Thornwyn

by Laurence Todd

  He stared directly at me. I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I didn’t.

  “No, seriously, Rob, I’m not bullshitting you or doing you down. When you were in my team, you were probably the only one I could be certain wouldn’t have accepted any of the money we were raking in. That’s why there were a few arrests we didn’t take you along on and a couple of interrogations you were kept away from, because we weren’t sure whether you’d blow the whistle on whatever went down. You know how carefully we had to tread around you?” He laughed. “It wasn’t easy, trust me.”

  Was I being patted on the back or sneered at? I wasn’t certain what to say in response to this, so I said nothing.

  “You could have made yourself some easy money, Rob, you really could.” He sounded as though he was sorry for me.

  “I could also be sitting where you are,” I replied.

  He smiled again. I sipped my coffee, which was surprisingly good. Only the best for the prison service hierarchy. I was looking longingly at the biscuits but didn’t take one.

  “This’ll sound familiar to you,” he said. “You know how sickening it feels, really feels, to spend seven months working on a case against a violent drugs gang who’re pushing bad stuff onto innocent and willing dupes, putting several of them in hospital ’cause of what they mixed in with it? And then, when you finally get enough evidence to arrest them, finding a few millions in cash” – he emphasised the quantity – “stashed away inside a hold-all in a lock-up garage, more money than you and I’ll ever earn in an honest working lifetime. You ever seen that much money in one place at one time? It’s quite some sight, I can tell you.”

  He sat forward and put his mug on the table. “But then you get to see them walk because of some slip-up in procedure? An i not dotted or a t not properly crossed, or a jury of Guardian or New Focus readers acquitting them, and they sail away laughing their fucking heads off at police as they go straight back to doing it all over again, and you have to start building a case all over again, whilst all the while you know what they’ve done and you know they’re as guilty as hell? That’s what happened to me when I was a rookie in the drugs squad in the late eighties. We nailed those bastards righteously, but they still walked. Not too long later a teenage girl haemorrhaged and died because of the poisoned crap these people were pushing.”

  He paused for a moment. “So I thought to myself, there’s gotta be a better way of ordering things if the law’s not gonna do its job. So, from that point onwards, I was determined to see the scum go down, lawfully if I could, but if that wasn’t possible, or if I thought they could be more use to me on the outside, then paying for what they do, so long as the taking of life wasn’t involved.”

  He paused again, staring at me to ascertain if I was listening. He continued. “When I became a DCI, over a period of years I slowly built up a small, dedicated team who went after villains with a vengeance, people who were largely in tune with how I thought, and we put a lot of them away.”

  “With or without evidence,” I said, only semi-facetiously. “You judging me, Rob? You my moral arbiter now?” He looked quizzically at me. “Did Smitherman send you here to refocus my moral compass, is that it?” He didn’t speak for a few seconds. “There was nobody went down who didn’t deserve what they got. I’ll challenge you to find me one person who didn’t deserve it. They might not have committed the actual offence they were sentenced for, I agree, but look at it in the wider, and I’ll give you a true story. Some young slag commits several aggravated burglaries whilst he’s coked out of his brain. Causes a lot of distress, does a lot of damage. We know it’s him but we can’t prove it.” He shrugged. “So, I get someone good to enter his place and plant something incriminating. We act on a tip-off, raid his place, find the evidence. The slag goes down. Justice is done. We get the result we deserve, he gets what he deserves.” He said this with a degree of finality, as though nothing he’d said could possibly be disputed.

  “That was the case with Max George as well, wasn’t it?” I remembered what Smitherman had said earlier. “He was fitted up, wasn’t he?”

  He drained his coffee and poured another. He looked at me as though I were a particularly dumb student, slow on the uptake. “What if he was? You really saying the victims of what these bastards did aren’t going to be pleased at their being taken off the streets? I’m no political philosopher and prison may or may not work, but what I do know is, whilst they’re inside, they’re not committing any crimes against those who don’t deserve to be victims. George was a violent scumbag and, because victims were too scared to testify against him, we stitched him up and he goes down.” He looked pleased.

