We had no actual evidence that he was the one blackmailing me. It was merely supposition. There was no physical evidence at all linking him to Andrew’s death or that of Sir Max.

What we did have, in my view, was some convincing circumstantial evidence. I reviewed the evidence with Dee over the table at Peppers Restaurant, one of the most underrated and overlooked eateries in London. We had already ordered and we were sipping a nice 2008 South African Merlot, a fruity red wine from the Western Provinces.

I ran through what we had on Arthur Hickstead.

“His Lordship is on the board at AGP; he knew Andrew well, he knew Sir Max very well. There were text messages on their phones showing that they were being blackmailed. One of those messages was from someone Andrew referred to as LH, which has to be Lord Hickstead.

Lord Hickstead was in Thailand at the same time as Andrew, and could certainly have known about the Thai girl. Thailand was also the home of the domain name 48hours.co.za.

Lord Hickstead was six feet away from Sir Max when he died, probably from poisoning, and he wears the same type of rare watch that we know the blackmailer wears.

Two people can identify him, Abasi Nour and that soccer thug guy who met him in South Africa.

If we were to raid his home, all we’d need to do is find the diamonds or one of the cell phones, or even a credit card receipt for those phones, and we’d have him cold.”

Dee smiled and reached across the table. Taking my hand, she held it in both of hers and I suddenly realised what beautiful hands she had. They were pale and smooth. They were perfectly manicured, nails short and polished with a clear varnish.

“Josh, I love your enthusiasm, and I love listening to your heartfelt views, but we have to be realistic. Lord Hickstead was a leading trade unionist and an associate of the former Prime Minister. He was an EU Commissioner and he has been ennobled in the outgoing PM’s resignation list. My guess is that he will still be welcome in Number 10 even under the new regime.” She paused as the first course arrived at the table.

“If we’re going to take him down - and we will - it will take cast iron proof.”

Dee lifted her fork and buried the prongs into her Caesar Salad. My goodness, I thought, she really is gorgeous. I froze for a moment when she looked up at me. I wondered if I had inadvertently said the words out loud, but she simply asked me why I wasn’t eating my French Onion Soup. “Too hot,” I said, covering for my embarrassment.

The meal was terrific. We both had hot roast red snapper with coconut, chilli and lime salsa, cooked in the Caribbean style. I had grown accustomed to being single, with just the occasional girlfriend, but I now appreciated how good it would be to have a permanent partner; someone I could share every day with. Someone, maybe, just like her.

We were still laughing and talking after the last customer left, and we were alone with Vincent, the owner. I called him over and paid the bill.

“You’re good for him,” he said to Dee. “Josh is a good customer but we’re getting tired of him taking a whole table to himself when we could have two covers.”

We laughed and stepped out into the hot and sticky night air, heading for my flat.

***

I spent the pleasant walk home pondering on our relationship, if indeed there was one. Would tonight be the night to make a move? I needn’t have troubled myself because others made the decision for me.

As we approached the flat Dee interlocked my arm. She spoke quietly.

“Josh, just chat to me casually as we walk. I want to take a good look at the car on the left had side of the road.”

A dark coloured saloon was parked in a resident only parking space and had two occupants, both of whom I could see quite clearly. As we came closer Dee spoke again. Her voice was quiet but urgent.

“Get ready to run on my say so. Get into the house and call the police. I’ll handle these two.”

As we drew level with the car, the driver’s side door opened. Dee stood in front of me and faced down the driver. He looked puzzled for a moment and then flashed a warrant card. He spoke directly to me.

“Metropolitan Police. We would like you to join us at the police station. We have questions about a suspicious death you may be able to assist with.”

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“No, but that would be the next step if you refuse to accompany us to Southwark Police Station.”

Dee and I conferred, with our backs to the officers, and decided to go along with them, after making a phone call.

“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Dee asked. “It’s been a long day.”

“Obviously not,” the plain clothes policeman responded. “But that isn’t my decision.”

Toby picked up the phone as soon as it rang; there was music and jollity in the background.

“Josh, I’ve heard you made good progress today.”

“Not that good, Toby. I’m being taken to Southwark Police Station to be interviewed in relation to Andrew’s death.”

“Right,” Toby said, taking immediate control of the situation. “Don’t say anything, either in the car or at the station. I’ll get a lawyer to meet you there as soon as possible.”

Chapter 2 5

Southwark Police Station, Borough Rd. London.

Saturday 12:20am.

The Metropolitan Police accommodations were not as quaint as the London City Police Station in Wood Street. The room we were waiting in had bare plastered walls with some kind of shiny paint that may have been blue at some time but which now looked faded and grey.

The furniture, however, was new and the chairs were comfortable and brightly upholstered in a wine coloured fabric. The desk and chairs were probably chipboard but they were faced with the blonde wood so beloved of offices everywhere.

The lighting was provided by a number of spotlights on two tracks on the high ceiling. The odour was provided by an over-zealous cleaner who had obviously disinfected the room before our arrival.

Dee gripped my hand under the table and smiled at me. She had made me agree that I wouldn’t say a word until my lawyer arrived. I accepted her advice, which was timely because I soon spotted the CCTV camera in the corner and I had no doubt that the room was wired for sound.

We had been cautioned in the car and we were warned that anything we said could be written down and used later, and that if we chose not to answer questions our silence could be considered by a court in deciding our guilt or innocence.

I asserted my right to representation and explained that I had already let someone know where we were. So, now we were waiting for our lawyer to arrive.

We had been in the room about twenty minutes when the door opened and Inspector Boniface stepped inside.

“Josh, Dee, I’m sorry about this. I had my chief petition the Met’s Superintendant in Charge but they wouldn’t give way. They wouldn’t even hold off until Monday. So, my advice is to tell the truth and get out of here as soon as you can, and come and see me Monday.”

He crossed to the door, squeezing my shoulder as he went, and made a beckoning gesture. Just before the beckoned person arrived at the door Boniface smiled at me and said, “Look who I found lurking in the corridor.”

A man of around forty in a Savile Row suit and a silk tie that cost more than any of my suits entered our little room. The last time I had seen him he had been wearing white sports kit and he was thrashing me at squash.

“Colin, I never expected to see you.” Boniface closed the door as Colin and I hugged; a manly hug, admittedly, but a hug nonetheless. I turned to Dee.

“Dee, meet Colin Penworthy, senior partner at Kellaways.” Dee shook hands with my close friend and squash partner, a man who had famously represented an errant member of the Royal Family against her creditors.