The Rules

by Laurence Todd

  A thought dawned on me. “What about Phil Gant? Pay him enough and he’ll shoot anyone anywhere. He’s still in London.”

  “He’s not,” Smitherman replied immediately. “Gant left London yesterday afternoon. Flew first class, Swiss Air, Heathrow to Geneva. It couldn’t have been him. You remember he told you he was just visiting London to catch up with Rhodes? Seems he was telling the truth. He was observed the whole time he was here, even when having a cosy little chat with you in the bar of his hotel. He met up with Rhodes a couple of times; they just had drinks and talked. Other than that he just strolled around being a tourist. Didn’t do anything to attract the attention of the security detail on his tail.”

  I shrugged. One theory blown out the water. I offered another suggestion. “What about Balpak? Could it have been him? An Israeli’d have every reason to want al-Ebouli dead.”

  “That’s undeniable, but it wouldn’t have been him. And it wasn’t Rhodes either, in case you were thinking of offering him up as a candidate.”

  Another thought hit me. “Gant said he was with Rhodes and Perkins last Saturday evening.”

  “He was. The three of them dined at Perkins’ club in St James’s Square. They were there most of the evening, then went back to Perkins’ flat just up the road. Gant went back to his hotel from there.”

  I stated the obvious. “So Rhodes couldn’t have been the shooter last Saturday.”

  “That’s right.” Smitherman smiled. “He couldn’t, and he wasn’t.”

  “He fitted the description I was given, which was why I started looking for him, till I was told not to by Stimpson.”

  “Because he’s doing something for him.”

  “So I do all this chasing around looking for Rhodes when all the time you knew it wasn’t him,” I said, trying to keep my voice in check.

  “I didn’t know till Stimpson told me. By that time, you’d heard from the eyewitness and matched the description given to Rhodes.”

  “We have any idea who it was shot at al-Ebouli last Saturday?”

  “The thinking is it’s Poe. MI5’s man inside hasn’t been able to get hold of any names. But they’re looking into whether Poe was in London then.” He paused and looked around for a moment. “Anyway, it isn’t our case. Stimpson said it’s an MI5 case, so we leave it alone.”

  “If I’d not been babysitting Mulvehill, I’d never have come across Rhodes or linked him up to what’s going on elsewhere.”

  Smitherman knew what I was referring to. “Yes. Fortuitous, wouldn’t you say?”

  *

  Back at my desk, I noticed I’d missed a call. A number I didn’t recognise had been left, with a request for me to call back. I did. It was Sally Taylor.

  “Thanks for returning my call. Could we meet up? I’ve heard something I think you might be interested in knowing.”

  “Concerning what?”

  “I don’t wanna talk on the phone. I’ll tell you when I see you,” she said in a pleasant tone.

  I was intrigued. “Okay. Where do you suggest?”

  She said there was nothing going on in Blatchford’s campaign until early afternoon, when he was going to be in Battersea, and as she was currently in the West End, she mentioned a café on the Charing Cross Road. I knew the one she meant. I agreed to meet her in fifteen minutes.

  The café was easy to walk to and I arrived before she did, taking the scenic walk across St James’s Park and through Trafalgar Square. The place had changed owners since my last visit, when I’d been a rookie beat officer several years back. It had then been a late-night café and popular with drunks and others with nowhere else to go, but the owners, a Cypriot couple, had retired and the café had been bought out and became part of a name chain franchise. The décor was now featureless, bland and faceless, with what passed for modern art on the walls, resembling the scribbling kids with crayons do in a kindergarten. And people paid good money for this?

  I took a table by the window on the upper level. I was feeling an odd sense of awe and excitement waiting for Sally Taylor. I certainly liked her – I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t – and perhaps it was the male ego, but I couldn’t shake the feeling she was stalking me and had an interest beyond journalism, though I was almost certainly deluding myself. It was more likely she was trying to ingratiate herself with me so I could be counted on as a source. Clements had once told me every journalist is always looking for sources. Given my current relationship had been moribund for some time, any woman showing an interest in me for any reason was flattering.