  “That’s what I mean about CID making a difference, Rob. We serve people where they live, on the streets where their houses are and where they park their cars. We’re not Special Branch; CID doesn’t deal with abstract concepts like state security, whatever that means.” He laughed again. “The overwhelming majority of people out there” – he nodded at the window – “are only concerned with their daily reality, not abstractions. I’ve been a copper over thirty-five years, so I know it’s true. As long as people feel safe in their homes, they’ll support whatever police do in their name. Someone breaks into their house, nicks their car or tries raping their daughter? Society wants these people put away, Rob. It’s not interested in judicial abstracts like the right to a fair trial or criminals having their fucking human rights protected.” He poured scorn on both terms. “People want them put away, locked up and out of sight, preferably for as long as possible. That’s what people care about. That’s what I gave them.”

  There was plenty I could have said in response about rules of natural justice not being abstractions, but rather the foundation of any functioning democracy based upon respect for the rule of law, but this wasn’t the time or place. Thornwyn had been convicted and was waiting for sentencing, so there was nothing to be gained from debating the rights and wrongs of what he’d done.

  There was an awkward silence for a few moments.

  “But you didn’t come all this way to listen to my proselytising, did you, Rob? You sat through all this at university. You want to know about specifics, don’t you?” he said in a light tone. “Such as how I might have trodden on Special Branch’s toes.”

  “Yeah.” I sat forward and looked directly at him. “We’re interested particularly in what led to that MP, Paul Sampson, suddenly standing down and no real reason given. Word on the street has it you know the score here.”

  “Special Branch were interested in Sampson?”

  “He was involved in something with a connection to other things being investigated, and also there was no explanation for his sudden departure.”

  His expression changed to one of smug satisfaction, as though he knew some priceless secret he was keeping from the world. He looked up at the window for a few moments whilst he gathered his thoughts.

  “Sampson,” he said. “Interesting case, and one I fell into almost accidentally.”

  Without asking, he refilled my coffee cup and offered the biscuit plate. I took four coconut cookies as a reward for my patience.

  “Couple of years ago, two blokes were caught in flagrante delicto late at night in a car park somewhere, don’t remember where exactly. Some woman walking past with her dog, the dog runs over and cocks its leg against the wall behind a car. She’s aghast, runs over, tries to shoo the dog away. There’s people in the car and, from the positions, she thinks she’s disturbed a couple having it off. What she actually sees in the car is the back of some bloke’s head who’s sucking another bloke’s dick.” He grimaced whilst saying this, as though swallowing something bitter. “She dials 999, a patrol car in the vicinity was on the scene pretty quick. As they were caught not too far away, they’re both taken to West End Central, questioned and so on, you know the pack drill. Nothing exceptional so far, just another case of a pair of queers going at it in public rather than at home. They were both contrite, profuse apologies giv
en, didn’t mean to offend anyone, thought there was no one around, all that kind of stuff.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Initially given a police caution, told we’d be in touch if we decided to take the matter further. As it was, there were more important issues going on than a couple of perverts, so the matter’s forgotten. They both get sent letters warning them not to do it again or else they’ll both get their balls cut off.” He smiled as though the prospect amused him.

  “So how come you got involved? Commanders don’t usually get involved in these matters.”

  “It was a few months on before I became aware of it. We raided some pawn shop’s back room in North London following a tip-off about contraband being stored and fenced on the black market. Caught a few dealers, took a few firearms off the streets. It was a good pull.” He was smiling to himself. “But one of the blokes we pulled in was an old lag, one of my occasional informants, Bernie the Buck. I knew him ’cause I’d arrested him twice before. He wasn’t part of the gang, just the night watchman at the place it was all stored at and stupid enough to be there when we raided it. He said he had info about some highly placed queen he’d be prepared to share with us in return for charges against him being dropped. He’s a toerag, but he’d given a few good tips before, so I went along to speak to him. Incidentally, you know how he got his name? He once tried changing counterfeit dollars in a bank. You wanna know how they knew they were counterfeit? The idiot who’d done the designing and printing had only put the image of the Queen’s head on them, the one used on UK paper currency; Bernie hadn’t even noticed it.” He laughed loudly. “You believe that?”

