The Rules

by Laurence Todd

  Highly unlikely, I thought.

  “You also have to remember,” she continued, “our offices are only Portakabins until more secure premises are available. That’s why they’re patrolled at night by guards. Anyway, it didn’t matter.” Her tone then changed. “We recovered what had been taken a couple of days later. It was found in the car after that accident. The people in the car must have been involved in taking it.”

  “Who, of course, were conveniently dead and couldn’t be questioned about anything,” I said in a challenging tone of voice.

  “Huh? What are you getting at?” She sounded confused.

  “Just seems too fortuitous. Your offices are burgled; you say confidential information’s taken. The burglary’s not reported. But then, out of the blue, what’s taken is recovered two days later after a car crash not far away from your premises. I’ve not come across too many firms who’ve been burgled, not reported it and yet managed to get back everything taken shortly afterwards because the suspects just happened to have it in their car.”

  “No, Detective, that isn’t the case at all.” She was unimpressed by my cynicism.

  “What is the case, then?” I asked.

  “Look, you know what I mean.” She stopped for a moment. “Anyway, we reported the burglary after we’d recovered what had been taken. One of the other managers told police we’d been burgled and we’d been waiting to see if whoever’d broken in was going to blackmail us into buying their spoils back, given what was taken, before we reported it. Police accepted our story.” She sounded satisfied. “They haven’t pursued it any further. Police told us they didn’t want it widely known we’d been broken into, as it might encourage others.”

  “Are you aware the two people who died in the car have no history of burglary? They were political agitators, sure, but neither had any track record of involvement in burglaries, and whoever got into your offices managed to neutralise a quite sophisticated set of locks. That’s pretty impressive for non-burglars, wouldn’t you say?”

  She was silent for a few moments. “I can’t speak to that. I don’t know how they did it. Maybe they had other help. I just know they had what had been taken from here.”

  She sounded like she was trying to draw our conversation to a close. I had one more thing to ask her.

  “Do you know someone called Richard Rhodes?”

  “Rhodes?” she repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  The line was silent for five seconds.

  “I think I do.” She paused. “That’s right: he was the onsite security advisor we brought in from some London firm. We were taking a big hit on costs with the delays the protestors were causing, and we were falling behind schedule. He’s an ex-army security expert, and his know-how has proven to be invaluable. He’s helped make this place more secure. Since he was here, security’s been a lot tighter and we no longer get anything like the hassle we used to get from those bloody protesters outside.”

  “Is he still working with you now?” I knew he wasn’t but wanted to see if he retained any contact with Ambersial, and whether she lied about this.

  “No. He was only here a few weeks and, once he’d done what he came up here to do, he went back to London.”

  I wasn’t impressed with any of her answers. Given the nature of the loss suffered by Ambersial, she seemed too calm about what had occurred. This wasn’t my experience from my time in CID, when victims of burglary were usually distraught about their property being taken, and feeling their sense of safety in their personal space had been violated. Firms were usually concerned about the insurance implications, especially if it was found security procedures had not been followed, and they were usually very worried if sensitive material had been taken from them.

  “So you’re maintaining the burglary wasn’t reported because you thought whoever’d robbed you might offer it back to you.” I was almost accusing her of this.

  She was silent. I continued.

  “It’s my experience anyone doing that would contact you immediately. They’d not take the chance of the police being involved. They’d not wait; they’d get in touch whilst they were still in a position to bargain with you.”

  She sighed. “Possibly. I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “So, given there’s this two-day gap between the burglary and the recovery of whatever was stolen, I still can’t get to grips with why this wasn’t made known to police immediately.”

  “Well, whatever, that wouldn’t have been my decision, Detective. That’d be a decision for senior management to take, rather than me.” She sounded definite.

  There was nothing else to be gained from talking to Kerrie Brandon, so I thanked her for her time and rang off. She was about as convincing as a politician’s promise.

  I then phoned Cambridge police, identified myself, asked for a senior officer and was connected with a DCI Shelia Goldsmith. I asked if she was familiar with the break-in at Ambersial, and in particular the accident involving Steven Perry and Assa Khoudri. She said she was.

  I asked for her take on the crash.

  “Nasty accident. They hit the tree at some speed, both victims got mangled up badly. The road round there’s an accident black spot anyway. There’s several nasty accidents a year on that stretch of road, usually from people driving too fast, though these were the first fatalities for a few years.”

  “Off the record, between us, any suggestion this wasn’t an accident?”

  “Not from us.” She sounded positive. “It looked straightforward. They came off the road travelling too fast near a bend. To us, it looked exactly was it was: an accident which cost two people their lives. It wasn’t the first accident in that area. As I said, we get several serious accidents a year there.”

  “And a briefcase was recovered, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Full of papers belonging to Ambersial. We returned it to them. Turned out the papers had been stolen from them a couple of nights beforehand.”

  “They didn’t report any break-in, though.”

  “No, it’s true, they didn’t. I wondered about that myself. But what can we do? Can’t force them to report something like this, can we?”

