Pannell’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Really? I’ve known Dennis most of my life, you know. Bit of a crook, actually, but a good sort when you got to know him.”
Ben wanted to knock the stupid man’s head off his shoulders, but he fought down the urge and simply smiled.
“Well, Trevor, I understand you were paid for your work as property manager on the Rectory, so what exactly was this consulting work you did?”
“Initially, I found the land for Mrs Garner,” he explained. “I still have contacts at the council, you know. I got it cheap, as well. The council weren’t keen to give out planning permission, and so it was nearly derelict. That’s where I earned my salary as property manager.” He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially. “But the invoice is for disbursements, if you know what I mean.”
Ben feigned ignorance. “You mean land registry, searches and so on?”
“Nah. Mr Garner wanted to be sure he got planning permission, so his good lady wife spoke to her old lag of a dad, Dennis Grierson, and he asked me to take care of the Planning Committee. And I did. Went through like a dream at first, then there was a fuss from the neighbours and it was reheard. We lost, and we only got planning permission for single occupancy. We appealed, but it made no odds. The bloody horse and hounds set had more powerful friends than I had. Nonetheless, I never got the money back, and so I’m owed.”
“Couldn’t you get the money from Mr Mapperley?” Ben suggested. “I mean, he tends to deal with the, shall we say, less formal financial arrangements.”
“What? Gavin, do you mean?” Pannell looked puzzled. “Nah. Gavin worked for both Dennis and Mrs Garner, but he never mixed the two business arrangements. Always kept himself above the ‘less formal’ arrangements, as you say.”
“Why didn’t Dennis pay you directly? After all, he paid you cash in hand for your other favours.”
Pannell looked worried. He didn’t know how much the other man knew. “I don’t know what you heard, but Den never paid me a penny for this.”
“He told me that he paid you for information in the past, such as twenty years ago, when you served up his ex girlfriend’s whereabouts so he could run her down. He thought it highly amusing.”
Pannell was looking around for an exit, but the only way out was past the lawyer, who looked as though he could handle himself.
“Why would Dennis tell you that? It would be an admission of a serious crime.”
“Perhaps because I am his son, twin brother of Mrs Garner and orphan of the woman you sent to her death. Oh, and because I asked him about it just before I slit his throat!”
Pannell leapt to his feet quickly. He opened his mouth but no words would come out. He had involuntarily emptied his bladder. He looked down at his urine sodden trousers and began to cry. “He told me he only wanted to speak to her, to win her back, that was all. I never knew he would hurt her, I swear!” Pannell was blubbing, and drool was trickling from his quivering lips.
Ben felt the disgust rise within him. He wanted to hurt this man, and hurt him badly, but instead he stood up and opened the door. His voice was quiet but the words were full of venom.
“Get out of my sight, you little shit! And you can call Gavin Mapperley and tell him I’m coming after him next!”
***
By the time Pannell got to the tube station he stank of urine, and people stood well clear of him. He couldn’t get a signal on his mobile, but as soon as he was able he intended to call Gavin Mapperley and warn him. It was then the realisation hit him. Fogarty had his letterhead with his home address printed on the top. He began to cry again, and the space around him grew exponentially.
Chapter 51
LMU Campus, Holloway Road, London.
Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 3pm.
Max hadn’t been back on the London Metropolitan University Campus for over a year, albeit he still had library privileges. Max had studied journalism here as he was still enrolled on a Masters’ course, but he had deferred it for a year when it became clear that his job at the News of the World was in jeopardy. In October he would have to decide whether to defer his part time studies for another year.
The modern campus with its landmark tower block, visible from across London, was quiet as the university was in summer recess. Max walked over to the library, housed in a low rise, stark red brick building, and entered. He showed his LMU student card and research credentials to the lady at the front desk, and then he consulted the library layout plan on the wall. The portion of the library dedicated to Humanities was shaded blue on the map; nothing had changed since his last visit.
He walked along a narrow corridor and up a flight of stairs to find himself in the English Literature section. There were no students around and so he moved through the section into the area reserved for researchers. Each cubicle contained a desk and power for laptop computers. The blonde wood cubicles were high enough to conceal anyone sitting down at a desk. He stood in silence and listened, and then he followed the clack, clack of a keyboard. He leaned over the top of the cubicle and a familiar face looked up at him, with an expression of surprise.
“Hello, man calling himself Johnny.”
“Hello, girl calling herself Katrina.” The young prostitute from Trafalgar house flats smiled up at Max. He smiled back. Her face was free from make-up and she was dressed in jeans and an LMU branded sweatshirt. She looked every inch the young student that she was.
“How did you know I was here, Johnny?”
“I think your flatmate likes me,” Max answered with a grin.
“She likes all men, Johnny, that’s her occupation. How did you get past Dragon Lady on the desk? This library is students and researchers only.”
“I studied here, and it was a grant from my rich uncle that allowed this library to be built,” he lied, straight-faced.
“Really?” Katrina asked, not sure about Max’s trustworthiness.
