“The reason it’s so warm and flavourful is because they age it in French oak barrels,” Ben continued.
“So, you know quite a bit about wine, then?” Max asked as he took another sip.
“Not really,” Ben replied. “That was what it said on the shelf at Waitrose.”
Max laughed, and red liquid spilled from his lips. Ben joined in the laughter; it had been a long day. After a few minutes of silence Max asked a serious question, after hearing about Ben’s adventures during the afternoon.
“Why in heaven’s name did you tell that little weasel Pennell that you cut Grierson’s throat?”
“I wanted him to think he was going to die in that office, Max. I wanted him to feel a little bit of what my mother felt when she saw that car aiming straight at her. I wanted to hurt him, Max, and hurt him badly. And that just isn’t me. I’m not usually like that. You know, some people think that because a person plays rugby they must somehow be predisposed to violence. That isn’t necessarily the case. They might be physically capable of it, but capability and execution are very different things.”
Max sat in silence, allowing his friend to unload his feelings.
“In the outback, with Ihaka, the old Maori elder, we had to fend for ourselves. It would have been easy to survive on docile animals like deer, and so on, but that was not his way. He had me kill and butcher wild pigs, at great cost to my family treasure. The little devils run straight at your groin. I have never really thought about killing since, until I saw Mary earlier today. When I saw what those animals had done to two old ladies, I realised then that I could kill a man and sleep easily afterwards.” Ben swilled back the last of the wine in his glass before rising in silence to collect the bottle. Walking over to Max, he held the bottle aloft without saying a word.
“Don’t mind if I do, mate,” Max said appreciatively. Ben refilled his glass.
“I also told Pannell to warn Mapperley that I was coming after him. Now, in hindsight, I accept that might not have been the wisest thing to do.” The influence of the wine was taking effect, and Ben smiled before he suddenly laughed out loud, with Max joining in. In the cold light of day, when they were both sober, they would come to realise the danger they were in. Mapperley may be a desk bound accountant, but some of London’s nastiest criminals were on his payroll.
Chapter 54
New Scotland Yard, London.
Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 11pm.
DCI Bob Radlett would normally have been at home with his feet up at this time of night, but he was worried. His contacts had not been able to track down Conn Parker, and that could only mean bad news. It was now clear that Conn Parker had heard about Rafe and gone into hiding, fearing, quite correctly, that he would be next. If Radlett could not find Parker before he gave himself up, Radlett’s career would be over. It was odds on, in Radlett’s estimation, that Connal Parker knew that he was in the pay of Mapperley, and such information could not be allowed into the public domain.
The DCI’s evening had been spent on the phone, canvassing the regular haunts of the criminal underclass, leaving the incentive of a decent cash reward for anyone who helped him catch Parker. In between calls he keyed in a long alpha numeric code which was represented as stars in the bank’s dialogue box. The screen had shown that he had approximately $480,000 on deposit in a high yield account; all accounts were in US Dollars in Belize. With another $100,000 he would be able to pay off the loan on his beachfront villa before the loan fell due for settlement in September. He was tempted to transfer his remaining UK life savings, miserable though they were, into the account so that the property would be his in perpetuity, but his wife would wonder where the money was going. She would be surprised to find that she didn’t figure in his retirement plans, as would his lazy, sponging kids. “Sod ‘em all,” he thought to himself, and he sent the sterling equivalent of $102,800 to Belize with a request to use all of his liquid funds to settle the house loan. It was a risk; if he had to flee the UK he would have a nice house in Belize but no cash. Such a prospect didn’t really worry him, since he could always raise a loan on the property if he was desperate. If he could just find that prat Conn Parker, he could see out his last year or so at the Yard and retire on a full pension.
His mobile phone trilled and he looked at the screen. The incoming call was from the Albert Arms in Elephant and Castle, south of the river.
“Radlett,” he announced into the mouthpiece.
“Mr Radlett, this is Troy at the Albert Arms. We’ve got Conn Parker sitting here in the snug, nursing a pint of Guinness.”
