Make Them Pay

by Graham Ison

  ‘Dobson said that Emery was on remand for a robbery and went on to claim that he’d confessed to the two murders I’m investigating,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how he knew about the murders though. We haven’t released that information yet.’ I knew, however, that the prison grapevine was extremely fast and extremely accurate when it came to learning about villainy in the outside world.

  ‘We don’t have any remand prisoners here, Mr Brock. They usually go to Brixton,’ said the governor. ‘When were these murders exactly?’

  ‘Friday the eighteenth of July.’

  The governor chuckled and crossed to a filing cabinet. Extracting a folder and returning to her desk, she donned a pair of heavy, black horn-rimmed spectacles and spent a few moments glancing through it.

  ‘He’s having you on, I’m afraid, Mr Brock,’ she said, glancing up and removing her glasses.

  ‘Who, Dobson? Or Emery?’

  The governor laughed. ‘One or the other, or both,’ she said. ‘Emery was transferred here last Friday from an open prison in Yorkshire. He’s a sex offender who’d already served half a five-year term for grooming a young schoolgirl on the Internet and is being considered for day release. He’s on the sex offenders’ register and he’ll be tagged if and when he’s released. But at the moment it’s a big if; he’s to be interviewed by the Parole Board next week. So, there’s no chance that he committed your murders. But I know what Dobson’s up to. He wants his assistance to be noted for his Parole Board hearing. Not that that will occur for a few years yet. As I said earlier, prison cell confessions are all too common.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve been the victim of duff info. No wonder he didn’t want to tell you why he wanted to see me. You’d’ve seen through it straightaway.’ Dave and I rose to leave. ‘Thank you for your time, Governor.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, Mr Brock.’

  ‘What’ll happen to Dobson now?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll have them separated,’ said the governor. ‘I doubt that it would be a good idea to let him and Emery carry on sharing a cell even though I think it’s unlikely that Emery said anything to Dobson about your murders. Nevertheless, prison gossip being what it is, Emery will know that Dobson’s spoken to you and that’ll worry Emery. It’s the way the prison grapevine works. Don’t ask me how it happens, but happen it does. Mr Reece will show you out.’

  ‘I’ll be having a few quiet words in Master Dobson’s shell-like ear, guv’nor,’ said Reece, as we reached the main gate.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of Mr Reece’s “few quiet words”,’ said Dave, as we drove out of the gates and exchanged the prison’s urine-laden air for the diesel-charged atmosphere of the outside world. ‘D’you reckon Emery did tell Dobson that he was a double murderer?’

  ‘I doubt he said anything. But whichever way it is, Dave, when Emery’s in stir it’s safer for him to admit to being a murderer than a sex offender. On the other hand, he could’ve been testing the water to see if his new cell mate was a grass. But the word on the landing being what it is Dobson probably knew that Emery was a sex offender and decided to put the bubble in. Unfortunately, he’s not smart enough to tell a convincing tale.’

  ‘Which is why he’s doing nine for robbery,’ said Dave.

  And that was it; our visit to Stone Mill prison had been a complete waste of time. But it was an example of how the police are so often misled; even though I’d guessed from the start that it was a bum steer these things have to be followed up.

  On Monday afternoon, Charlie Flynn told me what he’d discovered by checking through Trudi Schmidt’s bank statements.

  ‘I’ve set out the exact amounts in my report, guv,’ said Flynn, handing me a document, ‘but suffice it to say for the moment that large sums were paid in, but then went out again almost immediately. They all appear to have been sent by wire transfer to an account in the Cayman Islands. But there’s no way of telling where they went from there, if they went anywhere.’

  ‘Knowing how these guys work, Charlie,’ I said, ‘the funds won’t have stayed in the Caymans for very long. I imagine that they were probably transferred all round the globe and I’d take a guess that at some stage they stopped off at the Bahamas. I doubt we’ll ever be able to track them down.’

  I spent a few minutes examining Flynn’s report and sent a copy to Horst Fischer.

