The Centaur Conspiracy

By Michael Middleton

A series of apparently motiveless professional killings of hedge fund managers take place in various places around the world.

Rob Faulkner, an insurance fraud investigator, is asked to locate the missing daughter of one of his employer’s clients. His search takes him first to tax havens, where he learns more about the murky world of offshore finance and tax avoidance, before leading him to an elegant Austrian castle where the girl he is trying to find is held captive along with her hedge fund manager boyfriend. Faulkner discovers their captors hold a dark secret, with a sinister plot to rekindle right-wing extremism, once the scourge of Europe. With the financial resources to manipulate the media and political establishment, they pose a threat not seen since the 1930s.

As Faulkner gets closer to rescuing Verity Dawson, he finds himself taking on the might of a Nazi new dawn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: May 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463194973

Book preview

Chapter 1

Guernsey

The west coast of Guernsey on a November evening can be an inhospitable place as autumn gives way to winter. Storms gather to the west, building in the Atlantic before rolling east towards the island on hurricane force winds. Fortunately, that Friday evening the wind was not strong and the lone motorcyclist was able to make safe progress south along the coast road towards Portelet Bay in the farthest south west of the island.

Despite it being a Friday, traffic was almost non-existent as the rider followed the curving road past Fort Grey jutting out on its small promontory into the sea. The sky was heavy with cloud, so far the rain had held off. The low tide ensured there was no risk of seawater crashing over the concrete defence wall, bringing with it rocks, some the size of small boulders and slippery seaweed, turning the road into a lethal obstacle course.

Halfway round the bay the motorcyclist turned off the road to the left and began to climb away from the coast up the craggy hillside. The lane was typical of the many narrow lanes that thread their way up and down the cliff face with its hillside valleys, which would not allow two vehicles to pass were they to meet.

To each side of the road, tiny cottages and more substantial houses were dotted about, their lights shining through the gloom. Although relatively densely populated, many properties were totally secluded thanks to the undulating nature of the hillside. The motorcyclist rode the steep winding slope until he was more than halfway up the lane before turning into a tiny gap in the heavily hedged bank. He had located the spot on a previous reconnaissance trip. He had been riding and walking the area for a week to familiarise himself with every last path, road, lane and property above Portelet Bay.

Bringing the motorbike to a halt and quickly shutting off the engine, he pushed it off the road into the gap. Once off the road, he stopped and waited for a few minutes as his eyes adjusted to full darkness, all the time his senses alert for the presence of anyone else. Satisfied he was alone and unobserved, he set off up the track.

Although the track was steep, the solid base of granite rock, that formed the island, made the task of pushing the bike easy. He pushed the bike up the slope to the point where the hedge and undergrowth thickened further with gorse, their thorns as sharp as a porcupine and were equally as effective at warding off predators. The gorse provided both year round greenery and excellent cover to hide the bike in the unlikely event anyone should walk this way. He quickly manoeuvred the bike into the undergrowth pulling the bushes back into shape to cover it and made his way up the slope.

After walking a further 100 metres, the track veered to the left traversing the hillside. Reaching the spot where the bank of the first field appeared on his right, he scrambled up before quickly dropping the few feet to the pasture. The field was small and would once have had cattle grazing, but these days it was more an extension of the garden to the house at the top. The property was his objective.

Although improbable anyone would be about, he kept to the left edge of the field as he made his way to the garden above, the closer he got the more the slope started to ease making progress in the slippery grass more straightforward. The garden was bounded by a variety of hedging and bushes with a small wrought iron gate allowing access between the garden and field. Despite the noise the old rusty gate was likely to make, he opted to use this rather than clamber through the hedge any sound would not carry far.

Closing the gate behind him he made his way along the path that ran around the edge of the central lawn; keeping the house on his right he was soon at the small door at the left hand end of the property. The house had been built in the 1970s on two floors and was predominantly glass fronted allowing the occupants to enjoy the beautiful views out over the bay. The lower floor held the bedrooms with all the living spaces on the upper floor. The door he approached gave way to an internal staircase and a utility room at the top.

