Fogarty

by J Jackson Bentley

  “Who called on you?” DCI Coombes asked, more in hope than in expectation. Ben just smiled and shook his head.

  “OK, Ben. Someone here has been leaking information. Hell, I wish it was rare, but it just isn’t. Leaving this reporter aside, you can see why we need to speak to Ashley and why we won’t wait forever.”

  Ben nodded. “I understand,” he conceded. “I’ll insist that she calls you. But you will also understand that, if the crime scene report is correct, either Ashley or myself must be a cold blooded killer, and I’m not ready to accept that.”

  The remainder of the meeting was tense and Ben felt as though there was something they were not telling him, but why would they hide anything? He was the brother of their main suspect. “Damn! How did this happen?” Ben asked himself that question out loud as he walked towards the main exit.

  ***

  “You know, Guv, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. He’s in a no win situation,” DS Scott mused as they watched Ben depart.

  “If I can read men, Scotty, I’d say he was more on our side than hers.”

  “On the side of the angels, then, Guv.”

  “Angels with dirty wings, maybe,” Coombes replied. “Did you see the latest from forensics? It arrived by email just before we met up.”

  Scott shook his head. Still staring at Ben’s back as he walked across the paved plaza, Coombes enlightened his DS. They found two partial palm prints on the bath, despite all the water that had been splashing about. They were exactly where you would expect them to be if someone had lowered themselves into the bath.”

  “That isn’t helpful to Ashley’s case.”

  “No. The reason they found them was that they showed up under the ultra violet disclosing light.”

  “Prints don’t show up under disclosing lights, Guv,” DS Scott stated, puzzled.

  “No, but minute specks of blood do. There were traces of Grierson’s blood in the prints,” DCI Coombes said, clearing up the mystery.

  “Shit! She killed her own father, then,” Scott speculated.

  “Her husband’s blood was mixed in there, too,” DCI Coombes announced to an open mouthed DS Scott.

  Chapter 32

  Vastrick Security Offices, No. 1, Poultry, London.

  Monday 22nd August 2011; 11am.

  Dee Hammond leaned back in her expensive office chair and supported her ‘bump’ by placing her hands underneath the baby. Ben suddenly became aware of just how large the bump was when the carefully tailored blouse was stretched across it. He felt a little guilty for having spent over an hour outlining the events of last week in the Rectory and the subsequent revelations uncovered by the DS Scott and DCI Coombes.

  Dee had once been arrested by DCI Coombes on suspicion of murder, but since then they had worked together harmoniously and she had a good deal of respect for his ability and his integrity. So, whilst Ben felt a lot better at having unburdened himself, he also felt a degree of trepidation, aware that both he and Dee Hammond were thinking the same thing; DCI Coombes had good reason to believe Ashley was a murderer.

  Dee moved her centre of gravity, and the chair smoothly moved into an upright position. The private investigator smiled at Ben and spoke, choosing her words carefully.

  “Ben, Josh really likes you, and he’s a great judge of character, for a loss adjuster, but don’t tell him I said that. In the brief time we’ve spent together, in the past and again today, I have to admit that I like you, too. You didn’t achieve your level of sporting success without a steely determination and a resilience that would be alien to most people. For this reason alone I’m going to be as frank as I can be.” Dee held Ben’s eyes with her own powerful stare.

  “The odds are that Ashley is somehow involved with the murders. Maybe she allowed someone entry to the house, let them do their work and then locked the doors before proceeding upstairs to give herself an alibi. I don’t know. Neither of us knows her well enough to know whether she has the stomach for murder, especially in the very personal way these killings were carried out.

  What we do know is that there is no other plausible explanation.” She paused before adding, “At least, not at the moment.”

  “You met Pete – Geordie, to his friends - the last time you were here. Well, Pete and a couple of other guys will look into the matter and see what we can find out. We need to be careful, though, because there’s a criminal investigation under way, and DS Scott and DCI Coombes will be all over me if they find me interfering. Do you think Max will speak to us?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask. He’s a reporter, and so if he thinks it will lead to a story I’m sure he will.”

