Chapter 1

Fred Tassell stood on the bank of the Grand Union Canal in Mile End and looked vacantly at the dirty water. For the first time for many weeks in this bleak summer of 1992 the sun was shining. He told himself that if it continued much longer he would take the step of removing his raincoat. He was used to rain seeping under the collar of his raincoat as he held his fishing rod out in the vain hope of catching something. As he looked up, it occurred to him that the greyness of the concrete in front of him was bathed in warm sun and looked almost welcoming. Then he looked sadly at the litter-strewn canal path and reassured himself that things were still going downhill. He often took it upon himself to pick up rubbish dropped by passers-by and enjoyed writing to the local paper about the amount of litter around the canal.

Tassell often wondered why he chose to come out to fish this canal, but then reminded himself that anything would be better than being cooped up in the vandalised tower block where he lived. He could not remember when the lifts had last been working and it was a strain at his age walking up and down all those flights of stairs. Still, there were times when he felt like a breath of what passed for fresh air in this run-down part of the East End and today he had to admit to himself life was just about tolerable.

Just then something unusual floating along the canal caught his eye. It looked like a loose piece of material in the distance and as it floated closer, Tassell squinted at it in idle curiosity. Suddenly he started in surprise. As it floated by, he could tell it was a dead body, bloated from being in the water for several weeks. A crow perched on its face, pecking at its eyes. Tassell threw a stone to scare the bird off, and stretching out his rod, managed to pull it slightly out of the water to stop it drifting away.

The stench from the body made Tassell turn away in disgust. He had been a soldier and had seen plenty of dead bodies in his long life, and he calmly decided what to do. He had heard of mobile phones that were becoming popular but had never seen one, so he walked as fast as he could to his nearby council flat to call the police. In the entrance hall he pressed the button for the lift, then cursed under his breath when there was no response. He walked as quickly as he could up five flights of stairs then dropped the key in his excitement as he tried to open the door of his flat. After more cursing to himself, he succeeded in letting himself in and rushed to the old-fashioned black phone.

Tassell waited impatiently for the emergency operator to answer. “Police, of course … I’ve found a body in the canal … Right near here … At the end of Mile End Road. My name’s Tassell. I’m on the fifth floor of the flats nearby.”

An hour later, Tassell ventured out again to see if the police had taken any notice of his call. When he reached the canal, the body he had discovered was stretched out on the towpath. Behind a cordon, a doctor was closing his bag obviously having performed the redundant but legally necessary task of declaring the man dead. A young uniformed constable and an older man in plain clothes were looking through the pockets of the corpse’s suit. This had probably once been of the finest quality but was now little more than threads. A single brick was tied to one leg.

“That wouldn’t be enough to weigh him down,” the officer in plain clothes was saying. “I bet there were other bricks, but the ropes have worn away or been eaten by fish. Together with the air in the body that must have been enough to bring it to the surface.” Just then he noticed Tassell standing nearby smoking a pipe. “Can you keep walking please, sir. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“I know,” Tassell replied, proudly. “I found it.”

“You were the man who called 999? Mr Tassell, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“I hope it wasn’t too much of a shock. It must have been distressing for you.”

Tassell snorted with scorn. “It would take more than that to distress me. I was here during the War. We saw worse sights than that every time there was an air raid.” Tassell grew enthusiastic as he told of excitements of long ago. “The whole canal was in flames one night …”

“Well, perhaps you can help me,” the detective interrupted quickly, probably anxious not to hear any war reminiscences. “I’m Detective Sergeant Clement. Can you tell me which direction the body was coming from?”

Tassell silently lit a match and, after shaking it out, threw it into the canal where it slowly floated southward. “The North, of course. Everything round here flows down into the Thames.”

“How fast was it floating?”

“As fast as that matchstick,” Tassell replied, enjoying displaying his knowledge of the canal.

“And I suppose it could have been dumped anywhere from here to Liverpool.”

“No, it would have to be within about a mile upstream of here.”

“How do you work that out?”

“There’s a lock about a mile upstream. It couldn’t have floated over that.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me? Have you seen anything suspicious around here recently?”

“Not exactly,” Tassell replied after a moment’s thought. “The other night I did see a big black car drive slowly round, but that’s all.”

“How do you know it was black if it was night? Did you see the make?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed black to me. All cars look the same to me nowadays, but it seemed expensive, the way it glided around. You don’t see many cars like that around here, unless they’ve been nicked.”

Clement made another note. “A big black car. Thank you, Mr Tassell. If there’s nothing else you can tell me, we will take over now. Please come down to the station in the next three days and make a statement.”