Removing a lock pick from his pocket, he quickly gained access closing the door as he made his way in. Once inside he took off the large boots he was wearing to reveal a slim pair of moccasin style slippers over which were disposable medical shoe covers. He left the boots on the step and made his way up the stairs. Even though he expected the property to be empty, he left the utility area and went quickly into the kitchen, before quietly double-checking that the house was empty. It was really a habit, a just in case exercise as he had seen the owners leave only two hours earlier, never the less it was an essential precaution. Satisfied the house was empty he returned to the utility room to wait.

On the other side of the island in St. Peter Port, Tom and Heidi Lloyd were attending the annual get together of the islands finance industry luminaries. Lloyd actually hated the event and only really went as it was expected of the Chief Executive of a leading financial services company. Fortunately, his wife was a master of small talk and kept his guests entertained whilst he simply sat and listened. Come what may they would be leaving just as soon as the speeches concluded, hopefully no later than 11 p.m.

Waiting was always the tough part of any assignment. He had chosen to sit on the floor of the utility room, it had a tiny window that looked out onto the large sweep of the drive and he felt comfortable with having a light on in there, as it would not attract any attention. He replayed the plan in his mind constantly making sure neither he nor the rest of the team had missed any aspect. Time seemed to stand still; he was expecting to wait no later than midnight, glancing down at his watch he saw it was now nearly 10.30 p.m., hopefully only another hour to go.

The buzz of the electric gate came as a shock; he had allowed himself to doze, which, to him, was unforgivable. He stood quickly and glanced out of the window, the gates were opening and a car’s headlamps lit the drive through the wrought iron gates, he reached for the Browning 9mm, which was on the floor beside him, its silencer already fitted, and slid the action.

He turned the light off, opened the door into the kitchen and quickly made his way to the hall entrance. The car lights swept over the front door illuminating the hall briefly through the windows of the porch, moving away as the car turned side on to the house. He heard the car doors close and footsteps approaching the house, quickly followed by the rattle of keys in the lock, the man and woman both stepped into the hall, the man turning to lock the door as his wife switched on the light. As soon as the light went on, the motorcyclist stepped from the shadows raising the weapon. Lloyd noticed him first, his mouth opening to speak, the words dying on his lips as the first round from the Browning hit him in the chest followed rapidly by a second; as his body slumped towards the floor his wife started to scream, the sound cut short by two more shots killing her instantly. The assassin moved quickly to the bodies and shot both through the head, there must be no one left alive.

After picking up the spent shell casings and checking, he had left no other signs, the assassin made his way rapidly to the utility room and back down the stairs. He slipped his feet in his boots, stepped out and re locked the door.

He retraced his path to the hidden motorbike and pushed it down to the lane, for a short distance he continued on foot before starting the bike to ensure no noise was heard remotely close to the property at the top of the hill.

On reaching the coast road, he turned left instead of heading the way he had originally travelled and rode to the far end of the bay before turning left again riding rapidly up the hill away from the coast. He didn’t see another vehicle which given the time was no real surprise. As the road neared the top of the hillside it turned sharply left to the east and on towards the main road back to St. Peter Port, rather than following this he turned right taking the road towards the cliff top car parks of which there were several. He took the first turning left following the road to car parks on the southern cliffs and made his way to the farthest end of the first he came to. Dismounting the bike, he began to push it onto the cliff path; turning east, he followed the path until he reached the small outcrop he had selected. The small promontory over looked a particularly steep part of the cliffs which was perfect for his needs. Carefully he made his way to the edge before running the bike off the cliff to fall 300 feet to the rocks and the beckoning sea below.

He remained on the path walking as swiftly as he dared along the winding and sometimes treacherous path, the last thing he needed was to slip and fall to his death in this God forsaken place. Although he covered less than a quarter of a mile as the crow flies, he walked around double that distance caused by the undulating, twisty nature of the path. After about twenty minutes, he spotted the old German built wartime bunker emerging through the darkness its smooth shape at odds with the rugged cliff. The bunker had been built as part of Hitler’s Atlantic wall during the islands occupation in the Second World War.

