Thornwyn

by Laurence Todd

  “What?” This staggered me.

  “Obviously he’s no evidence to corroborate this view, but he’s convinced Sampson’s death had nothing to do with suicide. He doesn’t believe Sampson was suicidal at all. He’s convinced he was taken out to stop him talking if he ever went before the committee. That’s partly why this guy agreed to talk to me; he was Sampson’s friend and I got the impression he wants this out in the open when the time’s right.”

  Geoffrey Tilling had also told me he believed Paul Sampson was murdered.

  “Holy Christ,” I muttered. An ex-member of the Government eliminated. By whom? “I don’t suppose this guy said who he suspects did it.”

  “He didn’t, no, but it’s a fairly easy guess, isn’t it? Has to involve the security establishment in this country, doesn’t it?”

  There was a heavy silence between us for about ten seconds whilst I assimilated everything I’d just heard. My head was spinning with notions of intrigue at the highest levels. Did we do state-sanctioned eliminations of those who the security service believed were threats to the security edifice of the nation? Clements would have no doubt. I wasn’t sure.

  “So, this any help to you, Rob?” Clements’ voice brought me back to the present.

  “Oh God, yeah, most definitely.” I finished my beer. I wasn’t sure how useful everything I’d heard was, but it was better knowing it than not knowing. I was pleased Geoffrey Tilling hadn’t been listening to the last point Clements had made. “You’re not planning to write about this, are you?” I asked.

  “God, no. Not at the moment, anyway. I gave this guy my word we wouldn’t, and I’m not gonna betray his confidence. When he gives me the all-clear, then the Focus’ll write something about it. What’s Sampson done, anyway? Why are you looking into him?” Clements lapsed into political journalist mode.

  “Tell you what.” I smiled at him. “You don’t ask and I won’t lie to you.” He’d know why I wasn’t about to tell him, but I’d have been surprised if he’d not asked. “Suffice to say you’ll know it when it happens.”

  His bus home wasn’t expected for another twelve minutes, so I bought him another pint and told him how much I appreciated his help and that I definitely owed him a favour. I left him to sup it on his own.

  Walking to the tube station, I wondered what I’d do or say if Smitherman ever looked me straight in the eye and asked if I’d seen his son-in-law recently and whether we passed information between each other. I respected him too much as a police officer and as a man for the idea of lying to him to be one I’d entertain. I just hoped he’d never ask.

  S I X

  Tuesday

  I saw a note on my desk asking me to call a DS Roberts. A number had been given. I was unsure who this officer was. I returned the call and he answered and identified himself as the DS I’d met yesterday in Bernie’s flat.

  “Thought you’d wanna know. The victim’s been identified from his fingerprints. Name’s Noel Partias. You know him?”

  I said I didn’t.

  “Died from head injuries. Hit his head on something hard, probably that coffee table. The coroner thinks he might have survived if he’d got treated immediately. There were signs of a struggle, probably a fight from the bruises on his arms as they look like he was defending himself against attack. Had a couple of bruises on his face as well. Preliminary forensic investigation suggests he’d been dead a couple of weeks when you found him. You think Bernie could have done him?”

  I replied saying, from what I knew of him, it was unlikely but couldn’t be ruled out.

  “We’re naming him as the principal suspect. We’re looking for him.”

  I immediately asked him to withhold naming Bernie as a suspect for the moment.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Bernie’s wanted by Special Branch for something unrelated to this, and he’s gone into hiding. If he sees he’s a murder suspect, it’s likely he’ll bury himself deeper. Look for him but don’t name him, if that’s okay with you? Also, don’t name the victim, just say a body’s been found and you’re looking for next of kin. But, if you do find Bernie, I’d appreciate a call.”

  DS Roberts agreed that, for the moment, Bernie Rayes wouldn’t be publically named as a murder suspect. I told Roberts I owed him a favour.

  “Who’s this Partias character anyway?” I asked. “You got anything on him?”