  “Good.”

  ***

  Gavin Mapperley listened to the voice mail one more time. There was no room for error here. Punishing the innocent was a rock solid certain way of starting a mutiny. The voice on the other end of the line was familiar and clear, despite the other party probably using a cheap non contract phone.

  “I repeat, a complaint was made to the Organised Crime hotline from the Flats yesterday afternoon. They referred to Operation Bilbao and said that a new crime gang was moving in. Luckily I intercepted the message this morning from the hapless civilian who mans the phones at the weekends. The woman gave the address of Den’s flat as your centre of operations. You need to get it sorted before someone else calls the Hotline and the Assistant Commissioner gets her knickers in a twist and organises another operation.”

  The tape went on to give the five names of the ringleaders, some of whom were familiar, one of whom was more than familiar. Mapperley felt a knot forming in his stomach and it was tightening minute by minute. He dug into his coat pocket and found his pill-box. He washed his tablets down with sparkling water from the Jaguar’s minibar, making a note that Detective Chief Inspector Bob Radcliffe had earned himself a bonus. He leaned forward and spoke to his driver.

  “OK, Ralph, lets get down to the flats and join the others. Let’s quell this little rebellion before it starts.”

  ***

  It was just after two in the afternoon when Max’s phone vibrated. The caller was Ben Fogarty. Max was more than a little surprised. He had been convinced that Ben would never talk to him again. The conversation was short but friendly. Ben asked whether Max had a free evening and whether he would be interested in meeting him for dinner, just as old friends. He made no mention of the case. Max had accepted, and then, at Ben’s request, he made a note of Vastrick’s number and promised to give them a call.

  Max picked up his iPhone to call Vastrick, and the phone vibrated in his hand. He pressed receive and took the call. He recognised the number. It was Mary Akuta’s mobile number.

  “Hello, Mary? How are you today?” he asked chirpily. There was a silence. “Mary?” he repeated, concern creeping into his voice. This time there was a reply, but it wasn’t Mary.

  “Hello. This is Jennifer Salmon. I am the senior staff Nurse at St Thomas’s ICU. Do you know Mrs Akuta?”

  Max felt a frisson of anxiety. “Yes, I do. Is she all right?” An answer seemed redundant, as she was obviously in the Intensive Care Unit.

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No, I am her legal representative.” Max knew the call would soon end if he announced himself as an investigative journalist.

  “Oh, I guess that’s all right, then. We can’t find any relatives, and she is seriously ill. We found your number on her phone. Could you come to the hospital immediately?”

  “I’ll be there within the hour. Is she critical?”

  “I’m afraid so. You need to be quick.”

  “I will be. Was it a heart attack?” Max asked, knowing of Mary’s troublesome angina.

  “No. She had been beaten half to death.” There was a quiver in the voice of the normally stoic nurse. Max ended the call and hailed a cab.

  ***

  Max had been sitting in MacDonald’s at Kings Cross when Ben’s call had roused him. He wasn’t a fast food junkie but the hamburger g
iant had generously installed free WiFi in most of their restaurants. Nonetheless, Max still ate a double cheeseburger and fries as he surfed the net.

  The call about Mary Akuta had shaken him, more so than he would have imagined. As the taxi crawled through the streets of North London, Max, a strong believer in journalistic introspection, tried to work out why he had felt such immense grief at hearing of Mary’s condition. He decided that it wasn’t shock, nor was it just that tragedy had struck close to home. He realised that he loved the old woman. Max had never really known either of his own grandmothers. They had died in his infancy, and the quirky old lady from the flats had charmed him with her smothering affection and had won his respect for her unshakable Christian morality. He now realised that over the years he had spent far more time with her than was strictly necessary for his job.

