He was sitting to Smitherman’s left, dressed impeccably in a dark grey suit and crisply laundered white shirt with a regimental tie, nodding sagely to himself and looking superciliously smug. His hair was immaculately groomed and stylishly cut militarily short. He looked about as pleased on seeing me as he would if he’d just realised he’d trodden in dog shit whilst barefooted. The feeling was mutual. In fact, I’d sooner tread in dog shit.
“Come in, DS McGraw. Have a seat.” Smitherman using a formal greeting immediately told me this wasn’t going to be a cosy chat between old friends. “You remember Colonel Stimpson?”
I nodded my agreement without looking at him.
“This is Sergeant Gosling,” Stimpson said by way of introduction, nodding to the man standing ramrod-straight by the filing cabinet. He was about my height and build and holding a file in his right hand. I said hi.
“Good morning, DS McGraw.” His enunciation was crystal clear. He was probably around my age and wearing the same regimental tie as his boss, though less formally attired.
“He works in my department,” Stimpson said. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about a recent event where our paths crossed, albeit inadvertently, I might add. DCI Smitherman has agreed to my request for an informal chat about a situation that’s arisen.”
“What situation might that be?” I wasn’t sure what was happening.
“Let me explain,” Gosling interjected, stepping forward. I sat back in the chair. Smitherman raised his eyebrows and gave me a look suggesting I should pay close attention.
“We’re currently following some leads about arms smuggling both into and out of this country involving various terrorist organisations across Europe and further afield, plus investigating how such groups are financed, and we’re working closely in liaison with other agencies like ourselves. You know, of course, terrorist groups can only be effective if they have the resources to do their disgusting work, and we, like yourselves in Special Branch, are doing everything to thwart their quest for such resources.”
Gosling paused and looked at me, ascertaining if I was paying attention. So far I was. At least I wasn’t having to listen to Stimpson.
“Our sources make it clear there are individuals in this country currently active in this network attempting to procure armaments for such groupings. We have certain individuals in our sights and are confident they’re up to their necks somewhere along the line, though at present we’re without the necessary proof to have them arrested and taken before the courts of law. One such body is Red Heaven. You’ve encountered them before, I gather?”
“Yeah, the Addleys were involved with it when we arrested them.”
“Whilst Red Heaven now seem largely dormant in this country, I’m pleased to say, unhappily they’re still operating in Europe, and the Spanish authorities believe it was these people behind the recent bombings in Barcelona.”
Three weeks ago, a bomb had exploded in a rubbish container close to the Nou Camp stadium, where Barcelona FC plays. There was no game being played this particular evening, so no casualties were reported and only some slight structural damage to properties nearby. At first this was thought to be the work of Basque separatists but, next evening, a much bigger explosion had occurred in the same vicinity, causing considerable damage to nearby property, killing two French tourists and injuring many others, including several English teenagers on a school trip who’d just been on a tour of the Nou Camp. There’d been a substantial police hunt for the perpetrators but, so far as I was aware, no one had claimed responsibility and, despite intensive inquiries, no arrests had been made.
“We’re currently providing information to the Spanish authorities about persons in this country we believe were at one time associated with this group. They seem to believe Red Heaven are behind the bombings and they’ve recently had a tip-off about further likely terrorist activity from what they claim is an unimpeachable source, so they’re going all out trying to find who’s behind it, and we’re passing on to them any information we have that’ll help them identify the bombers.”
“How does this affect me? I didn’t plant them, honest,” I grinned like a naughty schoolboy. Gosling smiled; Stimpson looked nonplussed, like he wanted to send me out the room and leave this to the adults, but Smitherman gave me a look which immediately wiped the smile from my face.
“We’ve looked into people we believe to be involved in Red Heaven and have identified a few we think are still active, either as bomb makers or as arms procurers. There’s also a couple we suspect but can’t pin anything on just at the moment, but we keep them under close observation nonetheless. This is where you come into the picture.” Gosling stopped and looked directly at me.
“Huh? How did I do this?” I wasn’t sure where this was going.
“On Saturday last we were following someone with a connection to the group I just mentioned, so you can imagine the surprise on our side when our target is seen talking to you.” He emphasised the word.
“Me?” What?
I thought back to Saturday, where I’d been, who I’d been with and spoken to. I’d been off duty that day, so my range of contacts had been limited. It certainly wasn’t Mickey or either of the ladies. Did he mean who I thought he meant?
“Our man was in a Chinese restaurant Saturday evening keeping an eye on the target. He saw him and his lady leave their table to go order some drinks at the bar, but then saw him talking to a man he didn’t recognise. The target was looking quite animated, as though he was really pleased to see this person. It didn’t look like a pre-arranged meeting either as this individual is not part of the party the target is with, and he’s not been in the picture before as we’ve been looking into the target for a little while now, so our man uses his mobile to take a picture of said individual the target’s talking to, surreptitiously of course, and logs the encounter. He later carries out a routine check on this individual and discovers that said individual comes back identified as a detective in Special Branch. You know to whom I’m referring?”
