Around the tops of the shelves and at the juncture with the ceilings intricate carvings gave some relief to the panelling. High above the shelves and embedded into the wall panelling were the coats of arms of many of the famous Lords who had graced this place over hundreds of years.

His Lordship’s eyes moved to the floor, where a brightly coloured carpet adorned the room. Predominantly reds and browns in an Axminster type pattern, it reminded him of the carpet in his grandmother’s front room. A room reserved for visitors, not for the use of grandchildren.

Even the air in the place felt old. He would miss it when he retired, and retirement was not far away. He was tired of it all. Arthur Hickstead had stopped being an active socialist and committed politician years ago; he liked the high life too much. Looking back, he was now faintly embarrassed by his antics in the Trade Union Movement. Ironically, now he was wanted by the Conservatives in the new coalition to report on the benefits culture, a poisoned chalice if ever there was one.

Richard had confirmed by text that the money had been transferred as he had requested, and he now awaited one more call and it would all be over. Well, almost.

The white mobile phone allocated to Richard’s case vibrated. Looking around, Lord Hickstead ensured that he was alone when he answered.

“Richard Wolsey Keen.” The accent he used was clearly West Country.

“Mr Wolsey Keen, just a call to let you know that the money is in our account and your purchase is ready to collect. Though, of course, we would be more than happy to deliver it to your offices.”

“No, I would prefer to collect it myself,” he answered. “We don’t want an item of such value in the hands of some philistine security man in the office, do we?” He was warming to the character he was playing, and the accent became more noticeable.

“Indeed not, sir. In that case, just call in at your convenience. We had already arranged to stay open until nine to accommodate you.”

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

Chapter 3 3

St. James’ Gallery, Ryder Street, London: Monday, 4:20pm.

Despite its name, the St James’ Gallery was on Ryder Street just off St James’ Street, a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace. Surrounded by the historic buildings that populated the Green Park/St James’ Park area, the Gallery occupied the ground floor of a modern office building. There were two marked private parking spaces outside and the taxi pulled up and parked in the first space.

Lord Hickstead gave the cabbie a twenty pound note and asked him to wait, using his pronounced West Country accent. The Peer was back in role playing mode. He was wearing a charcoal suit with a wide pinstripe. He was wearing red braces on his trousers and a matching red handkerchief flopped effeminately from his top pocket. The look he had adopted screamed banker.

Kelvin De Montagu, the gallery owner, smiled effusively as his customer entered the shop. The man was a typical city spiv. The customer’s toupee was poorly fitted, and contained much less grey than the rest of his hair and moustache. His glasses had thick black frames with tinted lenses.

“Mr Wolsey Keen,” gushed the owner. “So nice to see you again. As I said on the telephone, the fee was paid into my account a short while ago. Of course, I never expected anything less from the acclaimed London Mercantile Investment Bank.”

Lord Hickstead handed over one of Richard’s business cards.

“Sorry I didn’t have one of these handy at our last meeting. Did you receive my ID papers?”

“Yes, Mr Wolsey Keen, they were popped through my letter box the very next day. Thank you.” The documents were identical to those he had given to Mr Nour, except for the name change, of course. Faik had worked his magic again, and the colour copies of the forged passport and driving licence once again went unquestioned.

Kelvin disappeared for a few moments and returned carrying a titanium case with the dimensions of an oversized briefcase. He laid it on the counter, opened it and turned it around to face his customer. Inside, protected by inorganic wrapping and embedded in foam, was a painting approximately sixty centimetres tall by forty centimetres wide. It was entitled ‘Chartwell Sunrise with Horse’, and the signature was that of Winston Churchill.

“I think this will be a fine addition to the Bank’s collection, sir. It would grace any city boardroom,” Kelvin suggested. “All of the provenance papers, and the documents from the painting’s last sale at auction, are in an envelope under the foam padding. Works by Churchill have doubled in price in the last ten years, sir, and I think this will be a great investment as well as a beautiful piece of art. It is rumoured that he was painting this very piece whilst unsuccessfully campaigning against Clement Atlee and the Labour Party in 1945.”

Kelvin closed the case and passed it to his customer, who signed a form to say he had received it. After promising to visit Kelvin again in a month or two with a view to securing a further investment piece, Lord Hickstead left with a one million pound painting in his possession.

***

The taxi dropped the Peer off at The Royal Horseguards Hotel, a magnificent Victorian edifice which had once been the home to the National Liberal Club. He could have gone straight to his flat, but taxi drivers always seemed to have incredible memories when questioned by the police. He might just as well leave a false trail, in case anyone decided to follow it later.

After a quick drink in the Churchill Bar, the irony of which made him smile, and still in character, he slipped into the exquisitely appointed men’s toilets and removed his braces, toupee, glasses and moustache. Depositing them in the refuse bin, he smoothed his thinning hair and picked up his case.

He left the hotel and walked the short distance to his flat in Whitehall. He would be glad to rid himself of this tawdry City suit, purchased from a supermarket back in Yorkshire.

***

Sitting comfortably in his borrowed flat, swishing brandy around in a large balloon shaped glass and admiring his new painting, Lord Hickstead picked up the white mobile phone and dialled a preset number. It was answered immediately.

“Hello, Picture Desk.”

The Peer followed his prepared monologue and delivered it perfectly in a Cockney accent that would have put London actors to shame.

“I have pictures of that rogue, Richard Wolsey Keen, picking up a rent boy on Clapham Common and with some of his other young friends.”

“OK. And if we decided to use them, how much would you want?” the sub editor asked.

“Nuffing at all. Just to see that slime bag banker suffer, that would be enough. We all bail the bank out and he walks away with a massive pension. It just aint right. I’ll email ‘em to you now.”

The sub editor was surprised, but if the photos were genuine he wasn’t going to worry about why a punter didn’t want any money for them.

Chapter 3 4

London Mercantile Investment Bank, Canary Wharf, London: Monday, 6:25pm.

A warning message had flashed up on Nicky Taylor’s screen over two hours ago and, in the absence of his boss, he investigated the warning. Convinced that there was a problem he couldn’t resolve, he was nervous; agitated. He had never uncovered a problem of this magnitude before, and he did not have the courage to interrupt the Director of Security whilst he was meeting with the Chairman. Nicky was just about to leave another message when the door opened and his boss walked in.

“For Pete’s sake, Nicky, I’ve only been gone a couple of hours and I’ve got three missed messages from you.”

After five minutes listening to what Nicky had to say, the Director of Security was also beginning to feel unsettled. He consulted an internal telephone directory and dialled.