“OK, Sergeant. You’ve made your point. What do you really want?”
A tense negotiation took place over the next hour. Eventually a compromise was reached, which required that Mapperley would plead guilty to all counts, except those charges relating to assisting terrorism, and in return the NCA/SOCA would not impound the house he shared with his wife, the cars belonging to his wife and son, or the joint bank accounts, which his wife would be required to close and re-open in her sole name. Mapperley guessed that his wife would have to sell the house to fund her living expenses. Their joint account contained no more than four or five thousand pounds, and his next salary cheque from Garner-Brinkman was unlikely to be paid.
The NCA and the drugs task force were happy with the deal, which would cut short a lengthy and technically complex trial. The Treasury would happily take the significant assets of Cresty Group and another company called Ashlaw Ltd, the details of which Mapperley had shared with the police to save his family. The Met police would be happy to have solved two murders in a matter of days, and to have closed down a long established North London gang of pimps, forgers, people traffickers and drug dealers. They would be less pleased with yet more corruption within the Force being uncovered, when they were already under investigation.
Quite how this all fitted in with a shoot-out in Wandsworth, and a burnt out Jaguar in Neasden, had yet to be worked out. One thing had not changed, though - with Ashley Garner missing, Benjamin Ambrose Fogarty was still wanted for questioning on a triple murder.
***
Ashley Garner had left her apartment soon after the debacle with the security case. Afraid that the police might already be on their way, Mapperley had been obliged to give Brian Fox five hundred pounds of his own money to keep him quiet. Ashley had wandered around the flat, packing whatever was important to her into boxes which she then deposited with the twenty four hour porter. He was going to hold onto her boxes until she called him with a new address and instructions for sending her boxes on, but that had been this morning, and things were moving quickly.
Gavin Mapperley had been apprehended just before she took the first flight available to her, which was to Rotterdam. She then had to take the train to Schiphol, about forty minutes away. Gavin’s wife had been in tears when she called Ashley, because the police were ransacking her house in the pursuit of evidence. They were also looking for the green Jaguar, but they wouldn’t find it. Ashley had instructed Gavin to take it to the chop shop in Neasden and take a taxi home from there. Now, as she waited at the gate, she knew that Dubai wasn’t an option, at least not yet. Gavin was weak; he would give up their bank accounts and their companies, even the address of her apartment, to save his own skin. Still, she mused, she had never made Dennis Grierson’s mistake of thinking one could buy loyalty.
In the short time between arriving at Schiphol and coming to the gate for her next flight, she had looted her accounts online and transferred them to her emergency suspense account at Western Union. They were transferring the money to a Western Union branch close to her destination. That would give her a few thousand pounds to be going on with. She would need it, because her credit cards and mobile phone were now in a trash-can at the Burger King outlet.
The flight was called; it was a long flight, taking her far away, and it would feel perhaps even longer than it really was, given that she could now only afford an economy seat. She stood and joined the boarding queue, gritting her teeth as the business class customers walked by and onto the upper deck of the Boeing 747.
Ashley consoled herself with the thought that she had one last chance of getting her money, and unless she had overlooked something, her plan was foolproof.
Chapter 64
New Scotland Yard, London.
Sunday 28th August 2011; 4pm.
Ben and Max had been separated when they arrived at Scotland Yard. Max was a witness to the bloodbath at Carter’s Yard, which had claimed another death as one more thug succumbed to his injuries. Six were dead, two had lost limbs and one was in dire need of reconstructive facial surgery as soon as he was out of danger.
In the three weeks since the riots, the North London criminal fraternity had taken a beating. Dennis Grierson and his cohorts were either dead or on remand, the TH Crew had been destroyed, several were in secure units, two were on remand and two more were in council care, awaiting appeals from their parents to have them home. The real power behind Grierson’s throne, Ashley Garner and Gavin Mapperley, were on remand or on the run, and their team were dead, disabled or running for the hills. The Trafalgar House Flats were as peaceful as they had been in those early days of the 1960s before the gangs had taken control, and this time the police were setting up a control office in one of the flats, to be manned full time. Assistant Commissioner Penelope Thomas appeared to have some pull, after all.
The Commissioner himself had taken the time to thank DCI Coombes, DCI Griffiths and four other senior officers for their work. The two ACs received written commendations and the members of the Internal Affairs Bureau were less scorned than usual when they picked up three of Radlett’s colleagues for questioning.
No one was looking too hard for a link between Metal Tokens, Hedo’s and Carter’s Yard, because Mapperley was in custody and Cresty Group’s accounts were in the hands of the National Crimes Agency.
Notwithstanding the high spirits amongst the officers who normally hated working on Sundays, there was a triple murder to be solved and the gangs taskforce had yet to track down the rival gang who had wiped out Mapperley’s team, albeit forensics had turned up very little on site.
It was in this atmosphere that DCI Coombes and DS Scott sat opposite Ben Fogarty and Damien Cresswell, his lawyer. Damien was speaking.