“You need to keep him there for the next twenty minutes if you want the money,” Radlett explained as he ended the call and picked up his jacket. Unbeknown to DCI Radlett, he had been under visual and electronic surveillance for most of the day. Now his two watchers from the IAB, Internal Affairs Bureau, were on the move. Rare visitors to the Yard, to avoid recognition, the two detectives were assigned to the Police Misconduct Section. When DCI Bob Radlett drove his Volvo out of the police garage a silver Nissan followed at a safe distance. There was little chance of the IAB boys losing the Volvo, as it had a remote tracker affixed to the inside of the rear bumper.
***
It was close to midnight when Conn Parker left the Albert Arms. The pub was located on a corner plot on Gladstone Road, which meant that all exits could be seen from a single point on the opposite side of the road. Conn was keen to get back to Marcie’s place, where he could figure how to get himself out of this mess. Marcie was an old friend who had grown too old for prostitution and now worked as a shelf stacker for Sainsbury’s. She would be on her shift by now and so he didn’t need to make polite conversation or, god forbid, have sex with the woman. There was no telling what she could pass on to him or any other bloke desperate enough to shag her.
As he walked along a Volvo Estate car drew up alongside him. He was immediately alert, ready for trouble, until he saw a man inside scratching his head and studying a London A to Z.
“’Scuse me, mate,” the man asked in the local dialect through the open driver’s window. “Am I close to the Elephant and Castle roundabout?”
Conn approached the car and was about to assist when the man grabbed his wrist and clamped on handcuffs, initially fastening the other end to the arm rest in the door.
“Hello, Conn. Nice to see you. You’re nicked!” DCI Radlett said nastily.
Connal Parker knew he had to play it cool. He must not let on he knew what this was about, and more especially, he must not let on that he knew Radlett was bent. Even so, he was very reluctant to accompany the lone officer back to the Yard for questioning. Unfortunately, he had no choice in the matter. He was cuffed to the car door, and Radlett had threatened to drive off at speed with him still attached if he refused to cooperate. That being the case, within a few minutes they were driving across South London with Conn Parker lying on the back seat, his hands cuffed behind his back. Conn’s face was pressed to the rear passenger seat and he was unimpressed with the odours that were filling his nostrils. He tried to manoeuvre his body around.
“Sorry about the smell back there, Conn. That’d be Granny Clayton. Wife insists on us taking her shopping, even though she’s soft in the head and wears a nappy.” He laughed at Parker’s discomfort. Conn Parker would have been even more uncomfortable if he had realised the Volvo was not in fact heading in the direction of New Scotland Yard.
***
A young Bob Radlett had played amongst the buildings scattered around Clapham Junction railway yard with his mates in the 1970s. In those days it was still in use, and they were regularly chased away by railway personnel. Now, forty years later, the old abandoned brick buildings were stripped bare and covered in gang tags and graffiti. Pushing a gagged and terrified Conn Parker ahead of him, Radlett headed towards a square brick building with a flat concrete roof. The door was missing, but it was a long way from the street, and there was no chance of being overheard by anyone passing by. At this
time of night, there was nobody around, except for a scrawny cat and a few rodents.
Radlett pushed the criminal roughly to the floor. With his hands fastened behind him, Conn could not protect himself from the fall, and landed on the unfinished concrete, grazing his forehead as it made contact with the hard surface.
“I’m sorry about this, Conn,” Radlett said unconvincingly. “Not my choice, but you can’t be allowed to go Queen’s Evidence. A lot of people would suffer. Better that one man dies than a whole platoon suffers the ignominy of defeat. I think Patton might have said that, or I might have made it up. Who knows?”
Conn Parker didn’t offer an opinion. He was determined to die in silence and not give the bent copper the pleasure of seeing him squirm. Conn watched Radlett dig into his jacket for something; it looked like a gun. Admittedly the light was limited. A few stray strands of light escaped the boarded up window, and Radlett was silhouetted against the rail yard floodlights shining in through the opening where the missing door should have been, but it looked like a gun.
