Sophie frowns. ‘But we know they are!’ she insists. ‘We know they existed and that they were either stolen or simply vanished!’
‘Sure,’ I agree. ‘And some of it, like Kruger’s gold, might have simply been melted down or broken up. But why take something as valuable as, say, the Irish Crown Jewels, stolen in the early days of the twentieth century, and then break them up into something worth infinitely less? It just wouldn’t make sense. If you want to steal a bunch of diamonds, you could easily knock over a high-street jewellers. There has to have been a reason why the significant items were taken.’
I look at Frank. He remains silent.
I continue, ‘That reason is the Court. A group of people with immeasurable wealth and influence. They exist around the world, and have done for centuries. To these people, members of the aristocracy are commoners. It’s hard to stress how rarefied the Court is. They’re supremely powerful, and their aversion to publicity is absolute.’
Sophie asks, ‘But what do they do?’
I reply, ‘The Court isn’t an organisation as such. It’s more a strata of global society. They’d see themselves as the top billionth of the world’s population. An echelon as opposed to an establishment. Its numbers are very, very limited. Its might is very, very robust.’
Frank says, ‘What else did you learn about them?’
‘Not a huge amount. I only scraped the surface. Helen Merrydale is the head of the Romanov Foundation and their search for the Imperial treasure over the years is the only reason she knows anything about the Court. She told me what she knows, but there’s obviously more to uncover. The point is, members of the Court will inevitably have some of the Tzar’s jewels and, more than likely, the Romanov Code itself. But I’m not sure how far that gets us. We can’t organise a meeting with the Court. That’s not the way it works. And even if we could, how could we leverage anything out of them? What do we have that they would want?’ I take a sip of my Neck Oil. Look across the four faces in front of me. ‘Thoughts?’
Frank replies immediately. ‘We need to drop this.’
‘I thought you said you were with me.’
‘I am, lad. That’s why I’m begging you to just walk away.’
Stacey says, ‘Come on, Frank! You obviously know something we don’t. Share it with the group, man.’
‘Many, many years ago,’ he tells us quietly, ‘I started out on my journey, like we all do, I suppose. Full of hope and swagger and ideals. And I’m not blowing my own trumpet, but I did well. I was working on a big national in my early twenties. By my mid-twenties . . .’ He smiles. ‘I thought I was the King of Fleet Street.’
Sophie gently asks, ‘What happened?’
‘I was writing a piece about why prime ministers sometimes institute a complete change of approach on a given policy. Not just a tweak or even an overall change. More a complete reversal of ideology. The weird thing was, although we can discern the change, it’s never reported as such. Or, occasionally, it comes to light that a PM or a minister has done something utterly outrageous. Wasted billions. Transferred millions to a friend’s business for goods that weren’t needed. You know the kind of thing.’
‘Aye,’ Stacey replies. ‘Only too well.’
‘And the more I looked into it . . . Well, I stumbled across the Court. You know what I found out about them? Nothing! Just that they exist. But that one piece of knowledge . . . Within twenty-four hours, my career was in tatters. I was persona non grata in London and it was made clear that I was lucky to be alive and I should drop any idea of following up the piece, or my luck wouldn’t hold.’
As Frank takes a mouthful of beer, I ask, ‘So what happened?’
‘I was banished to the regions. No bugger would touch me. Then someone took a gamble. Ended up working on the Blackpool Chronicle. It was the start of my comeback. In the intervening decades, I’ve covered some of the biggest stories of the day. And maybe a handful of times I’ve detected the Court’s influence. Unreported. Unverifiable. But undeniable.’
Sophie says, ‘And what did you do on those occasions?’
‘I’m not proud of it. But I looked the other way. Look, we don’t need to find the Tzar’s lost treasure. We sure as hell don’t owe the Romanov Foundation anything. If we want to live, we drop this.’
Nobody replies.
‘The thing is—’ I begin.
‘Excuse me. Could we possibly have a quick word with you?’
The man cutting in looks to be in his thirties. Tall, lean, angular. He’s wearing a black suit and tie just like me and Frank, but something tells me he wasn’t at the funeral.
I shrug. ‘Sure.’
I’m English, so if someone politely asks me for a ‘quick word’, that’s my default response, even if I am engaged in a private conversation in the middle of a wake. I’d probably give the same reply if I was about to be wheeled into theatre for open-heart surgery.
‘Thanks. This way, please.’
That’s unexpected, but I assure everyone at the table that I’ll be right back and follow the interloper downstairs, where he has a similarly dressed colleague waiting. ‘If we could just step outside for a moment?’
The White Swan is so close to the Thames that at high tide its rear pub garden becomes partially submerged by the river. It’s not unusual to see waiters wading through the waters to collect dead glasses. And although it’s not quite that bad at this time of the afternoon, as we nudge through tipsy mourners, I see the Thames is relatively high and a boat bobs on the gentle waves just a few feet away from the last row of tables.
One of the men says, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to get your shoes wet.’ He unbuttons his jacket so I can see its designer label and his Glock G43. I’m not massively impressed by either.
‘Fine. But you could have told me. I’d have brought my pint.’
So now I’m in the back of what is technically a yacht. I recognise the vessel as an Iguana Commuter, but only because a former client of mine used to swear by them. About thirty feet long with a small cabin at the for’ard and wrap-around seating at the stern, its top speed is fifty knots, and even pre-owned, you wouldn’t get a lot of change back from half a mill. More importantly, it’s rocketing me up the Thames, leaving the pub and my plans for a boozy few hours with Frank and friends in its wake.
But, hey, I’m wedged between two men wearing Hugo Boss suits in the back of a sleek, strangely beautiful piece of machinery. Sometimes it’s hard to know if you’re being kidnapped, but if that is what’s happening, at least it’s an upmarket kidnaping.
We bank sharp starboard to avoid a tug, weave in between a couple of tourist boats and, with a clear run ahead, surge forward at full speed. I’d have to have been dead for a fortnight not to be galvanised by this turn of events. I feel fresh, cold air buffeting against my face and wonder what’s waiting for me at the end of the ride. It has to be about a case. People warning me off the Court? Someone wanting me to delve deeper into the Romanovs’ riches? Something to do with the Sandy Paige job?
Don’t know. Don’t care. Because, let’s be honest, sometimes a little mystery can be good for the soul.