The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  “We did everything we had to do to keep the company alive, detective,” Garlinge stated firmly, maybe a little too firmly. “Bartolome Systems employs many thousands of skilled workers across the country, and it makes a major contribution to the defence of the realm, as I just told you, and so if a little subterfuge is what it takes . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. He looked at me and shrugged in an isn’t it obvious? manner, like we were both men of the business world and felt the ends achieved justified the means used. “This is how the real world operates, detective.”

  “Did this involve financial considerations?” I asked.

  “I’m making no comment about that.” He was now starting to sound angry.

  “Was any money received as well?”

  He knew what I was alluding to. His expression changed to one of outraged disgust.

  “That’s defamatory, and I’ll sue any person or any newspaper which prints anything about this.” He was almost shouting.

  I waited for a more appropriate answer, but one wasn’t forthcoming. I was about to ask another question when Garlinge continued.

  “I don’t want any of these allegations coming out in a bloody newspaper, detective. Do you know the damage it’d do to the standing of the UK government if they did, not to mention the impact it’d have on Bartolome’s share price and business standing? Then, of course, there’s the impact on me, personally.”

  I remained silent. To me this came across as a tacit admission of the usage of corrupt business practices, and his being implicated, though he appeared to be trying to justify this under the auspices of business expediency. Whatever his justification, if Armswatch’s claims were true, Garlinge’s actions were unlawful under both UK and EU law, which could result in his being imprisoned if he were ever tried in a court of law. Certainly, the 2010 Bribery Act provided for imprisonment for bribery. But this would be a decision someone else made.

  I was also wondering what the security angle was here. The security services would be aware of the political ramifications of arms going astray, ending up with unsavoury regimes like North Yemen or Syria, with allegations of bribes paid to facilitate the situation, but they wouldn’t want this being read about on the front pages.

  “So, you’ve heard my account. What happens now?” he finally asked.

  His account had consisted of telling me about the real world, but, interestingly, he hadn’t specifically denied anything Armswatch had claimed about him.

  “I report everything I’ve heard to my superior officer, and we consider what the Branch knows about this situation. If Armswatch can produce evidence of its claims, they’ll have to be fully investigated,” I said neutrally. “You’ll of course be kept informed and I may need to talk to you again. If so, you’ll be cautioned beforehand.”

  Hearing the word cautioned produced a worried expression on his face and he took a deep breath. I wondered if things like this were supposed to happen in Garlinge’s real world.

  “Cautioned? This implies potential litigation, detective. Am I a suspect here?” He screwed up his eyes and looked at me suspiciously.

  “Being cautioned simply means you’d be made aware any answers you give to police questions could be used against you in a court of law, but only if the matter goes any further. It also gives you the right to protect yourself by getting a lawyer, should you choose to. It wouldn’t mean you’d be under arrest.” I hoped I was placating him.

  “This mustn’t be allowed to enter the public domain, detective,” he said as he walked me to the lift. “There’s more at stake here than you know.”

  “Like what?” I enquired.

  He shook his head, looking displeased, and turned to walk back to his office.

  *

  On the Embankment outside Portcullis House, I returned Taylor’s call, telling her I was available for lunch if she was still free. She was; she said she was just finishing up something in Covent Garden and suggested a pub she knew in St Martin’s Lane. I said I’d be there in fifteen.

  I walked at a fast pace along the Embankment, passed the Yard, turned into Whitehall, passed the Clarence, where I’d recently had an interesting conversation with a long-time IRA man and found a starting point for our investigation into who was planting car bombs, walked along the east side of the Square and went on into St Martin’s Lane, all the while thinking about what Charles Garlinge had just said.

  He’d all but confirmed Armswatch’s claims of bribery. If the claims were accurate, and I’d interpreted his rhetoric correctly, his main concern was preventing political embarrassment to both the Government and himself. Could the matter really be this straightforward?

  On one level I could understand his concerns. Admitting to having accepted a bribe or used bribery to secure a contract where arms had ended up in the hands of terrorists, knowing such an act was illegal under UK law, especially in an era when governments of every political persuasion paid lip service to the idea of an ethical foreign policy, would be an act of political suicide. His career would be dead in the water were this ever to be made known, even in a rock-solid Tory seat.

  But I wasn’t sorry for him. I hadn’t liked the air of superiority he’d exuded, alongside his underlying attitude of who are these people to question me? I hadn’t liked the way his eyes had flitted about as he was being questioned, as if a Special Branch investigation into corruption involving a firm doing business with the Government was just an inconvenience.

  Accepting money whilst knowing, suspecting or being indifferent to the fact of arms ending up with terrorists was a heinous offence in my book. In anyone’s book. If the allegations proved to be correct – if arms had ended up in the wrong places, and he’d known this and made illicit gains – and if he was tried and imprisoned, the sanction would be justified.

