Mendoccini

by Laurence Todd

  “We don’t think so. He’s mainly involved in financial matters. A real wizard at financial wheeling and dealing, according to Italian intelligence. The way their economy’s going down the crapper, maybe he should be their Chancellor.” He laughed. “Poletti’s the mad bomber, all the evidence suggests he’s been implicated in several bombings. The whisper is he’s never been caught as there’s collusion with people inside Italian intelligence. They’re bloody hopeless anyway, so corruption within wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Who are Mendoccini’s associates in this country? Any names worth looking into?”

  He scanned down the lists on his laptop. “Two known associates. One’s an Italian ex-pat, been living in the UK for some time now, name of Roberto Delucca. Runs an Italian restaurant in Soho. His place buys lots of produce from the Mendoccinis and the thinking is that’s where the explosives come in through. He’s done time for trying to defraud the Inland Revenue, got eighteen months. The other one’s someone called Nigel Hemsley. Graduate of King’s College, London. Hey, you went to King’s, didn’t you?”

  I recoiled inside when I heard the name. Hemsley? It was he who’d recently spoken to Richard Clements about money laundering inside the bank he worked for. He was an associate of Michael Mendoccini? Hemsley involved with Red Heaven? This wasn’t making any sense.

  I kept my surprise to myself. “Yeah, so did several thousand others. He wasn’t anyone I hung around with and I certainly don’t know him.” This comment was technically correct. I knew who he was; that was about it. “What about Hemsley?”

  “He’s listed as being a friend of Mendoccini’s. They sometimes meet up when he’s in the UK, which is quite often. Hemsley’s a strange one. According to our files, he works for a merchant bank in the City as some kind of financial analyst. Other than knowing Mendoccini, he’s recorded as being a squeaky clean true blue, y’know: good school, good degree from a top university and from a good family. No criminal record, no known sexual perversions and no history of debts. Lives by the Barbican. Why would he be hanging around with this Mendoccini character?”

  “Don’t know.” I didn’t know. I was trying to make sense of someone like Nigel Hemsley being a friend of the Michael Mendoccini I knew. “Any evidence Hemsley’s involved in anything terrorist-related?”

  He scanned the documents on his laptop screen.

  “Nope. Appears to be just some posh City boy, which is why I can’t fathom out his connection to someone like Mendoccini,” he murmured quietly.

  I was now wishing I’d not bumped into Mendoccini last weekend, after not having seen him for over a decade. If I’d ever again thought of him then it would have been with fond memories and with no connection to terrorism. Was the person I thought I’d recognised Nigel Hemsley?

  “So there’s no doubt Michael Mendoccini can be connected to a terrorist group?” I knew the answer before I asked the question, but I was hoping for a little cognitive dissonance.

  “It’s pretty certain. There’s an awful lot of evidence. Admittedly circumstantial but, even so, I’d bet money the bastard’s up to his neck in it.”

  So much for cognitive dissonance. We had a brief concluding chat about varying matters unrelated to our jobs. I thanked him for his time and he said we ought to go and have a beer at some point soon. I said I’d be in touch.

  With what I’d been told by MI5, and now from the files of Prevental, I’d been left in no doubt my old friend was involved with Red Heaven.

  I thought back to a conversation I’d had with Richard Clements when I’d been investigating the Addley brothers. They were reputed to be active in Red Heaven and I wanted to know about them from someone who’d researched them for his magazine. Clements’ view was that Red Heaven had no political or philosophical premise and was simply a group of pseudo-anarchists who committed terrorist acts without any viable ideology. Bodies like the IRA or HAMAS had political standpoints but Red Heaven had nothing remotely like one. It was this randomness making them dangerous, as the injured English schoolkids in Barcelona and the unfortunate New York councilman and his family had discovered.

  I looked up Roberto Delucca. He was listed on our files. He was in his late fifties and known to espouse extreme anarchist views, and he had been photographed at various demonstrations over the years for a variety of causes, including a couple which had descended into violence, though there was no evidence he’d been involved.

