No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  The Sheik had not moved, terrifyingly patient.

  “Why?” Brett mumbled, immediately regretting the question.

  The Sheik invited him back onto the mattress Brett had left so abruptly.

  “I reward well but I punish harshly.”

  The Sheik had pulled another photo out of the brown envelope. Brett’s eyes closed.

  “Please, no more.”

  “This one has his head still very much on his shoulders.” He handed Brett the picture.

  Another attractive face was looking at Brett from a photo that had been professionally shot: dark blue eyes, furrows that cut deep into his face, a decisive chin and a mane of dark hair. It was a man Brett once knew well.

  Brett fidgeted in the back of the car. They were a good thirty minutes into their journey back. The car had turned in a direction he was not expecting, taking another route to deliver him back to a tube station. Brett kept his mind occupied, replaying the second part of his meeting with The Sheik. Yet the pictures of Visconti’s mutilated body kept appearing in front of his eyes. He pushed away those images to concentrate on the face of the man who was still very much alive.

  Henry Crowne.

  * * *

  The drip bag would need replacing soon. Marissa wondered whether she should call the nurse. Mark was asleep and she felt awkward at the thought of waking him up, at the thought that the woman at his bedside should have been his wife, not her. Never had she had to face a threat to the life of a key witness or the devastating consequences a case might have on a family. She had organised protection under the witness protection programme but it had always been a successful pre-emptive move.

  Pole had been efficient without being overbearing. Mark’s children had been collected from school on the basis of an emergency, taken to Mark’s parents and the police were guarding the house. At least they were all safe.

  Mark stirred, perhaps disturbed by Marissa’s intense gaze. She stood up carefully and placed her large, heavy hand on his.

  “Mark,” her voice cracked a little.

  He turned his face slightly and opened the eye that was not covered by bandages. His mind was adjusting, extricating itself from the fog created by medication and pain.

  “Hi,” he mumbled. He turned his head a little more towards the glass of water on the bedside table. “Thirsty.” Marissa brought the plastic tumbler to him and helped place the straw in his mouth.

  She wanted to say something meaningful but she could not think of anything. What could she say to the man who had almost lost his life, lost his wife and would almost certainly spend the rest of his existence looking over his shoulder?

  Mark took a few long mouthfuls of water and let his head fall back again on the pillow, eyes closed.

  “Shall I leave and come back later?” Marissa asked.

  “No.” Mark remained silent and Marissa thought he might have fallen asleep again.

  “Children?” Mark asked, opening his good eye again and fixing Marissa with a look of anxiety.

  “Yes, they are fine: they are with your parents under police protection.”

  It was excruciating, Marissa’s stomach was a lump of lead in her midriff. She could not let him down. He had trusted her when he came to the SFO. “Mark, if you want to stop?”

  “No.” The same determined word surprised her.

  “No,” Mark repeated. “She can’t have died,” he slurred, “for nothing.” The bandage restricted his jaw. “Catch the bastards.”

  Marissa squeezed his hand. “I promise.”

  * * *

  “Enter.”

  Marsh was in a foul mood today, Denise, his PA, had warned. He had asked her to rearrange an entire week of meetings to fit in an interview with The Times on a prickly subject.

  Pole straightened his tie and gave Denise a wink. She gave him the thumbs up. He walked into Superintendent Marsh’s office.

  “Good afternoon, Sir.”

  “Pole. Good afternoon.” Marsh was now on the charm offensive it seemed. Pole had barely told him about the SFO request for an intermediary to be found with HMP Belmarsh’s governor and the Home Office but Marsh’s well-trained ear had picked up the tone.

  Another high-profile case.

  “What does Counterterrorism Command say about the bomb?” Marsh asked, settling deep into his chair. His eyes glinted with interest. Pole cringed. The body of Mark Phelps’ wife had scarcely reached the mortuary and Marsh already wanted results.

