Fatal Greed: Amber Fearns London Thriller, #4

By Denise Yoko Berndt

A suicide.
A murder.
Truth is a killer.

 

Two of the most iconic London skyscrapers, situated almost exactly opposite each other across the river Thames: the Walkie-Talkie and the Shard. One the scene of a spectacular suicide, the other the scene of a murder.

Journalist Ronan Howell jumps to his death on the same day businessman Michael Glynn is killed.

Strange coincidence, or are the two deaths connected?

 

Ex-DCI Amber Fearns is asked to assist the Metropolitan Police Service as an outside consultant. Several lines of enquiry come to nothing, but Amber and her colleagues do everything to unravel the events of that cold January day.

 

Glynn had just taken over as CEO of an international corporation… why did he have to die?
Howell had a successful career, a wife and two children… why did he kill himself?

 

Fatal Greed is the fourth installment in the London thriller series featuring Amber Fearns.
All novels in this series are standalones and can be read in any order.

 

If you like Lynda La Plante, Robert Bryndza, Mark Billingham, Sharon Bolton, Biba Pearce, and Patricia Gibney, you will be gripped by Fatal Greed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Yoko Berndt
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215118740

Denise Yoko Berndt

Mit zwei der erste Büchereiausweis, mit sieben die erste Kurzgeschichte, das konnte ja nur böse enden. Erst Songtexte für verschiedene Künstler, dann mehrere Drehbücher und 2006 der erste Roman: The Poriomaniacs – Dead in Dornbirn. Nach insgesamt vier Krimis um die Girl-Rockband The Poriomaniacs erschienen bislang drei Tübingen-Thriller, zwei Thriller mit Schauplatz München und seit April 2020 die London-Thriller-Reihe um die Ermittlerin Amber Fearns. Wenn sie nicht gerade irgendwo auf dieser Welt für das nächste Buch recherchiert, hält die Autorin sich am liebsten in London auf.

Book preview

1

The January wind tugged at his scarf. With each step, the heavy shoulder bag containing his laptop banged against his hip.

He didn't notice any of this. With quick steps, Ronan Howell crossed London Bridge from the south side of the Thames to the north. Had he lifted his gaze, he could have already seen his destination—Number 20 Fenchurch Street, the skyscraper commonly known as Walkie-Talkie because of its distinctive shape.

But Ronan Howell kept his eyes lowered. He wasn't aware of his surroundings; too busy was he with the turmoil in his head.

He can't be serious. No, he simply can't be serious.

He'd always thought the word thunderstruck was a cliché, but now he knew how accurate this term was. Ronan felt as if something dull, loud, and monstrous had hit him. Out of the blue.

Another cliché.

When he'd been asked for a meeting, he thought it was about continuing his previous cooperation. It would be on slightly different conditions, but on the whole, everything would remain the same.

He hadn't been prepared for what awaited him in the suite on the thirty-ninth floor of the Shard Hotel.

It was only a few hours ago that I thought it was funny to have two back-to-back meetings at two of London's most iconic skyscrapers. First at the Shard then in the Sky Garden.

Now Ronan Howell didn't think anything was funny anymore.

He reached the end of the bridge, stopped for a moment, and gazed at the river. After shaking his head, he hurried on.

Past Monument tube station, he headed across the next intersection then turned to the right. The Walkie-Talkie towered over all surrounding buildings.

His meeting was to take place in the Sky Garden, the spectacular garden and observation point on the top floors of the skyscraper. That was why he directed his steps to the back of the building, where the entrance for the popular tourist attraction was located.

He mechanically went through the strict security check, showed his ID, and slid his bag through the scanner. A short time later, he was standing with a group of chattering Spanish or Latin American tourists in one of the high-speed lifts that went directly to the thirty-fifth floor.

I'll pull myself together and get through this interview. I'm well prepared and have all the questions on my laptop. We should be finished in half an hour. Then I'll think about what to do next.

The lift doors opened. The tourists made enthusiastic noises, but Ronan had no eyes for the spectacular architecture. Unlike the other visitors, he didn't head straight for the observation deck but directed his steps toward the Sky Pod Bar.

Ronan Howell. I have a reservation.

A discreet glance at a tablet and the host nodded. Yes, Mr Howell, your guest is already here.

Very good. No waiting time.

The host led Ronan to a small round table next to the glass wall that separated the interior from the observation balcony.

Matthew Snider, CEO of a global technology company and Ronan's interview partner, rose from a grey couch to greet the journalist.

What a stunning view.

Yes, truly breathtaking. Ronan didn't feel like making small talk; he wanted to get this meeting over with as quickly as possible. He unzipped his bag and lifted out the laptop. While the computer booted up, he ordered a sparkling mineral water and half-heartedly inquired about the general well-being of his interview partner.

