For a second he looked rattled, but he quickly regained his composure. An essential skill for the putative politician.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“Peter Brenchley,” I repeated.
He gave the impression of thinking for a few seconds. “I can’t place the name,” he said, in such a way as to suggest he assumed I was going to leave it there. I wasn’t.
“He must be a forgettable kind of guy, then, so I’ll give you a hint. You were with him yesterday afternoon at a City bank looking at a safety deposit box. I can even name the bank where you were, and the time you were there. You both used your own names to sign in and out,” I stated casually. “I’ve had that confirmed by the bank. You remember him now?”
He was silent for a moment, thinking about his options. “So, now we’ve established you do know Peter Brenchley, how well do you know him? Well enough to do business with him?”
Over Blatchford’s shoulder, I could see Sally Taylor, still carrying an enormous shoulder bag. She was looking at me with an interested expression. Her eyes seemed to be asking me what was going on. A few other journos were talking in a low voice to each other, whilst staring in our direction. I seemed to be the centre of attention. Several of the journos started laughing at a joke someone had told. I hoped it wasn’t about me.
A few more seconds passed. I raised my eyebrows, indicating I wanted an answer. Well, it always worked for Smitherman.
I continued. “Here’s what I think about things. Somehow, you louse up Zealiac’s proposed deal with Ambersial, and your bank says you did so intentionally. Brenchley’s the CEO of Ambersial. So his being present yesterday suggests you two were in this together. I mean, it’d make sense, wouldn’t it? His firm gets to join up with a much larger American company, Hembreys, which is a much more lucrative deal for them, and for you, because you get slipped a few bob for helping it happen. I mean, I know you bought a lot of shares before Hembreys and Ambersial linked up.”
He looked nonplussed. I continued.
“What I don’t know, though, is who told you about Hembreys’ interest in doing a deal with Ambersial. Was it Brenchley? Did someone tip him off, and he in turn told you? Also, how did you and him hook up together?”
He took a couple of deep breaths. His eyes were registering something but I was finding them hard to read.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m gonna be asking him the same questions.” I smiled.
Blatchford was attempting to appear indifferent. He still wasn’t talking.
“I don’t know whether Jamal Khoudri knew about this. Did he? It’d be a good motive to silence him, wouldn’t it, if he did, especially if he was planning on telling someone.”
“Are you implying I was in some way responsible for Jamal being murdered?” he exclaimed in a loud whisper, sounding outraged.
“I’m implying nothing. I’m offering a scenario based on what I know, and I know you were with Brenchley yesterday afternoon.” I raised my voice slightly, but not so the assembled hacks could hear me. “And I know what you did at the bank, so let’s stop bullshitting, alright?”
He was silent for a few seconds. He looked down and sighed.
Apparently I was going to have to keep prodding. “Were you aware what Zealiac was attempting to manufacture when the deal went tits-up? You’re aware, I’m guessing, the company has a strategic importance to Israel and had to be rescued from going out of business. Did you know that?”
He didn’t reply. He nodded slightly to himself. His eyes seemed to be glazing over, but he quickly regained his poise and confidence. “Yes, alright, I know Peter Brenchley, but I’m afraid this is a little more complicated than you might think it is.”
“Oh yeah? How’s that?”
He took a deep breath again. “Look, there are things in place you don’t know about, and I really can’t talk about them.” He stared directly at me as he spoke. “I’ve been told not to.”
“By who?”
He hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”
I took a shot in the dark. “Was it Christian Perkins?”
Blatchford recoiled slightly, as though his finger had just touched a live wire.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He didn’t sound convincing. “Look, I have to continue campaigning. So, if you’ve nothing else . . .”
I didn’t reply. He turned and walked back to join a relieved Qais Jaser. He put on his politician’s face and went back to wooing London’s electorate into voting for him. Sally Taylor looked at me for a moment, as if wondering what we’d been talking about, then followed the party along the road.
My car was two hundred yards away. I was about fifty yards from it when another car pulled up in front and stopped. No one exited from it, and I could see two people in the front looking in my direction. I couldn’t be certain but I had the feeling I was being watched, although I didn’t want to stare them out and risk appearing paranoid.
I deactivated my car alarm, watched closely by the two occupants of the car in front, and was about to get in when I became aware of footsteps coming up behind me.
“Detective Sergeant McGraw,” a voice called out.
I spun around quickly and found myself facing Joachim Balpak. He looked almost exactly like the picture drawn by Jacqueline Chandler. He was around six feet, well built, and he looked disgustingly fit. He was dressed casually, a dark hooded unzipped tracksuit top, T-shirt and jeans. He had a serious expression on his face, and was giving me what I took to be some kind of hostile stare. I could see what Richard Clements had meant when he’d described Balpak’s eyes. They were dark, almost without remorse. The kind of eyes that could instil fear in a target just by looking at him, eyes which promised death without a second’s hesitation. I suspected those eyes were the last things many a person had seen before entering the afterlife.
I didn’t speak for a moment, just stared back at him. Face to face with the man I was certain had killed PC Jones. I was frustrated because he had diplomatic immunity and police couldn’t touch him. He certainly wasn’t dressed like a diplomat.
