Fogarty

by J Jackson Bentley

  Max looked puzzled. The nurse continued.

  “You might know her, as she was a friend of Mary’s.” The sister consulted her bed plan. “Her driving license says she is Mrs Burchill, but she insists that her name is Fogarty. May Fogarty.”

  Chapter 35

  New Scotland Yard, London.

  Monday 22nd August 2011; 1:30pm.

  Tilly Morgan had never been on the fifth floor before, and she was slightly nervous as the secretary in the outer office continued working without paying her visitor much attention. On her arrival in the management suite Tilly had been surprised at the quality of the decor, the array of greenery and the rarity of the artwork. New Scotland Yard was, on the whole, a functional building and the workspaces were mostly modern and utilitarian. This section of the building felt more like an upmarket lawyer’s offices, perhaps even a gentleman’s club.

  The coffee Tilly had been given on arrival was not the vending machine coffee available elsewhere in the building; it wasn’t even the coffee one might expect from the individual cup machines from Flavia or De Longhi. It tasted at least as good as Starbucks, and it was delivered by a lady in a domestic uniform. Until today, Tilly had not appreciated that the Yard still had domestic staff operating in the office areas.

  The secretary looked up and smiled. Tilly smiled back, over the top of the magazine she was pretending to read. It was a Homes and Gardens magazine and it was current, not five years old like the magazines in the public waiting areas. The secretary carried on typing on her keyboard and Tilly looked around at the plush mid blue carpeting, no doubt chosen to match the pale blue wall covering, which appeared to be some kind of textured wallpaper. The halogen downlighters were inset into a flat ceiling, with concealed wall washer lighting installed around the perimeter. The light was bright and uplifting, far removed from the flat panels set into the suspended ceilings on other floors.

  The phone on the secretary’s desk buzzed and she lifted the handset. As she listened she looked in Tilly’s direction, and Tilly set down the magazine.

  “They are ready to see you now,” the secretary announced.

  “They?” Tilly had not been expecting “they”. She stood up, suddenly feeling more nervous.

  ***

  As Tilly Morgan entered the room one of the two uniformed ACs stood, as gentlemen once used to do when a lady entered the room. The man was tall and athletically built. Tilly recognised the Met’s Triathlon champion immediately, as he was also an Assistant Commissioner. He held out his hand.

  “Dr. Morgan, AC Tim Garrett. As you probably know, I head up territorial policing for the service.” Tilly shook his hand and noticed that the new trend for referring to the police force by the more friendly sounding ‘police service’ had even been adopted by the alpha males in the building.

  “Dr. Morgan, for the purposes of this meeting we think it would be less intimidating if, as a civilian worker, you referred to us as Tim and Penny, no ma’ams or sirs needed.” The AC smiled and winked. “But let’s keep that to ourselves, shall we, Tilly?”

  Their guest nodded. After some brief introductory questions about her work and career at the Met, AC Thomas opened the floor to Tilly to explain what had happened to cause her sufficient concern to report her feelings to an AC.

  “Ma’am, sorry, I have worked in assisting other senior colleagues on crime scenes since 2004, and since 2007 I have been a team leader. My predecessor, Doctor Trevelyan, taught me to be wary of certain police officers. Two in particular had pressured him into withdrawing or reanalysing data relating to crime scenes. In each case he felt that he had been weak and, whilst it was their case, he felt that between them he and the detectives had weakened the evidential case. Tom - Doctor Trevelyan - didn’t want that to happen to me, and so when he retired he warned the detectives he would not allow them to browbeat me, and he made it clear that I should report any concerns that I have to an appropriate person.” The two ACs knew of Tom Trevelyan, and nodded sagely at the advice he had given.

