Thornwyn

by Laurence Todd

  “How’d he end up owing you anything?” I was surprised. “From the weapons we took. He owed me my cut.”

  “Your cut?” I blurted out. “You were involved in stealing those weapons?”

  He nodded, looking down at the floor. I was staggered by his admission. He’d said previously the robbery was down to Thornwyn and Bernie, but now he was admitting complicity.

  “Does the IPCC know about this? Was this part of why you’ve been suspended?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s not mentioned in any of the documents they’ve sent for me to look at before my hearing.”

  I shook my head sadly at the mess Turley’d landed himself in. “They find out about this, you know what it’ll mean, don’t you?”

  He did; he didn’t need me to tell him they’d hit him with everything they had and lengthy jail time would be as certain as day following night. He looked mournful, as though recovering from hearing bad news about a loved one.

  “You planning to tell them, then?” he said in a way that was almost challenging. “That why you’re here again?”

  “Look, Brian,” I said when I had recovered my poise, “why don’t you tell me what this is all about, eh? I might even be able to help you.”

  He looked doubtful for a while. He looked at the bottle on the coffee table and picked up his empty glass.

  I reached down and took the bottle away from his reach. “Preferably without any more of this for the moment, eh?”

  He looked hurt, like he’d had his favourite toy taken away by his parents. He attempted to stand up. I pushed him back down on the couch. He got up again and threw a punch at me, which I saw coming twenty minutes before he threw it. I easily sidestepped it and pushed him back onto the couch, forcefully. He looked defeated.

  “Don’t be fucking stupid, Brian.” I said this more in sorrow than anger. It was sad to see him like this. I sat down on the chair by the table, watching him trying to catch his breath.

  “Okay, okay,” he finally said. He was gasping. The exertion of throwing a punch had worn him out.

  I waited whilst he gathered his thoughts.

  He looked up. “I told you about the theft of those weapons from that gun shop’s storeroom.”

  I knew what he was referring to. I nodded.

  “Thornwyn organised it with the manager, Priestly. He gave him the passcode needed to enter the storeroom and arranged for the CCTV to conveniently be malfunctioning whilst me and Bernie went in and took the guns. That’s why it was so easy.”

  “The shop manager was in on it?” I was incredulous.

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Thornwyn?”

  “Just me and Bernie went in. He wasn’t there, he just arranged it.”

  “What did you do with the weapons?”

  “They were sold on to someone in North London. Bernie took care of all that. I just helped him nick them.”

  “Who were they sold on to? Why’d they need these firearms?”

  He paused for a moment to blow his nose. He looked and sounded like he had a cold coming on, or maybe it was the effects of a few minutes without alcohol. Either way he looked dreadful.

  “I tell you, you promise you won’t let on where you heard it from?” He looked concerned.

  “You know I can’t give any guarantees, but I won’t tell anyone who doesn’t need to know.”

  This seemed to satisfy him. He continued. “They were sold on to some Arab, don’t know his name. He’s supposed to be the leader of some Islamist group in North London who’re planning to train up younger Arabs so, when they go off to fight in Syria or some other fucking pile of sand, they’re already proficient in the use of firearms. That’s what I was told.”

  “You sold guns to a terrorist? You out of your fucking mind?” I was angry at what I’d heard. How could he have been this stupid?

  “We were assured they wouldn’t be used in this country.” He said this to make it sound like a justification for what had occurred.

  “Oh, well, that makes it all right then, doesn’t it? They won’t be used in London, so you can arm them, no problem.” My sarcasm was undisguised. “And you really believed that crap? I thought you were brighter than that, Brian.”

  “Don’t matter what I believe, does it?” He shrugged, almost nonchalantly. “I just went along with it, didn’t I? I mean, I don’t care which group of fucking ragheads kill each other, s’long as they leave me alone.”

  “Why’d you get involved anyway? You planning to join them?”

  “For the money,” he instantly replied. “I was into the bookies for quite a few grand and helping Thornwyn do this got me out from under.”

  I didn’t believe him. I knew he had a drink problem, but a gambling problem as well was a new one on me. Something about his tone and his body language suggested he wasn’t being truthful with me.

  “Why would a CID commander get involved in stealing guns and selling them on to some Arab for the reason you just gave? Doesn’t make sense.” I was bemused. “How would someone like Bernie even know about Arabs wanting guns?”

  “I don’t bloody know, do I?” He sounded indignant. He sat back in his chair and exhaled loudly. This seemed unreal. I looked at him for a moment.

  “Look, Brian,” I said softly. “This is doing my head in. Either you tell me the truth or I’m gonna blow the fucking whistle on you.”

  I tried not to look threatening but something in my tone produced an almost terrified expression on his face.

  He breathed deeply a few times. “Can I have a drink first? You’re making me nervous.”

  Against my better judgement I reluctantly acceded to his request. I poured him a small glass of vodka and he chugged it back in one gulp, almost like schnapps. He sighed and smiled.

  “Thornwyn took me for a drink one night,” he said. “Said he wanted to talk to me about something and it’d be worth my while. Bernie was there waiting.”

