Murder at Canary Wharf (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 8)

by P. J. Thurbin

  Ralph thanked the old man who grinned and waved as he trotted towards the bus as the driver waited patiently. Ralph thought it ironic that the driver was a Sikh. He could see his turbaned head even from across the road.

  Ahead Ralph could see the magnificent Baroque buildings by the Thames. Designed by Christopher Wren in the 17th century, for years they had been the home of the Royal Naval College. As he followed the pale blue signs advertising Greenwich University, he reflected on how close the old man had come to making Brandt Kessler’s point. Many people felt disenfranchised when corporations backed new developments. Progress was something that had to be approached with caution. Chernobyl and all the other man-made disasters were part of so called progress. He smiled at his own pomposity. Here he was a privileged person by many standards, on his way to a conference on the very subject that the old man had been describing. He snapped out of a possible downward spiral in his thinking as he walked up the grand steps of the University building.

  “Conference - second floor,” said a large officious looking lady as she shepherded a group of bemused Japanese delegates towards the lift. The notice proclaimed:

  The Impact of Industrial Developments on Local Populations and Economies

  “Hey Ralph. What are you doing here?” He turned to see a former colleague from JP Morgan, Frank Williams. “I thought you were still at Kingston?”

  “Frank. Good to see you. Yes, I am, but I’m here for the Conference. How about you?”

  “Same thing. We’ve got a lot of money linked to the EBRD Project over in Ukraine.”

  Ralph knew about the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development. It sounded like a mouthful, but from what he could understand, they were doing good works in Europe on irrigation and infrastructure projects.

  “They’re spending billions on securing the Chernobyl plant. So here I am. But good to see you, too. How’s academia treating you? And did you ever marry that girl -- what was her name? Jane? Yes that’s it. Jane. She was an Egyptologist, if I remember correctly.”

  “It sounds like we have a lot of catching up to do,” Ralph laughed. “Look why don’t we get together for a beer later and you can tell me how big a bonus you hope to get this year.”

  “That’s all changed, Ralph. The way things are going you might have to be the one doing the treating tonight,” he grinned.

  The format of the conference was pretty conventional. The first day there were six papers followed by group discussions around the ones that delegates found the most interesting. The second day they wheeled in the big guns. Speakers from G7 governments including the UK, France and Germany, City firms, and Amnesty International. Ralph noted that Brandt Kessler’s paper, Compensation as a right, might prove contentious.

  By the look of the papers on day one, it appeared that the organisers wanted to first present examples of how corporations and governments had failed to protect ordinary citizens from manmade disasters and failed to provide adequate compensation for the victims. Then the organisations that were being blamed had a chance to put their case. Ralph was happy to sit back and see what transpired, not forgetting his brief to keep close to the people at Greenwich University, as Rupert Granger had requested. He looked at the list of upcoming presenters and scanned the brief notes for each paper.

  Paper 1 – Alex Shevchenko – University of Kiev - Chernobyl Nuclear explosion 1986.

  Paper 2 – Rajit Singh – University of Delhi - Bhopal – Chemical plant explosion- 1984 -

  Paper 3 - Marian Watts – University of Exeter - BP – Deep Water Horizon - 2010 – Gulf of Mexico – Oil Well explosion and environmental pollution.

  Paper 4 – Owen James – Amnesty International Action Group - Rana Plaza – Bangladesh - 2013

  Paper 5 – Emmanuel Bernard – University of Toulouse - AZF Toulouse – 2001 - fertilizer factory explosion.

  Paper 6 – Akira Sato – University of Tokyo. - Japanese Fukushima Nuclear explosion - 2011 –Tokyo Electric Plant

  Ralph had come to accept his inability to sit in an audience and listen attentively to a full day of presentations. Glancing at the papers he decided that he would listen to Papers 1 and 4: Alex Shevchenko and Owen James. The Chernobyl paper was part of a case study he was compiling for his new book to be published by The Financial Times and he was interested in Owen’s paper because he was intrigued to see how militant Amnesty International were prepared to be. He knew that Brandt was sure to ask for his views on Owen’s talk over a drink at the end of the day. The rest of the time he intended to spend visiting the Maritime Museum and having talks with the Head of the Business School. It was the least he could do for Granger.

  The papers were well presented. He detected an emotional element in Shevchenko’s delivery. He suspected that some of his family or friends had been affected by the disaster. Owen was quite a different case. He slated the brands and major companies that had been as he put it ‘exploiting the workers’. He could see that some of the delegates from the retail clothing industry were very unhappy and really blitzed into Owen during question time. Brandt Kessler and Owen had a violent row when the delegates broke for coffee and it was obvious that Owen had gone outside his brief for the presentation. Between presentations Ralph’s meeting with Professor Roger Grove in the Business School had gone well. It looked promising for a strong collaboration in the future.

  The Trafalgar Tavern offered a pleasant venue as a place where the delegates could unwind over a beer or a glass of chardonnay.

  “So Ralph,” said Brandt as he sat down at the long table that had been claimed by the conference presenters. “Young Owen here went over the top a bit. I told Ralph that you were a hothead, but perhaps hooligan might be a better description,” he laughed as he clapped Owen on the back. “After that slating, the least you can do is get the first round.”

