Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

“I can assure you, chief inspector, that I have nothing to hide from anyone, including my staff,” said Sloane as he sat down, leaving the policeman standing. Sloane stared at the large Grundig tape recorder on the table between them. His mind began working overtime as he tried to anticipate what might be on the tape.

“I wasn’t suggesting that you have anything to hide,” said Stokes, sitting down opposite Sloane. “But you may be able to help me by answering one or two questions concerning a case I’m currently working on.”

Sloane clenched his fists below the table, but didn’t respond.

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to listen to this tape, sir.” Stokes leaned forward and pressed the Play button on the tape recorder.

“Customs office, Heathrow.”

“Put me through to the senior customs officer.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“No, you may not.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.” There was a pause before another voice was heard. “SCO Collier. How can I help you?”

“If you’re interested, I can tell you about some drugs that a passenger will be trying to smuggle in today.”

“Yes, I’m interested. But first, would you tell me your name?”

“The passenger’s name is Hakim Bishara. He’s well known in the trade, and is traveling on flight 207 from Lagos. He has thirteen ounces of heroin in his overnight bag.”

Sloane remained silent after the tape had come to an end. The chief inspector removed the spool and replaced it with another one. Once again he pressed the Play button. Once again he said nothing.

“Is this Adrian Sloane?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Chief Inspector Mike Stokes. I’m attached to the drug squad at Scotland Yard.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Stokes?”

“I’d like to make an appointment to see you, sir.”

“Why?”

“I can’t discuss the matter over the phone, sir. Either I could come to you, or you could visit me at Scotland Yard, whichever is more convenient.”

“I’ll come to you.”

Sloane shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve had both those tapes analyzed by an American voice specialist,” said Stokes, “and he’s confirmed that not only were they made by the same person, but from the same telephone.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Are you sure?” asked the interrogator, his eyes never leaving Sloane.

“Yes, I am, because the telephone call to the customs officer lasted less than three minutes, and is therefore untraceable.”

“How could you possibly know that, Mr. Sloane, if it wasn’t you who made the call?”

“Because I attended every day of Hakim Bishara’s trial and heard all the evidence firsthand.”

“You did indeed, sir. And I confess I’m still puzzled about why you did.”

“Because, Mr. Stokes, as I’m sure you know, I was the previous chairman of Farthings Bank, and one of my clients at the time was a substantial shareholder, so I was doing no more than my fiduciary duty. You’ll need something a little more convincing than that to prove I was involved.”

“Before we go on to discuss the role you played on behalf of your substantial shareholder, and how you were both involved, perhaps I could play the first tape again. I’m going to ask you to listen more carefully this time.”

Sloane could feel the palms of his hands sweating. He wiped them on his trousers as the tape recorder whirred back into action.

“Customs office, Heathrow.”

“Put me through to the senior customs officer.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“No, you may not.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.”

Stokes pressed the Stop button. “Listen carefully, Mr. Sloane.” The chief inspector pressed the Play button once again, and this time Sloane could hear the faint sound of chimes in the background. Stokes pressed Stop.

“Ten o’clock,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Sloane.

“So what?”

“Now I’d like you to listen to the second tape again,” said Stokes as he swapped the cassettes. “Because I called you in your office at one minute to ten.”

“Is this Adrian Sloane?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

A long pause, and this time Sloane couldn’t miss the ten chimes. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead and, despite having a handkerchief in his top pocket, made no attempt to wipe them away.

The detective pressed Stop. “And I can assure you, Mr. Sloane, those chimes came from the same clock, which our American expert has confirmed is St. Mary-le-Bow, Cheapside, less than a hundred yards from your office.”

“That proves nothing. There must be thousands of offices in the vicinity, and you know it.”

“You’re quite right, which is why I requested a court order to allow me to check your phone records for that particular day.”

“Over a hundred people work in the building,” said Sloane. “It could have been any one of them.”

“On a Saturday morning, Mr. Sloane? I don’t think so. In any case, it wasn’t the bank’s number that I called, but your private line, and you answered it. Don’t you get the distinct feeling that these coincidences are beginning to mount up?”

Sloane stared defiantly back at him.

“Perhaps the time has come,” said Stokes, “for us to consider yet another coincidence.” He opened a file in front of him and studied a long list of phone numbers. “Just before you phoned the customs office at Heathrow—”

“I never phoned the customs office at Heathrow.”

“You made a call to Bristol 698 337,” Stokes continued, ignoring the outburst, “which is the office of Mr. Desmond Mellor, who I understand is the client you mentioned as having substantial shareholdings in Farthings Bank at the time of the Bishara trial. Yet another coincidence?”

“That proves nothing. I sit on the board of Mellor Travel, of which he’s the chairman, so we always have a lot to discuss.”

“I’m sure you do, Mr. Sloane. So perhaps you can explain why you made a second call to Mr. Mellor the moment you’d put the phone down on Mr. Collier.”

“It’s possible I couldn’t get through to Mellor the first time and I was making a second attempt.”

“If you didn’t get through the first time, why did that call last twenty-eight minutes and three seconds?”

“It could have been Mr. Mellor’s secretary who answered the phone. Yes, now I remember. I had a long chat to Miss Castle that morning.”

Stokes looked down at a page in his notebook. “Mr. Mellor’s secretary, Miss Angela Castle, has informed us that she was visiting her mother in Glastonbury on that particular Saturday morning, where they both attended a local antiques fair.”

Sloane licked his lips, which were feeling unusually dry.

“Your second call to Mr. Mellor’s office lasted six minutes and eighteen seconds.”

“That doesn’t prove that I spoke to him.”

“I thought you might say that. Which is why I asked Mr. Mellor to drop in and see me earlier today. He admitted that he spoke to you twice that morning, but says that he can’t remember the details of either conversation.”

“So this has been nothing more than a fishing expedition,” said Sloane. “All you’ve come up with is speculation and coincidence. Because one thing’s for certain, Mellor would never have taken the bait.”

“You could be right, Mr. Sloane. However, I have a feeling neither of you will want this case to come to court. It might well make your colleagues in the City feel there was just one coincidence too many for them to consider doing business with you again.”