  “This was in Chalk Farm.”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t aware he’d wanted Bernie there as well. Anyway, by the by, whilst we’re drinking, Bernie tells Thornwyn he’s got the buyer lined up for the guns and the other stuff from this place in Battersea. I wasn’t certain what they were talking about. I kept thinking, What’s all this about guns? so I asked what’s going on. Thornwyn then tells me he’s planning to remove some weapons from a gun shop in Battersea and he wants me to help him. Said it’d be a piece of piss as he’d have the passcode for the security system and we’ll be able to go in because the CCTV won’t be working.”

  “You ask how he knew that?”

  “Yeah, I did. He said the manager of the shop was going to give him the passcode and arrange for CCTV and alarms to be offline for a few hours.”

  “The shop manager.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “So he really was involved.”

  “Up to his neck,” Turley replied with certainty.

  “What then?”

  “I tell Thornwyn I don’t want any part of it. I was shocked to hear him talking calmly about robbing a gun store. I mean, I knew he took money from shylocks and a few dealers; I’d helped him do that. It didn’t bother me, taking money from people like that. All drug dealers are scum.” He spat it out.

  “Bernie’s a drug dealer,” I offered.

  “Yeah, and I hate the bastard for it. But,” he continued, “I told Thornwyn stealing weapons was a step too far.” He paused to think for a moment. “Thornwyn then says, if I don’t agree to help, he can make trouble for me. He knew I was in deep shit with a couple of bookies and said this was my chance to get myself on an even keel again. He kept on telling me how easy it’d be. No CCTV, no alarms, we’ll have the passcode to get in, nobody’ll ever suspect us, and so on.” He stopped and looked me for a moment.

  “You were really in debt with bookies?”

  He nodded. His eyes said he was being truthful.

  “So you went along with it,” I stated.

  “’S r
ight. My debts with the bookies were close to ten grand by then, and I didn’t want any hard cases coming after me. Not only that, my ex-wife was on at me for maintenance payments for the kids. I was fucking boracic, mate. But Thornwyn saying he’d clear these debts persuaded me.” He looked at the vodka bottle. “So I help them rob the place. Bernie had arranged a van; we went in late at night, took what we went in to get and left. Manager turns up early for work next day, finds his stock’s been diminished, some stuff missing, calls police in. He knew he’d be a suspect ’cause he’s one of the few people there who’d know the passcode, but Thornwyn’d told him, Get yourself a good alibi, and that’s what he did. He’s also got no police record, so there was no reason to think he’s involved in something like this. The fact it was Thornwyn interviewing him afterwards also helped him get away with it. Thornwyn wrote up the report stating there was insufficient evidence Priestly was involved, so he was eliminated from police enquiries. They went through the motions but it was all just for show, wasn’t it?”

  “How did he disable the CCTV? You can’t just switch it off.”

  “I don’t know. Somehow he got it to look like it was a temporary malfunction and it came back online a few hours later.”

  When I’d been reading the account of the robbery recently, I’d noticed police had surmised it was probably the work of some expert computer hacker and were concentrating their search on anyone whom they believed would have the nous necessary to disable a sophisticated CCTV security system and then time it to come back online soon afterwards, but so far with no luck. I wondered briefly how hard it’d been for police to swallow the line about a malfunction. CCTV only goes dead for a few hours but, in that time, the shop has its only ever theft of weaponry? I’d not have bought this had I been investigating it.

  “You also know who this Arab was the weapons were sold to, don’t you?” I wasn’t really asking him. He’d acted stupidly but, even though he was now looking at the world through the bottom of an upturned vodka bottle, he wasn’t so stupid as to be party to selling weapons to an unknown buyer. Even in his current liquidised state he’d want to know who they were going to.

  He thought for a moment. “If I remember correctly, I think his name’s Khaled al-Epouri, or some fucking raghead bloody name. I’m not sure if I’ve pronounced the name right.”

  “And how would someone like Bernie know him?”

  “He didn’t.” He shook his head vigorously. “Thornwyn knew him. He arranged for them to meet up. This wasn’t the first time this’d occurred, y’know.”

  “What, selling arms to this Arab guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus,” I gasped. It took a few moments to recover from this.

  I took out my police radio and called Special Branch. I requested details about someone named Khaled al-Epouri, believed to be living somewhere in North London. A minute later my call was returned.

  “The person you asked about is almost certainly Khaled al-Ebouli, a Syrian national, got a place in Islington, lived in this country about eight years. He’s a target and we keep an eye on him. He’s known to be involved in promoting extremist causes in the Middle East. MI5 believes he’s a talent spotter for the terrorist group Muearada, identifying those who he believes are ready to go out and fight for it. He helps radicalise them so they’re more prepared to want to go. He’s quite the religious rabble-rouser. You should hear some of his rhetoric; it’s incendiary. We’ve transcripts of some of his talks; it’s full of stuff about Western infidels and godless consumers and how people in the West believe in nothing. At least one person connected to him went to Syria, became a suicide bomber and took a few people with him. He gives his talks at various mosques and similar places about the evils of Western democracy and how he wants to see Muslims establish a caliphate in this country. He’s also on record saying he wants to see Muslims judged using sharia law in the UK. He’s a strong believer in a jihad and wants to see the Koran taught in all schools in the UK, regardless. Oh yeah, goes without saying he wants to see Israel wiped off the face of the Earth as well. He’s quite the bogeyman in the press, particularly the tabloids, as you might imagine.”

