Ben collapsed onto his haunches. What had he started?
Chapter 20
The Rectory, Duke Humphreys Road, Blackheath, London.
Wednesday 17th August 2011; 2am.
Gus Patterson had been a paramedic for five years, but until today he had never encountered a dead body that had met its end by violence. Obviously he had seen people badly injured, even maimed, in violent attacks, but every death he had encountered had been accidental or natural. Now, in the space of a few minutes, he had decided no ‘attempt to revive’ was necessary on three males who had been either shot or stabbed. It was not his call to declare them ‘lifeless’ or dead; that was for the hospital or the coroner’s people. Instead he headed into the en suite bathroom, where a police officer had encountered signs of life. Maybe Gus could save someone today. He hoped so. This house of horrors would live in his memory long after Halloween.
The female victim was lying on her side in the bathtub. She was soaking wet. Her hands were manacled behind her back with a cheap pair of handcuffs, the kind you could buy at an Ann Summers shop. She was wearing only the briefest of white panties, and the matching bra was tight around her neck, presumably applied in an attempt to strangle her. Duct tape covered her mouth and her eyes were closed. Her pulse was strong and regular; she wasn’t dead, she was asleep, perhaps in a coma of some description.
Gus gently peeled away the duct tape, being careful not to destroy any evidence, before carefully placing it in an evidence bag being held out by one of the armed policemen. The adhesive bond between the duct tape and the girl’s skin was not as strong as he had experienced in the past. On many occasions paramedics had to use solvents to remove duct tape from skin to avoid causing further injury. That suggested it hadn’t been in place too long.
Two armed policemen, with a gentleness that belied their aggressive black armoured clothing, helped Gus lift the body from the tub and lay her on the carpeted floor, which oddly was dry. Gus had assumed that the perpetrator had
attempted to drown the woman in the bath, hence the fact she was soaked, and that she had somehow managed to dislodge the bath plug, letting out the water. But if that was the case she would surely have struggled and splashed manically. No one dies easily in such circumstances.
The handcuffs were removed and bagged, and the bra was carefully unfastened from around her neck, leaving a red ligature mark exposed. Gus checked for signs of injury but found none. There were no knife wounds or bullet entry wounds, no sign of head trauma or bruising to the body. He opened her eyes one at a time. There were no signs of petechiae under the eyelids or of subconjunctival haemorrhaging, the obvious signs of attempted strangulation. He did note, however that the woman’s pupils were unresponsive to light, suggestive of a drug induced unconsciousness.
“Look around the bedroom, will you?” Gus asked the attending policemen. “See if you can see any signs of tablets or pills of any kind. I need to know what this woman was given to put her to sleep before I can call up and ask for advice.”
He then checked the woman for track marks or puncture wounds that might suggest an intravenous injection of drugs into her body. He checked all of the usual places - arms, thighs, in between toes, wherever a user believed they could inject without the signs being obvious to others. Nothing.
“I’ve got something here,” a voice shouted from the bedroom. “There are no bottles of pills or foils, but there’s something under the bed. It looks like a single pill.” There was a moment’s delay while the policeman retrieved the pill and showed it to Gus.
“Rohypnol,” Gus declared to the two policemen. “This is the brand name Roche give to flunitrazepam. We see it all the time. Along with GHB, it’s the most common date rape drug.” The policemen nodded; they too were familiar with the results of its use.
“With any luck, when she wakes up she won’t remember any of this, poor girl,” the older policeman said, his empathy as a father overcoming his need for a reliable witness.
“Well, she’ll live, but when she’ll wake up is anyone’s guess. For someone who has been drugged, strangled and drowned, she is in remarkably good shape. This is one determined lady,” Gus announced as he covered Ashley’s naked torso with a red blanket.
***
Ben sat in a chair facing a detective; they were in the library, well away from the carnage that reigned in the rest of the house. His handcuffs had been removed and Lenny’s gun had been bagged for evidence. The fact that the gun had not been fired and that there was no GSR - gunshot residue - on Ben or his clothing, meant that he was now less of a suspect than he had been.
“Mr Fogarty, I want to get things down whilst everything is fresh in your memory, if that’s OK. But you are under caution; do you remember having your rights explained to you earlier?”
“Yes, it’s OK, I’m a lawyer. I’m happy to waive representation in order to catch the bastards who did this.”
The policeman nodded. “We’ll be bringing in Scotland Yard, and so you will probably be telling this story all day long to various detectives, so take your time. Let’s get the facts straight and maybe they’ll go easier on you later.”
Ben interrupted the detective. “Listen, you need to contact DCI Coombes or DS Scott. I think they’re based at Scotland Yard, because this is related to an active investigation into one of the victims.” The detective looked up from his notebook. His interest had been aroused. Ben explained. “Dennis Grierson, the man with his throat cut, is one of North London’s top crime lords and he was on the run. When I saw him convicted a few days ago he was tagged.”
“You were at his hearing? Were you his lawyer?” the policeman asked.
“Hardly. I’m his son.”
Chapter 21
Scotland Yard, London.
Wednesday 17th August 2011; 4am.
