The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  I wasn’t lying when I’d told Graves I wouldn’t tell anyone about his involvement in the House of Commons incident, because anyone who needed to know already knew.

  I’d then contacted Sir Paul Peterson and asked if Alecks Krachnikhov had been at the ExCeL centre. He’d answered in the affirmative. Asked if he saw him leave, he’d said Alecks Krachnikhov had left not too long after nine thirty, not staying for a late drink with his father. This would have given him more than enough time to get to Hemel Hempstead and lie in wait for Garlinge’ss return.

  I’d also reached my conclusion because, just before leaving, I’d looked up Alecks Krachnikhov’s file and noted that, according to his medical notes, he suffered from type 1 diabetes. The puncture mark on Garlinge’s arm suggested a small needle had been used.

  “I’ve two witnesses who’ll confirm you left the ExCeL centre well before ten,” I stated formally. “That’s a considerable time difference between when you say you did and when you actually did.”

  He said nothing in reply. I waited a few more seconds.

  “So, where did you go when you left?” I asked a little more forcefully.

  “I came home, like I said.” He shrugged. He was doing a lot of shrugging in this conversation.

  “Which, of course, I can’t verify as your family are all conveniently out of the country.”

  He nodded and said nothing. I could see him silently smirking.

  “It’s interesting, isn’t it?” I asked. “Sergeant Garlinge lies for you, probably perjures himself keeping you from going to a military prison, and yet you still kill him last Saturday night.”

  I said this calmly and rationally, holding his eye the whole time. Krachnikhov sat motionless and didn’t respond to my comment. There was a heavy silence for a moment.

  I was interested in the fact his expression didn’t change, that he didn’t immediately come back at me with something along the lines of nobody killed him, he died of a heart attack, that’s what the papers said. Or what reason would I have to kill him? Or how dare you make such a scurrilous accusation against me? That was what somebody offended by my accusation or wanting to establish the case for innocence would have said. But Krachnikhov said nothing; just sat back in his chair, nodding slightly to himself.

  “Not much of a way of showing gratitude, is it?” I asked.

  At this point he smiled, then chuckled lightly, almost like he was laughing at something only he could hear through headphones. I wasn’t sure why. “You think I killed him, eh?”

  I said that this was the conclusion Special Branch had reached after its investigation, which was why I was here. Again, no sign of any denial.

  “And why would you think this?” He was beginning to look bored.

  “Because it all makes sense, that’s why. Everything falls nicely and neatly into place. You’d have every reason to silence him, given everything he knows about your family’s business.” I said this calmly but left no doubt I was accusing him of murder. “I know your father does business with Bartolome Systems, and also with Bozetti, in Italy. I also know Garlinge helped louse up an operation involving both companies earlier this year, and your father’s business lost a lot of money.”

  I didn’t actually know this at all. I was speculating, hoping to rile him.

  “My father’s business did lose money dealing with Garlinge, that’s true, it lost a sizeable sum. But so what? All firms in this business lose money occasionally.”

  My guess had been a lucky one. I waited several seconds. He held my stare, nodding slightly to himself.

  “I’m also wondering why you’ve not denied my accusation,” I said almost jovially.

  He remained static, looking serene. “Because I don’t have to. If you’d any proof, I’d be under arrest about now, wouldn’t I? But as you have none, and you’re unlikely to get any, given all the circumstances . . .” He paused and took a sip of water, then he sat back and smiled.

  I was about to ask what circumstances he meant when he continued.

  “Yeah, I eliminated him. He was instrumental in Drawbridge losing a lot of money, but it’s not just that. He helped James Blatchford in ways which were detrimental to my father’s interests, so he had to be taken out.” He shrugged casually. “And that’s what I did. I did it painlessly as well, which was a far better fate than he deserved.” He looked at me like I should be offering congratulations for his compassion. “I knew he had high blood pressure issues, so I devised a way to make it look like he died from natural causes.”