  “What did he mean, some highly placed queen?” I asked once we’d stopped laughing.

  “Said he regularly sold ecstasy tabs to some posh bloke he knew who’s a fairy and claimed to have a boyfriend who’s a well-known MP. They used ecstasy when they went to sex parties and also when they engaged in sex in public. Apparently, as homosexuals, the risk of being caught having sex in public heightens their sensual pleasures, so I’m told, something about giving society the middle finger for its intolerance. I’d had a couple of knee tremblers when I was a rookie, but there’s no heightened pleasure doing it with a tart down some stinking back alley.” He smiled at the memory. “Anyway, he told us he’d name the man concerned if we gave him a deal about not being charged.”

  “The highly placed man?”

  “No. The one he sold the ecstasy to. One would lead to the other. Sounded like a good deal. I knew a couple of tabloid journalists who’d pay good money for a tip-off like this, but anyway my boss talked to your boss, and Smitherman said he’d like to know who this highly placed person was as there could be security implications, depending on who he was and what he did. Bernie names this bloke, Geoffrey Tilling. I check him out. He’s a senior civil servant at the Home Office. So we go pay him a visit at his flat in Borough, not too far from the market. He’s at home when we arrive. I tell Tilling we know he buys ecstasy and he’s got a boyfriend who’s an MP and we wanna know his name. Denies it all at first, does the whole outraged bit: Who told you that rubbish? and so on. I tell him, if he doesn’t cooperate, I’m gonna arrest him there and then. Tilling begins to cry, says he loves this bloke and doesn’t wanna drop him in it. He’s upset but I don’t give a shit, so I wait. He stops blubbing, tells us his boyfriend’s name.”

  “Paul Sampson,” I said firmly.

  “In one.” Thornwyn beamed broadly. I formed the impression he was rather delighted at knowing who this MP was.

  “So what then?”

  “I tell Tilling, next time he meets Sampson, we’ll be nearby and, when they meet, we’ll step in. Long story short? They meet in the same flat, would you believe, the very next evening, in fact. Sampson casually strolls in, drops his briefcase and gives the bloke a full-on kiss on the lips, a real smacker, like a bloke greeting a woman. I then step into the room and identify myself. Sampson looks like he’s gonna shit a brick at that very moment.”

  The pleasure Thornwyn was getting recalling this event was obvious. His eyes had lit up.

  “You saw them kiss?”

  “Took a picture of it on my mobile for posterity.” He smiled broadly. “And also to sell to the tabloid press if it came to it.”

  “What was Sampson’s response?”

  “Dischuffed, to say the least. Before doing this, I’d also checked him out. Found out he was a prominent Tory MP, in line for great things in the party. He was already a parliamentary under-secretary and on his way to the top. But there was nothing on file about him being a queer.”

  “I think the word is gay,” I ventured.

  “Yeah, that’s the vogue term, I suppose. Me? I think they’re perverts. I’m a Tory voter as well and it disgusted me to think I was voting for someone like him.” He sounded angry. “Tories used to be the party of the family, now look at them. A bloody poof being tipped to get to the top of the party. Sampson’s got a wife and a kid, and he’s out there pretending to be normal when it’s obvious he’s not? What a bloody world.”

  I’d seen some unpleasant aspects to Thornwyn’s character previously but I’d not realised until just now he was also a rampant homophobe. I briefly wondered whether this trait had been on display when I’d been in his team and I’d not noticed it.

  “I can guess the next bit, can’t I?” I asked. “You blackmail him; you tell him his sordid little secret’ll be safe with you and you’ll play deaf, dumb and blind so long as he’s a good boy and pays up regularly. Am I right?”