  After their heated disagreement over Owen’s presentation, Ralph was happy to see that they seemed to have patched things up.

  Owen grinned and pushed his way through the locals to get to the bar. Ralph had the feeling that the locals were a rough bunch. He wondered if perhaps Owen was acting a bit too brash for his own good.

  Marian Watts from Exeter University tackled the speaker from Toulouse. She reminded Ralph of Katie with her direct approach.

  “Emmanuel. I read that the government and the judiciary fouled up the enquiry into the cause of that explosion in the fertiliser factory. Gagged might be a more accurate description. What was all that about it being a Muslim terrorist who put water in with the chemicals? They even suggested that it was a follow up from 9/11 in the States. I noticed you shied away from it in your presentation.”

  Ralph saw Emmanuel squirm. He was obviously torn between Gallic manners and a need to rebuff a blatant attack.

  “There is always a lot of talk. I based my Paper on facts that can be validated and evidence that is in the public domain. It was a long time ago. But if you want gossip, then I can tell you off the record that people say that the body of one of the Muslim workers was found at the site of the explosion and that he had on three pairs of underpants and three shirts. They say that Muslims dress that way in suicide bombings. His girlfriend said he wore them because he was self-conscious about his small backside.” Everyone laughed, and to give Marian credit, she joined in.

  “Well done, Emanuel. You’ve made your point,” she gasped, once the laughter had died down. Akira Sato and Rajit Singh were finding it hard to keep up with the banter.

  Frank took Ralph aside as the group continued to rib each other about their presentations.

  “Look Ralph, I think you should know that that friend of yours, Brandt Kessler has caused a few people in high places to take an interest in his campaign.”

  “What do you mean, high places? Do they think he’s one of those nutcases who climbs up buildings and puts out banners protesting about all you corporate types pulling in those million pound bonuses? Come on Frank.”

  “It’s not a joking matter, Ralph. So
me of the big brand names stand to lose millions overnight from bad press. He’s going full tilt at those companies that he says are not putting enough money in the Rana Plaza fund set up to compensate those women in Bangladesh. And they’ve been known to employ people who would have no qualms about silencing him.”

  “You’ve been reading too many comics, Frank. This is England and we are in the 21st century.”

  “I tell you Ralph, it’s the dark side that you don’t see. Nowadays there are gangs operating in London that have come over from the Balkans. Then there are the Russians and Romanians. They run everything from gambling to arms trading, drugs and prostitution. They’re for hire, and some of the big players are not above putting them on the payroll. They can do some pretty bad things.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me that you’re working for MI5, Frank. Come off it. You always believed in conspiracy theory. I hear it’s the first step towards paranoia,” Ralph laughed.

  “All I’m saying Ralph, as an old friend, just take care and don’t get too close to Owen and Brandt.”

  Ralph thanked his friend for the advice and went to the bar to get the next round. He had booked a room at the Marriot Hotel on West India Quay and did not plan on making a long night of it. Suddenly a row broke out near where the conference delegates were sitting.

  “Bloody snobs coming over drinking in our pub. Why can’t you get over the river where you belong. Plenty of night clubs and bars for you lot there.” There was a lot of murmuring and shouts of ‘bugger off’ as the crowd joined in. “You’ve got all the plush jobs and we’ve got sod all.”

  Ralph had seen scenes like this before. Owen looked as though he relished a fight and Brandt was squaring up. He knew that it was best to retreat before things turned ugly.

  “Okay. Time we called it a night,” said Ralph in a light-hearted voice that he did not feel. “We’ve an early start tomorrow.” The others got up and made a tactical exit amidst the jeers from the locals. Rajit sighed and Akira just looked confused as they made their separate ways back to their various accommodations.

  Brandt’s Paper was scheduled for the following day. Ralph expected it would challenge the audience. He flagged down a taxi even though he knew that it would take the long way around to cross over the river and charge an enormous fare. But by the looks of that mob in the pub who were spoiling for a brawl, he did not want to wait around at the rail station.

  “Marriott Hotel governor. I don’t fancy standing around here when the pubs turn out.”

  *****

  Day two of the Conference was a success. The G7 government representatives made palliative noises and promised more aid to areas where the local population had suffered as a result of investments and where change was unavoidable.

  The City representatives argued that they had invested heavily to help economies grow and had already put funds in place to compensate victims in the event of unavoidable accidents. That expression brought sarcastic groans from the audience.

  Brandt Kessler was in no mood to take any prisoners. He lambasted governments and corporates alike for failing to provide adequate compensation for victims and local populations. Then he tackled the ‘named brands’ over their reluctance to put cash into the fund set up to compensate the workers and their families at Rana Plaza. He confirmed that Amnesty International intended to encourage people to boycott those who still refused to pay up in spite of pressure from their national governments. It was a no holds barred speech that invited strong opposition.

  After the usual farewells and promises to stay in touch or meet at the next conference, people dashed off to beat the London commuter rush and the build-up of traffic on the arterial roads out of London.

