Gant!

by Laurence Todd

  “Yes, it does sound like that, doesn’t it?” I agreed with her. I stood.

  “He’s a good son, Officer. He always comes to see me when he’s back in the country.” The pride in her voice was noticeable.

  I thanked her for her time and left her to her memories. It was almost heart-warming knowing that even a thug like Richard Rhodes was loved by his old mum, who saw him as a good boy. The love of a good woman indeed.

  In the car, I noticed I had a missed call from Mickey on my mobile. I called him.

  “Ol’ Perkins got a bit pissed with my questions. You should have seen him; looked like he wanted to spit blood. There were a number of journalists there and they looked amazed at his response. When I asked him again he just walked off stage with journalists asking him what the question was about, but he wouldn’t answer. He went off. One of them tried asking me what I was really asking but I brushed him aside and left.”

  “Thanks, mate, you did a good job.”

  “It’s even made the press. You seen it?”

  With all the excitement going on I hadn’t looked at today’s papers. Being a Saturday I’d have probably only looked at the football and rugby news, especially now as the season for both was drawing to a close. I admitted I’d not seen a paper today.

  “Perkins’ meeting last night has got a mention in a couple of the broadsheets. The Telegraph said something about controversy at a Tory MP’s constituency meeting because of a question asked about his being interviewed by a Special Branch detective earlier in the day. Perkins didn’t answer and left the meeting hall.” Mickey sounded proud of his evening’s work. “What’s he actually done then, this guy?”

  “Long story, but suffice to say he’s got a bit of an unsavoury past and I think he could be involved in those shootings outside your place last Monday.”

  “What, an MP with an unsavoury past? Never !” “Yeah, who knew, eh? I’m trying to nail him on some

  aspect of it but so far there’s no direct proof. I’ve got an idea what might be happening which I’m going to investigate.”

  “You want me for anything else?”

  I said no, thanked him for last night and rang off. I’d managed to get under Perkins’ skin and he had no idea

  he’d been set up. Good. I was anxious to see what else would transpire.

  Coming up for lunchtime and I was at my desk checking something. I saw a note asking me to call New Focus magazine. Now, who could that be? I had no doubt what he wanted to talk about and I knew it wouldn’t be to offer an invite to Sunday lunch with him and his in-laws. Richard Clements was at his desk when I got through.

  “Rob, thanks for returning my call. What’s going on with Christian Perkins? Media’s really running with this one. The Guardian said something about him refusing to answer a question about someone unlawfully killed whilst he was in charge of some squad or other. Paper also said he’d been spoken to by someone in Special Branch about it. You perchance?” he asked almost longingly.

  “It’s part of an ongoing investigation into what was originally a case involving two murders but now involves three. I can’t comment on the case.”

  “So it was you.” He sounded certain.

  “Told you, I can’t comment. You could ask your father-in-law. He might help you.”

  “Him?” Clements gasped. “He thinks I’m only one rung above a child molester. Thinks I’m a bad influence on democracy. Got no time for a free press or anyone who does what I do. Straight up. A while back, he took me to one side and asked whether you were my source for that story in The Observer. Said it was obvious someone had to have helped me put it together and he wanted to know who. I said it wasn’t you and that, anyway, I don’t give up the names of anyone who’s a source on a story.”

  I was glad it wasn’t an invite to Sunday lunch. Sitting between Clements and Smitherman was about as appealing as a kick in the groin.

  “So, I can’t help you, I’m afraid,” I stated.

  “Would it be worth my while looking into Christian Perkins’ past?”

  “You’re the journalist. I can’t tell you who to look into,” I said, hoping he’d read between the lines.

  “Well, thanks for calling back,” he said. With his range of contacts I was hoping between them they could dig up something to make Perkins squirm.

  I’d been in the office because I wanted to log onto the Border Agency site checking to see if Phil Gant had left the country. No one by that name was registered as having left so I assumed he was still at the same Park Lane hotel.

