I was pleased with what I’d just heard. I briefly wondered if Mendoccini was one of the persons in their sights.
“Most of this will, of course, never be made public,” Smitherman stated with assurance.
“What do you mean?”
“If any trials take place, the only issues will be false accounting and matters relating to that. Money laundering will not be anything a trial will have to consider.”
“What do you mean, if any trials take place?”
“Think about it. Hemsley raises the matter of laundering, commits suicide. Bryant gets asked by Hemsley to look into it and apparently finds proof something like that is happening. Murdered.” Smitherman was counting on his fingers. “Bradley and Ritchie both involved in the process of laundering; both now dead. Anyone arrested outside this jurisdiction will be tried in his own country, so there’s no one to charge, thus no trial. But, even if Bradley and Ritchie hadn’t been killed, they’d not have faced laundering charges.”
“Why’s that?” I wasn’t liking this.
Smitherman paused for a few moments.
“You’re up with current affairs,” he said. “What’s been the dominant financial story over the past few years? The one with the political repercussions? The one politicians are still arguing about several years after it happened?”
“The deficit? The recession?”
He nodded. “And what led up to these?”
I thought for a moment, then I caught on.
“Financial recklessness on the part of the banks,” I stated. “Correct, the banks.” Smitherman gave me a knowing look. “So this country needs more bad news about banks, especially a bank involved in money laundering for a terrorist organisation, about as much as it needs an outbreak of the plague. You have any idea what this’d do to the money markets if it got out? Confidence in the banks is already at an all-time low. They’re down there in the public’s esteem with estate agents and politicians, and if this comes out, they’ll get even lower. There’s also the fact of one of the alleged participants having a father in the Government. Just think what the press, someone as politically cynical as my son-in-law, would make of that. Think what the Guardian and others like them would make of it.”
He stopped for a moment to draw breath.
“So our political masters have agreed with MI5 that no details of anything to do with laundering should ever come to light. This’ll sound awful, but Ritchie and Bradley being dead helps considerably. Means there’ll be no trial involving the son of a Government minister regarding money laundering.”
“Mentioning Bradley’s father,” I ventured, “any suggestion he’s involved?”
“No.” Smitherman shook his head. “He’s clean. I’m not even sure he’ll be told the full extent of what his son did. I think, between you and me, he’ll just be told Roger was fiddling the books but he won’t get to know the full story. It’ll be tough enough for him coming to terms with the death of his son, so he doesn’t need to know this as well.”
“Still leaves Lois Hemsley. Must be able to get her for something,” I said hopefully.
“Possibly, though Lawbury thinks she’s just a peripheral figure. But she’s also a suspect in a murder investigation, so, if she’s culpable there, the laundering issue never comes up. The papers’ll report this as a love triangle or some such nonsense. Then, of course, there’s your friend, your drinking buddy.” He smiled.
“Ritchie said Mendoccini brought over the money from Italy and passed it on to him, and I’ve got him saying it on tape.” I placed the digital recorder on Smitherman’s desk. “It’s all there. ’Course, Ritchie’s now dead so can’t testify at any trial, which lessens our chances of nailing Mendoccini. But he’s still in the country, so he and Delucca can be brought in and interrogated.”
“Do it. Wrap this case up.”
“Ritchie told me what he’d been involved with at the bank. He pretty much corroborated everything Hemsley’d said. He and Bradley would have gone down for this, so someone’s closing up the shop and removing the participants. We need to find who took both of them out, and quickly.”
“You think the same person did both?”
“Possibly. My money’s on this Poe character for taking out Ritchie. Sounds like his style. Bradley came back home yesterday with a woman and I think it was Lois Hemsley, but I don’t believe she’s strong enough to inflict that kind of wound. It was done by a guy, probably Poe. I was questioning her about that when someone hit me from behind.” I instinctively rubbed my sore neck. “I’m trying to figure out whom she might know who’d use violence. Everyone so far works at a merchant bank, so it’s unlikely to be any of those. It has to be Poe. If she knows him, she has to be in real deep.”
