Murder at Canary Wharf (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 8) Read online

  MURDER AT CANARY WHARF

  BY

  P.J. THURBIN

  Copyright 2014 P.J. Thurbin, All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Where public figures, historical events or places are used they are used in a fictitious way. Otherwise any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to those men and women in Sail Training International who give their time and experience to help train young people in seamanship and who make the Tall Ships Races possible.

  Acknowledgement:

  My appreciation, as always, to my wife, Daisy, for her tireless editing and advice, without whose efforts this book could not be produced. She remains my harshest critic, my staunchest fan and my constant helpmate.

  Chapter 1

  Vadim had not seen his father in almost two years. He waited at the main gate to the Power Station. The shift finished at noon and he wanted to surprise him. He glanced at the Certificate – April 1986 – Vadim Melnyk - Cadet Officer First Class – Russian Naval Maritime Academy, Gdynia, Poland. His parents had been delighted when he had been granted a scholarship to attend the Academy. A career in the Navy meant honour and a guaranteed income for his family. Vadim and his wife Anna were expecting their first baby. Anna and his mother and sisters waited at his parent’s home in Pripyat while he went to fetch his father from work. He had bought presents for everyone and looked forward to spending the May Day celebrations as a family.

  The familiar hammer, sickle and star against a red background adorned the lampposts and buildings. Posters and banners were everywhere. The town of Pripyat was 3 kilometres away. The population had now reached almost 50,000, and as he drove into town he marvelled at the children playing on the large Ferris wheel, the new swimming pool and the theatres and libraries. The city was fast becoming prosperous; a good place to work and raise a family. He looked forward to driving his father home in style in the pale blue Lada that he had borrowed from a friend.

  He remembered leaning on the bonnet of the car. Then a loud BANG. Something threw him across the road. He watched the Lada rise in the air before some force propelled it backwards into a concrete wall. It was as though it had been hit by a giant tidal wave.

  He regained consciousness as a cloud of fine dust settled over him and filled his nostrils and mouth. He could barely breathe. It was as though he had been buried in ash from a wood fire. It was hot and he smelled burning. His throat was sore and when he tried to call for help no sound came out. His new suit had been torn to shreds in the blast. Lying on his back he stared up at the large electric clock over the entrance that seemed to mock him. 11:56.

  Vadim heard the wailing of the ambulances and the horns of the fire trucks, but for what seemed like hours no one came to help him. Then out of the gloom and smoke he saw two figures. They wore what appeared to be space suits similar to ones that he had seen on a television documentary about astronaut training in Siberia. He could not see their faces through the dark glass in the visors of their helmets. They gesticulated to each other with their clumsy gloved hands as though they were underwater swimmers. His breathing became more difficult as they lifted him gently into the back of an ambulance. Then someone put an oxygen mask over his mouth. Just before he lost consciousness he thought of his father and of the rest of the family who waited for him at home and wondered if they were all right. Others were less fortunate.

  *****

  The large blue brick Victorian house, set in 5 acres of woodland in Wimbledon Village, stood as a sentinel to a bygone era when one’s home indicated a person’s place in society. Nowadays, with pop stars and soccer players earning millions, property only indicated income, not power or position. Inside, the house was an oasis of genteel living and serenity which appealed to Ralph’s sense of order.

  Ralph Chalmers had an enviable background. He had studied at Cambridge University, where he obtained a Doctorate in Modern History and a blue for rowing, followed by a period as a business consultant at JP Morgan in New York. He had achieved the rank of Lieutenant in the Royal Navy Reserve and had been appointed Professor at Kingston University, London. Now in his mid-fifties, he was tall, fit and athletic and he had not put on an ounce since his rowing days. One would have thought he would be at ease in any setting. This was far from the truth.

  Ralph sipped his wine and valiantly tried to maintain the level of interest that was expected at a dinner party. He had known Rupert Granger for more than 20 years but this was the first time that he had been invited to his house. Granger was Dean of the Business School at the University’s Gypsy Hill campus some 14 miles outside London. Their relationship had always been somewhat strained, but the meal and some expensive wine had helped to ease the tension. The candles flickered against the oak panelled walls, seemingly amused by their dance as the guests chatted amiably. A million miles from the real world outside, Ralph mused.

  “A splendid meal, Ruth. Rupert’s a lucky man. Always a little woman behind a success story is what I say.” Sir George Higgs-Williams leaned across the table and raised his glass.

  “Don’t take any notice of him, Ruth. He thinks he’s paying a compliment. I’m not sure if he acquired his social graces at Eton or from all those years playing at soldiers.” Everyone laughed good-humouredly as Lady Higgs-Williams, Chairman of Governors at the University, demonstrated just who was in charge at their home. Her husband, a retired Colonel in the Blues and Royals, just smiled.

  Ralph looked around at his fellow guests. Katie was on his left. Theirs was an exclusive relationship, but they had decided that living together would be a disaster. Her career at University College London had taken off and she seemed all set to reach high places. Ralph enjoyed his flat in leafy Surbiton, just a short drive or long stroll down from the Gypsy Hill campus and they were both accustomed to having their space. They spent as much of their leisure time as possible together and jointly owned a small cottage in Devon.

