He looked around the room wistfully.
“Prison means my body’s in a cage, but not my mind and my spirit. Some prisoners hate being on their own with no one to talk to, and they revolt against it and eventually they crack. Me? I’m fine with it. The prison authorities won’t let me see my brother just yet, which is a downer, but I’m not dwelling on it and I won’t let it get to me. It’s just their way of trying to break me. They won’t.” He was firm in his resolve. “Other than that, I’m good. I’ve even forgiven Chrissie for her act of betrayal. She was just doing her job. In a way she helped me get to where I am now. She helped save me. So did you.”
“That’ll make her sleep better at nights, I’m sure.” Would she even care?
I called for the guard and said we’d finished.
“Take care.” Addley looked at me and gave a peace sign. He made it sound like we were two old mates who’d just finished talking for the moment. I nodded back but didn’t speak. He was led away. I wondered if he’d still feel quite so sanguine if he knew his brother had been Smitherman’s informant and had played a significant part in his being where he currently was. Would this derail him from his current path?
I left Mahavishnu Addley to continue on his search for spiritual oneness.
I typed up an account of my conversation with Addley, emphasising that he’d confirmed Poletti as the man planting the bomb at the Golders Green synagogue, and also the alarming fact of his getting the explosives to do so from David Kader. I messaged it to Smitherman, and asked for details of Kader to be forwarded on to Christine Simmons. This would mean, next time he came to the UK, Poletti’d be arrested. If Mendoccini was with him, he’d be pulled in as well. Would Simon Addley be asked to testify at any resulting trial? Would he still be willing to testify? His testimony would be a major factor in ensuring Poletti went down for all the years he’d deserve.
What did I know so far? Richard Clements had told me of Nigel Hemsley’s concern about money being laundered through the merchant bank he worked for, and his belief it was known about and sanctioned by people higher up in the bank. Hemsley had been warned off, so he’d asked an investigative journalist, Josh Bryant, to look into the matter, but this person had been brutally murdered soon afterwards. I’d come across a set of accounts in his flat which alluded to possible scamming. I’d also learned a guy who at one time was my closest friend was the money man in a terrorist group, Red Heaven, and I’d been told by Gavin Dennison this same person knew Nigel Hemsley. But Hemsley’d denied knowing Mendoccini and I believed him. Simon Addley had confirmed seeing Mendoccini with Paolo Poletti, a known bomber.
If Mendoccini did know Hemsley, this would explain the money laundering as the two of them could have devised the scam between them. But Hemsley had been emphatic in his denial of knowing Mendoccini, and that scenario would also assume Hemsley was involved with Red Heaven, which I believed to be ludicrous. Nigel Hemsley was as palatable as a blocked toilet but he stopped short of involvement in terrorism.
I’d heard Josh Bryant had a contact at Karris and Millers who’d talked to him. The contact would have useful information that could be used to identify money laundering, and also to nail anyone who was involved with the scam, especially if connected to Red Heaven. I needed to find this person.
I wondered whether Hemsley could recognise the signature or the initials on the accounts I’d shown Dorrius-Lyle. He’d probably prefer having piles to meeting me again, but I needed his help.
I entered the forecourt of the bank and went into a large foyer featuring a very impressive glittering chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, and thin shag pile carpeting containing the bank’s embossed white emblem which assaulted your eyes if you looked down. There were portraits of people I assumed to be previous Karris and Millers luminaries prominently displayed along the walls. The foyer had the calm unruffled feel which derives from an environment where serious money permeates the very air you breathe on a daily basis.
The receptionist was a twenty-something strawberry blonde with hair held in place by an Alice band, and a pleasant smile which she flashed at me as I approached her desk. Her smile faded slightly as I showed my ID, but she’d been well trained and persevered.
“I need to talk to Nigel Hemsley,” I stated.
She nodded and picked up a phone and dialled a number. Two seconds later she was telling someone police were here to talk to Nigel and could he come down.
“I’ll wait over there.” I nodded to a corner where there were a pair of armchairs and a glass-topped coffee table with magazines and newspapers spread out. There was the Financial Times, the Wall Street Journal and the Economist, but I assumed New Focus wasn’t required reading for the clientele of a merchant bank as I couldn’t see a copy. I declined an offer of a coffee from a woman in a bright-coloured tunic who was walking past. I sat down and waited. Four minutes later Hemsley emerged from a lift and walked across the lobby. The smiling blonde behind the reception desk nodded in my direction. He saw who was waiting for him and a bewildered look came over his face. I stood up.
“We met yesterday, didn’t we?” He offered his right hand suspiciously. I accepted.
“Yes, we did.” I sat down. He followed suit.
“Why do you need to see me again?” He sounded nervous. “Have a look at these.”
I handed him a photocopy of the article and the accounts I’d found in Bryant’s flat. He looked at the photocopied sheets and I could immediately see he recognised them. His face changed colour and he took on a worried expression.
“Where’d you get these?” he asked in a loud, almost conspiratorial whisper.