  MPs were not exactly the flavour of the month with the electorate, with echoes of the expenses scandal still resounding, not to mention the general air of untrustworthiness they conveyed. In the current climate, MPs as a collective were already hovering very near the bottom of the list of people the public placed their trust in, alongside estate agents and property developers, both of whom for me absolutely deserved their place at the bottom of the pile. The chances of reselection as an MP, even in a safe Tory seat, would be slim with the saturation media coverage any claims of involvement in bribery and corruption would inevitably bring.

  Prima facie, then, this appeared to be a simple case. But I wondered; could it really be this easy? I needed to know more about Bozetti and the potential implications before I reported back to Smitherman.

  *

  There was a mouth-watering range of draught bitters and lagers available at the pub, including several favourites, but I was still on duty, so I settled for cappuccino and a latte for Taylor. I took a vacant table outside on the pavement to wait for Taylor and engaged in people-watching as the lunchtime crowds shuffled past in the pale autumn sunshine.

  This morning, Taylor’d had a meeting with someone from the Covent Garden Residents Association, finalising some last-minute comments for an in-depth article she and a freelance journo had been researching for the past several weeks. The article was about the controversy surrounding the selling of a newly built ten-storey block of fifty flats in Covent Garden, built on a plot of land between Endell Street and Drury Lane.

  The construction of this new block of flats, Septimus House, had been part of the previous London mayor’s promise of more affordable housing stock being made available in the Covent Garden area, but, almost immediately after the recent London mayoral election, Septimus House had been sold to a Russian-owned property company, Towerleaf Holdings Ltd, owned by an exiled Russian billionaire who’d paid an eye-wateringly large sum for the property. This was the story Taylor had alluded to when speaking to Clements at our wedding reception, the one Blatchford wouldn’t like. The sale had aroused considerable controversy, not least because the selling of Septimus House ran counter to James Blatchford’s electoral promise
, made whilst campaigning, to continue promoting the affordable housing policies of the previous administration.

  To the aggrieved consternation of the Covent Garden Residents Association, the new owner of Septimus House was now in the process of either selling the flats or letting them out at monthly rents far above any rational notion of an affordable rent for the ordinary Londoner on average earnings. They were going mainly to well-heeled City employees, such as high-profile bankers, and others who were using them either as a midweek London base, like several of the MPs who’d taken flats there, or as a second home.

  The article highlighting this inequity was due to appear in next Thursday’s Evening Standard magazine. The paper’s new editor, Hugh Blackbourne, a recent ex-Cabinet minister who’d resigned his seat five months ago to re-enter journalism after being offered the editor’s chair, had instigated a new policy of turning the weekly magazine into something much more hard-hitting and focused, featuring in-depth stories about real issues affecting the capital and its residents, rather than being full of lightweight and frivolous articles about the latest Milan fashions or the various quirks and foibles of vacuous celebrities.

  I remembered Taylor saying the Standard’s editor had been outraged at the sale of Septimus House, especially as no satisfactory explanation had ever been given for it, despite the paper’s repeated requests. The paper had in fact campaigned unsuccessfully to prevent the sale. When the idea of an investigative piece looking into the sale had been mooted by a well-known freelance journo, who’d said he had access to inside information pertaining to the sale and all was not as it appeared, the editor had agreed to underwrite it and had asked Taylor if she wanted to work the story with the freelancer. Taylor had been researching this story for several weeks, and was just, as she put it, adding a little gloss as the story had now largely been written. She’d put aside most of tomorrow to ensure the Saturday-evening deadline was met.

  What was going to give this story added political gravitas, though, and a large part of the reason why the new editor was happy to go with the investigation, was the claim the Russian tycoon behind Towerleaf Holdings, Yuri Krachnikhov, had had to leave his homeland under a cloud, because the Russian government had issued a statement claiming he had embezzled the funds used by Towerleaf to buy Septimus House. More seriously, the article was going to allege the new London mayor was aware of this at the time of sale, because information outlining this had been forwarded to the mayor’s office. The UK government was being urged by Russia to arrest Yuri Krachnikhov and repatriate him back to Russia to stand trial, but it had so far refused all requests to do this. This was going to give the story added bite.

  The sale of Septimus House had led to outrage from many housing associations across London, unfavourable comments in the media and angry questions from councillors in City Hall, as well as in Parliament, where one backbench Labour MP had provoked considerable media controversy by claiming James Blatchford had to be in the pay of Russian crooks to agree to this sale. Asked by the media to specifically repudiate this comment and chastise the member concerned, Labour’s leader Ian Mulvehill, to whom I’d once served as bodyguard for several weeks, had refused point-blank to do so. There’d been several demonstrations outside City Hall, demanding to know why the Mayor of London was doing business with Russians of dubious repute and reneging on his manifesto commitment to the provision of more affordable housing; one had turned ugly, leading to several arrests.

  But, to date, Blatchford had refused to discuss the matter publicly or make any comment, and he’d flatly refused to talk to Taylor about her article, even when she’d made it clear it would be in his interests to talk. The word on the street was he’d also told all personnel at the top levels of City Hall not to cooperate with the press. He’d still not forgiven Taylor for the Standard’s story earlier this year about his profiting from underhand share dealings.