  “A motion device triggered the explosion, Sir. CT Command is being very cautious in making assumptions.” Pole sat down before being invited to. Marsh would have to wait until Ferguson gave him more information.

  “Right, right. Of course, we would not want to jump to conclusions, would we?”

  “We certainly would not, Sir.”

  Whatever the conclusions about the bomb and the Mashrafiya, they would hit Marsh’s desk only after they had hit Ferguson’s and Nancy’s.

  “The SFO has confirmed they intend to request assistance from Crowne, I presume?” The very large piece of news Marsh was savouring.

  “They have indeed, Sir. I have prepared a draft request on their behalf to be sent to Belmarsh and the Home Office. Assuming your backing of course.”

  March gestured consent as if Pole did not need to ask.

  “Understood. However —” Marsh moved his body forward in an abrupt fashion, forearms on his desk. “I will want to know all of the details and I mean all the details of this operation.”

  Pole nodded, with pursed lips. “Absolutely Sir, as ever.”

  His omission in the last case involving Henry Crowne and Nancy, an attempt on the life of one of Whitehall’s most senior civil servants, had irritated Marsh greatly. Pole had managed to plead urgency and he had had a point. Marsh knew it. Nevertheless, he was the man in charge and Pole had better remember it. Pole remained impassive as Marsh scrutinised him for a sign – anything indicating he was already not quite as transparent as he was intended to be.

  “Good,” Marsh finally said. “Take me through the SFO case and why they want Crowne.”

  If Marsh thought Pole would make any mistakes when explaining why they needed Henry, he would be disappointed. Marissa and Nancy had done a superb job of briefing him and, much to his surprise, he was getting the hang of all the City jargon too.

  “You must have read that during the financial crisis in 2008 the UK government offered a bailout facility to UK banks.” Marsh nodded; so far so good, he was following.

  “However, one of the banks that could have benefited from such an offer decided to go elsewhere to find the necessary capital.” Pole sat comfortably in his chair, legs crossed and moving his hands as he spoke. “Bank X – the SFO is seeking to avoid disclosing the name – was funded by a Middle-Eastern country and therefore raised enough capital not to need the UK government bailout.”

  Marsh wriggled on his chair. Mentioning the Middle-East always had an effect on senior Met officers.

  “What the SFO has discovered through a bank employee who contacted them is that a large part of these funds have been lent back to a fund in Panama. The structure of the fund is complex. This means that the SFO has been unable to determine who the Ultimate Beneficial Owner of the fund is.”

  “Is this illegal?” Marsh asked, arching his mouth in a doubtful fashion.

  “It is not, Sir, unless the fund is structured/designed for illicit motives or the money is used for illegal purposes.” Pole was enjoying himself. Marsh, an intelligent man despite his voracious ambition, was starting to struggle.

  Pole 1 – Marsh 0.

  “How illegal then?” Marsh rearranged his collection of Montblanc pens on his desk, each received after a new promotion no doubt.

  “The whistle-blower, Mark Phelps, has information indicating illegal activity.”

&n
bsp; “Which is what? Drugs. Weapons. Human slavery?”

  “None of those, at least as far as we can tell, but rather the very fact that the money received by Bank X has been lent back to the Middle-Eastern country that invested it in the first place.”

  Marsh opened his mouth, closed it. No, he would not ask the question that was burning his lips. Was this illegal too? “Is this whistle-blower reliable?” Marsh asked instead.

  “Very. The SFO is convinced of it and Marissa Campbell, an experienced prosecutor, as well.” Pole briefly locked eyes with Marsh. “And by the look of it the bombers thought as much too.”

  Marsh pulled away from his desk. “Clearly.” Marsh remained silent for a minute or so.

  “If Mark Phelps has been targeted I assume Bank X is his employer?”

  “That’s correct, Sir.” Pole kept his countenance.

  Blast. Marsh 1 – Pole 1.

  Marsh grinned, satisfied. “So why call it Bank X still?”

