Bold Lies

by Bold Lies (retail) (epub)

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Do you keep in touch with any of your army pals, Leo?’

  ‘I said I want a lawyer.’

  ‘Sure, but we may as well have a chat while we find you one.’

  ‘Nice try. No comment.’

  * * *

  An officer came into the room and passed a piece of paper to one of the detectives. They smiled at one another and Leo watched them. He knew the look: they had something. He yawned again.

  ‘We’ve had some lab results sped up in your honour, Leo. Do you want to know what we’ve got?’

  He sat up straight and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Your fingerprints were found inside George Murphy’s house, as well as in the downstairs toilet at Allerdale House, on Derwent Water. Now can you tell us why that might be? Cumbria’s a long way from home. And why would you be in George Murphy’s house? You’ve told us you didn’t know him.’

  Leo’s head dropped and he racked his brain for a way out, but none came. The only way to salvage anything was to massage a bit of a story around the truth, and hope for leniency due to his statement. He hadn’t shot the guy. Nor had he rowed him over to the boatyard. He wasn’t about to go down for murder.

  But he didn’t want to sell out the man who’d thrown him a lifeline if he could help it. He searched his memory, trying to find a different name, examining all the ones he’d come across over the years in an attempt to protect the person who’d recruited him in the first place. Integrity was something that had been drummed into him in the army, but it had become a joke. Loyalty was another thing entirely. Loyalty meant dying for somebody. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to do that yet, though, and he kept his head in his hands as he searched long and hard for an answer.

  ‘Give us something, Leo. This is bigger than you. Tell us who hired you to go up to Cumbria to make it look like a burglary.’

  So they thought the burglary was part of the rig.

  He remembered a drunken conversation he’d had one Sunday afternoon in a pub in Islington, ten minutes from his aunt’s shop. He’d sunk pint after pint, with his old company commander pouring his heart out to him. It had been an odd sensation: his idol and mentor breaking down in such a fashion, reversing the roles of superior and soldier. It had grabbed Leo and galvanised his allegiance. His commander had told him about the hole he’d dug himself into, and how he was terrified of his wife finding out and leaving him, taking the kids, the house and his future. The man had given his entire life to the army, and in return he had ended up with shitty accommodation, a bitter wife and a pension that would barely cover the food bills.

  He had asked for Leo’s help, and Leo had readily agreed. It was the steadiest job he’d had in years, and it enabled him to get away from the clutches of his aunt. It also enabled his boss to send his kids to private school, spoil his wife and renovate a crumbling seventeenth-century cottage in Wiltshire, though he still had dead eyes, and a growing layer of fat bubbling around his girth.

  A visit to the cottage in Wiltshire popped into Leo’s head. There’d been other men there, one of them a slick dude in a suit. If he could drop the names, it might divert the police for a while; maybe enough time to warn the man who’d been like a father to him.

  He looked up. ‘What’s in it for me?’ he asked.

  ‘We could find out about a plea arrangement, but with no guarantees. Do you know what that involves?’

  Leo nodded. Of course he knew what it involved. The alternative was to run scared for ever, knowing that one day they’d get him, and it would probably be one of the guys he’d worked alongside that they’d send. He preferred to take control, even if that meant disappearing with a new identity; it was better than ending up with a bullet in the brain, dumped naked in some boathouse.

  He made up his mind, and the officers glanced at one another, sensing as much. If he was to blow the whistle, he’d need to make it convincing.

  ‘I didn’t kill George Murphy.’

  The pair sat up straight and waited.

  ‘I can tell you who I worked with and I can identify three of them.’

  He reeled off dates, jobs and names, but held back on those he genuinely liked. It was rare in the business, but it did happen occasionally.

  ‘We need to know who is at the centre of the arrangement. Who’s in charge? There’s always a boss.’

  Leo looked down at his hands.

  ‘I overheard a conversation between two people, but I only got one name.’

  The officers waited.

  ‘Slater.’

  The interviewing officers repeated it, making sure it was clear for the record, and moved on.

  ‘Tell us what happened on the second of June.’

  Chapter 43

  ‘Why aren’t you updating HOLMES, Kelly? I knew this would happen! This investigation cannot work if you go off on your own and make decisions without me.’

  ‘I update you pretty much hourly.’

  ‘It’s not enough. Why isn’t the information about Slater on the file? Brown gave his name, clear and simple, but it doesn’t cross-reference with the Montague Club membership because you didn’t update it.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Matt. Calm down. Listen. I think we need to take this to the chief commissioner. This involves a whole host of very rich and powerful people. Don’t you think it odd that whoever is behind this knows pretty much what we’re doing; in fact they seem ahead of us sometimes.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So what? Come on! This is above my pay grade, and yours. They were all supposed to sit together at the dinner and George was due to be there too. Montague-Roland didn’t mention this little detail and neither did Tooting. Do you really want to march into a government minister’s chambers and arrest an adviser? If the press—’

  She heard him sigh. ‘Technically the Murphy killing is Cumbria territory, so you’ll have to go through the proper channels, and I’ll do the same for Emily and Mike. We’ll need concrete evidence.’

