“Good tackle, sir. You still play rugby?” one of the officers commented. He sounded impressed.
I returned to get my car from Chalk Farm. I was proud of the tackle considering I’d not played a competitive game of rugby for a decade. One up for muscle memory.
I showed ID at the station desk and asked to speak to a senior officer. A few moments later DS Roberts appeared. We recognised each other. He took me into a CID office.
“So, what’s the Branch’s interest in a toerag like Bernie the Buck?” He was bemused. “I know he sells drugs, but how does that rate the Branch’s interest?”
I explained briefly about Bernie’s involvement with Neville Thornwyn as an informant, though I didn’t mention either blackmail or the stealing of weapons. I said, truthfully, that I believed he had information vital to a Branch enquiry. “So we’re just tying up a few loose ends. Bernie can help us with that.”
“Okay, you can have first crack at him, but I wanna talk to him about the dead body in his flat afterwards.”
I agreed he could, though I was hoping I could ascertain who had killed Noel Partias before DS Roberts got involved.
I was taken to the interview room where Bernie was being held. Roberts and I entered the room, and the officer with Bernie left. I’d never been in this station before, but the interview room was as downbeat and unwelcoming as any I’d seen elsewhere. In fact this one was particularly grimy.
“Bernie, long time no see,” Roberts said jovially. “This officer here would like a word with you, so you be a good boy and answer his questions. Alright? This isn’t your first time in one of these rooms, so you know how it works.”
After everything I’d been hearing about Bernie recently, it was almost an anti-climax to finally meet him. He was probably mid-forties, though he looked older than the picture I’d seen on his file, and was rapidly losing his hair. He was quite overweight, as evidenced by his bulbous face, which was how catching him had been easy, and his five o’clock shadow was prominent.
“I’m DS McGraw, Bernie, Special Branch. We met earlier.” I grinned.
“And?” he replied sulkily. He was not impressed.
“And, when those two officers went to where you were staying, they were only gonna talk to you about possession of and distributing drugs, but, when they searched you just now, they found a knife in your pocket. That’s not good, Bernie, you can go down just for carrying one of those, you know that? And you’ve already got form, so you’ll go down for a five stretch if we press charges. That answer your question?”
He didn’t respond. He sat looking morose, unsure of how his hideout with Little Des had been rumbled. His notion of safety in hiding had been shattered and he was probably wondering how it’d all turned sour for him.
“But, anyway, that’s something the local boys’ll deal with. Me? I’ve just dropped by to tell you something I know you’ll wanna hear: Commander Thornwyn sends his regards and wants to thank you for all the help you gave him.”
The mention of Thornwyn’s name made him sit up and take notice.
“Yeah, I thought that name’d mean something to you.” I smiled at him. He looked very worried. I let him worry for a few more seconds.
“Look, Bernie, I’m not gonna bullshit you.” I leaned forward. “You may not know about me, but I know all about you: about you dealing ecstasy and selling it to Geoffrey Tilling and Paul Sampson. I know you sold them out to Thornwyn when you were arrested one time. He told me that. That’s how he was able to squeeze Sampson for money. Blackmail him, in other words. You helped him with that, so that’s a conspiracy to blackmail charge right there.”
I stared straight at him as I spoke. He looked uncomfortable.
“I also know about you and Thornwyn and what you’ve been getting up to together. I know all about the weapons you were involved in stealing and those same weapons being sold on to Khaled al-Ebouli, an Islamist jihadist, no less. And all this on top of just being caught in possession of an offensive weapon. You’re quite the saint, aren’t you, Bernie? How’d Mother Teresa ever get by without your help?”
The look of shock on Bernie Rayes’ face was such that I thought a heart attack was imminent, or at the very least a panic attack. I’d seen people in interview rooms turn puce when they’d realised there was no escape from what was known about them and the consequences of their actions were becoming apparent. Bernie couldn’t deny anything because his expression had said it all. He put his hands on the table and lowered his head. He didn’t move from this position for a few moments. For the moment I decided not to mention Noel Partias being found dead in his flat or Brian Turley being after him.
