Take A Thousand Cuts Read online

  TAKE A

  THOUSAND

  CUTS

  Teresa Hunter

  Praise for

  Take A Thousand Cuts

  Absolutely cracking read!

  ‘International high-action high-voltage thriller, and rollercoaster ride from the City of London to the back streets of Hong Kong. Set amongst superbly drawn locations and real politics, Julia Lighthorn’s investigation, with Chief Inspector Pitcher, uncovers a deadly conspiracy involving a Triad Banking Empire. Fortunes have been made on the Far East money markets, but when the crash came, millions were wiped out in hours. And for the Triad Dragon Masters, that means someone has to pay. And you don’t want to get in their way. An absolutely cracking read!’

  Mark Leggatt, best-selling crime author.

  Unfailingly gripping tale

  ‘Unfailingly gripping tale of crime, intrigue, danger and dedication. Principal characters are well-described and rounded.

  Fast-flowing, easy-to-read, tightly-knit novel about Julia Lighthorn, a journalist, whose investigations bring her into contact with the murky side of global finance, banking and stock markets. The body count soon begins to pile up when Chinese Triad gangs become involved in settling debts, even on the streets of London.

  The story develops quickly, interspersed with occasional snatches of wry humour, in locations as far flung as London, Cornwall, Hong Kong and China. Final denouement is unexpected. Compelling, riveting read.’

  Peter Aronson

  A Message from the Author

  Welcome to my novel TAKE A THOUSAND CUTS. I hope you find the story entertaining, exciting and thought-provoking. If you enjoy the plot, characters and twists, please spread the word.

  Best of all, consider leaving a review at Amazon.co.uk, or .com. Please do visit my author page at www.TeresaHunter.uk for more news and offers – or to join the Teresa Hunter Readers Club.

  Thank you so much for your support. You are fantastic.

  FOR PAUL

  Also in the Julia Lighthorn Series

  DEAD MONEY

  What they said:

  Taut pacy thriller, compelling and bloody

  Emma Simon

  Fast-moving tale of crime and tragic romance

  Terry Murden

  Brimming with tension – a page-turner with a twist

  Devoured at one sitting

  Nic Cicutti

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  PROLOGUE

  Cornwall

  “IT'LL BE A MONSTER we can't control.”

  Laura Wan Sun knew she must stop them. A rumble of thunder stirred in the distance. She looked at the men seated round her at the table.

  “It'll be fine, my dear.” Warwick Mantel leaned forward, spreading his hands over the scarred oak wood. “If there are glitches, we can fix them. Better a diamond with a flaw than a perfect pebble.”

  A weak pulse of lightning threw shadows across the room. Laura shuddered. The storm was nearing.

  “I'm familiar with the Chinese proverb,” she said. “How well do you know your own history?” Her eyes circled the 12th century refectory, its arch-braced roof – its intricately-carved stone fireplace.

  What on earth was she doing here? She wanted no part of this plan.

  Peak Bank boss Warwick Mantel had gathered them here on this craggy rock jutting into the Atlantic. “Be cleverer than anyone else on the globe,” he had said. “And I will make you very rich.”

  Madness, Laura thought, as the thunder grew louder. Lightning cracked outside the castle walls. A single skeleton danced in the painted glass.

  She tried again. “The monks who lived here thought they were Masters of the Universe. Their only talent was self-delusion – utterly unprepared for the Reformation which tore their world apart.”

  “They were arrogant,” said Adam Lee. “And very stupid. We’re none of those things. We know Peak Bank is running dry and a stagnating duck is a dead one.”

  Laura had known Lee, Mantel's local fixer, since she was a child. Everyone in Hong Kong knew the Lee family. Born, like Laura, on the Island, Adam had done time in all the main houses there. Never stayed long – just long enough to work out where all the bodies were buried. He was a keeper of secrets. Not a man to cross.

  “I know Peak’s headed for a bullet,” her eyes drilled into his. “That's no excuse to blow up the global economy.”

  “Come, come, Laura, don't exaggerate,” Mantel braced his teeth in a smile. “This is 1997. Peak is one of the strongest banks in the West. But the world is changing. It’s possible the Asian bubble is about to burst. That's why I brought you here, my smart young colts. None cleverer than you my dear.”

  Patrick Silverman appealed to her softly across the flickering candle tips. “It's about protecting the wealth of the Island and the future for the bank’s employees. These are vulnerable now the Communists have taken over. Surely you approve?”

  “I understand all that,” Laura wrinkled her brow. What could she say? It was a neat, even brilliant solution. “But Patrick,” she stretched a hand towards him. “The potential is limitless. That's what worries me, because...”