  “You ask them about it?”

  “Didn’t see the point, so no, we didn’t. They were just happy to get back their property.”

  “Do you think the two victims were the burglars?”

  “Who knows? We checked them out, of course, but they had no record of burglary on their files, though the man, Perry, was a well-known agitator.”

  “So how could they have got past the security at Ambersial?”

  “I’ve no idea,” she replied.

  After a few more questions, I thanked her and rang off.

  *

  Smitherman had returned to his office. I phoned through and asked to speak to him; he agreed to this. I picked up my coffee and went to his office.

  The furniture in his room had been rearranged again. His desk had been turned around and moved to the other side of the room, facing the window. So, now, sitting opposite him, I looked at the wall instead of the treetops in nearby St James’s Park. I sat down lamenting the loss of a good view.

  I brought him up to speed with what I’d been doing and who I’d talked to over the past couple of days, and where my initial talks with al-Ebouli’s bodyguard had led me. He listened attentively, and was particularly interested in my saying we’d a suspect in the Jones killing.

  “I’m pretty sure the person we caught on CCTV is a good suspect for killing PC Jones and I wanna bring him in.”

  “So, why don’t you?” Smitherman asked this like he already knew why.

  “His address is given as being attached to the Israeli Embassy, and I don’t think I can just waltz in there and ask him to submit to the jurisdiction of the British police. I need to know the protocol here. How do I go about this?”

  “Why are you so certain this person’s an Israeli?”

  “I got a good description of him, had a composite
picture put together, fed it into our databank and asked for any matches. It came back as almost certainly a likeness for Joachim Balpak, someone with links to Israeli intelligence.”

  “Where’d the description come from?”

  “Someone who saw him running away. This person saw the composite picture and agreed that’s the person he saw.” I wasn’t going to name Richard Clements, especially not to his father-in-law.

  “This person a source?”

  “No. Just someone who saw him running past.”

  “Someone else saw him as well. That bloody cyclist this person collided with has never come forward,” he said, sourly. “We’d probably get a better description from him, but he’s never made himself known to us.”

  He has, I thought, but I’m not telling you that.

  “There’s something else as well,” I said. “I’ve been told Israeli intelligence has an interest in the forthcoming business link-up between Hembreys and Ambersial. I’m curious why so many Israeli connections keep coming up.”

  Smitherman looked thoughtful for a moment but didn’t say anything. I continued.

  “Also, one of the two protestors who died in the crash near Ambersial was Assa Khoudri, Jamal Khoudri’s wife. His file just said his wife’d died in a car crash, but it doesn’t say she was active in animal rights protesting. Why wouldn’t that be on his file?”

  “That I don’t know.” He looked pensive. “You’re sure about this Israeli connection?”

  “I’ve no reason to doubt my sources,” I stated firmly.

  “I’ll make some enquiries.”

  “Thanks. So, how do I go about talking to this Israeli guy?”

  “You don’t. You leave it to me. I’ll make some enquiries” – his eyes flicked upwards – “and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I was about to get up and leave when Smitherman spoke again.

  “Where are we with Khoudri?”

  “Don’t know. I’m back on that one when I leave here.”

  “Seems like a stretch. Al-Ebouli, Khoudri, Ambersial?”

  “They’re connected somehow. That’s what I’m focusing on, trying to establish the connection between all of this.”

  Smitherman took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth. “What’s our interest in James Blatchford’s campaign for Mayor?” He looked at me over the top of his glasses as he replaced them.

  “Far as I know, we don’t have one.”

  “The Evening Standard thinks we have.” He nodded at a folded newspaper on top of the bookcase. “Their lead story last night claimed two Special Branch officers went to see Blatchford yesterday morning. It also claimed the same two officers were present at last Saturday’s shooting at al-Ebouli. A couple others also mentioned it this morning.”

  “I went to talk to someone else, not Blatchford.”

  “Who?”

  “Qais Jaser. He was identified outside Monday’s meeting, the one where Jones was killed. Given who Jaser is and who he works for, I went along to ask him why he was there. He said he was there with Jamal Khoudri. I went to see Khoudri, found him dead. Shot up close. CCTV also caught them both talking to the two guys with faces covered, including the one I think’s Joachim Balpak, but Jaser denied knowing who they were. I’m gonna go talk to Jaser again today. I’ll bring him in if I have to. He knows more than he’s letting on.”

  “You know he’s Christian Perkins’ man, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you know how close Perkins is with Stimpson?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked. “If Jaser knows something, I don’t care whether Perkins likes it or not. He’s not my concern.”

  “Just don’t let him make you his concern,” Smitherman said.

  *

  Perkins had a central London residence just around the corner from the Yard, a second-floor flat at the north end of Buckingham Gate, by Wellington Barracks, close enough to look over the walls into the grounds of the palace across the street and see the Queen exercising the corgis. It was also conveniently placed for his office in Portcullis House and the Houses of Parliament, but I was willing to bet the likes of him still took a taxi and claimed it on expenses. Perkins had said Richard Rhodes was staying there whilst he sought other accommodation in London. As it was still early I was hoping to catch Rhodes at home. I was curious to see what he knew about the accident which had claimed two lives.