DCI Coombes and DS Scott sat across the table from Ben Fogarty. The story they heard was believable and unbelievable at the same time. They had little doubt that his story was true. They had seen the note from Ashley, and there was evidence of his last meal in the house having been consumed in the room where he claimed to have been held, but a triple murder in Blackheath was unheard of.
Ben had been relieved to hear that Ashley was alive and well, albeit in a drug induced coma. She was likely to wake up soon, and doctors were optimistic about her full recovery. Ben wanted to be with her when she awoke, because she had lost her father and husband in violent circumstances and, because of the drugs, she might not remember any of what had happened, if indeed she even knew very much about it in the first place.
“Ben, we were due to be involved in a raid on the Trafalgar House Flats around about now.” DCI Coombes checked his watch. “The Met are taking down the TH Crew, and that will leave a power void in the area. Hopefully the community will rally and keep the villains out, but I wouldn’t bank on it. Now, given that Psycho is out of the picture, I’m wondering whether he might have been topped for reasons other than a drug debt. After all, dead men don’t pay you back.”
DS Scott and Ben both looked lost, and the DCI realised that he wasn’t making himself clear. “Look, these Belgians come to dinner, they disappear and everyone is dead. The TH Crew are going down. Who’s going to step into the North London void and supply the drugs and guns now?”
DS Scott was the first to reply. “Guv, are you suggesting that these Belgians might have been tipped off about the raid?” DCI Coombes considered the blunt question for a moment before giving a considered answer.
“It’s a big coincidence otherwise, don’t you think? This is your only chance in a generation to jump in and cut out the middleman. I think you would take it. In any event they probably wouldn’t have been too bothered about a gang of young teenagers playing the hard man. If we hadn’t swept the THC Crew aside, they might have done it themselves.”
“And Dennis Grierson would have wanted to be reinstated, if he had survived....” Ben let his comment hang in the air as the two policemen nodded.
Ben groaned.
***
An hour later, Ben was released under his own recognisance. He agreed to return to sign in at the reception desk again tomorrow at nine in the morning. They had already retained his passport. DS Scott had walked him to the street level.
“Don’t worry, Ben. You are a person of interest only because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had a call from the crime scene team leader, Jaleep - our best tech, if you ask me. He said that they found the knife stuck in the bedstead and it had no usable prints. The same is true of the gun and silencer that were left on the kitchen table. It has been used in London previously, according to an initial on site scan. Jaleep thinks it may be a ‘pass-along’.”
“What’s a pass-along?” Ben asked reasonably.
“Oh, yeah, right. Criminals in London can’t get guns as easily as the public are led to believe by the TV. They often have to resort to hiring them from fences or dealers, and if they don’t fire them they get their deposit back. As you can imagine, the dealers don’t want used guns in their possession. They would be tied into all sorts of nastiness, and they could end up inside for years. So, if you do have to use one of these rented guns, you get rid as quickly as possible. If you are sensible you toss it and write it off to experience, but a lot of criminals pass them along to unknowing fellow criminals to recoup their lost deposit. Hence the slang term, passalongs. The gun you had was much newer, manufactured last year, in fact. Lenny probably brought it in from Eastern Europe, overland. Customs at ports aren’t as careful as those at airports.”
“I see. Well, it’s been an education, Scotty.” Ben stretched out his hand and DS Scott shook it. “Let’s hope this isn’t an ongoing professional relationship.” They both smiled. Ben set off for the hospital. It was still only eight in the morning.
Chapter 22
Trafalgar House Flats, Broadwater Farm, Tottenham.
Wednesday 17th August 2011; 6:15am.
DCI Trevor Griffiths was pleased with the way the operation had gone. Every member of the TH Crew was lined up, each one sitting on the concrete wall surrounding a long-derelict water feature. Some looked defiant and angry, others looked forlorn or scared. They were all restrained and armed police stood in front of them.
“No injuries reported, Griff. Plenty of goodies in the flats, though. We have drugs, firearms and some nice looted electrical goods from Curry’s in the High Street.” Sergeant Hollis showed no signs of fatigue, despite having been up all night planning the raid. “Oh, yeah. By the way, the radio is saying that the Assistant Commissioner is on her way over, now the area is secure, for a photo op.”
“They’ll turn the bloody place into a circus, man. See if you can slow them down a bit, eh? Good lad.” Griff didn’t need VIPs at the scene of the crime.
The boys and girls of the gang were sitting sullenly as they were being read their rights individually. A young DS from Hounslow had the task of formally arresting Pete Dockerill. The mothers of the gang members were huddled together in the early morning light, wearing coats and dressing gowns over their nightwear. Most looked resigned rather than concerned.
“Peter Dockerill,” The DS began. “I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Robbie Traylor.” He then read out a long list of other charges, and was reading him his rights when a big woman of West Indian descent broke from the crowd of mothers and stormed towards them.
“You monster, Peter Dockerill!” she screamed. “You murdered my Robbie!” Before the DS could react, she slapped Dockerill so hard across the face that it was a miracle his head wasn’t parted from his body. Dockerill reacted with a look of rage, and then he grinned as his own mother raced from the crowd and headed towards Robbie’s mother. Along with everyone else in the crowd, he saw a fight brewing.