“How’d you know my name?” I was initially curious.
“I know who you are. But don’t worry; I’m not here to harm you. My name’s . . .”
“I know who you are,” I interrupted him, “and I know what you are. You offering yourself up for killing one of my colleagues?”
“You have proof of this?” He smiled wanly.
“Enough CCTV evidence to put you before a jury. Your face can clearly be seen as you ran away from Red Lion Square.” I was trying to be civil and not let my rancour show.
As I was talking I became aware of a presence behind me. I turned.
Eight feet away, one of the other car’s two occupants had got out and was leaning against their car and staring at me, his eyes registering complete indifference and his arms casually folded, like he was waiting for a bus. Beneath the casual front, I could see he was tensed and looked ready to move at a second’s notice. From the hang of his jacket’s left side, I’d no doubt he was concealing a gun. Same for Balpak. But I was as well.
“Are you so sure about that?” Balpak was sounding confident. “Maybe you should check your television cameras again.”
I was confused. Why was he so confident he’d not been seen on camera? I’d seen him myself. I knew he was there. Wasn’t he?
“Oh, you’re there alright. I’ve seen the footage, and I saw you in it.” I spat the words out. “That’s how we identified you. I also think whoever you were with in Red Lion Square the other night gave the signal to those across the road to charge, and in the confusion, you cut Jones and he dies. I think this whole thing was orchestrated, no way was this random. You gonna deny that? Was it this muppet gave the signal?” I nodded my head towards the man behind.
Balpak shrugged, like what I’d said hadn’t registered. “Let’s see what happens with your evidence, eh?”
I’d adjusted my body angle so I could see the man behind me as well as Balp
ak in front. The man behind was just standing, half-smiling and looking at me, like an animal ready to pounce.
“I’m here because I’d like to know how near you are to arresting Blatchford.” Balpak wasn’t asking. He made it sound like an order.
“For what?”
“For causing major damage to Israel’s national interest. His actions set our war efforts back many months, possibly even years.”
“Can you prove that?”
He shook his head. “Not to the requirements of a court of law in either of our countries, but we know enough to realise what he did was not in my country’s best interests.”
“And what is it he did?” I knew what he was alluding to, but I wanted to hear him say it.
“I think you already know. Most certainly your superiors do.”
Did he mean Smitherman? Was he referring to someone like Stimpson? I was even more confused.
“Blatchford’s a police matter,” I said. “Not your concern.” “I think you’ll find he is,” he replied airily.
The thought immediately jumped up at me. Was it Balpak who killed Jamal Khoudri? He was a trained assassin who could kill someone and melt away into the crowd quite easily.
“You killed Jamal Khoudri as well, didn’t you?” I said, casually but accusingly. “Last Tuesday, just after you’d sliced up my colleague. You shot him in his office. Waited till he was alone, then went in and did him. But at least he died quick. More than my colleague did, bled out like a stuck pig.” The tone of my voice could leave him in no doubt as to my displeasure at his actions.
Balpak remained impassive at my accusation.
“Killing police in the UK’s a no-no, pal. It’s just not done. It’s not in the rules. Everyone knows that. Everyone except you, you Israeli bastard.” There was pure venom in my voice.
The man behind began shuffling towards me. I immediately produced my gun. I was aware of being in a public place but there was no helping it.
“Moshe, no,” Balpak said in an urgent tone, making a patting gesture with his hands. The man stood down and returned to his previous stationary position. I put my gun back in the shoulder holster. There was a silence which lasted only a few seconds, but it felt longer.
“You’ve not denied what I’ve just said.”
“I’m not going to either,” he immediately retorted. “Yes, I killed both men, and I have no remorse for doing so either.”
“Your friend Rhodes help you, did he?” I smiled cynically at him.
He waited a moment before replying.
“When Israel’s security is at stake,” he said calmly in a measured tone, “we’ll take whatever steps are necessary to keep her safe. Even if it only keeps her safe for one more day, we’ll do it.”
“How was PC Jones a threat to Israeli security?” I was stunned. “He was just an ordinary London copper, only a couple of years in the job.”
Balpak shook his head. “You don’t need to know.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said aggressively. “You don’t just kill police in this country and expect to get away with it, whatever the reason. This isn’t Tel Aviv, pal.”
“In Tel Aviv, Blatchford would’ve paid dearly for his act of sabotage by now,” he snarled.
Another thought hit me as he spoke. Assa Khoudri and Steven Perry had been pursued by two cars before they’d crashed. Were they driven by Rhodes and Balpak? I knew they were working together. Would that include being party to causing two deaths? If they’d done this, it was safe to assume they’d been involved in the burglary as well, and had planted the briefcase with the stolen documents in the wreckage afterwards.
“Yeah. The rule of law’s all the rage in your country, isn’t it?” My cynicism was evident from the scowl on Balpak’s face. We faced off for a few more seconds.
“So you’re not arresting Blatchford, then?”
“That wasn’t what I came to see him about, so, no, I’m not arresting him.”
“This country, Moshe,” he said contemptuously, sighing and shaking his head, looking at the man standing behind me. “It’ll never change and it’ll never learn.”
