Thornwyn

by Laurence Todd

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you on that.” She looked out of the window at her back garden for a few moments. The well-manicured lawn was probably the size of a football pitch and there were lots of brightly coloured flowers along the edges, though I couldn’t put names to any of them. I could see a border collie sitting against the garage wall, taking in the sunshine.

  “Did he ever give you the impression he was disturbed about anything at all before he took his own life? You know, was he worried about anything in particular? We’re led to believe he was concerned about something.” I was trying to open her up.

  “I do know something was bothering him,” she said after a few seconds’ pause. “But I don’t know what. He was absorbed by something that was eating him up and it was really distracting him. I think it was related to work. You could see something was on his mind just by looking at him. At first I got upset; I thought it might have been he was having an affair, but I disabused myself of that notion. I’d know if he was seeing another woman. But, as I said, he just withdrew into himself, became even more non-communicative. So I’m afraid I can’t help there.”

  “Did he ever talk about anyone called Neville Thornwyn?” Time for the big one.

  “Thornwyn?” She thought for a moment. “What, the policeman in Friday’s papers who’s just been found guilty of all those crimes?” She sounded surprised.

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “What would Paul have to do with him? How would Paul’s Government duties bring him into contact with this Thornwyn person?”

  “What’s this about Neville Thornwyn?” a voice behind me asked. I turned.

  A man had entered the room from the hallway. He was about six foot tall with steel-grey hair which looked like a wire brush and the type of moustache which gave him the look of being distinguished. He was probably early sixties and looking dapper in a smart shirt and tie, as though off to church.

  “This man’s from the police, Daddy. He’s asking some questions about Paul.”

  I stood up. “And you are?”

  “I’m Martha’s father. Why are you asking about him now?”

  “Paul Sampson’s name’s been mentioned in one of our investigations. I’m making a few general inquiries about him, and his wife seemed a good place to start.”

  “Ask his boyfriend, he’ll have a better idea,” he said light-heartedly, though I suspected not quite as jovially as he intended.

  “Huh?” I played ignorance on this point. One of my better qualities.

  “You’re obviously not talking to the right people.” He laughed.

  I looked at Martha Sampson as if to say what?

  “Daddy thinks Paul was a homosexual, which is nonsense. Don’t you think I’d know if my own husband was homosexual?” she said, giving her father a look I found hard to read. “I’d have thrown him out on his ear if he was. Anyway, as I said, I can’t really tell you anything about Paul’s state of mind leading up to what he did because I just don’t know.” She shook her head. “One minute my husband’s in the Government, the next he’s a recluse and kills himself. This is all so bloody unnecessary.” She sounded bitter.

  I looked at her father. He was staring at me in a way that made me think he doubted what I’d said about why I was in the house.

  “Is there anything you can tell me about Paul Sampson’s state of mind before he took his own life?” I asked him.

  “Not really. I’d not seen him for a little while before he did it.” His body language made me think he wasn’t entirely unhappy at the fact.

  I sensed a tension in the room between father and daughter. I couldn’t read what it was, but the atmosphere had changed. I didn’t think I’d get any more from either at this time. I thanked Martha for agreeing to see me at short notice and got up to leave.

  The father escorted me to the front door and then followed me outside. “Well, good luck and all that with your inquiries. Oh, yeah, what was that about Thornwyn? You were asking if Paul knew him.”

  “I was. His name came up in a related matter and I was just wondering if Paul had ever had any contact with him.”

  “I see. Well, anyway, goodbye, DS McGraw. Drive carefully.”

  Driving away, it dawned on me he’d not been in the room when I’d introduced myself to Martha Sampson. How did he know who I was?

  Heading south-east towards London on the A41 I noticed a car behind me, about three vehicles back. It was a dark-coloured Volvo and was cruising along, maintaining the same speed as my car. I could see there was a woman driving but at this distance I couldn’t make out who it was or the registration number. There was more traffic on the road now, but it was moving freely, so I sped up slightly and the vehicle behind followed suit. I pulled out to the outside lane and overtook two cars and an HGV, then moved back to the inside lane; the vehicle behind did likewise. I was doing sixty-five so I slowed down to fifty and the Volvo also reduced its speed correspondingly. I sped up, it did the same. This confirmed my suspicion; I was being followed again.

