“What do you mean?” She seemed worried.
“You can get close to Bradley, bring him out in the open.” I thought for a moment. “I want you to arrange a meeting with him to talk about what happens now Darren’s not around. I’ll be nearby listening in. Once we get him talking on tape we’ll arrest him, get him out of circulation.”
“I don’t think I like that idea. Could be dangerous.”
“Whether you like it or not, sweetheart, I don’t give a shit. You don’t have any choice. You do this, you’ll be helping, that’ll count in your favour. Refuse, and I cuff you right now and take you in. Try explaining that one to Christian.” I smiled. “You think he has the clout to get you off from a charge of conspiracy to aid and abet acts of terrorism? What do you think the selection committees will make of that, huh?”
She was in a bind and she knew it. She sat back against the back of the settee and closed her eyes. Her options were limited and neither was palatable. If there’d ever been the promise of a glittering career inside the Conservative Party, that promise was now moribund. Quite likely her senior position in the party would be lost once details of her involvement in helping her boyfriend give her a boost up the greasy pole became known. She looked at me with a resigned expression, as though deciding the doctor’s recommendation of potentially dangerous surgery was her only option after all.
She sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Call Bradley, arrange a meeting, preferably for as soon as possible. Tell him you’re worried about what’s likely to happen now Darren’s dead. Mention also you think his death may be connected to what he’s been doing at the bank. Try getting him to open up and talk. Once we get him saying anything implicating himself, I’ll nail him. Police are already looking for this Poe character, so we’re tightening the net.”
“When do you want me to call him?”
I nodded towards her mobile phone. “No time like the present.”
Looking apprehensive, she dialled the number for Karris and Millers.
“Mr Bradley’s office,” a pleasant-sounding female voice answered.
“May I speak to Roger Bradley, please?”
“Mr Bradley’s not in the office right now. He’s not been in today as far as I’m aware. Would you like to leave a message or get him to return your call?”
“No. I’ll try again later. Thank you.” She dialled off. “I don’t have his mobile number.”
My guess was Bradley knew about Ritchie’s demise and was directly involved. He was probably not at the bank because he was doing something to cover his tracks, like destroying evidence or amending certain accounts so as to remove any suggestion of their being crooked. He could even be on the run.
“You know where he lives?” I asked.
“Somewhere in Fulham, I think, but I don’t know the address.”
“Okay. Same as with Ritchie. Consider yourself officially cautioned. Don’t talk to anyone about this. You’ll be picked up in a little while.”
I dialled the office and asked for the address of a Roger Bradley, believed to be living in Fulham. There was an address for a man answering to that name in Fulham Park Gardens. I drove to the address, going almost past Stamford Bridge after turning off the Kings Road and then going towards Parsons Green. I parked along the road and found the building. I rang his doorbell. No answer. I rang another doorbell and a man answered. I showed ID and asked which was Roger Bradley’s flat. Told the first floor, I went up the stairs to the door at the end of the corridor.
I knocked. No answer. I turned the handle. It was unlocked and I entered. There was silence, no sound whatever, but my sense of caution told me something wasn’t right. There was a hallway leading to the main room. I entered the room and saw a man slumped in the armchair, eyes open and facing the television. His head was hanging at an obtuse angle to his left shoulder, his face was expressionless and I knew he was dead even before I felt his wrist, searching for a non-existent pulse. His body was cold, indicating he’d been dead for a number of hours. I couldn’t see any obvious cause of death but, looking behind his neck, I noticed a clump of dried blood matted in Bradley’s hair and there was a large dried bloodstain on his shirt collar and neck. There was a sizeable gash at the back of his skull, suggesting he’d been hit with something hard and by someone who’d used considerable force. This had been done by someone he knew. People who die violent deaths in their own homes are rarely killed by people they don’t know.
Ritchie and Bradley both dead. Somebody was engaging in some serious housecleaning. I called it in, requesting police and an ambulance.
I saw the same man downstairs who’d let me in. I asked if he knew Bradley. He said he knew him to say hi to but wouldn’t claim him to be a friend.
“Did you see him last night?”
“No. Well, I mean, I saw him through my window. My front room looks out onto the road, and I saw him getting out of a taxi early last night. This would have been sometime around six thirty or so.”
“Was he with anyone?”
“Yes. There was a woman with him, same woman who’s been here a few times before.”
“Could you describe her?”
“Yeah.” He pursed his lips together. “She was a little shorter than him, wearing some kind of waist-length coat. She was wearing glasses. They went past my door on the way upstairs, and I heard her say something like you worry too much, take it easy, but I didn’t catch anything else.”
“Do you remember her leaving?”
“No, I don’t. I’ve no idea if she stayed over or not.”
“Has he had any other visitors in the past day or so?” I asked. “A couple of nights ago, I saw some big bloke coming down the stairs. Real mean-looking bugger. I wouldn’t like to cross him. Walked right past me and went out. He’s not been back since, or at least not when I’ve been here.”
As he was speaking, an ambulance and a police car arrived outside and the occupants got out. The neighbour I was speaking to looked worried.