“We don’t often see the police around here. Do you think you could do something about the litter? You wouldn’t believe the amount of rubbish I have to pick up every day. I’ve got plastic bags full of it. I’m saving it up to show the council.”

“Perhaps you could raise the litter issue with them, sir. I’m sure they’ll be able to help. Now I do have a murder inquiry to deal with …” Tassell nodded and started to walk back to his flat. He was looking forward to telling his friends how he had performed his civic duty as well as making Clement look a fool in front of the constable.

Clement waited for Tassell to walk out of earshot. “Thank God the golden oldie’s gone. Does he think I’m going to drop a murder case to look into litter? And I can’t put a big black car through the computer. I’d be a laughing stock. I’d probably end up arresting the Queen,” Clement picked up something caught in the remains of the corpse’s suit. “Now that’s interesting.” He produced a credit-card sized piece of plastic with the words ‘MacGregor and Company, City of London Auditors’ on it. “That looks like one of those new electronic keys they give you in hotels or fancy offices. If he was murdered in the City and dumped in the canal, then this is the City boys’ case. I’ll give them a ring as soon as the body’s been identified. It’ll give them something real to do for once,” Clement said, cheering up for the first time as he saw the chance to pass this workload onto another force.

“It might not be murder. Perhaps it’s a suicide, sarge,” suggested the constable. “He may have weighted himself down to make sure he couldn’t swim to safety.”

Detective Sergeant Clement looked down at the dirty water and shook his head. “I don’t think so somehow. No one could ever get desperate enough to throw themselves into that.”

Chapter 2

Detective Chief Inspector David Gould of the City of London police woke in his Barbican flat with a dry sensation in his mouth. It was matched by the ache in his back from the uncomfortable settee on which he was lying. He wondered what had woken him up. After a worried moment, he was relieved to discover that the ringing in his ears came from the telephone on the coffee table nearby. Gould reached out his hand and picked up the receiver.

“Gould, here.” There was a long pause. “Isn’t that the Met’s area? … Yes, I see. It might be worth checking out. I’ll be right there.” Gould put the phone down and stretched himself awkwardly. He told himself it was an absurd cliché for a married man to be sleeping on a sofa in the living room after a row with his wife. As he stood up and looked from his twelfth-floor window at the life going on down below, he reflected on how far his married life had degenerated. Audrey had accused him of being more interested in investigating the criminal life of the City of London than in her. He could not remember when he had last been so annoyed by a remark; in part his annoyance stemmed from the fact that his wife’s remark was largely true.

Gould was one of the few City officers who lived in the Square Mile. He was born and brought up in the City and could not imagine living anywhere else. He enjoyed watching the commuters stream out of Moorgate tube station at nine o’clock in the morning and home again at five in the evening. Despite the veneer of civilisation in the financial world of the City, he knew better than anyone how much crime took place in the offices he could see below him. He had resisted all invitations to move to the Metropolitan Police. He loved the strange anachronism of the City with its distinctive police uniforms and the ritual surrounding the ancient office of the Lord Mayor. His own modern flat contrasted sharply with the many Wren churches he could see below.

Gould grabbed his clothes and started dressing in his tailor-made suit. In order to blend into his exclusive manor, he dressed with more style than most police officers, which set him apart from his colleagues in other forces. He had spent the previous day in South Wales interviewing some teenage hacker who claimed to have information about drug dealing at a travel agency in the City called Harvey and Ward. It had probably been a waste of time and his mood had not been improved by the implication of the local police that he was some overpaid interloper from London.

When Gould was ready to leave the flat, he knocked on the bedroom door. “I’m out on a call.”

No reply came from the bedroom. He knew his wife was getting ready for her work as a primary school teacher. He knew from experience that the silence meant the row between them was continuing. Deciding it was best to let the row blow over, he shrugged his shoulders and left the flat to visit Mile End.

Gould’s job provided him with the advantage of his own parking spot close to the Barbican. After a few minutes, he drove out of the City and was soon in some of the poorest neighbourhoods in London. He managed to find Mile End police station with its barred windows in one of the roughest parts of the East End. Gould was relieved to find there was space to park his car in the protected yard.

Gould decided to walk around the side of the police station to the front door. He looked up and down the road, his designer suit out of place among the tatty shops around him. His policeman’s eye ensured he could recall every important thing he saw without effort. Once inside the station, Gould was directed into Detective Sergeant Clement’s office. Clement immediately stood up respectfully when he saw the imposing blond, rather handsome, detective chief inspector enter.

