The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  “Who was this other agency?”

  “I don’t know; I was never told. But the first part of the operation went smoothly, and I do believe Red Heaven lost several of its leading lights, arrested by Italian police.”

  There was a heavy silence for several seconds.

  “So Garlinge was complicit in the Bujumbura massacre,” I stated.

  “He was indeed.” Sir Paul nodded and sighed. He sat quietly for several seconds. “Earlier this year, Charles went back to Italy as part of a Parliamentary trade delegation. MI6 specifically wanted him to go and explain what had happened to Bozetti’s top management. He did, and I don’t know what the result was. But, in any case, the Italian security people were happy with the outcome.”

  “Garlinge was guilty of taking money,” I mused.

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” Sir Paul said ruefully. “I mean, bribery’s endemic in the arms world, everyone knows that, but there’s bribery and bribery, isn’t there?”

  “There’s a difference?” I asked, curiously.

  “Oh, most definitely, yes,” he said. “I mean, there’s bribery in the public interest, to get business, which is sort of unofficially condoned by all governments and the various regulatory bodies because ultimately society benefits from it.” He shrugged. “If we pay a bribe to someone in, for instance, the Qatari government to get a contract, jobs are then created or maintained and firms like Bartolome stay in business; the world keeps turning, so to speak. Governments are quite happy to turn a blind eye, no matter what their rhetoric concerning ethical business, when the end product contributes to GDP and the orders keep coming, so long as it’s covert.” He took another sip of his drink. “This is how the real world functions, detective.” He smiled knowingly. “But then there’s also bribery amounting to wholesale corruption, which has nothing to do with the public benefit; just taking money because it’s there to be taken, irrespective of the consequences. Personal greed rather than social benefit, which is what Charles was engaged in. His actions put a big hole in MI6’s operation.”

  He sipped his drink and sat back against the couch, crossing his legs. “Ibrahim Mohammed had made another deal with the Burundis for them to receive the weapons we were, or thought we were, manufacturing for Bozetti. Someone inside Bozetti was involved, and MI6 was working alongside AISE in an attempt to find out who it was. But, because the arms went elsewhere before they reached Bozetti, this was no longer possible. The Italians were furious. Yes, they’d managed to break up a Red Heaven cell, but they didn’t catch the person they really wanted, you see.” He nodded sagely.

  I thought of Garlinge’s visit to Italy earlier in the year, and his visit to Bozetti without anyone else from the party he was travelling with. Was this the reason he went, so they could congratulate each other on their act of sabotage?

  “You wanted to know why I did what I did yesterday. Well, now you do.” He shrugged as though it was a fait accompli. It was. “This matter had to be publicly aired. Charles was a crook and I wanted it known, though of course I wasn’t expecting him to die.”

  Who else knew about this situation? I asked the question.

  “Ian Harper knew. He helped Charles cover his tracks, helped him with his deception, so he knew about it.”

  “Ian Harper?” I was surprised to hear his name mentioned.

  “The security service knew,” Sir Paul continued, “as do I, and now you. I don’t know who else.”

  “You’re sure about Harper?”

  “Oh, yes.” He nodded. “The day after the Bujumbura massacre, he came to my office and poured it all out, said Charles had been involved in helping the weapons reach Burundi. When I confronted Charles, he didn’t deny it.”

  He sat quietly, staring out the window for a moment. “And I suspect this helped to get Charles killed the other night, didn’t it, detective?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I would imagine it’s not been ruled out as a motive.” I wasn’t going to waste time denying it. Sir Paul wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  There was a heavy silence for a few more seconds. Sir Paul calmly finished his drink whilst I considered everything I’d heard.

  “It’d be either one of our side or their side who killed him, if that’s the case,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  “Our side?” I was bemused.

  “Oh, quite likely. I mean, I wouldn’t rule it out. His actions caused quite a furore, I’m told.”

  He sipped his drink and looked at me unreadably. I waited.

  After a moment, he chuckled to himself. “You know what’s funny?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t.

  “Beginning of last week, Charles came to my office looking very worried.” He grinned. “He said Armswatch had been in touch with him and was threatening to make known what it knew about his accepting bribes and about Bujumbura. He was almost in tears. He kept asking, who in this firm would ever send information like this to Armswatch? I just shrugged and said I didn’t know, but I’d look into the leak.”

  “So, when I spoke to you on Sunday . . .” I said.

  He just smiled, nodded and sipped his drink. I had one more thing to ask him.

  “So this was all in aid of what, exactly?” I asked.

  “What, why I spoke to Ownsley? I wanted all this hush-hush nonsense exposed, and I also wanted Charles Garlinge exposed; that’s what I wanted. I wanted it made public what Charles had done, and the consequences which followed his action: all those innocent people dying, just so he could pocket however much it was from Ibrahim Mohammed, as well as blacken this company’s name? What Ownsley said in the House earlier will pretty much guarantee Bartolome Systems is kept in the news loop for some time to come, especially as Charles’ name was also mentioned. You never know; a resourceful journalist might even learn about the company’s rescue last year.”

