This raised the question: what would Darren Ritchie want with Michael Mendoccini? He worked for a merchant bank where the suspicion of money laundering had been raised. Mendoccini was said to be the money man in Red Heaven. Ritchie had been empty-handed when he’d arrived in Greek Street but had left with a briefcase. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realise the case probably contained currency to be disseminated somewhere in the accounts at Karris and Millers. Was this the business Mendoccini had said he was doing before meeting me for a drink?
I’d learned one thing; I wasn’t going to be contacting Darren Ritchie later today on the assumption he was helping Nigel Hemsley. Someone in the bank last Friday morning had said he was away for a long weekend and not back until Tuesday. But he’d looked like he was working earlier today. I guessed also this meant he knew Hemsley was dead.
I took the picture of Ritchie with me and drove to the Chequered Flag, the pub in Canary Wharf where Josh Bryant had been drinking prior to his murder. The pub was just along the road from Canada Water tube station and, even mid-afternoon, was lively with punters.
I approached the woman behind the counter and showed ID. I asked if there was anyone currently working who had been behind the counter two Friday evenings back. She replied she’d been there as she was the landlady and she and her husband ran the pub. I took out the picture.
“That particular Friday night, a man left here and, further along the road, was assaulted and died. Just before that, he’d been in here meeting someone.”
“I remember. Police showed me the picture of him. I recognised him as I’d served him not too long before he left. He was quite a well-spoken bloke, which was why I remembered him. Don’t get many posh blokes in this place. It’s all estuary English around here.”
“Did you see him talking to anyone?”
“He was in that corner over there” – she nodded towards the far side of the pub – “talking to some bloke. We weren’t too crowded, so I saw them quite clearly.”
I showed her the picture of Darren Ritchie. “Was this the man he was talking to?”
She looked closely at the picture.
“Yes, I do believe it is. He arrived about eight thirty-ish. I remember asking him if he was South African and he said he was. The other man, the one who got killed, came in about twenty minutes later. They sat over there talking the whole time.”
“I don’t suppose you caught any of their conversation.” I was hoping against hope.
“No. I’m sorry, I didn’t. Unless they’re raising their voices or being loud and abusive, I don’t tend to listen to what customers say. But I remember them showing bits of paper to each other.”
“Bits of paper?”
“Yeah. I was collecting empty glasses and I saw the other bloke take out something and put it on the table. They were both pointing to it occasionally but I don’t know what it was. Sorry.”
“But you’re sure it was this guy in here that night?” I nodded at Ritchie’s picture.
“Oh yeah, I’m certain it was him.”
“Did you tell police about him?”
“Yes. I said the man who’d been killed had been with another man in here but I didn’t know his name, and I’d never seen either of them before that evening so I couldn’t tell them anything about him. No one else in here that night knew him either.”
I thanked her for her help.
Hemsley had been correct when he’d said Darren Ritchie had met Josh Bryant the night of his demise. Hemsley had put Bryant on the trail of money laundering and Ritchie had been made aware of his suspicions of financial irregularities at the bank. Ritchie had supposedly backed off when they had been warned by senior management inside the bank, so if that was the case, why was he meeting an investigative reporter? Was he setting Bryant up for whoever killed him? Did he know someone would be lying in wait for Bryant when he left the pub? I was sure Ritchie was at least an accessory in the murder of Bryant. Was Darren Ritchie also part of Red Heaven or just involved in the laundering of funds? Either way, earlier today I’d seen him with Michael Mendoccini and I didn’t believe they were meeting to discuss the latest football news. I was developing a dislike of Ritchie and decided he was going down one way or the other.
It was now late afternoon. I remained in the office until just past seven, trying to avoid Smitherman and catching up on a few things, and then left to walk to Soho where I was meeting Michael Mendoccini. I was hungry but didn’t feel like eating.
That’s because I was nervous. Part of me was delighted at the thought of catching up with a guy who’d been my closest friend during my formative teenage years. Two weeks back I’d have been ecstatic at the prospect of a few beers and a conversation with the guy who’d been my closest mate for years, someone I had so many great memories of from times we’d spent together, things we’d done and places we’d been to. But I was still coming to terms with the notion he was now associated with a ruthless terrorist group who were responsible for several deaths and considerable damage to property across a number of countries, not to mention increasing levels of security awareness.
My thoughts centred on the New York councilman who’d been blown to pieces in Milan whilst buying ice cream for his family. The case had produced considerable political fallout because the councilman was in the running for the governorship of New York State and the US State department had applied great pressure on the Italian authorities to get results, but no one had ever been arrested for this atrocity. Was Mendoccini really involved with helping to create situations like this? I still couldn’t remember him ever expressing any definite opinions about current affairs when we’d been teenagers, so the move into urban terrorism was quite a leap of faith.