  However, I did discover that Richard Perkins had left the country yesterday on a flight from Stansted to Schiphol, Amsterdam, no doubt to resume duties with the Colombians. He’d travelled under his father’s name. No one was looking for Richard Perkins. He’d slipped the net.

  Back along Grosvenor Place, around Hyde Park Corner and north up Park Lane, this time with no siren, just a leisurely cruise through the streets of London on a sunny Saturday lunchtime. I did a U-turn at a traffic island, drawing a few scowls from taxi drivers as I turned, and pulled up outside Gant’s hotel. An officious looking jobsworth in full maroon uniform with gold braiding plus a peaked cap began walking towards me. He had an expression suggesting he’d just swallowed a wasp. Perhaps it was indignation at my temerity in parking where six-figure Rolls-Royces usually stood. I flashed my ID without even looking in his direction and went up the steps into the foyer, leaving him to choke on his wasp.

  I showed my ID to the woman at the reception desk and asked if a Mr Gant was still registered as a guest. He was. She said he was currently taking tea in the lounge bar and was booked in to use the hotel sauna room at 2pm. I asked her to do something for me and she said she would. I then walked to the bar. He was there, sat in a corner glancing at a copy of the Herald Tribune. I approached him. He looked up and, seeing me, did a double take. He folded the paper and smiled at me. I sat opposite on what was a luxuriously upholstered chair. I could get used to taking afternoon tea sitting on one of these.

  “So, this is what you look like in daylight. I’ve only ever seen you in the dark.” He grinned at me. “Actually your picture doesn’t do you justice. Must have been an old one.”

  I didn’t ask where he’d seen a picture of me. I knew where it came from.

  “Keep a copy for yourself, did you?” I said straight faced.

  “What do you need, Officer?” Straight down to business. He was looking as though his remaining seated to answer my questions was a sacrifice on his part. From his accent I was guessing he was from New England.

  “How much did Christian Perkins pay you to take out Louis and Paulie Phipps? Must be quite a sum as it’s not cheap to stay here,” I said casually, looking at the opulent surroundings. “What’s it cost, a thousand a night? More?”

  “Christian Perkins? Who might he be?” His American accent was more noticeable now.

  “The man who hired you. He told me. Told me he’d got in touch with you through his son, whom I’m told you know.” I paused for a few moments. “Richard Rhodes? An old comrade-in-arms from your days in the Lebanon? Surely you remember an old war buddy.”

  He nodded. It was clear from his body language he recognised the names I’d given him.

  “I’ve gotta give you credit for the two shots. Took out two people in a heartbeat and in the dark. Impressive. Where did you fire from? CID combed the area but couldn’t come up with where they thought the shots might have come from. They’re not even certain what kind of weapon was used. You used that hybrid you showed me, didn’t you?” I said calmly.

  We were both at ease, sitting comfortably and looking relaxed. Looked at from across the bar we were just two old friends having a chat over a pot of tea. No differences between us, except he was impeccably dressed and I wasn’t, and the price of his tea would be the cost of a two person Chinese takeaway for me. The only way I could stay here overnight would be to hide in a storage space and hope I wasn’t discovered.

  He was c
ool. What I’d said hadn’t fazed him in the slightest. I had no evidence Perkins was involved in any way, but it stood to reason he had to be there somewhere along the line, and I couldn’t see any other way the case was going to break, so I was idly speculating.

  “Here . . .” I took out my mobile phone. “Call him. Ask him why he told me about your involvement in the two deaths. You told me yourself a client’s business is always confidential but, about an hour or so ago, Christian Perkins told me he’d hired you to eliminate two people who were trying to extort money from a woman he knows. You want me to call him for you? I have his number.”