  “As far as Crowne is concerned, the documents he sees will be redacted. The SFO does not want the case to be contaminated. If he finds the UBO, his findings will be based on the Panama fund structure only, no other inference.”

  The Super pursed his lips, pondering the validity of the argument. Not that the SFO director would take any notice of his opinion but it was good feeling one could perhaps interfere.

  “I see the point,” Marsh said slowly. He was formulating his next question in the most neutral fashion he could think of. Pole was expecting it but he would be damned if he was going to make it easy for his boss.

  “Are you using your consultant, Ms Wu?” Marsh avoided Pole’s eyes. He sounded almost innocent.

  Pole suppressed an ironic Certainly Sir, shall I also organise dinner? and simply shrugged. “Unless you have any objection to it.”

  “No, not at all,” Marsh volunteered, perhaps a little too keenly.

  Pole coughed, a feeling he was not familiar with rising slowly in his chest, a shade of jealousy perhaps.

  “Although I still have to receive formal confirmation from the SFO, they are likely to be comfortable with our arrangements.” A little disingenuous of Pole since Marissa had specifically asked for Nancy to be involved with the case. Marissa almost certainly had more confidence in Nancy than she had in Scotland Yard. Nancy had been a brilliant QC before she gave it up, and an even better mentor. It was clear to Pole that Marissa would never forget the time she had spent as Nancy’s pupil.

  “Let me speak to the SFO director – only if that would help, of course.” Marsh’s keenness must have been clear even to him.

  “I am sure it will be perfectly fine, Sir,” Pole rested his crossed hands on the side of the chair. He was not prepared to facilitate another meeting between Nancy and Marsh. The last time had almost soured his relationship with her. Even though Pole had made much progress with the delightful Ms Wu since then, he was not taking any chances. The little bubble of jealousy burst into a sense of joy.

  Marsh was talking again and Pole caught only the end of the sentence.

  “Call the governor, now.”

  “Absolutely,” Pole said, hoping he was not committing to some ridiculous requirement for The Super.

  Marsh sent him a quizzical look but started dialling, switching on the loudspeaker.

  “Phil Wragg,” a deep voice answered.

  “Phil. Superintendent Marsh here. How are you?”

  Marsh was on the offensive again. Another high-profile deal that would further his career.

  * * *

  The seventh door had just clanged shut. Henry stretched his arms and legs to be frisked once more before being allowed out of High Security Unit Belmarsh for time with his visitor. Nancy had left a message that she would see him during the early afternoon visiting slot. It was not her usual day and Henry was excited. Something was afoot. He had scanned the news bulletins on his small radio in search of a clue. There was nothing he could put his finger on.

  Frustrating.

  Had he been on the trading floor he would have browsed through Bloomberg and Reuters and almost certainly had a good idea. He could have tried the library and attempted to log in, bypassing the restrictions imposed on inmates, as he had done successfully a few times now. But he judged it was not worth taking the risk. He needed to keep his powder dry for when he knew exactly what he was looking for.

  The door to one of the inner yards opened. Henry hesitated. Confinement in HSU sometimes made him shy of walking outside the compound; the desire for freedom he then felt was often unbearable.

  The fresh air hit his face. The weather had turned bitterly cold. He had felt it even from within the stuffiness of his cell. He walked over the threshold slowly, closed his eyes and inhaled. Gusts of wind brought with them smells of cooking: mutton, onion and something else he could not quite define. He called it the Belmarsh smell, a smell one recognised just the way one recognised the smell of one’s own home when walking in, with perhaps something particular to a prison: fear, despair, anger mixed with an infinitely small grain of hope for those who could find it.

  Henry arrived in front of the next set of doors without noticing. The clunk of yet another set of locks reminded him that he had to keep moving. He turned his head briefly towards one of the yards reserved for HSU prisoners and noticed the small silhouette of a man walking slowly on his own around the perimeter, two guards in attendance.