  “I checked him out. A couple of convictions for assault and another for being caught in possession of stolen goods. Word is, though, he’s a broker in the market for illegal firearms. I’m told by a few here who know him he arranges for the two parties to come together and he then takes a cut, but he’s never been done for that. The whisper is he’s being protected.”

  “Protected? By who?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Thanks for this.” I rang off.

  With Thornwyn’s help, Bernie had been involved in theft with Brian Turley. They’d stolen weaponry and, according to Turley, Bernie had the buyer lined up. Turley had mentioned the guns being bought by someone named Khaled al-Eloubi. Had Partias been the middle man, connecting Bernie to al-Eloubi? He’d been found dead in Bernie’s flat, so it was logical to assume they knew each other. But who’d killed Partias and why? From what I’d learnt about Bernie the Buck I doubted he was capable of killing someone, but I couldn’t rule it out definitively.

  The even more worrying concern was al-Eloubi; he was a known jihadist with connections to the terrorist group Muearada. Weapons falling into his hands would almost certainly end up with those sworn to carry the jihad to the West at every opportunity. Were they for use in the UK, contrary to what Turley believed, or destined for further afield? As the death of Fusilier Lee Rigby had shown, committed jihadists could materialise anywhere and wreak a terrible revenge for what they perceived to be the West’s crimes against Allah.

  There was also Thornwyn to consider. What was his role in all this? He’d provided the necessary intelligence for Turley and Bernie to steal weaponry and, if Turley was to be believed, had also cleared the shop manager during the post-robbery investigation. He also knew the weapons were destined for Khaled al-Eloubi.

  Where did Paul Sampson fit into this pattern? I had to admit I didn’t know. Clements had said Sampson had been duped into arranging to sell weapons to Endgame, an arms company, but the deal had been quashed by MI6 acting on a tip-off from the CIA.

  Thornwyn was now in custody awaiting sentencing. I then remembered Smitherman telling me, when my going to talk to Thornwyn in Belmarsh was first mooted, that MI5 would almost certainly want to talk to him before the judge passed sentence. MI5 would need to ascertain how much of the national interest he’d harmed on top of his conviction for bribery and corruption, and this’d be reflected in whatever sentence was given to him.

  Of the others, Turley had been suspended and was almost certain to be prosecuted for bribery and corruption at the very least, and Bernie the Buck was missing. Where did the deceased Noel Partias fit into this picture?

  The only thing I knew for certain was Paul Sampson was dead, and if Clements’ source was to be believed, it wasn’t by his own hand either.

  I entered the name Endgame into the computer’s search engine to bring up their details. There was a file about the company but, when I clicked on the open button, a message in bright red lettering flashed continuously across the screen stating, Restricted access only; permission to access denied. I tried twice more, entering my password, but the same message appeared almost immediately. This suggested some involvement with MI5.

  I typed the name Noel Partias and had better luck. He was thirty-eight, Scottish and an ex-soldier. He was listed as being a mercenary, known to have fought in armed conflicts on two different continents. When not fighting for whatever cause, he was known to be involved in arms dealings and was suspected of involvement in at least two heists of weapons and military hardware in the Middle East.

  What had begun just over eleven days ago with inter
viewing a disgraced CID commander about the resignation of a now deceased parliamentary under-secretary had morphed into something very different. Thornwyn had alluded to my not being told the big picture when I’d spoken to him, and Smitherman had been reluctant to expand on this when I’d talked to him last week.

  Bizarrely, there was also the left-field issue of my being followed by Gillian Redmond, who I believed had been hired to tail me by Bartolome Systems. Where did that fit into the scheme of things?

  I needed to make sense of all the pieces of information, and I realised I knew someone who could help.

  She answered her mobile almost as soon as I’d finishing dialling her number. I asked if we could meet up as I wanted to sound her out about a case I was involved in. She agreed to meet for an early lunch. The thought of a few minutes in her company and looking at her across the table was a delightful one. My day was getting better.

