Fogarty

by J Jackson Bentley

  ***

  Ben Fogarty had arrived at Heathrow at 5am and by six thirty the chauffeur had dropped him at his hotel, Saint Ermin’s, which was conveniently placed for his visit to Scotland Yard. The hotel was worthy of its four stars and his room could have been in any hotel in Hong Kong, Dubai or Oz. The room had magnolia walls, lots of dark wood, and designer furniture. Ben showered, changed and walked over to Scotland Yard, taking advantage of the warm sunshine.

  The door to room 1.111 opened and two men, both similar in stature to himself, walked in. Both were smiling, although their faces showed signs of fatigue. The slimmer of the two detectives held out his hand and introduced himself as DS Fellowes.

  “Ben Fogarty. I never thought I would get to meet you. I saw your three tries at Twickenham in 2009. Steve Borthwick’s guys made it difficult for you, but you were terrific. It was a great match.” Ben smiled as he shook Fellowes’ hand.

  “Bloody egg chasers!” DS Scott muttered under his breath as the other two laughed.

  “I guess you’re a football fan. Do you support Chelsea?” Ben asked as he shook Scott’s hand.

  “I do, as it happens. How did you guess?”

  “Well, as you walked in behind Fellowes here, I guessed you were used to coming second.”

  Fellowes bellowed with laughter, and even Scott managed a wry grin.

  “Ha, bloody, ha. What brings one of the All Blacks eleven thousand miles to New Scotland Yard, then?”

  “Vastrick Security suggested that I speak to you. I can identify the man who put that poor WPC into a coma.”

  Fellowes and Scott fell silent and looked at each other, each more perplexed than the other.

  ***

  “That’s interesting, but how does an antipodean know who this bloke is when he lives eleven thousand miles away, and yet no one in London seems to know him?” DS Scott asked reasonably.

  Ben reached into his pocket and withdrew a photograph of Dennis Grierson; it had clearly been taken with a long lens, because the betting shop behind him was out of focus. The picture bore the Vastrick logo in the bottom corner. Ben passed it to DS Scott as he explained.

  “This photo was taken a year ago. The subject is one Dennis Grierson, also known as Psycho. He lives in the Trafalgar House Flats in Tottenham. The reason I know that this is the same man is that he is my father!”

  The two policemen were stunned. In front of them stood Ben Fogarty, former All Blacks winger, son of the outspoken New Zealand MP, Patrick Fogarty, and yet he was claiming that the vicious animal who had beaten PC Marisa Letterby half to death was his real dad. Ben briefly explained the background to his claim as DS Fellowes flipped open his laptop and began typing. In a matter of seconds a different picture, a mug shot, in fact, of an unshaven Dennis Grierson, appeared on the screen, and Fellowes drew DS Scott’s attention to it.

  “Bloody hell!” Scott blurted out. “This guy has form going back years. He’s been on the radar since he was about ten, and that was forty-five years ago. We need to give him a long service medal, or something,” he continued, sarcastic humour lacing his narrative.

  ***

  Ben had been told that the wheels of justice turned slowly in England, but if that had been the case once, it certainly wasn’t today. Fellowes was organising a snatch squad to head out to Tottenham, based on the Vastrick research Ben had in his file.

  The Vastrick investigator had followed Grierson for some time, noting that every Saturday morning, without fail, he turned up at Pat Byrne’s Betting Shop in Tottenham to place bets and do business. In the two hours he spent in the shop a stream of hoods, fences and drug dealers from all over the capital called in to see him. He had even been given the use of the rear office.

  Scott broke the silence. “Ben, we don’t go into the flats unless we have to. Between Grierson’s troop and the local gangs, they attack our uniformed guys and smash up our vehicles, so if we can pick him up at the bookies, all well and good. OK?” Ben nodded. Scott continued. “Now, Fellowes and I would like you to come with us to the hospital where Marisa Letterby is recovering. She woke up out of the coma a couple of days ago and she can communicate. We’d better run this by her. She deserves that.” The two men left to join DS Fellowes, who was retrieving his car, a dark blue BMW X5 SUV with darkened windows.