“I’m a detective. How do you think I find anything?”
I didn’t tell him I’d stumbled upon them by blind luck. Why ruin the moment?
“Let’s not talk here.” He stood up and beckoned me to follow him.
He walked over to the reception desk. “Just popping out for a moment. Apparently someone’s pranged my car and police want me to look at the damage.”
The receptionist said okay.
I followed Hemsley through the main doors out into Watling Street, where he stopped, uncertain about the next move.
“Let’s talk in the Costa along the road,” I said. He agreed and, a few moments later, we were sitting in the same seats as the day before. It was early afternoon but not too crowded as the lunch rush had finished. We each ordered a black coffee.
“Where’d you get those accounts?” he whispered nervously.
“What exactly are they? What do they mean?”
He leaned in closer. “They’re the bank’s preliminary accounts for the current financial year. They’re the first draft. They aren’t the ones the shareholders get to see; they’re just a work-in-progress whilst funds and revenues are still being ascertained and collated. These would have been just for internal consumption inside the bank, for department heads to comment upon.”
“They’re confidential, then,” I stated.
“Bloody hell, yes,” he exclaimed in a slightly louder whisper. “Any of our competitors would have a field day if they saw these.” He shook his head. “Not to mention senior managers having a coronary.”
“Who compiled them?”
“Accounts like these are produced by several people. No one individual is responsible. Many individuals and departments are involved putting together something as complex as these. They’d have a very limited distribution range inside the bank, which is why I wondered where you got them from.”
“So these are genuine?” I asked.
“Oh God yeah, no question. I’m trying to work out how they’d have come into the hands of the police.”
“For the moment, that’s not important.” I wasn’t going to let on I knew about Josh Bryant. “But don’t worry. Nobody else has seen them and I don’t plan to put them on public display. Well, not yet, anyway.” I grinned maliciously. “But what I want to know is . . .” I pointed to the initials at the top and the signat
ure at the foot of the first page. He looked at them. “Do these initials mean anything to you?”
He paused for a few moments and took a deep breath. “If I tell you, do I have your word you’ll tell nobody who you heard it from?”
“This is part of an ongoing investigation, so there’s no guarantees, but I won’t tell anyone if I don’t have to.”
He seemed satisfied with that. He pointed to the initials. “DL is Dereck Lawbury. That’s his signature.”
“Who’s he?”
“One of the newer accountants. His signature there just means he’s looked at these and probably made some comments about them to whichever senior manager they’re to be forwarded to. I’m not sure which one.”
“You know him?”
“I know who he is, but we’re not friends or anything. He’s only been with us a few months or so. His signature’s on several things I get to look at.”
“Do you think these accounts are kosher, there’s nothing dodgy about them?”
“Of course there’s nothing dodgy.” He was indignant, as though I’d asked if his mother was on the game. “We’re a reputable merchant bank; any hint our accounts weren’t correct would be commercial suicide. The markets’d go ballistic. You remember what happened to Shell in 2004 when they overstated the value of their proven oil reserves? About 8% of their total value was wiped off in a very short space of time. Their share price took quite a hit. Do you have evidence these aren’t kosher?” He was now worried.
“No, I was just wondering.”
Something about the way Hemsley had replied to my questions told me he was lying. He avoided eye contact and his voice had a strained quality, as though he were struggling to talk in a neutral tone. I knew he had concerns because he’d spoken to Richard Clements about them and alerted him to his suspicions about money being laundered. But Hemsley didn’t know I knew about that, so, for the moment, I didn’t pull him up on it.
“Right.” I fixed him with a direct stare. “You’re going to forget this conversation ever took place. You’re not going to tell anyone what you’ve told me. When you get back to the bank, stick to the story about your car being damaged. You tell anyone about this conversation, I’ll give these to a friend who’s on the City desk of a national newspaper. I’m sure he’d be interested in them.” I didn’t have one, but he wasn’t to know that.
Hemsley turned the same colour as stale bread. I left him to swallow his coffee in large gulps, then return to work.
I now had the beginnings of a lead towards whom Josh Bryant’s contact inside the bank might have been. I contacted my office and asked someone to find what was known about a Dereck Lawbury at Karris and Millers.
There was nothing listed which was unremarkable; mid-thirties, Oxbridge degree, single, living in London, working for a merchant bank. But there was nothing about any previous work experience, and it was unlikely he’d have got his current post straight from university. I was also told there wasn’t a picture on file, and there was no current address, which was also strange. I rang off.
No picture. How to know what he looked like without asking somebody inside the bank? An idea came to mind. I contacted Helen Cranston at the Observer, who fortunately remembered me from the previous day. I asked her if she’d ever met or known a Dereck Lawbury, working for Karris and Millers. She had. She’d met him once at a conference on the future of banking, organised by the New Economics Foundation, held at the Thistle Hotel, by Tower Bridge, a month ago. He had been representing his bank and she’d managed to have a conversation with him. She gave me a workable description and agreed she’d keep my request to herself.