  TWELVE

  That afternoon I received a telephone call from Stella Kumar. She told me that her father’s funeral would take place at eleven o’clock the following morning at his local cemetery in Pinner Road.

  Even Colin Wilberforce’s considerable skills and powers of persuasion failed to discover the telephone number of the SAS headquarters at Hereford. Eventually I attempted to call in a favour from an army officer at the Ministry of Defence with whom I’d had dealings in the past, but even he was unwilling to divulge this sensitive information, claiming that he didn’t know it. He did, however, promise to pass on a message. I gave him William Rivers’s details and the date and time of his funeral.

  The day of the funeral was beautifully sunny with only the slightest breath of wind. Well in advance of the time set for the service Dave and I drove up the avenue leading to the tiny chapel and parked the car. We were hoping to spot some unusual faces. We didn’t have long to wait.

  At five minutes to eleven the cortège arrived: just a hearse and one car. Rivers’s plain coffin was surmounted by a single wreath and the only mourners occupying the accompanying car were Stella Kumar herself and a man I took to be her husband Ram. There was no sign of William Rivers’s grandchildren. I assumed that they were now adults and probably living away from home; possibly even abroad.

  But then a BMW with civilian number plates drove into the cemetery grounds and parked next to our CID runabout. A man alighted and looked around. Although in plain clothes with a nondescript tie, his turnout and bearing were unmistakably those of a soldier.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the man said as he approached Dave and me. ‘D’you know if this is the funeral of Mr William Rivers?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘Are you from the SAS?’

  ‘What a strange question.’ The man stared blankly at me.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard,’ I said, by way of offering a reason for my query.

  ‘How do I know you’re who you say you are?’ Only then did the man smile, as though excusing his demand for proof.

  I showed him my warrant card and he seemed satisfied.

  ‘I’m here to represent the army, certainly. My name’s Brown.’

  ‘But you’re not from the SAS?’

  ‘I’m representing the army,’ repeated Brown tersely, in a way that brooked no further discussion on the subject.

  ‘I see. I only asked because William Rivers was in the SAS, many years ago.’ I should’ve realized that members of the SAS never admit to it. I was once told by an infantry colonel that anyone who claims to be a past or present member of that illustrious regiment – and there were many who did – had most certainly never served with it. Secrecy, it seemed, was second nature to these tough men. It rather surprised me that Rivers had displayed a shield of the regimental device in his living room, but perhaps he never expected anyone to see it. It was fortunate that Charlie Flynn had had the foresight to take a photograph of it, otherwise we might never have known.

  ‘So I believe,’ said Brown, ‘but what’s your interest?’

  I glanced at my watch. ‘Perhaps we could speak afterwards,’ I said. ‘The service is about to begin. If you want to make your number with Rivers’s daughter, that’s the lady over there.’ I pointed at Mrs Kumar who was dressed soberly in a black suit and hat.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll do that,’ said Brown, and hurried to catch up with Rivers’s only daughter. He and Mrs Kumar had a brief conversation and then entered the chapel together with Ram Kumar.

  Moments later another small car dre
w up and a smartly-dressed James Milner alighted. He was wearing a blazer with a Parachute Regiment badge on the pocket, a regimental tie and a maroon beret with a Paras badge on it.

  ‘You made it, then,’ I said.

  ‘Like I said, I thought I’d come and bid the old boy bon voyage. I did think about asking the Royal British Legion for a guard of honour, but it was not really my place to do it.’ Milner pointed towards the sky. ‘Billy spent a lot of his time up there and now he’s up there permanently,’ he said, and together we hurried into the chapel.

  The service was short and apart from Dave and me there were only the four mourners: Mr and Mrs Kumar, James Milner and the mysterious Mr Brown. But there was a surprise before the coffin was removed for interment. Brown crossed to the lectern at the front of the chapel and, presumably with Mrs Kumar’s acquiescence, recited from memory a few lines from a poem.

  We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go

  Always a little further: it may be

  Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,

  Across that angry or that glimmering sea . . .

  There followed a brief silence and then the pall-bearers removed the coffin and carried it slowly to the burial ground. Dave and I watched the committal from a distance and after Mr and Mrs Kumar had left in their car, Brown walked over to where we were standing.