  Once published, this would undeniably become a major news story, and I was really pleased Taylor was now writing about issues with real political substance. Over the past several months, coinciding with the time we’d been together, she’d been moved on from writing fluff pieces for the Diary column about celebrities emerging obnoxiously drunk from West End night clubs, which she intensely disliked doing, or reporting on why so many parking tickets were being issued in Belgravia, and was now being given more substantive topics to write about. She was gradually beginning to make her name at the paper.

  I was pleased about this because, in my own small way, I’d helped her. I’d been the one to send Richard Clements information on Blatchford’s insider trading and point him her way. Obtaining a major scoop had raised her profile at the paper considerably, and Taylor was now in line to be promoted to the deputy political editor’s position on his retirement. I’d often mused about whether I ought to tell her about my background role in her developing career.

  I looked up from my musings just as Taylor turned into St Martin’s Lane. She looked fabulous, wearing tight black and grey faded Levi jeans, a beige blouse and a denim jacket, with a multi-coloured silk scarf around her neck, plus her Louis Vuitton bag draped off her shoulder. I just stared at her in wonderment for the nine seconds it took for her to see where I was sitting. If guys my age swoon, that’s what I did. That I was also the only man in the street who knew the colour of her underwear gave my staring an added frisson of excitement. If I weren’t already mad crazy about her, I’d start this very second. I especially loved her hair, and watching it flop over her shoulders when she walked always gave me a thrill. Her smile when she saw me lit my day up.

  We sipped our drinks and briefly exchanged details about what our respective mornings had been like. With the story she was working on, and the very real prospect of political waves being made when it was published next week, her morning had been so much more interesting than mine, wallowing in a mire of bribery allegations, so getting to spend nearly thirty minutes with Taylor was an unexpected relief.

  I’d been able to do this because she was going to be late back this evening. A friend she worked with at the Evening Standard had something to celebrate, expecting her first child after suffering two miscarriages inside a year, so she and several other women were having a meal in a pub somewhere in the West End to help her do so.

  We finished our drinks and gave each other a warm hug.

  “Don’t you dare be asleep or tired when I get back tonight,” she whispered in my left ear as she lightly bit it. “I’ve plans for you.”

  “Will I be powerless to resist?” I sighed playfully, lightly squeezing her gorgeous bum.

  “You’d better believe it,” she whispered, returning the squeeze.

  She flashed me her radiant smile and raised her eyebrows, which sent my heart racing, then lightly squeezed my hand and walked away. I watched her until she turned into Long Acre.

  *

  Nick Graves was still in his office when I arrived back at Armswatch. As I entered I noticed the large Amnesty International poster on the opposite wall, the bright yellow candle surrounded by coiled barbed wire. Graves recognised me from earlier this morning and, despite my unannounced arrival, agreed to talk. I explained the Branch had spoken to Charles Garlinge and had found him reticent, so I particularly wanted to know one thing.

  “What’s Bozetti and, in particular, what’s its significance? I wanna hear your take on it. I can probably access the details, but I’m interested in what you have to say, given what you’re alleging. Garlinge’s saying nothing, but it’s obvious he knew what it meant.”

  Groves sat chuckling to himself for several seconds. “Oh, he knows, alright, and I’m not surprised he doesn’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because, if it ever gets into the press,” he immediately responded, “his name and reputation drop into the sewer. It’ll do considerable damage to the Government’s international credibility as well. This’s why we gave him the opportunity to do himself a favour and stand down befor
e what he did becomes public knowledge.”

  He sat back, smirking. He was evidently enjoying his knowledge of something which was supposedly secret.

  “So, Bozetti,” I said firmly.

  He settled back in his seat. “Okay. Bozetti’s a large Italian arms company, based just outside Milan, well known in the trade, well established, good rep, manufactures all kinds of good stuff; firearms, mainly. Their products sell all over the world. Anyway, about two years back, they receive an order worth around €30 million from the Bahraini government for a consignment of rifles and other smaller weapons like handguns. For whatever reason, after a while, they realised they probably wouldn’t be able to complete it in the time frame required by the Bahrainis, but they still wanted to keep the order, so they take the standard business route: either subcontract some of the order, or bring another company into the deal with them as partners.”

  “So they approach Bartolome,” I ventured.

  “Correct,” he said. “Bartolome’s also got a good rep in the arms trade, and it makes the weapons the Bahrainis wanted.”

  “Which were what?”

  “Mainly L8505 rifles, which are variants of the L85A2s, and also handguns similar to the Sig P226, but I can’t remember which just now. But, before Bartolome, Bozetti approaches another company and asks if they’re interested in coming in on the contract. You remember me mentioning this case when you were here this morning?”

  I did. “Who was this?”

  “Company called Fairfields,” he said, “based here in North London. The MD and Production Director met up with this Bahraini official in a Knightsbridge hotel to negotiate their role in the contract, and they were told they’d be invited to be one of the parties to the contract negotiations if they were prepared to discuss other considerations.” He smirked. “Guess what they were referring to.”