Seven Years Later (2002 Part One)


The call came into the New Scotland Yard via the 999 service: a crime in progress. The control dispatcher said it had been phoned in by a victim of grievous bodily harm, who was being held against his will and feared for his life.

DI Lestrade sighed. Welcome to another Friday night in London. It could be a hoax call; too many false alarms turned out to be a swarm of drunken youths celebrating the end of their week with too much booze, when horsing around turned into a "let's wind the police up a bit". At least there was no football match on; that usually made life worse.

"Play me the call."

The recording started:

"What service please?"

It was a quiet baritone voice that replied. Not panicky, rather clear. "Police- this is an emergency. There is a crime in progress at the Penthouse Flat, Warner Yard, Clerkenwell. Linked to the Islington murder four weeks ago; GBH already occurred, homicidal intent unambiguous. DI Lestrade, Hurry." Then the silence of a disconnected line.

The wording took Lestrade by surprise. "Have we got anyone undercover out there? Whoever this is knows the code." The reference to Islington was enough to attract attention as the murder had not been widely reported, but it was the GBH with homicidal intent comment that confirmed it as something highly relevant to the Homicide and Serious Crime division. And calling for Lestrade by name was another give-away clue. "Could you trace the call?"

"Too short. All we know is that it was made from a mobile."

oOo

The building was one of those seriously posh blocks that went up in the 1990s, all along the edges of the Square Mile. Every one of the flats was probably worth over a million pounds. Probably all owned by rich foreigners or City wide-boys. Lestrade's London had changed over the past ten years. Bankers' bonus money and wealthy immigrants made London property prices soar. The people who lived in this block were raking it in, clearly.

"Who's in the penthouse flat?" The DI barked the question at the security guard in the marble-clad lobby, and then said "don't you dare pick up that phone. Just answer the question."

"No one. That is, it's a property company that leases it out occasionally to visiting bankers for a couple of days at a time."

"And who's up there now?"

"Some bankers having a party, celebrating some deal or other. I can't keep track of them, and the company doesn't want me to know who is using it; lots of hush-hush deals. You know these City types. As long as they show me their keys, I let them in."

Lestrade left a constable at the front desk, to watch both the front door and the guard, ensuring that he didn't make a call to tip off the occupants.

Three minutes later, the DI and three constables stood outside the door of the penthouse flat. "Open up, Police!" Lestrade had a loud voice, and knew that whoever was inside would have heard it.

He turned to the constables. "Give 'em a count of five, then use the ram."

A voice came from inside the apartment. "Wait, I'm coming."

Sounds foreign; calm, not panicky. There was a faint sound of people moving inside, then footsteps approaching the door. It opened on a safety chain and a face peered around the door. Lestrade flashed his warrant card. "I said, open up. We're police investigating a crime in progress."

The chain came off and the door opened to reveal a man in his fifties, wearing a business suit but no tie. "There must be some mistake, Officer. There is no crime going on in here- just a group of people enjoying a private dinner." His English was excellent, but clearly not his native tongue. Italian? Lestrade saw the cut of the expensive suit, the soft leather shoes, the Rolex oyster watch and the fact that the man had a fashionable tan, despite it being mid-November.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, Metropolitan Police. We were called about a crime in progress at this address, no mistake, Mister…?

"Georgio Vanucci, Detective Inspector; I'm Chief Executive of Arnaulti Bank. That's in Milan, in case you aren't familiar with Italian banks."

In other words, be very careful little policeman if you are going to accuse someone as exalted as me of any sort of crime. There was a moment of awkward silence before Lestrade smiled. "I'm sorry to intrude like this, but I must insist on searching the premises."

He left one constable on the door to make sure no one left. When he and the other two constables left the penthouse's foyer and entered the open plan living room, Greg saw the remains of the party. A dining room table lit by candles with five place settings showed the debris of a top class meal. One plate of food looked untouched; Lestrade's glance took in the Michelin star presentation. A half dozen empty wine bottles on a side table screamed expensive vintages and quality chateaux. The kitchen area was empty excepting a few delivery boxes; the meal had been catered.

There were two men sitting either side of a fireplace, where gas flames were casting a soft glow onto the glass and chrome coffee table with four glasses of what smelled like brandy. The two men were jacketless, without ties, but still wearing business trousers. Both looked curiously at the DI, if a little alarmed at the uniformed constables.

Vanucci gestured to the one on the left. "May I introduce Georges Versault, of Limoux Bank, and that is Balázs Szamuely; he's Managing Director of the Capital Markets division of Magyarsa Bank in Budapest. Gentlemen, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade, from the Police, who is under the mistaken belief that there is a crime going on here."

The men looked puzzled and also a little annoyed. "Is this how the English treat foreign visitors, Detective? Gate-crashing a private party seems rather extreme- something I might expect in Russia or the third world, where the police are always on the hunt for a bribe." This was said by the bigger of the two seated men, the Eastern European. His accent was thicker, and he looked a little flushed in the face.

That annoyed Lestrade. "Who else is in the flat?"

Vanucci gestured toward a door off to the side. "We sent the catering staff home hours ago. My colleague, Simon Williams, the CEO of an American hedge fund is in that bedroom, using what you British call 'the loo'. He'll be out in a moment. "

"Then you won't mind if we have a look around, will you?"

"Would it make any difference if I did mind?" the Italian asked mildly.

"Yes, it would mean that I would have to leave a constable here to make sure that none of you left the flat or made any phone calls while I go get a warrant, which I can assure you I will get on the basis of the phone call received."