  He came from a family known to have supported Mussolini and sided with the Germans during the Second World War. He had a German uncle on his mother’s side who’d been imprisoned in Milan for secondary involvement with the Red Army Faction in the early 1980s, storing ammunition and allowing his home to be used as a safe house, and who had been stabbed to death in prison when he was left unexpectedly alone in the showers.

  Delucca himself had done national service in the Italian army before moving to the UK and settling in London with his parents, Andrea and Vittoria, who had opened a restaurant. He’d initially worked for the family before buying them out when his elderly parents decided a busy restaurant in Greek Street, Soho, was becoming too much for them. Since then he, his brother and their families had run the place themselves.

  Apart from his eighteen-month sentence for tax fraud, of which he’d served only eight, there were no marks against his name. I noted, though, two years ago, police had objected to the renewal of his licence to sell alcohol as they’d stated Delucca knowingly allowed his restaurant in Soho to be a front, a meeting place for suspected Italian gangsters to plan their activities, but the City of Westminster Magistrates’ Court had overruled their objections. From my time in CID, I knew all about turf wars concerning supplying and controlling the lucrative trade in drugs, mainly cocaine and heroin, with English, Italian and Chinese gangs competing against the increasing involvement of South American and Russian gangs. Were there now terrorist turf wars as well?

  I was mainly concerned, however, with how Nigel Hemsley could be associated in any way with Michael Mendoccini. It seemed unlikely. I entered Hemsley’s name into the data bank and cross-referenced it against Mendoccini’s name. No connection. No mention of friends in common, no schools or colleges attended together, no family links and no evidence they were ever in the same place at the same time. Hemsley was listed as having been to Italy on two occasions, but they were both in the company of his family and the last visit was when he was ten, so it was unlikely he’d encountered Michael Mendoccini at that time.

  Gavin Dennison, though, had it listed on his files Nigel Hemsley was a known associate of Michael Mendoccini. Hemsley was certainly repugnant but mainly in the sense he was an arrogant braggart, or was when I last had any contact with him, constantly extolling his time as a prefect at Winchester and looking down on people like Richard Clements and, by implication, me, as we were mere grammar-school boys. That Clements and I both had better A-level grades than him was conveniently glossed over.

  Hemsley was an unlikely candidate for having anything to do with terrorism. He was an archetypal true blue in his lifestyle and political standpoint. He had a flat in the Barbican, convenient for walking to his job in the City, and had no black marks against his name whatever, yet Gavin Dennison had it on file Hemsley was an associate of Michael Mendoccini. Something wasn’t making sense.

  F I V E

  Wednesday

  I'd looked up Hemsley on Special Branch files. I didn’t think he was the person in the restaurant. I needed to talk to him, so I decided I’d try to accidentally bump into him and engage him in conversation to get some kind of sense of what he was all about and gauge his reactions to questions.

  I knew he worked for Karris and Millers, a highly regarded merchant bank situated in Watling Street in the City, close to the Mansion House. I was waiting the other side of the busy road from where he and his wife had a flat in Charterhouse Square, by Barbican tube station. I watched him leave and knew where he was going, so I walked quickly on ahead.

  I was al
ready in Watling Street, hovering near the staff entrance to the bank, avoiding the throng of people milling around the entrance, when he turned the corner by Bread Street. I set off walking towards him. He was smartly dressed in a grey suit and pale blue shirt with the tie slightly loosened, and was glancing at his tablet as he walked, no doubt checking share price fluctuations on the Nikkei, the Japanese stock market, which had opened several hours earlier. He looked the part. I stopped a couple of yards away from him and smiled.

  “Excuse me, you’re Nigel Hemsley, aren’t you?” I asked, pleasantly.

  “Yes, I am. Do I know you?” He was well-spoken but he looked suspicious, as though I was about to mug him or ask him to buy the Big Issue.