  ***

  After a speedy journey across the capital, helped by the fact that the school holidays always reduced the city traffic, the three men arrived at the hospital. They had been directed to ward 32, second left on the third floor. They were waiting at the nurses’ station when the charge nurse approached.

  “Her husband has just left. Marisa is still weak so don’t stay more than a few minutes. Oh, and prepare yourselves not to show any shock when you see her; it won’t help.”

  The three walked into a four-bedded ward where Marisa Letterby was propped up in her bed looking small and frail, not at all like a burly policewoman. Whilst they had been warned outside about her appearance, they were still taken aback. It was doubtful whether her own mother would have recognised her bruised and swollen face.

  “It doesn’t feel as bad as it looks,” she assured them, attempting a twisted smile. DS Scott made the introductions, without mentioning that Ben was the suspect’s son, before showing Marisa the mug shot. In response she stifled a sob and Scott apologised, pulling the offending picture away.

  “You know the worst thing?” Marisa said quietly, sadness permeating her very being. “That was the last thing I saw before I went under. That emotionless face is the face I see every night when I fall asleep.”

  The job done, the three men excused themselves and walked to the door. When they arrived at the nurses’ station Ben thought of something, and asked the others to wait as he went back to the injured woman’s bedside.

  “Sorry to trouble you again, Marisa, but I just wanted to say that just over a year ago I fractured my skull in a training accident. I was in an induced coma for a few hours until the swelling went down. I knew my career in rugby was over. I used to play a bit of professional rugby back then, but friends and family gathered around and I realised that they were what was really important.”

  Ben reached underneath his polo shirt collar and removed a necklace. It was a very simple thing, a thin leather cord about twenty four inches long, from which hung an oval pendant filled with a clear crystal. The semi precious paua stone was beautiful. It was shot through with hues of green, aqua and blue with slivers of clear transparent crystal. Ben gently put it over Marisa’s head until the stone rested on her chest, over her hospital gown.

  “I was told this was a Maori healing stone and it certainly worked for me. I pray that it works for you, too.” Ben placed her two hands, one on top of the other, between his hands and said a few words in Maori that Marisa did not understand. “The hands that do good works are blessed,” he translated before smiling and leaving her alone. Marisa was admiring her new necklace when the nurse came in and spoke to her. “Well, lucky you! A visit from Ben Fogarty!”

  “Who?” Marisa asked in all innocence.

  “Ben Fogarty, the best All Blacks winger in over a generation, that’s who!”

  “So, Ben Fogarty, you used to pay a bit of rugby at one time, did you?” Marisa thought to herself, as her smile tried valiantly to make a comeback.

  Chapter 7

  Pat Byrne Betting, Tottenham High Street, London, UK.

  Saturday 13th August 2011; 11:10am.

  Ben despaired at the damage they encountered on the way to the raid. The aftermath of the riots resembled a war zone, the streets ravaged by several nights of mindless violence. Buildings were burned out, the roads and pavements scarred and most shops were still boarded up. It looked like Beirut. Now, as he sat in the back of the stationary blue X5 with Scott and Fellowes in the front, a tactical team, fully armoured and armed, pushed open the door to the betting shop and streamed in. The shouting and screaming could be heard down the street.

  ***

 
Den Grierson was sitting in the office conducting a little business with a European of indeterminate origins, although his business pseudonym of Romany Joe offered a clue. Romany Joe could bring more girls in for Dennis to run, but only on a leasing basis. Joe would not sell them, as he had done in the past.

  “Leasing, it is the future,” the Romany said. “I have been reading book from America, ‘Lease your way to business success’, and now I am a changed man.” The two men could have been talking about cars, but they were negotiating over the monthly leasing rates for young teenage Romany girls sold by their families, or stolen from them by the traffickers. Suddenly they heard yelling and shouting from the front of the shop.

  Both men jumped up. Den grabbed his bag and snarled, “Follow me.” The two men raced down a grimy corridor, past the toilet and out of a fire exit, where four armed police were waiting.

  “Shit!” Psycho spat, realising that one way or another he was going back to jail. The two men resignedly moved their hands behind their backs, ready for cuffing. A police officer in plain clothes, whom Den knew well, stepped forward.