The tanned banker pursed his lips for a moment, and then shrugged. "By all means, take a look, if by doing so you will leave us alone more quickly."

Lestrade nodded to the two constables, one of who went down the corridor towards the other bedrooms, while the other headed for the room where the American was supposed to be. Lestrade looked out the plate glass windows, and asked Vanucci casually, "what's out there?"

The Italian looked out. "London?" The Hungarian smirked.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "I meant in terms of the apartment."

"I couldn't honestly tell you, Detective Inspector. We've been in the flat for about four hours enjoying our dinner. It's too cold to venture out on the patio decking. Your English climate, I fear, is not very agreeable in November."

The constable re-appeared with an American in tow. From his button down shirt to his tasselled loafers, he looked the part. "Hello, I'm Simon Williams. What seems to be the problem, officer?" The accent was New York, like something out of a Hollywood film.

The PC behind the banker gestured with his head back at the bedroom. Lestrade replied, "Well, excuse me, gentlemen, but I need to take a look at that room."

Even a quick glance aroused his suspicions. Something had taken place in here. The sheets on the bed were in a tangle, and there was a scent of cigarette smoke and sweat. The double patio doors from the bedroom were closed, but it felt cold in the room. There was no duvet or blankets on the bed, which made it look odd to the detective. The bathroom gave up no clues; the toilet had been flushed recently and the cistern was re-filling. The PC crouched down beside the toilet bowl and ran his finger over some powder on the floor. "Talc?" He lifted a finger and sniffed, then tasted delicately. "Nope, it's coke. Probably flushed the lot down the loo to get rid of the evidence."

When Greg returned to the living room, the four men were now standing, uneasy. "Gentlemen, we've found evidence that drugs have been in this flat." He looked down at the coffee table and saw the faintest trace of a line of powder. "And that suggests you've been enjoying some of them, too." He walked up to the bankers and took a good look at their faces. The Hungarian showed clear signs of being high- his pupils were constricted, despite the dim light in the room, and his face was flushed. American and the Frenchman seemed to be under the influence of something but less affected- it might be the alcohol. Only the Italian seemed cool as a cucumber.

"Detective Inspector, I am sure that this is some sort of mistake. We've been having a private party. If there are traces of drugs in the flat, they must have been here before we arrived. I assure you that apart from a lot of some rather nice wine, we have not consumed anything illegal."

The Hungarian bristled. "Surely, the police had better things to do than to harass four senior bankers. Shouldn't you be pursuing terrorists or organised crime?" There was something just that little bit snide in his tone that riled Lestrade.

Something wasn't right, but he was having trouble putting his finger on it. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. Greg took a good look at the Hungarian. The other three men looked like what he would expect, after a long day. Shirt- that's it; looks too clean, must be new on. The wrinkles in the other men's shirts were not on the Hungarian's shirt, which looked like it had come straight from the cleaners.

"Mister Szamuely, can you tell me why you changed your shirt?"

He just looked at Greg as if he was an utter moron. "What the hell business is it of yours? I changed for dinner; after a hard day making lots of money, I took a shower and changed."

"Then you won't mind if we see the shirt you were wearing?"

"I sent it to the laundry."

It was just that tiny bit too glib. Lestrade's radar suddenly flared. "Constable Hawkins, take a look in that bedroom and find me that shirt."

Now the Italian decided to get involved. "Detective, I do think this has gone far enough. We have answered your questions. You have seen the apartment; there is no one here but us, and there is no crime being committed. I am going to have to ask you to leave now. If you want to ask further questions, you will need to talk to our lawyers."

The DI did not reply, but stared intently at the Hungarian. "May I see your hands, please?"

The Italian banker now stepped between Lestrade and the Hungarian. "Really, Detective, I must protest. You are in danger of harassing us. You have no cause to examine us like this."

At that point, the constable returned with a crumpled pink shirt. Hawkins shook it out in front of the men, so that everyone could see the blood droplets splattered across the front.

"Cut yourself shaving then, Mr Szamuely?" Lestrade asked. "Or were those bruised and bloodied knuckles of yours the result of hitting someone?"

The second constable returned from the far bedrooms. "Nothing in them, Guv- no sign of anything suspicious."

"Check outside on the deck, Hawkins. Take a good look around."

There was something nagging at the back of Lestrade's mind. Something he had seen that didn't add up. Five places set at the table, one untouched. "Mister Vanucci, just who was the other place at the table for?"

The Italian glanced back at the table. "Oh, a colleague who didn't show up. Phoned in to say he couldn't make it. Family issues or something. We'd been waiting long enough, so we started without him."

The constable came running back in. "Sir, I've found something- come quick."

Lestrade followed the man out onto the deck, and then the PC shone his torch over the side of the metal railing. Some ten feet below, on the roof of the apartment below the penthouse, there was a duvet- with what appeared to be something wrapped up in it. Even from the balcony, Lestrade could see a dark stain, which his imagination filled in as blood. "Get the ambulance service here now, and arrest these men; and figure out how to get down there onto that roof."

After that, things exploded into action. Back-up was called, the bankers were read their rights and cuffed, and the security guard at the front desk hauled upstairs to tell them how to get down onto the roof. PC Jones went down a small ladder around the back of the patio surrounding the penthouse, and worked his way onto the roof. In the torchlight, he pulled the duvet away to reveal a naked man.

"Is he alive? "Lestrade shouted, leaning over the balcony to get a better look.

"I've got a pulse."

"Wrap him back up, Constable, and stay with him until the medics get here."