Ben had an open mind, too, but it was closing rapidly and he felt ashamed of himself. He was sitting here almost convinced that his twin sister was some kind of Mata Hari who was capable of killing wantonly, yet could still calmly set about creating a crime scene which apparently absolved her from suspicion. He shook his head and tried to remove the thought from his mind, picturing the frail young woman lying in the hospital bed, pleading for his help. Surely he hadn’t been played for a fool, hardnosed lawyer that he was?
Max interrupted his thoughts. “Ben, I haven’t told the police this, and its possible I never will, but, posing as a well known local hood, I spent twenty four hours in Brussels, where I spoke to the drug dealers. They convinced me that they had nothing to do with the Rectory murders and that it was not in their interests to kill Grierson. You already know that the police couldn’t find Grierson because the Rectory is in the name of the property development company. Likewise, there was no way for the Belgians to know where Dennis Grierson was hiding out unless he told them himself, and he had been in the house less than eighteen hours when the murders took place. Most of that time he’d spent in a painkiller induced haze. Logistically, the Belgians could not have heard of the loss of the drugs, organised a trip to London, found Grierson and his cronies, and killed them inside twenty four hours.”
“Bloody hell, Max! How do you expect me to react? You’re telling me that my twin sister is a serial killer!” Ben spat the words out.
“Ben, I don’t know Ashley, and the evidence is damning, but I have campaigned on behalf of too many innocent people to jump to any premature conclusions. If we work together we could find the real killer, and maybe clear your sister’s good name.”
Ben brightened slightly, but the seeds of doubt had been planted, and fear was gnawing at his soul.
Chapter 29
New Scotland Yard Security Gate, Dacre Street, London.
Saturday 20th August 2011; 10am.
Tilly Morgan hated working weekends. To begin with, it meant she had to make child minding arrangements or call on her mother. If she relied on her mother, as she had to do today, she could expect a lecture about how couples should work through their problems, and how it was wrong of Tilly to give Jordan his marching orders. Tilly had closed her ears to the familiar lecture and kissed goodbye to Francesca, who looked so much like her father it broke Tilly’s heart. Her mother would never understand that Jordan’s serial infidelity had destroyed their relationship. Her mother knew about Jordan’s affairs, but she simply spouted the dictum she herself had lived by; “Men need distractions, dear. As long as it’s you they come home to each evening, that’s as good as it gets.”
Depressed by her mother’s fatalistic view of marriage, she left her apartment and walked to work. It was nearly two miles, but she was wearing trainers with her business suit and would change into a pair of flats when she arrived at the office.
Tilly’s initial scene of crime report had sent shockwaves through the ranks of detectives investigating the rectory murders, all of whom seemed to be sweet on the alleged victim, Ashley Morgan. Men - they were gullible, so easily manipulated by a pretty and needy female.
Tilly had just turned into Dacre Street, and was walking towards the William Hill Betting Shop, when she caught sight of Detective Superintendant Bob Radlett passing through the security turnstiles leading out of New Scotland Yard. The high tech entry system was a godsend on a Saturday, as it prevented long security check queues, and one rarely encountered other employees.
Radlett saw her and slowed his pace so that she would have to pass him. Tilly Morgan was an accomplished and highly skilled officer whose reports had saved the Met from embarrassment on more than one occasion. She had a nose for a suspicious crime scene and knew instinctively when something was not right. It was that instinct which had brought her into contention with Radlett when he had been a Detective Sergeant and then later, after he had progressed through the ranks to the level of Inspector. In her view, Radlett was corrupt and evil; he made her skin crawl. She had no trouble believing the rumours that he had been taking bribes from criminal gangs for years. Her suspicions were confirmed when her scene of crime colleagues caught him covering for a career criminal a few years back by tampering with evidence, and arranging a false alibi for the perpetrator. How he had managed to talk his way out of that one no-one knew, but what was well known was that he was the first partner of the recently departed Chief Constable, a great friend to the then Prime Minister.