A second later there was no mistaking what Radlett was planning to do as a round was chambered and the gun clicked. Conn Parker said a prayer to a God he now thoroughly believed existed - not for mercy, just for forgiveness. Radlett levelled the gun and waited for the approaching goods train to rattle by and obscure the sound of gunfire. He was waiting patiently, listening as the rattling grew louder, when he heard shouting.
“DCI Radlett. Put the gun down. Metropolitan Police Internal Affairs.” Radlett turned to face the door and saw a man framed in the doorway, arms extended and pointing a Taser in his direction. Radlett felt the urge to laugh. He was carrying a 9mm Smith and Wesson and he was being ordered around by a policeman who chased other policemen and whose only weapon was a Taser.
“I know this doesn’t make any sense to you IAB guys, but once in a while real policemen have to step over the line with these scumbags to get the job done.” All the while his finger was finding the trigger. “Put the Taser down, son. You’re not impressing anyone. If you want the suspect, he’s all yours.”
A shot rang out and echoed deafeningly around the small building. Radlett had aimed a bullet at Parker’s skull before dropping his weapon to the floor.
“Shit! He made a grab for the gun! You saw that, didn’t you?”
“I saw nothing of the sort, sir. Put your hands behind your head, slowly.”
Radlett was already working the angles. He had bravely disarmed a well known criminal who had been carrying a gun with the serial numbers removed. He was just about to call it in when the IAB turned up. The perpetrator had then lunged for the gun and it went off. An accident. Of course, no-one would really believe it, but the Met would cover it up to save face and the CPS wouldn’t prosecute because there was no prospect of a conviction.
“Come on, you must have seen him grab my hand. Even if you didn’t, well, it’s dark, it’s a stressful situation and it’s your word against mine, isn’t it?” Radlett smiled in the darkness.
“And mine!” came the unexpected response from Connal Parker still lying on the floor. “Get me an ambulance. The bastard nearly shot my ear off! I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Chapter 55
Pargetters Law Firm, City Road, London.
Wednesday 24th August 2011; 9am.
Ben Fogarty had merely to sign off the last of the transfer documents on behalf of Ashley Morgan and her company and then the final monies would be transferred into his client account, ready to be passed on to his twin sister. This would be finalised once the British fetish for endlessly completing money laundering forms had been satisfied, probably by Monday next week.
He was sitting on a vast red leather sofa in the lobby of Pargetters Law Firm, his head tilted back so that he could admire the view of the sky through the roof of the seven-storey glass walled atrium. “How much must this place cost to heat in the winter?” he wondered to himself. The air conditioning was not keeping pace with the solar gain, even at this relatively early hour. Ben could feel himself perspiring slightly. He ran a finger around his collar, exhaling through pursed lips, but at that moment his attention was drawn by a figure approaching him.
A pretty lawyer, dressed in the unofficial uniform of female lawyers everywhere; black skirt suit, thick black tights and a white blouse buttoned up chastely. She smiled, saying his name, and he acknowledged. He stood up, and followed her to a ground floor conference room. It felt cool, almost chilly after the lobby. Ben sat on one side of the table and the other lawyers sat opposite him. Having been plied with coffee, sparkling water from Scotland, and Walker’s Shortbread, the forms were exchanged and signed. The people in the room shook hands and made small talk for a few moments before Ben was told that the money had been transferred to his client account.
As Ben sat gathering his documents from the highly polished walnut conference table, his phone rang. Ben glanced at the screen. The call was from the front desk at his apartment building. He picked up the call, apologising to his hosts.
“Mr Fogarty,” the voice on the other end responded after Ben’s cursory greeting, “you might want to avoid coming back here for a while, sir.”
“Why? What’s wrong, Grant?”