  Thornwyn was supplying weapons to this joker? “What is he, a cleric?”

  “No, nothing like that. He’s an academic, a lecturer in history, specialising in Islamic studies, at Westminster University. Came over as a mature student to finish his dissertation and they offered him a lecturing post when he completed it; been there ever since. They get lots of Middle East students at Westminster and he’s very popular with the department.”

  “Any record of him dealing in weapons or trying to buy them?”

  “Nothing on our files indicating he does, but it’s not been ruled out.”

  “He have connections to any other groups in this country?”

  “None we know of.”

  “He ever been in trouble?”

  “Not with the law. Only with those in the press who despise him and want him deported.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I summarised my conversation to Brian Turley, telling him what my office had told me about Khaled al-Ebouli.

  “And you and Thornwyn were supplying arms to this creep.” I stated this in such a way as to make it sound like an accusation. It was. “I hope it was worth what they didn’t pay you.”

  He didn’t reply. He sat back, looking more morose and depressed than previously. My opening his eyes to what he’d been doing hadn’t raised his spirits any.

  There was a silence lasting probably only seven or eight seconds, but it felt much longer. Turley was looking down at the floor and tapping his fingers against his thighs.

  “You gonna turn me in?” he asked, glumly.

  “No. I’ve not enough information or evidence to do that. I’d need to know a lot more before I could do that. What I am gonna do is talk to Thornwyn and hear what he has to say. Before I do that, though, I need to check out a few other things.”

  Turley’s eyes opened wide enough almost to fall from their sockets. He looked horrified.

  “Don’t worry, your name won’t be mentioned,” I reassured him. “If I can, I’ll keep you out of this. I won’t tell him I’ve spoken to you.”

  He looked longingly at the bottle next to my arm. I passed it to him as I stood up, and he poured himself a large drink, toasted me and drained it in one gulp.

  “Oh, God, thanks, Rob. You’re a pal, you know that?”

  At this moment I didn’t want to be his pal or even in the same room as him. I hurriedly left his flat.

  What I’d not told Turley was that I intended to intensify my search for Bernie the Buck. People like Bernie tended to stay close to home, associate with the same people and do the same things they always did. I knew from my own experience they lacked the imagination to vary their day-to-day routines; they remained inside their circle of friends, which was why police were almost always able to find them in a relatively short period of time when they needed to.

  Except this time. Bernie hadn’t been seen for over two weeks now. He’d be a main source of drug money for the Chackarti family and there was no doubt they’d be missing him as well. I checked in with our technical people, gave them Bernie’s mobile number and asked when this number had last registered any activity. The date given was nearly three weeks ago. Either Bernie was keeping a low profile somewhere, he’d got himself a new phone or he’d been taken out of circulation.

  Using the siren to clear the way, I drove fast back to his flat in Mansfield Road. I banged on the door and opened his letterbox to listen out for sound. Something noxious regaled my nose. Something smelt unwholesome inside the flat and only one thing I knew gave off this smell.

  I took a few steps back and charged at the door, hitting it hard with my left shoulder and throwing my entire weight against the side where the latch was. On the third charge the door crashed open and I was almost assaulted by the rancid smell of something or someone decomposing. Holding my hand across my
nose I went into the main room and found someone lying face downwards on the floor, next to an overturned glass-topped coffee table. From the odour I guessed this person had been dead some while. There didn’t appear to be any sign of a struggle and I couldn’t see any obvious cause of death, but I didn’t want to disturb a crime scene, so I used my police radio and called for assistance.

  A squad car and an ambulance arrived four minutes later. Before they’d arrived I’d had a brief look around but had been careful not to touch anything. I identified myself to the DS in charge and explained how I’d come to be inside the flat.

  The medics carefully turned the body over onto its back and then sprayed it with something to mitigate the repellent odour. From the facial structure and state of decomposition this person had to have been dead for at least a couple of weeks. I didn’t recognise the victim.

  I explained to the DS I was there looking for the flat’s occupant.

  He nodded towards the dead body. “Well, I know Bernie the Buck, and that ain’t him. For one thing, he was never that good looking.” He smiled at the other two officers, neither of whom knew who the deceased was either.

  I asked to be informed of who the deceased was when he’d been identified. The DS agreed to that. I left quickly, glad to get back out into the open air again.

  I was pulling out onto Haverstock Hill in the direction of the West End when my mobile phone sounded. It was Richard Clements.

  “Rob, meant to call you weekend but life kept getting in the way. You asked if I could get you anything about Paul Sampson. I think you might be interested in hearing some of the things I’ve been told about him. When can you be available?”

  I asked where he was. He was just leaving his office, so I told him I was on my way back to the Yard and I’d meet him in the Clarence in fifteen to twenty minutes, maybe less if I decided to switch on the siren. He seemed to know most pubs around political Westminster but I liked this particular one.