  She was silenced by a violent thunderclap. Mantel's goblet crashed over, spilling its red contents. The storm was breaking immediately over their heads. Shafts of gold splintered the room as high-voltage fire-bursts shot through the stained glass. In a world where few could read, these windows were their bible. To Laura they seemed cruel and sinister.

  “Spooky,” shrieked Stephen Chandler, before bursting into ghoulish laughter. “Those skeletons freak me out.”

  “Medieval morality tales. Each age has its obsessions,” said Mantel, as they looked towards the glass, flashing malevolently with each blast of lightning. “Death...”

  “The Day of Judgment,” said Scofield Crisp, the American on the team.

  “The devil and hell, woooo...” Chandler, always the joker, was on his feet, running round the table, arms high like a ghost.

  “Money,” shouted Lee, pulling a demonic face.

  “Until the wheel turns.” Chandler stopped dead before one of the windows, his arms dropping to his side.

  “Until the wheel turns,” he repeated, lowering his voice. He stepped closer to examine the luckless sinner, racked by the devil on a death wheel in hell.

  From
the corner of her vision, Laura watched a grin spread slowly over Mantel's face, oblivious to his toppled goblet or the inky-red stain seeping towards him across the wood.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Decade later - Tuesday July 27 2007

  Southwark

  JULIA'S PHONE rang hot all morning. The world's gone mad, she thought, checking the time on her computer.

  “Damn, five past eleven, I’m late,” she spun her chair back from the desk, grabbed her coat and ran.

  Bermondsey Street was crammed with pedestrians. She checked her watch.

  I’d better get a cab or I’ll never make it.

  She ducked down Tanner Street and onto Tower Bridge Road.

  Great, here’s one coming.

  She waved an arm at an approaching black cab. A man stepped in front of her, newspaper stretched high. The driver stopped to give him the ride.

  Typical, thought Julia. Looks a big tipper.

  The cab thief suddenly spotted her standing there. “I’m sorry,” he turned towards her. “Was this your cab?”

  “You know what? I’ve changed my mind.” She spread an open hand towards the car. “You take it.”

  “Please, after you,” he insisted.

  “No, honestly. I’m late for my appointment. I’ve probably already missed it. Might just blow it out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  What a nice man, Julia thought.

  “Utterly,” she flicked her hair back. “It’s my birthday today. I’m rushing somewhere I don’t want to go. You’ve done me a huge favour giving me the perfect excuse to duck out.”

  “Oh no,” he grinned, throwing his hands up in mock horror. “I can’t pinch your cab on your birthday.”

  “It would make me very happy,” she laughed. “Tell you what, let’s toss for it?”

  “Only if I can be heads.”

  He flicked a coin. “Heads it is. You win. It’s all yours.” The man stood back.

  Julia looked at her watch. I might just make it. “You’re a star,” she climbed into the cab, shut the door and sat back.

  I still don’t know why I’m doing this on my birthday, she shook her head, bewildered. The cab chased across Blackfriars Bridge, turned into Fleet Street, and stopped outside a private clinic. She jumped out, paid the driver, told him to keep the change, and bounded through the entrance.

  “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” the Receptionist greeted her. “Know the way?”

  Julia nodded and followed a sign pointing to the Gynaecology Department down a corridor on the left.

  Another Receptionist. “Routine check?” she asked. “We’re running a bit late. Take a seat.”

  Julia sat. Blow me, I could’ve walked after all.

  “Happy Birthday,” the Receptionist called across, as she looked at the notes on her computer screen. “Although not a great way to spend your big day.”

  “It’s the new automated appointment system. If I’d noticed I would have cancelled.”

  “You came anyway. Good girl,” the Receptionist smiled.

  After ten minutes she was called in.

  “Good morning, Ms Lighthorn,” a figure in a white coat with his back to her said. “It’s just morning still, I make it 11.44,” he added, turning.

  They stared at each other speechless, before exploding with laughter. It was the man who gave up his cab.

  “I don’t believe this,” Julia snorted with giggles. “What are the chances?”

  “I’m new here,” he said. “Your last check up was two years ago I see. Even more glad now I let you win the toss. I’d have hated you to miss it. But whatever possessed you, on your birthday...”

  “Automated appointment system,” they said in unison and laughed.

  “Maybe we should think about that, block out birthdays. Let’s get this out of the way, so you can enjoy the rest of your day.”

  “Fat chance,” Julia said softly, remembering what awaited her at the office.

  BACK at her desk, the calls kept coming. Questions always the same. Why had stock markets tanked? Why were savers queuing outside a bank to get their money back? Was this the first bank run in nearly a century?

  Who’s this now, she thought, grabbing her phone for what felt like the hundredth time that day?

  She smiled when she heard the sound of singing.

  “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear dum de dum.”

