A Man of Sorrows (19 page)

Roche finished her food, meticulously lining up her knife and fork on the plate and pushing it away from her. The place was filling up now and the owner eyed them expectantly, hoping to get the table back quickly. After serving a takeaway customer he came over to the table. Removing their plates, he dropped the bill on the table. Carlyle picked it up and reached for his wallet. ‘I’ll get this.’

Roche smiled. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m going to take a couple of days off.’

Roche looked at him and shrugged. ‘Fine.’

‘I want to take Helen down to Brighton,’ he added. It was as much elaboration as he was prepared to give.

‘Sounds nice.’

‘You stick with the St James’s case. I need to talk to Roger Leyne’s other wives and speak to Phillips about her report.’

‘No problem.’ Roche looked at him over the top of her cup as she sipped her coffee. ‘What about McGowan?’

‘We have to park him for the moment. At least until I get this investigation off my back.’

‘And the boy?’

‘Simon Murphy? Disappeared without a trace. Unless he turns up, we’ve got nothing.’

Roche placed her cup back in its saucer. ‘So they get away with it?’

‘Just for a change,’ Carlyle said sarcastically.

Knowing better than to try and press on with a topic when he was in such a bad mood, Roche decided on a new topic. ‘How much time do you want me to give chasing down Cole’s theory?’

‘Well,’ Carlyle asked, ‘what have we got?’

‘Dyer and Samuels have both admitted to the robbery,’ Roche replied. ‘The Smith & Wesson is confirmed as the weapon that killed Paula Coulter. We have recovered the prints of both men and each says that the other pulled the trigger . . .’

‘Let the CPS sort that out,’ Carlyle advised. ‘Even they can’t fuck this one up.’ The Crown Prosecution Service in London was a bad joke among many officers; it was widely believed that some CPS staff were being paid hundreds of thousands of pounds in bonuses while failing to get convictions. A much-discussed government report had claimed that people accused of offences were more likely to walk free in London than anywhere else in the country, thanks to weak preparation for court, poor supervision of cases, delays and inadequate protection for victims and witnesses.

‘Yeah,’ Roche laughed. ‘Maybe they can earn their monster bonuses for once.’

‘Still,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘I can’t believe that those two muppets somehow did it on their own.’

‘They are adamant that no one else put them up to it. Samuels used to go out with a cousin of Coulter. That’s how they say they got the idea.’

‘And anyway,’ Carlyle added, ‘if Cole is right, and some stuff was nicked after Dyer and Samuels legged it, presumably they had nothing to do with it.’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘I dunno. It seems more likely that we haven’t been able to recover all the stuff from Dyer and Samuels.’

Roche laughed. ‘They don’t really have much of a clue one way or the other. They grabbed what they could and fled.’

‘Fine,’ Carlyle said, getting to his feet. ‘Give it a little time to show willing, but don’t bust a gut.’

‘There is one thing . . .’

‘Yeah?’ Carlyle sat back down again, much to the café-owner’s disgust.

‘Hubaishi Dorning Klee. HDK Capital Management, the boutique asset management firm.’

‘God! In my day, a boutique was somewhere where you bought a shirt.’

‘They have two Nobel Laureates and a number of leading economics professors on the staff. Among other things, they own St James’s

Diamonds. Katrin Lagerbäck is one of their Associates, responsible for the day-to-day running of the business. They have stores in London, LA, Mumbai, Shanghai, Moscow and Miami.’

‘And?’

‘And last year, St James’s lost almost sixty million dollars.’

‘So?’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘What’s sixty million to a bunch of financial whiz kids. Don’t these type of guys deal in tens of
billions
?’

‘Yes, but HDK is reported to have lost something like thirty billion dollars of client money in the last three years.’

‘Just as well they have the Nobel Laureates,’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘Otherwise they could have lost
a lot
.’

‘It is currently being investigated by the authorities in both London and the US.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘How do you know all this?’

Roche smiled. ‘I have my sources.’

He gave her a
don
’
t mess me about
stare.

‘I have a good friend who works in the Financial Investigation Development Unit.’

Carlyle shrugged again. ‘Never heard of that either.’

‘They analyse Suspicious Activity Reports received by the Serious Organized Crime Agency from people working in the City. Apparently, HDK has been on their radar for more than two years.’

‘So?’

‘So, if HDK is going down the tubes, maybe Ms Lagerbäck saw this as a way of making some money before the whole thing collapsed.’