“DS Clement? I’m DCI Gould,” the visitor said as the two men shook hands. “Thanks for calling me into this case. What have you got?”

Clement showed Gould some photographs of the corpse. “We have a body that might interest you. This is how it looked when we arrived. Some old codger fishing in the canal found it. The methane inside the corpse must have pushed it to the surface. We think it was in the water for about three weeks – the skin was beginning to burst open. It looks as if bricks had weighed it down but only one of them was left – probably some fish had eaten the other ropes. According to the pathologist, death was by garrotting – the marks are still around his neck – look there. All together it looks like a professional killing. The corpse must have been dumped up to a mile upstream of where it was found, but it’s a busy towpath, and we have not found any other witnesses.” Clement was happy to use the benefit of Tassell’s knowledge of the canal. “It’s not an area where we get much help from the public.”

“Have you got any identification yet?” Gould asked.

“His name was Hugh Marks,” Clement replied, looking at his notes. “He had been reported missing three weeks ago. There was an electronic key in what was left of his pocket, which helped us. Marks was twenty-five years old and worked for MacGregor and Sons, which is a firm of auditors in the City. That’s why we called you.”

“Fine. What have you found out? What about his home life?” Gould asked.

“He was very conventional,” Clement replied. “He lived with his girlfriend in Enfield, which would be about ten miles away from where he was found. They were planning to get married later in the year. Marks’s parents are dead. I had to tell his girlfriend – I hate that part of our job. We can’t find any connection with Mile End at all, and there’s nothing suspicious in his background. He was part-qualified as an accountant and well thought of by his employers and everyone we’ve spoken to.”

“Somebody didn’t think well of him,” Gould said, looking at the photographs of the bloated corpse. “This is a very professional killing. He seems to have crossed some dangerous people. Did he owe any debts? Did he gamble
at all?”

“Not as far as we can see,” Clement said. “His bank account was all in order.”

“Was there any evidence of drugs?”

“There were no needle marks and no other evidence of drugs in the body. Mind you, the pathologist said any traces would have vanished by the time the body was found.”

“Have you managed to interview Marks’s girlfriend?” Gould asked.

“Yes, since I broke the news to her she’s been in a state of shock. I feel sure she’s not involved. I asked around the neighbours, but there wasn’t anything out of the way,” Clement replied. “They’ve known each other for years, and everyone says they seemed well matched and happy. Even if they did have a row and she wanted to kill him, I can’t imagine a young girl garrotting a larger man then dumping his body in a canal. It must have taken at least a couple of men – professional criminals, I’d say.”

“The most likely motive seems his work in that case,” Gould said. “As his firm was in the City, I’ll look into the victim’s work side.”

“That’s very good of you, Chief Inspector,” Clement exclaimed, relieved to have passed on this responsibility.

“I’d like to meet Marks’s girlfriend first,” Gould said. “It might be better if you come with me.”

****

An hour and a half later, Gould and Clement knocked on the door of a terraced house in Enfield. After a while, a greying middle-aged woman came to the door. Gould guessed she was probably no more than forty-five, but her face was already lined by work and worry.

“Mrs Fitzsimons, I’m sorry to disturb you again,” Clement began. “This is Detective Chief Inspector Gould of the City of London police. He’ll be taking over this case. Is Natalie in, please?”

“Yes, of course she’s in,” Mrs Fitzsimons snapped in a strong Irish accent. “She never leaves her room nowadays – not since Hugh went missing. It’s worse now you’ve found his body. I don’t want her upset again. I daren’t leave her – I’ve had to give up my cleaning job so I can stay at home all day. Please find whoever did it, Mr Clement,” she added, grabbing his hand.

“We realise this is a difficult time for you, Mrs Fitzsimons,” Gould interrupted. “We think the murder could be connected to Hugh’s work and it may help us find the killers if I could speak to your daughter.”

“Very well, come in,” Mrs Fitzsimons said, as she ushered them into what was obviously the smarter of the two downstairs rooms. “If it helps find Hugh’s killer, I’ll fetch Natalie for you.”

Gould and Clement sat on the armchairs and looked through the back window to a beautifully maintained garden. Some tulips were starting to bloom. A glance at the neighbouring gardens showed Gould how unusual this level of care was in the neighbourhood.

“Mr Clement.” Gould’s attention was drawn to a blond young woman dressed in a robe covering a nightdress. Her red eyes spoiled what must normally have been a very pretty face. “I’m sorry I’m not dressed and made up. There doesn’t seem much point these days.”