  Christine Simmons was an MI5 operative and only a heartbeat away from being the woman of my dreams. I’d first encountered her when she was undercover penetrating Red Heaven and we were both part of the operation to prevent a bomb being planted near to the Albert Hall. She’d shot and killed David Kader, a renegade MI5 agent who had supposedly also been undercover but was now known to have been acting for Red Heaven. She was drop-dead gorgeous but she’d been married quite recently to someone in MI5 who also worked for her boss, the loathsome Colonel Peter Stimpson, so, sadly for me, my dreams were where she was likely to remain.

  We were meeting in a little Italian place she knew by Pimlico tube station, so I decided to walk from the office. She arrived five minutes late and, when she saw me and smiled, I felt giddy and lightheaded, like a teenage boy waiting for his first girlfriend. Sitting opposite and staring across at her was likely to be the best part of my day. She had beautiful hair and for a second I briefly fantasised about what it’d be like to spend three weeks kissing her but then, just as quickly, told myself to behave.

  We both had a cappuccino and shared antipasto salad and garlic bread. We had a brief chat about the new flat she and her new husband were buying in Lambeth as it was near to their office, and how much she was liking married life, which I tried not to let upset me.

  “So, whatever happened about your friend Mendoccini? Police and security looked extensively for him, watching airports and all that, but he was never picked up. We’ve since learnt he’s back in Italy. How’d he do that?” she wondered.

  “I’ve no idea. I’ve not seen him since I chased him through Soho.” The last part was true, but the other part wasn’t. I knew exactly how he’d managed to escape because he’d called me from Italy soon after and told me how. But I wasn’t going to let on I knew how he’d done it.

  “The assumption is he got a lift out of the country from a lorry driver, though they aren’t sure which port he went from. They’re presuming it was Dover. So many lorries come and go across the Channel every day and searching them all would have been a nightmare. It would almost have meant instigating Operation Stack.” She grinned.

  “Sounds plausible.” I maintained a neutral expression.

  She stared at me quizzically for a moment, as if expecting me to say, No, that’s not quite how he got away, but I kept a straight face. I couldn’t explain why, but I didn’t want the security people to know I knew exactly he’d left the country, though I’d absolutely no doubt I’d be in serious trouble if Stimpson discovered I knew how he’d escaped.

  “Oh, well.” She finally shrugged and took a large gulp of her cappuccino. “So, what did you wanna ask me?”

  “I’m trying to find details about a company called Endgame but I’ve been denied access to anything about it on the Branch site, which makes me think there’s an MI5 connection somewhere. Why else can’t the Branch access a site?”

  She smiled and nodded slightly whilst she thought. “Why do you need to know about Endgame?” she asked pleasantly.

  After considering what I could tell her, I said I was looking into allegations of arms dealings and the company’s name had come up on a couple of occasions. I said I believed it also involved Bartolome Systems, though I wasn’t quite sure how just yet.

  She finished some of her salad.

  “You know what Stimpson’d say if he saw me with you,” she said, semi-seriously, “and what he’d say if he knew what you were asking? He’s not forgiven you for Mendoccini getting away. He still believes you didn’t try hard enough to bring him in ’cause you two’re old friends and he thinks you can’t be trusted.”

  “I love him too,” I retorted sarcastically. “Anyway, pardon my lapse into Latin, but fuck what he thinks.”

  Her face lit up as she laughed at my crudity. It’d been worth being crude just to see her smile.

  “Good job Smitherman backs you up. I heard him telling Stimpson you’re a first-class operative and he has full confidence in you,” she said. Good for Smitherman. “Okay. I’ll trust you to be discreet, and I realise you’d not be asking unless you had a good reason, so I’ll just tell you this. MI5’s aware of Endgame and what it does.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Paul Sampson’s dealings with them being investigated by the Intelligence and Security Committee?”

  “How did you know about that?” She looked amazed.

  “Would you believe I asked someone and that’s what they told me?” I smiled at her, but she was in work mode and didn’t return it.