  “I have had a few cases where one particular DCI has tried to tilt scene of crime findings in a given direction, mostly to ensure that when a suspect is arrested and questioned, that person is immediately put under pressure by being faced with incriminating forensic evidence. Whilst that is not terribly ethical, I was not too worried because I knew that, if a case ran, our independent forensic evidence would have to be produced and a jury would be able to decide the case on clear scientific evidence.“

  Tilly looked to see what the reaction would be, but there was none. She continued. “However, this same DCI came to me a week ago, out on the street, and threatened me. He wanted me to ensure that the Rectory Murder forensics supported the generally held view that foreign criminals were responsible for the executions.”

  Tim Garrett jumped in. “Tilly, I have seen your recent reports, they seem to suggest that the perpetrator was in the house and that the foreign criminal angle is nonsense. Is that right? Do I remember correctly?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry. I couldn’t allow a threat against me to pervert the course of the investigation. My report is one hundred percent independent.”

  “Tilly, you know as well as I do that the service employs some people who still like to improve the odds when interviewing a suspect, and if they do it without lying and potentially destroying the case, their superiors will often turn a blind eye. They believe justice is being done, in the end. They will say that the ends justify the means. That’s not true, of course, but we will never stamp it out completely.” The AC paused and rested his chin on steepled fingers as he looked directly into Tilly’s eyes. “But what you are reporting here today, if accurate, is something quite different. It would constitute an attempt to move suspicion away from the real perpetrator. That is corruption in anyone’s language. Why would a Metropolitan Police Officer do that?”

  Tilly was scared now. She seemed to be under attack. Perhaps they didn’t believe her.

  “I don’t know, sir, but I can assure you it’s true.” Her face was flushed.

  “The usual reason, Tilly, is greed. Some people believe that they can take money from the Press, lawyers or criminals and feather their own nests. In the past they thought that institutionalised corruption was the norm and so would go unpunished. Not for many years, Tilly, not for many years. Give us a moment.”

  The two ACs whispered to one another, and AC Morgan opened a file and pointed about half way down the front page. It was AC Morgan who spoke next.

  “Tilly, we’re going to refer you to a team operating under my auspices who are running a confidential operation called Operation Cadiz, a follow up to Operation Bilbao. During the execution of Bilbao we took statements from suspects who claimed that one of our senior officers had passed on information about the raid. He named the officer. We are hoping - beyond hope, in fact - that you name the same officer. If you name a different officer, we may have more problems than we thought. Now, please tell us who threatened you.”

  Tilly took a deep breath, before almost whispering the name.

  “DCI Bob Radlett.”

  AC Thomas smiled, and AC Garrett looked relieved.

  ***

  Tilly was in the room for another hour explaining the nature of the threat and her relationship with a journalist, noting that she had never disclosed details of her work, and he had never reported on any of her cases. The two ACs explained the confidential nature of their discussions and asked her not to disclose her concerns to anyone else. They expressed the hope that her proper conduct would not lead to any disciplinary action arising from a necessary internal investigation into her relationship with Max Richmond, but they could not make promises.

  Tilly accepted their comments, and promised that she would cooperate with any investigation before shaking their hands and leaving, feeling relieved.

  ***

  “Bob Radlett again!” Garrett said to Penny Thomas. “I tried to have that man railroaded out in 1998 when I took over his squad, but he
had too many friends in high places. But not now. This time he’s going down.”

  Chapter 36

  ICU, St Thomas’ Hospital, London.

  Monday 22nd August 2011; 3pm.

  Max Richmond was sitting by May Fogarty’s bed holding her hand and making small talk when Ben Fogarty strode into the room. Responding to Max’s phone call, Ben had raced across London to see his injured grandmother. He nodded his thanks to Max without saying a word, as he pulled up a chair at the other side of the bed.

  May Fogarty looked older than her years today. The perfectly coiffed hair was unkempt and matted with blood. There were two badly shaved bald patches where stitches had been inserted, and her face, free of make-up, was now coloured yellow, blue and purple by bruises and swelling.

