a ring and ask him where I can find this David. He tells me he doesn’t have the foggiest what I’m talking about, but when I remind him of the night he left the club on the hurry-up, etc. etc. it all comes back to him and he opens up. And guess what he tells me?’
Sean answered immediately. ‘He’s not called David and he doesn’t work in the City.’
Donnelly froze for a second, a little deflated that Sean had made the leap without needing any more information. ‘Dead right, Bennett reckons that David’s real name is James Hellier and he works for Butler and Mason International Finance. But you already knew that, didn’t you?’
Sean didn’t answer. ‘What you didn’t know,’ Donnelly continued, a satisfied smile spreading across his face, ‘is that, according to Bennett, Hellier also has a wife and a couple of kiddies. Interested?’
‘Hmm,’ Sean replied. He was interested. ‘Like you said, “Show me a liar and a man with a lot to lose …” But this doorman, Young, did he ever see Hellier in the club before that night, or after?’
‘No, but he doesn’t work there every night.’
‘CCTV?’
‘Their system’s ancient – still runs on VHS, if you can believe it. They reuse the tapes after seven days. The tapes from last week are already recorded over, but we can check the current tapes to see if he’s been there any time during the last few days.’
‘Get it done,’ Sean told him as they pulled up outside an old Georgian mansion block converted into exclusive offices. Identical buildings ran the length of the long road, all painted white with black windows, and doors adorned with heavy, shiny brass numbers. Pointed metal railings fenced off the entrances to the basements, curling up and along the short flights of stairs leading to the front door, where visitors were met by pristine brass plates announcing the company within. Only Arabs and the aristocracy could afford to actually live here now.
The two detectives climbed from their Ford and walked across the pavement to the building’s entrance. ‘Here we go, Butler and Mason International Finance. Shall we?’ Donnelly rang the outside security buzzer. They didn’t have to wait long. A female voice crackled back from the intercom. ‘Butler and Mason. Good morning. How can I help?’
‘Detective Inspector Corrigan and Detective Sergeant Donnelly from the Metropolitan Police.’ Donnelly deliberately avoided stating they were from the Murder Investigation Team. ‘Here to see a Mr James Hellier.’ He made it sound as if they had an appointment. It didn’t work.
‘Is he expecting you?’ came the voice through the small metal box. Donnelly looked at Sean and shrugged his shoulders. Time to put a little pressure on.
‘No. He’s not expecting us, but I can assure you he will want to see us.’
Whoever it was on the intercom wasn’t easily bullied. ‘Can I ask what it’s in connection with please?’
‘It’s a private matter concerning Mr Hellier,’ Donnelly told her. ‘We believe someone may have stolen some cheques from him. We need to speak with him before someone empties his bank account.’ The threat of losing money usually opened doors.
‘I see. Please come in.’
The door buzzed. Donnelly pushed it open. They passed through a second security door and into the reception of Butler and Mason, where they were met by a tall, attractive young woman. She wore expensive-looking spectacles and an equally expensive-looking tailored suit. Her hair was hazelnut brown and tied back in a perfect ponytail. Sean thought she looked unreal.
‘The voice on the intercom, I assume?’ Donnelly asked. She smiled a perfect, practised smile that meant nothing.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. If I could just see your identification, please?’
Neither Sean or Donnelly had their warrant cards ready. Donnelly rolled his eyes as they fished their small black leather wallets from inside jacket pockets and presented them flipped open to the secretary.
‘Thank you.’ She looked up at them after examining the warrant cards more closely than they were used to. ‘If you would like to follow me, Mr Hellier has agreed to see you straight away. His office is on the top floor, so I suggest we take the lift.’
Clearly Hellier was doing well for himself. They followed her to the lift where she pulled open the old-style concertina grid and then the lift doors. She stepped inside and waited for them to join her before pressing the button for the top level. They moved silently up through the building until the lift juddered to a halt. She opened the doors and another grid. Sean was losing patience with the charade. They stepped out into the upper reaches of the building and walked along the opulent corridors without talking, the high ceilings providing plenty of wall space to hang portraits of people long since dead. The entire office reeked of money and was much bigger inside than they had expected. Eventually they arrived at a large mahogany door. The nameplate attached bore the inscription James Hellier. Junior Partner. The secretary knocked twice before pushing the door open without waiting for a reply. ‘Some gentlemen from the police to see you, sir.’
James Hellier was as elegant as the secretary. A little under six foot. About forty years old, athletic build. Light brown hair, immaculately cut. He looked healthy and fit in the way the rich do. Good food. Good holidays. Expensive gyms and skin-care products. His suit probably cost more than Sean earned in a month. Maybe two.
Hellier held out a hand. ‘James Hellier. Miss Collins said something about my cheques being stolen, but I really don’t think that’s likely, you see—’
The secretary had already left the office and closed the door. Sean cut across Hellier. ‘That’s not actually why we’re here, Mr Hellier. Your cheques are fine. We need to ask you a few questions, but we thought it best to be discreet until we had a chance to speak with you.’
Sean was studying him. In an inquiry like this a witness could turn into a suspect within seconds. Was he looking at the killer of Daniel Graydon?
‘I hope you haven’t come here to try and obtain client details. If you have, then I hope you’ve brought a Production Order with you.’
‘No, Mr Hellier. It’s about your visits to the Utopia club.’
Hellier sat down slowly. ‘Excuse me. I’m not familiar with that club. The only club I belong to, other than my golf club, is Home House in Portman Square. Perhaps you know it?’
Sean was trying to judge the man. He was sure Hellier was lying, but he sounded remarkably confident. ‘DS Donnelly here’s been making some inquiries at the club. You’ve been recognized.’
‘Who by?’ Hellier asked.
‘I’m not prepared to tell you that at this time.’
‘I see,’ Hellier said, smiling. ‘A silent accuser then.’
‘No. Just someone who wants to remain anonymous for now.’
‘Well, whoever it is, they’re lying. I can assure you I’ve never heard of a club called Utopia.’
‘Mr Hellier, I’ve had all the club’s CCTV tapes from the last couple of weeks seized. As we speak, some of my officers are going through them. They’ll be producing stills of all the people on the tapes. How sure are you