“I understand, Natalie,” Clement replied, as he ushered her to an armchair. Gould was impressed with how well Clement’s avuncular manner put Natalie at her ease. “This is Detective Chief Inspector Gould of the City of London police.”

Gould stood up. “How do you do, Miss Fitzsimons. Thank you for seeing us, I realise how upsetting this has been. I’ll have to ask some questions you may have been asked before. May I call you Natalie?” The young woman nodded, as they both sat down. “I’m involved in the investigation, Natalie, because I understand your fiancé worked in the City.”

“Yes, that’s right. He was studying for his accountancy exams. He worked for MacGregor and Sons – they’re a firm of accountants in Eastcheap. He used to audit companies’ accounts. He was always travelling to different firms.” Natalie’s enthusiastic description of her fiancé’s work showed no trace of her mother’s Irish accent.

“The last time you saw Hugh was 14 May, you said in your statement. Can you tell me which firms he was working for when he went missing?”

Natalie looked surprised at the question. “I don’t know. We were saving for a home of our own. Hugh used to work very hard to get lots of overtime money for a deposit. He used to audit lots of firms, but he never spoke about his work much. I think he was glad to forget about it.”

“Who was his direct manager at work, do you know, Natalie?” Gould asked.

“It was a Mr Miles. Hugh always said he was a bit stuffy, but he always got on well with him.”

“Is there anything else you can think of to help us? Was there anything Hugh was worried about at work? Did he have any disagreements there? Could anyone have a grievance against him? That’s the area we’re concentrating on at the moment.”

“No, they were all respectable companies, and seemed nice people.” Natalie stopped, then continued after a pause. “He did mention a travel agency he was auditing. He once said it would be a good cover for drug smuggling. It was while we were walking back from seeing some thriller or other at the cinema. I used to tease him about liking thrillers with lots of blood and gore.”

“What was the name of the travel agency, Natalie?” Gould asked sharply.

“Oh, Hugh did mention the name, but I’d never heard of it before, so it didn’t stick in my mind. I think he was just fantasising though. Hugh always said exciting things didn’t happen to accountants. I used to tease him about that Monty Python sketch – the one about accountants having safe and boring lives. I suppose I was wrong there, wasn’t I? Something exciting happened to him.” Natalie started to cry.

Gould and Clement were both experienced enough to realise Natalie’s answers had run to their natural end and they drew the interview to a close. They both knew any further probing might push her nerves to breaking point. As they stood up ready to leave, Natalie took Gould’s hand. Her quiet voice made him automatically lean down and take her arm. “You will catch whoever did this, won’t you, Chief Inspector? If I could just know the person’s behind bars that would help me to start living again.”

“I’ll do my best, Natalie. But whatever happens, start living again. You’re too young to spend all your life in your room.” Gould shook Natalie’s hand and he followed Clement to the car.

“She seems a nice girl,” said Clement as he turned on the ignition of the car. “I hate this job sometimes. All I’ve done so far is tell her that her boyfriend’s dead, then ask her loads of questions.”

“On the contrary, it’s cases like this that make our job worthwhile,” Gould said, surprised by the sensitivity of Clement’s remark. “That girl’s looking for us to find her fiancé’s killer. I’m going to do that if it kills me,” Gould added, looking through the car windows at the terraced streets they were passing.

****

The next day, Gould was sitting opposite Mr Miles, the managing director of MacGregor and Sons. His office was located in one of the few old-fashioned blocks left in the City. Mr Miles seemed the very embodiment of City respectability as he suavely expressed his regrets. He adjusted the sleeve of his suit jacket so his gold cufflinks were displayed to their best advantage.

“We were all very sorry to hear about Hugh Marks’s death, Chief Inspector. It must have been some horrible accident or perhaps a random attack. There’s such a lot of street crime these days.”

“I’m afraid it was not random, Mr Miles,” Gould replied. “There’s no doubt he was murdered in a very professional way. I’m interested in any way he could have come into contact with criminals in his work.”

“This is a very respectable company, Chief Inspector,” Mr Miles said in an aggrieved tone. “All our staff must have excellent references before we employ them. He could not have encountered criminals here. It must be some personal secret that we weren’t aware of.”

“Please don’t be offended, Mr Miles,” Gould replied, in as emollient a tone as he could manage. “Gangs are invading all types of respectable companies and we have to investigate every possibility. Now please tell me a little bit more about Hugh’s work,” he continued more firmly.