  Ben felt some of what Max had been feeling for two hours; anger, revulsion and frustration. Like Max, revenge was never far from his thoughts. Gently, and with an affection for his grandmother he had never before felt, he kissed the old lady on the forehead and brushed a matted strand of hair away from her eyes. Tears filled her eyes, and decades of enforced separation were forgotten as grandmother and grandson connected on a level that only blood relatives can.

  Max and Ben listened whilst May explained how she had come to be in the hospital in intensive care.

  ***

  On Sunday morning Mary Akuta introduced May Fogarty to those in the Community Association who did not remember her. Mr Choudra, an elderly resident of Indian descent, flattered May by telling her that she had not aged a day. The Association were alarmed at what they saw as the ‘occupation’ of the flats by a new wave of criminals. By the end of the meeting a ‘memorandum for action’ had been drawn up by the Association, and the five nominated signatories were; Mary Akuta, May Fogarty, Mo Choudra, Samuel Levison and Janet Sarnovic. By way of a conference call, they contacted the number given to them by AC Thomas of Operation Bilbao when she had come to the Flats after the eviction of the TH Crew. No-one in a senior role was on call on that Sunday afternoon, but the call handler promised that a senior detective would pick up their voice message first thing on Monday morning.

  The first time the residents became concerned was when the highly polished green Jaguar they had seen on Saturday pulled up on the main road in front of the flats. Moments later an old BMW pulled up behind it, and the two occupants got out and walked to the Jaguar. After a brief conversation the Jaguar pulled away. Whoever was in the car evidently did not want to be around when the violence began.

  Mr Choudra, Samuel Levison and Janet Sarnovic were at the day centre in town, as they were most mornings, but May and Mary had been enjoying the sunshine on the deck. Realising they were in trouble, they locked themselves inside Mary’s flat and rang 999. They had barely completed the call when the door burst open and two men in hoods barged in, swinging baseball bats. At first the men seemed content with destroying Mary’s furnishings, but as they came further into the flat they turned their attention to the women cowering on the sofa.

  “Where are the others?” The voice was coarse, the accent East End of London.

  “What others?” Mary asked. A bat swung around and hit her on the side of the head.

  “Where are the Paki, the Jew and the Slav woman?”

  “We don’t know. Leave her alone!”

  A fist landed on Mary’s left cheekbone, fracturing it. Mary cried out in pain. The men set to work on the women, hurting them but not causing too much damage. It was clear what their orders were; intimidate and dominate. The first of the intruders grabbed May by the throat and squeezed. She was choking. The second man looked on and laughed. From nowhere, Mary leapt at May’s attacker and he yelled, pushing the frail old lady off him, only to feel a pain in his arm and feel blood trickling inside his sleeve.

  “Bitch!” he yelled. But she came at him again, arm raised to stab again. The masked man lost control and almost beat Mary to death before stamping on her stabbing hand and kicking her in the face. May leapt at him and hung on, with a choke hold from behind. The second man lashed out with a knife, and connected with May three times before she let go. The two men were about to lay into May Fogarty when Mary Akuta made a horrible gurgling noise, then vomited arterial blood before passing out. One of the men shouted at the other, “Bloody hell, Rafe! You killed her!”

  Figuring the tenants would have got the message by now, the two men ran out of the flat, descended the stairs three at a time and fled in the stolen BMW.

  ***

  Ben couldn’t help saying that he believed that he had started the whole chain of events by disabling Grierson and giving the TH Crew the opening to kick Grierson out. If it hadn’t been for him, Grierson would be on his way to jail for his part in the riots, Ashley wouldn’t have been attacked and Mary wouldn’t be dead. May and Max pointed out to him that Grierson was the catalyst and that the TH Crew would probably have made a move sooner or later anyway. As for the Rectory, no-one knew the real story behind the killings there; it could have been a gang war.

  “May, whatever you think, I started this and I will finish it. This won’t go unpunished, even if I have to take care of it myself.”

  “Oh no, buddy, I want in on this,” Max stated at once. “Mary was my responsibility. I Iet her down. I think I know where to start, and so we either work together or we work separately, but I’m in this to the bitter end.”