  He was correct there. Tomorrow’s press would carry an avalanche of stories about what Ownsley had said earlier, with other revelations to follow, given what Steve Jacobs had told me earlier. Whether it stopped there or was continued would depend on the response from the security service.

  “So, again, was Charles silenced last Saturday evening or was it really natural causes?” Sir Paul asked, almost indifferently.

  “I’ve seen what’s in the papers, but I’ve not been told anything any different.” This was more or less true; I’d been told nothing definitively. He sighed.

  “So, now you know. What happens to me now?” he asked calmly, putting his glass down.

  “That’s for the powers-that-be to decide. But, I were you, I wouldn’t make any travel plans in the near future.”

  I left him sitting on the settee, looking out the window at the dark sky.

  E L E V E N

  Wednesday

  On the way back to Battersea last evening, I’d speculated about what Sir Paul had told me, and wondered if his desire to see Charles Garlinge hauled over burning coals was the real reason for his whispering in Graeme Ownsley’s ear. My suspicion was that there had to be more here than I knew, but, whatever it was, I was no nearer to working it out.

  I’d been particularly intrigued to hear Ian Harper had been involved in helping Charles Garlinge. I’d never know how he might have helped as he was now dead, ostensibly by his own hand, but this could explain his shocked reaction last Saturday morning when I’d spoken to him.

  The late news had featured the comments made by Ownsley in the House in some depth, and the BBC’s flagship news programme, Newsnight, had devoted a ten-minute section of its time slot to the Bujumbura massacre, asking how and why Western arms had come to be in the possession of Burundian soldiers. It was taken as read someone had to have whispered in Graeme Ownsley’s ear, though when approached he refused a request for an interview. The junior minister speaking for the Government, plus the Labour spokesman and someone from Amnesty International, had clashed over the issue. But, ultimately, the question everyone wanted to know the answer to was whether what had been said by O
wnsley was actually true and, if so, how had this been allowed to happen?

  Taylor and I were both about to leave for work when she took a call on her mobile. She smiled all the way through it, and ended up beaming as she rang off. Apparently Steve Jacobs had forwarded a copy of the article she and he had written to James Blatchford yesterday evening, asking if he wanted to make any comments before it was published in the Evening Standard magazine on Thursday. He’d got back to Jacobs and had been livid, almost incandescent with anger, issuing all kinds of threats and warnings about dire consequences if the article was published. Jacobs had apparently asked if there was anything in the article which was untrue, but Blatchford had refused to make any comment about the subject matter. I awaited developments.

  I didn’t have long to wait either. The Times had made the interesting comment that, whilst Graeme Ownsley had a track record of controversial comments on defence matters, the thinking was that he had to have been tipped off by a very authoritative source, given the nature of the comment made. There was speculation that it was from someone inside security, which on its own was cause for concern.

  I typed up and passed on to Smitherman a copy of my report outlining my conversation with Sir Paul, which reiterated his claim he’d tipped off Graeme Ownsley about weapons being diverted to Burundi. I’d explained what he’d said about Bartolome Systems being used as an adjunct of Government policy and his dislike of the situation. I’d also mentioned Garlinge’s acceptance of money to ensure arms were diverted to Burundi, which, according to Sir Paul, had scuppered an MI6 plan with AISE. He read my comments carefully.

  “Quite the conversation you had.” Was he smiling?

  “What happens now? Is he likely to be arrested?”

  “Sir Paul? Unlikely, I’d have thought,” Smitherman said, almost too casually.

  My eyes opened wide in surprise. “Really? He’s admitted he broke a court order by—”

  “That’s true, he did,” Smitherman cut me off, “but who else knows about it? Graeme Ownsley’s not going to say anything, is he? Neither will Graves, and I suspect Sir Paul’s not going to make it known publicly either, and, even if he was of a mind to do so, you really think the security people would let it happen?”

  He set my report down on his desk. “Detectives questioned Ownsley last evening. Obviously, he can’t be arrested for what he did, but police wanted to know who passed him the information he used and, surprise, he refused to tell them anything. We know, but CID doesn’t, so it’s been decided, for the moment, the matter will not be pursued. Bartolome Systems will of course deny the allegations, Ownsley and Armswatch will press for clarification but will get nothing from doing so, other than their names in the papers, and after a few days the controversy will blow over and all will be forgotten.” He paused for a few seconds. “The security service doesn’t want Sir Paul having to testify in open court. They’re anxious to keep this whole thing quiet, which is why they’ve told police not to question anyone at Bartolome about it, for the moment.”

  I could just imagine the media feeding frenzy if Sir Paul ever said in open court what he’d told me last evening. However, it was safe to assume the media would keep on digging into the allegations. With what Jacobs had told me yesterday, and Clements already planning to write something with the aid of Armswatch, the issue wasn’t going to go away quietly. It was a certainty New Focuswouldn’t hesitate to publish whatever Armswatch passed on to it.

  “So,” I said, “as the injunction’s now invalid, and the matter’s out in the open, which is what Sir Paul said he wanted, Armswatch is free to get its information published.” As I spoke I was wondering whether Graves and Clements had met up yet to discuss what Armswatch knew.

