Game Over (16 page)

The Lucky Bells was his largest casino in the UK, though he had one in Las Vegas that made it look like a corner shop in Droitwich. All the same, it was big, and Bell owned the whole building on a long lease, which given the value of real estate in central London ranked it high among his assets. It had the gaming rooms downstairs; entertainment suites, restaurants and control room on the first floor; and the offices of Three Bells Entertainment Enterprises Ltd on the second. It was one of the grand old buildings in Leicester Square, stone faced, with a fancy frieze all round under the roofline depicting dryads, puff-cheeked Bacchuses and fat bunches of grapes, and false columns between the vertical window lines which ended in busty caryatids. All rather louche and appropriate, Atherton thought. The casino wasn’t open yet when he arrived, but he found one door at the end unlocked and went in. With its prosaic main lights on and the cleaners patiently mowing up and down the vastness of hideous carpet, its night-time glamour was exposed as tawdriness, its luxury fake, glittery and naff. It was sadder, Atherton thought, because it had obviously cost a lot of money to get it to look like a WAG’s dream. To have spent so much on chandeliers like
those
, and a carpet like
that
, made the crime against taste all the greater.

He had hardly had time for more than a cursory glance when he was fielded by a man already in dinner jacket, whose dead-fish eyes and bulging unsuitedness to his suiting marked him instantly as a bouncer – or security specialist as he no doubt liked to be known these days.

‘We’re not open, sir.’

‘I’ve come to see Mr Bell,’ Atherton said, showing his brief. ‘He’s expecting me.’

The flat eyes sharpened an instant, memorising Atherton’s appearance. He turned his head slightly, revealing the curly black wire behind his ear, and spoke to his lapel. Atherton could hear the faint bat-squeak of the reply, and saw the nearest security camera up on the ceiling turn minutely towards him. He half expected to be patted down and was rather disappointed to be seen as so little of a threat.

‘Would you come this way, please, sir,’ the man said, leading Atherton towards the back where, behind a screen wall, there was a bank of lifts. He unlocked one with a key from a bunch chained to his belt, showed Atherton in, pressed 2, and stepped out before the door closed. ‘Someone will meet you at the lift,’ he said.

Someone did, and it was a relief for Atherton that it turned out to be a smart and pretty woman, who smiled and offered her hand in a friendly way and said, ‘I’m Lorraine Forrest, one of Mr Bell’s assistants. He’ll see you right away, if you’d like to come this way.’

Atherton suppressed the obvious riposte as she walked off, revealing a very nice posterior in a tightly fitting skirt, and made himself wonder instead if she shortened her name to Rain. It was a belter of a name in these eco-nutty days.

He caught her up. ‘What’s he like?’ he asked, in a low voiced, chums-on-the-way-to-the-headmaster manner. ‘I mean, I’m a bit nervous, what with all this.’ He waved his hand to indicate the Empire. ‘He’s a multibillionaire. What’s it like to work for a man like that?’

‘He’s very nice,’ she said, giving him a humorous look, ‘and I like working for him, and I don’t think you’re the slightest bit nervous, so stop trying to yank my chain. Here we are. Go in, and he’ll be there in a second.’

She shoved him in a motherly sort of way through the door into a vast office, rather dim because of the low ceiling, the tinted glass in the huge windows and the acres of purple carpet on the floor. It was deafeningly quiet. Despite looking down on Leicester Square, with its crowds and fairground rides and all London’s traffic nearby, there wasn’t a sound from outside – quadruple glazing at least, Atherton thought. There was no sound of air conditioning, either, though the air was neutrally cool and odourless. There had been something of an air-brake type of resistance when the door closed behind him, which gave him the hint that the room was sound-proofed and therefore probably miked as well. Standing still, he allowed his eyes to wander casually round the room and spotted four good sites for hidden cameras, which probably meant there were more than four. They were watching to see what he’d do when left alone. Freddie Bell was taking no chances, and given his wealth and the nature of his business, it was probably just as well. Atherton looked straight at the suspect light fitting and gave a big grin. No harm in letting them know he knew.