  I was about forty yards away from Perkins’ block of flats, weaving my way through a large party of Malaysian tourists walking towards the palace walls, laughing and sounding very excited. Most were wearing some kind of yellow paper hat, identifying them as part of the tourist group, and holding them down flat on their heads as there was a strong headwind coming down the road. A few young women were trying to stop their skirts from being blown up over their heads. They were giggling as they did so.

  A man walked quickly out of Perkins’ block of flats and ran across the road. At the corner of Buckingham Gate and Birdcage Walk, the man gestured towards a passing taxi. I didn’t recognise him from this distance, but something inside me said suspicion, so I broke into a fast jog and was just in time to see the back of the man disappearing into a taxi and the vehicle pulling away towards St James’s Park. I saw the taxi’s registration number, repeated it to myself several times, and then put it in my iPhone. It was probably perfectly innocent, but this man might have been visiting Richard Rhodes. If so I needed to know who he was.

  I pressed the buzzer marked Perkins. I was surprised to hear a click as the outer door opened without anyone asking who it was through the intercom. At least someone was home. I fervently hoped it wasn’t Christian Perkins.

  I entered and walked up the stairs to the second floor, feeling mildly apprehensive. Rhodes was a volatile character. Violence came easy to him. It was second nature and, even though I was police, I was certain that wouldn’t stop him if he felt threatened. He’d once assaulted a police officer when I was looking for Phil Gant and, so far as I knew, had never had to answer for it. Maybe Daddy had pulled some strings. At least the presence of my service firearm, nestling comfortably against my left side, was reassuring.

  The door to the flat was slightly ajar, so I knocked and entered.

  Richard Rhodes was sitting at the table by the small bay window, dressed in jeans and an open-necked, short-sleeved auburn polo shirt, looking at the Metro. I could see a tattoo on his well-muscled forearm. The remains of breakfast were still on the table. The chairs were quite small, and, sitting in one at his size, he looked like an overgrown kid at the wrong birthday party. He looked up and stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowed, looking like he was trying to place me.

  “My dad’s not here if you’re looking for him. He’s in his office.” His voice was raspy, as though he were fighting off a cold. He turned back to his paper.

  “Not here for him. I came to talk to you.” I approached him and showed my ID. He nodded.

  I remained where I was. Close enough to see he needed a shave. His tattoo was the emblem of the Royal Marines.

  “McGraw,” he said neutrally. “Knew I recognised you from somewhere. You tried pinning Dennis Reagan’s death on me, didn’t you?” He turned round forty-five degrees to face me. He looked as though he was studying me.

  “You officially denying it?” I asked.

  He didn’t respond to the question. “I’m off to work in a moment. What do you want?” He put the paper down.

  “Just bumped into your friend leaving. He’s in a hurry, isn’t he? Nearly knocked me over going out the door.” I was hoping he’d confirm he’d had a visitor.

  “He’s running late, in a bit of a rush.”

  Bingo.

  “Your mate Phil Gant’s in London, isn’t he?” I asked jovially.

  “Yeah. Saw him last weekend. I hope I get to see him again before he flies out later this week. Phil’s a good guy.”

  “Not to those he puts a bullet
in, he isn’t,” I said in a casual manner. His expression suggested he didn’t like that comment. “Anyway, I’d like to ask you a couple of things.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged, almost indifferently.

  “You’re currently employed by Titanomachy, aren’t you?” He nodded his agreement.

  “And they sent you to Cambridge recently, didn’t they, doing something for a company named Ambersial?”

  “Yeah.” He sat back in his chair.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Is this relevant to anything?” He didn’t look too happy being asked.

  “No,” I said facetiously. “I just thought I’d waste both our time by coming around here and asking some pointless questions.”

  For a second his eyes registered a momentary flash of anger. But he then took a couple of deep breaths and sighed.

  “They were being given a hard time by some fucking animal rights lunatics. They were causing the company all kinds of problems, doing all kinds of damage, setting fires, interfering with suppliers, blocking the entrances so deliveries couldn’t be made.” He sounded angry at this. “I was asked to go to Cambridge, undertake a full security sweep of their premises and then advise as to how they could make their security precautions more effective. Things like how to make their premises more secure, how to keep these people further back from the site whilst the new premises were being built. Just stuff like that, really, my area of expertise.”

  I wanted to say I thought that was killing people, but I didn’t.

  “I mean, left to me, I’d have just gone out there and kicked the shit out of a few of them. That’d soon fucking stop them.” He smiled as if a camera were being pointed at him.

  I ignored his last point. “How long were you there for?” “Probably a few weeks, maybe a bit longer,” he said after thinking for a few moments. “They don’t seem to be getting quite so much grief from these people as they were getting at one time.” He nodded contentedly.