They scoured the list for clues but all to no avail. DS Fellowes collected together all of the data, including the menu, and looked across at Dee. Her face wore a defeated expression. They were about to leave when the Detective decided to try one more approach.
He pulled out the spreadsheet with the list of Breitling Old Navitimer owners without saying what the list showed.
“Do you recognise any of the names on this list, by any chance?” he asked.
Tony Craven studied the list with concentration. He really wanted to help find the person who had driven Andy to suicide.
“Only one, I’m afraid. At least, I’m assuming it’s him.” He pointed to A Hickstead of Leeds. “If it’s who I think it is, the A stands for Arthur. He should be on the client list but he is also on the Management Board. He’s a much admired character in here, despite his having been a left wing trade unionist in his early days.”
Dee’s interest was piqued. She asked, “Wouldn’t he have been at the conference too?”
“Yes, of course, all of the management board were there.”
“It’s just that he doesn’t appear on the seating list,” she noted.
“No, he wouldn’t be on the list, as he was on the top table. When he comes into the office he insists on being called Art, and he acts like one of the lads, but when he’s on company business it is Your Lordship all the way.”
Dee Looked Puzzled. “His Lordship?”
“Yes of course. Arthur Hickstead. You must have heard of him, surely? Lord Hickstead of Brighouse.”
DS Fellowes raised his hand for a high five and Dee slapped it as they both spoke simultaneously. “LH. Yes!”
Tony Craven looked at them, trying to work out what he had said that was causing so much jubilation.
Chapter 2 2
Atkins Garretson Palmer, College Hill, London. Friday 7:35pm.
The car was silent as we drove back into town. I think we were both disappointed at what had seemed to be a firm lead. We were heading towards College Hill to meet up with the others when Inspector Boniface’s phone rang. It was DS Fellowes calling. The Inspector pressed the loudspeaker button and answered.
“OK Fellowes, you’re on loudspeaker. We’re just coming into College Hill. I’m afraid we hit a dead end.”
There was an electric excitement on the other end of the phone that transmitted across the ether just as surely as did the voices.
“We think we might have found LH,” Fellowes said, almost in harmony with Dee. They were keen to tell us all, but Boniface asked them to save it for the car as we were pulling up the AGP’s offices.
A few moments later Dee and DS Fellowes virtually sprang out of the doors and headed to the cars, laughing and chatting as if they were having fun. I felt a pang of jealousy.
They opened the car door and slid into the seat next to me. As soon as they were seated they began explaining how they had uncovered an LH after all, and when they explained that the L signified Lord and was not in fact a name, both Boniface and I took a sharp intake of breath.
It seemed incredible that a Lord would stoop to blackmail. Moreover, why choose me? Lord Hickstead. It was unfathomable. Yet something seemed to tug at the furthest recesses of my memory. I knew that name from somewhere, I was sure. Then something clicked, the realisation hitting me like a train.
“Oh, no, no, no!” I said out loud, and everyone in the car looked at me.
“What is it?” asked Dee. “Are you all right?”
I was fine, but I had just put the pieces together and it hit me like a revelation. I now knew why a peer of the realm would target me, a mere loss adjuster.
Chapter 2 3
Dyson Brecht Offices, Park Street, Leeds: Friday 15th June,
6pm. Nine Years Earlier.
Some people go Barbados for the summer. Some go to Spain. I get to go to Leeds. Now, there is nothing wrong with Leeds. It’s a great city; plenty to do, plenty of women, but somehow I would have preferred Barbados. Unfortunately, as Toby explained to me, the Barbados office didn’t have a manager in hospital with a burst appendix, whereas the Leeds office did. That was how I found myself standing in, holidays on hold, looking forward to a few weeks in Yorkshire. My main regret was that, as the football season had already ended, I would not get the chance to watch Leeds United at Elland Road.
Norman was the last to leave the office on that particular day, as he usually was. A typical dour Yorkshireman, he was steady and reliable. If I were in Toby’s shoes I would have left him in charge rather than sending in a relatively inexperienced 23-year-old Londoner. I packed my briefcase and headed towards the door. The Balti House on the ground floor was opening up in readiness for its evening customers, and the cooking smells wafted in through the open windows. Up on the sixth floor it smelled delicious.
I closed the last window as the phone rang. It was the landline. I reluctantly picked it up, dread hanging heavy in the pit of my stomach like an undigested meal. “Dyson Brecht, good evening.”
“Josh, Josh, Josh, you’re a lifesaver!” The voice was heavy with local dialect. I recognised it as belonging to Eddie from Dale County Insurance, the Leeds office’s biggest customer.
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet, Eddie,” I replied.
“I know, but you’ll help us out on this, won’t you, lad? It’s my anniversary this weekend, and I promised the wife I’d take her somewhere nice. You know how it is. Anyway, that fire I’m supposed to be looking at, well, I can’t really do it, but you can, can’t you, lad?”
I sighed. Another excuse. Two weeks ago it had been his daughter’s birthday which had prevented him from attending to his work duties. I wondered what he might come up with next. I hoped his grandmother was in good health, or she might well be the reason why he couldn’t cover the weekend yet again, in two weeks’ time. Grannies do tend to have a habit of passing away at inconvenient moments, especially when a good excuse is required.
“OK, Eddie. Give me the details, and please tell me it’s not out in the wilds.” I looked at the address I had written down. It didn’t get much wilder. But hey, it was a balmy evening, almost midsummer. It wouldn’t be fully dark until nearly midnight, if it got dark at all. It seemed like a great opportunity to go for a nice drive in the green, rolling hills of Yorkshire.
***
The road up to where the house was situated wasn’t even on my map, and I would have struggled to find it at all without the pall of smoke and flashing blue lights to guide me. A makeshift sign read Cobben Lane, and I was looking for Crest House. I drove up the badly rutted road that mainly served farm vehicles, worrying every inch of the way about my deposit on the hired Volvo. At the very least the suspension would be wrecked, and at the worst I would tumble down the hillside, the edge of which seemed to be no more than six inches from my wheels.
I drove past a stone built longhouse, typical of the rural buildings in this area. The longhouse had proved to be the ideal farmhouse in days gone by. The animals would be stabled in stone barns either side of the house, the warmth from their bodies providing extra heat as well as a wind barrier to the human habitation in the middle.
Ahead of me stood the smouldering remnants of a house. The occupants had clearly enjoyed a magnificent view across the valley from their windows. I parked up and strode over to the firemen who were cooling down the embers. I didn’t recognise anyone, so I hand signalled ‘who is in charge’ knowing that my spoken words would be lost amidst the noise of the pumps and the gushing water, and would not penetrate the protective headgear of the firemen. They nodded towards the second fire tender. As I passed the fire engine I spotted the red van parked on the tarmac. Inside was Rodney Killip, the area fire investigator. He signalled for me to join him in the van. I climbed in. He was filling in a pro forma fire report that was bulldog-clipped to a piece of plywood.