  His expression changed slightly. He knew and I knew. There was some slight change in his demeanour. He looked down at his tea but quickly regained his composure. He was a pro. Someone like me wasn’t going to entrap him as easy as that. But I’d struck a chord. My theory about how the case had gone down wasn’t as wide of the mark as I’d feared it might be. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

  My synopsis was that the package with the photos and manifesto belonged to Perkins. I still wasn’t sure how they’d ended up in Debbie Frost’s car, but Louis Phipps had stolen the car containing them under pressure from someone. Was Perkins that someone? He’d then tried to sell them back to her and, not too long afterwards, had wound up dead. Perkins, through Richard Rhodes, had hired Gant to kill the Phippses. There were still a few dots I couldn’t join up but a picture of sorts was slowly beginning to take shape.

  “If what you say is true, you’d be here arresting me.” He smiled and tilted his head slightly at me. It read like a smile that said, in another reality, I’d kill you stone dead someplace quiet. “You wouldn’t just be here giving me some goddamn bullshit story about a couple of people I know. You’d be slapping the cuffs on me and taking me off somewhere. That’s the real position, isn’t it?”

  “I’m just wondering how a Member of Parliament would come to know a stone killer like you?”

  “Richard’s his son. I know Perkins through him. In actual fact I’m meeting him here quite soon so I’m afraid our little chat will have to be curtailed. Sorry.” He picked up his delicate bone china cup and finished drinking. He stood. I did too.

  “Ah, ah.” I shook my head. “You’re a material witness to an assault on a Police officer last Thursday evening. I’d like you to come with me to West End Central and give a statement.”

  I didn’t tell him Rhodes had left the country.

  “Huh?”

  “Two nights back, a police officer was assaulted in the lobby of a hotel whilst in the execution of his lawful duties. It was caught on CCTV. You’re clearly identified in that picture. You’re in a position to help with our enquiries.” I never tired of using that phrase.

  He stood motionless for a few moments considering his options. He sniggered, said “Jesus,” and tried to move past me. I blocked his exit.

  “You’re not leaving,” I said.

  At that moment the two security guards on duty, both big ex-police officers, came over. One stood behind Gant, the other stood next to me, eyes fixed on him. I’d asked the receptionist to have security ready in case it was needed. She’d done her job. The one behind patted Gant down, searching for weapons. He didn’t find anything. Gant sat down again looking amused.

  I dialled my office and asked for back-up. Five minutes later three Special Branch detectives plus another man I didn’t recognise turned up. I nodded towards Gant.

  “Take him in. Hold him. Keep him away from everyone. He and I are going to have a nice little chat, aren’t we?” I smiled at him. “He’s going to tell me the secrets of the universe.”

  “Actually, DS McGraw, my department has an interest in this man. I think we’ll take it from here,” the other man said. “Okay, you know where to take him.” He nodded to the other officers. They led Gant away though he wasn’t cuffed.

  “Who are you?” I was annoyed. I knew the answer whilst asking the question.

  “Nicholson, MI5,” he stated for the record. “Gant’s our man now. We need to talk to him about some matters of interest to us and then it’ll be decided what happens to him.”

  “Gant killed two men last Monday night. Is he walking

  away from that?”

  “Now, you know I can’t discuss operations details with persons not in my section, any more than you can. Special Branch will be appraised when it’s deemed expedient to do so. Thank you for your cooperation.” He turned and followed the others out of the bar. I was aware that all the lunchtime diners in the bar were watching the drama unfold. I went back to my car.

  I returned to the Yard, parked the car and walked back to Christian Perkins’ flat. It was still warm and there were lots of tourists looking at maps and excitedly pointing to the outer walls of Buckingham Palace at the top of the road.

  I was hoping he was in. I was going to relay to him my synopsis of how I thought things had gone, as well as clueing him in on where his friend Phil Gant now was and what was happening to him.

  After the events of the previous evening there were several journalists, photographers and a TV news team outside the entrance to his block of flats, which suggested he was in residence. A couple of the journalists looked at me as I entered but, deciding I looked insignificant, let me pass without question.

  Perkins let me in as soon as he saw me outside his door. He seemed almost pleased to see me.