  I didn’t speak. He continued.

  “I was waiting for him when he returned. He was surprised when he saw me, wondered what I was doing there. When I was close enough, I injected him with a syringe I would usually have used for insulin. He tried to come at me, but I backed away. I think he soon realised what was going on, and panicked, which got his heart pumping even faster. He started tearing at his bottle of blood pressure pills, but I took it off him.”

  “Then you met up with Jane Mackley. I mean, she drove you there, didn’t she?”

  “Who? I don’t know anyone of that name.” He shook his head.

  “Perhaps you know her better as Angie Delucca, then. How would you know her?” I was curious. How would he know her? There was nothing on his file to suggest he did.

  For a split second I saw surprise in his eyes, but he immediately recovered his focus. “Still don’t know the name.”

  I was fervently wishing the car hire company hadn’t cleaned the vehicle Angie had hired for the weekend. No chance of dusting for fingerprints.

  “How did he impact on your father’s business?” I asked.

  Krachnikhov shook his head.

  “Your father’s company paid bribes to Bartolome, didn’t it, and Garlinge received them. That was a hold Garlinge had over your father, wasn’t it?”

  I’d no idea whether this was true or not. I was surmising because such a situation would make sense, but to my surprise there was no denial. Krachnikhov agreed.

  “Bribery’s endemic in the arms business, detective. I do believe one of the maxims goes something along the lines of no pay, no play.”

  This wasn’t the first time I’d heard this said.

  Krachnikhov paused for a moment. “Drawbridge helped pull Bartolome out of a hole last year by agreeing to do business with them when they were about to cease trading. The fact of their being about to go broke was never made public, for obvious reasons. So, my father agreed with Charles Garlinge to do business with Bartolome over the next few years, as part of some Government bail-out to keep the firm afloat. If the company could show it still had orders coming in, the British government would help rescue it on the quiet as a going concern. But, once Bartolome was on a sounder financial footing, Garlinge lobbied to have the orders we were promised switched to Bozetti instead, which was what happened, and my father’s firm lost money, many millions of Euros.” He nodded with certainty. “He and another Bartolome person did this.”

  Immediately I knew who he was referring to. The pieces were all now falling into place.

  “Ian Harper,” I stated. He nodded.

  Alecks Krachnikhov. He’d been the big guy I’d seen with Harper in the CCTV images two days ago. I wondered if he’d scared Harper into taking his own life.

  “I eventually caught up with Harper and told him I knew what he’d helped Garlinge do. He admitted it, said Garlinge had told him what he’d done to help wouldn’t ever be traced back to him. But he was worried; he knew there was a police investigation. He said police had been to see him on the Saturday, and he was worried it could lead back to him.”

  I’d seen Harper on the Saturday morning. My visit had evidently spooked him.

  “That’s when he started crying, said he couldn’t face going to prison, he’d never survive. I mean, it’s true, he wouldn’t. A wimp like him? He’d be made someone’s boyfriend before he’d even been there one day.” He sniggered. “So, as he’d said there was only one way out for him, I
sat for several minutes to make sure he took it. I watched him swallow handfuls of pills and down most of a bottle of wine, then I left just as he was passing out. I knew what’d happen later.” He had a wicked smile, which wasn’t a pretty sight. “I didn’t lay a finger on him or touch anything in the flat.”

  “But you would have done had he resisted or denied it.” I wasn’t asking.

  He shrugged nonchalantly.

  Neither of us spoke for several seconds. We both knew I couldn’t arrest him based on what he’d just said. But I was now resolved to do everything I could to ensure he didn’t get away with this.

  “Isn’t this what they call a stalemate in chess, detective?” he said innocently.

  I got up and left.

  *

  I was in the process of typing up my conversation with Alecks Krachnikhov, frustrated in realising I knew who’d killed Garlinge but was unable to arrest him because I’d no evidence a court of law would accept. Krachnikhov’s admission on its own was insufficient. I’d gone back over his file to see at what point he might have connected with Angie Delucca, but I’d drawn a blank.