‘Maybe,’ Carlyle yawned.

‘You don’t sound too convinced.’

Getting to his feet for a second time, he stepped over to the counter to settle the bill. ‘I’m convinced enough to go and pay her a visit,’ he said, over his shoulder.

‘When?’

‘Now.’ Taking his change, Carlyle shoved it into his pocket and stepped towards the door. Holding it open, he ushered Roche outside. ‘We might as well go and have another chat with her,’ he said. ‘Apart from anything else, it keeps me out of the station.’

TWENTY-SIX

They were shown into a massive, minimalist office in Piccadilly, with views over Green Park. The back wall, behind a large cherrywood desk, was dominated by a black and white print three feet by one foot of a female nude. Shot from behind, the woman’s face was turned slightly towards the camera, eyes lowered as if she was admiring her own muscular and sculpted behind. Conscious of Roche’s gaze upon him, Carlyle tried not to stare. However, it was one hell of an arse and he found it simply impossible not to look.

‘Do you like it?’ Katrin Lagerbäck glided into the room, followed by a male assistant carrying a tray. On the tray was a cafetière filled with coffee, a plate of almond biscotti and three small cups. Lagerbäck was dressed far more demurely than on their previous meeting, the leather outfit and biker boots replaced by a grey business suit with a skirt that ended just above the knee. Her hair was perhaps slightly blonder than he remembered it, and she was wearing minimal make-up. Even so, she still looked very much like Cameron Diaz’s hotter little sister.

With Roche grinning at him, Carlyle felt himself blush. ‘It’s quite something,’ he agreed.

Lagerbäck let the assistant place the tray on the desk and waited for him to make his exit. ‘Thank you, Rupert.’

Half-bowing, half-running, the young assistant made his exit. As the door closed behind him, she glanced at Roche before smiling at Carlyle. ‘I’m glad you think my backside looks good.’

The inspector had no idea what to say to that. ‘Ah.’

‘Well,’ Lagerbäck corrected herself, ‘my backside as it was more than fifteen years ago.’ She patted her right buttock. ‘Although, I think it’s held up pretty well since then.’

Carlyle lowered his gaze to the carpet.

‘Please.’ Lagerbäck gestured to a pair of leather armchairs in front of the desk. ‘Take a seat.’

While they waited for her to pour the coffee, Roche gestured at the photograph. ‘Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable to have that up there?’

‘Not at all.’ Lagerbäck handed her a cup. ‘As you can see, it’s quite a talking-point. It’s a great icebreaker with clients.’

I can imagine
, Carlyle thought.

‘I was very lucky,’ said Lagerbäck, passing Carlyle his coffee. ‘I was seventeen and still in Berlin—’

‘You’re German?’ Roche asked.

Lagerbäck offered them the biscotti. Roche declined, so Carlyle felt at liberty to take two. He felt his mobile buzz in the breast pocket of his jacket. Sticking one of the biscotti in his mouth, he lifted it out and glanced at the screen. Seeing it was Ambrose Watson, he let it fall back into the pocket.

‘My mother was Danish,’ said Lagerbäck, pouring herself some coffee and taking a sip, ‘and my father Spanish. I was born in Copenhagen, but we moved to Berlin when I was three. Anyway, I was in the Kaisersaal of the Staatliche Museen looking at photographs when this old guy approached me and said he wanted to take my picture. By then, I was getting quite used to being pestered by dirty old men and told him to fuck off.’ She laughed at the memory of it. ‘Turns out it was Helmut Newton. I had no idea who he was but, once I realized he was a great photographer and he wanted to shoot me, it was like, “let’s do it!” ’

‘Interesting,’ the inspector nodded, nibbling the second biscotti and wondering if it would be too rude to snaffle a third.

‘It was great fun,’ Lagerbäck agreed. ‘Helmut was an incredible guy. I was so fortunate to get the chance to work with him.’

This is the standard patter that you dish out to your clients
, Carlyle thought, giving in to his impulse and reaching for another biscuit.

‘His family was Jewish. They spent the Second World War in Australia before he came back to Europe.’

‘I really like the work of his wife,’ said Roche.

Carlyle gave her a look, but she ignored him.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Lagerbäck seemed somewhat nonplussed at having her spiel turned into a dialogue.

‘Apart from anything else,’ Roche continued, ‘anyone who calls themselves Alice Springs has got to have a lot going for them.’