“Come along, now, Detective Chief Inspector. How much longer are we going to indulge in this ‘danse macabre’? This is what we know. A wanted felon has told you that my client committed the three Rectory murders, and she has now run off to we know not where. My own suspicion is that she is looking for Osama Bin Laden’s real estate agent. We will never see her again, and I think you know it. You have no witness, and even if she was here, who would believe her? She was the leader of a criminal enterprise to match the Kray Twins. Ben, here, even by your witness’s evidence, was kidnapped and imprisoned in the house. He was found with a gun which had not, in fact, been fired, and which belonged to a known criminal, until his demise. On the other hand, you have your witness’s original statement, which was a pack of lies, by her own admission, and a boatload of forensic evidence tying her to the deaths. My client had no motive to kill these men, and no opportunity; they were dead when he found them.”
The lawyer paused. “For heaven’s sake, my client called the police. Look, I do work for the Crown Prosecution Service, and they will never countenance a prosecution like this. The Metropolitan Police would be a laughing stock.”
Damien sat back in his chair. DCI Coombes looked up at the video camera in the corner and shrugged his shoulders. A minute later the door opened and a uniformed officer entered.
“Assistant Commissioner Timothy Garrett has entered the interview room,” DCI Coombes announced for the digital recorder whilst pressing the red button that imprinted the time on the recording.
“Mr Fogarty, Mr Cresswell. DCI Coombes and DS Scott have submitted a report along the lines of your summation. They requested that we consider removing Mr Fogarty from the investigation as a person of interest and restore him to witness status. That has been agreed.
Evidence taken from a police forensic scientist, and corroborated by an officer under investigation, suggests that one of our people was tasked by Mrs Garner’s colleagues to close down this investigation quickly. We can only assume that this was to distract us from pursuing Mrs Garner. However, Mr Fogarty, you have been in this country for less than a month and you have found yourself at the scene of multiple deaths twice, and at a drugs raid in Soho.”
Garrett smiled at Ben’s surprised expression, and exp
lained. “We have you on CCTV, standing in the crowd and laughing. Might I suggest that you head back to New Zealand and maybe find a young rugby team to coach for the upcoming season? You are welcome in the UK at any time, as a UK citizen, but we are busy just now with the aftermath of the riots and you seem to be able to create a mini riot wherever you go.”
Ben leaned over and spoke to his lawyer in hushed tones. Damien Cresswell looked up at the two policemen and nodded. “My client has instructed me to find him a flight back to New Zealand just as soon as his stitches are removed, and in any event no later than mid September.”
The meeting closed and hands were shaken all around. Damien Cresswell and AC Garrett left the room, chatting about England’s chances in the cricket winter tour of India, and Ben was left with DCI Coombes and DS Scott.
“I was wondering, Ben,” DCI Coombes ventured in his least threatening tone, a tone he liked to think of as comradely. “I am retiring in October; if the missus and I were to come to New Zealand, would you be interested in showing us around, maybe taking in a game or two?”
“I can do better than that. Let me know when you’re coming and you can stay at the ranch. Dad will be pleased to have you.”
“Dad being Patrick Fogarty, the former New Zealand Minister for Justice?”
“The very same,” Ben smiled, and shook hands with both detectives before going in search of Max Richmond.
Epilogue
Vine Street Crescent, Tower Hill, London.
Thursday, September 8th 2011
Max Richmond pressed the button on his laptop, sending the last instalment of his story on the London Riots winging its way to the Guardian Editorial Offices in Manchester. Ben was talking on the phone and a woman’s voice came from the kitchen. It was Ilsa, who had called herself Katrina for the last time.
“Max, do you want salt and vinegar on your portion?”
“Of course. I write for t’Guardian now. I’m a northern lad. Come to think of it, is there any gravy?” Max’s mimicry of the Mancunian accent made Ilsa laugh, although she was still getting used to his sense of humour.
Ilsa brought out three portions of fish, chips and mushy peas, setting them all down on the table. The smell was enough to prompt Ben to end his call, and all three sat down to a celebration dinner fit for an Englishman.
“So, how did the trust application go down?” Max asked through a mouthful of battered fish.
“It is just fine. We are in business. Congratulations, Max, Ilsa; you are now trustees of the Fogarty Foundation for Community Living.” The two lovers wanted to cheer, but their mouths were full.
When Ben returned the money to the bank he had assumed that the authorities would sequester the funds, but they did not. Too many legal complications, they said. Knowing that they were client funds, and that he couldn’t simply give them away to keep them out of Ashley’s hands, he’d had a sudden thought. Two solicitors’ offices and a barrister’s chambers later, Ben had the answer he had hoped for - the power of attorney he had been given by Ashley was still valid and binding. It had been so widely drafted that Ben could do what he wanted with the money. Now, a week later, the fledgling Fogarty Foundation was being formed. May Fogarty, Max Richmond and Ilsa Anna Beratov were its first trustees. Working with the police in Trafalgar House Flats, the trust would fight drug abuse, child abuse and criminal behaviour amongst the young, offering courses and training to break the cycle of poverty that had been the hallmark of the flats for a generation.
