“Sir Paul, you’re aware, aren’t you, Charles Garlinge’s heavily implicated in an arms shipment this firm sent to Italy going astray and ending up in Burundi, where those same weapons were later used to slaughter innocent civilians?” I said this quietly but firmly. “And now Ian Harper taking his own life?”
His expression changed to one of shocked bemusement, as though I’d just told him I was taking his wife out for dinner later this evening. A look which said this can’t be true.
I paused a few seconds to let what I’d said sink in. “Presumably you’re aware an injunction was granted in the High Court yesterday which prevents Armswatch from making any use of what they know about this company. So, for the moment, such allegations can’t be made public.”
“What they claim they know,” he retorted, almost as a sneer.
“Are you denying what they’re claiming?”
“The matter’s sub judice, detective, so I’m not commenting about anything.”
It wasn’t. All the injunction did was prevent any information in Armswatch’s possession from being made public. The matter wasn’t subject to any legal proceedings, but I wasn’t about to debate legal protocol with him. “Sunday morning, I showed you a picture, and you said you didn’t know the man I was pointing out to you.”
He nodded his agreement.
“The person concerned is, or was, an MI5 operative, one who’s now on the run because we’ve evidence he was involved in the IRA getting hold of the Semtex they used when they set off those two car bombs a couple of months ago. You remember those?”
He said he remembered reading about them.
“I’m curious,” I said. “Why would such a person have been at Bartolome’s AGM?”
He remained motionless for a moment, hands still flat against his desk, breathing slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. He then sat forward. “Selling armaments isn’t like selling digestive biscuits or children’s clothing, detective. It’s a heavily regulated business with considerable Government involvement and a lot of political pressures that need to be weighed and considered.” He looked and sounded as though he was addressing an audience at Chatham House rather than just one police officer. “Everything we manufacture and sell has to have the correct processes and procedures followed, and all the appropriate licences applied for, processed and granted before anything can be exported, even if we’re selling to a friendly nation. So, because governments have to think of things like foreign policy and human rights,” – he didn’t appear to approve of human rights – “very often the security people have to be involved. That would be why Harry Ferguson was present. He’s our security liaison, the man we deal with when political considerations arise and the spooks have to advise us as to what we can and cannot do or sell.”
“Was he involved in negotiating the contract with Bozetti?”
“I can’t talk specifics, for obvious reasons, detective, but Italy’s a friendly nation, isn’t it?”
“They do say so,” I replied, hopefully not too flippantly, “but had you been made aware Bozetti’s also under suspicion from the Italian authorities of involvement in terrorists obtaining weapons? Did Ferguson advise you about this?”
“I did tell you I can’t talk specific details,” he stated firmly.
“Would Charles Garlinge have been aware of this fact when he helped negotiate the deal with Ibrahim Mohammed?”
Sir Paul didn’t reply, just stared at me. I waited a moment.
“Going back to what I said earlier, about what Armswatch knows about Bartolome Systems, and Charles Garlinge’s name featuring prominently in the bribery allegations, you should know I’ve also spoken to two other people about this, and I’ve been assured by these people this company maintains a slush fund” – I made inverted commas with my index fingers – “from which Charles Garlinge drew to help negotiate contracts. Was this the situation with Bozetti? ”
From his facial expression, I’d crossed the line. He fixed me with a steely stare. “Was it you spoke to Harper last Saturday?” It felt more like a statement than a question.
I agreed it was.
“He relayed his concerns to me soon afterwards. He was very worried about police speaking to him. I wonder if it’s this kind of harassment caused him to take his own life?”
He sounded like he was getting angry. He eyed me suspiciously as he spoke. It was an absurd claim and I ignored it.
“What you should be more worried about,” I stressed, holding his stare, “is how and why Armswatch’s even in a position to make such claims. Someone inside this company’s leaked a whole pile of very confidential documents to them and, but for the injunction, they’d be making public what they know.” I waited a moment. “Did you know about this information going astray?”