Carlyle laughed. ‘What a great name!’

‘She chose it by sticking a pin in a map, apparently,’ Roche explained.

‘Anyway,’ said Lagerbäck, suddenly now all business, ‘what did you want to see me about?’

Carlyle wiped a stray crumb from his mouth. ‘How did you get from there,’ he gestured at the photo, ‘to here?’

‘I left Berlin to study at the Sorbonne in Paris. After that, I came to London to make some money. I worked for an American bank for a while, but I’ve been at HDK for, God, almost eight years now.’

‘Forgive my ignorance,’ said Carlyle, ‘but what does Hub . . .’

‘Hubaishi Dorning Klee,’ Roche helpfully reminded him.

‘What do you actually do?’

The first sign of annoyance crept across Lagerbäck’s face. ‘We are a boutique asset management firm.’

Carlyle smiled. ‘Yes, but in layman’s terms, what does that mean?’

‘It means,’ Lagerbäck sighed, ‘that we invest in companies—’

‘Like St James’s Diamonds,’ Roche interjected.

‘We invest in companies like St James’s Diamonds,’ Lagerbäck repeated, ‘that we believe are either significantly undervalued, for one reason or another, or have great upside potential.’

‘And it pays well?’ Roche asked.

Lagerbäck gestured around the office, as if the answer was obvious. ‘Sure. Of course it’s not
just
about the money.’

Of course not
, Carlyle thought.

‘I also want to go to bed at night and feel like I’m doing a good job.’

‘And are you doing a good job,’ Carlyle asked, ‘with St James’s?’

Lagerbäck raised her eyes skywards and laughed. ‘You sound like my Board!’

Carlyle shrugged apologetically.

‘Actually,’ she smiled, sitting back in her chair, ‘I think we’re doing satisfactorily, under the circumstances. The business was struggling under too much leverage when we came in but it was fundamentally sound and there was scope to expand in key markets. We did a deal on the debt, kicked out the old management and invested in targeted expansion. The downturn hasn’t helped, of course, but our high net-worth customers still like to shop and we can afford to see it through. All in all, I think we have a good chance of achieving a satisfactory exit in an acceptable timeframe.’

‘I see,’ said Carlyle, not having a clue what she was talking about.

‘Presumably, something like the robbery can put a bit of a spanner in the works,’ Roche mused.

Lagerbäck frowned. ‘Spanner?’

‘Cause you problems,’ Carlyle translated.

Lagerbäck made a face. ‘Not really. It’s a matter for the insurance company, isn’t it?’ She looked from one officer to the other. ‘I mean, of course, we were very upset that one of our staff colleagues was killed.’ Her brow furrowed, as if on cue.

Her acting skills seem to have improved somewhat
, Carlyle observed.

‘The Board has written to Paula’s family,’ Lagerbäck continued. ‘We will offer them any assistance we can.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Roche said, her head slightly bowed in apology, ‘we have not been able to recover all of the stolen items.’

‘So far, at least,’ Carlyle added.

Lagerbäck smiled graciously at the limited but willing public servants in front of her. ‘I think you have done an amazing job.’ She focused her gaze on Roche. ‘Especially you, Sergeant, if I understand correctly.’

‘Thank you.’ Roche tried not to smile in the presence of her boss.

‘We will also be writing to your superiors to make sure that they understand how impressed we have been with the way in which the Metropolitan Police have handled this very difficult matter.’

If only Paula Coulter’s parents could say the same
, Carlyle thought ruefully. Crossing his legs, he sat up in his chair. ‘There is just one final thing.’

Lagerbäck arched an inquisitive eyebrow in the inspector’s direction. ‘Yes?’

‘There has been a suggestion,’ Carlyle said, ‘that some of the missing items were taken
after
the robbery.’

Lagerbäck didn’t miss a beat. ‘By whom?’ she asked.

‘That,’ said Roche evenly, ‘is something that we were wondering if you might be able to help us with.’

‘Are you telling me,’ Lagerbäck’s voice had taken on a much harder edge, ‘that I need a lawyer?’

‘No, no, no,’ said Carlyle cheerily, getting to his feet. Taking one last peek at Lagerbäck’s nude bum in all its glory, he brushed some biscotti crumbs from his trousers. ‘We are simply looking into the possibility. Most likely, the two geniuses who robbed the place have it stashed somewhere. However, if anything comes to mind, please let me know.’