  I was thinking about what this journo wanted to talk to me about when I saw her enter. Today she was wearing black chinos and a white blouse under a dark cardigan. Her mop of straw-coloured hair wasn’t tied back and, smiling with it hanging loose around her shoulders, she really was very attractive. She should let her hair down more often. Her shoulder bag was packed solid, and she looked like she was carrying more than I’d take to go on a week’s holiday. She smiled at me and approached my table.

  “Hello.” She kept the smile. “I saw you here from across the road. Thanks for coming.”

  “Hi,” I returned her greeting. “You moving out of your car?” I nodded at her bag.

  She sat down opposite. Her bag hit the floor with a thud. She looked flustered, like she’d been running. She took out a notebook and laid it on the table. A waitress took our orders. There was an almost embarrassed silence for a few moments, as though we’d met through a dating site and were both uncertain if we’d done the right thing turning up.

  “Your name’s Robert, isn’t it? You mind if I call you that?” she asked, nervously.

  “No, ’course not.” I nodded, which was possibly confusing when I was saying ‘no’.

  I then thought that maybe she could become another media source for me, similar to Richard Clements. Perhaps I could pick her brain occasionally, or vice versa. I couldn’t deny how useful Clements had been as a source of information. My investigation into Commander Thornwyn had been significantly helped by something he’d told me.

  “So, was what I told you yesterday any use to you?” she asked.

  “Yeah, definitely. I talked to the bank about it. Seems what you said is pretty much true, so thanks for the heads-up.”

  “So he had been financially reckless.” She wasn’t asking. “Sort of, though it wasn’t just to do with the bank.”

  “What do you mean?” She sounded excited. “You mean there’s something else as well?”

  I held my hands up. “I can’t be too explicit, for obvious reasons, but when the case breaks, I’ll give you the nod.”

  She looked a little disappointed but didn’t press the issue. As a journo she would be aware there were limits to what she could be told.

  “I spoke to Blatchford again yesterday afternoon,” I continued.

  She smiled. “I know, I saw you. What did he have to say about things?”

  “Denied it all. Stonewalled me. Claimed not to know what I was talking about.”

  “Where are you now in your investigation into Jamal’s killing? Any likely suspects?”

  She was asking as a journalist, not as an interested bystander. I briefly wondered whether to talk to her about the case. I decided I would because I realised she’d pointed me in the direction of a possible motive, with Khoudri knowing what Blatchford had done. I could give her a broad outline but no real detail.

  “No one definite, but we’re interested in a few people,” I said.

  “Was it a professional killing?”

  “I just said that’s what it looked like. I didn’t say it actually was.”

  Our tea and coffee arrived. I took a sip of my lemon tea. The awkward silence again for a few seconds. She looked as though she was about to speak but didn’t.

  “So, why did you ask to see me?” I asked.

  “As I said, I’ve heard something you might be interested in.”

  “Okay.” I nodded.

  “It’s like this. I’ve a friend work
s in the City. Actually, more of an ex-boyfriend; we had a sort of thing going at university. Didn’t really work out but we’ve remained friends, kept in touch. I ply him when I need information about the City and financial things as that’s his speciality. That’s why I know so much about finance and economics for an English Lit grad.” She sounded pleased. “Anyway, he called me yesterday afternoon, said he had something, so I met him after work for a drink.”

  She paused to drink some coffee.

  “He works for one of these obscure private financial institutions which offer exclusive services to the very rich, people who’d rather not use the services of places like Crattelle & Hatchman, if you get my meaning.” She raised her eyebrows. “They provide discreet, specialist financial advice to the undiscerning rich about avoiding tax, how to keep your money out of sight, things like that, largely to people who have money they don’t want others to know they have. It’s all very complicated and I don’t pretend to understand it. But there’s an interesting twist here.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “James Blatchford turned up there yesterday, him and someone else. Apparently Blatchford keeps two safety deposit boxes in the vaults. My friend escorted him downstairs to the vault room. They were in there about fifteen minutes, then left.”