  As I finished printing out my report, Smitherman strolled by and gestured for me to follow him to his office. I did, bringing my report, and sat down in my usual chair. Something about the way he was carrying himself, the almost deliberate way he put down his briefcase and overcoat, gave me the sense that something was about to unfold.

  He sat down facing me, looking concerned, and placed both hands on his desk. “It would appear your girlfriend’s article’s really kicked over a hornet’s nest.”

  “Girlfriend? Oh, please don’t tell Sally I’ve got one of those; she gets very jealous,” I said light-heartedly. After what Taylor and I had got up to when we’d returned from dinner last night, my expansive good mood was quite justified, even after my frustrating encounter with Alecks Krachnikhov.

  Smitherman, however, remained impassive. He had a sombre expression on his face, like he was about to pass a death sentence.

  “I’ve just returned from a rather fraught meeting with Colonel Stimpson, and one or two others,” – he paused for a moment – “and it would appear your wife and her colleague have obtained and published information which was never intended for public consumption.”

  I sat quietly. I couldn’t comment until I knew more.

  “And, it would also appear, what’s been published has now had a knock-on effect on other ongoing investigations.”

  “How’s that?” I was startled by what he’d said.

  “By the publication of details about how Yuri Krachnikhov’s company acquired Septimus House, for one thing. The fact laundered money was used, and the sale occurring because Blatchford was deeply in debt. Stimpson said there’s considerable embarrassment in Government circles this morning because of this, and the press are clamouring for answers regarding whether the Government nodded the sale through, given the fact of stolen Russian money being used. You hear the news this morning?” He didn’t give me a chance to answer. “They were all over this on the Today programme, and it’s not going to go away either, because I’ve heard Krachnikhov’s now being investigated by several well-sourced journalists, and not just in this country. It could be they find things Stimpson and the security service would rather be kept under wraps.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as just how connected and influential Yuri Krachnikhov really is. On the surface he’s just a businessman, albeit one out of favour with his home government. But our interest in him is that he was involved with Cartillian, in Gibraltar.”

  “Is this why I was unable to access details about this firm?”

  “Partly, though it’s not the whole story.” He looked at the window for a few moments.

  “So, what’s the significance of Cartillian? What actually is it?” I asked. Qais Jaser had already given me a heads-up concerning Cartillian, but I was wondering whether Smitherman would be as forthcoming, or even whether his story would rhyme with Jaser’s. I also knew someone else had mentioned the name to me recently, but I couldn’t remember who.

  He took a deep breath and sat forward in his seat. “Okay, but this never leaves the room, DS McGraw, you understand?”

  Using my rank and surname indicated the seriousness of the matter. I nodded.

  “Mainly, it was a front company, a kind of holding company if you like, which certain firms in the armaments trade did business with. It was through this the security service was able to keep track of black market arms smuggling. Ostensibly, Cartillian was a hybrid, made up of reps from the leading European weapons manufacturers, a forum where they’d meet and discuss mutual problems and so on. But what it also did was allow MI6 to keep tabs on who was talking to who, who was doing business with who, get little bits of insider gossip which could mean something further down the line.”

  “Charles Garlinge was involved with Cartillian, wasn’t he?”

  “He was, yes, representing Bartolome, but he was also there to gather information and pass any useful snippets to his handler.”

  I knew who that would be. “Harry Ferguson.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “which is why it was serious when Armswatch received all those documents stating Garlinge was accepting bribes, because he was also doing important work for the security service.”

  “But he was on the take. Armswatch has plenty of evidence of Garlinge pocketing unauthorised cash.”

