The Becket Approval by Falconer Duncan (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

‘Dear Grace,’ Harlow said with a little too much drama.

‘I haven’t spoken to her. Not since I got out.’

‘She doesn’t know?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she did.’

‘Yes, she was always well connected. Do send her my very best regards.’

Gunnymede left the room.

Chapter 13

The law offices of Birch and Allenby were situated on the eighth floor of the Stanley building in Fenchurch Street in the City of London. The firm hadn’t always occupied such prestigious premises. The original office, when the pair first set up the business, was in Tooting, South London. There was only one room, shared by the two partners and a secretary.

Birch and Allenby always had high hopes for the business, as one might expect of young entrepreneurs. Their ambitions were pinned to a particularly fruitful category of law, a subject they’d both gravitated towards during tenures at Nottingham University where they first met. Birch specialised in Business and Human Rights and Allenby in International Human Rights Law. Between them they wrote dissertations on a selection of modules including Religion and International Human Rights and the Protection of Refugees and Displaced Persons in International Law. Both men had recognised, in the light of current geopolitical events, the potential for a financial killing to be made in the defence of an individual’s human rights, particularly when a government could be called to foot the legal bills.

They raised start-up funds with a business plan presented to an investor who specialised in litigation that focused on the Iraq and Afghan conflicts, which were coming to an end, and where cases of human rights abuses could be identified and, in many cases, even created. None of the victims were British subjects. All plaintiffs were Iraqis or Afghans. And all defendants were members or former members of the British military. It was a goldmine.

Birch and Allenby left their office at 8pm, pretty much the same time as every other evening of the week. It had been a busy month for them. A busy year in fact. But the last quarter had been exceptional. And MoD cheques had been plentiful.

They were a happy pair. Chipper. Basking in success. They walked out of the elevators, through the security gates with a nod to the guard and across the lobby to the front doors.

‘After you,’ Birch said.

‘No. After you,’ Allenby replied.

Birch gracefully accepted and stepped onto the street and towards the underground car park. A skinny, malnourished dog was at the entrance rummaging through a dustbin. The animal paused on seeing the two men, partly out of curiosity, partly wary should the men be a threat, but mostly in the hope they might be the source of a morsel or two.

As soon as Birch was within range he kicked out at the dog, connecting his foot with its behind. The dog yelped and scampered away. ‘Hate strays,’ he shouted. ‘They make the streets a mess with their crapping and rummaging.

‘I find that surprising,’ Allenby said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because you married one.’

‘How droll, Allenby. That was below the belt.’

‘No. That’s where you keep your girlfriends.’

‘My, we are on form tonight,’ Birch said, laughing as he led the way down a slope towards the first parking level.

‘What can I say,’ Allenby said. ‘Money makes me funny.’

‘Then you should be a complete riot this month!’

Both men burst out laughing as Allenby did a little skip as part of his routine.

They walked on into the dark, cavernous car park almost empty of vehicles.

‘The lighting is pretty poor tonight,’ Allenby noted.

Birch inspected one of the non-functioning ceiling lights. The plastic cover was shattered. ‘The lights have been vandalised.’

‘There are just too many low-lifes these days?’ Allenby said.

‘Where did I put my car this morning?’ Birch asked himself as he took his smart key from a pocket and clicked it.

The lights on a shining new BMW flashed at the far end. ‘There she is,’ Birch said, heading towards it.

They stopped in front of it, shocked by what they saw. The windshield had been smashed in.

‘What the bloody hell ...!’ Birch exclaimed.

‘Someone’s deliberately done that. They’ve taken a club to it.’

Birch looked around at the handful of cars nearby. ‘None of the others have been touched.’

A burly man stepped from a dark corner wearing a black boiler suit, boots, gloves, a black ski mask and wielding a long metal rod. He stood between the two men and the route back to the ramp and tapped the concrete floor with the end of the pipe. The sound echoed throughout the parking level.

Birch and Allenby turned around to see the man, legs splayed, calmly watching them. The lawyers exchanged looks, wondering what was going on.

‘Are you responsible for this?’ Birch called out.

The man tapped the concrete with the end of the rod again.

Allenby was first to recognise the potential danger and rummaged inside his coat pockets to produce a small plastic device. ‘You see this,’ he said. ‘It’s a panic button. A close friend who also happens to be a police superintendent gave it to me. All I have to do is push this button and the nearest police officer will be straight here.’

The hooded man didn’t appear to be remotely phased by the threat. ‘There’s an envelope on your car,’ he said, his accent northern.

Birch saw there was indeed an envelope tucked into the air intake.

‘Take a look,’ the man said.

Birch plucked out the envelope and removed a single page. Allenby joined him to read it.

‘What is this?’ Birch asked the man.

‘What does it look like?’ the man said.

‘It’s a death certificate,’ Allenby said.

‘Recognise the name?’

‘Roland Peters,’ Birch said as he recognised it.

‘And the cause of death?’ the man asked.

They read the cause, but neither wanted to say it out loud.