  “What’s the significance of the visit?”

  “The person he was with was the Chief Executive of Ambersial.”

  “Peter Brenchley. You’re sure it was him?” I sat forward in my seat.

  “That’s the name he signed in as. When I saw the name I checked him out, and that’s what I found. You know him?” She sounded surprised.

  “I spoke to him last evening about the burglary at their new Cambridge site.” It dawned on me he couldn’t have been back from London very long when I’d spoken to him. “Why would he be with Blatchford?”

  “That I don’t know; my friend didn’t say. But I thought it was interesting and you might wanna know about it.”

  I thought for a moment. Ambersial’s proposed deal with Zealiac had been tanked by Blatchford, and Zealiac had come close to going under, having to be rescued by Israel’s government. Ambersial had then entered a deal with Hembreys, which also caused distress to Israel because of the presence of Donald Dellvay, a man suspected of helping Red Heaven to obtain a small amount of hydroxilyn, which it had come perilously close to using. Beforehand, though, according to his brother, Blatchford’d bought a sizeable chunk of shares in both Ambersial and Hembreys, planning to make a killing when the deal was mooted.

  But there had to be more to this than just a desire to make money. There had to be something about the situation I didn’t know. I knew the Israeli government had been extremely upset at the collapse of the Zealiac deal. There was also the fact three people had died recently, and I had no doubt they were connected to this in some way. I suspected whatever it was that Blatchford had buried to stop the bank and the FCA looking into him was inside one of those boxes. But why would the Chief Executive of Ambersial need to be with him?

  “What do you think it all means?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. I spoke to Brenchley about what Ambersial had lost in the burglary, which was conveniently recovered when the supposed burglars perished in a car crash. But why would he need to have any contact with Blatchford?”

  “Can I stop you for a minute? You’ve mentioned burglary twice now. What burglary are you talking about? I’m not aware of any burglary.”

  I briefly considered not telling her, but decided against it. It was better she knew, so when she later wrote her story about the case, she could include it as a salient detail. I asked if she could keep this under wraps for the moment. She agreed she would.

  “The new site Ambersial’s building in Cambridge was burgled. They lost confidential information relating to the proposed deal with another company. Here’s the thing, though: not only do they not report it to police, but,” I emphasised, “very conveniently, they recover it all through a car crash where the two supposed burglars die.” I paused for a moment. “Did you know Jamal Khoudri’s wife was one of them?”

  “What?” she exclaimed in a loud whisper, almost spilling her coffee.

  “All true,” I replied.

  “I knew she’d died in a car crash. But I’d not heard she’d been involved in any burglary.”

  “That’s not quite the whole truth, and for myself I don’t believe she was, but for now,” I stated firmly, as she appeared to be gearing up to ask another question, “I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  She nodded and lapsed back into hack mode. “People killed, burglaries, my God,” she gasped. “What the hell’s Blatchford got himself involved in?”

  I got the sense she was suddenly realising this case was bigger than she’d initially believed. She was thinking about a major scoop on her horizon.

  “I’ve an idea,” I said, “but for the moment I’m saying nothing.” She’d know why this was the case. “Anything else your friend told you about yesterday in the bank?”

  “Not for the moment. I just thought you’d want to know what my friend saw.”

  “Yeah, I do, thanks. I don’t quite know what it means, but it’s better to know than not to.”

  “One other thing, though,” she said, looking a little concerned. “Blatchford and Jaser kept looking at me in a kind of funny way all through yesterday afternoon. They both kept staring at me, as though they were expecting me to say or do something. It’s like I’m being kept under observation. When they were talking to the media later, they purposely avoided eye contact with me and Blatchford wouldn’t take any questions from me. I’ve never had this issue with them prior to now.”