“Could be,” Smitherman agreed. “She’s being sought by police as a potential suspect in a murder, so there’s no need to be cagey about looking for her. Unless someone’s hiding her someplace, she should be easy enough to pick up. She’s not a pro. Running and hiding would be something that doesn’t come easy to her.”
“Yeah.” The idea of Lois Hemsley as a fugitive was an amusing one.
I parked on yellow lines in Frith Street, which ran parallel with Greek Street. I walked along Bateman Street and stood just by the corner with Greek Street looking across at Delucca’s restaurant. I had a strange feeling in my stomach, almost like butterflies. I was going to take in a man who had at one time been my closest friend and I was feeling nervous. Not about arresting someone. In ten years as a police officer I’d arrested many people, but I’d never had to take into custody someone who’d been as close to me as anyone could be at one time.
Before I’d left Smitherman’s office he’d looked me directly in the eyes. He’d had a concerned look, like a doctor looking at troubling X-rays.
“Are you going to be able to be objective here and do your job? The fact you two used to play conkers together in the playground isn’t going to cloud your judgement, is it? Because if it is, someone else can pick them up.”
“No. I can do this. As I mentioned yesterday, I said goodbye to him Monday evening.” I’d tapped the side of my forehead and stood up. “I’ll bring him in.”
Looking at the restaurant I kept saying to myself, He’s not the guy you used to know all those years ago, mate; he’s a terrorist, financing terrorist activity. You really want him out here doing that? The answer was obvious.
I crossed over and entered the restaurant. It was late lunchtime and the place was busy serving spaghetti carbonara and linguini to the lunchtime crowd, most of whom looked like business people. I approached the counter.
“You want table for one, sir?” a waitress asked me. She was probably early to mid-twenties and wore a red and yellow dress under a white apron, with a matching white frilly hat keeping her dark hair in place.
“Not this time. I’d like to speak to Roberto Delucca.”
She spoke in Italian to the man behind the counter who, in turn, spoke on an intercom. I recognised the word polizia. Interesting; I’d not identified myself as a police officer. Did I look like police? The man nodded at her.
“He just on the way.” She moved past me to ask a man and woman if they wanted a table.
A few moments later Delucca approached. He was my height but several stone heavier. He had a double chin I could use as an overnight bag and I suspected he’d bought the shirt he was wearing when he was a few stone lighter; the gaps between the buttons were very noticeable as his ample belly protruded over the belt of his trousers. Clearly he was used to sampling the wares he served. He knew I was police, so there was no need to show ID.
“Let’s talk in your office.” I said this in such a way as to leave him in no doubt it was not a request.
He turned and walked towards the back of the restaurant. I followed. He went through a door marked Private, along a short corridor and up a flight of stairs to the first floor. By the office door I could hear him wheezing from five paces behind. A horse wheezing like that would b
e declared unfit to work and probably put down. He entered his office and I followed. He slumped behind his desk at a right angle to the window and, from where I stood, I could see down into Greek Street.
“What do you need to see me for?” He spoke good English but his voice still carried the Italian brogue despite his years in London.
“You’re a naughty boy, Roberto, aren’t you? You’ve been aiding and abetting in acts of terrorism being committed. Police have had their eye on this place for some while now. You’ve allowed this place to be used as a meeting house for Red Heaven, and we can prove that. This is where dirty money gets transferred to those people who’ll lose it in sets of accounts somewhere and, once the dirty money’s clean, it goes back to Red Heaven, who use it to buy materials to cause explosions.”
“There must be some mistake.” He sounded nervous. “This is a restaurant. We don’t make bombs here.”
“No.” I shook my head. “No mistake. One of the people involved spilled his guts to us, told us what goes on here. He collects the money from someone here. I saw it happen two days ago. We know the whole story. You’re under arrest, Roberto. Come on, stand up, I’ll bet you know the drill by heart.”