Snider answered at length, but Ronan didn't listen to him. As soon as Ronan brought the document with the interview questions up on the screen, he pulled up the corners of his mouth in a fake smile and looked at Snider.

I'm glad to hear that, Matthew. Shall we get right to it? I know your time is precious.

Snider inclined his head. You're right. Of course, the good old saying that time is money also applies in my line of work.

Ronan activated the recording function on his smartphone and placed the device on the table in front of Snider then read the first question off the screen. Your company is launching several new products next week. Please tell me a little about these novelties and what makes them so special.

This seemed to be a question entirely to Snider's liking. He described in detail the individual products and their benefits.

Ronan stared at his screen, Snider's words reaching his ears only as white noise. Snatches of the conversation he'd had in the hotel suite played on a loop, words that had burned themselves mercilessly into his memory.

What am I going to do now?

Ronan?

Ronan winced, lifting his eyes from the laptop.

Matthew Snider looked at him questioningly.

Oh, wonderful. Thank you for that detailed answer, Ronan said quickly, trying to distract his interview partner from the fact that he hadn't been listening to him. With no transition, he read the next question. You've had trouble gaining a foothold in the smart speaker market in the past. Do you want to expand this market segment or focus on your current core business?

Well, I think we are quite well positioned as far as this segment is concerned. Of course, our focus is primarily on our core business, but the expansion of new business areas will become increasingly important in the coming years.

Again, Ronan drifted off.

I will expose everything, he said. I just don't understand. If he does that, he'll destroy everything.

Ronan turned his head to the right and looked through the huge glass wall. Towering into the grey winter sky on the other side of the Thames was the Shard, the tallest building in Western Europe. It had a high-end luxury hotel on floors thirty-four through fifty-two. The meeting had taken place on the thirty-ninth floor.

Now I'm on the thirty-fifth floor, Ronan thought incoherently. Conducting an interview and trying to pretend that everything is normal. Yet everything is in ruins, and I have no idea how my life is supposed to go on.

His gaze focussed on what was directly on the other side of the glass wall—the observation deck. Despite the cold winter day, the Sky Garden was well attended, but there weren't too many people on the outdoor balcony at the moment. Most of the visitors obviously preferred to admire the gardens or have a bite to eat in one of the cafés or restaurants.

Can it go on at all?

Ronan swallowed. What lay ahead of him flashed in his mind's eye. His career would be over. His reputation ruined. His marriage? Wasn't going very well anyway. He wouldn't be able to make the mortgage payments. His kids…

Evie and Tom. How will I ever be able to look them in the eye again?

He stood.

Ronan, what's the matter?

He ignored Matthew Snider and headed for the revolving door that led outside.

Icy wind slapped his face and tugged at his suit jacket.

He'd have thought that the plexiglass pane that formed the front of the observation deck would be much higher. There was also a railing at about waist height, which made things even easier for him.

He grasped all this in a fraction of a second.

Even faster, he made his decision.

There wasn't much room to take a running start. He took one big step, then he jumped, arms extended upward. His hands closed around the edge of the glass pane. He pulled himself up and planted his feet on the railing. Pushing off with his feet, he straightened his arms with all his strength. The plexiglass cut into his palms.

For a moment, he paused like a gymnast on the high bar. Both arms fully extended, his upper body hovered over the edge of the plexiglass pane.

As he tilted forward, he heard someone scream.

Then he fell.

2

She rang the doorbell, waited briefly, then rang again.

No answer.

She made sure the Do Not Disturb indicator wasn't lit then opened the door with her master key card.

Housekeeping, she called out for good measure as she entered the suite.

Again, no answer came.

She entered the main room of the suite and turned left before going through to the bathroom. The bathroom was always the first room she inspected, because there was almost always something to do there.

She picked up two used towels from the floor and stowed them in the basket she'd brought. She took the rubbish bag out of the small bin, tossed empty shampoo and shower gel bottles into it, and tied the handles together. Then she lined the silver rubbish container with a new plastic bag. After making sure she hadn't missed anything, she continued into the bedroom.

There, she pulled the bedspread off, folded it neatly, and stowed it in the closet. Then she folded over a corner of the duvet and fluffed the pillows.

Check main room and kitchen. Get fresh towels.

Back in the combined living and dining room, she inspected the seating area, which was all neat. She turned away and walked toward the large dining table, which could seat ten people. Immediately, she saw that one of the chairs was standing crookedly. Some papers were spread out on the tabletop.

Why does he work here and not in the study?

She shook her head, put down the laundry basket, and walked toward the crooked chair before reaching for its backrest. A motionless body lay on the floor.