“Well, he was training as an auditor,” Mr Miles continued, apparently pacified. “He visited our clients’ offices and inspected their books.”

“Could I see a list of those companies, please, Mr Miles?”

“Yes, I have them here,” Mr Miles replied, taking a file from a drawer and opening it on his desk. “This is his personnel file. His workload is shown just there. As you can see, they’re all highly respectable companies.”

“Could I keep this, please, Mr Miles?” Gould asked in a tone of command. Mr Miles meekly nodded. “Yes, they do all seem well-known firms,” Gould continued running down the list. “Which company was Hugh auditing when he went missing?” Gould asked.

Mr Miles stood up and looked over Gould’s shoulder. “That would be Harvey and Ward – they’re a firm of travel agents in the City. They have a very impressive list of clients – most of the top companies use them.”

Gould stopped reading Marks’s personnel file. “Harvey and Ward did you say? I’ve heard of that company recently.”

“They’ve just announced record profits,” Mr Miles replied, in the excitement of a financial expert. “It was in all the financial pages. You must have seen it.”

“I don’t read the financial pages, Mr Miles. It was something in my line of work. It came up when I went to Wales. I’m sure it did,” Gould said to himself.

“I hardly think so, Chief Inspector,” Mr Miles replied with a polite smile. “Harvey and Ward’s only office is in the City.”

“Yes, but this new internet is a wonderful thing, isn’t it, Mr Miles,” Gould said, standing up, to conclude the interview.

“Yes, people can sit in the City and do business all over the world,” Mr Miles agreed, showing Gould out.

“Yes, but it works the other way, doesn’t it, Mr Miles,” Gould replied, standing at the door of Mr Miles’s office. “People from all over the world can do business in the City – and not all of them are honest.”

****

Later that day, Gould was seated opposite a tall elegant woman in the office of Harvey and Ward.

“I’m investigating the murder of Hugh Marks, Miss Lane,” Gould began. “He worked for MacGregor and Sons and was auditing your company’s accounts. Is there anything you can help me with at all?”

“Call me Margaret. No, I keep records of all our employees of course. But this man wasn’t an employee. Auditors visit our offices for a few days at a time. I can’t really see how I can help you. His name doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Just then, the phone rang on Miss Lane’s desk, and she picked it up with an apologetic nod to Gould. “Yes, we want a secretary to start on Monday… Yes, I know they don’t last long with us… We’ve been with your company for a long time. I’m sure you can find someone. Yes. Thank you,” Miss Lane slammed the phone down. “Honestly, we’ve been clients of Eastcheap Recruitment Agency for years – you’d think they know the sort of people we want. I’m sorry – please continue.”

“Is there anyone working here who may have information on Hugh Marks, Miss Lane?” Gould asked.

“No, I’m sure not. I assume he audited lots of companies’ accounts. Why don’t you try one of them?”

Gould stood up. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, Miss Lane. I will try somewhere else, but please phone me immediately if anything occurs to you.”

Miss Lane stood up with obvious relief. “I’ll show you out, Chief Inspector. It’s always a pleasure to help the police.” Gould allowed Miss Lane to show him out. Her anxiety to see him out was enough to raise suspicions in his mind.

****

The next day, Detective Sergeant Clement stood looking out of the windows of the City of London police station at the glossy skyscrapers around him. He looked uncomfortable at the immense wealth around him.

“I’m not sure I could do your job, Chief Inspector,” he told his host. “I don’t often have any need to come up to the City. It’s such a different world from my manor.” The worn old-fashioned blazer he was wearing emphasised how out-of-place he seemed.

“There’s just as much crime in the Square Mile as anywhere else,” Gould told him. “The criminals wear suits but, believe me, they can be just as unpleasant.”

“I can believe it,” Clement replied with the cynicism based on his long years of police experience. “But I think I prefer my criminals with dirty fingernails. What’s the next stage on the Marks murder?” he asked, anxious to return to the point of the case conference.

“Well, I’ve agreed with the Commissioner that I’ll take over the lead in the work side of this case. I’m sure Marks must have upset someone through his work in the City.”

“That’s very good of you, sir,” Clement said with obvious relief. “But I’d still like to be kept in touch with the case. How are you going to take it forward?”

“Well, Marks was auditing several companies’ accounts and we need to follow up on all of them. I’ve got my suspicions about one of them – it’s an upmarket travel agency called Harvey and Ward. The South Wales police told me about some teenage hacker noticing a lot of mentions of Colombia in e-mail traffic from Harvey and Ward. There’s been some new source of cocaine in the City dealing rooms lately and the Drugs Squad are trying to track
it down.”