  Ben looked at Max, and saw on his face an expression that was as menacing as any he had seen in a Haka or a rugby match.

  “OK. We work together. We’ll see you soon, May,” Ben said. “Just concentrate on getting better.”

  “Call me Gran, for goodness sake!” May Fogarty commanded.

  “Me, too?” Max asked, with a smile on his face.

  “You, too,” May agreed, smiling and then grimacing at the discomfort caused by her lips curling up at the edges.

  Chapter 37

  New Scotland Yard, London.

  Monday 22nd August 2011; 3pm.

  Derek Clegg had never been called in to see a DCI before, but he knew what was happening and he knew his job was at risk. The Metropolitan Police Service bulletins which ran across the bottom of his monitor had announced the death of Mary Akuta, and noted that a murder team would be formed to look into the circumstances of her death. Mary Akuta was one of the people who had rung in yesterday when he was fielding calls to the Operation Bilbao hotline, and he had failed to pass the message on to an off duty officer, believing it to be of low importance. Now she was dead; it must have been important, after all.

  DCI Bob Radlett was on the phone when Clegg arrived at his closed office door. The DCI signalled for the call handler to wait. He would be two minutes. Keeping his voice low but menacing, he spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “Look, Gavin, I gave you the ‘heads up’ and you were supposed to warn these old biddies off. Now we have a murder on our hands, and it leads straight back to you and me. What kind of morons do you employ?” The question was rhetorical and Gavin Mapperley decided to let Bob Radlett blow off more steam before he interjected. “I don’t know whether or not I can control this, Gavin, but if I do I want the biggest pay day yet. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Bob. I have a plan to close off any ties to the murder at this end. Can you deal with the phone call?”

  “I’ll try. What’s your plan? Is Rafe coming in and giving himself up, saying it was all his idea to beat up the old ladies?”

  “Not exactly, Bob. Rafe is going to have a fit of conscience and take his own life after leaving a note. I’ll text you the details so you can be first on the scene.”

  “Shit, Gavin. Another dead body. It’s becoming an epidemic. But I like the plan. I’ll try to get on the case. I could do with a quick closure for a change. It’ll keep the brass off my back.”

  The call came to an end soon afterwards, and Radlett beckoned Clegg into his office. He did not invite his visitor to sit.

  “Well, son, you made a right mess of this, didn’t you?”


  Clegg nodded. Radlett rubbed his chin and continued. “You will certainly lose your job, I’m afraid. If this gets out, you may even be on a charge of reckless endangerment.” Radlett knew this was nonsense, but it sounded plausible, and tears began to well up in Clegg’s eyes.

  “Look, son, I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I don’t believe you have any responsibility here. Mind you, I might be on my own in that assumption.” The boy nodded. “All right, listen. This is what we’re going to do. I’ll destroy the transfer paperwork at my end and say I never saw the alert, OK?” The boy nodded again, a spark of hope in his eyes now. “You must then destroy your transfer paperwork and remove the call from the electronic log, OK?”

  “I can’t remove the call from the log. I don’t have sufficient permissions. But in the description of event panel I can change my words to something like, they demanded a meeting the first week in September, something innocuous like that. I have sufficient permissions to do that”

  Radlett thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t perfect, but life seldom is.

  “Okay, Derek. I’ll do this for you once and once only, you understand?” Clegg nodded, the relief obvious on his face. “I’m putting my career on the line because, even if you had raised it, as you should have done yesterday, we probably wouldn’t have sent anyone around until it was too late, anyway. Now, get on with what you have to do, and never mention this to anyone again, understand?”

  “I understand. And thanks, Guv.”

  “If a word of this leaks out, we’ll both end up in the dock for perverting the course of justice, and that carries a possible life sentence,” Radlett added, looking seriously into Clegg’s eyes. The boy shuddered as he stood up and left the office. Radlett smiled at a job well done.