Gant!

by Laurence Todd

  “Well, I don’t know if whoever killed Adaka found what he was looking for. Place was a shithole so it’s hard to tell. What could Adaka be holding that someone’d kill him for?”

  “I don’t know,” I lied. “Louis Phipps was just a weasel. From my knowledge of him, I can only assume it’s drug related. Maybe it was money.”

  “Possible. Anyway, you think of anything, get back to me.” I agreed I would. I hoped I’d lied convincingly.

  I contacted a friend who worked for the Borders Agency. He confirmed that Rius leCuellio and his family plus three others had flown from London Gatwick to Schiphol in Amsterdam that morning. He was to be trailed by Dutch police all the while he was there.

  At least Rhodes was out of a job. I wondered whether he’d got the bonus he’d boasted about receiving. It would be quite something to discover he’d not declared his earnings for tax purposes. I wondered if a call to the Inland Revenue was in order?

  I decided it was time to put my findings to Christian Perkins. I phoned his office and was told he was working at home that day prior to holding a surgery in his South West London constituency later. I asked for his address and, as it was just up the road, I walked to his flat.

  He shared a second floor flat at the top end of Buckingham Gate, behind Wellington Barracks, which was close enough almost to look over the walls into the gardens of Buckingham Palace. I’d phoned ahead and he was waiting for me when I arrived. He led me into the main room which, from the window, afforded a view of the street and all the tourists milling around excitedly. He was smartly dressed, wearing a suit and a crisp blue and white striped shirt. I thought that a man with a stomach his size ought not to draw attention to it by wearing stripes but I was no fashion expert. He had a neat beard and was wearing the kind of glasses Hank Marvin had made popular in the early 1960s. He took off his jacket and offered me a coffee, which I accepted. He asked me to sit, waving at a chair by his desk. He sat in the swivel chair and closed his laptop.

  “You didn’t say why you wanted to see me,” he began pleasantly enough.

  “That’s right, I didn’t. I was interested in your opinion of these.”

  I took a few pictures from the A4 envelope I was holding. I put on his desk a photocopy of the picture of him addressing a group of soldiers.

  “What do you make of this?”

  He picked it up. His eyes narrowed as he examined the scene.

  “It’s something that’s come into my possession whilst investigating the killing of two people last Monday and I was curious about what you thought.”

  Perkins continued looking at the picture. Was he thinking about how svelte he was back then or what it was like to be the leader of fighting men being primed for action? I hoped he was more concerned with how the picture came into my possession. He nodded.

  “What about it?” he replied.

  “Recognise anyone?”

  “Am I being accused of something, DS McGraw? Should I have a lawyer present?” he asked after looking at the picture for a few more seconds.

  “No, you’re not accused of anything so far as I know. That is you in the picture, isn’t it? I mean, if it’s not, tell me.”

  “You know very well it’s me.” Was this a flash of petulance?

  “Or, what about this one?” I placed a photocopied picture of soldiers firing at targets with pictures of leading politicians in the centre on top of the other one.

  He stared hard, trying to make out whose faces were in the middle of the target.

  “Or, the piece de résistance, this one.”

  I gave him the picture of the blindfolded soldier standing by a wall with soldiers taking aim.

  He was looking at the pictures with the same kind of focused concentration a surgeon might employ whilst conducting major surgery. His eyes narrowed. With his beard and the way he looked over the top of his glasses, and his puffy cheeks, he reminded me of a badger. He continued staring at the pictures for a few more seconds, then took off his glasses, put them into a case and into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

  “So, what do you want me to say about these pictures?” He sat back in his chair, his hands knitted together across his ample girth.

  “I’m reliably informed this was not an exercise. I’m told the man in this picture was shot by the other soldiers and, no doubt by sheer coincidence, someone answering to the same name as this man is listed as having died from gunshot wounds around the same time, though the official verdict was death as a result of a training exercise using ‘live’ bullets.”

  “The army is a hard place, Detective Sergeant. People get hurt and, sadly, sometimes, a fatality occurs.”

  He made it sound as though people catch colds occasionally and what’s the big deal.

  “You accept these pictures are genuine?”

  “Oh, they’re real, alright. This was simply a training exercise. They were taken in the mid nineteen seventies, if memory serves. I was a soldier then, you know.”

  “Yes, I know, but this wasn’t regular army, was it? This was something completely different. You saying it wasn’t?”

  “What are you implying by that?”

  “I’m implying nothing. What I’m simply saying is that what’s in these pictures was nothing at all to do with your career as a regular soldier. This was part of something quite different, if my sources are to be believed.”

  He stared at me for a few moments.

  “There’s a lot more of those. But you know that already. I’ve just bought a few along to show you. You can see they’re photocopies, the originals are locked away,” I continued.

  “These pictures are almost forty years old. Why the sudden concern with them?”