  His mind turned to Saturday morning as the taxi picked up speed along Farringdon Road, heading in the direction of Blackfriars Bridge. Trying to keep an open mind, he found it hard to believe that Gavin Mapperley’s appearance at the flats with his goons in tow, just forty eight hours earlier, was unrelated to Mary’s beating. Mapperley was basically an enforcer for a criminal syndicate, and so it would be no surprise to Max if it turned out that Mary had been beaten as a warning to others who were unhappy with the new regime at the flats.

  The taxi driver spoke just as the black cab reached the bridge. “You OK, mate?” he asked. Max looked at his own reflection in the driver’s mirror and realised that he looked scary. His jaw was locked and his eyes were intense; he looked capable of extreme violence, especially with his Johnny Snake Eyes haircut. He forced himself to relax and he smiled at the cabbie.

  “Yeah, I’m just a bit upset, that’s all. An old lady I care about is in critical condition at the Hospital. She might not make it.”

  “You should have said, mate,” the taxi driver said, suddenly pulling out into the overtaking lane and accelerating so hard that Max was thrown back in his seat. “My Gran died last year and I got there too late. Wouldn’t want that to happen to you. Hold on tight.”

  Chapter 33

  New Scotland Yard, London.

  Monday 22nd August 2011; 12:30pm.

  In the early 1960s policewomen were much undervalued in the Metropolitan Police. They were often assigned menial tasks, and were sometimes kept in the back office. Some of the more misogynistic constables would refer to their female counterparts as ‘Clippies’, a reference to bus conductresses who clipped tickets and whose uniforms were similar in appearance to those of WPCs.

  Margaret Waddington, a sergeant in the Met, decided to do something about the lack of respect that WPCs faced. Dame Margaret Waddington of Barnes, as she was now titled, established the Metropolitan Policewoman’s Guild in 1963 and it had spread like wildfire. At first the ranks laughed at the organisation and their ‘third Monday lunches’ but soon the leadership at the Met were being asked questions about equality of opportunity by the Home Office, and within weeks the lack of opportunity for women in the Met was being discussed in the cabinet meetings chaired by the Prime Minister of the day, Alec Douglas- Home.

  Now, almost fifty years later, the ‘third Monday lunches’ were still held regularly. The Guild had opened up to a wider membership in the 1980s and was rebranded in the 1990s as the ‘Association of Women in Law Enforcement’ (AWILE). In its ranks today were the Home Secretary, Patricia May, who had succeeded Jacqui Smith as Chairman, uniformed and plain clothes policewomen, forensic scientists and even a few security personnel from the private sector. The regular lunches were always well attended, especially when they were held at Scotland Yard, and guest speakers such as Stella Rimmington, former head of MI5, often drew large crowds. Today, the large but soulless function room was brimming with women from across the spectrum of AWILE’s membership and Assistant Commissioner Penny Thomas was their host.

  Dee Hammond had decided that she was too busy to attend this particular lunch, but she had sent her apologies to the branch secretary and asked her to let her have a copy of any handouts. The branch secretary was compiling the handout list for non attending members when she was approached by an attractive young woman she didn’t recognise. She looked down to the woman’s lapel, where the badge bore the name ‘Tilly Morgan, Senior SOCO”. The secretary wondered what Tilly was an abbreviation of, but did not have the nerve to ask the senior Scene of Crimes Officer directly. Instead, she smiled and asked if she could help. Moments later the branch secretary introduced Tilly Morgan to ACC Penny Thomas.

  ***

  AC Penny Thomas was quite used to women in the lower ranks approaching her at these lunches; in fact, she encouraged it. After all, the Association was all about education and opportunity, and the lower ranks rarely had the opportunity to meet one on one with an AC.

  “Ms Morgan, I wouldn’t mind betting that you solve more crimes than we do these days, or at least that’s what I glean from CSI and Waking the Dead.”

  Tilly laughed politely at the self deprecation, knowing very well that the AC had never solved a crime in her life. She had been fast tracked and promoted through the service, mainly on the management side of the Met. Tilly had thought long and hard about this conversation, but had decided to risk all.