  “Well, Dennis, haven’t seen you for a while. I thought you’d retired.”

  “I have, Inspector Todd. I was just putting together a Yankee for the evening races at Lingfield.”

  DCI Todd ignored Grierson’s remarks and instead concentrated on his left wrist.

  “Nice watch, Dennis. Rolex, isn’t it? Bit flashy for around here. You should be more careful. An old guy like you could be knocked over by a hoodie and have that nicked - if it isn’t nicked already, that is.”

  “No problem, Inspector, it’s a replica. Legal and everything. A man like me couldn’t afford the real thing.”

  It was all bravado, of course. It certainly was the real thing. When he’d seen the haul from Preston’s the Jewellers, the watch just spoke to him. He’d had to have it. He knew it was a risk - after all, Rolexes are all numbered - but he wasn’t expecting to be tugged. He hadn’t had his collar felt in years. Now he would be going down for receiving looted goods, at the very least. Although he didn’t really know what to expect next, he was still surprised when DCI Todd formally arrested him.

  “Dennis Grierson, I am arresting you on suspicion of burglary, aggravated burglary and the attempted murder of Police Constable Marisa Letterby. Other charges may follow as our enquiries continue. Do you understand?”

  Den nodded wordlessly. He had already spoken the last words he would say to the police. The DCI then read Dennis his rights and asked if he understood. The handcuffed man nodded again and was taken to a waiting van, which was ready to whisk him to a secure police station. In all likelihood it would be Paddington, where his well paid brief would be waiting to get him bailed.

  ***

  DS Scott, DS Fellowes and Ben Fogarty called in at Frankie and Benny’s New York Style Restaurant on the retail park for a bite of lunch, and to discuss the case. They ordered soft drinks and a starter and main course from the lunch menu before they began to talk in earnest.

  “Dennis is tucked up like a kipper this time,” Scott said with some satisfaction. “We’ve got him on video attacking Marisa, cowardly bastard. The snatch squad have already taken his jeans and trainers, because the disclosing light has found spots of blood on them. Marisa’s blood, I expect. So, he will probably see out the rest of his days inside. That’s a result. Thanks Ben.”

  “It was only a matter of time,” Ben replied. “Someone would have dobbed him in eventually.”

  “I’m not so sure,” DS Fellowes joined in. “But here’s something interesting. A kid, aged fifteen, was admitted to hospital last Sunday with some serious facial injuries. He still won’t talk, but his younger brother, Chas, has been talking non-stop. It seems they’re both with the THC - sorry, The Trafalgar House Crew, the local gang. The injured boy, name of Alphonse, apparently, nearly lost an eye. His nose has had to be reconstructed and he’ll have to wear a plastic mask for a year or so while his cheekbones repair and mature. We think that Marisa might have caused the damage while attempting to defend herself, because her blood was found on his fist and her DNA was all over him. Anyway, young Chas confirmed that Dennis Grierson organised the attack, and used the riot to cover his blagging of the jewellery store. I would imagine those two boys will end up in juvenile detention, possibly in the Home Counties or even up North.”

  “Can we share this information with the Gangs Taskforce?” DS Scott asked.

  “Already on it,” Fellowes answered. “Young Chas has the names and addresses of every member of the crew. Not too hard, as they all live in the flats, or at least most of them do. The taskforce will probably wait a week and then round them all up when things get back to normal.”

  The starters arrived and were consumed hungrily by all three men. Ben shook his head, shocked by the lawless behaviour of such young people.

  “What a mess. I was born on that estate. Given the chance, most of those kids could have made something of themselves. Some of them still could, probably,” Ben mused. “But when the flats are ruled by sociopaths like Grierson, not to mention the other gang leaders, any initiatives are going to be hard to get going.” Despite his pessimistic words, an Idea was forming in Ben’s mind even as he spoke.

  ***

  Despite the twenty-four hour court sittings, Den Grierson was listed for Sunday afternoon and his lawyer was out of town with his kids. He would be back in the morning. Den declined court appointed counsel and, after an hour of refusing to answer any question, even regarding his name, he was sent back to the cells for the night to await the arrival of his brief. After all, it wasn’t as if the detectives didn’t have enough people to take his place in the interrogation room.