Still unsure if I was doing the right thing, as I’d not told Smitherman I was meeting up with my old friend and I’d avoided him in the office before I’d left, I entered the pub where we were meeting. The theatre crowd had now mostly left and there were some vacant tables. I bought a beer and waited by the bar.
He walked into the pub, looked around and saw me. He put his arm on my shoulder and we embraced. He looked slightly older than when we’d last gone out but, despite that, he looked exactly as I would have remembered him had I not met him recently.
“Good seeing you, Rob. How you doing?”
“Any better, it’d be unlawful. What about yourself?” Despite myself, and the possible consequences, I was happy being with Michael again.
“Yeah, it’s all good. Business is good. Surviving despite the current economic climate. You wouldn’t believe the state of the Italian economy.” He smiled at me. “Would it be construed as bribery or corruption if I offered to buy a police officer a drink?”
“ ’Course it would, but I’ll have a beer just the same.” I drained my first beer.
He bought a large vodka and tonic for himself and another extortionately priced pint of Peroni for me. We went to a table by the window. He looked me up and down.
“You’re still a scruffy sod, aren’t you? Please tell me you don’t take your lady out dressed like that,” he said.
I was wearing a black leather jacket and polo shirt, but he was immaculately groomed in a smart-but-casual dark suit and a white shirt. I looked at him and a small part of me wished I’d not met him in the restaurant the other weekend. I knew a lot more about him than I wanted to know and there was little doubt a lot of what I knew was true, and whilst friendship feelings I’d not felt for a long time were coming back to me, there was a tinge of sadness in the mix.
But the next hour was as pleasant a time as I’d had for quite a while. We swapped stories about our families and relationships and people we knew from our teenage circle of friends who’d married, divorced, started working for the civil service, moved away, become parents, had affairs or been caught having affairs and, in one sad case, spent time in prison for the attempted rape of his babysitter, costing him his relationship with his wife and family.
We swapped anecdotes about va
rious women we’d known, had boasted we’d known or wished we’d known and wondered where they were now. As we were talking, I realised I was feeling very comfortable in Mendoccini’s presence. It felt good seeing my old friend again and, for a moment, I had forgotten his involvement with Red Heaven. Just as well Smitherman couldn’t see me now.
“So, you’re a copper now?” he said calmly after returning from the bar with more drinks for both of us.
“Yeah. Been one since I graduated eleven years back. I decided against doing a Master’s degree, joined the Met straight from university. It’s certainly interesting. I don’t regret it. Could be worse. I might have had to work for a living otherwise, and we can’t have that, can we?” I laughed. “I’m a detective, a Detective Sergeant, no less. You believe that? What about you?”
“Believe anything about you,” he said, smirking. “Me? Doing good. My father’s business is thriving. The shop’s doing well, we’re making money. Hard work but it’s lucrative.”
“You’re in Italy most of the time now, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. Business is better there. I’ve taken over a lot of the things my father used to do. He’s turned sixty now and largely just works in the Milan shop, and I do the rest. We’ve expanded. Got several employees over there and here in the UK. We’re doing okay. We supply several Italian restaurants here in London. That’s what I’ve been doing today, talking about renewing contracts for orders, delivery dates and payment details and all that with restaurants we supply. Do yourself a favour; never become a businessman.” He adopted a mock-pained expression. “The hassles you have to deal with.”
“You were in Italy when I came home from university at the end of my first term, weren’t you?” I said casually. Time to broach the subject.
“Yeah, I was. Sorry I missed you.”
“I left contact numbers with your mother but you never got back to me.” I looked straight at him. He was quiet for a few moments. I remembered where Stimpson had said he was.
“I did once, but your parents said you’d gone back to university early. Then I heard you’d graduated.” He sipped his drink. “I tried looking you up once. I knew you weren’t living at home but I didn’t know where you were. I suppose I could have asked your parents but, by then, I was spending more time in Milan, coming back less and less . . .” He paused. “Well, you know how it is.” He shrugged. “Life just gets in the way sometimes.”
“ ’S okay, Michael, we’re here now. No hard feelings. Life ain’t long enough, mate.” I raised my glass and toasted him. I drained my beer. I’d had a few by now and could feel the pleasant buzz deriving from alcohol consumption, especially on an empty stomach.
“My shout.” I picked up the empty glasses and went to the bar. I casually glanced around the bar area, wondering which of the drinkers here was MI5, keeping tabs on Mendoccini.
Whilst waiting I saw Mendoccini take out his mobile, turn slightly away from me and make a call. I wondered who he was calling. As I looked at him it saddened me I knew he was implicated in terrorism. Deep down I’d wanted to believe he was innocent and that somehow it was all a case of mistaken identity. But I knew too much about people he’d been seen with to be in any doubt.
Meeting him like this without informing Smitherman I was so doing would doubtlessly drop me up to my neck in it. I couldn’t explain why I’d not told him. If I was honest I just wanted one more night with my old friend, especially in a pub we’d used as teenagers, as I was sure such a night could never be repeated.
