“Garlinge?”
“Yeah, he’s as corrupt as the rest of them,” he said. “C’mon, Rob, I was a copper for how many years? I can smell a crook a mile away.”
This I was interested in hearing. It was of course merely hearsay, and worthless in terms of evidence on which a case could be built and presented in a court of law but, from my police perspective, it was better to know this than not to know.
After a few more perfunctory questions, I realised I’d got all I was likely to from Thornwyn. He’d suggested things about Garlinge without being prompted, though, so my decision to talk to him had been vindicated. I stood up.
“Well, thanks for dropping by, Rob. I always enjoy our little chats. This’s livened up my Friday evening, and it’ll soon be Friday Night Is Music Night on Radio 2.” He sounded excited at the prospect. “It’s the big bands special tonight, and then there’s Book at Bedtime.”
He also stood and looked me directly in the eye.
“I didn’t mention Turley’s name when MI5 spoke to me, in case you were gonna ask,” he said quietly, “though I did give them Bernie the Buck.”
“Yeah, I know. Bernie’s gone down; I don’t much care what happens to him. Thanks. You did the right thing.”
I produced three large bars of dark chocolate from the inside pocket of my leather jacket. I knew he was particularly partial to dark chocolate, so I’d taken pity on him as there was no other way he’d get it on the inside. Nobody was going to do a corrupt cop any favours and smuggle in chocolate for him. I placed them on the table and his eyes lit up.
“Oh, thanks, Rob,” he gushed as he picked them up and eyed them lasciviously, as though I’d left three soft porn magazines on the table.
He looked as though he wanted to shake hands, but I kept my arms by my side. I thanked him and left the room.
I wasn’t sure about what I’d heard, but I’d been assured Bartolome Systems did operate a slush fund, which made the claims against Garlinge more plausible, plus I’d been given the name of someone on the board who was reputedly honest. I looked at my watch; too late tonight. I’d talk to him tomorrow.
*
As I parked my car in Battersea, my head was spinning with details and allegations relating to bribery and corrupt practices. I was still thinking about Charles Garlinge. He hadn’t actually admitted being a party to bribery, but he hadn’t tried too hard to distance himself from the claims made by Armswatch either, making constant references to the real world, wherever it might be found. If Neville Thornwyn was corrupt, and serving prison time for it, what did this make people like Garlinge, and also companies such as Bartolome Systems, where bribery had been spoken of openly as an integral part of the firm’s operating culture? I wondered briefly how much more of the real world I’d discover when I spoke to Ian Harper.
Nick Graves had been adamant Armswatch was in possession of leaked documentation which established bribery as a fact of life at Bartolome, simply another part of a long- established successful business model, and it wanted Charles Garlinge to publicly admit being a party to bribery or withdraw from public life. But how likely was this? People like Garlinge don’t just plead guilty at the drop of a hat. I knew from his file he came from money, and it was obvious he was connected, so why would he risk everything by accepting illegal cash transactions? Did he do it for the thrill or the hubris or from a misplaced sense of entitlement?
Or was there some other reason why? Was this case really as straightforward as it appeared to be at the outset, or were there things I didn’t know because I was being kept in the dark?
But, whatever, fuck all of them. These were considerations for tomorrow and I was sick of Charles Garlinge. More and more, I was coming to appreciate why people such as Richard Clements detested the likes of him.
It was also now eight thirty-five, Friday evening, and I was peckish as I’d only had a cappuccino for lunch, so I poured myself the first beer of the weekend, which is always the best one, drained it almost in one gulp and thought about eating something. Taylor was dining out, so I wondered whether it was worth bothering to cook anything for just one person. I decided that cooking, and then having to clean up afterwards, wasn’t worth the effort involved, so I took a packet of two large sausage rolls from the fridge instead, ate them cold and switched on the TV.
At six past ten, my iPhone sounded. I picked it up and saw Number withheld. I answered and was greeted with a voice I’d last heard months back.
“Yo, Rob, it’s your favourite wop here.”
