‘That won’t be easy. In Moscow he was known as “whispering death”。’
‘Whoever left that note at the front desk must know how to find him.’
‘But I have no idea who that was.’
‘I do,’ said William.
? ? ?
Ross had never travelled business class before, but as he’d barely slept for the past few nights and would need to be at his sharpest when he arrived in Cape Town, he reluctantly paid for an upgrade, looked up to the heavens and touched his wedding ring, once again thanking Jo, who was rarely out of his thoughts.
He knew he could spare only a couple of days to warn Mrs Pugh of her pending death, while Miles Faulkner remained his overriding priority. If the choirboy were to summon him, he’d have to drop everything and come running. That was assuming the choirboy could find him.
He leant back in his comfortable seat and looked forward to a long uninterrupted sleep, thankful that the place next to him was unoccupied.
The steward was just about to close the aircraft door when an overweight, out-of-breath man rushed onto the plane and lumbered down the aisle checking each seat number. Ross stared out of the cabin window and watched as the airbridge was pulled back, hoping the latecomer would pass by, but then he heard a squelch of leather as the man collapsed into the seat next to him, still breathing heavily.
‘Just made it,’ he said between gasps.
Ross glanced at his new neighbour, who could have lost a couple of stone and still been overweight. Certainly not a candidate for Nightmare Holidays.
He decided that as soon as the plane reached cruising altitude, he would recline his seat, cover himself with a blanket, put on his eyeshade and not take it off until the steward announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts, we are about to begin our descent.’
‘Hi,’ said his eleven-hour travel companion, thrusting out a hand. ‘Larry T. Holbrooke the Third. What takes you to Cape Town?’
The last thing Ross needed was a chatty American who looked as if he’d already had a good night’s sleep. He wondered what the reaction would be if he gave a truthful answer: ‘I’m hoping to prevent a very unpleasant individual from murdering his wife, inheriting her fortune and living happily ever after.’
‘Ross Hogan. I’m on holiday, and off to watch the Test match,’ he replied as they shook hands. This stopped any further conversation for a moment, but only for a moment.
‘Lucky you. I’m on business. Can’t remember when I last had a vacation. Tell me, Ross, what’s your line of business?’
Ross didn’t respond immediately. When he had first enlisted in the SAS, he’d had to sign the Official Secrets Act, so he couldn’t tell anyone what he did. Since he’d joined the police force, he was bound by the same law.
‘I work for a travel company. And you?’ he said, immediately regretting the words.
‘I’m a financial broker. I collect short-term debts. So if someone owes you a large amount of money that you need collecting, I’m your man.’
Suddenly, Ross was wide awake. ‘How does that work?’ he asked, as he clicked on his seatbelt.
‘Let’s imagine the travel company you work for has a cashflow problem. You have reliable customers, but they often take sixty, sometimes ninety days to pay their bills, while you have your costs to cover, like rent and your payroll. I buy those debts, so you can carry on your business without having to worry about any temporary financial embarrassment.’
‘Where’s the profit in that?’ asked Ross.
‘I wait for the sixty or ninety days to pass before I collect the full amount owed, and then take a commission of between two and three per cent, depending on how long your company’s been a customer.’
‘But if the customer doesn’t pay up after ninety days,’ said Ross, ‘wouldn’t you lose the full amount?’
‘You’re right, but I only deal with companies that have a high Standard and Poor’s credit rating. I’m not in the risk business, which means I don’t make a fortune, but I’m doing just fine. My grandpa, who founded the company, used to say if you treat folks right, they’ll come back and do business with you again and again.’
‘Mr Holbrooke …’
‘Larry, please.’
‘Larry. I have a problem you just might be able to help me with. But first I have to admit that I don’t work for a travel company, and it’s the wrong time of year for a Test match. I’m a Detective Inspector with the Metropolitan Police.’ He produced his warrant card, which Larry studied carefully.