The meeting broke up shortly afterwards and I brought Berrin further up to date with my extracurricular enquiries as we sat at our desks. He also looked vaguely sceptical and said something about it all sounding ‘a bit obscure’, but, in the absence of anything else, I was determined to press ahead with what I had. The important thing initially was for us to track down Martin Leppel, the man who could tell us more about Contracts International. I got Berrin to check police records and liaise with Special Branch and the NCIS to see if they had anything on him, while I phoned round journalist contacts to see if any of them could dig up an address.
It didn’t take long to strike gold. Roy Shelley, a local scribe who was well known to the station’s CID, had taken barely half an hour to come up with the goods. Now a leading reporter on one of the nationals, he told me that Contracts International had been disbanded in 1997 after some financial irregularities and an unwelcome TV investigation into alleged illegal arms shipments to Liberia, but that Leppel was now running an outfit called Secure Consultants from an office in Moorgate. I wrote down the address and telephone number.
‘Apparently it deals with much the same thing as Contracts did,’ Roy told me. ‘Supplying ex-soldiers abroad to provide training for the natives, and also hostage negotiators for kidnappings and the like. It’s much smaller than Contracts was, and I think it’s probably a lot more above board as well. Leppel got his fingers burnt last time. He hasn’t got a record as such, but he came close to it.’
‘Any information on what he’s like?’ I asked. ‘Is he a crook?’
Shelley chuckled. ‘Now if I answer that, I might be done for slander. How come you want to know anyway?’
‘I might have a story for you.’
‘A good one?’
‘I’m not sure. But I promise if anything comes of it you’ll be the first to know.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. To answer your question, he’s not a hundred per cent kosher, but from what I understand he’s not an out-and-out villain either. He’s like a lot of people, Mr Gallan. Tries to stay on the right side of the law because it’s easier that way, but doesn’t let it stand in the way of a money-making opportunity.’
I thanked him and, after promising once again to inform him immediately if a story presented itself, rang off.
‘All right, Dave, we’ve got him,’ I said, and rang the number Shelley had given me.
It was answered on the third ring by a well-spoken male voice, stating the company’s name. I asked to speak to Martin Leppel. ‘Speaking,’ came the crisp reply.
I introduced myself and explained why I was phoning. ‘I’d like to have a chat with you with regard to one of your former employees at Contracts International.’
‘Contracts was wound up years ago,’ he answered brusquely, clearly not wanting to waste time speaking to the police.
‘I’m aware of that, sir, but you may have information that would be of use to us. It’ll only take up ten minutes of your time.’
‘I don’t see why I should help, DS Gallan, since the police have never done anything to help me. Most of the time I’m being harassed by members of Scotland Yard who appear to have bugger all better to do than try to ruin the reputations and livelihoods of perfectly respectable businessmen.’
I remembered Neil Vamen saying much the same thing. It made me wonder sometimes whether they did in fact actually believe it. ‘Any co-operation you give will be favourably viewed, sir, and, as I said, it’ll only take up a very small amount of your time.’
‘What type of investigation is it?’
‘Murder.’
‘All right. I’ve got a meeting in the West End this afternoon but I’m free after that. Come to my office at five o’clock and I’ll see you then. I presume you know where to come?’
‘We do indeed, sir. Thank you very much.’
Leppel grunted something and hung up.
The offices of Secure Consultants were on the sixth floor of a grand-looking City building on a road off London Wall. I rang the bell next to a polished brass plaque with the company name and logo on it and Berrin and I were buzzed through the door without preamble. A lift opposite took us up to the sixth floor where we were met by Martin Leppel, a short but fit-looking individual with an aquiline nose and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and what looked like a regimental tie, and his thin, slightly weathered face was deeply suntanned. He nodded in greeting and we shook hands all round.
He led us through a glass door emblazoned with the company name, then through a small reception area which was unmanned (Leppel explained that his secretary had the day off) and into his spacious office that looked out on to the street. Photographs of various men in military uniforms, including a large one of Leppel in officer’s garb holding a regimental sword, adorned the walls. It set off the right image of a man with a very strong army background.
Leppel took a seat behind his imposing and spotless desk and motioned for the two of us to sit in chairs opposite. He didn’t offer us a drink. ‘So, what can I do for you, gentlemen?’ he asked, getting straight to the point.
‘We’re after some information regarding Contracts International’s involvement in the Bosnian conflict.’
‘Can I ask why you need this information?’
‘We’re investigating a murder and it might be that an employee or employees of the company working in Bosnia at that time could throw some light on an area we’re still a bit hazy on.’
‘Which is?’
‘I can’t tell you that, sir. Not at this time.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I wasn’t in Bosnia. I’ve never been to any of the Yugoslav republics in my life.’
I could tell this wasn’t going to be easy. ‘But you managed the company, which is why we’re here today. Now, as I said to you on the phone, this shouldn’t take long.’
‘What is it you want to know?’
‘How long were Contracts International involved in Bosnia?’
‘We got our first contract in October 1993 when it became obvious that the West was going to stand by and watch the Muslim population suffer. It was to train regulars of the Armija BiH.’