At first, she thought the guest of the Presidential Suite had fainted and would come to at any moment.

Then she saw the blood.

3

Amber was glad that Zoe hadn't come along. She enjoyed visiting this exhibition much more on her own. No one distracted her, and she could look at all the paintings at her own pace. Lingering in front of the ones she particularly liked, she could move on after a cursory glance at the artworks that didn't appeal to her.

If Zoe were here, she'd also be talking nonstop about going to a bar later, while I want to spend a quiet evening at home.

A few months ago, Amber's friend Zoe had got it into her head that Amber urgently needed a new man in her life. Since Amber made no effort whatsoever to meet someone, Zoe had decided to do something about it. She'd already tried to set Amber up several times, so far without success.

Amber stepped closer to one of the large-format oil paintings so she could read its description. London's National Gallery was currently hosting a special exhibition. A series of paintings that Titian had painted for the Spanish king in the sixteenth century were being shown together for the first time at a museum.

Actually, Titian wasn't quite Amber's taste in art, but the title of the exhibition—Love Desire Death—had appealed to her. She was also fascinated by the history. The paintings had been in the possession of the Spanish royal family for almost one hundred fifty years, then they'd been given away and later sold, so they were now in museums in three different countries.

Amber glanced at her watch—just after four o'clock in the afternoon. It was about time to make her way home. It would be dark outside by the time she left the museum.

Dark and cold. It's only January, but I can hardly wait for spring.

She left the exhibit rooms and picked up her coat at the cloakroom.

Icy wind blew across Trafalgar Square as she left the National Gallery building. With her shoulders hunched and her woollen scarf covering the lower half of her face, Amber walked toward Charing Cross station.

As soon as I'm home, I'll run a bath. No. First, I'll eat something.

Amber crossed the street and headed for the entrance of the station. In passing, she picked up a free copy of the Evening Standard. She was about to roll up the paper when a headline caught her eye: Sky Garden Suicide.

Abruptly, Amber stopped, was jostled, and stepped to the side.

The photo next to the glaring headline showed an exterior view of the Walkie-Talkie. Of course Amber knew the Sky Garden, which was located on the top floors of the skyscraper. However, she knew it only from hearsay. She hadn't yet visited this attraction.

Don't they have security measures? How can something like this happen?

The article was short. Around noon, a man had climbed over the glass wall that surrounded the observation deck and jumped to his death.

Amber shook her head. I'll read that on the train.

She tucked the newspaper under her arm and entered the station building. At Upper Crust, she bought a tuna baguette sandwich then took the escalator down to the tube platforms.

A few minutes later, she sat on a jolting northbound Bakerloo line train, unfolded the Evening Standard, and thoroughly read the article about the spectacular suicide.

The suicide must have happened shortly before the editorial deadline, because the newspaper article provided little information. The man was identified as Ronan H., age forty, a journalist who'd had a business meeting at the Sky Garden.

A short paragraph included the horrified testimony of an eyewitness, who stated that everything had happened so incredibly fast. She said she hadn't realised what the man was up to and that he'd suddenly climbed the glass partition wall.

And then all of a sudden, he was gone. He didn't even scream. It was all so unreal; I still can't believe it.

The article concluded with a brief section about the skyscraper on Fenchurch Street. Completed in two thousand and fourteen, thirty-eight stories, one hundred seventy-five yards high, nicknamed Walkie-Talkie because of its unusual shape.

Amber folded up the newspaper again. She didn't feel like reading any of the other news of the day. When she changed trains at Baker Street station, she left the newspaper on the seat.

Did he plan this? Did he schedule a meeting at the Sky Garden specifically so that he could jump off the balcony there? Why would someone do something like that? Why make such an effort? The Standard said you have to book a ticket two weeks in advance. Otherwise, you can't get in.

She pulled up her scarf so that it covered her ears as she stepped onto the platform of the Metropolitan line, where it was much colder than on the underground platform of the Bakerloo line.

If someone takes his life on impulse, he jumps off a bridge or an easily accessible building or even throws himself in front of a train. But he doesn't book a ticket for the Sky Garden weeks in advance.

Amber frowned. The man must have had a special reason for wanting to take his life in such a spectacular manner.

Was he trying to send a message to someone? Jump in front of a tube train, and you're a small news item in the centre section of the paper. Jump from the Sky Garden, and you make the headline.

Slowly, the train to Amersham pulled in, stopping with screeching brakes.

If he didn't leave a suicide note, his motive will forever remain a mystery.

Amber boarded the train and looked for a seat.

When I get home, the first thing I'll do is search for more info online. The bathtub can wait.