“And you think there’s a connection between the two?” Clement suggested.

“It seems well worth investigating,” Gould replied. “I went to see them and they claimed not to know anything about it. That made me suspicious. Someone with a lot of influence and money had Marks killed, and I wouldn’t mind betting drugs are behind it. I’m going to send an officer undercover to check this company out.”

“Why don’t you just go through the front door and throw your weight about? That’s what I’d do. You’ve got enough to go on.”

“No, I know the criminals around here,” Gould replied, shaking his head. “One sniff of the police and they’ll have some expensive brief round complaining of harassment. What have we got to go on after all? Marks was auditing lots of companies when he was killed and any of them could have been involved. No, it’s only a hunch that Harvey and Ward’s is the one and it’s best to send someone undercover.”

“Well, good luck. I hope your man does well,” Clement said, standing up as the case conference came to an end.

“I didn’t say it was a man,” Gould replied. “I think a woman might fit in better. I’ve got one in mind. She’s just moved over from doing family work, so none of the drug dealers will recognise her. I think she should do very well.”

****

Later that day, a slim attractive dark-haired young woman came into Gould’s office and put her head around the door. “It’s DS Cottrell, sir. You asked to see me.”

Gould stood up and politely directed her to a chair and sat opposite. “Hello, Philippa, congratulations on passing your sergeant’s board.” Gould shook her hand then, once she had sat down, picked up a manila folder. “Well, as you know, you’ve been assigned to the Serious Crime Squad, so we’ll be working closely together from now on.”

“I’m looking forward to the challenge of working here, sir,” Philippa replied stiffly.

Gould picked up a paper file and placed it on the desk in front of him. “I have your personnel file here, but I’d like to hear about you in your own words. First, why did you join the police force? The police must have been quite a change from your previous work.”

“Well, I started as a secretary here in the City. I liked the work, but I felt I needed something more rewarding. So I joined the City police force. All my friends were shocked. Perhaps I’m not the normal police officer, but I love it.”

“Looking at your file, you’ve been involved in family matters and crime prevention. Mainly office work, I think, or dealing with mothers and children. It’s very different to the cases we have here.”

“I realise I have a lot to learn on the serious crime side, sir. I’ll do my best,” Philippa replied defensively, detecting a reservation in Gould’s voice.

“No, don’t apologise,” Gould said, looking at her up and down. He told himself that anyone passing Philippa in the street would imagine she was one of the many thousands of female office workers in the City. Anyone looking less like a police officer would be hard to imagine. “You could be just the sort of person for some undercover work I have in mind. You don’t look like the average police officer, and your experience of office work should be ideal. I’ve persuaded a company called Eastcheap Recruitment to co-operate – they didn’t have much choice really. You’re to work in a company called Harvey and Ward’s. Your experience as a secretary should help. You’re to report to a Margaret Lane. I’ve met her once, and she was very keen to see me off the premises. That, together with the intelligence we’ve received from a drugs raid in South Wales, makes me suspicious. There’s been a recent murder in Mile End of a man auditing the company, and I’ve decided that an undercover investigation is needed…” Philippa listened intently as Gould continued to describe her first assignment in the City of London Serious Crimes Squad.

Chapter 3

On Monday, the newly promoted Detective Sergeant Cottrell stood on the pavement outside the City of London skyscraper that towered high above her. The rush-hour crowds streamed past, but she was too preoccupied to notice the occasional male passer-by casting an appreciative glance in her direction as he scurried off to work. Despite the warm weather, Philippa Cottrell shivered inside the sensible skirt and cardigan that she had chosen to suit the secretarial role she was about to take. Philippa had always been nervous when starting a new assignment, but, now she was promoted, she especially wanted to make a good impression on Gould and convince him she was tough enough to cope with a career in the Serious Crimes Squad.

Philippa looked at the note, which she had been given by the employment agency, which the force had arranged for her. ‘10 am report to Mr Ward of Harvey and Ward’, it said. She placed the note in her handbag and walked as confidently as she could into the foyer of the huge building. It took a while to see her would-be employer’s name among all the other companies listed on the board inside the door. Eventually, she spotted an elderly man in commissionaire’s uniform behind one of the desks dotted around the foyer. He was engrossed in the sports pages of that morning’s paper and did not look up as Philippa approached. After a couple of minutes, he put the paper down wearily when she managed to attract his attention.

“Excuse me. My name’s Philippa Maxwell,” she said. She had agreed with Gould that she should use her real first name with a fictional surname for the assignment. “I’m due to start work here this morning.”