The gorse was extremely thick to the side of the bunker, which made it the perfect place to hide the bag; he retrieved his holdall from its resting place nestled neatly between the concrete and the gorse. Opening the bag, he took out a pair of shoes and his blouson jacket, before removing his boots, surgical covers, moccasins and black Gor-Tex overtrousers and stuffed them into the bag, together with the motorcyclist’s jacket. Taking care to remove the Browning from the pocket, he added two large lumps of granite, before climbing up onto the top of the bunker. Making his way to the edge, he swung the bag in a large ark hurling it as far over the cliff edge as he could, waiting a moment he repeated the process with the gun. The chances of the bag being found were incredibly slim, but he wanted to make sure the weapon was not recovered if the bag should float on the tide.

Climbing down from the bunker, he walked the short distance to the next cliff top car park and quickly located the little Ford tucked between two large gorse bushes. He touched the car’s bonnet and felt the warmth; he managed a slight nod of satisfaction that his colleagues had made sure the car wasn’t parked long enough to attract any attention. However improbable that might have been.

The team of three had all arrived separately, had not seen each other since arrival and would leave separately. He reached under the driver-side, front-wheel arch to retrieve the keys.

Once on the main road, he set out on the five-mile drive back to St. Peter Port and his hotel.

The night porter opened the door to let the tall blond man in as he had on each of the previous two nights. The porter reflected that the visiting businessman had obviously found the island night-time distractions to his liking. He assumed the man was involved in some aspect of finance, as there were hardly any visiting business people who were not in the world of finance.

The blond giant had made sure to be late on previous nights to be certain there was nothing seemingly odd in him arriving back at the hotel at 1a.m. He let himself into his room and set the alarm for the morning, this was going to be a short night’s sleep.

He woke with a start at the sound of the alarm; it really had been a short night. He rose quickly and was showered, dressed and packed in fifteen minutes; he completed his checking out via the handy on line system on the room’s television.

Stepping out of the hotel, he found a taxi on the rank for the short drive to the airport. Latest check in was 6.30 a.m. for the early flight to London Heathrow; by the time he was through security the flight was boarding. He was pleased the flight wasn’t full, allowing an empty seat next to him; he had no wish to make pointless small talk.

Leaving on time was rarely a guarantee that any flight would arrive on time at Heathrow, however for once the flight touched down only a few minutes late just after 8 a.m. He quickly made his way through terminal one to the transit passenger area and on into terminal two to check in for his onward flight. As he reached the gate for the Geneva flight, he glanced at his watch and saw the time had reached 9 a.m., the earliest time that the Lloyd’s daily housekeeper would arrive and discover the result of last night’s work.

***

***

Chapter 2

London some years later

For the most part, Rob Faulkner enjoyed his work. He had worked as an insurance fraud investigator for the last two years all of them for Judd Investigations and was considered their most effective investigator. It was interesting work if not always too exciting. There had been enough excitement during his time in the police, the bulk of which had been spent working undercover, more than once nearly costing him his life. But right now, the job was beginning to irritate him.

That morning he left for the office at his usual time with little enthusiasm. For the past week and a half, he had been taking his turn working on vast swathes of paperwork, each day he had faced a mountain of files and papers. The office he was working in resembled a scene from a Dickensian novel, with countless piles of folders stacked on the floor. There was a wall of files on the desk so high that if he sat behind it anyone entering the room would think the place was empty. The work was tedious and involved huge amounts of scanning files to a computer, saving the images to a file marked by a reference number and the case name, it was essential he was careful with the indexing of the files.

In a bid to save space and time, the whole of the company’s archive files were being scanned to a state of the art software package Judd had purchased that year; the original paper files were being kept but moved to a secure facility. The archivist had left a few months earlier, Faulkner thought she had probably gone before she drove herself in sane with the mind numbing boredom the task created. Whilst a replacement was found, Paul Judd and his team of six investigators were taking turns to deal with the archives; now it was Faulkner’s turn to help out. Annoyingly his five colleagues had managed to have enough work going on that no one was able to relieve him.

