Martin Grazeley opened his briefcase and removed a printed copy of the front page of one of the country’s most scurrilous tabloids. The story was sordid and suggestive, probably ruinous for the banker’s career, and yet the photos were relatively innocent on the surface, more suggestive than explicit. Nonetheless, the message was clear; rich banker exploits young men for sexual favours.

Dee spoke out first. “I saw the front page of that paper on a news stand on the way in this morning, and it had a different headline.”

“Yes. When we found the front page we rang the paper and asked them where they got the photos. They were emailed anonymously from...” Michael looked down at the file to find the domain name.

“Someone@48hrs.co.za?” Dee suggested. She was brilliant at this.

“Absolutely right. The name used was Sam,” Martin said, looking impressed.

“It would seem that, in view of the circumstances, even this awful excuse for a newspaper decided it would be in bad taste to run that front page,” DS Fellowes added.

I was now full of questions and so I cut in quickly. “Was there any indication of a specific threat to his life, or was it just the pictures?” Michael looked at DS Fellowes for permission before he answered. The DS nodded his assent.

“He had been threatened by Sam around forty eight hours earlier. The pictures were first mentioned in a text yesterday. Someone - we believe it was Sam -shot Mr Wolsey Keen three times with a paintball gun. His shirt and jacket were stained and his back was bruised.”

“We know the blackmailer as Bob,” I added. “How much did he ask for?”

“He asked for a million pounds to be express transferred to a Swiss bank account in the name of a London art gallery. He then picked up the painting yesterday, claiming to be Richard. We appear to have lost both the money and the painting. There’ll be hell on in the office today.”

“Let me guess,” said Dee. “The man was around six feet tall, slimly built, bad toupee, moustache, glasses and an East End accent.”

Michael showed less surprise this time. “Almost right, except that he had a strong West Country accent.”

“It seems His Lordship changes his accents with his names.” Those of us who knew what she was talking about nodded in agreement.

Fellowes spoke. “That makes three suspicious deaths now, and a small fortune in ransoms paid. The Chief is really on our backs over this. In fact, the inspector is probably being bawled out at this very moment.”

Dee looked thoughtful, and then she smiled as she passed comment. “Either the man is reckless, or he has no idea that we know who he is. That has to be in our favour.”

Chapter 3 6

City of London Police HQ, Wood Street, London: Tuesday, 11am.

We were back upstairs in the more lavishly appointed part of the police HQ. On this occasion we sat at a large walnut conference table which held a tray of different kinds of mineral water and two plates of biscuits. I had never really thought about the police sitting around a conference table having the same kinds of boring minuted meetings that were held in the rest of the City. There was also a video projector on the ceiling and one of those black conference table telephones with microphones on four sides.

I was sitting with Dee and DS Fellowes. Sitting opposite us was DCI Coombes of the Metropolitan Police, along with his sidekick from Friday night, Detective Sergeant Scott. The bigwigs were outside in the corridor, talking.

After a few moments the door opened, and Inspector Boniface entered followed by two uniformed policemen with plenty of silver decoration on their blue serge tunics. One of them had his highly decorated hat under his arm.

The two uniformed men took their seats at the head of the table and Boniface sat next to me. I recognised the first uniformed man, and recalled that he was the London City Detective Chief Superintendant, DCS Boddy. He stood and introduced himself and then his uniformed counterpart from the Met, Assistant Commissioner Bryn Evans, former Assistant Chief Constable for South Wales. Boddy sat down, and Assistant Commissioner Evans took the chair and spoke clearly and concisely in that pleasant sing song manner associated with soft spoken Welshmen.

“Gathered around the table here today we have representatives of the two London Police Forces, and one of the victims of this blackmailer and possible murderer. To date the Metropolitan Police have restricted their investigations to the death of Andrew Cuthbertson, with the City Police looking into the blackmail allegations. These two cases are strands in the same rope, as far as I can see.” The AC picked up a sheet of paper. “We also have two other deaths to consider. The death of Sir Max Rochester, which the toxicology reports suggest may be a suspicious death, and the apparent suicide of Richard Wolsey Keen.”

The Welshman paused to look around the table. “Whilst the toxicology report indicated high levels of potassium in Sir Max’s blood, Sir Max suffered from heart problems and had recorded high potassium levels previously in routine blood tests. Nonetheless, we are not ruling out foul play, especially in the circumstances. Mr Keen’s demise, on the other hand, is probably what it appears to be, which is suicide. Excessive amounts of alcohol were found in his bloodstream and stomach, along with a huge number of painkillers. The pills he took were prescribed to him by his doctor, and they contained codeine, which can apparently convert into morphine in the human body. As few as six could kill, and he had taken almost four times that amount. I’ll now hand you over to Inspector Boniface, who has some new information.”

Inspector Boniface passed around a profile of a man we all recognised, although his photo did him no justice.

“This is the profile of rock star and humanitarian Don Fisher. He came to prominence in the late 1970s with his band ‘London’s Burning’. After one major mainstream hit they played mainly to their own fans. At that point they may have faded into obscurity if Don had not married a high profile bleached blonde rock journalist who was making a name for herself by swearing on mainstream television in a popular punk rock programme. Three oddly named children later, he teamed up with a few others and launched one of the most successful charities in recent history. Anyone under forty will probably not remember his singing career, but they will certainly know him for his charity work and high profile daughters.”

We were all of an age where Don Fisher was known to us; his violent language on live TV, urging people to donate, had become a favourite clip on TV news items whenever his name popped up in connection with a charity event, or when one of his daughters managed to attract the attention of the media for some sort of unwise comment or misdeed. Boniface explained why we were looking at the CV of the former rock star.

“In accordance with money laundering regulations, the banks always let us know if they see any suspicious activity. Just over a week ago they contacted the Financial Crimes Unit and reported that Mr Fisher had asked for one million pounds in cash. He wanted it within forty eight hours. The bank tried to persuade him to use bankers’ drafts or electronic transfer, but he refused, and turned up with two heavies to pick up the money in cash. The Financial Crimes Unit followed up with Mr Fisher the next day, but his solicitor told them to mind their own business and the enquiry was put on the back burner, until DS Fellowes saw the file when he searched the Serious Crime Database for related cases this morning.”

DCS Boddy interjected with some further interesting snippets.

“An hour ago Mr Fisher agreed to discuss the matter with us, in the presence of his solicitor, later today. What we do know, courtesy of the paparazzi, is that his eldest daughter was the victim of an apparent prankster last week, who shot her with a paintball gun as she exited her favourite nightclub by the rear exit to avoid the Press. Photos of the tearstained daughter, covered in red paint, appeared in the celebrity columns on Saturday.”