‘The who?’ asked Berrin.
‘The Bosnian Muslim army. The contract was successful and we were awarded a number of others. We remained in situ until the Dayton Peace Agreement in December 1995.’
‘I heard suggestions that some of your operatives on the ground remained after this time.’
‘You heard wrong, then,’ said Leppel icily. ‘There were, aside from our employees, freelancers in the area providing a similar if somewhat inferior service to ours. They were the ones who stayed on after the ceasefire. As soon as Dayton came about, our contracts were terminated and we left.’
‘Could you tell me who funded the work your company did in Bosnia?’
‘Plenty of people have written that we were funded by all kinds of fanatics, but they’re wrong. However, I’m afraid I have always treated my client list, both at Contracts and at Secure Consultants, as confidential, so I’m not going to comment on that.’
I nodded. ‘Fair enough. Can you recall how many employees you had in Bosnia in total during the two or so years you were there?’
Leppel thought about it for a moment. It looked like he was making calculations. ‘I would say something like forty altogether, though it’s possible it could have been more. Bosnia was one of our biggest operations at Contracts.’
‘Now I know you weren’t there, Mr Leppel, but were you aware that any of your men had contacts with the so-called mujahidin, the Islamic fundamentalist fighters who were also in the region at the time?’
‘Yes, I know who they were, but as far as I’m aware, no, none of them did. You must remember that these fundamentalists hated all Westerners, whom they regarded and regard as infidels. Some of them have even been linked to Osama bin Laden, so they would never have socialized with our people, even if they were nominally on the same side. Might I ask where
we’re going with these questions?’
‘We’re trying to build up a picture, sir, that’s all.’ I fished in my jacket pocket for the photo of Merriweather and the soldier. When I’d got it out, I unfolded it, stood up, and showed it to Leppel. ‘Do you recognize the man on the left?’ I asked.
He nodded slowly without looking at me. ‘Yes, I recognize him. His name’s Tony Franks.’
The name, like the face, had an immediate ring of familiarity, but still I was unable to pinpoint from where. ‘Do you recognize the man standing next to him?’
Again, he nodded. ‘His name’s Merriweather. I can’t remember the first name.’
‘Jack,’ said Berrin.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Jack.’
‘This photograph came from an article in Der Spiegel.’
‘I know.’
‘The article was in German, and we’re waiting to have it translated. Could you tell me what it was about?’
‘It was libellous. I almost sued them over it.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It suggested that Contracts International consultants, they called them mercenaries, were involved in drug smuggling through Bosnia and into western Europe. They never produced any hard evidence other than that photo yet it helped to ruin the reputation of an organization that employed a lot of people and, whatever anyone likes to think, provided a service that was needed. Ever since that article came out, I’ve had problems. Scotland Yard were round like a shot, asking all sorts of questions, and our client base simply dried up. That’s why I’m perhaps not as co-operative as I might otherwise have been.’
‘I understand that, sir, but I can assure you I’m not interested in having a go at your company or you, I’m simply interested in solving this murder.’
Leppel observed me for a few moments as if trying to gauge how genuine I was. I gave him my standard I-won’t-piss-you-about look back, thinking that I might just be winning this sanctimonious bastard over. ‘As I’ve said, they never actually named names but said that our consultants were in partnership with organized crime figures in Britain and were using UN aid convoys to transport the contraband into western Europe. But they had no proof, nothing.’
‘Do you think, Mr Leppel, in all honesty, that one or two of your employees might have had some contact with these organized crime figures?’
‘That photograph was taken close to two years after we ceased operations in Bosnia. Yes, it’s clear from the picture that Tony Franks had at least some dealings with them, and others might have done so too, but it was entirely off their own bats. Until that article was written, I knew nothing about it.’
I nodded, trying to work out whether Leppel was telling the truth or not. He was certainly exhibiting the right level of indignation, but it was difficult to say for sure. ‘And Tony Franks? Do you know where he is now?’
‘The last I heard he was doing some work for a company called Tiger Solutions run by two of Contracts’ ex-employees.’
Tiger Solutions. Things kept coming back to them. ‘Can you give me the names of these two ex-employees?’ I asked, wanting to get it confirmed.
‘Joe Riggs was one of them; the other was Max Iversson.’
‘Do you know if they had anything to do with Jack Merriweather or any of his associates?’
‘No, as far as I know, they didn’t.’
‘Have you got a list anywhere of the employees of Contracts who served in Bosnia?’
He sighed. ‘I thought you might ask that. I haven’t, no.’
‘But presumably you could dig up the information?’
He sighed again. ‘It means going back over the old accounts for the company, but yes, the information can be dug up, as you put it. Though it would probably take a bit of time.’
‘I would greatly appreciate it, sir, if you could provide us with a complete list. It may well be very useful to our inquiry.’
‘I’ll see what I can come up with.’
I stood up, and Berrin followed suit. ‘Thank you very much for that, Mr Leppel,’ I said, putting out my hand, ‘and for your time.’
Leppel stepped forward and gave it a brief shake. ‘You’re certainly a lot less difficult to deal with than the last lot who paid me a visit.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘If you do get to speak to Tony, send him my regards, will you?’ he said as he led us out to the lifts.