“The police have been here looking for you, and they don’t look too friendly today. They’ve left a plain clothes detective constable at the end of the row, waiting to see if you turn up. He’s trying to look inconspicuous, but he sticks out like a sore thumb.”
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll act on that information accordingly,” Ben said in conclusion, aware that the other lawyers could hear his end of the conversation. Ben set down the phone and packed his briefcase. The most senior lawyer opposite spoke, embarrassment on his face, nervousness in his tone.
“We were just wondering, Mr Fogarty – would you be so good as to sign these for us?” Ben laughed as each of the three produced a pristine copy of his autobiography. The cover showed Ben in his ‘All Blacks’ rugby shirt, sporting designer stubble and holding a white rugby ball, the title was ‘Ben Fogarty - My Life in Black and White’. Ben happily signed the three books with personal endearments, and hoped that they wouldn’t shoot up in value because he had become a convict.
***
“Max, we may have a problem,” were Ben’s opening words when Max Richmond answered his mobile phone. Ben was back at the Regus office he had used to interview Trevor Pannell yesterday.
“You’re a bit late in telling me that!” Max stated. “My flat was visited by the boys in blue at eight this morning. Luckily I wasn’t home last night, I was staying with a lady friend. When we heard that the police were looking for me she made a couple of calls and discovered I am a person of interest in the Rectory Murders all of a sudden. I’m afraid that you, my friend, are the prime suspect.”
Ben let rip with a string of expletives before replying properly.
“I guess this is down to your forensic friend. She must know that there is nothing linking me to the deaths?”
“Ben, she doesn’t believe it was you but she can’t prove a negative. She can say that there was no evidence linking you to the deaths, but either you or your sister did it, and it seems Ashley got her story in first, once the Belgian angle had been rejected.”
Ben swore again. “Can you get to the Regus offices at 1 Liverpool Street as soon as possible?”
There was a silence for a moment, before the door opened behind Ben and Max walked in holding the phone to his ear. Ben’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I suggest you switch your GPS off, mate,” Max said, showing Ben the screen on his iPhone, which displayed a map showing a big red dot at 1 Liverpool Street with the epithet ‘Ben, Friend.’
“I didn’t know they had an app for that!” Ben joked, finding his sense of humour.
***
Gavin Mapperley had been unable to contact Ashley Garner, the Boss, on her mobile, and so he was relieved when she called him.
“Have we got Connal
l Parker yet?” Ashley enquired brusquely and without preamble.
“Good morning to you, too, Boss,” Mapperley responded sarcastically. “Not yet. We’ll hear from DCI Radlett if he turns up.”
“Gavin, I’m on the verge of collecting over a million pounds on the Rectory sale in the next few days. Once I have the money I will resign from Garner-Brinkman and travel. You will be free to take over the business; you’ll be your own boss at last. Don’t let Conn Parker screw it all up.”
Gavin Mapperley almost salivated at the prospect of taking over the whole of the criminal enterprise with its earnings in excess of five million pounds a year, but there was still a problem.
“I hear what you say, Boss, but there may be no business left if your twin brother has anything to do with it. He told Trevor Pannell that he’s coming after me.”
His comment was greeted by silence as the penny dropped with Ashley Morgan. “Gavin, could he have been responsible for the Metal Tokens fiasco?”
“I don’t see how. He has only been in the country for a few days, but it does seem to be the only thing that makes any sense. Radlett was insistent that the police were responding to an emergency call, and I’ve spoken to all of our competitors, so I don’t believe they were responsible. If they were, they’re denying it. But what would they have to gain? No, Boss, the more I think about it, the more I’m certain it has to be him.”
Ashley thought for a moment before she answered.
“It came too quickly after the May Fogarty incident for it to be a coincidence. OK, Gavin, you have my permission to deal with my twin brother.”
“Permanently? Mapperley enquired.
“Absolutely. I’ve just received an email from my bank, telling me that once the money laundering checks are complete the money will be available for me to transfer from Ben’s client account to any account of my choosing.”
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