I was watching people leaving the bank. I was looking for someone around six foot with a moustache and glasses who wore some kind of hat, which made it sound as though I was looking for Groucho Marx. Just before six, someone fitting this description emerged from the bank and walked towards Mansion House tube station. I took the chance it was Lawbury and walked a little way behind him.
He had no reason to believe anyone was tailing him and he strolled calmly along through the crowded streets. He picked up a free copy of the Evening Standard and entered the station. I bought a ticket from the machine and followed him to the eastbound platform. He boarded the first train and so did I. He disembarked at Tower Bridge and followed the signs for Tower Gateway, Docklands Light Railway, with me still twenty yards behind. We both got on the train going east. He got off at Limehouse. He walked south down the road towards the Thames and entered a block of flats after inserting a passcode. I followed him to the door.
I’d waited outside for a few moments when an elderly woman came outside with her dog. I held the door open.
“Excuse me, I’m supposed to be calling on a friend who lives here, a Dereck Lawbury, but he didn’t give me his flat number, just the address,” I said in a flummoxed voice. “Would you know it?”
“Oh, he’s on the top floor, flat ten. I’ve just passed him. He was getting into the lift as I got out. Nice man.” She smiled and walked away.
So that was Dereck Lawbury.
I walked up the stairs to the fourth floor. I knocked on the door and, a few moments later, it opened. Lawbury had removed his jacket, loosened his tie and was holding a cup of something. He didn’t appear to be overly rapturous at being disturbed at home.
“Dereck Lawbury?” I showed him ID. He nodded. “I’d like to talk to you.”
He stepped aside and I entered. The flat was well appointed with a front facing the Thames. The lounge was small but comfortable and was neat and tidy, apart from his jacket on the chair. I could hear voices from the kitchen and realised it was the radio. He stood in the centre of the room.
“I was wondering if you were following me for a reason. You followed me from the bank. I saw you on the tube and again at the top of the road.”
He was more observant than I’d realised.
“Why do police need to talk to me?” He was now looking at me quite intently.
“I’ll come to that in a moment. Do you recognise this signature?” I showed him the photocopied accounts.
He looked at the signature and nodded. “What about it?” He didn’t seem to be as shaken as Hemsley had been when confronted with an unauthorised person holding confidential accounts from inside his bank.
“That is your signature?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What of it?”
“You recognise these accounts?”
He nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“I’m curious how these accounts ended up in the possession of someone who doesn’t work for your bank and who was murdered two weeks ago. I’m investigating the circumstances leading up to his death, and it’s our belief these are in some way connected to his demise.” I nodded at the accounts.
“So, why come talking to me?”
“Because your name and initials are on them, and I’ve discovered the deceased was investigating something related to them, and, as I’ve just mentioned, we think his death is connected to something he uncovered concerning these accounts,” I stated, holding his stare.
He looked serious. “I can’t help you with that, I’m afraid. I don’t know how whoever it was got hold of them.”
“What’s so special about these accounts that someone investigating them ends up being killed?”
He made the pretence of glancing at them. “Nothing I can see.” He shrugged.
“I’m presuming these are confidential.”
“Very confidential.”
“So how did the deceased in this case get hold of them? Did you pass them on to him? Your signature’s on them.”
“No, I didn’t,” he stressed, “and I don’t know how he got hold of them.”
“How many people inside your bank would have access to these accounts?”
“Not quite sure, but it’d be a fairly limited circle, mainly senior management.”
“Any names? We may need to talk to them.”
“There’s s
everal senior managers who’d probably see those, but I don’t know anyone specific, so I can’t help you there, I’m afraid,” he stated blandly.
“Can’t or won’t? You’re aware, presumably, it’s an offence to obstruct police, particularly when they’re investigating murder. So if you have any information about these” – I held up the accounts – “or know something about the victim and who he was, you need to tell me. It could help us track down his murderer.”
He looked at me for a couple of moments.
“Can you think of any reason why an investigative journalist should be interested in these accounts?” I continued. “I mean, what’s so special about them?”
“As I said, there’s nothing I can help you with.”
I felt an overwhelming urge to pin this clown to the wall but I resisted. I took a step closer to him.
“Somebody was killed because of something in these accounts, and I’m hoping you’re man enough to be bothered by that,” I said firmly, trying not to sound too threatening.
“I don’t know enough about them to say one way or the other.” He shrugged, yet again. “I’m sorry about that.”
“You don’t seem too surprised someone outside your bank has a copy of financial records you just told me are confidential.”
“They are confidential, but you’re police, so it’s obvious you’re not going to make them public, especially if you’re investigating a murder,” he replied calmly. “Anyway, I hope you find whoever it is who killed whoever it is you’re talking about, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you about them.”
I couldn’t haul him off to the nearest police station and ask questions there. All I had was a set of accounts with Lawbury’s initials and signature on them. I had nothing substantive to back up my belief Lawbury might have been the person Josh Bryant was going to meet before he was killed. For the moment this was a dead end.
Mendoccini Page 13