I approached the desk. As I did I looked out the window and saw a figure sprinting across Greek Street, turning into Bateman Street. It was Michael Mendoccini. Shit.
I ran down the stairs two at a time and dashed through the restaurant, almost knocking over the same waitress carrying a tray of drinks. I heard her shout something at me which did not sound complimentary. I ran across the street into Bateman Street but couldn’t see Mendoccini. I looked up and down Frith Street but still couldn’t see him. I called it in and requested assistance, giving my location and saying I was in pursuit of a terrorist suspect. It then dawned on me the waitress I’d seen on arrival was the same woman Mendoccini had been with in the Chinese restaurant the other weekend. I’d not recognised Angie Delucca with her hair up. That explained how he’d known police were there.
Instinctively I turned left and began walking fast towards Old Compton Street. I looked along the street and spotted him in the distance, jogging towards Wardour Street and looking furtively over his shoulder. He saw me and quickened his pace. I started running through the crowds to catch him up.
He’d just reached the corner of the road when two uniformed police officers suddenly appeared in front of me. I stopped. They looked like they’d not been on the force too long, both young, fresh-faced and eager to serve.
“Hey, Usain Bolt, what’s the hurry?” the younger of the two said facetiously whilst standing in front of me, blocking my path. The other one fanned out slightly to the left of me, hand on his belt.
“I’ve got ID here.” I put my hand in my jacket pocket and produced it. “I’m pursuing a man along there.” I nodded along the street and attempted to move past them.
“Just wait there while we check this,” the younger man said, and he took my card, blocking my passage. I snatched it from his hand.
“Look, you stupid sod.” I thrust the ID almost into his eyes. “I’m a Special Branch Detective Sergeant pursuing a terrorist suspect. If he gets away, you two’ll spend the rest of your fucking lives walking the beat. You got that?” The frustration in my voice was clear. Their expressions changed.
“Sorry, sir,” the other officer said, apologetically.
“Come on.” I set off. “The man I’m after’s wearing a dark jacket and cream-coloured trousers. He’s got a mop of black curly hair and looks Italian. You two go that way.”
They both ran off down Dean Street, one talking into his police radio. I ran towards Wardour Street. No sign of Mendoccini. I ran down to Shaftesbury Avenue but couldn’t see him. Bugger. I walked towards Piccadilly Circus but saw no sign of him. There were any number of streets and passages running off the Circus plus buses and taxis galore, as well as major department stores he could lose himself in. I’d lost him. Fuck it. I swore angrily.
The two young officers caught up with me fifteen minutes later whilst I was still scanning the area. I apologised for my attitude towards them, commended them for their diligence and assured them they’d acted appropriately.
I used my radio again and asked for Roberto Delucca to be arrested and taken into custody. Maybe he could tell me something. I asked for Debbie Frost to be brought into custody as well.
Late afternoon. Both Delucca and Debbie Frost were in custody by the time I’d reached Paddington Green police station, where terrorist suspects are taken for questioning. I’d cleaned myself up a bit after chasing Mendoccini and wasn’t feeling quite so frazzled.
CCTV images showed Mendoccini entering a clothes shop but he hadn’t been identified leaving. A search revealed he’d left by a back exit, after first setting off the fire alarm by breaking the seal across the door and causing a panic as people attempted to leave the shop in an orderly fashion. A man wearing a baseball cap, a New York Yankees hooded sweater and Ray-Bans had been seen hailing a taxi and the general build of the man fitted Mendoccini, but by the time this had been realised, he’d got out and disappeared.
In the detention room Delucca was looking very apprehensive. He was anxiously twirling his St Christopher medal around his thumb. I sat opposite. He was muttering something to himself in Italian. He crossed himself.
I leapt straight in. “Your daughter tipped off her boyfriend, didn’t she, Roberto?”
He nodded. “Probably.” He was swallowing hard as he spoke. “She just said your friend, the policeman, is here.”