Although his quickest route to work was to take the Northern Line underground at Balham and get off at Moorgate before walking the ten minutes to the office in Worship Street; that morning he chose to walk to Clapham Common underground, to get on the train there. By the time he was walking up Moorgate and onto Finsbury Pavement, it was 8.15 a.m., he would normally have been in the office for half an hour by then.

He wandered into the empty room he shared with two other investigators around 8.30 am and switched on his computer to check any emails before going to the archivist’s office. He actually loved the building; it was one of the few remaining old terraced buildings in the City of London, the business and financial district, which is often referred to as the square mile. Its escape from the developers owed much to being right on the periphery of the City but no doubt one day it would succumb, though not until the economic climate improved he thought. There were plenty of empty offices about; the skyline was not filled with cranes as it had been for most of the decade before. Times were tough in the City of London.

Not surprisingly, his inbox did not contain anything of interest and he was contemplating gathering some note paper and heading to the archivist’s basement office when Paul Judd popped his head around the corner of the door.

Morning, Rob, could you spare me five minutes in my office? he asked, withdrawing his head before Rob could reply.

Not so much a request as a command thought Faulkner and he wondered what was wrong. He was not given to bouts of concern but he did wonder momentarily if he had made some grievous error in the archives or worse maybe the tough times meant a reduction in headcount, it was going on all over the place.

He tapped on Judd’s office door and opened it in one movement without waiting for an invitation.

Come on in, said Judd rising from the chair behind his desk, this is Simon Dawson, he said indicating the man standing to the left of his desk.

Simon Dawson was a slight man though fairly tall, his slenderness exaggerating his height, he shook Faulkner’s hand his grip and the confidence of his tone confirming his status as a successful businessman. His success had contributed to his appearance; he was wearing a bespoke Savile Row suit, a handmade shirt, replete with Hermes tie. His shoes were highly polished and probably made to measure too. Whilst Faulkner knew who Dawson was, this was the first time they had actually met.

Judd directed Rob to sit at the third chair to the right of his desk, walking round to take his own seat.

Rob, as you know Simon and his company are one of our largest clients, Simon is also one of my oldest friends and as such his visit is personal rather than business. He would like our help, although I will allow Simon to explain. As he finished speaking, he looked across to Dawson with an almost imperceptible nod.

Thank you, Paul. Dawson’s voice suddenly sounded less confident, matching the look in his eyes. Rob, Paul tells me you are his best investigator and as such you will be able to help me locate my daughter.

Is she missing?

Sort of, Dawson paused taking a sip from the glass of water in front of him before continuing. I haven’t seen her all week and she hasn’t been answering her phone or responding to texts, which is most unlike her.

This sounds like something for the police, Mr Dawson, not a firm of insurance investigators.

I appreciate that however Verity is in her twenties and although my wife and I haven’t seen her since last Sunday I do know she was at work as usual until yesterday, Dawson said.

Well not wishing to be rude, Mr Dawson— Rob began before Dawson interrupted.

Please call me Simon.

OK, Simon, it is only nine o’clock on Thursday morning, if she was at work yesterday she is hardly missing, I am not sure I understand what you want?

At this point, Paul Judd stood up speaking as he did, Rob, please just hear Simon out, as I said this is largely personal, although Simon is going to be paying us.

Resuming, Simon Dawson went on to explain that although his daughter had been at work and in all probability was at her place of work right now he and his wife had not seen or spoken to her since Sunday, which was very unusual. Her behaviour had begun to change in recent weeks; she was spending more and more time away from home. Her normal habit was to share the small flat Dawson kept in the City between Monday and Friday before coming to the family home either on Saturday or Sunday for lunch depending on whether or not she was out with friends. She enjoyed her new-found freedom having taken a job with a hedge fund manager in Mayfair several months earlier. Dawson himself was a man of regular habit; he travelled up to town from the family home in Virginia Water every Monday morning returning home most Thursdays and working from home during Friday. Verity would stay at the flat and go out with her friends on Friday night. However, over the last month she had been staying somewhere else more nights.

Presumably she has a boyfriend? asked Faulkner.