I recognised the voice immediately. Michael Mendoccini. I took a deep breath as any number of conflicting thoughts and emotions instantly crowded into my brain, not the least being that I was probably about to commit any number of rule infractions by remaining on the line and not immediately alerting the Branch office, on my police radio, to the fact I had a known terrorist on my iPhone, so where he was calling from could be traced. Some part of me decided not to do this until I knew a little more. Besides, apart from the card Taylor had given me, I’d no evidence he was even in the country. The last time he’d phoned, he’d been calling from Italy.
“So, how you doing, man?” he began, sounding excited to be talking to me. “Long time, no speak to. I did tell you I’d get back in touch again when I could, did I not? And, before you ask, you gave me your mobile number when we exchanged contact details in the Chinese, and I was hoping you’d not updated your phone in the meantime.”
I took a couple of seconds to compose myself. There was no denying some part of me was delighted to be back in touch with my oldest friend, but I was also aware he was an integral part of something I was sworn to go up against. Inside Red Heaven he may not have actually killed anyone or planted a car bomb himself, but he helped create the financial conditions to make it possible for Red Heaven to acquire its resources and operate. I knew for a fact he’d been helping to launder money on behalf of Red Heaven. The group couldn’t function without people like him.
“Michael, how’s it going? You’re not back in the country, right?” I tried to sound calm but, despite myself, I was concerned for him. “You realise what’ll happen if they pick you up, don’t you?”
“Oh, come on, lighten up, mate. I mean, what’s life without taking the occasional risk, eh?” He sounded unflustered about the situation. “Anyway, you know what they say, don’t you; you risk nothing, you get nothing. Besides, I got in easily enough and, despite all the claims made about this country’s supposedly much tighter border security, it’s a lot easier than it probably should be. I’ve been here just over a week now; no one’s spotted me or even knows I’m here. And, no, I didn’t come in the same way I left last time, in case you’re wondering.”
He was saying he was in the country, at least. That shot down one of my excuses for not contacting the Branch, but I decided I’d roll with the flow, see what transpired and hear him out. He had to be back in the country for a reason, so, if I let him talk, maybe he would inadvertently say something giving me an idea of where he was or why he was back in England.
There was silence on the line for about three seconds.
“Did you get my card, the one I gave your wife at the Standard?” Another brief pause. “God, mate, you know how unreal it sounds saying your wife?” He was laughing. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Rob. I’d heard you’d got married, but I’ve gotta ask ’cause I wanna hear it from you. The woman I gave the card to, is she really your wife?”
“She is really my wife, and I’m really her husband.”
“Che sorpresa,” he exclaimed. “Sorry there wasn’t a present with the card. Angie said we ought to give you one, but I didn’t know what you guys wanted or needed.”
“Yeah, I got the card, thanks. That was some surprise.”
“I just bet it was.” He sounded amused. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t have been there to see my old friend get hitched.”
I took another swig of beer and paused for a couple of seconds before responding. “What
I don’t get is, how did you even know I’d got married, and especially who to give the card to?”
“Oh, that’s easy. She matched the description I was given.”
“Who gave it to you?”
The line was silent for four seconds. He wasn’t going to answer. I spoke again.
“When you gave Sally the card, did you not consider, once I knew who it was from, I might report the fact you’re back in the UK?”
“No, I didn’t. Hand on my heart, man, it never occurred on me you’d even think of doing it. Woman I gave the card to? She wouldn’t know me from the back end of a pigeon in Trafalgar Square, and, anyway, I know you, Rob.” He was making a statement. “You’d be more concerned with why I was back here.”
This was true. My head was spinning with thoughts of why he was taking such a risk, being in London again. He was wanted on suspicion of involvement in money laundering, not to mention being complicit in acts of terrorism. It was obvious he wasn’t here because he missed London, so did this mean Red Heaven had something in the pipeline? I’d already heard from someone I knew in counterterrorism they’d no up-to-date intel concerning what Red Heaven might be planning.