“What’s happening?” He was nervous.
“Bradley’s upstairs, he’s dead.”
“Oh, God.” He swallowed hard. Not easy with your mouth open.
I directed the medics to Bradley’s flat. A plainclothes detective and a uniform approached me. I identified myself and explained about finding the body.
“Tell these gentlemen what you’ve just told me,” I said to the man. Local police took over and I left to return to the office to talk to Smitherman. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was for informing a Minister of the Crown about the death of a family member.
Returning to the office, my thoughts centred on Michael Mendoccini. Possibly it was pure coincidence but, since his return to England three days ago, two people had died quite nasty deaths, and both had connections to the money laundering operation inside the bank. I was perplexed. There was no doubt Red Heaven benefited from what Ritchie and Bradley had done, so why had both men been killed within a short time of each other? Was the operation being wound up? Had the two men been deemed surplus to requirements? Was Red Heaven expunging the usefulness of people who’d previously been major assets to them? Ritchie, of course, could have been the unfortunate victim of a mugging that’d gone wrong, but I didn’t believe that. Muggers don’t usually invite you out to rob you.
Thinking about Bradley, I remembered he’d been having an affair with Lois Hemsley. I had no idea if it was still ongoing, but Debbie Frost had said Lois had probably encouraged Nigel Hemsley to commit suicide. Was she the woman who’d emerged from the cab with Bradley last evening? The neighbour had said she’d been there before. I couldn’t ignore the possibility.
I took a detour and headed towards the Barbican. This time I used a siren to clear a path and I reached Charter-house Square much quicker. The little boy in me enjoyed seeing other vehicles pulling over to let me pass. It’s a disciplinary offence to misuse the siren but, on this occasion, I could justify its usage.
I pulled up in the ca
r park by the Hemsleys’ block. I noticed Nigel Hemsley’s car had been removed. Had Lois sold it or parked it elsewhere?
I knocked on the front door of their flat. Lois Hemsley opened it and saw me. Her expression suggested I was an unwelcome presence in her life. She and Debbie Frost at least had that in common.
I showed my badge to her. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
She said nothing, turned and went back into the flat. I followed. In the lounge, she sat down on the settee, picked up her cup and stared at me over the rim as she drank. There was a teapot on the coffee table and another cup but she didn’t offer me a drink. I stood in the centre of the room. The room looked different somehow since my visit on Thursday last, but I couldn’t put my finger on why this was.
“Do you know someone named Roger Bradley?” I began. “I believe he was Nigel’s section head at the bank.”
“I know Roger. What about him?”
“I’ve just come from his flat. He was found dead this morning.” I didn’t say I’d found him.
Her eyes opened wider and she looked shocked.
“Dead?” she said, almost disbelievingly.
“Yeah, dead. Karris and Millers is obviously having problems keeping its staff alive.” I was being irreverent to check her reactions. She didn’t rise to it.
“What happened?” she said in a loud whisper.
“From what I understand, he was hit over the head with a heavy object and died from his injuries. He was seen by a neighbour entering his building early last evening with a woman, and I’m wondering if that woman was you. Did you see Bradley last night?”
“No. No, I didn’t.” She shook her head firmly.
“This is a murder inquiry, so could you account for your movements last night?”
“Why? Am I a suspect?” Her voice had hardened a little. “Every woman’s a suspect at present.” I smiled but her expression didn’t change. “The description given to police fits you, so, as I know you and him were lovers, it makes sense to wonder if it was you with him last night.”
“I suppose that retard Nigel told you that.” She spat his name out with venom.
“Actually, no, he didn’t. So, was it you?”
“No, it wasn’t. I was here all last night. I didn’t go out. Got back from work and stayed home all evening.”
“Can this be verified by anyone?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Now Nigel’s gone, I’m living alone. Other than work I’ve not been out much lately.”
It was hard to put my finger on why I thought this, but from her tone and the look on her face, I formed the impression she wasn’t too sad about her husband’s demise. Something about her demeanour suggested she wasn’t exactly heartbroken.
“Where do you work?”
“The same bank, Karris and Millers. I’m in Human Resources.”
“And that’s where you and Nigel met, presumably?”
“Yes, it is. Though, if I’d known he was as neurotic as he turned out to be, I’d have run a mile when he asked me out.”
“What did Bradley say when he learned Nigel had died?” “How would I know? I’ve not seen him for a while.”
I knew she was lying. Something in her voice told me she was lying. She’d looked down at the table as she had spoken. I glanced behind her as she did and I then realised why the room looked different. The picture of Nigel and Lois on top of the cabinet was missing and there was also a denim jacket draped across the arm of the settee. Was this who the second cup was for?
She looked up and her eyes said she was looking beyond, at something behind me. Her eyes had opened wide, as though expressing a message to someone. I began to turn my head.
At that moment I felt a sharp pain and the world went black.
I came to nine minutes later. The right side of my neck was bloody sore. I’d been karate chopped by someone who knew precisely how to deliver a blow sufficient to render temporary unconsciousness without permanent injury or death.