  Peter Cavendish and his wife Marcia sat opposite. They were Ralph’s long-time friends. Peter was Dean of the Music School and Marcia had recently resurrected her former career as a model. Peter was Ralph’s oldest and closest friend.

  Sarah Kessler was on his right. Ralph would have described her as a classically attractive confident woman. Her husband Brandt had been introduced as a leading figure with Amnesty International. At over six feet and well built, he looked to be a man you would want on your side in a tight spot. Ralph wondered if Brandt was one of those he had seen on TV trying to board a Japanese Whaling ship from a rubber dinghy in rough seas while being hosed down with icy water. Or was he getting that mixed up with Green Peace?

  The conversation over dinner had ranged from changes in dress code in the work place to whether Jeffrey Archer had used a ghost writer for his latest book, to the need for more parking in towns, to how Kingston could improve it’s ranking in The Times University lists. He knew that that sort of mundane conversation was not high on Katie’s list. But evidently Brandt Kessler’s tolerance for small talk was even lower than hers.

  “Don’t you educationalists find young people too apathetic these days? I never see students protesting in spite of living in a world that is full of inequality.” Having lobbed his grenade into the arena he sat back.

  “I don’t agree with that at all,” said Katie. Ralph waited for the onslaught. Katie had never lost her Australian directness. “I see students taking up causes all the time. It’s just that a lot of the inequalities are generated by the establishment who make the rules
and pass judgement on anyone who dares to challenge them. We haven’t achieved a police state yet but we are getting pretty close. And of course the media are part of the establishment.”

  “So you are saying that it’s all the fault of the ruling classes. That’s an argument that ordinary people have always used as an excuse for not fighting for their rights. I have heard that all my life,” said Lady Higgs–Williams as she picked up her wine glass. Ralph noted that her style and manner smacked of someone who was more accustomed to ending a discussion than contributing to the argument.

  Ralph wondered if she included them as ordinary people.

  “Katie’s got a point, though,” said Brandt. “The rich and powerful must present a daunting picture to the young people. They see examples of it all the time.”

  “Such as?” Said Peter who Ralph could see had taken umbrage at Brandt’s inference that it was all the fault of the educationalists.

  “Easy there, Peter. Take the case of the clothing factory disaster at Rana Plaza in Bangladesh. Over 1000 women burned to death in that factory fire and yet some of the big brand names who had their clothes made there have not yet paid into the compensation fund that was set up. And many of the politicians in that country have investments in the clothing trade. It’s one of the biggest export industries in the country. No one is prepared to push the button that screams ‘vested interest’.”

  “I can’t see your point,” said Peter.

  “My point is that the big corporations are in cahoots with governments and the small powerless individuals have no chance of being allowed to exercise their rights as citizens. Democracy nowadays means educating the poor so that they can read the rules written by those in power. The workers’ human rights aren’t protected by the corporations and when people try to take direct action by protesting the establishment uses the police to stop any demonstrations.”

  Granger was starting to look a bit uncomfortable at the turn in the conversation.

  “Ralph here is doing his bit at a conference at the University of Greenwich next week. What’s the theme Ralph?”

  “The Impact of Industrial Developments on the local populations and economies.”

  “That sounds all very serious, Ralph,” said Ruth as she asked if everyone would like coffee. But Sarah Kessler wanted to support her husband’s point.

  “Brandt is presenting a paper at that conference, Ralph. You two should get together. There are some extremists who would like Brandt’s organisation to be a lot more proactive. If it turns nasty he might need an ally.” Everyone laughed except Brandt.

  “Ralph and I got into a scrape in Singapore with some Muslim blokes and in Devon with a couple of Turks. So if it gets too rough just give us a shout,” said Peter. Marcia gave Peter a withering glance and tapped her wine glass. A signal that it was the wine doing the talking.

  Over coffee Granger held court. Ralph had seen him play that role many times. He explained, presumably for Lady Higgs–Williams benefit, how he wanted Ralph to use the conference to promote Kingston as he was in the middle of negotiations with Greenwich about a series of collaborations.

  “Greenwich is ideally situated to pick up sponsorships and funding from the big City firms that are located at Canary Wharf just across the Thames. If we can work together it could give us access to funding for major developments we’re planning on campus.”

  Ralph kept his thoughts to himself. Granger had tried in the past to get him to use his contacts at JP Morgan Chase and the other big banks and corporations who were now located at Canary Wharf as sources of funds for the University. Ralph had no intentions of being his lackey.

  The dinner party dragged on. Ralph finally thanked Ruth and Granger for the evening but begged off a brandy and said that he had better get Katie back to her mews house in Chelsea. But as they drove in to London Ralph thought about Sarah’s remarks.

  “Interesting chap, Brandt. I wonder just how much he believes in those causes he talked about,” said Ralph as he parked his vintage Jag outside Katie’s house.

  “Why? What makes you think he doesn’t?”

  “Well, I doubt he believes in all of them. I expect he’s just one of those people who have strong principles. As a matter of fact I quite liked him.”

