Almost everyone the Met had on duty, or who had answered their mobile phones from their beds, was now at the scene. Ben was being bandaged around the head as the paramedic tried to secure a pad over his ear, which had been emergency stitched. The bandage was already bloody, but Ben refused to leave the scene until Max was allowed to leave too.
The three Maoris had melted away into the darkness long before the authorities arrived, on Ben’s orders. They would be at Max’s parents’ house sleeping by now. In the next few days they would be on their way home again, just three more New Zealanders enjoying London’s sights. When Ben had asked for help from his Dad he knew that Hirini, Matiu and Tane would respond, even though none of them had ever set foot on a plane before. That was what brothers were for, and these men were his brothers in every way that mattered.
***
A bleary eyed DS Scott stared down at his notepad. DCI Coombes was in conference with DCI Griffiths, two detectives from internal affairs and the two AC’s, AC Penny Tomas and AC Tim Garrett, both of whom were in full dress uniform despite having been called from their beds. Addressing Max and Ben, he sought confirmation that he had written down their statements correctly.
“So, Max, you waited at the main road and when May Fogarty came along you ushered her into a car and sent her off to hospital, is that correct?” Max nodded. “Then, when you came back, you found the bearded man mysteriously lying dead on the floor with a gun in his hand?”
“I never said ‘mysteriously’.” Max corrected, and DS Scott sighed.
“So you took the gun, saw Ben was about to be executed and shot Alastair Dein in the elbow.”
Max nodded again. “That’s right. But I should be given credit for applying a tourniquet and saving his life.”
“I have that written down; your commendation will no doubt be in the post,” Scott added sarcastically. He turned to Ben. “You brought one point two million pounds in a secure case to exchange for May Fogarty, who was being held against her will. You were threatened and subjected to a vicious knife attack, disabling your attacker with this Mere, or Patu.” Scott held up the bloody Patu in a plastic evidence bag. Ben confirmed that was what happened. Scott looked at the Patu. “It looks innocuous, doesn’t it? I would never have believed it could slice through bone.”
He continued. “Mapperley then drove off with another East European-sounding man and Max here, our medical hero, applied a second tourniquet to your attacker’s leg.”
“Yes. It really was that simple, wasn’t it, Max?” Max nodded, and Scott sighed again, aware of the nonsense he was being asked to write down.
“Now, about the ‘shadowy’ spectre figures who took down five of London’s hardest criminals. You say you saw nothing, is that right?”
“Night blindness,” Ben blurted out. Scott looked puzzled. “All of that was going on in the dark areas and we were standing in a brightly lit workshop. We saw movement, but we couldn’t see who it was. Probably a rival gang after the money, who knows? We didn’t see enough to identify anyone.”
“So, no seven foot ogres with painted faces and blood curdling battle cries?” DS Scott asked, without any hope of a sensible answer.
“Well, now that you ask…” Max left the sentence hanging, and he and Ben laughed. Scott closed his book and flipped over the elastic band that kept it closed.
“We’ll see you both at the Yard for a full statement, is that clear?” They nodded. “Now, two of the traffic boys are waiting to take you to hospital, where you can see your grandmother, and for God’s sake get that ear attended to. It’s still bleeding.” Scott paused. “If we recover the money we will, of course, let you know.”
The policeman walked off, the darkness concealing a smile, and Max helped Ben to the police car. “You’re remarkably chipper for a man with a severed ear who has lost over a million pounds of a client’s money,” Max observed as they walked.
“You didn’t think I was going to actually bring the cash to a meeting with Mapperley, do you?” Ben said, as Max raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Chapter 62
South Colonnade Apartments, Canary Wharf, London.
Sunday 28th August 2011; 1:30am.