Before I could ask again how he knew who Taylor was and where she worked, he continued. “So, how long you been living in Battersea? You were living in Acton last time we talked.”
“How’d you know I’m living in Battersea?” I was partly amused but also amazed he knew as much as he did about my circumstances. He’d done his homework.
“Hmm, let’s just say I’ve been made aware things in your life’ve changed somewhat dramatically.” He paused for a few seconds. “No. No, that’s unfair, you deserve a better explanation, so I’ll just say this: when I knew I was gonna be returning to the UK for a short visit, I realised I wouldn’t just be able to come over to your place and ask if you wanted to meet up for a drink, but I still wanted to know what you’re up to. I think about you a lot, Rob,” he said quietly. He paused again. “So, I made a few enquiries here and there. You can probably imagine my surprise when I was told not only had you just got married five days earlier; you and this Sally female were also in the States on honeymoon.”
My mind started racing. He was talking about last week. But who would he know who’d also know me well enough to give him this kind of information?
“I see.” I paused. “Officially and unofficially, probably been living here about six, seven months.”
“And you’re not even with the junior doctor you told me about.” He laughed. “Honestly, Rob, I can’t believe you’ve traded in a junior doctor for a giornalista, a fucking journalist.”
I knew of his antipathy to the fourth estate.
“She’s a damn good journalist, mate.” I laughed along with him whilst attempting not to sound too defensive. “She’s an English Lit grad and she really knows how to write. You should read some of the articles she’s written; guarantee you’d like them.”
I realised at this point I’d begun to feel very comfortable talking to him, and the term mate had just slipped out so easily. I was experiencing a familiar confusion of emotions, talking instead of alerting the Branch so his number and position could be traced.
“Anyway,” I said, “me and the doc didn’t work out. The relationship was pretty much dead in the water when I last spoke to you and, soon after, she moved back home to Wiltshire. Last I heard she’d met an orthopaedic surgeon. She’s doing really well. I’m pleased for her.”
The line was quiet for three seconds.
“So, you must have met this Sally female pretty soon after I last saw you.”
“Yeah, probably not too much longer afterwards, maybe a couple of months or so.”
“How’d you meet her? Since when did you start associating with intellettuali?” he asked in an amused tone. I was momentarily confused until I remembered it meant intellectuals.
“During an investigation. A young police officer had been murdered, had his throat slit open, and I was checking out a couple of leads. Sally was reporting on the case for her paper, we got talking and she volunteered information I could use, which proved really helpful.” I was smiling, remembering how it’d all begun. “One thing led to another and . . .”
“Yup, here you are,” he leapt in before I finished, “happily married and living in Battersea. You like it where you are?”
“I do, yeah. We’ve taken the lease on a really nice apartment and, between the two of us, we can easily afford it.”
“No, I meant, you like Battersea?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s alright, right near the centre of town, convenient for us both to get to work, couple of really good riverside pubs nearby and the park’s almost opposite. There’s clean running water and flushing indoor toilets, so no risk of cholera,” I said jokingly, “and there’s even a dog’s home just up the road.”
The line was quiet for a few moments. I wondered what he was thinking about the change in my circumstances. I soon found out.
“Same old Robert.” He sounded like he was laughing. “You don’t ever change, do you? You always were satisfied with very little, weren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I was perplexed.
“Don’t get me wrong, Rob, it’s not a criticism,” he said pleasantly. “I mean, think about it. Even when we were teenagers and had girlfriends, if there was a better offer someplace else, even if she put it on a plate for you and tied it up with a pink ribbon, you’d always stick with what you had, whereas me? A better offer elsewhere, I was gone.”
This was true. He flitted between girlfriends so often I couldn’t keep up. I remembered one time when I’d called the girl he’d been with by the name of his previous girlfriend, which’d earned me a face slap, much to his amusement.
“What I meant is, living where you are, you’re surrounded by all the affluence of Belgravia, Chelsea and Knightsbridge, yet you’re happy to be living in downmarket Battersea.”
“Is this why you’ve called, to condemn my life choices?”