“Thornwyn tell you all this?” he finally said.
“No, the fairy godmother actually.” I half-smiled at him. “Who do you think? He’s sold you down the river, Bernie.”
“I knew that bastard’d drop me in it someday.” He shook his head resignedly. “He told me he’d look out for me, told me nothing would happen if I just did what he said. Him and that other fucking cop. Why did I believe that?”
“Good question; why did you believe him?”
“He was a DCI when I first knew him, then became a commander. He’s a top cop, got a lot of clout. I figured if anyone could look out for me, it’d be someone like that. I’ve been giving him good tip-offs for years about various things.”
“Well, he’s sold you out, Bernie. How’d you think I got to know about everything I’ve just told you, through witch- craft?” Despite everything he’d done, I was going to try not to mention Turley’s involvement, so I wasn’t going to let on I knew him or had learnt most of this from him.
Bernie was looking ashen-faced, as though someone he loved had just died. He sat quietly for several seconds.
“Who’s the other cop you were talking about?” I asked.
“Bloke called Turley. He’s threatened to kill me.” His voice rose slightly in indignation.
“Who’s Turley?” I asked innocently.
“Used to be in Thornwyn’s squad until he was suspended.” His face broke out into an unexpected smile. “He’s as bent as Thornwyn, got caught taking money, didn’t he? Bribery and corruption,” he said haughtily.
“So how does this lead to him threatening to kill you? Upset him, did you?” I was enjoying watching Bernie’s discomfort.
“Why d’you think I was staying at Des’s place? Turley thinks I’ve screwed him out of some money and he said he was gonna kill me for it, so I dropped outta sight for a while so he couldn’t find me. He doesn’t know Des, so I thought I’d be safe there for a while.”
“You say he’s a serving police officer, Bernie, so why would someone like him think a delightful fellow like you has, what was your phrase, screwed him out of some money?”
Bernie didn’t appreciate my sarcasm, as was evident from his expression. “Bloody cops, you’re all the same, all corrupt, all of you up to your necks in it.” He looked straight at me. “Thornwyn’s paying off lots of people; how much is he paying you, eh?” He sneered at me.
I immediately leaned forward and grabbed his left hand, which was on the edge of the table. I squeezed the first two fingers of his hand very hard and bent them back slightly. He registered a yelp of pain.
“Not the cleverest thing you’ve ever said, Bernie, and you say anything like that again, you won’t be picking your nose with these fingers for a while.” I released my grip. He grimaced from the ache in his fingers.
I was probably out of order doing what I’d done, but when the likes of Bernie Rayes accuse me of corruption, something snaps inside me and I react. Just as well there was no one else in the room when it happened.
But I took pity on him and called for the officer outside the door. I asked for two cups of tea or coffee. He went away. I let Bernie compose himself for a moment.
“Question for you, Bernie. You know what terrorism is?” “Huh?”
“You even heard of it?”
“What’re you talking abo
ut?” He looked as though I was speaking in Sanskrit.
“I’ll spell it out for you, Bernie. You’re a party to the selling of weaponry to a known Islamist jihadist, and those weapons’ll probably be used to pursue an unlawful political aim. It’s quite possible innocent British lives’ll be lost as a result. You even helped steal them. You selling him those weapons means you’ve committed an act likely to further the aims of a proscribed terrorist organisation, and you’ve given aid and succour to Her Majesty’s enemies.” I spoke slowly and emphasised every word. “That’s what they mean by terrorism, Bernie, and it means you’re likely to go down for a goodly number of years. You’re also a drug dealer and you were caught in possession of a nasty-looking knife. That’s not good, mate.” I shook my head solemnly.
He swallowed hard. At that moment the door opened and an officer arrived bearing a tray with two cups of tea. He placed them on the table and left. I took one. Bernie ignored his for the moment.