Balpak walked past me. The man behind opened the front passenger door. He was about to enter when I spoke.
“You guys have permits for the guns you’re concealing?” “What?” Balpak was almost laughing. There was disbelief etched across his face.
“Don’t make me repeat myself. I wanna see your permits.” “I’m an Israeli diplomat—”
I cut him off sharply. “Diplomats don’t carry weapons, and they dress better. Either you show me you have permission to carry concealed weapons or I call for backup, and if you drive off, that’s an official complaint to your ambassador from the Foreign Office right there. If you’re really a diplomat,” – I spat the word out – “you’ll know all about complying with all lawful instructions from police in the host nation.”
It was the unwritten norm that weapons were not carried by any embassy staff in London. All embassies understood this and, for the most part, complied with it. There were of course exceptions to this. Personal protection officers accompanying ambassadors and other occupants of sensitive diplomatic posts were routinely armed, but no one else. As the Mossad’s man in London, Balpak would have the authority to be armed at all times. I was just making life uncomfortable for him. And not just because I could. I wanted to, after hearing what he’d said just now.
Balpak slid his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, looking at me the whole time, and produced a small wallet which he flipped open. I could see a gold, embossed accredited diplomatic card. “This gives me permission to carry my weapon.”
“What about your girlfriend?” I nodded towards Moshe, who didn’t look happy at my description.
“He’s embassy security staff,” Balpak said.
Moshe produced a wallet and flashed a badge at me. I nodded.
“Thank you, gents.” I smiled at them. “You two have a nice day.”
Balpak and Moshe both got into the car, which pulled away into the traffic. I made a note of the car’s registration number. It wasn’t an embassy car. No CD plates.
I now knew who’d killed PC Jones and Jamal Khoudri, though I couldn’t apprehend the person admitting culpability, and I was now fairly certain I knew who’d driven the cars which had led to the car crash, killing two people, though I couldn’t prove that. But what I still didn’t know was why. What did Balpak mean when he asked if I was confident about the CCTV evidence I’d said we had? He could be clearly seen in the pictures, and it was admissible in a court of law as evidence. Wasn’t it?
*
I was writing up my encounters with Joachim Balpak and James Blatchford. I was as detailed as possible, leaving out nothing and outlining my conclusions about the case, especially emphasising Balpak’s culpability in the killing of Khoudri and Jones. Before doing this I’d contacted Peter Brenchley again, and he had confirmed he’d visited London the day before. He said he’d been in a meeting with James Blatchford, though he didn’t mention being in a bank. I had asked in such a way as to make him think I was inquiring about Blatchford, rather than him, and he had willingly volunteered the information I wanted.
Whilst I was typing, Smitherman called on the internal phone.
“Get over to the Cumberhall House Hotel, Mayfair, now. There’s been a shooting.”
“Who’s been shot?” I was already up and sliding into my jacket.
“Just go. You’ll be told when you get there.”
*
I drove fast, using the siren to clear a path. The little boy in me never stopped enjoying the thrill of flicking the switch, hearing the siren wail and seeing the lights flashing, as well as seeing other vehicles pulling over as I sped past.
The Cumberhall was in Bruton Place, off New Bond Street. I parked at an obtuse angle in the road, behind another police car, and showed ID to the police officer at the front door. I was led into the spacious, opulent lobby by another uniform and introduced to a DI Re
ece, who was finishing up talking to a hotel employee.
“Who’s the victim?” I asked.
“Someone named” – he looked at his notes – “Donald Dellvay, an American businessman over here doing whatever it was for his firm.”
Dellvay. I chewed over likely assassins for a moment. “What’s the story, then? What happened?”
“Cleaning lady went to clean his room about forty minutes ago. Door’s locked. She opens it with a pass key. She finds Dellvay lying on his back on the bed. She initially thinks he’s still sleeping, till she sees the blood on the front of his shirt. She screams and calls hotel security, bloke over there.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the front desk, where a large man in his early fifties was quietly standing, hands clasped together in front of him. I gave him a wave and a smile. He returned both.
“You know him?” Reece asked.
“Ian Loveland, ex-CID sergeant. We were in the same team for a while before he was offered this post and put his papers in.”
“Okay. Anyway, he confirms Dellvay’s dead, calls the emergency services.”
“Any idea how long he’d been dead?”
“Best guess is about twelve hours. Won’t know till a post-mortem’s done.”
“He have any visitors last night?”
“I’ve just got here. He’ll know.”
Reece gestured for Loveland to come join us. He strolled over. For a big man he was surprisingly light on his feet.
“Thought you were supposed to keep the hotel guests safe, you big useless bastard.” I laughed, patting him on the shoulder. He was at least six-five and probably seventeen stone, most of it muscle. I had to reach up to do it. “How you doing, Ian?”
“McGraw, you little scrutz, how are you? Still pretending to be a detective?” We shook hands. His hand was the size of a dinner plate.
“Don’t you miss doing real work?”
He feigned indignation. “Bugger off. Do you know, I had to ask a couple to keep the noise down in the bar last weekend?” He grinned inanely. “I earn my money.”
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