No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  “Take a seat. I will call Inspector Pole’s office.”

  Marissa moved to the reception area where seats were arranged in a semicircle. She did not sit but instead turned towards the large bay window to watch the rain lash down in large sheets of water, almost tropical. She had never worked with Pole before but knew Nancy Wu well, a woman she admired greatly. Despite her high-profile career Nancy had always found time to mentor students from her alma mater, King’s College, and Marissa had been lucky enough to be one of them. Nancy had offered her pupillage when no other chambers would give her a chance; more recently, Nancy had been the only person she could confide in. The only one who knew how to listen to Marissa’s anxious calls about a large case she was dealing with, without asking questions that might compromise her integrity.

  Exceptional, Marissa nodded.

  The outline of a tall man materialised in the window, his reflection only a dark silhouette. Marissa turned to face him.

  “Inspector Pole. Pleased to meet you.” Pole extended a friendly hand. Marissa shook it, firm but warm. His intelligent eyes were already at work but his smile was no fake, a man she could do business with.

  * * *

  “I looked at the file that HMP Belmarsh sent me. I can see why he might be a good resource,” Marissa said, flicking through a large set of papers she had spread over their meeting table.

  “Boredom is the worst enemy of someone doing time within the confines of Belmarsh’s High Security Unit and he is doing thirty years,” Pole said.

  “That level of security risk?” Marissa asked, her large dark eyes resting on Pole calmly. The delicate features of her face had a benevolence that didn’t match the strength of her voice.

  “With his IRA background he is at the top of the list. Although some would say the IRA has been decommissioned.”

  “What about the New IRA or whatever they care to call themselves these days?”

  “Well observed,” Pole replied raising an approving eyebrow. “Henry’s friends were certainly part of that so, yes, HMP needs to keep an eye on him.”

  “Then it will be good to work with Nancy.” Marissa grinned. It was comfortable speaking to Pole, a perfect stranger, and she recognised his skill in putting her at her ease. He must have done his research and knew she and Nancy were close. But she felt obliged to ask questions she had not yet had time to clear with her former mentor.

  “She is part of his legal team …” Marissa let her sentence hang hoping for additional information.

  “And she is keen to keep her client a law-abiding con,” Pole carried on with the shadow of a smile.

  Marissa nodded. She spread her hands over the open pages of the HMP document, still assessing its content. “I can’t hide it from you. I am delighted Nancy has agreed to be part of the team.”

  “Then I won’t hide it from you either, so am I. I have worked with her on some pretty high-profile cases, much to my benefit.”

  “You mean the LIBOR scandal involving the Bank of England?”

  “The very same. And Crowne went straight to the heart of the matter, by the way. As much as I don’t like to admit it, he is a very smart arse to quote the man himself.”

  “I gathered that. The additional advantage, of course, is that he no longer works in the City, yet remains perfectly knowledgeable about the way it operates.”

  Marissa moved a few pieces of paper around, replacing them neatly in the file in a different order. She extended her firm hand, brought her coffee cup to her lips and drank in small cautious sips.

  “I presume you can’t yet share the details of the background of the case?”

  “You know the rules as well as I do, Inspector. But perhaps I can ask a few questions about what you estimate Henry’s skills are and you might get a sense of what is going on.”

  “Fire away.”

  “How much does Crowne know about the Middle-East?”

  “He has done business there,” Pole replied, lifting the file that he had compiled. He went straight to a couple of pages at the back of the folder and started reading.

  “He worked on certain investment funds specifically designed for that region called Sukuk funds. Those investments are compliant with Sharia Law.” Pole kept reading. “Crowne specialised in equities which were key assets in those funds.”

  “Which countries?” Marissa asked. She put down her cup. Her eyes had turned a shade darker.

  “UAE, Oman, Qatar and Indonesia.”

  “Indonesia is irrelevant,” she said. Pole stopped reading. “Apologies, I should not have interrupted.”

  “He took a trip to Saudi Arabia. Not sure what the outcome was on that occasion. It was just before the takeover between HXBK and GL was announced.”

  “You mean he had to stop working on this deal because of the takeover announcement?”

  “So I understand.”

  “I hope you won’t mind if I borrow your file?”

  “That’s the reason I brought it with me.”

  Marissa raised the cup to her lips again, realised it was empty, crushed it in her hand and dumped it in the wastepaper basket. She moved slowly and deliberately as if continually aware of the impact she might have on her surroundings.

  “Was he closely involved with the rescue plan for GL during the financial crisis?”

  “No. He was excluded from the merger team.”

  “He was never tasked to find finance to rescue the bank or a bailout solution?” Marissa moved her body forward, leaning over the neatly arranged papers lying on the table.

  “No.”

  “That must have been painful,” she observed neutrally. If she was going to work with a hotshot from the City she wanted to know how to manoeuvre him to her advantage; however, this could be done with respect.

  “I will speak to the SFO director.” Marissa picked up Pole’s file and her own.

  “And I will speak to Superintendent Marsh.” Pole ran his solid hand over his goatee. Marsh, The Super, would be breathing down his neck once more, keen on this new high-profile case.