  Was this Gillian Redmond? If it was, she was really inept at following, because this was the third time I’d sussed her. Either that or she didn’t care I knew she was behind me. What was her connection to this case? Had she followed me to Berkhamsted and been waiting to pick up my tail again when I left? How would she even have known I was going there? I resisted the urge to pull over and see if she did the same.

  I continued my drive along the A41 into central London and, by Swiss Cottage, I noticed the Volvo was no longer behind me. I’d been glancing in the rear-view mirror but hadn’t noticed at what point I’d lost my tail. Had she realised I was just going back to the Yard and decided not to follow or, inadvertently, had I lost her?

  Whatever the case, Gillian Redmond and I were going to meet face-to-face and very soon, whether she liked it or not. I was starting to resent seeing this bitch behind me every time I turned around. Before that, though, I had some fact-finding to do.

  Martha Sampson’s father had alluded to Paul being gay but she’d denied it. Had Paul managed to keep the fact of his sexuality from the woman he was married to and had conceived a child with? It wasn’t an impossible feat but it would require the consummate thespian skills of a Gielgud or Olivier, as well as the psychological ability to compartmentalise life into separate and unconnected boxes, in order to maintain the charade successfully for any sustained period of time. On top of that, he had been a government minister, with all the attendant pressures and public prurience, not to mention the relentless media scrutiny. But evidently he’d not fooled his father-in-law. How did he know this?

  The pressure Paul Sampson must have been under at times was quite something to consider. Successful spies like Kim Philby must have been living the same kind of life, with all the same stresses attached. The thrill of pulling the wool over people’s eyes was counterbalanced by the terror of being uncovered and possibly losing everything. The moments of bliss Sampson managed to snatch with Geoffrey Tilling must have been the purest joy, especially if under the influence of ecstasy. Tilling’s flat probably felt like the Garden of Eden when escaping from the pressures of his life.

  I remembered Geoffrey Tilling telling me Paul had said he’d be taken for everything he had by Martha’s father if he left her for Tilling. The man himself had said he knew Paul was gay, but it didn’t seem he’d taken any action.

  I looked in the family album to check details about Sampson’s father-in-law. Jeremy Godfrey was sixty-four and the production director of Bartolome Systems Ltd, based just outside Berkhamsted; he’d been with the firm since joining it from the army. It was a company valued at several billion pounds, based on its current market capitalisation. Bartolome’s core business was developing the sophisticated weapons guidance systems for missiles like torpedoes and it was well regarded in military circles, enjoying most favoured status with the Ministry of Defence, meaning it was the company of choice when weapons updates or technological changes were required. It provided some of the navigationa
l systems included in nuclear submarines and other similar war crafts. It also had an interest in making small-calibre handguns under licence from various American manufacturers.

  From the impressive array of contracts and supply deals Bartolome Systems Ltd had with the British military establishment, it was evident this company was at the heart of the UK’s defence efforts. It was also a major supplier of weaponry to countries like Sweden and Belgium, so its influence within the NATO alliance was quite pervasive. I remembered Smitherman telling me about weapons being supplied to countries the UK officially blacklisted and wondered whether Bartolome was one of the firms involved. As production director, Jeremy Godfrey would be at its epicentre.

  Details about Godfrey were mostly uninspiring: education, military service, current occupation, place of residence and so on, nothing of which was remotely contentious. He had no criminal record apart from a couple of fines for speeding, and he’d served one stint as a juror. It was noted he was the father-in-law of a Conservative MP, Paul Sampson, now deceased. The file told me little I couldn’t have made an educated guess at.