  ‘You said you had an interest in Billy Rivers, Mr Brock.’

  ‘Yes, but perhaps you’d tell me the significance of that poem you recited?’

  ‘It’s on the memorial to the SAS dead at their depot at Hereford.’

  ‘How did you know that, Mr Brown?’ asked Dave, in an attempt to persuade Brown to admit that he was a member of the SAS.

  Brown afforded Dave a brief glance. ‘I heard it somewhere,’ he said. ‘Now,’ he continued, facing me again, ‘you were going to tell me why you’re so interested in the funeral of Billy Rivers.’

  I explained about the swindle to which William Rivers had fallen victim, and the three murders that evidence indicated were connected to it.

  ‘It did cross my mind that some of his former comrades might’ve heard about it and decided to exact revenge,’ I continued.

  ‘Most unlikely I’d’ve thought,’ said Brown. ‘From what I’ve heard of the SAS they might be trained killers, but they’re highly disciplined and law abiding.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If there’s nothing else I can assist you with, Mr Brock, I do have another appointment.’ With a nod and those few words of dismissal, he turned on his heel, crossed to his car and drove away. I had convinced myself, despite Brown’s denials, that he faced the long drive to the SAS headquarters at Hereford.

  ‘Another bloody waste of time, guv,’ said Dave.

  ‘It’s in the nature of our calling in life, Dave,’ I said airily.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Dave.

  The murders of Eberhardt and Schmidt were now eleven days old, and despite our largely unproductive visit to Essen we were getting nowhere.

  Dave and I had a quick lunch on the way back from Rivers’s funeral and arrived at the office just after two o’clock. There was a message waiting for me from Joe Daly at the American Embassy. He had news, it said. We set off for Grosvenor Square immediately.

  We were followed into Daly’s office by Darlene bearing the obligatory coffee, and settled down to hear what the FBI agent had to say.

  ‘This Lucien Carter guy hasn’t vanished as you suggested might be the case, Harry. He’s got an apartment on East 92nd Street in New York which was the address on the letter your realty agent received. Seems a bit careless that he allowed himself to be traced that easily. What’s more he seems to be tied up in your scam.’

  ‘Had he previously come to the notice of the FBI, then, Joe?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure thing. His name came up in an ongoing investigation that has links to the Bahamas. And the business of the Buenos Aires IT company has cropped up as well. But the Bureau didn’t know he was in New York until I passed them your information.’

  ‘Is he still there? In New York, I mean?’

  ‘Sure is,’ said Daly with a laugh. ‘But as of now he’s not at his apartment.’

  ‘Where’s he gone, then?’

  ‘The Bronx or, to be precise, Rikers Island.’

  ‘He didn’t get bail, then.’

  ‘No chance, Harry. The Bureau raided his apartment, found a whole load of fake share certificates and the judge sent him straight to Rikers.’ Joe switched his gaze to Dave. ‘That’s the Big Apple’s favourite prison, Dave.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Dave. ‘There’s about fourteen thousand prisoners there. You’ve obviously been very busy in New York City.’

  Daly laughed. ‘You have heard of it, then.’

  ‘Yes, I watch Law and Order on TV,’ said Dave, and glanced briefly at me. ‘When I’ve got time to sit down and watch TV.’

  ‘Did the New York office tell you anything about those certificates, Joe?’ I asked, ignoring Dave’s veiled suggestion of oppression on my part.

  ‘They sure did, Harry.’ Daly turned in his chair. ‘Darlene honey,’ he shouted, ‘bring in those copies of the share certificates we got in the diplomatic bag from Federal Plaza, there’s a doll.’

  Moments later, Darlene appeared with a sheaf of documents. ‘That’s everything the New York office sent us, Joe,’ she said.

  ‘There you go, Harry.’ Daly handed me the copies of the certificates that the FBI had found in Carter’s apartment. ‘This guy seems to be the mastermind behind this boiler-room scam. They’ve already got a list of vics who’d gotten ripped off by him.’

