She surveyed the carnage strewn across the floor, before returning the scissors to the kitchen drawer. She next took a hammer out of the tool kit under the sink before setting about destroying the TV in the lounge. Finally, she turned her attention to the vases, plates, cups and saucers, saving until last the dinner set that was only brought out for special occasions. Jerry had claimed it was a present from his mother. More likely John Smith. When Nicky was finished, she stood back and surveyed the damage. A bull in a china shop would have been proud of her.
Nicky sank to the floor, exhausted but exhilarated. Once she was fully recovered, she decided on her encore.
She sat down at Jerry’s desk in the front room, took a large envelope from the top drawer, and dropped the lacy knickers and the diamond ring inside, before sealing it. She was about to close the drawer when she spotted his diary.
She turned the pages slowly until she was up to date. Seeing the words Playboy Club, Park Lane, underlined, she realized he wouldn’t be back before midnight. She tried not to think about the bunnies.
She took a sheet of paper from the solid silver letter rack in front of her and wrote a short note which she would deliver on her way home that evening in the hope that DI Warwick would be left in no doubt whose side she was on.
24
They both arrived at the bank a few minutes before their appointment with the area manager. The young woman behind the reception desk checked their names on her clipboard and ticked them off.
‘If you take the lift to the fifth floor,’ she said, ‘Miss Davis, Mr Simpson’s PA, will meet you and accompany you to the manager’s office.’
The two men carried out her instructions, and didn’t speak in the crowded lift until the doors opened on the fifth floor where they were greeted by a young woman.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m Mr Simpson’s PA. He’s looking forward to meeting you.’
She led them down a long corridor to a door that announced in gilded letters, R.C. Simpson, Area Manager. She knocked once, and didn’t wait for a reply before opening the door and standing to one side.
‘How nice to meet you,’ said Simpson, rising from behind his desk to shake hands with his potential new customers.
‘You too,’ said Booth Watson politely. Faulkner didn’t offer an opinion.
‘Please take a seat,’ the manager said. Miss Davis sat behind him, notebook open, pen poised.
‘Although all your papers were in order,’ said Simpson once his guests had settled, ‘I took the precaution of calling Mrs Rashidi in Lyons to check that the bank had her authority to fully cooperate with you.’
‘I would have expected no less,’ said Booth Watson, offering his most benign smile.
‘Mrs Rashidi confirmed not only that you had full power of attorney, but I was to answer any questions you might have concerning her late son’s estate. I am at your service, gentlemen.’
‘Thank you,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Perhaps I could start by seeing the details of any private accounts held in Mr Rashidi’s name, and the latest annual report from Marcel and Neffe.’
Mr Simpson handed over two thick files, having clearly anticipated both requests.
Faulkner turned to the back page and started with the bottom line, while Booth Watson continued with his list of prepared questions.
‘Are there any other assets lodged with the bank for safekeeping that are not shown on Mrs Rashidi’s current account?’
‘Her fifty-one per cent holding in Marcel and Neffe. I can tell you in the strictest confidence that the other four shareholders would be willing to dispose of their stake in the company if they were to receive a realistic offer.’
‘As the share price has collapsed,’ said Faulkner, speaking for the first time, but not looking up, ‘I’m bound to ask what they would consider realistic.’
‘I think they would be willing to let their forty-nine per cent go for two million pounds.’
‘Offer them one million, and make it clear it’s a final offer, and there’s no room for negotiation.’
‘But the company made a profit of three hundred thousand last year.’
‘That was last year. Frankly, I’d be surprised if they broke even this year. So I repeat, it’s a final offer.’
‘I’ll pass on your message,’ said Simpson, not sounding hopeful.
‘Are there any other assets we should be aware of?’ enquired Booth Watson, continuing to play the good cop.
‘There most certainly are,’ replied Simpson. ‘Mr Rashidi rented seven safety deposit boxes which are kept in our vaults, but of course I have no idea of their contents. You may check them whenever it’s convenient.’
‘It’s convenient right now,’ said Faulkner, standing up and placing the files back on the manager’s desk.
Simpson was taken by surprise, but quickly recovered. ‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid, unless of course you’re in possession of Mrs Rashidi’s key.’
Booth Watson produced the key from an inside pocket.
‘Miss Davis,’ said Simpson, ‘please accompany Mr Booth Watson and his colleague to the basement. I’ll phone the head of security to warn him that they’re on their way.’
Miss Davis closed her notebook, rose from her place and said, ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’
Booth Watson shook hands with Simpson once again, before following Faulkner and Miss Davis out of the room and back to the lift.
‘Nice weather we’re having for this time of year,’ Miss Davis ventured as the lift made its way slowly down to the basement.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Booth Watson, who made no further observation on the weather or any other subject before the lift doors opened once again.
This time they were greeted by a tall, smartly dressed man, holding a large bunch of keys.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Please follow me,’ he said before leading them down a dimly lit corridor, until they reached a vast steel door. It took three of his keys and a six-digit code entered on a keypad on the wall before he was able to pull the heavy door open, revealing a room lined from floor to ceiling with hundreds of safety deposit boxes. The security man checked several numbers in a small notebook before pulling out seven boxes and placing them on the table in the centre of the room.
‘We’ll leave you now, gentlemen,’ said Miss Davis. ‘When you’ve completed your business, please press the green button on the wall. The door will open automatically, and I’ll accompany you back to the manager’s office.’
‘Thank you,’ said Booth Watson. Miss Davis and the head of security made a discreet exit, closing the door behind them.
Booth Watson took his time opening each of the seven boxes before they both checked their contents: cash, diamonds, bonds and share certificates filled the first six boxes, but not the seventh. Booth Watson felt that Aladdin’s Cave would have resembled a charity shop compared with the treasures that now surrounded them. It took him over an hour to make a complete inventory of the contents.
‘I estimate,’ he said, ‘that there’s over two million in dollars, and almost another million pounds in sterling. However, although they’re used notes and therefore untraceable, the latest money-laundering laws will make it difficult for you to dispose of them in large amounts.’
‘That shouldn’t prove a problem,’ said Faulkner. ‘There are plenty of members of the aristocracy who are only too happy to part with the odd family heirloom for cash, as long as I can produce a convincing copy to hang in its place, ensuring that there’s no need for them to trouble the taxman. And you can also be assured there’s no shortage of wealthy foreigners who are only too eager to acquire masterpieces in case they become suddenly persona non grata in their own countries and find themselves in need of disposable assets.’