It could only be one person. I was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“You remember who you were talking to?” Gosling asked.
“You mean the target’s Michael Mendoccini?” This was becoming surreal.
“Indeed we do.” Stimpson joined in the conversation. “We knew who he was with at the table but not this new person, so you can just imagine our surprise when we run a check on who this individual was that Mendoccini was hugging and it comes back to us he’s Special Branch, on the side of the angels, so to speak. From the way he greeted you, and his excitable Latin manner, it would appear you two have some history together. Call me naïve, DS McGraw,” Stimpson said, smirking, “but would I be correct in assuming you and Mr Mendoccini are previously known to each other in another life?”
Michael Mendoccini, an MI5 target because of suspected terrorist links? I was finding this hard to comprehend. Smitherman was sensing my discomfort but after a few moments he nodded to me, indicating an answer to the question was required.
“Yeah. I’ve known Michael since I was eleven. We went through seven years of grammar school together, were close mates for quite some years.”
“Were close friends?” Gosling queried.
“Yeah. He and I were best mates for several years, almost like brothers, but we lost touch around the time I started university. He never seemed to be around when I went back home and after a while” – I shrugged – “I stopped looking him up and we lost contact.”
“There’s nothing on Mendoccini’s file indicating he knows DS McGraw or has any connection to him.” Gosling was speaking to Stimpson and Smitherman rather than me. “I’m not sure why the distant connection, someone in Special Branch attending the same school at the same time as a terrorist suspect, didn’t register.”
All three men looked at each other for a moment, as though they didn’t know what was coming next. This was clearly a serious breach of vetting protocol.
>
“This wasn’t raised when you were being vetted, was it?” Gosling asked me.
All potential recruits to Special Branch are rigorously investigated before their suitability to serve can be established; their life history is perused in considerable depth to ensure there’s nothing untoward, nothing in any remote corner of that person’s life casting a dark unexplainable shadow, which could militate against that person being considered suitably without sin for duty inside Special Branch.
When asked if I was aware of anyone from my past with any connection to or interest in political extremism or terrorism, I’d given the honest answer ‘no’. I’d not mentioned Mendoccini’s name as he was just a good friend back then. Or, rather, had been, as I’d not seen him for nearly a decade by this time. The idea of he and his family having any connection to Red Heaven would have been about as absurd as being told the Tooth Fairy was involved.
“No. I wasn’t asked if I knew him, and I didn’t volunteer that I knew him as he was just a friend I’d not seen for about ten years. Until just now, I’d no idea about any of this.”
“Yes, that would appear to fit with what we know.” Stimpson again. He was shuffling through some papers in the buff file Gosling had handed to him. I recognised the red markings on the front cover. They meant the suspect was under active investigation.
“Before last weekend, when was the last time you can remember seeing Mr Mendoccini?” Gosling asked.
I thought for a few moments. “Probably thirteen, fourteen years ago.”
“In what context?” Stimpson again.
I remembered the day vividly. “I’d just got my A-level results. I’d got the grades needed to get into King’s, which was my first choice, and I was pretty ecstatic so we’d gone out and got absolutely shitfaced drunk. It was a great evening, what I remember of it, though I do have this memory of puking up in his garden, all over some of his mother’s prize flowers.” I recounted the story to them.
I began to feel warmly nostalgic at the memory. It had been a great day. Nowadays, A-level students get their results online from early morning and are spared the ordeal of standing in line with their classmates to get their results in a sealed envelope but, fourteen years back, you’d had to go into school, collect the little brown envelope with the results contained and, in full view of your peers and teaching staff, open it and check the results. I saw a few tears as some in my class didn’t achieve the grades required but, for me, the opposite was the case. I’d scored top grades and was destined for a prestigious university, and then who knew what else? Heady with jubilation, and full of the testosterone overload and bullshit teenage boys on an emotional high tend to exude, we’d begun drinking at lunchtime, continued long into the evening and followed it with a kebab just after midnight, the majority of which ended up all over some flowers Michael’s mother was rearing.
Later next day, after I awoke early afternoon with a hangover the size of Belgium and a tongue feeling like it had been sandpapered and covered with talcum powder and parrot droppings, I went to Michael’s house, apologised profusely to his mother and then cleared up my mess, which made me nauseous but taught me never again to eat a quarter-pound kebab laden with spicy peppers and onions on top of a skinful of beer, all consumed on an empty stomach. A vow I’ve studiously maintained.
Smitherman was half smiling, half shaking his head at my youthful reminiscences, probably thinking about such times in his own life. Stimpson, however, was looking like he’d swallowed a slug. His idea of a fun evening was probably the AGM of a Surrey bridge club.
“Interesting,” Stimpson said. “And you’ve not seen him since.”
“No, not till last Saturday.”
An eight-second pause.
“You were such good friends, why the gap?” Smitherman this time.