  “First off, I’ve only just become aware of their existence. My interest in them is because I believe they hold a clue to why two people were murdered three nights back. One of the two had these pictures in his possession. The person concerned was not a political animal in any sense of the word but I’m told these pictures are part of a blackmail scheme he was involved in. Now . . .” I paused, “I believe the person in question couldn’t even spell blackmail, never mind engage in it, so I’m doubtful about that claim. I believe his being in possession of these pictures was the main reason why he was killed. So, as you’re featured prominently in them, and I’m reliably informed you played a key part in what was going on here, I’m curious as to what was it about these snaps that’s led to two deaths.”

  “And you think I can help with that?” His eyes opened wide, almost a look of childlike innocence.

  “Can’t you?”

  He put the tips of his fingers together against his chin. He looked as though he was being told by his wife she wanted a divorce and he was working out the likely cost, politically and personally. He held that pose for about twenty seconds. A long time to stare at someone and think.

  “Those pictures are quite irrelevant. The context is very different now; I don’t possibly see what’s to be gained from this.” He sounded very pompous. I suspected pompous came easy to him.

  “You were, what, mid-twenties in these pictures and outlining some grand plan to overthrow the Government. The man being used for target practice, what was his role?”

  “Overthrow the Government?” He grinned. “Is that what you’ve been told?”

  He looked at me with the kind of expression a teacher might have for a student he’d once regarded as very promising but who’d just said something particularly stupid.

  “You are singularly uninformed about events, Officer. All this,” he nodded at the photocopies on the desk, “was a very long time ago and frankly nobody cares about it. I don’t know what you’ve heard, or who you heard it from, but I can assure you you’re well off the mark.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Okay, fill me in. Tell me what the mark is. What’s going on in those pictures?”

  “This was simply a training exercise. The blindfolded soldier was simply p
art of a joke at the end of training. Soldiers letting off steam after a gruelling exercise. He’d dropped a rifle or something like that so, for a laugh, he was tied and bound and put against the wall and subjected to a mock-up execution. There was nothing untoward about that at all.” Perkins sounded exasperated, as though I were a stubborn child. “He wasn’t harmed in any way.”

  “That soldier, Eric Biggins, died around the same time from gunshot wounds.”

  “I’ve already explained the situation to you, Detective. I’ve nothing else to say. I’m very busy so, if you don’t mind, I’m off to my constituency surgery and then there’s a public meeting later on I’ll be addressing. I don’t believe this conversation is serving any useful purpose.”

  He stood up.

  “Eric Biggins died around the same time from gunshot wounds,” I repeated. “I was told by someone who was there it was an execution. Are you denying that?”

  “Yes, I am, and I’m afraid I have neither the time nor the inclination to discuss the bigger picture with you just now. So, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He walked to the door and opened it for me.

  I wanted to stay put and ask more questions, but I suspected I’d get no further cooperation so I decided not to. I thanked him and assured him I’d be talking to him again, and soon. He did not look pleased to hear that. I took the pictures and left.

  I walked back to the Yard. He’d used the phrase “the bigger picture”. What was the bigger picture? I’d seen a picture of a soldier being shot, yet Perkins’d said there was a bigger picture. What was bigger than armed insurrection?

  Back at my desk I went online to view the Branch’s list of army personnel, both past and present, and looked up the details pertaining to Eric Biggins. He’d joined the army straight from school and had achieved the rank of corporal. He was from Lowestoft and described as a good, honest and hard-working soldier who was no problem to command. Commendable, but I was more concerned about the circumstances of his death.

  Army records said he’d volunteered for a weekend night exercise somewhere in the West Country. The exact location was not given for ‘security reasons’. At some point on Saturday evening, he’d been on the top of a ridge attempting to manoeuvre into position when an exchange of gunfire occurred at the bottom of the hill and, in the crossfire, a bullet had hit Corporal Eric Biggins in the chest, killing him instantly. His body had been taken back to barracks in Aldershot and, after the army command was satisfied as to the chain of occurrences producing the death of Eric Biggins and that no blame could be attached to the army, his body was released for burial by his family, and he’d been cremated with full military honours in his home town. The officer commanding the weekend exercise was Sergeant Christian Perkins. Perkins had also represented the army at the funeral.

  Eric Biggins had not long been married at the time of his death. He’d married his childhood sweetheart, Lucy Grey, only eight months before and, when he’d died, she was almost three months pregnant. I exhaled reading that. It was sad knowing he had a child he never saw. I wondered if he even knew.

  I phoned the number listed and discovered his wife still lived at the same address. She’d remarried and had a child by her new husband, Jack Hamilton, though this man was an engineer. I identified myself as military police calling from London and told her the reason for my call.

  “It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs Hamilton. It’s just routine. Every so often past records are checked to ensure everything is as it should be, you know how institutions like the army work.”

  She agreed she did and was happy to answer questions. “What were you told about Eric’s death, Mrs Hamilton? Who told you?”

  “A pair of officers came to the door, a man and a woman. They told me that Eric had been hurt in some accident at a training thing somewhere and had died. They assured me Eric hadn’t suffered and would have died instantly. They were very comforting about it, promising me all the help I needed to get through the times ahead. I was very grateful for their help but I had my own family nearby, as well as Eric’s. Eric came from a military family, you know. He’d wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, become an officer like him.”