She may well have, Dawson replied, but she refuses to say anything about him or what she has been doing, that’s why we are worried. My wife especially fears she has fallen into the wrong company, we just want you to find out what she is up to and who with.

Faulkner looked across at Judd. This is a job for a private detective, he thought, but decided to keep his counsel. Judd nodded his head in understanding before addressing them both.

Simon, please don’t worry, Rob will find her for you and report back to us, won’t you? he said looking directly across at Faulkner

Of course, Faulkner responded, you are the boss he thought. Perhaps Simon you can let me have details of your daughter, a photograph, mobile phone number, your addresses, where she works and names and contact details of any friends you know of?

Dawson reached into the slim briefcase at his side and extracted a buff file, which he handed to Faulkner. It’s all in there, he said, If you need anything else please call me on my mobile or private number, they are also in the file.

Faulkner decided to try Verity’s place of work first. By the time Rob reached the address just off Grosvenor Square, it was approaching 11.30 a.m. He had telephoned ahead asking to speak to James Rafter the Senior Partner at Argent Partners LLP, who had somewhat reluctantly agreed to see him.

The office was on the third floor of the old Georgian building. Like so many in Mayfair, most of the interior no longer reflected the old grandeur of the façade, instead being far more modern and in reality more functional than the large rooms that once filled the space. He was shown to a small meeting room by the young receptionist tottering on absurdly high heels and asked to wait.

Rafter kept him waiting a while, when eventually he did arrive he was as short as he had been on the telephone.

I’m James Rafter, he introduced himself taking Faulkner’s hand in the briefest of shakes. He sat down without inviting Rob to join him which he never the less did. I only agreed to speak to you about Verity as she hasn’t shown up for work this morning, although I cannot discuss anything confidential with you.

Why has she not come in today?

She called in sick this morning, that’s all we know.

Mr Rafter, as you know I am trying to locate her for her parents, they are worried about her. I was hoping you might be able to help with whether she has a boyfriend or was friendly with anyone here?

I’m sorry, Mr Faulkner, our firm’s not like that, people come here to do a job, they are all very professional, their private lives away from the office are very much their own affairs, besides I travel a lot and I hardly know her. She came to us a few months ago almost straight from university, she is bright, hardworking and if she applies herself could carve a decent career. I don’t really know what any of the staff do out of office hours.

Was there no one she was friendly with? Faulkner asked.

Not that was obvious to me. As far as I know she got along with everyone and worked closely with one guy, but he has effectively left.

Effectively, that’s a bit odd isn’t it, surely you would know whether one of your staff had left or had not? Rob asked, his quizzical look also betraying his lack of belief in the reply.

Well he didn’t actually work for me; we provided a service for his employer. We provided the means for them to obtain authorisation with the UK financial regulator.

Is that normal? Rob asked, It sounds a little odd, how come they could not deal with the authorities themselves?

It is perfectly normal and very common. He is employed by a Cayman Island hedge fund, they needed someone to manage their affairs and compliance for any UK based investors, although they didn’t have any really. He was only here fulltime for two months auditing and then working on the closure of the fund in the UK, I am not responsible for his time keeping. We moved all the positions they were invested in to the Caymans weeks ago and the few that weren’t we closed out. With that Rafter rose, indicating the short meeting was at an end. He ushered Faulkner to the door and after a perfunctory good bye, turned and walked back into his office.

Once in the street, Faulkner took out his mobile to call Paul Judd, but before he could, he was interrupted by the door he had just walked through being opened, he glanced up and stepped aside. The young receptionist from Argent came out of the door.

Mr Faulkner, can I speak to you for a minute? she said glancing round nervously towards the door. Away from here.

Before Faulkner could properly reply, she started to walk east along Grosvenor Street. He turned to follow walking rapidly to close the gap between them. As he drew alongside, she glanced briefly at him.

I’m on my lunch break, I always go this way there’s a small sandwich bar on Davies Street. The girl walked on without another word and rounded the corner to the right into Davies Street. The sandwich bar was the first door on the right, a typical sight in London, a narrow deli-type shop with four small tables along the left hand side against the window, perhaps because it was still early for many to be taking lunch, only one was occupied. The right