He looked like he’d reached the end of his tether. From his sour expression it appeared he was unused to being questioned by people he considered to be beneath him in the social hierarchy. He held up his hands as if to say enough. “I really can’t comment any further on any of these points, detective, until after our board has met, which’ll probably be quite soon given what’s occurred these past few days.” He stood up. “So, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
I was about to leave, but I turned to face Sir Paul. “Presumably you’re aware you and Garlinge were neighbours in Septimus House?”
“He lived a few floors above me, so, yes, I was aware. Why do you ask?”
“His flat came with quite a sizeable discount from the firm which owns the building, Towerleaf Holdings,” I remarked casually. “I was just wondering whether all Bartolome employees got such a discount, or was it only him?”
He didn’t reply, sat down again and began looking at something on his laptop screen. I took the hint and left.
*
I was on my way back to the Yard when I noticed I’d missed a call from Taylor, so she’d sent a text message: hey hun, call me. My eternal pleasure to do so. I did.
“The guy I co-authored the article with, Steve,” she began, “he’s just told me he’s unearthed something you might be interested in knowing, and he wants to talk to you as soon as possible. I’ve no idea what it’s about, but I’ve got his number here.” She read out a mobile number, which I noted. “Whatever he’s found, it’s too late to include in the article but, depending, we might be able to run a feature about it in the paper later on.”
“Thanks for this. See ya tonight, gorgeous.” I did my risible impression of Bogart.
“God, I’m married to an idiot.” She laughed and rang off.
I dialled the number given. Steve Jacobs answered immediately. I identified myself.
“Oh, yeah, thanks for calling. I’ve found out something else about Charles Garlinge, something quite astonishing.”
Whatever it was, most definitely I wanted to know it. “Where are you right now?”
I’d caught him coming out of Lantanis’ office as he’d been collecting documents from his partner Trish, and the office wasn’t too far away, so, at his suggestion, as he wanted a liquid lunch, we arranged to meet immediately in the Two Chairmen, Queen Anne’s Gate. I knew the pub as it was located in Old Westminster, an area I’d always enjoyed wandering around, absorbing London’s history and the political intrigue which had occurred here down the years. Sadly, though, the area was being redeveloped and some of the charm had been lost. Old buildings were being decimated and redeveloped into glass and stainless steel monuments to the unimaginative aesthetic of the twenty-first century: not a pleasing thought.
I also knew the Two Chairmen because, earlier this year, I’d had a lengthy talk there with Qais Jaser and had discovered several points relevant to my inquiry into the death of a young London police officer, and I hadn’t much liked what I’d heard. This was one of those sad though fortuitous curveballs life occasionally throws your way because, but for this police officer being murdered, I would never have met Sally Taylor.
I was making my way through the fug created by lunchtime
drinkers smoking outside on the pavement when I realised I didn’t know what Steve Jacobs looked like. Apparently he knew me, though, because, as I entered, someone at the bar raised a hand in my direction.
He reminded me of Richard Clements. He was, I’d guess, mid-thirties, perhaps a little older, and unkempt in appearance. His clothes looked like he lived in them; he had straggly, uncombed dark hair and was attempting to grow a beard but failing miserably. He had a long thin face and the kind of gleam in his eye which seemed to indicate he and the world were on favourable terms with each other.
“Hi, Rob, thanks for coming along,” he greeted me.
Rob? When had we become friends?
He said he’d recognised me because I matched the description Taylor had given him. He bought himself a Stella Artois and a cappuccino for me, and we sat at a table near the back wall. He introduced himself properly and immediately began outlining how hard he and Taylor had worked researching and sourcing the material for their forthcoming article. He’d read what she’d written and thought it was really good, and he was excited about seeing the article in print in two days’ time. Though what he’d just learnt would be too late to be included, he thought it would be worth a follow-up story at a later date. I told him Taylor had just said the same thing. He took a long sip of his pint.
“Wow, this is amazing,” he suddenly said with a laugh, placing his glass on the table. “Me sitting across from a Special Branch detective sergeant and I’m not being interrogated.”