  The cell had blank walls, a stainless steel toilet with no seat and a bed with a thin mattress. It was a single cell and was no more than six feet by eight feet. Den knew he was in trouble when the cell door opened and closed and a huge police officer stood in front of him. Dressed in the usual uniform, his patches had all been removed, leaving their Velcro pads exposed. The patches usually showed which force the officer belonged to; sometimes his name, but always his rank and his number. None of this was visible, and the man had a South Yorkshire accent. The Met boys were letting one of the visitors do their dirty work for them. The policeman had a towel wrapped around his fists in an effort not to leave identifiable bruises.

  There was no point resisting, and so Grierson took his beating. An array of punches crashed into his torso under his ribs, before he was spun around and his kidneys took a pounding. My God, he hurt. The man was a pro. Den had never taken a beating like this in his life, and at fifty-five he was too old for it. He decided, on reflection, that he shouldn’t have done the policewoman. It was bound to rile them up.

  Grierson was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, between the toilet and the bed. He needed to lie down on the bed and so he tried to move, but he couldn’t. It was just too painful. Eventually he fell asleep where he was.

  ***

  On Sunday morning Grierson was questioned for thirty minutes in the presence of his lawyer, but said nothing. His lawyer listened to the charges and told Den that if he wanted any chance of bail he must plead not guilty. They’d worry about the additional tariff - extra prison time - for not pleading out if he was ever convicted. Grierson was picked up at the police station in a prison van and delivered to the Magistrates’ court for his remand hearing. He arrived shortly after eleven for a scheduled two o’clock hearing. Time dragged and eventually, at a quarter past six, Den Grierson and his brief entered the courtroom. Den found himself standing behind a perspex screen; in front of him was a microphone.

  Malcolm Penderley was delighted that Den had chosen to say nothing, and he expressed disbelief that his client had been so inconvenienced when he was innocent of all charges. The harried prosecutor found Grierson’s sheet in his pile and quickly scanned it before presenting the information to the magistrate. Penderley, Grierson’s solicitor, st
opped speaking after he demanded bail and threatened a writ of habeas corpus if his client was jailed for another second.

  The prosecutor read the charges from the sheet, but something looked wrong. Thinking on his feet, he said the police needed more time as this was an attempted murder and, in any case, Grierson was a flight risk. The hard pressed magistrate should have simply remanded Grierson in custody and set a trial date, but he saw panic in the prosecutor’s eyes.

  “Mr Thompson, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of documentation behind that sheet. I presume we do have evidence that Mr Grierson is the man you are accusing?”

  Thomson quickly ran through the files whilst speaking. “Of course, sir. Mr Grierson has been identified by a witness and from CCTV footage. We also have his clothing, which is being processed for the WPC’s blood and DNA, which we believe will seal the matter.”

  “Can I see something, then, Mr Thomson? Anything will do.”

  “I appear to have mislaid it, sir. It has been rather a torrid day,” the CPS lawyer blurted out somewhat lamely.

  “For us all, Mr Thomson, for us all. Now, when do you think you can have this information ready for me?” the magistrate pressed.

  “Tuesday morning, sir. I believe that is our next window.”

  “Tuesday it is, then.” The magistrate was about to remand Grierson when Penderley shot to his feet, fuming.

  “Sir, this is an outrage! This case screams injustice. My client is being held with no evidence whatsoever. He should be released on his own cognisance this very moment,” he stated, his red face burning with indignation.

  “Sit down, Mr Penderley, and please try to be sensible. Let me have a word.” The magistrate leaned over and spoke to the clerk before making his decision.

  “Mr Grierson, the charges you face are serious and carry the prospect of a long term of incarceration. However, we have insufficient information to justify holding you until Tuesday, and so I will grant bail and order that you are electronically tagged, at least until the next remand hearing. The charges against you are of such seriousness that you will be delivered to your home, where you will be confined until Tuesday. I understand that if you stray more than a few yards from the agreed address, an alarm will sound and you will be apprehended and arrested again. If that should happen, you will be remanded until your trial without the possibility of bail. Is that clear?” The magistrate paused before continuing. “Mr Penderley, are these terms acceptable to your client?”