  “What happened after that?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s all a blur, really. I don’t remember too much about it if I’m perfectly honest. I was just pregnant with my Roger at the time so I was trying not to get too worked up. I don’t remember much between being told he was dead and his cremation. The man in charge of the exercise Eric’d died on came to the cremation service to represent his regiment, which was sweet of him.”

  “Can you remember who that was?”

  “Yes, I can. It was a Sergeant Perkins. Funny, he’s a Conservative MP now.”

  “Is he? I didn’t know that,” I lied. “One other thing. There was no suggestion of foul play, anything like that, was there?”

  “No. The officers told me Eric’s death was accidental and he was just in the wrong place. They didn’t say anything about foul play. Everyone involved said it was a terrible accident and how sorry they all were it had happened. Nobody was to be charged. The brass accepted it was a tragic accident and it went down as that.”

  “Yup, that checks with the records here. I’m sorry to be bringing up matters from so long ago but bureaucracy needs feeding, so they say. The moment something like this isn’t checked, it’ll come back and bite us you-know-where.” I heard her laugh.

  “Eric’s father had the matter looked into at the MOD, pulled a few strings here and there, but he was satisfied with what he heard about his son’s death. It’s just a shame Eric never knew he had a son. I named him Roger, which was Eric’s middle name. He’s almost 39 now and was the image of his dad when he was born. He’s a soldier as well, a major. He’s done what his dad was never able to do.”

  “Congratulations. Thanks once again.” I hung up.

  So there was no doubt about Eric Biggins dying. But George Selwood had said it was an execution whereas Perkins said the picture was just routine nonsense being played out by high-spirited soldiers. What had begun with my looking into why Phil Gant had killed the Phipps brothers was now spiralling into something quite puzzling. Louis Phipps had stumbled blindly into something he had no idea about and, through trying to sell back what he’d stolen, had got himself and his brother killed. Debbie Frost had denied any contact from Louis Phipps but, if that was the case, how did Gant end up on his trail and eliminating him? How would he even know about a pair of lowlifes like the Phipps brothers? Someone had to have pointed him in that direction.

  My bet was that Debbie Frost was part of this equation. It had to be something in those pictures. Perkins had admitted it was him in one of them but denied anything inappropriate was occurring; just soldiers on exercises. What was the bigger picture he’d alluded to? Had George Selwood not been completely honest with me? As repulsive as his beliefs were, he was at least honest in what he believed in. If anyone was lying, I was certain it wasn’t him.

  Smitherman was at his desk talking to someone I didn’t recognise when I knocked and entered his office. The man looked to be in his early fifties with immaculately groomed greying hair. He was impeccably dressed in what looked an expensive jacket with a coat of arms on the top pocket I was sure was the crest of his regiment. His tie had a smaller version of the same crest. His slacks were light coloured but had a razor sharp crease and his shoes were almost glowing. My shoes would have to be painted to look anything like that. There was an attaché case by the chair.

  “The very man. We were just talking about you. Come on in.”

  I did.

  The unknown man stood up as I entered. He stood almost to attention. I began thinking I might have to salute. We shook hands. His grip was very limp for a senior military man. Softened by too many years behind a desk?

  “Take a seat.” Smitherman gestured to a chair. I sat across at right angles to the unknown man.

  “This is Colonel Peter Stimpson, who’s attached to MI5. He and I w
ere just talking about the case you’re following up on.”

  “Can I ask what this case has to do with them?” I was puzzled.

  “You may,” Stimpson replied. Nice of him. “A colleague of mine, Colonel Warren, asked me to talk to DCI Smitherman about something he’d enquired about. I believe you were just talking to a Christian Perkins about the death of a soldier on a military exercise. Am I correct?”

  “Yeah. I talked to Perkins a couple of hours ago. Didn’t take him long to get on the blower, did it? How does my interviewing him about a Branch case impact on you?”

  There must have been something in my tone and expression because Stimpson looked as though he’d bitten into something sour.

  “Now, there’s no need for such belligerence, Detective. I simply wish to know why it was you felt the need to question Mr Perkins about some pictures.”

  I looked at Smitherman. He nodded.

  “A man I was bringing in for questioning on Monday last was shot dead whilst I was standing next to him. Nobody saw who did it, though I have my suspicions. CID is investigating and is treating it as murder and, so far as I know, there’ve been no arrests made.”

  Smitherman agreed there hadn’t been. Stimpson nodded intently.

  “I’ve uncovered a lead suggesting one of the victims was attempting to blackmail somebody in Government so I’ve been investigating that lead and, in the course of so doing, I came across a package of articles and photographs which, I’m told, related to an organisation in the mid 1970s plotting to overthrow the Government.”

  “I see,” Stimpson nodded sagely. “And how does this involve Mr Perkins?”

  “He’s in some of the pictures.”

  Smitherman looked surprised. Stimpson didn’t.

  “He was,” I reiterated. “He was dressed as an army officer addressing a group of uniformed soldiers on a parade ground, though official records suggests he never rose above sergeant. I believe the reason why Louis Phipps was shot and killed has to do with these pictures and I’m backtracking, trying to find out what’s so special about them that they ended up getting someone shot.”