I’d never had a brother and, in truth, Michael Mendoccini was as near as I’d ever come to having one and I couldn’t deny I loved the guy. I went to bed overwhelmed with feelings of frustration and confusion and close to tears.
T E N
Tuesday
After a restless nightwhere I’d slept little because I was continually turning over thoughts in my mind about the previous evening, I arrived in the office early to catch up on a few reports I should have completed yesterday and was making progress when the phone rang. It was Smitherman requesting my presence. I took a deep breath and went to his office.
He was on his own and he told me to have a seat. He’d had new computer terminals installed last Saturday and, to accommodate the new technology, he’d had to move his desk slightly so, when you sat opposite him, the view from his window didn’t quite encompass the usual vista of St James’s Park.
He said he’d been made aware of Nigel Hemsley’s suicide the previous Friday as it related to what I’d told him about possible money laundering at Karris and Millers and the possible link between this and Red Heaven. I brought him up to speed with seeing Hemsley the night before he’d died and where I was with the investigation.
I told him about Hemsley’s friend, Darren Ritchie, meeting up with Josh Bryant just before Bryant was murdered, and about my original idea of contacting Ritchie when he returned from his weekend break. I paused, then mentioned I’d hit a snag with this plan.
“Oh, really? What might that be?” Smitherman looked serious.
“There’s a connection between him and Michael Mendoccini.”
“And you know this how?”
“I saw them together yesterday.”
Smitherman touched the tips of his fingers across his chest. “Where’d you see them?”
“Outside Delucca’s restaurant. I was watching the place when Ritchie came along. They were talking together in a coffee shop. Mendoccini had an attaché case and Ritchie left carrying it; probably full of money which Ritchie or someone’s going to lose in the accounts.”
Smitherman looked straight at me. I felt like a row of bowling pins being set up to be knocked down.
“How did you know Mendoccini was back in the country?” He raised his eyebrows in an enquiring manner.
“Phoned me Sunday evening. Said he was staying at Delucca’s, asked if we could meet up. You’d said he was coming back Sunday, so I kind of expected a call at some point.”
Smitherman paused for a moment to let the tension build.
“So, when are you meeting him?” The expression on his face told me he already knew the answer. I waited a couple of seconds before biting the bullet.
“Last night. I met him last night in a pub in Old Compton Street, one we used to drink in whenever we came up to London years back.”
Smitherman waited a few seconds. Here it comes. I clenched up inside. I’d last felt like this waiting to be admonished by a headteacher.
“You know the Archduke’s a renowned gay pub, don’t you?” He smiled at me. “Do your girlfriends know about you two?”
The surprise was etched across my face.
“Come on, you didn’t really think you weren’t going to be observed with Mendoccini, did you?” There was a disbelieving look on his face. “MI5’s been on his tail since he got into Stansted early Sunday morning. They’re following him everywhere. They knew he’d arranged to meet someone last night and the speculation was it was going to be you.”
I sat still in the chair, waiting to be chewed up and spat onto the carpet. I felt tense. I was conversant with operational procedure in such situations and I could offer no operational justification for not informing Smitherman before meeting Mendoccini. I awaited my fate. To my amazement it didn’t come to pass.
“You’re damn lucky you’re in my section and I allow a little latitude,” he said with feeling.
I must have looked puzzled. I wasn’t sure from his expression whether he was smiling or scowling. Both could be equally frightening.
“I had Stimpson on the phone an hour ago telling me you’d met Mendoccini last night and his department hadn’t known about it until his man told him,” Smitherman said, matter-of-factly. “But I told him I knew it was happening and I’d cleared it for you to meet him because you’d be reporting back to me about what was said and done that evening. And that’s what you’re doing now, so technically I’m not lying, am I?”
Before telling him, I asked something. “MI5 had someone on his tail? I looked around the pub but I didn’t see anyone resembling a spook. This guy’s pretty good, ’cause I didn’t make him.”
“Well, he spotted you two alright, chatting away like no one’s business. He just watched from a distance, he didn’t eavesdrop on your conversation. He followed you to where Mendoccini turned off, by the restaurant. He saw you hugging each other before you walked off and, trust me, Stimpson didn’t like hearing about that. You were tailed as far as the tube station but he didn’t follow you home.”
I then gave Smitherman an account of what had transpired in the pub last night; what we’d talked about, and some of our reminiscences. I also told him of Mendoccini’s comment about whatever I thought he might have done. I mentioned Mendoccini’s admission he knew about the two deaths the night the Addleys were arrested, despite their never having been made public.
“You realise, don’t you, there’s only one way he could have known about the two deaths?”
“Yeah, I thought that at the time. The media mentioned the Addleys but didn’t say anything about Kader. He’d only know that through Red Heaven.”
“What did he say about you stopping Kader’s plan in its tracks?”
“Didn’t actually say anything, but I got a sense of unease from him. Hard to explain but I thought he was feeling disappointed the plan didn’t succeed. It felt like he disappeared inside himself at that point, if that makes any sense.”
“Did Poletti’s name get mentioned?”
“Not by me, no. I didn’t want him knowing I know about his friend, though he probably suspects I know as he also knows I’m Special Branch.”