  I remembered seeing both men staring at me as I’d crossed the car park after talking to her yesterday morning. If they suspected her, was I also on their list? Did they suspect Sally Taylor of having told me anything?

  At that moment her phone buzzed. She looked at the screen and her eyes opened wide. She focused quietly for a few moments, reading something intently, then she turned her phone screen towards me and we both leaned in to get a better view.

  The BBC news app had a headline saying, Radical Islamist Khaled al-Ebouli dies in hospital after last night’s shooting in North London.

  “Khaled al-Ebouli’s just died,” she said. “Bullets did too much damage, apparently. Couldn’t be saved. What do you think this means?”

  Al-Ebouli dead. I suspected the number of people outside his family and friends who’d grieve about this would fit around this table. That was even with us two sitting here. Had Poe been the shooter? Was this what MI5’s man inside Muearada had predicted was going to happen?

  “I don’t know.” It was true. I didn’t.

  We left, but only after she’d insisted on paying for our drinks. I didn’t object.

  *

  Blatchford being seen in the company of the Chief Executive of Ambersial convinced me he’d engaged in some action which had national security implications, both for Israel and the UK. Had he known this when he’d engaged in lousing up Zealiac’s proposed deal with Ambersial? If so, who had asked him to do it? I wondered whether he had used the safety deposit box to stash away the money he’d made from selling shares after Ambersial’s agreement with Hembreys was announced. Or was he simply storing whatever he had on Crattelle & Hatchman?

  He was flouncing confidently along the Battersea Park Road with his entourage in tow, which was where Sally Taylor had said they’d be just after midday. He was walking past Byzantium, the gun shop Brian Turley and Bernie the Buck had robbed at Neville Thornwyn’s behest earlier in the year. Thornwyn and Bernie were both now languishing in prison and Turley was dead, possibly a suicide but I’d never know.

  Blatchford had every right to flounce. The morning’s press had given him a four percent lead over his Labour rival and the smart money was saying he was now odds-on favourite to become London’s new mayor next week. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt and a tie, hair i
mmaculately groomed, radiating the aura of someone who knew he was on the winning side of history and looking every inch the successful businessman running for office. In front of and behind him, several people I assumed from their youth to be students were handing out leaflets to people passing by. I saw two shops with Blatchford’s mugshot prominently displayed in their front windows. I could see Qais Jaser walking alongside him, staring into the ever-present tablet and whispering to the candidate. Sally Taylor was one of six or seven journalists trailing along. Most looked bored and were staring into space, looking at their phones or occasionally whispering to an accomplice.

  I parked up and approached the party from the front. Blatchford saw me walking towards him and immediately looked like someone who was in desperate need to find a toilet. He stopped and exchanged concerned glances with Jaser.

  “What is it now?” Blatchford was exasperated. From his expression I was apparently adding something unwelcome to his day.

  “Couple of questions.”

  “Okay,” he sighed, “but can you be quick about it? We’ve a lot of ground to cover and the elections a week today.”

  He nodded ahead. I followed him about thirty paces away from Jaser, who was looking concerned. The students continued shoving leaflets at everyone who passed. A woman aged around twenty with a large bush of unkempt curly blonde hair and prominent teeth braces, accentuated by a wide smile, thrust one into my hand. I looked at it. The blurb on the front page promised fair and principled government in City Hall. As Blatchford was standing close by, I resisted screwing it up and dropping it in the nearby bin.

  “Picture doesn’t do you justice,” I said nonchalantly, putting the leaflet into my jacket pocket. I’d lose it when he wasn’t looking.

  “Can we just get on with this?”

  “Fair enough. How well do you know Peter Brenchley?” I began. My intent was to shake him up with what I could allude to. I couldn’t prove anything but, if I shook the tree long enough, maybe something’d fall out.