4

The paper bag holding her tuna baguette lay forgotten on the kitchen counter. Amber sat at the table and swiped across the display of her tablet.

The Guardian's online edition had no new details on the Sky Garden suicide.

Should I go see what the gutter press writes?

She hesitated.

I'd rather not. They're probably just making up some bullshit. I guess I'll have to be patient.

She switched off the tablet and got up to make herself a cup of tea. Kettle in hand, she was standing at the sink when her mobile rang. Briefly, Amber considered not answering and letting the call go to voicemail.

Probably only Zoe anyway.

But curiosity won out. She turned off the water and went back to the kitchen table.

Chris Walmsley read the display.

Amber tapped the green button to take the call. Hello, Chris. Is this about that thing at the Sky Garden?

Erm, what? Sky Garden? Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Walmsley sounded puzzled, but he quickly shifted gears. Oh, you mean the suicide? No, that's not our business. That's the City of London Police's responsibility.

Sure, the Walkie-Talkie is in the City. I'd forgotten about that.

Curiously, I have a case here that involves another skyscraper, Chris said. I really need your help. A businessman was found dead in a hotel suite in the Shard. Looked like an accident at first glance, but the officers who were first on the scene got a very different impression. Most likely murder. Or at least manslaughter. How fast can you get there?

I'm leaving right now. Half hour or so.

Amber ended the call. Her eyes fell on the bag with the Upper Crust logo.

She grabbed the paper bag and shoved it into her handbag. She could eat on the tube.

5

I can still hear the thud the strange sculpture made when it landed on the thick carpet. Round, smooth, with a hole in the middle. It was as if this work of art had been created to be used as a striking weapon.

Is something so abstract even called a sculpture? Doesn't matter.

How long I stood there staring at the corpse, I don't remember. It was clear that he was dead. I hadn't just hit him once. The first time, he only looked at me in wonder. There wasn't even blood.

The blood came when I struck the second time. He went down after the third blow, then the round art thing fell out of my hand, and I simply stood there for a while.

Then my knees buckled, and I almost crashed to the floor too. At the last second, I pulled up one of the chairs and sat down.

I thought I was going to throw up, but instead, I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on the tabletop until the nausea passed. Then I started thinking. If I had let him live, he would have destroyed my life.

Now he was dead.

If someone finds out that I killed him, my life will be destroyed too.

So no one must ever find out.

I'd hit him on the temple. Could I make it look like an accident? He fell, hit his head against the edge of the table, tough luck?

I could bang his head against the table or at least smear a little of his blood on the edge. Could that work?

Probably not.

I hardly ever watch crime shows on TV, but it was clear even to me that forensic officers wouldn't fall for such a clumsy ruse. I raised my head and looked around but was careful not to look at the body.

I need to erase all traces.

That was what I had to do. First, I pulled the laptop toward me. It was still switched on.

I touched the trackpad, the black screen woke from power-save mode, and a Word document appeared—a memo from Michael Glynn to all the members of his company's board of directors. I gulped as I read my name.

I closed the laptop. I would take it with me, just like the smartphone, which was also on the table.

I stood up. My legs felt wobbly, but the nausea was gone. I packed the laptop and smartphone into my bag.

Fingerprints. DNA.

I have to wipe down all the surfaces I've touched. But what about hair, fibres, flakes of shed skin?

Would it be enough if I ran the sleeve of my jacket over all the surfaces I'd touched? No, I also had to remove the blood from the sculpture.

I knew that the suite had a kitchen because Michael had offered me tea, which I'd refused.

Good. At least I don't have to wash dishes.

I entered the small kitchen. After I found a handkerchief in a pocket of my jacket, I wrapped it around my fingers before I started opening cabinets. Under the sink were cleaning supplies and rubber gloves.

I put on the gloves and took out two cleaning rags and a bottle of detergent. Before I went back to the table, I looked behind a narrow door next to the refrigerator. A mop, bucket, and vacuum cleaner were inside.

Perfect.

I tied my scarf around my hair and first vacuumed the carpet in all the areas where I'd been. Then I wiped the entire table and the two chairs on which I'd sat.

What required the most work was the strange sculpture. But when I'd looked in the cleaning cupboard, I even found a bottle of bleach, so I used that. I put the dirty cleaning rags and the rubber gloves first into a plastic bag then into my briefcase. I remembered that I'd better take the vacuum cleaner bag with me too.

As I left the suite, I pushed the door handle down with my elbow so I wouldn't leave any fingerprints. I didn't take off the scarf I'd wrapped around my head until I was standing in the corridor.

Then a moment of panic came. A sharp, keen panic that stung like a needle.

Security cameras.

I jerked both hands up, pressed the scarf I was still holding in front of the lower half of my face,