  “I read about that clothing factory in Bangladesh. It was awful. It seems that the workers had complained to the company that the place was falling apart but the bosses told them it was either go to work or face the sack. But you’re right, there’s no shortage of examples. I wonder how Brandt decides which ones to campaign for?” Said Katie.

  “The big corporations are a bit stuck as far as I can see. On the one hand they have to make money for the shareholders and create employment. But on the other hand things sometimes go wrong. That’s when everyone’s after their hide,” Ralph replied.

  “So what with the activists targeting the big corporations and the workers wanting compensation from them when things go wrong, they have a pretty rough time of it. Hey, I almost sound like a capitalist. It must be your bad influence, Ralph,” she laughed.

  “I think the corporates are an easy target. I remember when I was working in JP Morgan’s New York office. I read an article in an in-house magazine about a bombing there back in the 1920’s. It was one of the biggest banks in the world at that time. A terrorist bomb had exploded outside the bank killing 38 people and injuring over 400. A note found nearby was from the American Anarchist Fighters demanding freedom for political prisoners or many more deaths would follow. No one was arrested after 20 years investigation by the FBI.”

  “But that was nearly 100 years ago Ralph.”

  “Nothing has changed. There are extremists allegedly fighting for what they think is right all around the world. If there are extremists within Amnesty International then maybe the conference at Greenwich might turn out to be less boring than I had anticipated.”

  “Are you coming in or are you going to sit out here all night and prattle on about bombs and terrorists?”

  _________________

  Chapter 2

  Travelling on the London Underground has been likened to being in a cattle truck filled with polite cows. Fortunately getting to Greenwich University was an easy trip. Waterloo Station on the Jubilee Line to Canary Wharf, then a short walk to the above ground Docklands Light Railway, a driverless train that usually managed to freak out the uninitiated traveller. It was some while since Ralph had visited Morgan Chase Bank in Docklands and since then the big corporations had moved in en-mass. It was a gold rush for property developers, boutique brand retailers and a myriad of restaurants and cafes.

  Canary Wharf station itself was a masterpiece of modern architecture with its sweeping glass domes and wide undercover shopping precincts leading off in all directions. Some 60,000 passengers passed through its doors every day and the area attracted a work force of over 100,000 in a district dominated by financial services firms such as Credit Suisse, Citi Corp, HSB, Barclays and many others.

  “Not right, all those buildings for the rich blokes who run the banks,” complained his companion as the light rail train worked its way silently through the skyscraper filled landscape like a benign snake that slithered unnoticed among the boulders in an arid terrain. The white haired old man gave Ralph a nudge and pointed towards the tall buildings that were outlined against the hazy morning light.

  “My gran’faver used t’ work on the Docks over at Canary Wharf. ‘E said it was where boats carrying fruit from the Canaries used t’ come in. Number firty two berf – West Wood Quay. ‘E worked on the Import Docks and proud of it ‘e was. All that’s gorn now.”

  “Still lots of jobs for the locals,” Ralph re-joined. “And plenty of new shops. Saves going up to Oxford Street.”

  As he said it he realised how out of touch he was. His companion looked at him as though he was from another world. Which from his companion’s perspective he probably was. He knew all about the demise of the old docklands, once one of the busiest ports in t
he world, and how the local population of what is oddly described as the Isle of Dog’s, an area on the Thames formed from an Ox Bow in the river, found themselves with no place to work. Now with One Canada Square and the other skyscraper buildings it would be unrecognisable to anyone who had not seen the place for say, 20 years. His companion went on.

  “Good if you’ve got one of them executive jets. It only takes 10 minutes to get to that City Airport and gawd knows what it’s goin t’ be like when they open up that Crossrail link or whatever. Costs over £15 billion so it said in the Sun. Then ther’ll be fousands of the buggers comin in an out. We used to just queue fer the tram to go an’ watch Millwall play on Saturdies. Did all right for us.”

  “Do you live round here?” Asked Ralph in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Me and the wife are over at Greenwich. Been there since we was married. Probably die there,” the old man smiled. “Unless those bloomin bombers – you know the Aya Tollers or whatever they call themselves come over and blow this lot up,” he laughed at the spectacle he had conjured up. “Hitler and his bombers would make mincemeat of this lot,” he laughed again. Ralph could see that in some macabre way the idea of the whole lot being blown to smithereens like some giant lego set appealed to the old man. “A bloody good job too. Put it back to what it used to be,” he chuckled.

  Fortunately Ralph had reached his stop. The station sign proclaimed ‘Cutty Sark’.

  “I’m getin orf ‘ere,” said his companion. “You won’t find a taxi. Bus is just over there,” the old man said as he held up his free bus pass.

  “Thanks. I’ll walk. I’m just going to the University,”

  “Fought so, “said the old man. You look the type. Can always tell.” He gave a kindly smile as though he was talking to someone who had a terminal complaint or to a simple child. “Still you take care. There’s lots o’ foreigners about nowdays. And they ain’t all the same as you an’ me. If yu gets my meaning,” He winked conspiratorially at Ralph. “Just go down Romney Road you’ll see it on the left.”