Dockerill’s mother reached the sobbing Meg Traylor and saw her son’s amazement as she placed a gentle arm around Meg’s shaking shoulders.
“Leave him, Meg, he isn’t worth it. The boy is scum, like his daddy.” She then reached over and slapped the other side of her son’s face. The boy had tears in his eyes.
“Mum! What did you do that for? You need to come to the station to get me out!” he whined.
“Mum? You haven’t let me be your mum for so long now I don’t even recognise you. How could you shoot that sweet little boy? You’re going away for a long time, boy, and don’t think I’m going to be in any hurry to visit you. Your gang is your family now.” She turned away and led Meg Traylor back to her flat.
“I’m so sorry, Meg, I had no idea that any boy of mine could do such a wicked thing,” she whispered to her long time friend. The two mothers walked off towards the stairs, both victims of the Flats but in very different ways.
Pete Dockerill looked at his gang brothers but they wouldn’t meet his eyes. He knew then that they would sell him out for a lighter sentence. Dockerill knew that he wouldn’t see the outside of a prison for a long time. Maybe they would let him share a cell with his dad.
***
The Community leader made a rare foray into the Flats to appear beside Assistant Commissioner Penny Thomas for a brief press conference and photo opportunity. He was hissed at every time he spoke. The community in the flats seldom saw him, and when they did he was always flanked by community police officers. The man was a sell out. He didn’t represent the real tenants of the Flats and he didn’t help them either.
As the video lights glared and the cameras flashed, a man stood looking on at a distance. Despite the warmth of the morning sun he was dressed in a suit and tie with a Crombie overcoat and a silk scarf draped around his neck. It was still early for a businessman like himself, but he didn’t want to miss this moment. He looked at his driver and handed him an envelope.
“Here. Get this to Bob Radlett and tell him the Boss is grateful for his information and cooperation. I just want to hang around here for a while to look over our new kingdom.”
Chapter 23
Guy’s Hospital, Great Maze Pond, London.
Wednesday 17th August 2011; 1:30pm.
Ben had been sitting by Ashley’s bed for four hours by the time she came around. The first time she awoke she looked dozily at him. A puzzled frown furrowed her brow, before she drifted back to sleep almost immediately. By one o’clock she was mostly awake and able to eat and drink, but she was still confused.
Ben and Ashley chatted, but she had only the slightest recollection of their meeting in the cellar, and she was surprised to see a photocopy of the note in her own handwriting. The date rape drugs had wiped her short-term memory in a big way, much to the frustration of Ben, who wanted to know what had happened in the house whilst he had been trapped in the cellar below.
Snippets of memory would slip out as they talked, and the doctor had encouraged Ben to keep her talking for as long as she could concentrate without tiring. Ben decided that, as the last twenty four hours were obviously a blank, it would be better for her to describe her life in more general terms, so that he could better understand how she had become embroiled in Grierson’s dangerous world.
He had heard most of the story before from his grandmother, but Ashley added in a level of detail their grandmother could not have known. Ashley had been adopted whilst Grierson was in prison, and her new life had been so wonderful that she had become seriously disturbed when social workers suggested she might want to meet her biological father.
Ashley had attended good schools, followed by University, realising along the way that she loved to learn. She excelled in both academia and in sports. “It must run in the family,” she had quipped.
Eventually she became curious about her birth mother, and made enquiries that led to a cold and unexpected visit from Dennis Grierson. She had been ready to call the police and seek a restraining order when he dropped a bombshell. He was suffering from Beta Thalassemia, which involves decreased production of n
ormal adult haemoglobin (HbA). Unfortunately, HbA is the predominant type of haemoglobin. Grierson’s doctors told him the disease was genetically transferred and was often worse for the children than the parents. Grierson suggested she submit herself for tests. He gave Ashley his test results and said that if she wanted to see him again he would leave it to her. He would not bother her again. She was almost twenty-three at the time and she wouldn’t speak to Grierson again for seven years.
“So how did you get over the Beta Thalassa thing?” Ben asked, with concern in his voice.
“Beta Thalassemia! I didn’t. I never had it. That was the strange thing. I went for the tests and my doctor asked me some odd questions before explaining something to me. Given Dennis Grierson’s blood group and mine, there was no possibility at all that he was my father, and so I should not worry.”
“Are you saying......?” Ben blurted.
“Yes, Ben. I’m saying Dennis Grierson is not your father and he never was! Look at me, then look in the mirror and tell me what you see,” Ashley persuaded. Ben did as he was asked.
“We have the same eyes. Gran says that we have our mother’s eyes,” Ben observed.
“True. Now look from your nose downwards; it’s more noticeable on you than on me. Who do you see?” Ben looked again but nothing struck him, and he said so. Ashley clarified it for him. “Apart from the eyes, Ben, you are a dead ringer for a young Brendan Grayson.” Ben looked again, and could see what she meant.
“Have you got a reason for believing we are the children of a famous Hollywood actor, or is it just speculation, based on his presence on the Farm when we were conceived?”
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