Wealth

Chapter 1“Oscar-Lima-Three to Oscar-Control, we’ve got a lot of Italian sports car French kissing an English oak tree. Looks like only bent metal. Standby for update. Over.” Police Constable Kaitlyn Thorn re-clipped her shoulder radio mic, killed the siren of her BMW 530d patrol car as she updated traffic control at Scotland Yard. She stepped out and assessed the scene with quick eyes that had seen it all before; well maybe not quite all. This was an odd one. Straight dry tarmac, 2 p.m. on a fine autumn day in a quiet South London suburban street. A Maserati GranTurismo cabriolet in collision with a tree. Low speed impact. A guy was standing by the vehicle making a call on his cellphone. She let him talk, noting his size, age, and spectacular condition. Blood was trickling from his temple, dripping from his chin onto the lapel of his expensive gray business suit. He was alive and clearly fit. She checked the interior for casualties, pushing away the deployed airbag. A Gucci briefcase was open on the front passenger seat. A neat folder was embossed with the vulture and bankroll crest of Sackman-Platinum Bank. Something out of place caught her eye. She reached out to recover it. “You’ll need a warrant,” said a deep voice as a large hand gripped her forearm. “You’ll need to know how to get out of handcuffs if you don’t let go,” she said, half turning to stare hard into the tanned, handsome face of the guy she assumed was the driver. He released his hold and stood back, leaving his calm brown eyes on hers. Like this banker type could just touch a cop and make eyes at her. She pulled her gaze away and reached back into the briefcase to retrieve the item that had caught her attention. “What’s this?” “You’re the police officer,” he said. She rolled a heavy caliber lead shotgun pellet between her fingers. “Maybe we’ll save the difficult questions for an interview at the station. Are you the driver?” “What interview at the station?” “Last time I’m going to ask you. Are you the driver?” “Ah huh.” “Have you been drinking?” “Nope.” “Drugs?” “Caffeine.” “I require you to provide a specimen of breath. Come with me to the police car.” “I told you, I haven’t been drinking.” “I require you to provide a specimen of breath for analysis,” she said. He shrugged and studied the number on her uniform epaulets. “It’s your time to waste, constable eight-three-eight.” “Blow into this….” She checked the intoximeter. Negative. “So what happened?” she asked. “Can’t remember.” “Did you black out? Be careful how you answer. If you tell me you lost consciousness before the crash you’re going to lose your license.” She held his eyes. “Are you trying to be kind to me?” “You’ve heard of good cop bad cop? We’re short of staff so I cover both jobs.” She could never resist playing life for the jokes. He was smiling, then laughing all the way to his dark eyes. “At least you can still see the funny side. Tell me what happened,” she said. “Look, I must have just lost concentration for a second. I think I was checking the fuel gauge or something like that.” This guy was beginning to piss her off. It was a small crash with no major injury. She could wrap it up now, take all his details, call in a damage only, no allegations, a classic NFPA—no further police action. She could. She was off duty in another half hour and she had a karate class. “I’m going to check out your car and I don’t need a warrant.” He walked with her, back to the wreck. He was tall and held himself well. His hair was dark brown, expensively overlong, his nose straight but broad. “How did you cut your temple?” “Must have been some glass,” he replied. She had stopped at the driver’s door. Shattered glass covered the seat and the floor well. The impact had been to the front. The impact had been to the front! Something had smashed the side window. Something like a pellet from a shotgun. The metal of the door was pitted with small dents. A picture formed in her mind. Either way this guy was in trouble. And he was not going to walk away without telling her the truth. “Just tell me what happened. Don’t tell me the tree jumped out or that a guy was shooting rabbits and you got in the way.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I like the rabbit angle. Those huntin’ shootin’ fishin’ types are real mean.” She let out a sigh. Someone had just tried to kill this guy and here he was shrugging it off and giving her that smile. She took her time pulling out her notebook from her hip pocket. “Name?” “Randolph Quinn.” “Date of birth? “24th November, 1988.” “Who owns the car?” “Me. One of my companies, not sure which one.” “Give me a clue.” “The Church of Mammon.” “Mister, are you just taking the piss or what?” “As if….” She called in a car check. “Oscar-Control to Oscar-Lima-Three. Platinum Maserati GranTurismo. Registered owner Artemis Financial Associates, Canary Wharf. Registered brand new yesterday. No trace lost or stolen.” She called in his personal details. Not known to police. Now she had to make a decision. As far as she could see she had no reason to lock him up. Except maybe to save his life. He was calmly examining the damage to the car, taking pictures with his cellphone. “Smile,” he said as he focused on her. “Not part of the service,” she snapped back. “OK. One with your police hat off then—please.” “You’re a cocky bastard.” “Just one shot without the hat. This was stupid and ridiculous. Even with the blood now dried on his face he was gorgeous. He’d adopted an expression of a disappointed boy, his dark eyes turned to a sorrowful pleading. In an impulse she snatched off her white-topped Traffic Patrol cap. “There!” “Spiky streaky blond. You’ve got a special look.” He was beaming a smile and she just couldn’t stop that flicker of a response on her lips and deep inside her. She was snapping out of this right now. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of theft of a motor vehicle. You do not have to say anything but anything—” “I’ve seen all that stuff on TV. You’ve got no grounds to lock me up.” “You didn’t know the owner of the car. That’s enough suspicion for me. Handcuffs or not?” He made a show of rubbing his chin in thought. “On balance, not.” “Mr Quinn, I’m not an i***t. Someone has fired a shotgun at your vehicle causing you to lose control and hit a tree. My guess is that you’re the target of a carefully planned hit. Maybe it was a warning, maybe you just got lucky. Maybe the boys are round the corner reloading ready for another go. Maybe I just want to keep you alive for a bit longer. Walking away is just not an option for a cop.” He nodded, his face now serious. “I do need to get out of here and you know, you’re the sort of girl who could take me anywhere.” He collected his briefcase and slumped into the front passenger seat of the police BMW. “Prisoners go in the back.” “I’m the type of man who sits in the front. I’m quite happy to drive if you need a break. We could be a team.” She stared at him. He was so b****y confident and arrogant. Many people would be a trembling wreck in his situation. He was a year older than her but their worlds must be light years apart. “Where were you brought up?” she asked. “Croydon—New Addington Estate,” he replied in a sudden South London accent. “Poor boy made good—that’s me.” She turned her blue eyes to examine his face. “Just sit there quiet and shut up. We’re going in to Brixton police station. You need to talk to the C.I.D.” “I’ll only talk to you, OK. I’ll tell you my story. We can take it from there.” She knew that would be impossible but she left him in ignorance while she called in to Scotland Yard for a vehicle recovery and a scenes of crime examination. She had to keep professional even though this guy was giving her some twitches she thought had stopped in her teens. She started the motor and responded abruptly. “Seat belt.” He snapped in as she checked the mirror. A black motorcycle was on the corner of the junction 500 yards behind the police car. Some primitive cop instinct gave her a shiver. She glanced at her passenger. He was flicking through the photos on his cellphone, smiling at the shots he’d taken of her. She glanced back at the mirror. The bike was still there. Two riders in helmets. She was facing away from them, and they wouldn’t expect her to come their way. She checked the tension on the handbrake, selected Drive and floored the gas pedal. The tires squealed and smoked as she went full lock and grabbed the brake to spin the car the opposite way. She hit the gas as the BMW straightened up. The bike riders had begun to react. In their place she would have come straight toward her but they weren’t trained pursuit drivers. They turned and fled but she’d gotten close enough to read the license plate. “Be careful—those guys…,” he began. “I told you to shut the f**k up. Now shut the f**k up.” She punched the mic button to transmit live. “Oscar-Lima-Three to Oscar-Control. In pursuit of black motorcycle, north on A23, high speed, approaching traffic lights at South Circular Road. It’s a left, left, left toward Clapham.” She hit the switches for sirens and blue lamps, swerving through a red light and forcing an extra lane through the traffic. The bike was pulling away, weaving through cars and using the sidewalk. It was still in sight as it hurtled onto the open green of Clapham Common. “Oscar-Lima-Three to Oscar-Control—they’ve returned to nature across the grass.” “Roger that. We have them on CCTV. Stand down Oscar-Lima-Three. She took a deep breath and slapped the steering wheel. “Sod it. I wanted my hands on those bastards.” “You’re not just a pretty face. That was some bit of driving,” he said. “You should see me at the start of my shift and I’m not trying to be any kind of pretty face.” “That’s the thing with real pretty girls; they don’t have to try. It’s just the way they are. I prefer you without the hat. I’d need to make an assessment without the uniform for my final judgment.” She shook her head, outwardly ignoring him, and listened to the police radio. The police chopper India-Nine-Nine had located one of the riders hiding behind a shed in the backyard of a house backing onto the common. He was about to meet a German shepherd police dog. “Those guys on the bike fired at you didn’t they?” “What kind of young people is our society creating, officer?” “Cops, bankers, crooks,” she said. He nodded. “Takes a better man than me to tell the difference.” Chapter 2The custody sergeant had the slow droop of a long-retired bloodhound. He looked up from the pile of paperwork on his desk. “What have you got for me young lady?” “She’s got me. It’s an unlawful arrest but she means well. Don’t be cross with her, inspector. You know how women can be.” “Hmm … clever d**k, eh. I’m not an inspector.” “You should be. I’ll speak to the commissioner.” The sergeant turned to a young officer who had walked in. “Martin, search him and put him straight in a cell. I’m not in the mood for comedians.” “Sarge, he’s just got too much yap for his own good. He doesn’t know who owns the car he’s just crashed,” said Kaitlyn. “And someone loosed off a twelve bore to assist his driving skills,” added the sergeant. “My fame always goes ahead of me,” said Randolph Quinn. The sergeant sighed, clearly aware of the story so far. “Between you and me, son, I can see straightaway why someone would take you out. If I were you I’d be a bit concerned about walking down the steps out of this place. Search him, Martin.” “Can’t Miss 838 do it?” The sergeant ignored his remark and began listing the property. “Leather Gucci wallet containing cash to value of eight hundred and seventy-one pounds. Chopard Mille Miglia watch. Visa Infinite credit card. Merrill Accolades American Express card, Sackman-Platinum Wings of Wealth card.” “I’ll need one of those cards back. I’ll have to pop in somewhere to get a new car on the way home,” said Randolph. The custody sergeant turned the Visa Infinite card over in his hand. He looked hard in the face of his prisoner, a faint smile on his lips. “Infinite wealth?” he asked. “A fair assessment, I suppose.” “Shame the card isn’t in your name,” he said. “Randolph Quinn is my business name.” Kaitlyn caught his eye. He gave her a small lift of his eyebrow. “So what is your name?” “Lee Smith, billionaire, at your service,” he said. “So who is Randolph Quinn?” “He’s the true soul of Lee Smith, like the statue hidden inside the stone waiting for the hand of the sculptor.”