“Miss Morgan. How fortuitous,” Radlett smiled nastily, and Tilly was reminded of a variety of smiling predators until she considered an alligator to be the closest match.
“Superintendent, I have been Doctor Morgan for as long as we have been acquainted, and married for longer than that, so maybe you need to revise your formal greeting.” Radlett winced. He was the superior officer but she knew far more than she should about his past and also, he suspected, about his present.
“Ah yes. Doctor, Mrs Morgan,” he continued, with layers of sarcasm being laid one upon another. “How is Jordan these days? Still fighting for the poor oppressed criminal classes, getting drug dealers and prostitutes off and not getting paid?” He paused for effect. “Well, not paid in cash, anyway.” The nasty smile was back.
Tilly did not rise to the bait. Radlett knew that Jordan had left the marital home long ago.
“Listen Mrs, Doctor Morgan, you mix with a lot of strange men. First you marry a defence lawyer, and now you have an ex News of the World reporter in your bed. I suggest you keep a low profile if you don’t want an internal investigation into your personal relationships, especially concerning the Rectory murders. It was a drug related killing, and your suggestion that it was anything else is a slur on the poor victim. Understand?”
“I understand that your annual family holiday to Belize may be off now that Grierson’s contributions have come to an end. Are there any brown envelopes in your pocket you would like me to fingerprint?”
The venomous look on Radlett’s face let her know she had gone too far. “I don’t know how you know about my private holiday arrangements, but if a word of any of it gets to the Press or the Yard’s water cooler gossipmongers you will regret it. That boyfriend of yours nearly cost me my job in 2008 when he said I wasn’t doing my job on the ‘boiler room’ scams. As it was, I was denied promotion for two years. So, think carefully before you make an enemy of me, missy!” He paused to regain his composure. “And do give my love to little Francesca. You need to take good care of her, living in a high crime area like yours.”
The threat was implicit and she knew that Radlett had won this verbal battle. He probably always would, whilst he had influence over the police and the criminals they sought.
***
Radlett watched Tilly Morgan pass through the security gate before he entered the barber’s shop next to William Hill. “Gentlemen’s hair designs”, the window of ‘Clipper of the Yard’ proclaimed, but to Radlett it would always be a barber’s shop.
After a shampoo, colour and trim, Superintendent Radlett paid his money and told the owner that he was going into the back yard for a smoke, and that if a man in a Crombie coat should come in he was to be directed to Radlett; it was police business. The owner smiled and, whilst he was uncomfortable with the arrangement, it was not the first time Radlett had pressured him into allowing him to use his premises for ‘off site’ meetings.
Radlett was in the yard for only a few moments when he was joined by a sickly looking man in his early sixties, with hair as grey as his face. Radlett had known him for over thirty years and he had always looked as if he was on Death’s doorstep. The man was wrapped in a heavy Crombie coat, a suit and a tie, and Radlett suspected he was probably wearing thermals too, even though the air temperature was over seventy degrees.
“Bob, by lunchtime we will be in the Farm, establishing ourselves. Can we assume that the police are busy elsewhere?” The man spoke with a strange accent that suggested the East
End of London but which was tempered with some flat northern vowels. Radlett had always wondered whether his companion had perhaps been born in Lancashire and had moved to London as a child. He had never asked; theirs wasn’t that type of relationship.
“Coincidentally we’re at full stretch south of the river today, rounding up some rioting arsonists, and the football is back on, which means that Arsenal are at home soaking up our uniformed presence in North London,” Radlett informed him. “Add to that sick days for injured policemen, time off in lieu of overtime worked during the riots and I think it’s fair to say you have a free hand.”
“Thank you, Bob. Oh, and the Boss says thanks for rounding up the Trafalgar House Crew. It saved a lot of bloodshed.” The sickly looking man turned to leave. “By the way, if things go well you could be looking at the final transfer of the deeds for the Belize house into your mother in law’s name early next year. I hope she has a nice retirement.”