The right-hand wall of the office was covered floor to ceiling with bookcases, and given that the books were all matching sets of leather-bound hardbacks, he guessed that there wouldn’t be much choice if you actually wanted to read one. Sure enough, immediately after his grin, one whole section swung inwards, revealing a false door, and Freddie Bell himself walked in and closed it behind him.

‘Inspector Atherton?’ he said.

‘It’s Detective Sergeant, actually. But thanks for the promotion.’

‘What, I don’t merit the top man?’ Bell said jovially.

He advanced across the hampering carpet but did not extend his hand. Atherton was tolerably acquainted with his appearance from newspapers and the television, but those media could not convey the sheer animal presence of the man. He was not unusually tall, probably five-ten or eleven, but he was massively bulky, as if he had been designed on a grander scale, perhaps for a planet with a different gravity. His shoulders bulked under his suit jacket as if they’d been borrowed from a Hereford bull. His hands were huge, decorated with a heavy gold ring on the third finger of each, and a watch so massive you could have clubbed seals with it. His head seemed bigger than normal, but his features were big enough to fit it, with a thick nose and a prominent underlip, and blue eyes under strong, fair eyebrows. His light brown hair was cut in a fashionable disarray that must have cost hundreds each time to get it to look so casual: it stood out slightly from his head, which gave the impression that it was being forced outwards by the tremendous pressure from inside the skull that held the brains of this huge and successful empire.

All in all, Atherton thought, you could see what he was – a man who had made his own fortune from nothing and was increasing it all the time, a man in control, a man of power. His suit was fabulously expensive and well cut, his shoes and tie were to swoon for; but strip him of all that, and place him in any surroundings, and Atherton would have bet he would still have looked like an emperor. The power came from inside. Atherton was suddenly glad he had not had to shake hands.

Bell looked to be in his late fifties, although he could have been older but very well preserved. His face was firm and pleasantly tanned, and Atherton supposed it was handsome in a tough Daniel Craig sort of way. He did not have to suppose that women would find Bell attractive – that was well documented. But to talk of Candida Scott-Chatton fancying a bit of rough was to miss the point entirely. This was a rich, powerful and clever man; and after being married to her earl (who by all accounts was a bit of a wet), then mistress of virtuous Ed Stonax, and having worked in the charitable sector all her life among fluffy volunteers and the terminally well-meaning, she might well have been pining for stronger meat and drink even without knowing it. And Atherton could see that it would be intoxicating – if you could keep it down.

Nine

Green Unpleasant Land

‘
W
ell, Sergeant, what did you want to talk to me about?’ said Freddie Bell. He did not look at his watch, nor say, ‘I’m a busy man,’ as lesser men would. He stood quite still, an extra stillness in this unnaturally quiet room, as though like a black hole he drew all sound and movement into himself. Atherton could feel the astronomical mass of him and almost wanted to take hold of something to keep himself from sliding helplessly across the carpet like a pin towards a magnet.

Was that why they called them magnates? he wondered frivolously. He took a grip on himself and got to the point. ‘Ed Stonax,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ said Bell, his eyes searching Atherton’s face briefly. ‘I read about the murder. Terrible thing.’ His voice was dark and gritty but without accent, except a sort of man-of-the-people ordinariness. He had grown up in t’north but had long ago shed any regional markers. ‘Some punk broke in and robbed him. But you’ve got the man – didn’t I see on the TV you’ve arrested someone?’

‘Yes,’ said Atherton.

‘Well, it doesn’t look as if you need my help, then.’ One of several telephones on the massive desk rang, and he said, ‘Excuse me. I have to take this.’ He went round the desk so that he could answer without turning his back on Atherton, and kept his eyes fixed on him as he said, ‘Yes?’ and then listened. ‘Let him go to a hundred, then cut him off. No. Tell King and Morris to stand by. OK.’

He put the phone down, sat down, and gestured Atherton to a chair in front of him. ‘So, what is it, then?’