  I was surprised to learn Paul Sampson had been a non-executive director at Bartolome Systems Ltd right up to the time he’d died. I remembered he used to work for the firm but I’d not known of the directorship. I recalled, last Friday, Smitherman alluding to Sampson being involved in lobbying on behalf of his firm to secure contracts. If this had been done whilst he was still in office, this would certainly breach the ministerial code of conduct. Was this what he was worried about prior to his suicide?

  Sunday lunchtime, I was on my way to the pub near Chalk Farm tube station, just along from the market, where Bernie the Buck did his drinking and pursued his ecstasy-selling enterprise. I’d looked up his file and seen his picture so I knew whom I was looking out for. I had his mobile number and dialled it. I was going to pretend I was Tilling and arrange a meet to score some ecstasy, but it went straight to voicemail.

  Bernard Rayes was a small-time criminal with two spells inside to his name, of eight months and two years respectively. He was known to operate on the fringes of criminality, mainly handling stolen goods and arranging for their dispersal to wherever. I didn’t doubt the criminal enterprise he worked for was the Chackarti family, who were the biggest and most successful criminal enterprise you’ve probably never heard of, with their fingers in just about everything you’d care to name. Nobody in this part of London would be selling drugs unless it was for the Chackartis, as it was common knowledge they had the market sewn up tight. Anyone selling any sizeable quantities without their fiat was unsubtly persuaded this was not a good business plan if they wanted to keep breathing.

  Before going to the pub I’d contacted my informant in the area. Andy Harris was a repulsively unhygienic specimen but, for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom, I was curiously fond of him. He was about as much use to society as plywood tissues and he earned his living stealing from tourists in nearby Camden Market where, for someone so inept, he was a master pickpocket. He could have a wallet out of a bag or the purse from around the neck of a foreign student before the victim even realised it was gone, and in the busy summer tourist season his weekly illicit earnings ran into several hundreds.

  I used him because he was a well-known local character, always seen around the market and in the local pubs, and because he was known to be an associate of the local tea leaves and drank with them, meaning he often heard snippets of information useful to police. I’d previously benefited from his ability to merge into the background and hear things, and I was hoping to do so now.

  Harris’s flat was just off Camden High Street at the top of a dilapidated three-storey building. It was as dishevelled as he was and it looked like the Monday after the Glastonbury festival, with all manner of dirty crockery, partly eaten fast-food leftovers and clothing strewn everywhere. Next time I met with him, I decided, it would be in a café somewhere.

  It was just past twelve twenty and I’d woken him up. He looked like he’d just been resurrected from the dead and had eyes so bleary I wasn’t sure he could even see me. I refused his offer of a tea and leapt straight in, as I didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary.

  “Andy,” I began jovially, looking around. “You’ve tidied up your flat. I’m sure it wasn’t this tidy last time I was here. You got a cleaning lady coming in?”

  “Leave it out, Mr Jack.” He slumped into an armchair. Mr Jack was what he called me when we spoke on the phone. “What you want from me?”

  I couldn’t find an uncluttered surface to sit on, so I stood. Just as well. I’d probably have stuck to whatever surface I sat on. “You know a character round this way called Bernie?”

  “What, Bernie the Buck?” He laughed. “Yeah, I know him. What about him?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Pushes drugs for the Chackartis, don’t he? He sells in the pub up the road. Everyone round here knows that. You want some gear, go see Bernie. He’s usually got something.”

  “You buy from him?”

  He looked horrified. “God, no, Mr Jack. I don’t touch drugs, you know that. Them’s bad things. I don’t go near them. They don’t do you no good,” he said, earnestly.

  “You know what, Andy? That’s the first sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say in all the time I’ve known you.” I smiled at him. He frowned. “So, what else do you know about dear ol’ Bernie?”

  “Only what I hears from me mates.”

  “Such as?”

  “I did hear someone say,” he said, sitting forward almost conspiratorially, “he had something going on with some top copper.”

  “Like what?” I was curious.

  “They said him and this copper was putting the squeeze on someone,” he said casually.

  “You know who?”

