made late last night, after he had called me.

“LH. That could be the blackmailer.” I realised that I sounded a little desperate. Boniface lifted the phone to his ear after dialling the last number called. The phone rang out without an answer and went to an anonymous woman who asked us to leave a message after the tone.

“I’ll get a trace on that number straight away. Maybe LH, or Bob, has made his first mistake.” Boniface stepped out of the van, holding his own phone to his ear and speaking urgently.

***

Bob felt the phone vibrate in his pocket as he stepped onto Beech Street and headed back to his hotel. He knew who was calling. That cheap Nokia was reserved exclusively for speaking to Cuthbertson, and he was dead. The police had probably found his phone. Bob switched the phone off, and for the second time in twenty four hours he dismantled and discarded a cell phone.

Chapter 15

City of London Police HQ, Wood St, London. Friday, 9:30am.

The old fashioned office carried the vague aroma of lavender furniture polish. Obviously the cleaners had been in. I let my gaze wander around the office walls. There was a good deal about the Force on view, but very little about the man. A single certificate hung on the wall behind the desk. It appeared that Inspector Boniface had completed a course with NYPD on counter terrorism in urban environments. I wondered idly whether it was a serious course or whether it had been something of a jolly.

The door opened and Boniface walked in. “Well, we have some news, but it’s not particularly good, I’m afraid,” he stated. “The phone I was calling for LH has been switched off, probably permanently. However, as your threat comes from Bob and Sir Max was threatened by Bob, too, I think we can assume that LH might be the blackmailer’s real initials. Also, it appears that our late friend Mr Cuthbertson was being blackmailed as well. This is the text of an email sent to Andrew by LH.” Boniface laid a sheet of paper on the desk. It read:

Andrew,

The information on our first female client is late. Hope you aren’t getting cold feet. Don’t know what the wife would say about the little Thai girl. Was she much older than your daughter? Send the info, don’t be a martyr.

LH

I knew that Andrew had been in Bangkok at a partners’ conference some months before and told Boniface about it. He already knew. I guess we were both thinking the same thing; the photo must have been pretty bad to have worried Andy enough to become drawn into a murderous blackmail plot.

“Josh, Dee. We are not making sufficient progress in identifying Bob to say with any certainty that you would be safe if you didn’t pay the money.” Boniface left the decision on whether to pay up or not to me, in the full knowledge that official police policy was always to refuse to pay blackmail demands.

Dee spoke to me directly. “Bob hasn’t sent you the bank details yet. Maybe he’s running scared after the Andrew Cuthbertson debacle.” She didn’t sound very convincing, even to herself.

We sat in silence for a moment and then discussed the arrangements for the bank transfer, should it be necessary. The money would be transferred from my account, temporarily, to an account held by the Serious Financial Crimes team. They would then send the money electronically to the bank account Bob nominated. The transfer file accompanying the money would have an invisible electronic tag which carried a code, alerting the bank and overseas law enforcement agencies that this was a tracked payment and that the tag must be left in place for subsequent transfers or transactions. Apparently the major banks have an arrangement with the law enforcement authorities that precludes them from notifying their customer that the money is being tracked.

Now it was simply a question of waiting.

***

Bob had showered and shaved. He felt refreshed after the morning’s tribulations. He was back on track. His clothes from his morning jaunt were with the hotel laundry and, when returned, would be donated to the Salvation Army. There was no point in taking any unnecessary risks.

Bob looked at his Breitling watch and read the time as ten thirty. Time for a couple of calls, he decided. He took the phone labelled with the name Josh, inserted the battery and switched it on. He dialled the last number called. The phone rang out for a moment and a man picked it up.

“Abasi Nour speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hello Abasi, this is Josh Hammond. Are we still OK for twelve noon?” Bob’s voice was higher than normal and had the dialect most associated with the East End of London. Bob was rightly proud of his range of dialects.

“Mr Josh, yes, I am ready. The goods are here.” The Egyptian paused for a moment. “I will confirm that this is a private transaction, between two men of honour?”

Bob replied and confirmed that he would pay the money directly into Mr Nour’s personal bank account and not into the business account. The merchant gave Bob his bank account details and wished him well until they met at noon.

***

It was almost half past eleven when Josh’s phone buzzed with a text message. The phone was back on the docking station that the police were using to trace the caller. Josh, Dee and Inspector Boniface peered at the small screen.

“Hi Josh,

Just an half an hour to go until payment is due or...... well we won’t go into that. Here are the details of my bank account. If I don’t hear that my account has been credited by noon the deal is off. By the way, make sure that your money is labelled as coming from you. There is a lot of activity in my account and I wouldn’t want to miss your payment.

Bob.”

Boniface was reading the bank account number from the screen and repeating the numbers and the sort code to someone on the other end of the telephone line.

“Right, Josh, your money will be there in five minutes. As soon as we receive the electronic receipt we’ll trace the account holder and start tracking the money. My guess is that it will bounce around the world for a few hours and settle In Grand Cayman or Switzerland overnight.”

Boniface seemed confident that the money could not escape the police net. I was not so sure. It seemed to me that Bob had been a step ahead of us all along, and whilst I didn’t know how it could be done, I suspected that Bob had found a way of transferring the money - my money - without leaving a trail. I had an uncomfortable feeling that I would not be getting it back.

Chapter 16

Nour Jewellery Design, Hatton Garden, London. Friday, 11:50am.