Mendoccini

by Laurence Todd

  She asked if I could be more specific about the firm and I said I couldn’t. She nodded, typed a password into one of the computers and then typed a few words into a search box and, after refreshing a few pages of data, a number of pages of accounts appeared on the screen. She looked at them, nodded to herself and then pressed the print button. Several sheets of paper came from the printer. She stapled them together and passed them over to me.

  “These are their published accounts for the past two years and their certificate of incorporation. I hope they’ll be of some use to you.”

  I thanked her for these and then said I wanted to ask her a couple of questions, which I didn’t want her repeating to anyone. She agreed.

  “In your view, is there anything about these accounts suggesting they might not be completely kosher?”

  “We’re not auditors or forensic accountants, Detective. Ensuring accounts are in order is the responsibility of the firm compiling them as well as the auditors who inspect them. You probably know it’s a legal requirement for companies to ensure all accounts are a true and fair view of that company at the time they deposit them here. Potential investors and shareholders place great reliance upon the published accounts of a business, which is why they must accurately reflect the company’s trading position, as far as is possible. Anything less constitutes fraudulent trading.” She looked assured and serious.

  “What if you suspect they’re not kosher?”

  “We report our suspicions to the Financial Conduct Authority. It’s their job to ensure compliance with company law rather than ours. They investigate alleged financial malfeasances. We just keep a record of the accounts.”

  “What’s the position with a company that’s become a shell?”

  “In what sense?”

  “I mean, for argument’s sake, two people set up a small private company but both die in a car crash, and they’re the only two people involved. What happens to their company?”

  “What happens? Nothing.” She grinned. “In law, a company exists independently of the humans who run it. Once it’s established, it only ceases to exist by following the procedures set out under the Companies Acts called disincorporation. It exists in perpetuity unless and until someone takes steps to bring the company to an end.”

  “Presumably this means the company could be bought, then,” I ventured.

  “Yes, it could. Again, there’s a legal procedure to be followed and there’s a fee involved, but so long as this is complied with, it’s usually pretty straightforward, doesn’t take too long. In certain cases it makes sense to do this.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because the company already exists and could have a reputable name, which new owners could capitalise upon. Plus, also, it saves going through all the documentation and hassles of starting up a company from scratch.”

  “Is there any record of someone purchasing Carloggias?” She went back onto her computer and looked at some pages of what looked like gibberish.

  “Indeed there is,” she said. “Carloggias was bought by a company called Fettolio’s two years ago. It went through with no problems. Both companies are also owned by an Italy-based firm called Chrenora’s, so the transaction made sense. No flags were raised by this sale. The details of sale are with the information I’ve just passed over to you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If we suspect a shell company’s being bought for a suspicious reason, or there’s some doubt about the bona fides of the purchaser, we’re compelled to forward this matter to the FCA and they take it from there.”

  “I’m assuming there was no problem in this case.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No problem at all. Fettolio’s satisfied all the legal requirements and the buying of Carloggias by them was not a problem.”

  I thanked her for the help and, after reminding her to keep our discussion to herself, I left clutching a plastic folder with documents pertaining to Carloggias.

  Back at my desk I began looking through what I’d just been given. There were accounts for the last two financial years, details of Carloggias’ purchasing by Fettolio’s as well as the certificate of incorporation. I examined this document first.

  According to this, the business had been established by Andrea and Vittoria Delucca in the 1980s shortly after their arrival from Italy. They’d also opened a restaurant in Soho and this was now being run by their two sons, Leon and Roberto. I ran the parents’ names through our database and found both had died some years ago. They owned the company one hundred percent; neither of the sons was listed as officers of the business, so presumably they had no say in the sale of the business to Fettolio’s. But I wondered. Surely this would depend upon who was the purchaser.

  I looked at the document relating to the company’s sale. It was largely couched in legalese I wasn’t able to follow but I noticed, at the bottom of the page, it had been signed by someone called Darren Ritchie on behalf of Fettolio’s.

  Darren Ritchie. The name rang a bell. I’d heard it before but, for the moment, could not recall where from. I made a note to check out the name.

  The accounts didn’t make too much sense to me. They’d need to be looked over by someone who understood them. I knew the very person. I scanned them and emailed them to a friend and asked him to look them over. I asked him if it could be done as soon as possible and I’d be in touch about them.

  My euphoria at re-establishing contact with an old friend last Saturday evening had now completely dissipated. He’d appeared to be still the same old Michael Mendoccini, in a bar with a gorgeous woman and seeming like he was having a good time. But I’d learned from MI5 he was involved with a terrorist group and, even more surprisingly, so was his father. I’d also been told by Gavin Dennison that Mendoccini was in touch with Nigel Hemsley, the implication being Hemsley was also involved in Red Heaven, yet Hemsley had been genuinely surprised when I’d put Mendoccini’s name to him under a bogus pretext. Hemsley had also spoken to Richard Clements about his concern his bank, or at least someone inside the bank, was engaging in money laundering, yet he’d just denied even knowing Clements when he’d actively sought him out. His own investigation had been curtailed by the bank itself, and when he’d asked a reputable investigative journalist, Josh Bryant, to investigate his suspicions, Bryant’d been murdered. Hemsley had also voiced his suspicion about his immediate superior inside the bank being involved in the scams, and that superior was the son of a Government minister.