  “I don’t. How would I know that?” He looked puzzled. “I just know what I hears from me mates in the pub.”

  “And your friend’s certain about this?”

  “Yeah, yeah, he is. He sees Bernie talking to this smart geezer, who he guessed was a copper. Bernie told him about it. Said he was helping this copper squeeze someone and was getting a few bob for his troubles.”

  “But he didn’t say who this person was.”

  Harris shook his head. “No.”

  “Does he still go to the pub?”

  Harris looked as though he was thinking. This wasn’t one of his usual activities and his face resembled someone in discomfort waiting to use an occupied toilet.

  “Now you mention it, I ain’t seen him in the pub for the last week or so. He’s usually there at least once a day, selling stuff and all that, but” – he paused and looked up at me – “I can’t remember seeing him at all last week. I mean, Bernie’s always around. Even the landlord there said it’s unusual not to see him about.” He looked almost contemplative.

  “Does he drink elsewhere?”

  “Wouldn’t have thought so.”

  I took out my wallet and produced one £20 and three £10 notes. I handed them over to Harris and his eyes lit up.

  “I want you to go to that pub over the next few days and have a beer but keep your eyes and ears open. Bernie shows up, or you hear anything at all about him, I wanna know. You got that?”

  He beamed as he tucked away the money. “Aw, thanks, Mr Jack. I’m a bit boracic lint, so this’ll help me out a lot. Ta very much.”

  I left the flat after warning Harris against wasting my money buying rounds of drinks for his boon friends. I’d advised him to be very careful when he spotted Bernie and not to let on he was asking about him.

  Thornwyn had admitted to blackmailing Paul Sampson and, if Harris was to be believed, Bernie the Buck had been in on the scheme as well. Thornwyn had maintained he was extorting money from Sampson because he was refusing to come out, but I was finding this difficult to grasp. There had to be another reason for this. I was also being followed and had only noticed this after my visit to Belmarsh two days ag
o. Coincidence?

  Thornwyn had said Smitherman hadn’t told me the big picture. Was this connected to anything?

  F O U R

  Tuesday

  Yesterday had been spent at the Central Criminal Court, the Old Bailey. I’d been due to give evidence in a prosecution brought against a highly placed senior executive officer in the Ministry of Defence who’d been charged with leaking classified information about Government plans to modernise and streamline the armed forces, which would involve the disbanding of a few long-established regiments, as well as merging other regiments together.

  I’d been one of the team of detectives keeping the civil servant and the journalist concerned under observation and, when the defendant had eventually met with the journalist in a central London hotel to pass on the information, they’d both been arrested. The journalist had been released without charge after the expected firestorm of protest from the media, claiming the writer concerned was simply doing his job and had not actually received the plans as they’d been arrested during the exchange.

  The civil servant, though, had been charged under section two of the Official Secrets Act. His defence was initially going to be one of justification. He claimed to be a supporter of the armed forces and thought the Government’s plans would lead to regiments with long and distinguished records of service to the country being unjustly disbanded. Because of the uncertainty surrounding Russia and President Putin’s attitude towards the West, not to mention the continued political uncertainty in the Middle East, he’d become concerned about such major changes being simply announced as a fait accompli with no public discussion whatever, and so he’d considered it his patriotic duty to inform the public of what was being done in its name.

  As it was, I’d sat outside court number one all day yesterday, waiting to be called to give my evidence and gradually losing patience as I watched lawyers and witnesses milling around and talking solemnly in hushed tones. Eventually, mid-afternoon, I was informed by an extremely plummy-voiced prosecuting counsel who made Martha Sampson sound like an extra from EastEnders that I wouldn’t be required to testify after all as the defendant, at the last minute, had changed his plea to guilty, and speeches in mitigation were to be given by defence counsel after a short recess. It seemed the defendant had been convinced by his learned counsel that courts of law don’t deal in absolute concepts like justification when the words of the Official Secrets Act are clear, irrespective of however honourable the motive might have been.