“Yeah. She recognised me. Whatever, his two accomplices are dead, so where’d he be going to? Where would Mendoccini have gone to hide?”
“I don’t know. Really, I don’t.”
I believed him. I fixed him with a direct stare. “You’ve got one chance to get in front of this, and one chance only, and that’s to tell me everything you know. Leave anything out we need to know and you go down for a long time. Someone’s gonna go down for this and it might just as well be you. Understand?”
He did. He spent the next thirty minutes saying, in effect, all he did was allow his premises to be used as a meeting place so business could be done. He’d agreed because Mendoccini was dating his daughter. Mendoccini brought currency and other financial documentation over from Italy and arranged for Bradley or Ritchie to collect it and take it to the bank, though Delucca maintained he didn’t know what it was for. He denied being anything to do with Red Heaven and thought all he was doing was helping his potential son-in-law bend a few tax and accounting rules. He was aghast at any idea he was a terrorist sympathiser.
“But you knew Poletti and Mendoccini had links to Red Heaven, didn’t you? They’ve even held meetings on your premises.”
He said nothing to this.
“You knew this whilst Mendoccini was dating your daughter.”
Still nothing.
There was enough to indict him under section five of the Terrorism Act. He was taken away to await being arraigned at the magistrates’ court as soon as possible.
I wandered along to the interview room where Debbie Frost was being held. Seeing her in custody would be almost a dream come true. A female officer was outside the door.
“There’s someone in there with her, sir,” she said.
I entered the room and was surprised to see Christine Simmons. She was sitting opposite a very bleary-eyed Debbie Frost. Simmons nodded towards me and smiled. Frost ignored me. She was wearing different clothes from earlier today, suggesting she’d freshened herself up. Considering the loss of her partner less than eighteen hours ago, she was remarkably well composed.
It was peculiar seeing these two women together as I briefly looked between them. When I’d first encountered Debbie Frost I’d thought she was a very smart, cool and sophisticated woman who was going places. Now, I knew her to be a venal, unscrupulous bitch who’d ignored her boyfriend helping out a terrorist cause so she could get a foothold on the political rope ladder to the top. Christine
Simmons was everything she wasn’t.
“As I was saying, Ms Frost, I’ve seen the transcript of DS McGraw’s conversation with Darren Ritchie” – Simmons patted a folder in front of her – “and I’ve heard a few extracts from the tape. Your voice was clearly heard on the tape as well as Darren admitting to being deeply involved. Had he survived, and I’m sorry for your loss, he would be looking at serious charges relating to fraud and terrorism. The likelihood is you’ll be charged under section five, and there’s no bail for that.”
“You taped us talking in the flat last night?” Debbie Frost said disbelievingly.
I nodded. “Yup. Sneaky, eh? And it’s all admissible in court, in case you were thinking it wasn’t.”
Simmons pushed the folder towards me. I opened it and saw my conversation with Ritchie typed up. It looked impressive.
“Do you want to make a statement, Debbie?” she asked.
“Not at this time, no.” She shook her head. “Can I see my lawyer?”
“No, not for some while yet. You’re facing very serious charges, and you won’t be seeing any lawyers until we’ve ascertained exactly what damage has been done here.”
The officer outside the door came in and took Debbie Frost away to be arraigned. She’d not forget the last twenty-four hours in a hurry.
Once the door was closed I felt a shiver of electricity. Alone in a room with Christine Simmons, albeit an interrogation room.
“How does an intelligent woman like her get involved in something like this? High-profile job, everything going for her?” She sighed. “Her life’s a train crash now.”
“Who knows?” I shrugged my shoulders. I wasn’t going to tell her about Debbie Frost’s political aspirations as I wanted the picture Simmons had of Debbie Frost to be as damning as possible.
Was now the right time to ask her out for a drink?
“Well, soon as I finish up here, I have to get back to the office. Got a few things to do there before I can go home.” She stood up. “Oh, yeah, could you be available for a drink sometime soon?”
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