The man grunted and ran his pencil down a long list of names until he eventually found Philippa’s.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “You’re to be Mr Ward’s secretary for today.”

“Oh, no,” she protested. “It’s not just for today – it’s permanent.”

The man laughed unpleasantly as he pressed the intercom and announced Philippa’s name. After a moment, he turned back to her.

“You’re to go to the twentieth floor, love,” he said. “Miss Margaret Lane will be waiting for you there.”

She thanked him and turned to go to the lifts. As she waited for one to arrive, she heard the man behind her laughing to himself. She turned around sharply but he had returned to his sports page. After what seemed a long wait, an express lift came to take her to the twentieth floor. When she arrived there, a tall elegant woman, wearing heavy make-up, was waiting for her.

“You must be Philippa Maxwell,” she said. “My name is Margaret Lane. Welcome to Harvey and Ward’s. Would you come with me, please?” Philippa recognised the name from Gould’s report. She found it hard to guess Margaret’s age – at least ten years older than herself, so at least in her mid-thirties, she imagined – but the tightness around her eyes indicated she could be older. The well-dressed woman stretched out her hand.

Philippa thanked her and followed her along a plushly-carpeted corridor until they turned a corner and suddenly came to a locked glass door. Margaret Lane tapped some numbers into a console on the wall.

“I’m afraid we have to be very careful with security here, Philippa. We’ll give you a code for entering in due course.” Margaret continued to talk as they walked along the corridor. “As I expect you know, we’re the top travel agency in the City – all the major companies know they can rely on us to be discreet and efficient. We’re a partnership – Neil Harvey is senior, and Reg Ward is the junior. They go back a long time – they were at school together. I’ll take you straight along to see Reg Ward. I’m sure you’ll get on well with him. Don’t let his manner put you off.”

Philippa politely listened to the woman’s introductory talk, though in fact Gould had filled her in with the company’s background, and she knew a great deal more about the company’s activities than Margaret realised. As they came close to one office, which was much larger and more expensively furnished than the others, they could hear raised voices, which were echoing down the corridor. As they passed the open door, Philippa saw a senior-looking well-dressed middle-aged man standing up and angrily addressing another man of about the same age, obviously his junior, who was sitting nervously in an uncomfortable chair.

“I’m fed up with this,” the senior man was shouting, his face becoming steadily redder. “Do you know how many of your secretaries have left in the last three months? I’ve been counting them – you’ve had eight, and six of them have complained to a tribunal. You’d better keep the one who’s coming today, or you’ll be the one who’s out.”

Margaret Lane gave no indication of having heard the conversation, but she quietly closed the door as they went past, and Philippa could hear no more of what was being said. Margaret walked to a desk a few feet further along.

“Well, welcome to Harvey and Ward, Philippa,” she said. “This will be your desk. Mr Ward will be here shortly.”

As she spoke, a flustered man rushed along the corridor. Philippa recognised him as the man who was being shouted at in the office the two women had passed earlier. He kept his eyes down as he came up to Margaret.

“Ah, Reg,” she said. “This is Philippa – Philippa Maxwell.”

“How do you do, Philippa.” Reg Ward shook her hand politely. He was around fifty years old and struck Philippa as looking rather dissolute, but still handsome, resembling a matinee idol who has gone to seed. Ward’s hair was greased back in the fashion of several decades before. She was reminded vaguely of the later films of Clark Gable, when the actor was a sad reminder of the leading man he had once been. Philippa suppressed a shudder as she took Ward’s hand.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Ward,” Philippa replied as politely she could. “I’m looking forward to working here.”

Until then, Reg Ward had kept his eyes down. Then, something in Philippa’s voice made him look at her face. He held her hand a little longer than necessary, as he looked her up and down. Philippa sensed with mixed feelings that she had met with Ward’s approval.

****

Later that day, Philippa was seated at her new desk outside Ward’s room, when the phone rang and she picked it up. She was busy in the normal type of secretarial duties and had so far exchanged only a few words with her new boss. She was concentrating on learning her new role for Harvey and Ward, and so far, had noticed nothing to interest the City police.

“Harvey here. Come and see me at once.” An abrupt order came down the phone. Philippa recognised the voice of the man she had heard shouting at Ward that morning. Philippa picked up her notepad and pencil and knocked on Ward’s door.

“I’ve been asked to see Mr Harvey,” she said.

