Free The Hollow Man by Oliver Harris

formal restrictions on the amount an individual could deposit in one day, although sums over 500,000 euros would take forty-eight hours to clear.
    Belsey had found the buried treasure, he felt certain. He called the number on the bank’s correspondence.
    “ Guten Abend ,” a woman answered.
    “ Guten Abend ,” Belsey said. “I’m calling from London. I have an account with you and I need to make an urgent payment out of it.”
    “Of course, sir. Can I have your password?”
    “I don’t have the password here. I have the account number.”
    “I’d need your password, sir.”
    “This is urgent. I have a contractor waiting.”
    “I can’t do that, sir.”
    “What would I need to transfer money out?”
    “Account number and password.”
    “And I could do that by phone?”
    “Of course.”
    “What if I’ve forgotten my password?”
    “You’d need to bring proof of identity into one of our branches and speak to a security adviser.”
    “Thank you.”
    Belsey hung up. The money was there, he could smell it. We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out . What had the PA said? Down to his last million. He could believe that Devereux was moved by poverty to take his life, but poverty was relative. One man’s bankruptcy was another man’s nest egg. It was just a question of advancing carefully.
    Belsey considered his next move. Then he saw the time. He was late for the end of his career.

10
    T he Internal Affairs headquarters were in High Holborn: a glass-walled office block with a Starbucks on the ground floor. Belsey parked the Porsche Cayenne round the corner and walked in. The headquarters wore a neutral mask; blue carpets, floor-length windows, code-access doors in pale pine. He’d been there once before, after a death in custody, and hadn’t enjoyed it much then either.
    “Belsey. Here for a review.”
    A front-desk man looked at him, checked something and sent Belsey, accompanied by a guard, to the second floor. There was an open-plan space with a lot of civilian workers at flat-panel monitors. The guard departed and a man came up to him.
    “Nicholas Belsey?”
    “Hi.”
    “Frank Sacco. I’m your lawyer, Riggs and Jenkins.”
    He shook Belsey’s hand. Sacco was a short man in an olive-green suit and slip-on shoes, face glistening as if he’d slicked the hair and continued slicking his face. Riggs and Jenkins supplied all the lawyers for internal investigations. It meant Belsey’s case had already reached the union.
    “Pleased to meet you,” Belsey said.
    “Anything we need to discuss?”
    “Do you know much about identity theft?”
    “It’s not my speciality.”
    “Let’s go in.”
    Sacco led the way to a corner office. Inside were two men and a woman—one man and the woman sitting behind a desk with a file, the second man standing, looking out of the window. Belsey walked in and shut the door. The seated man was Barry Gaunt, from IA. Belsey recognised the commissioner from television, where he talked about what went wrong at riots, police who had acted violently. He was too broad for his M&S suit, with a pink face and a thick neck. The standing man was tall, with rat-like features. The woman had a bob and a dark orange trouser suit and craft jewellery. So they’ve brought in a counsellor, Belsey thought. From the office you got a view of Kingsway, the old tram tunnel, Red Lion Square. People were filing in to Conway Hall.
    “Please, sit down.”
    Belsey and Sacco took the empty seats. The counsellor spoke first, which was never a good sign.
    “I’m Janet, from the Mental Health Assessment Team.”
    “I’m pleased to meet you, Janet,” Belsey said.
    Gaunt spoke: “Barry Gaunt from Internal Affairs. This is Nigel Herring, from Camden Borough headquarters.” He waved towards the tall man. Herring avoided Belsey’s gaze. Belsey knew the name: Northwood’s attack dog, risen to inspector purely by virtue of kissing Northwood’s arse. A shifty