Brian Fox had been sleeping badly of late. He hadn’t been the same since he came out of prison. He had spent almost three months in a halfway house with other ex-cons and drug addicts, allegedly on the road to recovery. Sleep had been a luxury in that mad house. He had been kept awake by grown men crying because they were being kept away from their kids or their drugs, or both. Now he had a place of his own, he would sleep whenever he could. It wasn’t as though he had anything else to do. He was keeping well clear of his criminal friends, and trying to live on benefits.
When Gavin Mapperley rattled his door-knocker after midnight, Brian was in his makeshift workshop repairing a broken Richer Sounds hi fi system someone in the flats had thrown in the communal skip.
“Get your tools, Brian. You’re coming with me,” Mapperley said briskly, without introduction. Brian told Mapperley he was done with prison and that meant he was done with crime. He had no intention of leaving his flat. Mapperley told him what he wanted doing and offered the old safebreaker five grand in cash, risk free. Brian Fox gathered his tools and sat in the back seat of Mapperley’s ruined Jaguar as the front seat was covered in blood. He knew better than to ask about that. After a short journey they were soon in a posh flat in Canary Wharf, looking at a Bostwick Incorporated Security container with compressed air protection.
Brian hadn’t met Ashley Garner before but her reputation preceded her. She was said to be both beautiful and dangerous. She was the Boss. The old safe breaker had to admit she was a looker, even with no make-up.
“I can do this but it’ll take a while, and I don’t work well when I’m being stared at,” Fox said. The other two left him alone and he could hear raised voices in the kitchen. Neither of them seemed happy. Foxy wouldn’t have been happy, either, if it had been his Jaguar that had been so badly mashed up.
Turning his attention to the case, he found that the lock cover was open, revealing the battery-powered keypad. The keypad had nine numbers in rows of three and a zero below in the middle. Either side of the zero were an alpha button and a function button. Each key had a letter and a symbol on it as well as the number. So, as well as being able to use any combination of nine numbers, it was also possible to mix in letters and symbols. For example, a four digit code could be; 1,2,3,4 or 1x3y or even x/*&, giving millions of variables.
Bypassing the pad and forcing the lock would usually release the compressed gas, which was often placed behind a frangible (easily broken) bulb filled with indelible ink. However, in this case the compressed gas facility had not been activated, or so it appeared. When the Bostwick was armed an LCD symbol flashed on and off, reading CO2, but on this keypad the symbol was dark and stable. Whoever had locked the case had either not known how to arm it, or had not bothered. Still, Mapperley evidently believed that it was armed, or he would have forced it open himself. Foxy decided not to mention this salient fact to his new employers, as it could reduce his fee.
Sliding an exceedingly thin feeler gauge between the keypad and its base, Foxy moved the thin piece of steel around until it met resistance. That would be the connector that clipped the wiring from the keypad to the wiring from the battery. If this was a standard Bostwick container that connector would be plastic with tiny metal screws holding the wires in place. Knowing that there was no danger of the compressed air exploding, Foxy decided to be rather bold.
Pushing up on the feeler gauge, he dropped four tiny drops of hydrochloric acid on the stainless steel and watched as surface tension held the acid onto the steel, letting it work its corrosive way under the keypad. There was a small fizz and the keypad went dark as the battery link was destroyed. Using a chisel and a brick hammer, three well-placed sharp blows would spring the lid open.
“You can come in now, I’m almost done,” The safebreaker called. His anxi
ous clients came to witness their final triumph - hard won, admittedly, but a triumph all the same. They all gathered around the case as Foxy struck the final blow and lifted the lid to reveal a solid plastic inner cover. He pried that open and revealed several reams of copier paper in unopened packets. There was a moment of stunned silence. Seeing the expressions on his clients’ faces, Foxy had to ask; “Do I still get paid?”
Chapter 63
New Scotland Yard, London.
Sunday 28th August 2011; 11am.
Kelvin Grainger sat in the interview room where he had heard Ashley Garner’s impromptu confession just a couple of days earlier. He had been roused from his bed at around nine in the morning, when the police arrested Gavin Mapperley. Grainger had been enjoying a Sunday morning lie in and so he was slightly unkempt, suffering from bed hair and none too happy. He was most uncomfortable because he knew what was coming next.