  ‘I know. I definitely don’t want to make any premature moves. Slater’s offices are on your patch; could you stretch to surveillance?’ she asked.

  ‘I can do that. Meanwhile will you update bloody HOLMES?’

  ‘I really don’t want to.’

  ‘What? Tell me what you’re thinking. I can hear your brain from here. I should never have let you go.’

  Kelly ignored the comment. ‘We’re talking huge money here. You know that Philip Tooting’s basic salary was one point two million last year, and that’s nothing compared to his share options and benefits, not to mention his freebies. His bonus in March was three million, and most of that was invested abroad. His company turns over billions of dollars per year. Why would he not mourn the death of a man he shared cosy dinners with? George’s name was scribbled out and no one at that event paid their respects or made a speech in his honour. Why? What was the neurocellular lab working on that was so threatening? I thought antidepressants and the like were worth billions – as would be a cure for addiction – so what’s the problem? What did they do wrong?’

  ‘Are you suggesting we create an elite investigation?’

  ‘Yes. If it goes on to HOLMES, everybody from Hendon to the Hebrides will know within hours.’

  ‘Now you’re pointing the finger at the Met? For God’s sake, Kell. Hang on.’

  ‘Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said? How do we know that more agencies aren’t involved? Who else knows about it at DEFRA? How deep does this go? Is it a World Health Organisation issue?’

  ‘You’re joining dots that haven’t been drawn yet. It’s a fatal flaw in police work.’

  ‘Don’t you dare make this about me! Tilly Knight spoke to George once, and we traced that call from inside Allerdale House. How did anyone else know she was involved?’

  ‘So you’re pointing your finger at my team?’

  ‘Would it hurt to check file activity from those not necessarily tasked with
the finer details?’

  ‘Inside my office?’

  She could smell his indignation but she had to know.

  ‘Give me some evidence and I’ll take it to the commissioner,’ he said at last.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Twelve hours.’

  ‘And it stays off HOLMES?’

  Silence.

  ‘There’s more,’ she said.

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘I spoke to the MoD again after what you told me about the military police not being able to get hold of Alexandros. Tilly can’t get hold of him either and they were supposed to Skype to exchange documents. Alexandros Skarparis went off radar hours after a conversation I had with a brigadier at the MoD.’

  ‘Now you expect me to believe the army is involved?’

  ‘No. Well, kind of. I’d asked the brigadier to do a bit of digging to see if he could get someone from the Dhekelia base to visit Alexandros. He said he’d pass it on to someone else at the MoD. After Alex’s disappearance, I called him back and asked him who he’d contacted.’

  ‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. What did he say?’

  ‘He sighed and said he was very busy, but he gave me a name.’

  ‘And that name means something?’

  ‘It does indeed. He’s a colonel who’s another one of Sebastian Montague-Roland’s mates, and he was sitting right next to Sebastian at the dinner. That’s not all. A long time ago, he was Leo Brown’s commanding officer.’

  ‘I’ll have it put to Brown; meanwhile I’ll get the alumni party in for interview.’

  ‘No. That will let them know we’re on to them, and with their money and resources, they could set about destroying evidence…’ She fell silent.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Miranda Cooper.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She was calling me the night of the crash. She’d just been sacked.’

  ‘You think she had something to tell us?’

  ‘I wonder if her office has been cleared out yet.’

  ‘I’ll send someone.’

  ‘And I’ll ask Graeme Millar about Leo Brown.’

  ‘I really think it’s time I came up to Cumbria.’

  ‘No! You can’t do that.’ She tried to compose herself.

  ‘I have more than fifty super-capable officers working round the clock on every single London lead, I think it’s time I saw where it all started. Meanwhile I’ll set up surveillance on DEFRA.’ He hung up.

  Kelly banged her phone against her head. Fuck. A thought occurred to her and she called him back.

  ‘So soon? I’m just booking my tickets.’

  She ignored him. ‘Can you put the DEFRA surveillance on HOLMES?’

  He agreed, and she ended the call. She toyed with the idea of going back to London on Monday to prevent him coming, but he was bull-headed and she knew she couldn’t stop him. But she also realised that she couldn’t avoid him.