  “In the meantime, I will organise a meeting with Nancy if you don’t mind.” Marissa’s eyes lit up for a moment. She would relish being involved with her former teacher, mentor and friend on a par.

  What a thrilling prospect.

  Chapter Four

  The brightness of the light always made the contour of each instrument sharper. Pole recoiled from the smell. Invariably the mortuary had the same effect on him. Yvonne had been working on Massimo Visconti’s body since she had arrived at 8.00am. She had been swabbing, bagging meticulously and was about to start the heavy work on the cadaver’s internal organs when Pole arrived. She stopped working for a moment and Pole was grateful for it.

  “Morning Jon. Want a preliminary on my findings?” Yvonne said lifting the visor of her protective headpiece. “I don’t need to tell you what the cause of death is. Serrated blade to the throat.”

  “I can see that very well thank you, a severed head is usually a good indication,” Pole grumbled.

  “Yeah. But you will see that the jaggedness of the cut means that the perpetrator took his or her time.”

  “Could the perpetrator in fact be a woman?” Pole asked with a frown.

  “Well, it might explain the structure of the cut. It is not a clean slash either because of the desire to inflict pain or because it was difficult, perhaps both.”

  “And the sword we found?”

  “Almost certainly the instrument. It all seems to match but I will confirm this with final tests, blood etc.”

  Yvonne moved to the sword that had been placed back in its evidence bag. She opened the bag carefully and drew the blade out with her gloved hands.

  “It’s old, very old, perhaps even an antique, well preserved though, and sharp. In fact, it has been sharpened recently probably with t
he intention of killing. I have swabbed the victim to check for metal residue.”

  Pole was leaning against the wall, his tall body braced against it, his arms crossed. He craned his neck to see what Yvonne was pointing towards. She lifted her head and smiled. Pole took his time to walk over to her, eventually coming to stand over the beheaded body.

  “I see what you mean about the cut.”

  “If you look at his wrists and ankles, you can see he was in shackles. He was not killed immediately after his abduction. These bruises have taken time to set and the skin is badly damaged.”

  “You think he was locked up for a while. Any idea for how long?”

  “He had lost weight, I think; the skin is slack in places. And he was severely dehydrated so I would say over a month, perhaps longer.”

  “Any other signs?”

  “Apart from the fact that he was probably starved, and not allowed to shave or wash. I will tell you more when I have finished the examination of his internal organs.”

  Pole moved slowly around the body, taking in the details as Yvonne was pointing them out to him. His breathing had slowed down to a minimum, little gulps of air that prevented him from smelling the only too familiar odour of decomposition.

  “For what it’s worth,” Yvonne carried on, slamming her visor back down, “I think it’s a warning.”

  She selected a scalpel and started on the Y shape incision. Pole willed himself to move steadily back to his place against the wall. But Yvonne shooed him away with a wave of her hand.

  “Don’t need you here,” she said without looking at him. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have some meaningful results.”

  “Good,” was all Pole managed to say.

  “And I don’t need you fainting on me.”

  * * *

  The gallery had just opened its doors. A simple white cube with a small recess, large enough to house a select number of art pieces. Phillippe Garry emerged from the diminutive office nestling at the back of the gallery, balancing two cups of Sichuan tea on a small tray.

  “Here you are Nancy. You converted me to Sichuan. I hope you like my choice.”

  “So kind of you Phillippe but I don’t need the VIP treatment really.” Nancy chuckled. “Although I am very appreciative of it of course.” She took the delicate bone-china cup and saucer and sat down on the wide windowsill alongside the pamphlets describing the gallery’s latest show.

  “I have gathered as much information as I could on the Chinese name you mentioned but I haven’t had much luck. I also have the feeling my contacts are not being forthcoming.”

  The cup wobbled in Nancy’s hand and a little tea spilt into the saucer.

  “How clumsy of me,” she said. Her elegant hand put the cup and saucer down on the floor to look for a tissue in her bag.

  “Please don’t worry,” Phillippe hurried back into the tiny kitchen. He took a little while to find the required paper towel. Nancy was grateful. The emotions rising in her chest were not yet ready to be witnessed. He might have sensed it, giving her time to compose herself before he reappeared. Phillippe mopped up the spilt tea carefully and threw the paper into the wastepaper basket in a perfect arch.

  “Once a cricketer, always a cricketer,” he smiled kindly.

  “Thank you for taking the time but don’t worry if you can’t find more. I was not expecting there would be much in any case.”

  Phillippe nodded. “And I very much appreciate your involvement with the Ai Weiwei crisis. Strong support from high-profile collectors and friends, especially with your legal background, can only help.”

  Nancy drank a little tea before she replied. The warm liquid with its delicate fragrance helped to soothe her choking throat.

  “I am always glad to help.” Nancy took another sip. “Thank you for being discreet and for not prying.”

  “For you, Nancy, any time.”

  She attempted a smile. “What else is happening in China that is worth noting?”