  “True, but the other work he was doing offset this. Certain people turned a blind eye to it so long as he was helping Bartolome secure orders and provide the UK with arms for its military, plus what he did behind the scenes.” Smitherman paused for a moment. “I mean, think about it for a moment. You really think the Branch would’ve been involved if this whole thing was just about a businessman lining his pockets?” He sounded incredulous. “They’d have just sent the fraud squad in. But the powers-that-be wanted to know what else Garlinge had been up to, thus our involvement. You’ve had dealings with Ferguson, so it was decided to use you on this.”

  My last dealing with Ferguson was when he’d clocked me with my own gun, knocking me out.

  I then remembered something Sir Paul Peterson had told me three nights back.

  “I’ve a source who says it was Ferguson who urged Garlinge to put his name forward for Paul Sampson’s seat when he died, as he’d get the nod if he did.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Smitherman’s denial wasn’t too convincing.

  “I’ve also been told Garlinge’s greed helped screw up an operation involving AISE, who were attempting to apprehend a few top Red Heaven personnel,” I stated confidently.

  “He did, but this’s all classified information.” He briefly looked at me as if to say how do you know this? “The short answer is AISE did round up several leading players in Red Heaven, though not whatever else they were after.”

  “Did this have anything to do with Bozetti?”

  “Like I said, this is classified information.”

  “Did it also involve Krachnikhov’s firm Drawbridge?”

  “I can’t comment on this either.” Smitherman shook his head.

  “I’m just wondering because, when you see this,” – I placed my report on his desk – “you’ll notice I’ve stated my belief it was Alecks Krachnikhov who killed Garlinge,” I said with calm assurance. “And I’ve written down my reasons why I believe this.”

  Smitherman sat forward in his seat, eyes open wide. “Pardon?”

  I repeated my statement.

  “And you know this how?”

  “He admitted it when I questioned him” – I looked at my watch – “two hours ago.”

  I then explained all that had led me to suspect Alecks Krachnikhov. Smitherman listened with rapt attention, nodding slowly to himself. I concluded by stating that, without firm evidence or a written confession, I doubt we’d ever make an arrest.

  “I see.” He sat back quietly for several seconds, deep in thought.

>   He then sat forward again. “The other reason why your wife’s article’s stirred the pot is” – he tapped his fingers on his desk for a moment – “Yuri Krachnikhov had agreed to cooperate with the security service in its investigations into Ibrahim Mohammed. To the world at large, Mohammed is a reputable arms dealer, but he’s also a currency smuggler, a money launderer and a black-market arms dealer, and he plays all sides against each other. Krachnikhov was in the process of giving information to MI6 which would have helped uncover exactly what else Mohammed’s involved in, which would have been an immense help to AISE, and undone some of the damage Garlinge did. Garlinge was also reporting to MI6 about this, keeping them in the loop about Mohammed’s dealings, but he’s now dead and, as a result of what was published yesterday, Krachnikhov’s now withdrawn his help and is refusing to talk, claiming the British have betrayed his trust. He was supposed to be meeting people from security yesterday evening but refused to attend, and Stimpson believes this is going to set back the whole investigation because he has important information they can’t get from anyone else.”

  I sat quietly taking in what I’d heard.

  Smitherman hadn’t finished. “There’re other implications, because he was also prepared to give a statement which would have been of significant import in the case against the McGreelys, concerning how arms and other equipment ended up with them, and the role played by Harry Ferguson, but he’s now withdrawing cooperation on this as well.”

  “Is this why—”

  “Why the secrecy surrounding the arrest of John McGreely? Yes. He was prepared to make known what he knew. Not any longer.” He shook his head, looking forlorn. “The statement Krachnikhov made through his lawyer last night after Blatchford’s press statement was followed by one given to Treasury counsel withdrawing all cooperation in the ongoing investigation. It’s not fatal to the case against the McGreelys, but it means we may not get the whole picture that the security service wanted.”

  A sudden thought dawned on me. “This is why Sally’s story last week, about the arrest of John McGreely in Boston, was spiked, wasn’t it?”