There was nothing to say to this. “So, okay, what have you found out about Charles Garlinge?”
“Oh, quite a few things, actually. Had quite the chequered past, has our Charles.” He grinned widely as he sipped more beer.
I waited.
“The flat at Septimus House, he got a discount on it when he bought it.”
I indicated I was aware of this.
“Ah, but are you aware of how he might have got the discount?” He stared straight at me, his eyes wide open. “What he actually did to merit such favourable consideration?”
I shook my head.
“You knew he was a sergeant in the army, didn’t you?”
I nodded my agreement.
“He never rose above sergeant; his army career stalled. The official story is he wanted to leave because he harboured political aspirations, but I’ve found the backstory, the real reason why.”
I remembered, when looking at Garlinge’s file, reading about his commanding officer having expressed his surprise at Garlinge leaving the army when he did, but I’d seen no official reason given for his departure. “Which was?”
“Okay.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Garlinge and a Major someone-or-other took a group of young squaddies, ten in number, all around eighteen or nineteen, out on some three-day field reconnaissance exercise and route march. It’s the sort of exercise designed to ascertain which squaddies show the most potential to earn stripes. They were taken somewhere high up on the Yorkshire moors, and set up base camp at the end of a day’s march and, early evening, the major has to go somewhere off base, so, rather than just have the squaddies sitting around doing nothing, Sergeant Garlinge organises a milling contest.”
“Milling?”
“Yeah, it’s army-style boxing, except it isn’t boxing. It’s usually part of the new recruits’ basic training. It’s unleashing one minute of pure controlled aggression, but there’s no fancy boxing footwork or weaving and ducking allowed, no Muhammad Ali-type ringcraft posturing. It’s just flat-out punching the crap out of each other for one minute, and the loser usually has to buy the beer. You ever seen Mike Tyson fight? It’s raging bull stuff, something like that.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said ironically.
“It usually is. It’s supposed to teach the recruits how to channel their aggression into a short time period, and there’s usually no animosity afterwards; they realise it’s what’s expected of them. The thing is, though, basic training rules state they’re also expected to wear head guards and boxing gloves so nobody gets really hurt, but, on this occasion, ’cause they’re up on the moors, they don’t have any with them. So they do the milling unprotected, using just bandages wrapped around the hands, and nothing to protect the head, which is in direct contravention of army regulations.”
I had the feeling I knew what was coming next.
“There’re a few cuts and bruises and bloody noses, no major damage. Except . . .”
He paused to finish his beer, and then went to the bar to buy another. Unless I know the wrong ones, male journos seem to drink a lot.
He sat down and continued. “For the last fight, he pairs these two guys up against each other, one an Eastern European, the other a Scotsman, which was a big mistake because these two don’t like each other, and I mean really don’t, and Garlinge knows this, but this is why he does it. Says it’s good for squad morale, gets rid of all the bad blood in one go, builds team spirit, helps with bonding and so on.” He stopped for a moment.
“So these two slug the crap out of each other, and they go at it like they really mean it, hell for fucking leather.” He grinned. “Garlinge lets them fight on well after the minute’s up, and they’re kicking and gouging and biting each other, the Scot even headbutts the other guy, none of which is permitted in milling.” He paused to sip some beer. “The East European then gets the Scots guy in some kind of martial arts-type headlock, which also isn’t permitted in milling, but Garlinge lets it go, and this guy can’t break out of it. He’s struggling to such an extent the other guy has to apply even more pressure to hold him in the lock, and guess what?” His eyes opened wide. “He breaks the guy’s neck.”
I looked at Jacobs in surprise. I’d not expected this.
“Yup, snaps his neck right around here.” He patted the back of his neck. “Bloke’s dead before the other one’s even released his grip.”
He paused for several seconds.