They were all rounding off one of Ben’s last meals in the UK with a glass of red wine when Max’s phone received a text. He looked at the message on the screen. It read: ‘Skype now, urgent.’
***
Max and Ilsa made themselves scarce, washing up in the kitchen whilst Ben booted up his computer and loaded up Skype. Clicking on the logo that said “TheRancherNZ”, Ben waited as the familiar arrowhead chased its tail around in a circle and the familiar ring tone sounded. There was a click and Ben’s own face appeared in a corner. He smiled. A second later his dad appeared on the main screen. He looked ill and drawn.
“Dad, are you OK?” Ben asked with concern apparent in his voice. Then in reply, from eleven thousand miles away came a voice he had never expected to hear again. As the voice came closer, the old man’s chair was wheeled to the side and Ben could see that his arms were taped to the chair.
“Hello, Ben,” Ashley cooed. “It’s a real Fogarty family reunion. Oh, the magic of Skype.” Ben was speechless, and from the kitchen Max came running to see the source of the voice. Ben signalled for him to stay out of sight, as he spoke to his sister.
“Ashley, what are you doing? Why don’t you disappear off to some remote island somewhere, you know, where Interpol won’t find you? It’s all over. Mapperley sold you out.”
“You did, you mean!” Ashley snapped back. “I’d like nothing better than to hide away on a tropical island, little brother, but I don’t have any money. But I have Patrick, and he must be worth a million pounds of anybody’s money. Well, Ben, what do you say? You wire me a million pounds and I don’t slit his throat.”
Max had disappeared back into the kitchen and was madly dialling a number already stored in his phone, as Ben replied.
“Ashley, the money is gone. The UK seems to have a policy of not letting criminals keep their ill gotten gains.”
It seemed that Ashley didn’t believe him. “Dear Ben. I had rather hoped that you cared for Patrick a little more than that.”
Ashley pulled out a knife, and the picture froze. “Don’t give her the money,” Patrick said, before Ben heard a loud slap, but all he could see was the frozen picture of Ashley holding a knife.
In the kitchen, Ilsa watched Max pace the room as he waited for the phone to be picked up. Finally it was, and he looked up. “This is Max, and it isn’t a social call. Patrick is in danger. Where are you?” There was a pause as Max listened to the answer. “Well, get back there now. Ashley has a knife to his throat.” The call ended abruptly, and Max and Ilsa signalled to Ben that they had called Hirini. Max put his hands together and slowly pulled them apart. Stretch it out, was the message conveyed.
Suddenly the picture pixelated and cleared. Patrick’s lip was bleeding and the knife was at his throat. Ashley was speaking again, her voiced calm and flat. “Ben, I don’t really care where you get the money from, I just want it now. Get your law firm to telegraph it. They know you are good for the money.”
“If I did that it would take days, you must know that.”
“What I do know is that, if I don’t get at least half a million pounds wired to me in the next twenty minutes, Patrick dies and we get to Skype again tomorrow, when another one of your loved ones dies.”
Ben looked puzzled. Ashley continued. “I was thinking of the pretty girl in the picture in your room to start with, what do you think?”
“I think, Ashley, that if you touch either Dad or Charlotte you are a dead woman.”
Ashley screamed in anger. “You’re not taking me seriously!” She took the knife and sliced open Patrick’s throat. Immediately regretting it, she tried to stem the blood. She was sobbing now as the life force in Patrick’s eyes ebbed away. He mouthed “I love you, son.” before he slumped down in his chair.
“You made me do it, Ben! It’s your fault!” The madness was in full flow now. She had crossed a line and she would never return. Tears flowed down Ben’s face, and he sobbed.
Ashley was still shaking Patrick’s body and yelling “Wake up!” She stopped abruptly as the door behind her flew open and two Maori warriors burst into the room. One ran to Patrick, before realising they were too late. The other approached Ashley. She tried to fend him off with the knife, but he kept coming at her. She lunged at him and he didn’t even bother defending himself. The blade cut through his clothing and skin before skittering off a rib and under his arm. Ben watched the whole macabre drama play out on screen.
Hirini took hold of Ashley as if she had been a rag dol
l and, as she screamed for mercy, his right arm reached around her head and grabbed her chin. With tears flowing down his face, the big Maori pulled her chin quickly and snapped her neck cleanly, dropping her to the floor without further ado. Hirini and Ben stared at each other across eleven thousand miles, and Hirini sobbed.
“I am sorry. We were too late, Hehu.”
J Jackson Bentley writes both fiction and non-fiction books and has been a published author for over sixteen years. He now works as a Legal Consultant in the UK, the USA, the Middle East and the Far East. His spare time is spent writing at home in the UK and in Florida. Married with four grown children he is currently writing a new thriller set in the UAE and is compiling a book of short stories for 2012.
Find out more, or, follow J Jackson Bentley at:
www.jjacksonbentley.com
www.facebook.com/jjacksonbentley
http://jjacksonbentley.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/jjacksonbentley
You can also contact the author by email at:
[email protected]
Fogarty Page 31