Rubbing my neck and blinking rapidly, attempting to refocus myself and gather my thoughts, I realised Lois Hemsley had gone; so had my assailant, plus the jacket on the settee. The man I’d seen with Mendoccini earlier had been wearing a denim jacket. Was this Post Poe?
I gingerly got to my feet and used her landline to report what had happened and request the flat be dusted for fingerprints. I was certain Lois Hemsley had been lying to me and she’d left with whoever’d hit me.
I was now convinced that, in some way, she was part of whatever was going on inside the bank. She’d been Bradley’s lover. Maybe still was up to last night. I’d have to check her out, find out more about her.
Back at my desk I enquired about progress concerning the death of Darren Ritchie last night. CCTV showed a man had been seen in the vicinity waiting by the Cremorne Gardens entrance not too long before Ritchie had arrived. Just after this Darren Ritchie was seen arriving, timed at 10.23 pm. He lived a short walk away, so the time frame fitted with when Debbie Frost had said he’d received a call. He’d met the man waiting for him and they’d walked into the Gardens. From here CCTV wasn’t able to capture any images so I couldn’t see what had then occurred, but Ritchie had been found dead, so it didn’t take Einstein to realise either the man with him had killed Ritchie or, more likely, someone had been inside the Gardens waiting for them. More of Post Poe’s handiwork?
The man waiting for Ritchie to arrive had been identified. Roger Bradley. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. He’d phoned and requested the meeting because Ritchie wouldn’t be suspicious as he knew Bradley. Ritchie had probably gone along innocently expecting a late-night chat about something relating to their laundering activities Bradley didn’t want to discuss at work. Not too long afterwards, only one man was seen leaving, and it was the same man who’d been waiting. I didn’t believe Bradley was capable of killing Ritchie, so we were looking for an accomplice. Post Poe?
Bradley, though, was also now dead. Died from head injuries, as had Ritchie. The work of one or more persons? A woman I now believed to be Lois Hemsley had been seen arriving at Bradley’s flat, so finding her was an imperative. I’d already put in a request to Division, asking for police to be on the lookout for Lois Hemsley, wanted for questioning in connection with the death of Roger Bradley and an assault on a police officer. Me.
Smitherman was listening to my account of what had occurred over the past few hours, starting with what I’d learned from my interrogation of Darren Ritchie and going on through discovering he was now dead, questioning Debbie Frost, discovering Bradley dead in his flat, talking to Lois Hemsley and then being whacked from behind.
“And all you’ve got to show for this activity is a sore neck.” He grinned. Smitherman was discovering a sense of humour at my expense. I was about to speak but he cut me off. “But I’ve some good news that’ll cheer you up, and it sounds like you need it.”
“What’s that?”
“Karris and Millers’ top management were informed this morning what’s been happening right under their noses. Or, at least, a couple of them were.”
“Huh?” I was confused.
“Now Bradley and Ritchie are dead, MI5 came forward and told two very senior managers whom they trust what the situation was.”
“How did MI5 discover this? I wasn’t aware they were on to this.”
“How? Their man on the inside told them. He’d been kept up-to-date with what you’ve been doing following the trail and he had access to the books and accounts and was able to demonstrate what Bradley’d been doing. Also from your little chat with their operative, Simmons. They were already on to this case, so she made them aware of our interest.”
“Who was their someone on the inside?”
“You met him last Thursday. Remember Dereck Lawbury?”
“He’s security service?” I was surprised.
“He is,” Smitherman said candidly. “MI5 received a tip from Italian security about a couple of businesses they suspected of helping to finance Re
d Heaven some months back, and they thought these firms had a connection at Karris and Millers, where these firms seemed to be doing lots of business. So a couple of the more trusted members of the bank’s senior management team were informed about this and they agreed with MI5’s suggestion someone should be put in place to monitor what was happening. Enter Mr Lawbury. He was appointed ostensibly as an accounts manager. The fact his degree’s in financial management and accounting was a major help. He had some understanding of these issues, shall we say.”
I remembered Nigel Hemsley telling me Lawbury had been appointed only a few months previously. I also remembered being surprised there were no details about Lawbury on our files. This would explain why.
“That’s why he blanked me when I spoke to him at his flat, isn’t it?”
“It’s not his flat, it’s an MI5 safe house. But, yes, it is.” Smitherman nodded. “He wasn’t sure what you did or didn’t know, so he played dumb and said nothing. Between you and me,” – Smitherman lowered his voice – “I think it was because he was told to do so because Stimpson hasn’t trusted you since he found you’re friends with Michael Mendoccini, and he’s trusted you even less since you met up with him and didn’t inform his section first. But I’ve covered you for that.”
Yet one more reason to dislike Stimpson.
I shrugged. “Thanks. So, what happens now?”
“The bank’s management and MI5 will attempt to minimise the damage. They’ve belatedly accepted Hemsley was telling the truth when he was attempting to blow the whistle. They’re proposing to let a couple of activities continue a while longer because they want to find out who’s involved at the other end at one or two of these offshore companies. But from what they’ve discovered, a few Italians are about to be arrested after what’s been passed on to Italian security.”
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