  This issue was beginning to take on an unpalatable hue. I was confused. Not to mention reeling, knowing what I now knew about an old friend.

  I then got a call on my mobile phone from Richard Clements.

  “Got your message yesterday. What was that about Poletti and Mendoccini?”

  “Not over the phone. Let’s meet up. The café along from your office.”

  He agreed.

  The café was in a passageway running off Lincoln’s Inn, close to the offices of New Focus, and very popular with local office workers. I’d been here before and, whilst it appeared unappealing from the outside, inside it had plenty of old London charm and character, including several pictures of some of its illustrious past residents and the nearby Inns of Court, plus pictures of the square opposite at different seasons of the year. More importantly for me, it bore no resemblance to any of the hideous franchise coffee shops which, sadly, were springing up everywhere, like mould on bread six days past its use-by date, and which had all the personality of a stagnant lake.

  I was stirring a strong tea, debating whether the spoon could stand unattended if I removed my hand, when Clements arrived. He was obviously a regular and was greeted warmly by the two thirty-something women behind the counter, who gave him a large cup of lemon tea without his asking. One in particular couldn’t stop smiling at him. I couldn’t recall ever seeing him when not drinking a beer. But then, it wasn’t quite lunchtime yet.

  “The dark-haired one by the cash till fancies me.�
� He grinned lecherously. “You up for a double date with her friend?”

  I looked at her. She was nowhere near Christine Simmons’ class. It dawned on me I was thinking about her an awful lot lately.

  “And you married to my boss’s daughter! Another time, maybe.”

  His grin broadened.

  “That letter you said you received last Saturday?” I said. He nodded. “Yeah?”

  “It’s utter rubbish. I’ve had it checked out by a reliable MI5 source, someone I trust, and it’s all nonsense. I was there. The Addleys were arrested and nobody died. You try and print differently, you’ll get a DA-notice slapped on you before you can spit, not to mention Smitherman all over you. Trust me, you don’t want either one of them.”

  “Straight up?” He looked serious.

  “Straight up.” I held his stare.

  “Confirms what the Guardian told me earlier. My friend told me yesterday they’re not going to use it either as they’ve discovered it’s a ruse. The more paranoid amongst them think MI5 sent it hoping it’d be published and then they could go after the paper. That wouldn’t surprise me, either. Anyway, thanks for the heads-up.”

  “You can thank me by answering something you may find unpalatable, but I’d like you to think about it seriously.”

  He nodded and sipped his lemon tea. “Okay. If I can.”

  “The terrorism article you put out last year. You told me a little while back you spoke to Simon Addley about Red Heaven, what it stood for and what its philosophy was.”

  Clements nodded in agreement. “ ’S right.”

  “When we spoke, you mentioned the name Poletti. You said something about him being a leading light in Red Heaven. I know he was in England earlier this year. Did you ever meet anyone with that name or someone named Mendoccini? Did you ever come across one or both of them?” I fixed him with a serious stare.

  Clements didn’t speak for a few moments. He was holding my stare whilst pondering whether he should answer my question and, if so, how far he could go with it without betraying too many confidences.

  “Why are you asking? I spoke to several people researching that article and I promised their names wouldn’t be used, neither would I mention them to anyone else. Most only spoke to me on that condition. It took quite a bit of negotiating to get some people to open up, or even agree to talk to me at all. A couple had connections to the IRA at one point in their lives and, even though they’re out of it now, they still have to be careful. They get Special Branch on their tail, they’ll think it was me talking about them.” He looked serious and sounded concerned.

  “I’m not looking for arrests,” I said reassuringly. “I know Paulo Poletti was in the UK at the time of the synagogue bombing in Golders Green and he was suspected of involvement with it, pulled in and interviewed, but we couldn’t stick him with it. But it turns out, whilst he was here, he was involved in other stuff as well, so I’m just backtracking, trying to find out who he met and what he might have said or done. He’s suspected of being involved in several other bombings. When I spoke to you about the article, you told me Red Heaven had someone called Poletti as one of its main men. So, in terms of the strictest confidence, I’m wondering if he was someone you met and talked to whilst he was here. Give you my absolute solemn word anything you say’ll go no further than this table. Scout’s honour.” I grinned as I gave the Scouts’ salute. “What do you hacks call it, a confidential briefing on lobby terms?”