Bob Radlett smiled. His mother in law was a resident in a council run home in Bournemouth, and she didn’t know which way was up any more.
Chapter 30
Trafalgar House Flats & Upton Park, London.
Saturday 20th August 2011; 12 noon.
Trafalgar House Flats, Broadwater Farm Estate, North London
Gavin Mapperly cinched his Crombie and fastened the buttons; it was a habit rather than a reaction to the weather, which was seasonably warm. Gavin was in his sixty first year of indifferent health; born prematurely, his weak body had never seemed to catch up. Prone to illness and injury, he had missed a great deal of schooling as a child, the situation being exacerbated by a lonely, overprotective mother who confined him to bed for every minor ailment.
Gavin was actually quite brilliant, but he was largely self-educated. His lack of formal qualifications had restricted him to meaningless administrative jobs until, in his fifties, he found work with the Boss. The Boss immediately saw an embittered and intrinsically violent man concealed beneath a mild mannered exterior; he was the ideal candidate for controlling a crime syndicate. For nearly ten years Gavin had lived a double life - part time financial manager in the City, and part time controller of low life criminals in North London. The Boss had interests in many businesses, some legitimate, most not.
Gavin looked at his watch. It was almost twelve noon. He took a transparent plastic pill holder from his coat pocket and opened the segment labelled ‘Saturday noon’, then dropped the two pills it contained into his hand. He looked at them in the palm of his hand, one white tablet for pain relief and one pink tablet for his immune system. He threw them into his mouth and dry swallowed them.
Gavin was parked at the entrance to the Trafalgar House flats and his driver was standing with him. They both leaned against the sleek, highly polished, racing green Jaguar limousine. In less than a minute he would lead a convoy of vehicles into the flats proper, and their work would begin.
***
West Ham Football Club, Upton Park, East London.
Ben had hoped that the match, and its attendant hospitality, would clear his mind of the tasks he had been assigned by his twin sister, and that the new found clarity would bring him to a realisation that Max Richmond was plainly wrong about her. Unfortunately neither consequence arose. Ben was deep in thought when a smiling man in a West Ham shirt and a blue windbreaker, bearing the logo of Dyson-Brecht - Loss Adjusters, approached him and extended his hand.
“Josh Hammond. I told Dee that you wouldn’t need a carnation in your buttonhole for me to recognise you. My, you are huge. No-one will mess with me today.”
Ben grinned. “Do they usually mess with you?” he asked, playing along.
“Do they ever! If there was sand along Upton Road they’d kick it in my face!” They both laughed.
Josh Hammond was in his early thirties; not traditionally handsome, but women seemed to find him attractive. He was young in his outlook and he worked around the world as a loss adjuster for the city firm Dyson-Brecht. He had met Dee Hammond of Vastrick Security a year or so earlier, when she was assigned as his close protection operative following a death threat. They married soon after the case was resolved, and Ben could see what had attracted Dee to the man. He was funny.
It was true that Josh told the occasional joke, but mostly people laughed at his heartfelt rants and his ironic humour. Ben was glad of such ebullient company this particular afternoon. The two new friends walked into the stadium through the atrium entrance surrounded by West Ham shields and insignia, the colour scheme relying heavily on the team colours of claret and blue. They ascended the stairs, talking about Dee and the forthcoming baby as they headed for the restaurant. As with all major sporting venues around the globe, corporate hospitality helped pay the bills, thus on every match day fine food was prepared at the stadium and served to those who were willing to pay. Josh had season tickets that included restaurant service.