‘Can you tell me when you last saw him?’

‘Month, six weeks ago. He came to see me here. Had a brief chat, then he was on his way.’

‘What did you chat about?’

‘This and that. Time of day. Nothing in particular.’

‘He came to see you, and then didn’t have anything in particular to say to you? I find that hard to believe, such busy people as you both are.’

Bell made a restless movement. ‘He asked me about Salford Quays. Big retail development in Manchester.’

‘I’ve heard of it. What did he want to know?’

‘He asked how much a development like that would stand to make for an investor. I told him it depended on how much you had to pay for the land.’

‘Why did he ask you that?’

‘I don’t know. I said did he have something in mind and he said no, he was just interested. Then he asked me about government investment – Salford had quite an injection for the infrastructure – and I said he should come and see me when I had more time and I’d tell him what I knew. Then he pissed off.’

Atherton could make nothing of all this. ‘Did he often ask you for investment advice?’

‘No. Doubt if he had anything to invest. Anything else?’

Atherton took the plunge. ‘Candida Scott-Chatton,’ he said. Bell’s expression, bright and watchful like a cat at a mouse hole, did not change. ‘I understand you’re seeing her.’

‘Yes. What about it?’

He wasn’t going to offer anything. Atherton was going to have to ask. ‘I wondered how you felt about the fact that she was also still seeing Ed Stonax.’

‘Why should I feel anything about that?’

‘Well, there was an occasion some years back when you got rather riled about a similar situation. A fight outside the Ram pub in Manchester, a young woman called Sharon Railton, a – shall we say? – business rival called Gus Oldfield. Oldfield ends up in hospital with a knife wound. Ring any bells?’

As he spoke, he saw Freddie Bell relax, and was intrigued. What had he been afraid of, Atherton wondered, that was worse than having this bad episode from his past brought up again?

‘That was ten years ago,’ he said, ‘and you know perfectly well that the police found no knife and Gus refused to press charges. It was just a bit of high spirits, a friendly tussle, and the press got hold of the wrong end of the stick, as usual. There was nothing between me and Sharon Railton and she was free to go out with anyone she pleased as far as I was concerned. And Gus accidentally wounded himself when he slipped over and fell on some broken glass.’

‘It was a very neat wound for broken glass,’ Atherton said. He had read the files. Frustration on the part of the police breathed from every line. Despite the fight taking place outside a popular pub at chucking-out time, following a violent argument inside about the girl, the witnesses had all melted away when questioned. No-one had seen anything.

‘Gus said himself that was what happened, Sharon confirmed it, and I don’t know why you’re dragging all this up again. I’m a peaceable man. I’ve never gone tooled up. I don’t need to.’

‘A man as powerful as you,’ Atherton said, ‘with so many loyal employees, certainly doesn’t need to.’

But Freddie Bell only laughed and shook his head. He ought to have been – or at least have pretended to be – annoyed at the suggestion, but he wasn’t, which bothered Atherton more than a bit. ‘It’s no good sizing me up for Ed Stonax’s murder. You’d never get me to fit. Apart from everything else, I liked Ed. He and I worked on several projects together, and I gave him money on more than one occasion for his campaigns. Why on earth would I wish him harm?’

‘Men have fallen out over less tasty dishes than Candida Scott-Chatton.’

‘She’s a grown woman, she can choose for herself who to go out with. And I’m not so infatuated I can’t cope with her seeing another man as well. I knew it was Ed she was in love with, and good luck to it.
I
didn’t want to marry her. I’m not the marrying kind. Besides, it was Ed who suggested it.’

‘Ed Stonax suggested you started seeing his woman?’ Atherton said with derision; and yet he felt uncomfortably that it was going to turn out to be true. Freddie Bell might have literally fought his way out of the mean streets and have built his empire on ruthlessness and sometimes questionable acts, but he had crossed the line now into a world of such wealth that it guaranteed its own respectability. He looked massive and unshakable, like a national monument.