“No, I’m sorry, man.” He sounded apologetic. “I sound like the worst kind of fucking middle-class snob, don’t I? Me, of all people. You’re a good guy, Rob. I just think you deserve better, is what I was getting at.”
“Hmm, let’s think about this, shall we? My life’s currently in the best place it’s ever been. My job’s going well, I’m living in a great flat and I’ve just married the most amazing woman, someone I love so much it almost fucking hurts,” I said lightly. “I can see why you think I’m missing out somewhere.”
He dissolved into a fit of intense laughter which went on for around ten seconds. I’d forgotten how infectious his laugh could be and I was soon laughing along with him. I couldn’t explain why, but laughing with him felt good.
I had to admit to myself I was really enjoying talking to Mike Mendoccini again.
“Fuck, man,” he said, still laughing, “that’s put me in my place, hasn’t it?” He went quiet for a few seconds. “Una donna incredibile, eh? Well, you certainly didn’t gush like this about the junior doctor, Rob, so I’ve gotta ask you, mate. What is so amazing about this Sally female you’ve ended up marrying her?”
“How long you here for?” I asked. “It’ll take me that long to tell you.”
“Madre Dio,” he exclaimed. His voice rose slightly. “Madonna mia, I’m gonna have to meet your wife properly at some point. I’m not having my best mate married to a woman I haven’t yet given my approval to.”
Best mate? After all these years, that was what he still thought? I stopped laughing.
“So, why are you here, Michael? You still haven’t told me.”
“Eh.” He stretched the word out for a few seconds. “Let’s just say I have a couple of small things to take care of. Once they’re under control, I’ll be off back home.”
“Well, at least tell me you’re not here for any unlawful reason.”
“Rob,” he said sorrowfully, “I’ve not ever planted a bomb, or killed an
yone. In your heart of hearts, you know I’m telling you the truth, don’t you? You know I’d never lie to you.”
He was almost certainly right. But this wasn’t the time or place to say he was still part of Red Heaven, a group with an ignoble history of planting bombs, causing terror and taking lives unjustifiably. When I eventually say this to him, as I hope happens one day, I want to be looking directly into his eyes and be able to judge his response.
“Yeah, I believe you,” I said neutrally.
“That’s good. Well, okay, man, ciao.” He sounded upbeat. “You take care. Been great talking to you, Rob. I can’t tell you how good it is to hear your voice again. I just wish it could be for longer. We’ve so much to catch up on, and we’ve missed large parts of each other’s lives, but I’ll contact you again soon, before I go. Give my love to Sally; hope I didn’t spook her too much giving her the card. I’ve gotta meet her properly someday.”
“Be good, man.” I hung up.
I immediately contacted the Branch office, gave my iPhone number and mentioned I’d just received a number withheld call on it and I wanted the number of the caller and the location of the call triangulated. I wanted to know if he’d really been calling from the UK. Twenty-three seconds later I was informed no trace had been possible and no number could be ascertained. I knew what this meant. He’d been using a cheap, single-purpose disposable mobile phone and, immediately after signing off, he’d removed the SIM card and destroyed it, anticipating I’d try tracing the call, so even the phone tower the signal had been bounced off couldn’t be traced. The phone was almost certainly in pieces by now, and he was probably walking around London doing whatever it was he was here to do.
I settled back into the couch and drained my beer, feeling psychologically and spiritually dishevelled. Whilst I couldn’t deny it’d felt good talking and laughing with Michael again, I was very aware there was a side to him I could never be reconciled with. To hear us talking just now, you’d be forgiven for thinking we were simply two old friends reconnecting. But underlying our conversation was the sadness I felt as I knew, whatever my heart said, he was a terrorist, or at the very least a terrorist sympathiser, part of Red Heaven, helping to make their operations possible, and things could never again be the same between us. If he were in front of me right now, I’d arrest him, even if this meant having to point a gun at him. It would be the right thing to do, not to mention my sworn duty, but it’d be psychologically traumatic.
The Real World- the Point of Death Page 11