I paid for the drinks, blanching at the price of Peroni, and returned to the table. For the moment I didn’t mention his phone call.
“So, when were you planning to tell me you’re in Special Branch?” he said calmly as he sipped his drink. My surprise must have been palpable.
“How d’you know that?”
“One of my friends recognised you in the restaurant the other week. Special Branch, that’s heavy stuff, isn’t it?” He looked serious. This confirmed I’d seen Darren Ritchie.
“I can’t be specific about my work. I’m a detective. That’s all I can say.” I had the feeling a very pleasant evening had taken a turn for the worse.
“ ’S alright, mate, no problem. I wouldn’t expect you to.” He smiled at me. “You like what you do there?”
“It’s a lot more interesting than helping old ladies across the street wearing a tall blue hat.” We both laughed at that.
It was possibly the effects of the alcohol, but I found myself telling him about the case against the Addleys a few months before. I described the aborted trial and how we’d stumbled onto the plan.
“They were planning to plant an improvised explosive device outside the Albert Hall, by the Albert Memorial, and we stopped them. God knows how many might have died had we not got there first. I was the arresting officer. We got all of them. A great result for the good guys.” I lifted my glass in a toasting gesture. As I did so, I realised I’d been telling him about thwarting a Red Heaven operation. Was I subconsciously trying to bait him?
“Yeah.” He smiled and clinked his glass against mine but, in that split second, something intangible passed through his eyes. Disappointment the action hadn’t succeeded? Was it because I’d been involved in stopping it? I couldn’t put my finger on what it was but, though it lasted only a second, I definitely noticed something changing in his eyes.
“You were involved, then,” he said.
“From start to finish.”
“How’d you feel about that?”
“Felt bloody good, mate. Stopping a couple of maniacs planting a device that’d cause a lot of innocent people to suffer or lose their lives? I certainly don’t feel bad about it.”
“A couple of those involved died, though, didn’t they?” “How would you know that? The media only mentioned arrests. There was nothing about any casualties.”
“You sure? How else would I know about it?”
For the moment I decided not to continue this line of conversation. But I could sense the aura between us changing.
We talked about other things for the next thirty or so minutes, though the change in the mood lingered. Then he drained his glass.
“Early start tomorrow. A few meetings about renewing supply contracts and then an appointment with the bank manager. I’m not kidding, Rob, don’t ever become a businessman.” He pulled a face and stood up. I finished my pint and we left the pub together. I could still sense a change in the vibes between us.
We strolled along and stopped at the corner of Greek Street. He nodded towards Delucca’s. “I’m staying at Angie’s as most of what I have to do is here in London, and it’s easier to be here than travel up. Anyway, what about you and your lady coming here later on this week and having a meal in the restaurant? It’s on the house. My treat. Friday night okay with you guys?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Should be okay. I’ve got your number; I’ll get back to you.”
Before I could move he put both arms around me in a warm embrace. I automatically reciprocated. We patted each other’s back a few times.
“Whatever you think of me and whatever you think I might have done,” he said in a soft voice, “it’s been fucking good seeing you, man, it really has.” He was looking me right in the eyes from close range, as though trying to read my soul. The look on his face was almost imploring and hard to read.
“Good seeing you too, pal. Let’s not leave it another fourteen years, eh?” I laughed. He gave a slight wave and walked off towards Delucca’s.
At home I made a coffee and tried watching the late news but couldn’t concentrate. I was replaying the whole evening in my mind.
Whatever you think of me and whatever you think I might have done, he’d said. What was that all about? What did he think I knew about him? If he knew I was Special Branch he’d have to have at least an inkling of the kind of work I’d be doing. Did he think I was there having a drink but also spying on him? Was he admitting complicity in whatever Red
Heaven had done or were thinking of doing?
I remembered the look in his eyes when we’d clinked glasses after I’d told him about thwarting an attempt to put a bomb in the vicinity of the Albert Hall. Almost a look of despondency. It was definitely something and I couldn’t get a handle on what it was. How also would he have known about the two deaths prior to the Addleys being arrested? Not one news report had mentioned anyone dying.
But whatever; for two and a half hours, it’d been lovely spending time with Michael Mendoccini once again. At a couple of times I’d almost expected him to look around, notice two women on their own and ask whether I was interested in our making a move on them, which would have been the norm when we’d been horny teenage boys with raging libidos and a wholly exaggerated sense of our desirability to the opposite sex.
Whatever I now knew about him and his activities over the past few years, and whatever I might well have to do in future where he was concerned, I couldn’t deny to myself I’d enjoyed the evening. I felt sad it might well have been my very last evening with him as, tomorrow, I’d have to tell Smitherman about it, if he didn’t already know, and I didn’t doubt I’d be debriefed by someone about every word that’d been said, as well as receiving a bollocking or worse for not mentioning the meeting in advance. But that was for tomorrow.
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