  “Chief Inspector Pitcher,” she said, recognising his voice. “How wonderful to hear from you. It's been so long. And how kind of you to remember my birthday.”

  “No problem - July 27. Same date I won my accumulator at Kempton. No chance I’d forget that.”

  “So very flattering. Still I’m touched.”

  “You know what they say about birthdays. Forget the past, you can’t change it. Forget the future, you can’t predict it...”

  “And forget the present, I didn’t get you one,” she finished for him.

  They both laughed.

  “How’s life at the Met?”

  “Not as busy as I’m guessing you are today, my little Lois Lane.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Time to help an old friend out?” he asked. “I'm looking at a long line of people snaking round my bank. Should I take my money out?”

  “So you actually rang for some free advice?”

  “Not entirely. Isn't that what they pay you for, to advise your readers on their money worries?”

  Julia lifted her gaze to the television fixed to the wall opposite her desk and flicked between news channels. They all told the same story. Long queues of savers outside Pendle Thrift branches asking for their money back.

  He tried soft-soaping her. “Please. You know I’m one of your biggest fans.”

  “Really? How often do you read my columns?”

  “I read them nearly every day.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly, I nearly read them on Monday, then I nearly read them on Tuesday and I nearly read them on...”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny,” she laughed. “So how much have you got in Pendle?”

  “Like I'd tell you...”

  “Not very helpful. D’you want to take your money out?”

  “I will, if you tell me to.”

  If only life were so simple. Yes, she earned her crust as a financial journo, but that meant spinning plates heaped with maybes and second guesses. Right now, she didn't know what to make of the queues outside Pendle Thrift.

  But she did live by a few golden rules, one being – when in doubt take it out.

  “Oh, take it out then, join the queue and take it out,” she said.

  “Join the queue? Join the queue?” he repeated, affronted. “You must be joking.”

  Now Julia laughed. “I forgot. You never wait in line for anyone. Well, go in and arrest someone, and stop bothering...”

  She was interrupted by the ringing of Pitcher's mobile at the other end. She zoned out of their conversation, locking onto a sea of red spreading alarmingly across her screen. The blood bath seeped further. It was a very bad day for shares.

  Pitcher's words brought her back to the call.

  “Right, I'm on my way. Julia, I've got to go. Body in Soho.”

  “Bit early for a shooting?”

  “It's not a shooting. It's a – ” he stopped abruptly. “Enjoy the rest of your birthday. Don’t get a taste for them, though. Too many can kill.”

  Even on his way to a murder he can’t resist a joke, she thought, turning back to stock market charts on her screen. What was going on? Prices yo-yoing for no reason. Were traders left behind for the summer by bosses soaking up sun on the Med, bored and partying? Seeing how far they could push a few prices down, before cleaning up and heading off for the wine bar?

  Her gaze zoned in on one of the UK's most successful banks. Its share price had collapsed from £10.50 to £2.10.

  “That can't be right,” Julia said aloud, screwing up her eyes.


  She opened a new document and started to type. Only a few sentences in, she glanced up again. The share price was still bombing. She finished her story and was about to send it when she checked the price once more. Mysteriously, it had recovered. Just a few pence down when the market closed at 4pm.

  “As I thought,” she muttered. “Summer madness.” She hit send, then stood to stretch her legs. A few minutes later her phone rang.

  “Nice piece on the economy, Julia, thanks,” her editor Andrew Ludgate said. “What d’you make of the Beeb story?”

  “Pendle? Hard to know...” she hesitated. “You know what Chuck's like?”

  She referred to the hack who broke the story. City journalism was a village. Everyone knew everyone, and most people worked together at some stage.

  “Firm denials all round. Without knowing his source...”

  “He's very well connected.”

  She needed no reminding he went to school with the Chancellor.

  “The markets don't quite know what to make of it,” she replied instead. “They've had a good run of late.”

  This was an understatement. Anyone in shares had seen their money double over the past five years.

  “The first cut is the cheapest,” Ludgate chuckled at his own joke.

  “Indeed. Did you see the price of S&H dropped by more than half? Not for long. Most odd.”

  “Savings and Homes? Strange, no I didn't. In a meeting most of the afternoon. It recovered though?”

  “Yes, it did. I can't see...”

  “Technical error, I guess. Keep an eye on it. Anyway, the point of this call - I'm building a new team of trouble-shooters, a kind of SAS, who can handle whatever comes up in an emergency. I’d like you to be part of it. Will you come back into head office?”

  “Special attack service, eh?” she said, her heart sinking. Ludgate had begged her to join his staff, after she blew the whistle on a huge pensions scandal. Well, what passed for begging in his book. He took her out for lunch and told her she was a one-story pony, and her career was over unless she accepted his offer. His was one of dozens of lucrative overtures, and they all got the same answer. She liked her freedom.