  “Thought it was you. I’ve seen you wandering around here recently and I thought you looked like someone I was a student with at King’s. My name’s Rob McGraw. You were a year or two above me.” I extended my hand. He ignored it.

  “Don’t recognise the name, sorry.”

  “We were in a couple of the same tutorial groups. I voted for you when you became the president of King’s student union. We even have a friend in common, Richard Clements. You remember him?”

  “Never heard that name before, and I don’t recognise your name either. Sorry,” he said, looking apologetic as he tried to walk around me, “I must get to work now.”

  Subterfuge hadn’t worked; time for the direct approach. I blocked his way and produced my ID. He looked surprised when I said, “Special Branch.”

  “You’re going to be a little late, Nigel. You and I need to talk. You had breakfast yet? I’ve not. Let’s go over there.” I nodded to the Costa coffee shop across the road.

  “What does Special Branch want with me? I haven’t done anything,” he began as we sat at a table by the side wall. He was looking slightly concerned about why his path to work had been intercepted. The coffee shop was comfortably full of City types in what used to be called power clothes, either looking at their tablets or reading the Financial Times or the Wall Street Journal, but we found a table. We both had black coffee. The pastries were extortionately priced, so I didn’t get anything to eat.

  “Don’t worry. We’re not after you for anything. I just want to ask you about a couple of things. Look at it this way: I could have come into your office and asked for you, but at least this way I don’t embarrass you in front of your colleagues.” I tried to sound reassuring.

  He sipped his coffee whilst he weighed me up in his mind. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  I sat forward. I was going to throw names at him to see how he responded. I sipped my coffee. It was strong enough to fight back.

  “I’m doing a routine background check on someone named Michael Mendoccini. His background’s being investigated because he’s being considered for a sensitive post working for something to do with the Government, though I can’t tell you what ’cause I don’t know myself. You’re listed as being one of his friends, known him for some time apparently. The answers you and others give will help determine whether he gets the post he’s in line for. Friends like you help us get a picture of him as others know him, which means you need to be completely candid when you answer these questions. You okay with this?”

  Hemsley didn’t reply. He was still wondering what was going on.

  “So, first off, do you remember when you first met him, when you became friends?”

  I was doing this to put him on the spot. If he admitted knowing Michael Mendoccini, it’d confirm what Gavin Dennison had told me yesterday.

  “Michael who?” He narrowed his eyes. He looked puzzled. “Mendoccini.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.” He looked baffled and shook his head, sounding almost offended at being asked such a question.

  “You sure about that?” I smiled enigmatically. “This is very important, Nigel. Remember what I said earlier.”

  “Convinced.” He was certain. “Who said I knew him? Does he work in the City?”

  “Doesn’t matter who said it. It’s on our files you and Michael Mendoccini are friends and have been for a little while. He’s told us himself you two have been friends for some while, used to work at the same place. This is an important issue, Nigel, because of the post he’s in line for if the background check works out,” I calmly stated. “If you have information about him which is germane to this inquiry, but fail to reveal it when asked, and he gets elevated to a sensitive position and we find out later there were factors that meant he shouldn’t have got it, and you knew about these but didn’t tell us, that’s a serious offence, Nigel, covered by the Official Secrets Act.” It wasn’t, but he didn’t know that. I paused to let my veiled threat sink in.

  “So, I’ll ask you again. How long have you and Michael Mendoccini been friends? You can be as honest as you wish about him. If he likes spending the weekend dressed up in women’s clothing, calling himself Gloria, and goes shopping like that, we need to know. He won’t ever know what you say about him.”

  “Look, I really don’t know anyone by that name, honestly.” He spoke slowly, but his voice had gone up slightly in intensity and he looked and sounded worried. This was what I wanted but, so far, he’d let nothing slip.

  “So, why are you listed as being a friend of Michael Mendoccini if, as you say, you don’t know who he is? Why does he say you are?”