  Phillippe launched into a passionate description of the younger, subversive artists he supported. The challenges they faced from the state that was by no means ready to hear dissent. The lines on his forehead moved, arched, settled again, expressing admiration and anxiety in turn. Nancy sipped her tea in silence, occasionally nodding, but despite her desire to listen she couldn’t concentrate. She could no longer leave the task of finding the artist she was looking for to Phillippe. It was too complicated, perhaps even dangerous. She needed to speak to Pole. A warm ripple moved through her body. Was he not the man she most trusted, whose affection she was finally learning to accept?

  Phillippe’s voice had stopped in mid-sentence. His iPhone was ringing. He pulled a face. A client. Nancy nodded smiling and was glad to let him take the call. She was in no fit state to have a decent conversation about art. Her mind was elsewhere.

  When he came back she rose slowly, put on her coat and moved to the door.

  “I hope I have not chased you away,” Phillippe said in a sorry voice.

  “Not at all. I need to get on with my work.” She smiled a reassuring smile and bade Phillippe goodbye. She stopped as she was on the threshold of the gallery.

  “Mo Chow was my father. Under his artist’s name.”

  She smiled again and drew the light coat close to her chest, clasping the collar tight with her hand. Phillippe nodded, stunned by the revelation. He simply raised his hand to say goodbye.

  Nancy walked across to Central Street, took a sharp right. Her pace accelerated. Her chest was tightening and she hated the sensation. She would not be helpless or tearful for a man who had left his family behind and never told them why. She crossed another street; a car sounded its horn. She ran to avoid it.

  “Get a grip,” she muttered between gritted teeth after waving the driver an apology.

  She closed her eyes and remained motionless for a moment.

  Yes, she would speak to Pole.

  * * *

  The metal steps responded to his weight. Henry’s light jog reverberated through the stairwell structure. He turned right when he reached the ground floor. Time for Association.

  Kamal had already settled in his favourite chair. A couple of the other inmates, all of them sporting beards of various shapes, were assembled on the few chairs next to him. Their conversation was animated but Kamal stayed silent. He listened. As soon as Henry arrived in the room, a couple of them walked away, not rushed, a natural enough looking move to go to speak with other prisoners. Henry had been struck by the need other people had, including the worst of offenders, to congregate. People from completely different backgrounds, who would have never spoken in the outside world, conversed regularly, exchanged tips on how to make the suffocating atmosphere of HSU Belmarsh a bearable living hell.

  Henry took his time.

  He spoke briefly with Big K, the striking giant who was doing time for drug dealing on such a large scale he was deemed a flight hazard. They had a little banter about the latest rugby results. Henry moved to the water cooler, poured himself a glass and finally reached Kamal’s corner. He sat down in the armchair opposite, reached for the paper that had been left on the chair and started reading, his back turned to the people in the room.

  “Got your message,” he said.

  Kamal gave a small nod. His eyelids fluttered. Henry turned a page, the paper now resting on his crossed legs, his foot beating an irregular rhythm.

  “No one has ever escaped from HSU Belmarsh,” Henry said, his head bent over the newspaper. He did not look at Kamal; he did not need to. The convention to discuss this explosive matter was clear. Whoever was doing the talking had their back to the room.

  “People get transferred out. Usually after having spent a long time in here.” Henry turned another page.

  “You and I haven’t done enough time.” He drank some of his water. “Or rather yo
u and I do not want to wait for that long.”

  Kamal had picked up the novel he was reading. He broke the spine of his book slowly. It cracked gently, a small sigh of relief.

  “Three ways of doing it. Become seriously ill. Attempt suicide or …” Henry pushed his tall body into the back of the chair. His muscles felt like iron against the worn material.

  “Take the opportunity of a trip outside Belmarsh.”

  Kamal had started reading. He turned a page and smiled.

  What did Henry want him to do? Betray his brothers, pretend that he had changed his mind, that the Jihad no longer meant anything to him?

  “I know what you are thinking,” Henry said, moving to another section of his newspaper, “but look at me. If you can convince them they need you and they do —”

  Kamal closed his book and looked up. Someone was coming their way. Henry kept reading an article about the impact of the banks’ financial rescue package. “The UK government bailed out these idiots back in 2008 and for what?” Henry said as a shadow spread over his paper. He half turned his athletic body towards it.

  “Interested in the ramifications of the enduring financial crisis?” Henry asked, still holding his newspaper open.

  “You’re turning the pages of that newspaper awfully fast, Henry,” Prison Officer MacKay said.

  “I am a fast reader,” Henry replied holding the paper out neatly. “You will find that the analysis of the banks’ exposure to the subprime market on page four is still a great underestimation and that the one on LIBOR fixing on page six is barely scratching the surface. That’s the FT for you. I didn’t bother after page ten.” He handed over the paper to MacKay with a broad smile, finished his glass of water in a couple of gulps and stood up.

  “Terribly thirsty today; must get another cup.” Henry took his time to reach the water cooler. MacKay had taken the paper and skimmed through the articles. Kamal had returned to reading his book.

  The familiar bubble of anger had swollen in Henry’s belly as soon as MacKay had spoken. He let it rise without responding to it. In a few minutes he would be using the rowing machine that was permanently available in a secluded corner of the room.