“Harvey wants to see you? That’s odd. He’s never asked to see any of my other secretaries,” Ward said, looking puzzled, and Philippa thought, worried. Philippa easily found Harvey’s office. She knocked on the door and went in.

“You asked to see me, Mr Harvey,” she said as she entered. Harvey was a large, florid man, dressed in an expensive suit, obviously tailored to hide his considerable bulk.

“Yes, come in,” Harvey stood up as she took a seat. “I like to meet all new staff when they arrive.” Philippa knew from what Ward had said that this was not true, but she waited for Harvey to continue.

“I see you have good references from your previous employers. I was quite impressed. In fact, I know one of the people whose signature was on them,” he continued, as Philippa shifted uneasily in her chair. “I phoned him up today and told him we had one of his former staff. And do you know what he said?”

“Not really, Mr Harvey,” she replied.

“He said he’d never heard of you.” Harvey leaned forward, adjusted his gold cufflinks, and came close to Philippa. “How do you explain that?”

“I suppose he must have forgotten me,” she replied, conscious of how lame her reply would seem to Harvey.

“I don’t think so,” Harvey took a deep breath. “So, let’s review the situation. There are hundreds of secretarial jobs available in the City. Here we have a young woman who goes to a great deal of trouble to forge references for a job in my company. What do you think I should make of that?”

“I don’t know, Mr Harvey,” she stammered. Tears unconsciously came to her eyes as she realised how close she was to being uncovered on her first assignment in the Serious Crimes Squad. “I’m desperate for a job, that’s all.”

“I expect loyalty from people who work for me. I won’t tolerate spies from outside poking their noses into my affairs.” Harvey’s voice was becoming steadily louder. Then he suddenly paused. He seemed pleased with himself for bringing Philippa to tears. For some reason, he decided to relent, possibly deciding she was not a threat. “I’d like you to come back and see me tomorrow and explain why I shouldn’t sack you immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr Harvey. Thank you,” Philippa said as she stood up, turned around and rushed out of the room. Out in the corridor she took a deep breath. It was very obvious her cover was in danger of being blown and she still needed to find more about what was going on inside this company. She returned to her desk and decided to consult Gould that evening as to what action she should take.

****

After Philippa had left his office, Harvey gave a satisfied smile, picked up his phone and dialled a number. When he started to speak, his voice changed completely. “Hello, Samantha. I have booked somewhere a bit special tonight. I think you’ll like it. See you at eight then.” Harvey put down the phone with a complacent smile. He stood up and combed his hair in the wall mirror above his desk. He felt several years younger as he looked forward to his evening date. He had decided to cultivate a younger image and rather thought the modern abstract painting on the wall that he had bought a few days ago added to the effect.

****

For the rest of the day, Philippa kept to her role of a loyal secretary learning the details of her new job. As soon as she arrived home in her Greenwich flat, she spoke to Gould on the phone. “Whoever set up those forged references for me screwed up, sir. Neil Harvey knows one of the people listed and they’ve told him they’ve never heard of me.”

Philippa could hear a muffled oath from the other end of the line. “We cleared it with the companies’ personnel departments,” Gould said, “but something must have gone wrong. There’s always a danger of this happening. Still, how do you want to play it now? We need to find more about what’s going on in Harvey and Ward.”

“As I see it, we have two options,” Philippa replied. “The first is we pull the plug and call the whole operation off.”

“I don’t want to do that. We could be on the track of a murderer in that company.”

“The other option is we ask someone inside to co-operate.”

“Who?”

“My vote is to get Ward to help us.”

“Ward? What do we know about him?” Gould asked. “What if he’s involved in the Marks’ murder or the drugs smuggling? Then we’re back where we started.”

“Not really. If we pull out now, the whole operation’s wasted anyway. Ward’s got no form and at least we’ll have someone to question if he won’t help. I’ll make it clear he has a choice of co-operating with us or going down with the rest when we move in. I can’t see him being involved in murder or drugs. From what I can see, there’s no love lost between Ward and Harvey. I think we ought to risk it.”

“And you think he’ll co-operate?”

“From what I’ve seen, he’d co-operate with anyone female and reasonably attractive,” Philippa replied, recalling the way he leaned over her earlier in the day.

“Very well,” Gould said after a pause, “getting Ward’s cooperation may be the best course. It’s risky but every other option seems worse. I’m taking your advice, but it’ll be on your head if this whole investigation collapses.”

“OK. I’ll report back tomorrow evening,” Philippa replied, before putting the handset down. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror in her hall and reflected that her first undercover assignment was proving to be tougher than she could have imagined.