“No, not really,” he admitted, smiling. “The library was built with taxpayer funds and my parents and uncles were as poor as church mice. I was the first one in the family to go to university.”
Max rolled a chair over to Katrina’s cubicle. They were alone in the library and so he felt able to talk freely. He placed his student card on the table for his new friend to see.
“Hello, Maxwell Richmond. I am Ilsa Anna Beratov, but it might be safer for us both if you call me Katrina and I call you Johnny.”
“I agree. Katrina, you know that Mary is dead, and that she meant a lot to me?” Katrina nodded sadly. Max continued. “She was killed by the men who now control you and your friends; they are led by a man called Mapperley.”
“I know it,” Katrina offered without contradiction.
“Mapperley and his gang are going down, Katrina and you will need to protect yourself. Perhaps you will need to go ‘independent’.”
Katrina laughed. “They will go, and someone else will step into their odious shoes, Johnny, I have no illusions about that. But I need the money to study. My choices are made for me.”
“Will you at least help me take down the man who killed Mary?”
Katrina didn’t answer for a long time. Max knew it was a big ask. This girl hardly knew him, and she would be plotting against a vicious man who was known to punish girls who stepped out of line.
“If I can help you, without being seen to help you, I would do it, for Mary. What do you need from me? Tell me, and I will tell you if I can help. But I will not put my life or Sophie’s life in danger.”
Max explained that he knew about the forgery side of the business and the internet frauds, and that the main income came from drugs. Max explained that he knew the drugs were being sent from Belgium. He told her about Mr Willems and Mr Peters. What he did not know was how and where the drugs were delivered, and he hoped that Katrina might know at least some of the answers to those questions, having lived in the flats for so long.
“Johnny, I will tell you this without implicating anyone, th
is way I can honestly say I have not informed on anyone. OK?” Max was willing to take anything and so he agreed to her terms.
“Last year I was returning from the shops and was taking a shortcut through the garages when three young boys on bikes surrounded me. They made very rude remarks and demanded that I undress for them. I refused, of course, and walked on, only to be grabbed by the hair by a boy with a mouthful of braces. I was very frightened.” Katrina shuddered involuntarily and continued. “Then, from nowhere, a man I know only as Mikey stepped out of a lock up and told the boys to leave me alone, that I was one of Den’s girls. The boys cycled off, laughing and shouting horrible things at me. Mikey suggested I should not use that route again, and when he saw how shaken up I was he took to Den’s ‘Lock Up’ garage. It was really four garages all knocked into one. Mikey reached into a box and pulled out a bunch of white carnations wrapped in cellophane. I saw the box and noticed that it had lifting handles cut out of each side. Through the handles you could see two rows of flowers, but in the centre there were plastic bags filled with a grey coloured material, probably cannabis.” Katrina looked at Max for a reaction. He smiled and touched her hand, which she took as a sign that she should continue.
“I took the flowers back to the flat and noticed that the cellophane wrapper bore the same name as the box, which was Florabel Bloeman SA. I hope that helps you? It is all I know.”
Max squeezed her hand as he thanked her and then, looking into her eyes, he kissed the back of her hand. Almost as an afterthought he asked, “If I was to get you a job – I mean a real job, researching stories for a journalist friend, would you get out of this murky business?”
“I would like to say yes, Johnny, but my father, mother and two brothers have no work. I can make three hundred pounds on a good night with my clients. This is many times more than I could earn researching.”
Max stood and thanked her again. “Please think about it, Katrina. I like you, and what you do is dangerous.”
“I Like the Maxwell man better than the Johnny man,” she smiled. “Do you think he will call on me sometime?”
“Count on it, Katrina,” Max promised, as he turned and walked away.
Chapter 52
Green Jaguar, North Circular Road, London.
Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 4:30pm.
Ashley Morgan, known to Gavin Mapperley’s boys as the Boss, had just disconnected from her enforcer’s mobile, and had given him express instructions that they had to go dark. Gavin Mapperley and Ashley had always spoken freely on their contract phones, as they both worked for Garner-Brinkman, and so telephone calls between them would seem quite natural. The was now instructing Mapperley to ‘go dark’, which he understood to mean they had to cease all phone calls, mobile or land line, contract or pay as you go. From now on, they would embark on the ‘cloud protocol’.
Both Ashley and her enforcer had Skype phone numbers which allowed them to make and receive calls over the internet. They both carried iPhones and iPads, and so they could communicate voice only or speak face to face via their Skype software. Ashley had been told by the Garner-Brinkman IT guru that law enforcement agencies on both sides of the Atlantic had extreme difficulty tracking Skype calls, and so criminals and terrorists were switching to it by the thousand.
Mapperley now knew that Ashley was free for the time being, but she had also told him that she would not be returning to the home she had shared with Lawrence. She explained that she suspected the house had already been bugged by the police. Mapperley doubted that. Any such action would need a court order, and that would take time. In any event, most of the Met’s listening equipment would already be employed in spying on terrorists, not murder suspects.
Mapperley’s phone rang; it was a call back, reminding him of a missed call. Trevor Pannell had evidently called whilst Mapperley had been talking to the Boss. He listened to Pannell’s voice message. The man had cracked. He sounded emotional and panicked. Mapperley called him back, and Pannell picked up the call immediately.