Smitherman glanced across at the window, then looked back at me.
“So, are you likely to meet him again?”
“He wants to meet again Friday. It won’t happen.” I shook my head. “If he’s not in custody or out of the country, I’ll find a reason not to go.”
I felt a twinge of sadness as I spoke but I let it pass.
“He’s cool, I’ll say that for him,” I said, after a moment. “What do you mean?”
“He knew I was in Special Branch but he still wanted to meet up. At no time did he give any sense of unease being around police. If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought we were back in the upper sixth again, especially being in that particular pub.”
Smitherman looked impassive. He was waiting for me to say something, and I knew what.
“I know I should have informed someone about going to meet him,” I sighed. “I don’t know if this’ll make any sense, and it’s not meant to be an excuse for not following procedure, but he’s as near to a brother as I’ve ever had. I’ve not seen him for about fourteen years and I’ve great memories of him when we were at school. I’m aware he’s part of something I’m sworn to go up against, but I approached last night as a kind of farewell, if you like. It’s hard to explain how I feel, but I just wanted to see him again one more time as a friend, have a few beers with him and relive some old memories. I believe psychologists refer to this as closure.”
Smitherman was taking in what I’d said. Even though I’d explained my reasoning for having spent an evening with a man implicated in terrorism, I was still expecting a reprimand and a black mark on my docket for violating standard operating procedure or, at best, some kind of official bollocking, focusing upon notions of duty and how personal feelings could play no part in our work. Instead, Smitherman nodded to himself and sat upright in his chair, as though trying to make himself mor
e comfortable.
“I’ve never told you this before,” he said quietly, “but I’ve got a brother, and we’ve not spoken for years, literally years. He’s two years older than me and, growing up, he was into peace and love and Zen Buddhism and all that sixties rubbish, even though it was the early seventies. I wasn’t. I was a bit more straitlaced than he was. I didn’t subscribe to all that hippie nonsense and I joined the forces soon as I was eligible, which started to drive a wedge between us because he disapproved of the military, and when that finished, I joined the police. In the summer of 1981, I was part of a team raiding a large cannabis factory in Kentish Town. We seized several pounds of top-grade marijuana and arrested everyone there, about eight or nine people. We put a huge hole in the supply of marijuana in North London. Inadvertently we created the gap for the Chackarti family to move into, and they’ve been there ever since.” He paused for a moment but then looked very serious.
“My brother Terry was one of the people arrested. I didn’t know he was part of it until we got there, but it turns out he was one of the ringleaders, a major distributor. I’d no idea he was the biggest supplier of soft drugs in North London before the Chackartis moved in. He’d told his friends his brother was police and would either tip him off or help him get off if he was ever pulled in. I didn’t do either. He went down for an eight stretch. His wife left him when she found out what he’d been doing” – he paused again for a moment or two, nodding slowly to himself – “and he’s never spoken to me since. I tried visiting him in prison but he wouldn’t see me. I met him when he was released but he ignored me. He’s cut me dead ever since, walks straight past me in the street, won’t have anything to do with me. When my daughter married Clements last year, he walked right past me at the reception as though I wasn’t even there. I’ve tried reconciling with him but he doesn’t want to know. The last words he ever said to me were you’re not my brother; you’re dead so far as I’m concerned. He even told my nephew his uncle’s dead. It doesn’t hurt anymore but it’s sad.”
He paused again and looked out the window at a pigeon sitting on the ledge. The pigeon flew away and I briefly wondered if that was a metaphor for Smitherman’s relationship with his brother, as the words he’d spoken seemed to have drained his spirit for the moment.
“All the bad blood broke our mother’s heart. She was still sad about it when she died. One of the last things she ever said to me was that she hoped Terry and I could be brothers again. I’ve tried but it’s never happened.” He stopped again. He sighed.
“It’s ironic, isn’t it? I’ve always believed in law, as there’s no society without it. So I do my duty, I do the right thing, I uphold and enforce the law, and it’s cost me my closest relative who’s still living from the family I was born into. You, however, do the wrong thing and claim family reasons for doing so, and it’s a reason that actually makes sense to me. I can appreciate why you did what you did.”
He took a sip of whatever he was drinking. He had a faraway look in his eyes, as though I wasn’t there and he was talking to someone else who wasn’t in the room.
“Family’s important. It is to me, anyway. I tolerate Clements even though personally I’d like to hang him up by his thumbs because he’s my daughter’s choice and I know I’d lose her if I objected.” He was firm in his delivery. “ ’Cause of you saying you’ve never had a brother, and even though I think you’re misguided in your feelings for this man, and because no real harm was done, just procedure not being followed, I’m going to overlook you not telling me in advance of meeting up with Mendoccini. I just wish things with my brother could have been different. There’s no closure there.”
I was more stunned at Smitherman’s voluntary admission of hurt feelings than at not being officially bollocked. Never before had I seen him lower his defences quite like this to reveal sentimentality. He’d admitted his feelings had been badly hurt at being ostracised by his brother and to being scared of losing his daughter if he objected to her choice of husband. My long-held belief he’d sprung from his mother’s loins fully formed, wearing a smart suit, Tory-voting, reading the Daily Telegraph and impervious to all emotion, had dissipated before my eyes. Maybe he really was human after all.
