Against the odds, they all made it around an exceptionally congested Hyde Park Corner to exit onto Knightsbridge and the A4. They hadn’t travelled far along Knightsbridge when the black cab turned into Brompton Road and indicated a right turn. The motorbike followed, but the Corsa, a few cars behind now, had to wait to turn.
Dirk and Gordo both swore, but they need not have worried because the convoy came to an abrupt stop just a hundred metres away on Cheval Place. By the time the Corsa arrived on the scene, Lord Hickstead was climbing the steps into a building. The wall next to the front entrance bore a brass plaque on which was engraved the words CitySafe Depository.
This area of London was unfamiliar to the Corsa driver, but he soon discovered that Cheval Place was actually a mews. It was very narrow and, whilst the motorbike could pull over to one side, the Corsa was not going to be able to squeeze past the cab, which was still standing outside the depository. Gordo turned right onto a one way Street called Rutland Street, and then he turned right again onto Fairholt Street so that he was parallel to Cheval Place.
“OK, Gordo, His Lordship has obviously got a safety deposit box in there. We have to assume that he’s retrieving something valuable. Here’s what we do.” Dirk outlined a rough plan and Gordo agreed, even though he had extreme concerns.
***
Lord Hickstead pressed the buzzer on the security panel and announced himself. The door buzzed and a tough looking man in uniform opened the door with a smile, beckoning the customer inside. In a few minutes he was past the metal grillage which protected the strongroom security guard and at the entrance to the strongroom itself. The door stood open. It was about ten feet in diameter and it was at least two feet thick. A mixture of brass and titanium locking bolts were arranged in three rows. The safe was virtually impregnable and the depository was fully manned twenty four hours a day, every day of the year, so breaking in overnight or at a weekend wasn’t possible.
The Peer looked into the vault. There were boxes of all sizes, from letter sized to kitchen cabinet sized. His personal box was one of the largest; it was called a ‘half cupboard’. It was sixteen inches wide and half the height of the vault at around three feet six inches tall. He tapped in a six figure code and a small beep announced the opening of a discreet panel in the door. Behind the panel was a keyhole. Lord Hickstead took his key from his pocket. It was rather unusual in appearance, similar to a Yale lock blank key with no notches along the edge. Instead it had tiny depressions or craters drilled into the flat sides. He slid the key into the keyhole and heard tiny rods slip into the depressions. Once they were in place he was able to turn the key ninety degrees to the right, and the lock disengaged.
Inside the box sat the oversized briefcase containing the painting, a holdall courtesy of Don Fisher and a bag of diamonds donated by Josh Hammond. It was time to start converting the remaining goods to cash. He was meeting Van Aart’s man in an hour, and he had a meeting tomorrow with a London based Sheik who used the Peer to gain access to the highest levels of the last government. The Sheik was also rather keen to own the Churchill painting.
The last item in the box was possibly the most controversial; it was a brown envelope containing a series of Polaroid photographs which had been taken last year. Hickstead was not a man for gadgets or technology, but who on earth uses Polaroids any more, he wondered. He already knew the answer. He had paid a German journalist ten thousand Euros for ten poorly composed and badly lit photos, taken by an impoverished but good looking German boy. The photos had no artistic merit, but the faces in them were recognisable and what they were doing was likely to disgust and shock many who saw them.
Lord Hickstead placed two items into the briefcase he had brought with him and locked his safety deposit box. He had a busy day ahead of him.
Chapter 46
Cheval Place, London. Thursday, 11 am.
Constable Knott was now about a hundred yards from the depository; he was sitting astride his motorcycle with a clipboard in his hand, trying hard to look inconspicuous.
He saw the target exit the depository and start walking up Cheval Place in the direction of Montpellier Street, where he would have a chance of hailing a taxi. The policeman put his full face helmet on and put his clipboard away. As soon as His Lordship reached the end of the road he would follow; until then he would be too obvious.
At first he wasn’t sure whether or not he was seeing things. A short man appeared from nowhere and moved close up behind the Peer, before using his foot to kick at back of the target’s knee. Naturally the older man’s knees folded and he ended up on the ground, breaking his fall by instinctively stretching out his hands. In the process he let go of the briefcase, and his assailant picked it up, held it to his chest and ran.
The constable was already off his bike and was yelling into his headset that the target was down and a mugger was escaping down a side street. The policeman was normally very quick on his feet, but he discovered very quickly that motorcycle boots are not made for running. By the time he got to the Peer the uniformed security guard from the depository was already helping the man up, and so the policeman directed his attention toward the mugger.
The policeman ran around the corner onto Montpellier Walk and nearly ran into a smartly dressed man carrying a green Harrods bag who was coming in the opposite direction. The man looked alarmed, but he quickly regained his composure and said, “I think the fellow you’re chasing turned left down Fairholt.”
Knott called out his thanks as he ran around the corner in time to see the mugger starting a small car and driving away at speed. He read the registration plate out loud to Control, informing them that this was a one way system and the only way out was via Brompton Road. If they could block that quickly enough, they would catch the mugger.
The constable walked back to his bike and waited for back up.
***
The plan had worked well. As soon as Gordo was out of sight of the policeman he had passed the briefcase to Dirk, who placed it in the Harrods bag and walked nonchalantly in the direction of the crime scene.
The motorcycle cop raced around the corner and nearly knocked Dirk over. Dirk pointed in the direction the mugger had gone, and the policeman hurried on his way. The constable had seen a smartly dressed man in a suit carrying a distinctive green Harrods bag, and had no reason to suspect him of anything. He had been too preoccupied with chasing a mugger, after all.
Dirk crossed the road and pressed himself against a wall as a police BMW raced into Cheval Place.
***
Gordo slowed down as he put distance between himself and the crime scene, so as not to attract attention. He reached the end of the road and realised that he could only turn right. It was a one way system and cars were coming from the left. He manoeuvred into the roadway and realised that he was heading back to Cheval Place, but there was nowhere else to go.
At the next junction he could either go right and pass the crime scene, or left and up to Brompton Road. He took the left turn. He could see Dirk walking in the same direction carrying the Harrods bag, and was contemplating picking him up - although that wasn’t the plan - when a police car headed straight towards him. The BMW screeched to a halt, and Gordo was trapped.
***
Dirk saw the police helping Gordo out of the car and hurried away from the area, eventually flagging down a taxi. He gave the Boss’s address, and relaxed on the back seat of the cab before making the inevitable call.
“Boss, I have some good news and some bad news,” he said, as if starting to tell some bad joke.
Chapter 47
New Scotland Yard, London. Thursday, 1pm.