  “Ma’am, I don’t know who else to talk to about this.” The AC’s brow furrowed. “You see, I’m working on the Rectory Murders...”

  She paused. Penny Thomas smiled politely.

  “That’s a vital case for us, Tilly. We really need a quick result on that and I’m sure you are playing a key part.” Tilly ignored the public relations spiel and hoped that the AC was in police management mode.

  “Ma’am, a senior police officer has approached me and has tried to persuade me to be less thorough than I normally would be. I think he may be protecting someone.” The AC’s smile wavered and an expression of concern passed fleetingly across her features. She grasped Tilly’s upper arm and squeezed it gently in a gesture meant to invoke silence. Scanning the room to see if anyone might have overheard, and deciding that they hadn’t, she whispered to Tilly.

  “My office in an hour.” In an instant the frown on the AC’s face disappeared and the PR smile was back in place.

  Chapter 34

  ICU, St Thomas’ Hospital, London.

  Monday 22nd August 2011; 1pm.

  Max looked into the screened cubicle holding the frail body of Mary Akuta and tears welled in his eyes. The nurse had warned him in advance about her appearance, but no warning could have prepared him for the sight before him.

  Mary’s face was bloated beyond recognition with bruising and fractures. Her eyes were slits in swollen lids, each of which resembled half a tennis ball. Her face was covered in blood from numerous lacerations, her nose was destroyed and her mouth had stitches in one corner where the flesh had been torn. Max allowed the tears to flow freely down his cheeks as he took the heavily bandaged hand and rested it gently on his own.

  “Please be careful, Mr Richmond,” the nurse requested. “We think that someone stamped on her hand, breaking the bones. We won’t know for certain until it is X rayed.” They both knew it would never be X rayed, unless it was done post mortem.

  Mary Akuta was wired up to every monitor in the cubicle, and tubes connected her to a saline drip, pain relief and oxygen. She was close to death. Her monitors were set to silent because the alarms would otherwise have been constantly ringing as her heart and body fluttered, teetering on the very cusp of the eternities.

  Max looked at the face of the woman who had been so kind to him and who had helped him expose criminality on the Broadwater Farm so many times. His face set rigid, and his eyes again took on a rabid intensity when, looking closely at the old lady’s face, he saw the distinct and unmistakeable imprint of shoelaces fastened in the crossover style.

  “Bastards!” he muttered none too quietly under his breath. Mary stirred, and the nurse stepped forward.

  Removing the tube from her mouth, she gently wiped away a litt
le saliva and said kindly, “Relax, Mary, it will be better if you just try to sleep. Are you in pain?”

  The old lady shook her head almost imperceptibly and tried to speak. The nurse dipped her head to hear better and heard the word “Max.” She looked at Max. “Please don’t tax her. She now has minutes rather than hours.”

  Max leaned in and spoke through his tears. “Mary, I’ll get them, every last one, and they’ll suffer. Believe me.” Mary again shook her head and Max wondered how anyone could be beaten like this and still not want revenge. She again tried to speak, her voice a croak.

  “It was them!” Was all she said but Max knew exactly what she meant. Mary collapsed into the pillow from the exertion, and moments later she passed away. The monitor flatlined and an alarm sounded. The nurse turned off the alarm and picked up a blue telephone which led directly to the resuscitation team, the crash team. “Hello, this is Sister Salmon. Hold the crash trolley. We won’t be needing it.” She set the phone down and saw the question in Max’s eyes. “There was just too much damage. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Max pressed his face down into the bed cover and sobbed, the first time he could remember doing so as an adult. He came to realise that he was holding Mary’s shattered hand tightly, but he knew that it didn’t matter anymore.

  ***

  When the nurses came to move Mary’s body to a quiet room where her relatives could view her body, Max started to leave. As he passed the nurses station he thanked Sister Salmon and asked rhetorically, “How could someone do this to a frail old lady?”

  Sister Salmon shook her head in bewilderment before adding, “She isn’t the only one, unfortunately. There was a second victim. She must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was visiting from the North West.”