“Doesn’t mean I approve of what you did” – he glared at me over the top of his glasses, looking and sounding like the old Smitherman – “but this time I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. That’s why I told Stimpson I knew what you were doing, though he’s not at all happy with you and what you did.”
I was relieved I wasn’t going to be chastised.
“So, what’s your sense of Mendoccini? How did he know what section you were in?” The old Smitherman was back in charge again. Emotions back on a tight rein.
“When I met him before, someone at his table recognised me and obviously told him. Before that came up we were chatting away about everything, but as soon as he brought this up, the atmosphere changed. He became a little more reserved and reticent. I got the sense from him he knows I know what he’s into. That’s probably what brought about his comment just before we went our separate ways.”
“Go back a bit. You said earlier you thought you knew Ritchie from somewhere.”
“I mentioned seeing someone I recognised when I met Michael Mendoccini in that restaurant. I now know it was Ritchie. There was a group of people sitting at Mendoccini’s table and Ritchie was one of them. He turned away when he saw me looking at their table. You have to assume he’s the one who told Mendoccini I was Special Branch; we’ve met before.”
“Sounds plausible.”
“Ritchie was also the one Hemsley said was working with him to expose the money laundering inside the bank.”
“Sounds as though Hemsley picks his friends about as well as you,” Smitherman said in a rare flash of humour.
“It sounds to me like Ritchie’s up to his neck in whatever Hemsley thought was going on inside the bank and was trying to steer him in one particular direction. He’s got to be involved. Hemsley said he’d told Ritchie about what he suspected. I think Ritchie found out about Bryant from Hemsley, met up with him to pick his brain and then set him up to be killed. He’s ex-South African army, so he’d know how to organise something like this. It also confirms there’s someone else inside the bank involved as well. Hemsley suspected his line manager, Roger Bradley, but we’ve nothing on him and, according to our records, he’s clean.”
“The father’s not involved, you think?”
“Nothing pointing to him. He’s seen as an honest banker, if that doesn’t stretch the imagination too much.”
“Your class prejudice is showing, DS McGraw,” Smitherman said. “You’ve not been talking to my son-in-law, have you?” Thank God the question was rhetorical.
“You have to assume whoever killed Bryant took his phone and anything else relevant to his investigation,” I said. “I’m going after Ritchie later today. I’ll get him at home and, if I don’t like his answers, I’m bringing him in. There’s more than enough circumstantial evidence to justify arresting him.”
“Okay. Do that.”
“You remember the Gant case, the Phipps brothers getting killed?”
Smitherman agreed he did. “Autumn last year.”
“Ritchie’s Debbie Frost’s fiancé. That’s where I know him from. She’s the one who set Gant onto the Phippses, but I couldn’t nail her for it. But if I can at least nail her boyfriend, that’s something. Anything that sticks it to her, so much the better.”
Christine Simmons had left a message for me to call her. Not being officially bollocked by Smitherman and now the chance to talk to Christine Simmons again; the stars were aligning in my favour. I returned her call at the number given. Being honest, I just wanted to hear her voice again. It upset me Simon Addley had been intimate with her, even though she was only playing an undercover role and wasn’t a willing participant. He’d seen her unclothed and, if I despised him for only one reason, this would be it.
; “You’ve got something for me?” I began after the greetings.
“Yes, Italian security returned my call. I know someone at the Italian embassy and I was able to go through her. Fettolio’s is registered in Milan. It’s a wholesale business dealing in Mediterranean foods and wines, but the Italians think the company’s a cover for Red Heaven. It does a lot of business with Carloggias, which is the business over here. Both companies are owned by Chrenora’s, which is just a holding company, though the Italians believe it’s also linked to Red Heaven. The link between all of them is Roberto Delucca. His family set up Fettolio’s in Italy before they moved to London. Fettolio’s is run by relatives in Milan but the Deluccas run Carloggias here in London. The parents who set it up are both dead but the business is run by their sons. Leon Delucca’s clean but Roberto’s suspected of involvement with Red Heaven. He’s known to have links with activists inside the organisation.”
A Fettolio’s van had made a delivery whilst I’d been staking out the restaurant yesterday. It was beginning to fall into place. “Any names we know?”
“Two we know about: Paolo Poletti and Michael Mendoccini. The Mendoccini family are the largest shareholders in Chrenora’s. Poletti was a prime suspect in the bombing at the Golders Green synagogue and, because of what you got out of Addley last week, we’ve had our suspicions about Kader confirmed. We can now establish that Poletti was the bomber and got the facilities from Kader, which proves Kader was in deeper than we’d ever suspected because he was also the officer who interrogated Poletti and let him go, claiming there was insufficient evidence to bring a charge. That’s how he got away. My boss got carpeted by his boss for giving Kader too much leeway when he should have been keeping a closer eye on what he was doing and reining his excesses in.”
Stimpson getting hauled over the coals! A third good thing happening to me in a short space of time. The gods were clearly on my side today. Should I push my luck and ask her out for a drink?
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