  “Well, I don’t know who told you, but that’s classified material. Stimpson ever finds out you know about this, he’ll go berserk. This is MI5 territory.”

  “So it’s true, then? Sampson was about to be questioned by the committee when he took his own life.” Richard Clements had clearly tapped into some top-secret information. Whoever he’d spoken to had been right in what he’d told him.

  “Yes, it is,” she finally agreed.

  “My sources tell me he was supposedly dealing with Endgame, believing them to be reputable arms dealers when in fact they’re a front company for Muearada.”

  “I can’t comment on any of that. You shouldn’t even know what you do. It’s something MI5 are investigating. I shouldn’t even be telling you this.” She sounded concerned.

  “You can trust me.” I smiled at her. “Did you also know Sampson was being blackmailed?”

  The look of shock and surprise on her face told me she’d not known about this. “Blackmailed? By who?”

  “Before I tell you, did MI5 know he was gay, which was why he was being blackmailed? Someone had found out and, because Sampson didn’t come out, they were squeezing him, so I’m wondering if it was just money he paid out for silence. Is this part of the reason for the investigation?”

  “I don’t know the full details. There’d been rumours he was gay but they’d never been substantiated. I just know some of his dealings from the final few months of his life were being investigated by the committee.”

  I tried imagining the strain Sampson must have been under in the period before he resigned and then just before he took his own life.

  “Is there any reason to investigate Bartolome Systems?” I asked.

  “That I definitely can’t talk about.”

  “So there is,” I stated with certainty.

  She drained her cappuccino and didn’t reply. I sipped some more of mine.

  “You know who was blackmailing Sampson?” Before I could answer she leapt in again. “Actually, no, don’t tell me just yet. Let’s see what comes out of the investigation. It may be nobody need know about it, if it’s even true.”

  I paid the bill, overriding her desire to pay half. We left the restaurant together. On the corner of Vauxhall Bridge Road we stopped. She thanked me for lunch and said she was on her way back to the office and we should keep in touch concerning this case. I agreed we should without making it too obvious I wanted to see her again.

  As she spoke, I looked over her shoulder and, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a woman about fifty yards away, wearing
a black lightweight jacket, white T-shirt and tight blue jeans, attempting to be inconspicuous whilst looking around at nothing and trying not to look in my direction. Gillian Redmond.

  I shook hands with Christine and she walked away towards Vauxhall Bridge. I turned left and walked like I was in a hurry along the road leading towards Victoria station. If Redmond did the same, this would confirm she was on my tail again.

  At the junction with Rochester Row I crossed over and turned right, heading north towards Victoria Street. I cast a furtive glance back as I crossed the road and could see her walking fast to keep up in case she lost me in the lunchtime crowds. Once around the corner I sprinted quickly to nearby Vane Street and ducked behind a parked van. Ten seconds later I saw her walk past. She’d quickened her pace and was anxiously looking around as I wasn’t in sight. She looked behind but couldn’t see me, so she kept walking on. I followed.

  She stopped at the corner by Horseferry Road and looked in both directions. She was about to cross over when I caught up with her.

  “You sure I went that way?” I said evenly, standing behind her. She spun around and saw me smiling at her. She turned to walk away but I grabbed her arm and stopped her. “Ah, ah, sweetheart, either you tell me why you’re following me or I’m arresting you and charging you with obstruction.”

  She struggled to try and break my grip. A builder waiting to cross the road saw what was happening, nodded to his friend and they came over.

  “You alright, love? This bloke bothering you?” he asked, nodding at me with disdain whilst the other stood nearby.

  I produced ID. “She’s under arrest, guys. Nothing for you here. Move on,” I said firmly.

  As they walked away she stopped struggling. I released my grip. There was a stand-off of sorts for a moment. She was out of options and she knew it.

  “Look, you’re not under arrest, okay? But I wanna know why, every time I turn around, I’m tripping over you.”