  “I can’t tell you. I don’t know anyone called Michael Mendo . . . whatever you said the name was. Where am I supposed to know him from, anyway? I have no recollection of ever meeting anyone with that name. I mean, I could have met him at a conference or some such event, or perhaps his firm has done business with my bank and it was him I dealt with, but I honestly don’t recall the name. I’ve certainly never worked with anyone with that name.” He appeared anxious for me to believe him.

  I’d listened closely as he spoke and looked at his eyes. I had the horrible suspicion either Hemsley was an Academy Award winning actor or he really didn’t know.

  I produced a picture. “This is Michael Mendoccini. You recognise him?”

  I stared directly at him as he looked at the picture.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know this person. I’ve never seen him before in my life. You’ve got to believe me, officer. I’m telling the truth.” Now he was worried. So was I. His eyes told me he wasn’t lying.

  I exhaled. I put the picture away. In one way I was almost pleased at hearing his denial. If he didn’t know Michael Mendoccini, that at least was a positive sign.

  “I mentioned someone called Richard Clements earlier,” I said. “You remember him, though, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said after pretending to think for a few moments. “Who’s he? Am I supposed to remember him as well?”

  “He was at King’s same time you were, in some of the same classes; thought you might remember him. You sure you don’t know him?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Hemsley looked at his coffee. I knew he was lying here.

  “Anyway, doesn’t matter. It seems like we’ve got the wrong information somewhere along the line if you’re adamant you don’t know Mendoccini or Clements.”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  “That’s alright, it happens. Apologies for taking up your time.” I stood up. Hemsley looked relieved. He drained his drink. I didn’t finish mine as I’d lost my appetite.

  We left together and he walked across the road to the bank. I went back to the office as I had some thinking to do.

  I’d been hoping Hemsley’d be spooked being confronted with the name Mendoccini but, instead, he’d thrown me by denying any knowledge of the name, and doing so in a way I could believe. I’d interrogated some very accomplished liars during my decade on the force, people who could give masterclasses in lying and represent their country doing so, people who could lie on oath and make you believe they were as virtuous as Catholic priests quoting the scriptures, but Hemsley, I was convinced, was telling the truth.

  Gavi
n Dennison had told me Nigel Hemsley was listed as an associate of Michael Mendoccini, but the look in Hemsley’s eyes when I’d asked him about this suggested Dennison had been fed incorrect data. In a way, it made sense Hemsley didn’t know who Mendoccini was. I’d cross-referenced both men against each other on our files and their respective timelines suggested they’d never met. Hemsley was probably still as socially obnoxious as he was as a student, but I couldn’t picture him as a terrorist.

  Richard Clements had told me Hemsley was worried about money possibly being laundered through his merchant bank. Dennison had said Mendoccini was a financial wizard. Was this the scenario where their paths interlinked?

  Companies House is located in Abbey Orchard Street, a very short walk from Scotland Yard. At the reception desk I showed my ID and asked to speak to a manager or anyone who could answer a few confidential questions about a business. After a quick phone call, I was taken to the third-floor office of Jennifer Slewin, who was described as a financial compliance manager. She was probably early forties and very tall and thin, wearing a fawn-coloured tweed skirt and jacket my grandmother would have blanched at wearing, and she had the kind of figure that made me think she did a lot of running. She wore a pained expression on her face, as though her shoes were too tight for her.

  She asked me to sit. Her office was plainly decorated, with just a few computer terminals on desks and a coffee maker on the table in the corner. There was a cupboard with several weighty tomes about company law and a pile of pamphlets next to them. She asked what I wanted. As she spoke I thought I detected the faint trace of an accent but couldn’t place where from.

  I began by stating what I was about to ask her was confidential and not to be disclosed to anyone else. She accepted my caveat.

  “I’m interested in a business called Carloggias. I have reason to believe this firm might be engaged in accounting fraud, so I’d like to see copies of their most recent accounts and any other relevant information pertaining to the firm.”