In the restaurant Josh introduced Ben to his two regular table companions, a welder and a utility worker, whose lives seemed to revolve around West Ham United Football Club, and their own families, of course. Ben needed no introduction, however, and a regular stream of fans from both clubs came to the table seeking autographs that Ben was happy to provide, speaking to each person for a few moments, the kids perhaps a little longer. Word of his presence soon spread when the MC for the day, an ex England international and West Ham player, announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have in our presence today one of the world’s most prominent egg chasers, or rugby player for those of you who don’t understand slang. Please stand, without damaging the suspended ceiling, Mr Benjamin Ambrose Fogarty.”
Ben stood and blushed as the room burst into spontaneous and good-humoured applause. Perhaps this was going to be a good day, after all, he thought.
***
Trafalgar House Flats
Residents came out onto the decks to see what was happening as four black cars with darkened windows followed a large Range Rover onto the estate. Amongst the gathered crowds a familiar face stood on the third floor landing with an ageing lady of Afro Caribbean descent.
“Shit!” Max Richmond uttered to himself audibly. The woman beside him groaned.
“Maxwell, it is all starting again, I can feel it in my bones,” the old lady said.
Max understood what she meant, and knew that she was right. Max wouldn’t normally have been found anywhere near the vicinity of the Farm on a Saturday, but his cell phone had chirruped a short while earlier, signalling an incoming call. Max took the call as he waited for a taxi near Tower Hill, following his meeting with Ben Fogarty. Once he answered that call, his plans for the day changed in an instant.
“Maxwell, you need to get here as soon as you can, child. There is something happening, I have had a vision.” The lady who had spoken to him on the phone, and who now stood beside him, were one and the same. Her name was Mary Akuta, the lady who had helped deliver the Fogarty twins; she was one of Max’s informants on the estate.
When he had arrived at Mary’s door, disguised once again as a hoodlum, she allowed him in, and then fed him tea and biscuits before she told him what she knew.
“You know how difficult it is to get a builder in this estate. Impossible is what it is, yet for days now tradesmen have been in and out of Den’s old flat and it is completely redone. Builders, mind you! When did they ever learn to work so fast? They are scared, is what it is, believe me.” The old lady looked into the distance and took a breath. “I see them putting in some real smart kitchen equipment and a one of them bubbling baths, but I don’t think no celebrity wants a crib in the Flats.” Mary turned to look at Max to make sure he was listening. “You watch MTV?” she asked, not as irrelevantly as it at first seemed. She was clearly referring to Celebrity Cribs, a TV programme that showed the houses of famous folk. “I mean, I don’t like all that music, rap and bang, bang, bang with electric distortion and so forth but….”
“You were telling me about what’s going on in th
e flats, Mary,” Max interrupted. He needed her to get to the point some time soon.
“Yes, child. Drink your tea, there is more in the pot and I can’t drink it all myself, my bladder isn’t what it used to be. Anyway, since the Crew were removed by the polis -” that was Mary’s way of pronouncing police - “there have been meetings on the Farm. The girls were talking about going independent. Won’t happen, of course. Some man will take over their wickedness. And, the white boys dealing drugs have been told a new supplier will be providing them with top quality products soon.”
“I heard the same, Mary. I was hoping that this was a chance for a new start for the Flats.”
“No, Maxwell. Best chance we have for that is they knock it all down and start again. I’m too old for all this. I’m going to the coast to retire.” Max smiled at the old lady. “You hear what happ’n to those boys?” Mary asked. Max nodded. Apart from the gang members charged with weapons related crimes, and the ones involved in the murder of the young boy, the others had all been bailed.
“Are any of them back here in the flats, Mary?”
“No, they won’t be coming back here. Their mamas don’t want them home, no sir. Any case they would likely be under the ground in a week. They lost their respect, Maxwell, and nobody recovers from that in the Farm.”
As they spoke, the five black vehicles were joined by a green Jaguar and a veritable army of heavies emerged from the blacked out cars, all wearing ill fitting dark suits and ties. For a moment Max was going to joke that the Men in Black had arrived to search the flats for aliens, when he noticed that trademark Crombie coat.
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