48 Hours - A City of London Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

moment.”
    “ So, what are you saying?” I asked, my frustration bringing
hoarseness to my usually controlled voice.
    “ I’m afraid, Josh, that as an analyst I can’t give you any
more information than you could guess for yourself. My guess is
that the blackmailer lives or lodges in the City, and is probably
within a mile of us right at this minute, but we simply can’t trace
him electronically.”
    “ Wait a minute,” Dee interrupted. “What about his email
address, ‘[email protected]’, or whatever it is? It sounds like
he might have set up his own domain. Can’t we track him that way?”
Simon leaned over and his hands quickly rattled the keys on the
laptop until a new screen appeared.
    “ The web domain was set up from an IP address in South Africa,
Johannesburg actually, in 2010, during the World Cup. The IP
address leads back to the Intercontinental Hotel which, according
to the information on lastminuterooms.co.za, has seven hundred and
eleven rooms, all of which would have been full at the time.” Simon
clicked again on the keyboard and a page entitled ‘whois’ appeared
on the screen. “The site was registered and is maintained by
“CoolestDomains” in Thailand. They don’t speak much English but
they told us that the owner paid for two years’ worth of domain
hosting and for ten email addresses up front by credit card. They
gave us his address and card number.”
    “ We’ve got him then?” I asked hopefully as I sat forward in my
chair.
    “ I’m afraid not,” Simon sighed, obviously reluctant to pile
yet more agony on me, recognising that my life span could
potentially be measured in hours.
    “ The address they gave us belongs to Thomas Cook Travel Agency
in Uxbridge, where an agent sold a prepaid Mastercard to Michael
Lambaurgh, an England soccer fan who booked a trip to the World Cup
with them.”
    “ Surely, they must have a record of where he lives?” Dee
interjected.
    “ Yes, I’m afraid we’re ahead of you again there. The
Metropolitan Police who look after the crowds at Stamford Bridge on
match days know Michael Lambaurgh very well. It seems that Michael
ran out of money after two weeks in South Africa, and was caught
causing trouble by British Police who’d been drafted in to help
police the World Cup. To avoid his arrest and prosecution in South
Africa, he agreed to be deported. Unfortunately for us, the night
before he flew back a man with a heavy Boer dialect, probably fake,
offered to buy his card from him when it was refused for payment at
a bar. The man offered him three hundred rand, about thirty pounds,
for the card. Michael took it happily as there was less than a
pound of credit left on it.” Simon picked up a printed email that
had arrived earlier that morning.
    “ According to the credit card company, the card was topped up
with five thousand rand cash at a Thomas Cook Foreign Exchange
point in Johannesburg the next day. An hour ago Michael Lambaurgh
described the man who bought the card as white European, about six
feet tall with receding dark hair. He couldn’t remember much else
about that night, as he was falling over drunk, to use his own
words.”
    “ So,” Dee said, looking at me and then Simon. “We’re nowhere.”
Simon frowned again but held his palms up submissively. “I’m afraid
that about sums it up. Unless Bob starts to make some serious
mistakes, we won’t find him before Friday at noon.”

Chapter 8
    Dyson Brecht Offices, Ropemaker Street, London:
    Thursday, 12 noon.
    I was unhappy about my BlackBerry being cloned by Simon, but
eventually accepted that it was necessary. Simon informed me that
he would be able to monitor all incoming and outgoing calls and
messages in real time, which would hopefully assist in locating
Bob. Despite all of this, neither Simon nor Dee were confident that
Bob would be found before the deadline expired. I decided I would
just have to be careful how I used the phone until Simon terminated
the shadowing