  “There’s a subtle distinction there, Rob,” he said after a moment’s pause. “When a politician or one of their aides gives you a lobby briefing, it’s with the full knowledge it won’t be used. They know it’ll be filed away, used for background only to give a context to something, usually why they do or don’t support something their party’s proposing, and even then they’re only telling you because they know you and know you can be trusted to be discreet. They also know the journal you write for and they usually have some kind of relationship with it, usually because the journal is a supporter of their party’s policies. And it takes time to build up that kind of trust and relationship. But anything I tell you’s gonna rebound badly on someone, isn’t it? The people I talked to have no relationship with Special Branch, and I suspect they’d not want one either.”

  He had a point. I tried another way.

  “Tell you why I’m asking. Obviously I can’t give you the full story, but we have evidence the two pilgrims I just mentioned are involved in a plot to plant a few IEDs around London. We’re sure they were behind the recent Barcelona bombings and I’m trying to get a lead on them so we can get in front of them and stop them before they kill someone else.”

  I actually had no idea what their plans were, but Clements didn’t know this.

  “Anything you can tell me could be a help. This isn’t just a fishing expedition, Richard, and I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.” I looked right at him. I was speaking in a low but authoritative voice. “As I just told you, no one will ever know anything you can tell me.”

  He was biting his lower lip and breathing slightly heavier. “Remember the scoop I gave you not too long ago?” This was a reference to my helping him and others in the press look into the deaths of prominent individuals involved with the Finality Committee. “I’ve also just done you a favour.”

  Clements looked serious for several seconds. He nodded. “I spoke to someone in MI5 earlier about the Guardian getting that note concerning the Addleys and what happened before the trial,” I said. “I didn’t mention the Focus also had a copy. I could have done, but I’ve kept your name out of it.”

  He tapped his fingers on the table.

  “Okay, Rob, I owe you for that, so, this one time, I’ll answer your questions, if I think they’re appropriate. But if it’ll implicate others I won’t answer, and this isn’t a precedent, as long as that’s clear.”

  I agreed it was.

  “So, what do you wanna know?”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, I discovered Paulo Poletti had indeed spoken to Richard Clements. He’d been put in touch with him by Simon Addley, though how that connection was made he didn’t say. Poletti had expounded what Red Heaven was attempting to achieve and, evidently, had made far more sense than Addley had, which didn’t surprise me. I remembered Clements telling me once that Addley hadn’t got a clue about what he was trying to achieve, but Poletti, according to Clements, was the real thing, someone wholly committed to being a revolutionary, whereas Addley was someone following in his wake, a wannabe without any political nous to substantiate it. Poletti had spoken about the weak and powerless having to use demonstrations of might to fight against those who’d keep the masses in their place, and this included the use of explosives if the occasion justified it.

  “Did the synagogue bombing come up?” I asked.

  “Certainly did; said it was a good thing and he liked it, said more synagogues should be blown up but he wouldn’t confirm or deny any involvement.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “He wouldn’t have answered even if I had done. But he did look like he was feeling quite chuffed with himself when he talked about the bombing.”

  “What else did you talk about?”

  “Just about his view of the world and why Red Heaven is in the vanguard of social change in Europe, general stuff like that.”

  “Overall, what was your impression of him?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment.

  “A political narcissist, that’s for sure. People like him are dangerous; more than that, they’re scarily dangerous.” He looked concerned.

  “Why’s that?”

  “He believes he’s representing the masses, and he really believes he does what he does on their behalf. He claims to be an anarchist but doesn’t seem to realise true anarchism is all about the rejection of prevailing societal norms and values and the idea of the democracy of one against the imposition of laws you disagree with, and nothing at all to do with indiscriminate bombings.
He and others like him, they’re urban guerrillas rather than anarchists, extreme libertarians who hate the whole idea of government. In that sense, Red Heaven actually have something in common with the American Tea Party, though of course they don’t use bombs. The IRA used bombings but never claimed to be anarchists. As I mentioned before, the problem with organisations like Red Heaven is using terror as a tactic but having no idea what they want from it. People like Che Guevara at least knew what they wanted. HAMAS knows what it wants when it fires rockets into Israel. These people plant bombs but don’t know why. You remember the song, the one with the line about not knowing what you want but knowing how to get it? That just about sums up their philosophy.”

  “What about Mendoccini? You ever come across someone with that name?” I was tense, waiting for the answer.

  “I can’t place it. I can check my notes, back in the office, but I don’t recognise the name.”

  I took out the picture and showed it to him. “This is Mendoccini. You recognise him?”

  “Yeah, I believe I do,” he said after a few seconds. “I met Addley in an Italian restaurant somewhere in Soho, and, after a while, these two guys came in. Addley introduced me to the one named Poletti. He sat down and we began talking. He was a much better interview than Addley. We spoke for some time. I asked him who his friend was, and he laughed, said something like ‘he’s the man who pays my way for me’. We spoke for a while longer, but then the other guy, this one” – he nodded at the picture of Mendoccini – “came over, said something in Italian and they both left.”

  “You didn’t speak to him?”

  Clements shook his head firmly. “No.”

  “What did he mean, pay his way for him?”

  “I asked him that. Said he was the man providing all the finance. I asked him to elaborate but he wouldn’t.”