  “Henry?”

  “Yep, sorry.” Henry moved quickly inside the warm building and along the corridor. He did not know who the inmate was but had heard from Big K that several prisoners were deemed such high-risk that they were never allowed to mix with the others. Henry had smiled. He was not deemed such a high risk and neither was Kamal.

  A mistake? Or a plan?

  Nancy was already sitting at a table in the meeting room when Henry entered. She had brought newspapers with her that she was arranging in front of her. Her briefcase was underneath the desk, neatly aligned with the legs of the table. Henry stopped, smiling. They were allocated an hour and a half which often was too short but surprisingly had also proved too long on a number of other occasions. It was always a shock for an inmate to meet someone from the outside world: the clothes, the scent of freshly washed laundry or simply soap, a new hairstyle – and with Nancy, the usual fragrance of Issey Miyake. She lifted her head, aware that someone was watching her and she broke into a smile.

  “Do you have some good news?” Henry asked with a wry smile whilst bending down to put a quick kiss on her cheek.

  “Perhaps.” Nancy pushed a few papers towards him. Henry read the headlines in a low voice.

  The UK government bailout – an update

  Was RBS too big to fail?

  Barclays says choosing Qatar as investor perfect decision

  TSB rescued by Lloyds. Will it work?

  “OK, these banks have all been exposed to the subprime market in London. Nothing very new here.” Henry said as he speed-read the papers. Nancy nodded but said nothing. Henry ran his hand through his short hair, irritated. Could it be that his mind was becoming rusty? It had been over four years now since he had left the trading floor and four years since the banks had been offered a bailout. He scanned the papers again to find a common denominator.

  “Aha. The UK government bailout programme,” Henry said, a cheerful look on his face. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

  Nancy nodded her head in acknowledgement. Henry was still a sharp cookie.

  “Exactly right.” Her face looked kindly amused, the almond shape of her eyes a little more pronounced, her lips gently arched upward.

  Henry pushed the papers away and crossed his arms over his chest, ready for more.

  He was needed again.

  His breathing had become faster, hope bubbling up in his gut. Yet he did not want to conceptualise what he was hopin
g for, a little Celtic superstition perhaps.

  “I won’t keep you guessing,” Nancy said. “The Serious Fraud Office is proposing that you assist them with a particularly complex investigation.”

  “The SFO?” Henry frowned. His heart was now beating fast, the short hairs on his neck standing up.

  “That’s right. They are preparing a request to go to the governor of HMP Belmarsh as well as the Home Office.”

  “Wow, I’m speechless,” Henry said. It was an honest answer. He would have never dreamt the SFO would need him, but hey, why not?

  “Same conditions as previously?” He asked. It almost felt routine.

  Nancy leaned forward, arms on the table, hands crossed. “Absolutely. I am to be appointed consultant to the SFO and Inspector Pole will be the official liaison between The Met and the SFO.”

  Henry rolled his eyes but broke into a smile.

  “Pole, I would never have guessed. Still I shouldn’t grumble, better the devil you know.”

  “You were almost friends the last time you two worked together.”

  “Of course, we were trying to save you.”

  They both fell silent as the scene unfolded again in front of their eyes. The gun’s discharge, Pole and Henry rushing into the room to rescue Nancy and Edwina, glass shattered all over the floor, a man down, blood … so much blood. Nancy had turned pale and Henry extended his hand, squeezing hers.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring back those memories in such an uncouth fashion.”

  “I know.” She cleared her throat, squeezed his hand in return and slowly let go. “I can tell you a little more about the case; not much though, but perhaps enough to get that impressive brain of yours ticking.”

  “Am all ears.”

  Nancy summarised what Marissa had told her: the investment in Bank X by a Middle-Eastern country; the fund and its complex structure. Henry’s focus was absolute, taking in every detail until Nancy had finished.

  “Where is the domicile of the fund? Can you at least tell me that?” he said after a moment.