“Just after this, he went on holiday with his family and, when I left for King’s, he’d not returned. When the Christmas break came I went to his house and his mother said he was in Italy working with his dad and probably wouldn’t be back for a couple more months. She was going to fly out and join them for Christmas. It sort of made sense. His dad had a business importing Mediterranean foods and selling them in his shop, and Michael’d dropped out of school to work for him. But it seemed, every time I went back home, he was never there.” I shrugged, remembering how lonely I’d felt when he wasn’t around. “I left contact numbers but he never got back to me and, after a while, I stopped trying to get in touch.”
“And you’ve been in London ever since.”
“Yeah. Graduated, joined the Met. Every time I’ve been back to see my parents I haven’t bothered getting in touch.”
“Well,” Stimpson said, staring directly at me, “the year you graduated from King’s, you’d not have been able to contact him even if you’d wanted to. You want to know why?”
He raised his eyebrows inquisitively. I nodded.
“He was being held on remand in an Italian prison on suspicion of involvement in the death of a member of the Italian police, the Carabinieri. Said officer was shot whilst on routine traffic patrol. He was later released as the evidence was insufficient to mount any successful prosecution.”
“Mendoccini killed someone?” I was aghast at the thought.
“No evidence he actually pulled the trigger, more that he was involved in the planning of the shooting.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.” I was firm in my denunciation of what I’d heard about Michael Mendoccini. “An MI5 observation target? I don’t believe it. His family deal in foodstuffs. They had a shop back in my hometown; it’s still there, selling Mediterranean foods and wines. They were the first in our area to open an Italian coffee shop and also sell sandwiches and other stuff. His family are business people.”
I was trying to keep my emotions in check and keep the disbelief I was feeling out of my voice, though I was aware I’d raised my voice slightly.
Stimpson and Gosling shared a look implying they knew much more about this situation than I currently did.
“Is that really what you think they do, DS McGraw?” Stimpson smirked.
“Last time I had any real contact with him, that’s what he was doing, yeah.”
Stimpson nodded knowingly and touched the tips of his fingers together across his chest, as though he were praying. “Well, I’m sorry to be the one to disillusion you, DS McGraw, but I’m afraid your friend Mr Mendoccini currently imports and exports a whole lot more than just Italian sausages and some rather fine Chiantis. It’s our belief he’s connected to the importation of the arms and weaponry used by groups like Red Heaven and others through the financing of Red Heaven. We believe the explosives used in the synagogue bombing in Golders Green earlier this year were procured by him, passed on to others along the way, and they ended up in this country.” He paused to let this information sink in. “The family business is based just south of Milan?”
“Last I knew.”
“Which also happens to be a hotbed of fervent Red Heaven activity. Several of their more prominent activists and adherents to the faith reside in the Milan area. As I’ve just said, we believe Mr Mendoccini to be one of the men behind their financing through his business. How, Italian police are not quite sure yet, but they’re keeping a constant eye on him and his business dealings and on a couple of businesses they believe money is being routed through, and the Italian authorities, the AISI, are keeping a watchful eye on what he does and keeping us in the picture. They believe he’s directly connected to at least a couple of bombings and shootings across Europe in recent times.” Stimpson was looking solemn as he spoke, as though he were reading the lesson in church.
I was absorbing what I’d heard. My mind was a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions. I was trying to reconcile the Michael Mendoccini I’d known as a teenager with the man I’d just heard described to me. I exhaled. My chest muscles ached and I felt as though I’d been punched in the solar plexus. Terrorism?
The Michael Mendoccin
i I’d known back in the day had been a fun-loving guy who wanted to extract the maximum enjoyment from life, and he’d looked like he was doing just that last Saturday in the restaurant. His proud claim was ‘every night is Saturday night with me’. He was always up for going out drinking and chasing women and would often do so without me as, occasionally, I’d had to be a swot and stay home to finish homework or study for exams. He was a handsome guy and had the kind of swarthy looks that melted many a teenage girl’s heart, and he broke a few of these along the way. He’d lost his virginity when he was sixteen, the first in our circle of friends to do so, seven months before I did, and he’d done so with a girl I’d been asking out, albeit without success, for a while, but I’d not held his victory against him. All’s fair in love and war and losing your teenage cherry.
He was reckless about chatting to women. Even if she was on the arm of another guy he’d think nothing of approaching her and asking if she wanted to go out for a drink sometime. On one not-quite-memorable occasion he and I had been jumped outside a pub by the boyfriend of a girl he’d been pestering, plus a couple of his friends. I was a fit football and rugby player and could fight a bit, so I’d managed to extract us from the situation without too much damage. I’d put the boyfriend on the floor with a delicious right cross, though we each took a couple of punches for our trouble. But such was the force of Mendoccini’s personality, I didn’t hold my receiving a fat lip against him and we laughed it off, though it was a couple of days before I could laugh without my lips hurting when they moved.
Mendoccini Page 5