  Brandt Kessler seemed unusually low after his presentation and asked Ralph if he had time for a chat. Ralph suggested that they take the DLR to Canary Wharf and go for a beer at The Henry Addington just by the station, the added attraction being that they served ‘real ales’. As they relaxed among the usual evening crowd of office workers and bankers, Brandt admitted that he had received threats because of his Rana Plaza campaign.

  “Look Ralph, we’re always getting nutters who want to stop our work. But this time it’s getting a bit serious. I think that someone’s paying the big syndicated gangs to cause trouble or worse.”

  Ralph thought of Frank’s attempts to warn him about getting mixed up with Brandt and Owen. He liked Brandt, but this was something that his intuition told him he should stay clear of. Those sorts of strong arm tactics were probably bread and butter to the Syrians and others from countries where people were routinely imprisoned or even executed without a fair trial. No doubt Brandt would take it all in his stride, but no one was paying Ralph to play hero or even sidekick to one.

  They chatted on and after swopping some stories about Brandt’s escapades in the past, Brandt seemed to have cheered up a bit and they agreed it was time to head for home.

  They walked across to Canary Wharf tube station and waited on the crowded platform for the train to Waterloo. There was that distinctive smell of burnt paper, iron and stale air that seemed to permeate all underground stations. It was warm just now, but in mid-summer it could be stifling. Regular commuters probably found those familiar smells comforting, Ralph mused.

  Canary Wharf was a comparatively new station compared to the rest of the network and passengers had to wait for the glass safety barriers to open before they could board. Just as the train pulled in, Ralph heard three shots in rapid succession that seemed to come from behind. As he spun around he felt a sharp blow to his cheek as though he had been struck by a whip or a lash of some sort. Then more shots rang out and people began screaming and running in all directions. The man next to him started to go down, and as Ralph tried to hold him up, he could see blood streaming from the man’s neck. The gun, which Ralph recognised as a Walther P99, slipped from his fingers and clanged on the concrete floor. Ralph looked around for Brandt but he was nowhere to be seen.

  The next thing Ralph remembered was being helped to a bench and looking down to see that his suit was covered in blood. The ambulance took him to the Royal London Hospital at Whitechapel where a young doctor assured him that a few neat stitches in his cheek would make him as good and new. Then they told him that he could go home as soon as he gave a statement to the uniformed officer who had been called in.

  His suit jacket was ruined and he asked the nurse to throw it in the waste bin. He learned that Brandt had also been taken to hospital with a wound to his hand which was now bandaged. Brandt had called his wife, Sarah, and she was now on her way to pick him up. Ralph telephoned Katie and, over her protests, insisted that he would be fine in a taxi. Once he arrived at Katie’s house in Chelsea and explained what had happened, he spent a restless and somewhat painful night.

  The next morning the radio and newspapers where full of the previous night’s events. It was reported that a police special branch officer had been shot while attempting to apprehend a known terrorist believed to be part of a militant Islamic group. Three people had been wounded in the shooting and the terrorist had escaped. Ralph guessed that the man he had tried to help must have been the police officer. As they ate breakfast Katie had jokingly suggested that he only needed the scar to form a ‘Z’ and he could tell people that he had got it in a duel. She said that it might jazz up his image and his students would love it. He failed to see the humour in her remarks even though he knew she was only trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  “From what you tell me, Ralph that shooting was a chance happening. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That’s what people always say after the event. No doubt that’s what people said about Julius Caesar,” Ralph replied somewhat testily.

  “Come on, Ralph. All that business about gangs trying to silence your friend Brandt. You’re just not thinking straight. The police said on the radio that it was a known Islamic terrorist that they were after. Although trying to tackle him in a
crowded tube station does not sound too smart.”

  Ralph had been trying to figure out if the shooting had been connected to the Conference in some way. He was not convinced that the police report was accurate.

  “Well if someone had been paid to silence Brandt, then the tube would be an ideal place for it. There were plenty of people around, and with all those tunnels it would be easy to make a getaway,” he said as he gingerly touched his cheek.

  “I don’t agree. Assuming there is such a gang – they could just as easily have taken a pot shot at him from a car as he left the Conference, or anywhere else for that matter,” said Katie. “They would have had to follow you from the pub. I think you’re just letting your imagination run away with you. You need to rest up for a day and get your head sorted out before you say anything about it to anyone. Neither of us have any lectures today, so why don’t we just chill out. Listen to some music and then pop out for some lunch?”

  “I’m not sure about going out with these stitches. I look a mess.”

  “Don’t be a wimp, Ralph. It’s not like you’d win beauty contests anyhow, and besides, it’s just a scratch. If anyone asks you can say I bopped you when we were having a row,” she laughed.

  As he sat back and drank his coffee and watched as Katie checked her emails, he couldn’t help thinking about the man with the Walther P99. He knew from a visit to Dublin during the IRA troubles that the Irish special police carried that make of pistol. They were more accurate than the normal issue firearms that the London police had. He wondered if he should call the police and tell them about the gun he had seen fall out of the man’s hand. But if it was the policeman that had been reported as killed, then why had he heard three shots before the man fell? Why would a terrorist fire first? And who fired the remaining shots? It certainly was not the man with the Walther.”