A uniformed PC guided a similarly unkempt Gavin Mapperley into the room and to the interview table, where he stood guard. Grainger asked the policeman to leave so that he could have a privileged conversation with his client. Reluctantly the PC departed and closed the door.
“What the hell is going on here, Gavin? And where is Ashley?”
Mapperley seemed reluctant to speak. His breaths were fast and shallow and Grainger realised his client was battling a panic attack. Grainger called the PC in and asked for the handcuffs to be removed, as his client was in a secure room and he was suffering from anxiety as a result of being constrained. The PC unlocked the handcuffs and Mapperley sighed with relief. The PC shook his head.
“If you aren’t freed on bail, you might have to get used to handcuffs.”
Mapperley shivered. Grainger had never seen his client like this before. His face was gaunt, with grey stubble on his jowls. His complexion was unnaturally pale and his lips had a bluish tint. But at least his breathing was regularising. The door opened, revealing DCI Coombes and DS Scott.
“I hope that this is vitally important, Chief Inspector,” Grainger said. “We’ll be making a complaint if this little ploy was initiated simply to inconvenience us.”
“Where is Ashley Garner?” DCI Coombes asked impolitely and without preamble. “We allowed her to go home on your recommendation and at her own recognisance.”
Grainger was taken aback. He tried to defend his position by claiming that he could not babysit his clients twenty-four hours a day, but even he knew how hollow the excuse sounded. Eventually he had to admit that she appeared to be un-contactable at present. Coombes turned to the other man.
“And what about you, Mapperley? Do you know where your boss is?”
Mapperley simply shook his head miserably, realising that they would not let him out on bail when they found out that his boss had, in fact, already skipped the country.
“Gavin Mapperley, when you were arrested your rights were explained to you. Do you need your solicitor to explain those rights to you again before we continue?
Mapperley shook his head, and Coombes asked him to reply vocally for the recorder, which he did.
“Gavin Baines Mapperley, we are charging you with conspiracy to murder, conspiracy to produce and disseminate forged currency, and money laundering, but further charges are pending and these will be relayed to you later in this interview.”
“I do hope you have some evidence, Chief Inspector,” Grainger interjected. “My client has me here to protect his rights, and I will be advising him not to answer your questions.”
“Mr Grainger, you will notice that I am not asking any questions. We have all the evidence we need. With any luck, Mr Mapperley will be going away for a very long time. I will now explain the charges in more detail so that you can both make any representations that you feel necessary.”
Grainger locked his jaw and stared at Coombes, who continued speaking with a nasty smile on his face.
“Mary Akuta died in hospital as a result of a beating inflicted on her by one Rafe Gibson, a fact admitted by Mr Gibson in an alleged suicide note. We now know, however, that Rafe Gibson was murdered after writing his confession. We have a witness who saw him being thrown from a balcony by two men, who the witness identified as Tony Kennerson and John ‘Jess’ Caplin.”
Mapperley took a sharp intake of breath. Bob Radlett had said he was taking care of Connal Parker. Grainger tried to cover his client’s unintentional surprise by quickly interrupting the DCI.
“We will need to see the witness statement in due course, but for the record my client denies that these men had anything whatever to do with him, and we consider any such allegation to be a slur.” Grainger’s righteous anger deflated when he saw DCI Coombes share a knowing smile with his DS, who took the floor.
“We have a witness statement from one Connal Parker, who has documentary evidence of his employment by a company controlled, in part, by Mr Mapperley,” he explained. “Mr Parker is quite clear that the only person who ever gave him instructions or direction was Mr Mapperley. He also confirmed that Tony Kennerson and Jess Caplin were employed by the same company, and that Rafe Gibson was, too.”
