“So, you too are French, Monsieur Boniface?”

“Not for three generations, Luc.” The Inspector fell silent as we stepped into the cathedral-like space that served as the entrance hall. It was a glorious pastiche of gold and Italian marble. Every metal surface was gilded to an identical patina and had the look of ancient, much buffed gold. But it was a clever deception because the air conditioning grilles looked exactly the same. The marble flooring did look original, as it was the same kind of old brown marble flecked with grey that one associates with London Museums. In places it had cracked and had been expertly repaired. The wooden staircase, the tall skirting boards and carved picture rails were a rich dark hardwood and in the middle of the edifice was an astounding chandelier, which was suspended from two floors up by a long gold coloured rod and chain.

Luc could see our astonishment, and filled the silence with an explanation.

“Yes, it is very grand. I sometimes forget how impressive it appears to visitors. When you live here all of the time you become complacent and take the grandeur for granted.”

Luc explained that the house had been created from two houses that backed onto one another. It had a front door on both streets. The houses had been bought and refurbished by Dmitri Lubenov, the Russian oil and gas billionaire better known to the English for his patronage of a Premiership soccer team, unfortunately not my team, West Ham.

“We live here because my father is the London representative of Muscovia Natural Resources. Also because when Dmitri took up residence he found that his Rolls Royce would not fit in the garage, despite the architect specifically designing it for the car. That architect was found floating in the Thames a month later.” Luc winked and smiled at his own joke. “Our place in Paris is a simple apartment and so this is a big step up for us.”

Luc led us into a reception room that was ornate but modern. There was a flat screen TV that must have measured all of seventy two inches, and it was surrounded by speakers and a computer console. Luc invited us to sit down. We took a seat on Chesterfield sofa, the leather of which was so highly polished that it was difficult to sit on without sliding off onto the floor.

Inspector Boniface spoke. “You said the watch was your Grandfather’s. Is he still around?”

“Non, he passed away ten years ago, when I was still quite small, but he left his watch and memorabilia to me. My father was not overjoyed, as I suspect my Grandpa knew very well. They had a strained relationship.”

“When you say memorabilia……..” Inspector Boniface began.

Luc stood and beckoned us to a display case in the corner of the room. One shelf was filled with medals, framed pictures of a young pilot and in the middle an Old Navitimer Mecanique watch; the much discussed Breitling.

“My Grandpa was a pilot in France. He was a test pilot for the Super Entendard before a career flying for Air France. He was an adventurous man and he saw my father as being too boring. He had hopes of me continuing the Houlier’s buccaneering adventures.” Luc smiled with affection but his eyes betrayed his sadness and loss.

“Do you or your father ever wear the watch, Luc?” I asked.

“Father never, me rarely; I would be frightened to wear it regularly, knowing it is probably valued at five thousand pounds. It is better on display here, as a tribute to Grandpa Houlier.”

“Could we just check the back of the watch, please?” the Inspector asked.

Luc walked over to a box concealed in a wooden panel in the wall. A small panel opened out of the wall on hinges. It had been invisible before Luc pressed the panel to open it. The young man flicked a switch and took out a key fob.

Standing in front of the display case, he pressed the key fob and a minuscule diode changed from red to green. Luc then unlocked the door with the key. He reached in and took the watch with a care and reverence that spoke more of its sentimental value than its cash value.

Boniface took the watch from him carefully and looked at the rear of the case. It was marked A11022. It was the real Mc Coy but, sadly, probably not our real McCoy. Nonetheless, Boniface took no chances and as he passed the watch back to Luc he asked, “Has the watch been here all day?”

Luc relocked the cabinet and replaced the key fob, resetting the alarm.

“Of course. I have been here alone all day and in any event the watch has not been out of the case for months. Is there something wrong with the watch, Inspector?”

“Nothing at all, Luc, it isn’t the one we were looking for. If I were you I’d take good care of it. Your Grandfather was obviously a special man and the watch is a fitting tribute to his affection for you.”

Boniface extended his hand and Luc shook it. I shook hands with the young man too as we made to depart. Just before we left Boniface said, “Where are your parents, if that is not a rude question?”

“If you watch the news tonight at ten o clock, you will see them. They are with the French contingent celebrating with the remaining Battle of Britain pilots in Kent. They will be back tomorrow if you need to speak to them.”

“No, that’s OK, Luc. You have been very helpful.”

It was true he had been helpful, but we hadn’t, and he must have been left wondering what our visit was all about as we left the house.

“Well, that was a washout,” Boniface said, when the front door had closed and we were walking down the path. “Let’s hope the other two are having more success.”

As keen as I had been for one of the Houliers to be Bob, once we had seen the photo of Luc and his father, at a Baccalaureate awards ceremony, we knew Leon Houlier was not our man. He was a rotund man, at best five feet six inches, a good six inches shorter than his son. Dead end. The search continued.

Chapter 21

Atkins Garretson Palmer, College Hill, London. Friday, 6pm.

DS Fellowes had decided that walking would be the quickest way to get to the late Andrew Cuthbertson’s offices. A phone call an hour ago had confirmed the news that Andrew was dead, and his colleagues were in shock. All had agreed to stay until they had been questioned by the Detective Sergeant.

Dee matched the young detective’s long stride and they arrived at AGP on the dot of six. Five minutes later they were sitting in the Partner’s office discussing AGP’s staff and clients. An hour earlier they had made certain requests and the Partner, though initially reluctant, had arranged for a full print out of the Personal Tax Group’s staff and clients to be made available to them.

A young blonde girl entered the office and placed the lists on the conference table between the DS and Dee, who were facing Anthony Craven, partner responsible for this group.

“You don’t have anyone on these lists called L Houlier, do you?” Dee asked. DS Fellowes had introduced her as a consultant on financial crimes.

“No, no staff called Houlier at all, no personal tax clients called Houlier. We did have a French corporate client called Bernard Houlier, but he has returned to France now that we have sold his business.” Dee made a note.

Tony Craven, Dee and DS Fellowes scanned the lists for any LH. After ten minutes or so they had found only two people with those initials. They were Lucy Huang of the Singapore Office and Lars Halvorssen from Helsinki office. A quick check with the relevant offices showed that Lucy Huang had been at the office all day but had left six hours ago, as Singapore was eight hours ahead of London, and Lars was still at his desk.

No clients had the initials LH, so just to be thorough they also checked the initials HL and came up only with Harriet Levershulme.

Dee Conrad was convinced that someone connected with AGP was involved, probably someone at the Partners’ conference, otherwise how would they have known about Andrew and the Thai girl?