Once Mapperley had heard the full story, he told Pannell not to be stupid. Fogarty had not cut Dennis Grierson’s throat, as he had claimed. He had told Trevor a blatant lie in order to frighten him, and had clearly succeeded. He dismissed Pannell without another thought, instructing him not to call again. What Mapperley couldn’t dismiss so readily was the threat from Ben Fogarty who, by rank good luck, had brought about a premature end to Dennis Grierson’s rule over the flats.
Fogarty would have to be dealt with, and Mapperley would attend to it personally without consulting the Boss, who seemed to have a soft spot for her long lost twin.
***
Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise run an ‘0800’ tip line for calls about drug smuggling, along with a secure website which also accepts intelligence on illicit drugs, but Max chose to ring a direct line into the HM Customs centre at Gravesend. Just over twenty miles from Central London, Gravesend is a quiet county town on the south bank of the Thames, home to HM Customs’ drug trafficking investigators.
“Barrett speaking,” the gruff voice on the other end of the phone announced. Max smiled as he uttered the code phrase he had used in the past.
“Read all about it, Mr Barrett.”
“That’s Senior Preventive Officer Barrett to you, Richmond.” Max could hear the smile in his old friend’s voice. “How is life as a freelance, now that the News of the World has gone the journey?”
“We aren’t freelancers any more, Greg, we’re independents. And life is great, thanks for asking. You and yours doing OK?”
“Absolutely fine. Oh, by the way, thanks for the note on Mr Peters and Mr Willem. All I can say is that we are all over them like a rash already. Europol have them under surveillance, so don’t go writing any stories about them yet.”
“I won’t, don’t worry, but I have some further information which should blow the case wide open for you. “ Max noticed that there was silence at the other end of the phone. “Are you still there?”
“I am, Max, but be careful what you say. This is an unsecured line.”
Max told Greg Barrett about Florabel and the flower boxes which contained more than just carnations. He also explained that he had visited Florabel’s website and, posing as a customer, had been given a number of references to check.
“Greg, from what the retailers say, a lorry comes over twice a week. It uses the Hull Ferry on Mondays, I think, and then comes into Harwich on Thursdays. One big InterFlora flower shop up in Darlington told me that they get deliveries weekly. My guess is that these drugs are going all around the country. I’ve called references from Darlington in the north to Plymouth on the south coast.”
“Max, who else knows about this? Think carefully before you answer. This is really important.”
“No-one else, as far as I know, just me. And the criminals who use the service, obviously. Why?”
“Last week we found drugs in boxes of flowers coming into Newhaven in containers, and we’ve been following the vans that picked them up all over the south of England. Those flowers came from the Netherlands. If what you say is true, we’re missing over half of the illegal imports because they are coming from Belgium via a genuine exporter. You’ll have to leave this with me, Max; I’ll get back to you.”
“Greg, I don’t want to be pushy but I have to make a living. Can I be embedded into the team that goes in to seize the drugs?”
“Are you asking for an exclusive?”
“If I can, I’ll bring a Press Association photographer along for the ride and we’ll break the story online before you go on air on the BBC News and Sky and show your ugly mug.”
“I’ll see what I can do; no promises, though. Keep safe, Max. These are heavyweight criminals you’re dealing with.”
***
The Assistant Chief Preventive Officer sat alongside Greg Barrett as the conference call was established. The last party, one of five, joined the call, signing in by giving his surname and citing his employer, Europol
.
“Ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the urgent unscheduled call but I believe that we now have the missing link. I now think I know how our terrorist friends are shipping their cannabis into the rest of the UK.”
The ACPO shared his new found information with his overseas colleagues on the secured link.
A female voice with a distinctive Flemish accent, the only female on the group call, closed the proceedings. “Gentlemen, we need to bring the operation forward. We will take direct action against Florabel Bloemen, and Mr Willem and Mr Peters, at 8am GMT on Thursday. Gregory will apprehend the flower lorry upon its arrival in the UK, and our Dutch colleagues will move into the bonded warehouse in Rotterdam, where the last container came from.” She paused before issuing a rallying call. “Here’s hoping this will be a major blow against these drug smugglers and the terrorists they fund.”
Chapter 53
Vine Street Crescent, Tower Hill, London.
Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 7pm.
Ben and Max sat at either end of the luxurious brown leather sofa which had, allegedly, once accommodated the pert posterior of Victoria Beckham. In their hands they held glasses of a ruby red wine. The label on the bottle described it as Saint Clair Pioneer Block Pinot Noir 2010 Marlborough.
Ben swilled the wine around in the glass and looked at it before taking a mouthful, running the liquid across his palate before swallowing.
“This is a great New Zealand wine, Max. I hope you can appreciate it. It has a nose of raspberry and plum but the palate, well, that is redolent with redcurrants and cherries.”
Max tasted the wine and agreed that it was smooth and fruity, but had to acknowledge that Ben’s palate was rather more sophisticated than his own.
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