  “The DSMA notices are still in place, though.”

  “Indeed they are, but the matter’s now been aired in a public forum, so any editor’s within his rights to ignore them and plead qualified privilege.”

  Smitherman didn’t respond to this point. He sat back, looking contemplative for a moment, then sat forward again, looking very businesslike. “There’s something else as well, and it has a direct bearing on this situation.” He fixed me with a stare. “I’m led to believe your wife’s the joint author of an article which, I understand, is being published tomorrow and will be making various claims about James Blatchford, amongst other things.”

  I indicated I was aware of this. He asked if I knew the exact contents. I said I vaguely knew the gist of what she’d written, but I didn’t know the whole story, though I knew the Mayor of London was prominently featured.

  “Several months back, she wrote an article about his share dealings, did she not, claiming he’d benefited financially from using insider knowledge to buy and sell shares?”

  I knew she had. I’d been her source, though she still thought it was Richard Clements. It was through my investigating this we’d hooked up.

  “We never did find out who her source was, did we?” Smitherman asked.

  I gave him my well-practised lie about it being someone inside Blatchford’s campaign team, though we couldn’t identify exactly who it was. I remembered going through the motions of talking to Taylor about it, and then being amazed when she’d asked me out on a date. But I was beginning to wonder where this conversation was going. “Is there a reason why you’ve mentioned the article?”

  Smitherman was silent for several seconds. He stared at the screen on his laptop for a moment, then looked up again. “It’s my understanding they’re going to be making allegations about one or two individuals which certain people would rather were kept out of the public purview.”

  “Like who, specifically?” I was intrigued.

  “For the moment I can make no comment. But suffice it to say, whoever their sources of information might be, they’ve touched on a few sensitive nerves.”

  “What, you mean Blatchford’s?”

  Smitherman didn’t reply. He nodded gently to himself for a moment. “That’s all I can say for the moment.”

  “So are they looking to injunct the article?”

  He didn’t respond. I got up and left, wondering if all Taylor’s work was about to be stepped on.

  *

  Back at my desk there was a report concerning Ian Harper’s untimely demise. His stomach had contained the residue of more than two thirds of a bottle of strong sleeping pills, prescribed by his GP, which had been diluted with a considerable quantity of chardonnay. It was estimated he’d died sometime during the early afternoon, so he’d probably have been dead roughly eighteen hours by the time I’d found him.

  That his untimely demise had all the signs of a suicide was not in doubt, but I was more concerned with why. I’d read his file last Saturday and it had been dull to the point of ennui. He was a career company man, a devout churchgoer and lived an ascetic life: not someone usually associated with suicidal thoughts.

  Uniforms had canvassed the area and interviewed several residents living in the same building, including two MPs. No one claimed to know Harper beyond exchanging the occasional good morning when they’d pass. However, one of the MPs mentioned he’d seen Harper in the company of another man on Monday morning, coming out of the building and strolling along the road. The man he was with was described as being big-built, but no other details had been given, and the MP concerned hadn’t taken too much notice as he’d been about to get into a waiting taxi. Janine Channon MP had also said she’d seen someone, a big guy, entering the building around eleven Monday morning. I requested CCTV footage for the area for Monday morning, giving the time frame required.

  I read on and learnt Harper’s flat had been searched by MI5 operatives soon after his body had been removed. Harper had been employed in a security-sensitive company in an important position, so security service involvement would be a given, but I was curious. Did this imply the suspicion his death wasn’t a suicide? I continued reading and learnt a packet of small syringes had been found in the bathroom, the kind diabetics used. But Harper w
asn’t a diabetic, according to his file. Did this suggest he had had some involvement in the death of Charles Garlinge four nights back?

  A few minutes later, the CCTV footage for Monday morning arrived. I opened it and saw a taxi pull up outside Harper’s premises and a man exiting, but even fully zoomed in and focused from both angles, the man was too far away to obtain a clear picture of who it might be. He went into the building. I wound forward and several minutes later the same man and someone else came outside and walked along the road. I assumed the smaller man was Ian Harper but I still couldn’t make out his companion, whose features were too blurry. They stopped and talked for about three minutes, leaning into each other at one point, as though they were whispering to each other, then they walked back. Both men re-entered the building.

  I wound the tape forward until it showed the unknown man leaving the building, fifty-one minutes later. I switched camera angles and adjusted the camera focus several times but was still unable to obtain a clear picture of the man’s face. I watched through the footage two more times, looking intently at Harper’s visitor but unable to get a clear facial image.

  The visitor, though, was a big guy. Bartlett ‘Post’ Poe?

  *

  I entered the offices of Armswatch and saw the same receptionist as last Friday. She looked up from her typing when I stopped by her desk, her smile suggesting she recognised me.

  “Can I help you, detective?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Yeah, you can tell me if Nick Graves is here.”

  “In his office, but he’s on the phone just now.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  She looked very surprised when I walked past her desk and down a short passageway to Graves’ office. He was indeed on the phone as I entered. He told whoever it was he’d call them back.