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Garlinge lines the rest of the squad up, and he tells them, no, he fucking orders them, when the major asks what’d happened here, to say they heard nothing and they saw nothing. Said he’d drop every one of them headfirst in the shit if anyone said what really happened. They all agree and, when the major returns and finds a dead young squaddie, everyone’s deaf, dumb and blind, got nothing to tell the major. Nobody’s seen anything. Garlinge covers up for the squaddie who won, tells the major nothing untoward happened, just a couple of blokes milling, one fell awkwardly and broke his neck in a tragic accident.”
“Anything else happen?”
“Nope. There’s a regimental inquiry into the death – I mean, of course there is – but it concluded there’s no evidence of foul play by anyone, and none of the tribunal ever knew about the neck break hold the other guy’d used on him, and none of the other young squaddies had anything to say – they’re all blind and mute, all made statements saying they saw nothing – so this guy’s death gets written up as accidental death. Nothing more ever gets said about it. Garlinge, though, gets his knuckles rapped for allowing unprotected milling to take place. Year or so later, Garlinge’s contract’s up. There’s now an indelible blot against his judgement, and his chances of becoming an officer are screwed, so he leaves the army, becomes a civvy, gets a job with Bartolome Systems, and you know the rest.”
“So what about all the cuts and bruises the dead guy must have had on his body?”
“Not taken account of.” He shrugged. “Just covered over. The major also wanted it kept quiet, so the full extent of the injuries wasn’t written up in his report. Gets recorded as an unfortunate accident.”
I was chewing over what I’d heard. Few privates would dare go against the word of a sergeant, particularly one who’d stood back and allowed two other young recruits to fight to the death. Armies the world over are run by sergeants, aren’t they? I was curious, though. “Something like this wouldn’t exactly be public knowledge, so how’d you find this out, and how
d’you know it’s true?”
He sat forward and looked me right in the eyes with a serious expression. “How? Because my older brother was one of the nineteen-year-old squaddies who witnessed the fight.” He nodded. “He’s career army and, as he’s now a major himself, I asked him if he could find out anything about a Charles Garlinge, so he did. He was disgusted at what Garlinge did that night and has always held it against him, so he happily dug up Garlinge’s record, plus the report of the inquiry into the Scots guys death, and that’s when he told me what had occurred, said the conclusion of death by misadventure, an unfortunate accident, was rubbish. He said he was there, saw the whole thing.” He paused for a sip of beer. “I’m gonna give this report to Sally and hope she can run an article about it.”
He stopped talking for a moment. I wondered what was coming next.
“But the covering up of a soldier’s death isn’t the most significant thing here.” He said this like he had a state secret to reveal.
“So what is?”
“The identity of the young soldier Garlinge covered up for, that’s what.”
He went quiet again. I raised my eyebrows and spread my hands out as if to say, Well?
His answer astounded me.
“The soldier’s name was Alecks Krachnikhov.”
I took a few deep breaths. The surprise must have been etched across my face.
“Yup, Yuri’s son.” Jacobs was grinning inanely. “Alecks was born here in London when Yuri and his wife were visiting. He then lived in Russia till he was four, when he moved back to London. His father was under suspicion by the Kremlin of embezzling money from the Russian government by this time, so they left the country. Alecks spends a few years going back and forth between Moscow and here as his parents are divorced, and, at seventeen, he joins the British army.”
“So this Alecks . . .”
“Oh yes.” He nodded vigorously. “Alecks now works for his father, runs Towerleaf Holdings on behalf of Yuri. So, when Blatchford decides he’s gonna sell Septimus House to Towerleaf, he hints to Garlinge he should put his name down on the waiting list if he wants to buy a flat there. Alecks Krachnikhov discovers Garlinge has his name down as a potential buyer, he tells Blatchford, no, he absolutely fucking insists, Garlinge should get a discount. Our beloved mayor, James Blatchford, agrees, and so, when the sale’s going through, he instructs the lawyers handling it to ensure Garlinge gets his apartment at a discount. You see, Alecks hasn’t forgotten how Garlinge saved his arse when he was in the army, so he repays him like this. If Garlinge’d reported everything that’d occurred, and the major’d passed it on, Alecks would’ve ended up in a military prison.”
The Real World- the Point of Death Page 23