DS Scott paused to consult a typed statement. “Mr Connal Parker has stated that he received a call from Mr Mapperley instructing himself and Rafe Gibson to visit Mrs Akuta, and to ‘stop her from rocking the boat’.” Scott stared directly into Mapperley’s eyes. “I saw what was left of Mary Akuta after Rafe Gibson was finished with her. She won’t be rocking any boats now, will she, Gavin?” He spat out his words, and DCI Coombes squeezed his arm as Mapperley stared down at his feet. Coombes took over.
“Mr Mapperley, Connal Parker will further testify that Rafe Gibson killed Mary Akuta and that Tony Kennerson and Jess Caplin, both of your employ, killed him. By the way, if you see your old Yard pal DCI Radlett in prison fatigues when you are on remand, don’t hold all of this against him. He did his best.”
Mapperley dropped his head into his hands, and his lawyer sat grim faced as Coombes handed over to DS Scott, who listed the evidence linking Mapperley with Metal Tokens Limited and the pound coin forgeries.
***
After an hour the interview had been suspended, and Grainger tried to convince his client that, with a strong defence, they could avoid the more serious charges and maybe plead to the lesser charges. Mapperley wasn’t buying it and, when the door opened again, two different detectives were standing at the door. The two new detectives introduced themselves as being from the National Crime Agency, formerly SOCA, the serious and organised crime agency. They also stated that they were working in cooperation with HM Customs.
“Gavin Mapperley, you have already been arrested and cautioned. In addition to the charges you already face we now charge you with drug smuggling, tax evasion, conspiracy to avoid customs duty and conspiracy to assist and or procure acts of terrorism against the United Kingdom, its territories and its allies,” the taller detective announced.
“This is truly outrageous!” Grainger spluttered. “What happens next? A senior traffic warden comes in and accuses my client of multiple counts of double parking? You had better be certain of your case, young man!”
Grainger slammed his pen onto the desk. Mapperley whispered into his lawyer’s ear, and Grainger spoke up again, rather more calmly this time.
“My client has a right to know how he could be considered to be involved in terrorism. He believes, as I do, that you are playing the terrorism card simply to hold him for twenty eight days to build the case against him, rather than hold him for the twenty four hours you are allowed otherwise.”
The two detectives passed papers between themselves, and the spokesman read from a faxed sheet of paper.
“Five hours ago Europol, UK Customs, Interpol and the Metropolitan police were involved in a co-ordinated operation against a drug smuggling operation run by two men well known to Mr Mapperley. The two men in question are linked to Mr Mapperley by his dealings with Florabel Bloemen SA and that company’s illicit drug transactions. The raids have produced a
paper trail leading right back to Mr Mapperley. It is now clear that Mr Mapperley has had numerous conversations with a Mr Peters and a Mr Willems, according to intercepted communications.”
Grainger sighed impatiently. “Very interesting, Sergeant, but how is this even remotely linked with terrorism?”
“The names Peter Willems and Willem Peters are obviously false, as your client well knew. The real names of the men are Harun and Yunis Al Ahwaz; both are admitted members of Al Qaeda, Harun being listed as second in command in Europe.”
The jaws of both Kelvin Grainger and Gavin Mapperley dropped open.
“The reason we are here today is to charge you and to inform you that, with warrants obtained overnight, we have frozen all of your personal and business bank accounts. We are pursuing all funds held in your name or that of your immediate family. As we speak, officers are heading towards your house to confiscate all of your computers and other electronic data storage devices. The officers will prevent anyone present in the house from removing any personal belongings or vehicles until they have been thoroughly searched. That will take around three days.”
Gavin Mapperley was incensed. “You can’t do that! My wife has no other form of income or access to cash, nor does my son. He’s a student; all of his studies will be on his laptop. You are deliberately ruining our lives!”
“Drugs ruin lives, Mr Mapperley, and you peddle drugs.”
Tell them they can’t do this!” Mapperley looked to his lawyer, who knew that arguing was pointless. The lawyer spoke resignedly.
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