I nodded, and said that I would. ‘Did you get on well with him, then?’
‘He was good company, and very professional. I like dealing with people like him.’
When we were outside, I looked at my watch. Twenty past five. The streets of the City of London were beginning to fill with the first wave of smartly dressed workers hurrying like ants in every direction, none looking as if they had a moment to spare.
‘Do you think this Tony Franks character could have something to do with Matthews’s death, then, Sarge?’ asked Berrin as we started walking towards Moorgate Tube.
‘He’s linked to the Holtzes, albeit fairly indirectly, and he’s linked, again indirectly, to the snake poison. It’s not a lot to go on, but it’s something. Did the name mean anything to you?’
Berrin shook his head. ‘No, never heard of him. Does it to you?’
‘It does, but I can’t think from where.’
‘Something’s going on at that Tiger Solutions, though, isn’t it?’
‘The name keeps coming up, that’s for sure, and it’s not a name you’re going to forget. We’re going to have to pay another visit to Joe Riggs, but I think maybe we should leave it for a day or two. I’d like to have something to pressure him with, and at the moment we haven’t got much.’
‘At least now we’re beginning to get somewhere, though.’ For the first time in a while, he sounded enthused.
When we got to Moorgate Tube it was shut by a security alert, and the traffic had near enough ground to a halt. I called Malik on my mobile but he wasn’t answering, so I left a message, asking him to call back urgently. I’d intended to go back to the station, but by the time the two of us had walked up to Old Street it was twenty to six and hardly worth it, so we went our separate ways.
But on the Underground, heading back home, sweating with the commuters, I couldn’t get the name Tony Franks out of my mind. It bugged me, so much so that I got off at Highbury and Islington and returned to work, thinking that I’d never be able to relax until I’d satisfied my curiosity.
As usual, the incident room was empty, which suited me just fine. I switched on my PC, got a coffee while it booted up, and logged on to our criminal database. I then typed in: Franks, Anthony.
One match.
I opened the file and a photograph of a good-looking, youngish man with short dark hair and a calm, almost mocking expression appeared. It was the same man in the photograph with Jackie Slap. According to the computer, he’d been arrested in December 1997 on suspicion of the importation of Class A drugs, but released without charge. He had no convictions, and did not appear to have been arrested on any further charges.
I looked at the mugshot for a long time, racking my brains, trying to remember where the hell I knew him from. I’d questioned him about something. Something not that recent, but also not that long ago. It had been a serious crime but Franks had not been a suspect. He’d answered the questions put to him helpfully and with the right level of concern. I remembered I’d found him a likeable character. He’d said he worked in security. He’d once been a bodyguard for Geri Halliwell.
And then it came to me, and I was puzzled because I wasn’t sure what the information meant. I’d questioned him at his home, and the reason was that Tony Franks had lived on the very same street on which thirteen-year-old paperboy Robert Jones had last been seen alive on a cold, dark February morning all those months ago.
Iversson
‘So you can’t tell me nothing about it?’ said Johnny, looking at me like he honestly thought I might suddenly change my mind.
&
nbsp; ‘Not at the moment.’ I pulled the cap low over my face, then climbed into the passenger side of the red Mercedes van that would be used to transport Krys Holtz the two miles from Heavenly Girls to the lock-up in Finchley Joe had rented the previous day where we’d be changing vehicles. Johnny got in the driver’s side and took the car out onto City Road.
‘I hope it’s nothing that’s going to get me in trouble, Max. I like a quiet life, you know.’
‘As do I, Johnny, which is something you should have thought about when your recommendation almost got me blown away.’
‘Give us a Scooby.’
‘A what?’
‘A Scooby Doo, clue. Just so I’ve got some idea. Is it something illegal?’
‘I’ve asked you to steal two vehicles, both of which are going to end up burnt out. What do you think?’
‘I think I’m fucking nervous.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘Where are we heading, then?’
‘A pick-up in Muswell Hill.’ I gave him the address and the main road it was off. ‘You know how to get there?’
He nodded. ‘Sure.’ It was half ten and long dark. The streets were fairly quiet, it being a Monday night, and a light rain was falling. ‘So, I might not be needed after tonight, then?’
‘Not if all goes according to plan, but don’t bet on it. It might take a while.’
We didn’t speak for the rest of the journey. Johnny continued to look nervous and uncomfortable but he drove without losing concentration and within fifteen minutes we’d pulled up outside Joe’s place, a flat in a slightly worn-out-looking redbrick townhouse. I rang up to him on the mobile and a couple of minutes later Joe, Tugger Lewis and Mike Kalinski came out of the door. Tugger was dressed in a suit while Joe and Kalinski wore similar boiler suits to the ones Johnny and I were wearing, and both were carrying holdalls. Tugger came round to my door while the other two went straight to the back of the van and climbed inside. I stepped out and let him in. ‘Johnny, Tugger. Tugger, Johnny. You two are going to be spending some time together. Johnny, do whatever Tugger says.’
The Murder Exchange Page 22