“What do you think a jury’ll make of that, eh?” I sipped my tea. “You help steal weapons, they get sold on to an extreme Islamist fundamentalist and he and others use them to kill innocent people in this country. You think they’ll like that and let you off?”
He didn’t respond. From the lachrymose expression on his face I was wondering whether he was trying not to cry. His eyes were watering. He sniffed loudly. I let him stew for a few more seconds whilst I sipped more tea. He was scared.
“Look, Bernie, I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re in deep shit, you know that? Stealing weapons and selling them on to someone whom the Government disapproves of is an extremely serious offence which could send you down for several years. That’s if you’re lucky. If we add the drug dealing on top, that’s an even longer stretch. So there’s only one way out of this for you,” I said gently, “and that’s to tell me everything you’ve been involved in.”
He was trapped and he knew it. His only option was to cooperate. He looked forlorn.
“And if I do, what then?” He looked at me, almost pleadingly.
“It could be the difference between a very lengthy sentence and a not quite so lengthy sentence. That’s the only choice you’ve got. You tell me your version of events and, if it checks out, we’ll put in a good word for you and I’ll dump it all on Thornwyn.” Thornwyn was going down anyway, so what did it matter?
Bernie sighed and sat back in his chair. He waited a few seconds.
“It’s Thornwyn; he got me involved,” he said. “I don’t know all the ins and outs of it, but he’s involved in this plan to provide arms to some Arab in Islington.”
“Was that what the robbery was for?”
“Yeah. This Arab wanted weapons, so Thornwyn arranged for us to rob this gun shop. He knows the manager there, so he does it through him.”
“This was just you and Thornwyn.”
“It was me and this Turley character. We went in. We had the passcode, there was no CCTV switched on and no alarms, so it was piss-easy, you know what I mean?” He sounded pleased. “We wore plastic gloves so we didn’t leave any fingerprints. We go in and we take the weapons Thornwyn’d pointed out to us.”
I feigned shock. “This the same guy you mentioned earlier? Another police officer helped you?”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded.
“What happened then?”
“We take them over to the bloke who’s gonna sell them to this Arab. I never met the Arab; that was handled by the guy we gave them to.”
I had the sudden feeling I knew who this was. “Would this be Noel Partias?”
“Yeah.” He looked surprised at hearing the name. “How’d you know that?”
“So, who is this guy?” I didn’t answer his question.
“He’s something inside the Chackarti family. Thornwyn knows him. He’s their weapons man, arranges for sales of guns and all that. You want to buy a gun, Partias is the man to see. He can get you pretty much anything you want.”
Not anymore he can’t, I cruelly thought. “So he sold them on to Khaled al-Ebouli.”
Bernie looked vague.
“He’s the jihadist I spoke about earlier. Known to be connected to Muearada. He’s one of their main men in this country, Bernie. You know what Muearada are capable of?”
Bernie was now looking very worried.
“They’re almost medieval in their barbarity. They chop the heads off their hostages. You remember the recent case about that American journalist beheaded in Syria? That’s Muearada’s work. They kill non-believers. And you don’t wanna know about what they do to drug dealers.”
“I only helped with the robbery. I’m not a terrorist.” He was sounding alarmed at what he’d heard. “I didn’t know they were going where they ended up.”
“You ever heard the phrase ignorantia juris non excusat?” “Huh?”
“Didn’t think you had. It’s Latin, and it means ignorance of the law is no excuse.” I said this slowly for maximum effect. “So, doesn’t matter whether you knew or not who or where the guns were going to. Muearada’s a proscribed organisation, which means they’re officially on the Government’s shitlist, to put it in your language, and you helping to supply them with arms isn’t going to make you the flavour of the month with any jury, is it?”
He took a few deep breaths. If my intent had been to scare him, I’d succeeded.
“As a matter of interest, how much did they get sold for?” I asked.