  “Close enough,” he agreed. “He was like a pigeon with a broken wing. Couldn’t fly away, could he? He wanted to continue to be an under-secretary, he had to pay up. Told him, if he didn’t, the picture of him kissing his boyfriend would be all over the press. So, yeah, I leveraged him.”

  “How much?”

  “Oh, I don’t think we need be concerned about that, do we? Suffice to say his filthy secret never made it on the front pages. Tilling certainly won’t say anything; he’s still working at the Home Office, and his chances of any further promotion would be buggered if this came out about him.” He paused for a moment. “Buggered.” He laughed at his own joke. “Didn’t mean it like that. Nice pun, eh?”

  “Hilarious. What was Sampson’s reaction to being black-mailed?”

  “What do you think?” He said this as though I was an idiot. “He was outraged, but as I told him, do you want the press and the great British public knowing a family man like you also sucks cocks in car parks at night? That shut him up.”

  I must have looked surprised.

  “You see,” Thornwyn said, “I’d also found out these were the two who’d been found in the car park the night I mentioned earlier. It was Sampson and this other bloke whom the woman’d seen.”

  I thought about this. An MP caught in a potentially compromising position but no mention in the press? In the current political climate any MP found in any compromising situation, especially where homosexuality was an issue, would be a target for the tabloid media. Sampson especially would have been fair game because of his position in Government and he’d probably have had to resign immediately, with his political career in ruins. I briefly wondered what Richard Clements would give to be in possession of these facts.

  “So how come Sampson wasn’t recognised when taken into custody?” I asked. “Didn’t his name ring any bells?”

  “He was in disguise, nobody recognised him. He had glasses and a wig with different coloured hair. He’d a false driving license with a different name and address; they both had. We got done over. The letters we sent never reached them. They thought they’d got away with it. But I’d looked at Sampson’s file and saw a picture of him. I compared it with the one taken before he and Tilling were questioned that evening. Even with the disguise I recognised him. That’s how I was able to sting him financially, because of this duplicity and also because he was alibied up for the night in question. I found he had two other MPs p
repared to swear he was with them on the night in question should his being taken into custody ever come to light.”

  I thought for a few moments. “So, was this just for money or was there some ulterior motive behind it?”

  “Oh, initially, just monetary. I didn’t like the idea of some queer at the top of the party I vote for, so I told him, either be honest and come out the closet, or pay up. He said he had too much to lose if he came out, his wife would take his kid and leave, so he paid up.” He said this as though he was explaining something perfectly obvious to someone slow on the uptake and it was the natural order of things in his world.

  “So when did your priorities change?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sampson resigned from the Government and stood down as an MP earlier this year because you were leaning on him. That’s a bit of a step up from putting your hand in his back pocket, don’t you think? This has security as well as political implications, and it suggests to me there was something other than money involved. Was being blackmailed the only reason he resigned or was there something else?”

  He looked at me with a puzzled expression, as though deciding what to say in response. In his own mind I didn’t doubt he was still perceiving me as the just-turned-twenty-six-year-old who’d joined his squad as a newly promoted junior DC, the one who’d initially sat back in squad meetings and offered few opinions or suggestions until he knew his way around and knew how things were done. Thornwyn was quite likely thinking it was a damned impertinence for some junior to be questioning him about his actions and his motives. He was radiating an aura of smugness, as though anything he’d done couldn’t possibly be wrong and, despite his current surroundings, he was still making the rules and calling the tune for others to dance to.

  “I detest the way this country’s going, Rob, I really do.” He sighed, shaking his head. “It was fair enough when they were in the closet, but now they’re out in public, quite open about their perversions. It’s even the case they’re allowed to adopt kids! Two bloody fairies raising kids. You want that? I don’t. I certainly don’t want them in Government either, passing laws on my behalf. So, yeah, I wanted Sampson out of it.” He loosened his tie slightly further and sat back in his chair.