  There were some certificates I didn’t recognize, but others, as Daly had said, were for the same bogus Buenos Aires IT company in which Lady Fairfax and William Rivers had invested. There were also some for an oil company whose tanker was supposedly leaving Nigeria in the near future, similar to the ones that had been found in Adekunle’s study.

  ‘Does your New York office know if Carter’s been in the States for some time, Joe?’

  ‘Looks like it. He’s a Brit, by the way. They seized his passport, but there was nothing in it to indicate that he’s been abroad recently. The last entry stamp was two years ago when he landed at JFK from Heathrow via the Bahamas. He also appeared to have paid a short visit to Paris some time ago. They’re checking it out with the Immigration and Nationality Service. Chances are he’s overstayed his landing conditions and that’s why he didn’t get bail. D’you have a reason for asking?’

  ‘Yes, I was wondering if he could’ve had anything to do with my three murders.’ I was interested that the Bahamian connection had come up again. Horst Fischer had told me that, according to Wilhelm Weber, in whose camper van Eberhardt had met his death, Eberhardt had visited the Bahamas several times.

  ‘I don’t think he’d want to get his hands dirty, Harry, unless your three vics had double-crossed him, but you never know. I’ll send an email across and get our boys to put it to him.’

  ‘Was there anything to indicate that he actually owned the property at Clancy Street, Paddington? The information we had was that he did own it, but as I said before, he was believed to be resident in France.’

  ‘I’ll put that on the list of questions,’ said Daly. ‘Have you been in touch with the French police?’

  ‘Didn’t seem much point, Joe,’ said Dave. ‘We didn’t have an address for him there.’

  ‘But in view of what you’ve found out, Joe,’ I said, ‘it might be a good idea for me to have a word with the French. He might be on their most wanted list.’

  ‘Do they have one?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dave. ‘Mostly Americans.’

  Daly laughed. ‘Get outta here.’

  I thought it was time that I brought the commander up to speed about my enquiries if for no better reason than to worry him with the possibility that Dave and I might have to go overseas again.

  ‘Ah, Mr Brock, have you made an arrest yet?’

&
nbsp; Oh, the naivety of the man. ‘I fear we’ve got quite a long way to go before we start knocking-off suspects, sir.’

  The commander wrinkled his nose at my use of the term ‘knocking-off’, but this time he didn’t query it. Perhaps he’s given up trying to rid me of criminal slang.

  ‘Has this enquiry presented you with some problems, then, Mr Brock?’ With a sigh of exasperation, the commander took off his glasses, placed them carefully in the centre of his blotter and gave me one of his superior stares.

  Problems? Ye Gods! There are times when I find it hard to believe that this man is a policeman, let alone pretending to be a detective.

  ‘International ramifications have manifested themselves, sir,’ I began. Dave would’ve been pleased with that sentence.

  ‘Oh? What sort of international ramifications?’

  I sensed that the commander had immediately started to worry about expenses.

  ‘Our enquiries have now spread to New York, France and to the Bahamas, sir. In addition to Germany.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ The commander shook his head and assumed an expression of grave concern. ‘I trust that you and Poole will not be gallivanting half way round the world, Mr Brock,’ he said sternly, as if daring me to contradict him.

  ‘That remains to be seen, sir. It’s possible that some of our enquiries may have to be carried out in person. There is some slight suggestion that the man in the custody of the FBI might be our murderer. His name’s Lucien Carter and he’s currently in Rikers.’

  The great man raised his eyebrows. ‘Is he suffering from some sort of illness, then?’

  I wondered if he’d confused Rikers with a hospital. ‘Rikers is a prison, sir. In fact, it’s the prison for New York. As to whether he’s ill, I can’t say, but his health might’ve been affected by his inability to obtain bail.’

  ‘A prison? I see. But isn’t there a hospital of the same name?’ The commander sniffed; he hated being wrong-footed. ‘The Americans do give their prisons the most extraordinary names,’ he said, in some forlorn attempt to justify his mistake. ‘I believe there’s one called Sing Sing. Presumably because they have a well-known choir there.’