“I dunno.” He sounded indignant. “I never saw any money. Nor did Turley. He thought I’d cheated him, so when he came for his money and I’d not got it, he threatened to kill me if I’d not got it in a few days. He was serious as well, so I went and stayed with Little Des till Turley calmed down.”
“So who got the money from the sale?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. I bloody didn’t, I know that.”
“Would Partias have it?”
“Might do. He took the weapons to this Arab bloke.”
A thought flashed through my brain. Could it have been Turley who’d killed Partias? Could he have done this over a dispute about moneys owed? If it had been Turley, did he even know Partias had died? Did he think he’d just hit him a few times and left him on the floor?
I didn’t mention Turley for the moment. “If Partias can get guns, why was the gun shop robbed?”
“I don’t know, do I? I was just pressured into doing it.”
This was something I’d have to put to Thornwyn.
“Let’s go back a bit further,” I said. “You know Paul Sampson? Yeah, ’course you do. He and his friend Geoffrey Tilling were your customers, weren’t they?”
“Yeah, I know them. What about them?”
“Sampson’s dead,” I stated matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, I know. Topped himself, didn’t he?” He smiled.
I fixed Bernie with an evil stare. “You think that’s funny?” His smile faded.
“You knew Thornwyn was blackmailing him, didn’t you?” I asked.
“I didn’t at first, but Thornwyn told me he was.”
“He tell you why?”
“Yeah. Hated queers, didn’t he, especially rich privileged queers, so when he found he had something on him, he milked him for all he could get. I collected it for him.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I’d meet Sampson, he’d give me an envelope full of cash. I passed it on to Thornwyn. I don’t know how much it was either, before you ask.”
“He always pay in cash?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
“Different places near Parliament: a café, in a pub, a tube station. Wherever they arranged for me to go and meet him.”
I nodded. I was imagining furtive meetings between the suave Paul Sampson and the pathetic wretch that was Bernie the Buck when he spoke again.
“Except that last time I met him. I had to go out of London.”
“Where to?”
“Bloody Berkhamsted, up in Hertfordshire.”
&
nbsp; “Why’d you have to go there?” I had a feeling I knew what was coming.
“I had to go to the place he worked at as he wasn’t coming into London that day. I thought I was going there just to collect a cash envelope but, while I was there, he gave me an A5 envelope as well as the money to give Thornwyn.”
“He say what it was?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I didn’t ask either. It just felt like some sheets of paper and a couple of them little memory stick type things. I just drove straight back and gave them to Thornwyn. That’s the last time I saw Sampson. He topped – I mean, sorry, he died soon after that.”
“Did Thornwyn say what was in the envelope?”
“No. He seemed pleased to get it, though. Real chuffed, he was.”
“You know what he did with it?”
“Nope. He just slipped me a few quid. That was it.”
Didn’t take a genius to realise what had occurred. Sampson had somehow managed to extricate Bartolome’s designs and financial information and had spirited them out by using Bernie the Buck as his messenger. Bernie had then given them to Thornwyn, who had secreted them someplace, causing consternation inside the company and the very real fear of sensitive confidential information falling into the hands of competitors. Could this have been a reason why Paul Sampson had taken his own life?
What would Sampson have been thinking when he passed this envelope to Bernie? He’d worked for Bartolome for several years, his father-in-law still did and he’d be acutely aware of the significance of the firm to the UK’s defence effort. Even when he’d been elected to Parliament, the company had offered him a seat on the board as a non- executive director, with a generous recompense of twice my annual salary just for attending half a dozen board meetings per annum. Smitherman had told me about the UK still supplying weaponry to countries whose regimes it disapproved of. I wondered if Bartolome was involved in supplying such weaponry. Had Thornwyn become aware of this?
Sampson had also been about to be questioned because of the suspicion he’d been involved in attempting to supply arms to a company known to be a front for Muearada. For him, this could have had damning consequences.
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