  “Those hyenas still out there?” he asked.

  I said there were a few gentlemen of the press outside wishing to ask him about last night’s meeting and his refusal to answer a question from a member of the public, if that’s who he meant. I smiled as I told him that. He didn’t appreciate my weak humour.

  He seemed as though he had the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. He was radiating an air of melancholia. The arrogance and confidence he’d exhibited yesterday were nowhere to be seen. He slumped down into an armchair.

  “Who was the man who asked that question?” He looked straight at me. “I didn’t recognise him and he left almost immediately afterwards. Very strange. I’ve got the bloody press all over me on this. How would he have known that?”

  “I wasn’t there and I don’t know.” I kept a straight face. At least, I hoped it was straight.

  He sighed and shook his head. He reminded me of a school kid who’d been caught by the headteacher and was finally resigned to accepting his fate. I went straight for the jugular.

  “Are you aware Phil Gant was arrested by Special Branch forty minutes ago? MI5 have now got him, I’m guessing they’re holding him at Century whilst they decide what’s to be done with him. My guess? He’ll be ferried out the country. They’ll get rid of him until they want his services again. The two guys he killed? That’ll get ignored. In the greater scheme of things, their lives will be considered an irrelevance. What do you think?”

  He said nothing in reply. He was in deep repose, considering his own future. His eyes betrayed confusion and he looked tired.

  “I think those two bodies I just mentioned are down to you. You hired Gant to take them out, didn’t you? Why didn’t you use your son? He’d have killed them for nothing. I’ll bet you had to pay Gant a fortune, didn’t you?” I paused. “Richard would have enjoyed killing them because he’s a sadistic thug. You agree?”

  At the mention of the name Richard, he looked up at me for a couple of seconds and then averted his eyes.

  There was a lengthy silence. Perkins looked around the room. He looked at everything as if he didn’t recognise anything and was wondering where he was and how he got there.

  “How does Debbie Frost figure in all this? What’s her role?”

  He turned to stare at me. Mentioning her name had got his attention.

  “The pictures I showed you yesterday came from a package that was in her car when it was stolen earlier this year,” I continued. “I think it’s your package though I don’t know why it was in her car, and she even denies there was anything there, desp
ite three people losing their lives over it. That’s a lot of people dying over something she says doesn’t exist. What do you think?”

  He rubbed his eyes and continued sitting and staring partly at me and partly at the wall behind me. I wondered which he found the more interesting. Was he even listening?

  “Her car was stolen because it was targeted. Someone who knew where she was going to be at that time paid Louis and Paulie Phipps to steal it. Someone like you, perhaps? Whoever it was then took something and left everything else behind. Phipps decided to try and cash in and he contacted Debbie Frost about what he had in his possession, though again I’m not sure who told him it was valuable. Phipps is arrested but he gets interviewed by a DCI Tomkinson and he also gets seen by two MI5 spooks. Quite an array of talent to be involved in a routine car theft, wouldn’t you say? Or was there something more sinister involved? Who would have told MI5 about it?”

  He maintained his silence.

  “Louis Phipps said he’d been pressured into stealing the car by a police officer who told him he’d go down unless he did what they wanted. He was also told he’d not go to prison for it. That would take what Americans call juice. You have juice, don’t you?” I stated. “I don’t accept what Phipps did was random. I believe his claim to have been pressured into acting. Left to himself he wouldn’t know how to pick his own nose. Someone was using him. You, maybe?”

  He smiled but still said nothing.

  “Was this whole thing about covering up your involvement in some attempted coup and having an innocent soldier shot?”

  He grinned when I mentioned that.

  “Let me know when I’m boring you too much,” I said nonchalantly after a twenty-second gap.

  “Oh, no, you’re not boring me at all. Some very perceptive questions.”

  He stood up and walked into the kitchen, took two cups from the shelf and poured coffee into both. He gave one to me and sat down again. I sipped mine. Freshly filtered. It was good coffee.