  She went back to her computer screen and studied the information she’d collated over the last few hours. She decided to take a break and spend some time searching the social media accounts of the Montague Club and its various members. Tooting’s wife’s Instagram page threw up a few interesting photos. The woman was immaculate, and whilst Kelly acknowledged that such accounts were by no means a true reflection of real life, the lifestyle displayed there was opulent to the extent of being obscene. There were photographs of yachts, designer clothes, exotic destinations, flash cars and a woman seemingly doing very little, and never with her husband. Kelly did a few calculations in her head and figured that Philip Tooting might well be able to afford such a grand lifestyle. She wondered if Christopher Slater’s wife enjoyed the party life too, or the wife of a colonel, who should be able to afford jack shit.

  Slater’s wife posted pictures of her house and lavish gardens. Kelly knew that a non-executive director working for a parliamentary under-secretary might earn six figures, but she was curious as to how he sustained clear personal wealth beyond that sum. Perhaps he had other clever investments. Perhaps not.

  She quickly called Johnny and asked him how much he reckoned a colonel sitting at a desk in the MOD, close to retirement age, might take home, then she searched for the man on Facebook. It was all there in his profile: the name of his wife, and pictures of their three children, who, it appeared, all attended expensive schools. She knew that the army paid school fees, but only if the children boarded because the parents were overseas. Quick phone calls confirmed they didn’t.

  The photographs posted by the Colonel and his wife were fairly standard – summer holidays, meals out and the like – but the children were a different matter altogether. A picture of a business-class seat on an Emirates flight stood out, as did several references to their horses. It was a red flag, and she dug deeper and deeper into the lavish world of the pals who graced the halls of the Montague Club.

  At last she rubbed her eyes and stood up to stretch her legs. Something else was on her mind and it wasn’t the inquiry. She needed to explain to Johnny that the SIO currently making his way up to Cumbria was more than an ex-colleague.

  Chapter 44

  Christopher Slater took a cab to a bar in central London. It was near Victoria station and as different to the Montague Club as it could be. He’d felt queasy since speaking to Philip last night. He went over and over the details in his head: Benji, drunk, making rash decisions that came back to haunt them all. It was all his fault: you pay peanuts, you get monkeys. They were supposed to be clean, set up, staged, untraceable. Instead they were sloppy, rushed, lacking in sophistication and verging on the embarrassing. Philip had looked him dead in the eye when he’d said that everyone left a trail.

  Even him.

  He racked his brain to find an answer to the question that had been bugging him ever since: what did Philip really have on him? It was in Philip’s own interests to clean up after both of them. Christopher had sent no emails, no texts or letters, and nothing existed – as far as he knew – with his name on it. But what if Philip had an insurance plan and was closer to Dame Charlotte than he let on? Christopher’s relationship with the senior civil servant had begun in Kabul, where he’d arranged lucrative security contracts for the embassy. He’d supplied the companies and the ambassador had endorsed them. Simple. He’d also been responsible for introducing her to Philip, and he knew for a fact that she had generous share options with Ravensword, just like he did. Benji preferred cash, and that was what would get him caught in the end. But Christopher cared not for Benji or Charlotte Cross. The only one who could hurt him was Philip.

  Philip was a classic psychopath, as most of the best CEOs were. Christopher had met thousands of them. He called them the ‘black hearts’. As an ex-CEO himself, he was always being sent articles on the prevalence of psychopathy in the City. It was generally dismissed as complete bollocks. The press enjoyed the shock and awe for five minutes and then everybody went back to business.

  But Christopher had seen first-hand how Philip Tooting operated. The man was so lacking in empathy or normal human compulsions that he was capable of anything.

  He’d had a wretched childhood, with a father who beat him and a mother who would rather drink than protect her boy (Christopher had looked him up using his ministerial access to medical files). The chip on one of Philip’s shoulders was bigger than the demon sitting on the other one. Christopher had even discussed it with Robyn Hastings, his boss. Lesbians were very good at spotting alpha males and megalomaniacs. He hadn’t seen Robyn since their little squabble over her girlfriend and her dirty hands. It was everybody for himself now, and he knew that Philip would have a plan.

  He’d tried Sebastian’s private phone with no joy, and Philip wasn’t answering either. Both went to voicemail, and he imagined the two men together, plotting the downfall of the rest of them. Benji, however, did pick up, slurring his words.

  ‘Where are you?’ Christopher asked.

  ‘At the club, why?
’

  ‘I’m out.’

  ‘Good for you, where?’

  ‘No, I’m out. Finished. I don’t want anything to do with it any more. Have you seen Sebastian?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is he not at the club too?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘What are you doing, Benji? How can you simply get pissed when everything is falling apart?’

  ‘Oh don’t be so dramatic!’ The words were barely audible and it made Christopher even more nervous. Benji’s drinking had escalated lately. He was constantly blotto, and Christopher knew why: he couldn’t accept what he knew was coming.

  He felt the same way himself.

  He went to the bar and ordered a pint of bitter, despite the hour. He gulped half of it down in one. Drinking solved nothing, he knew that, but he needed to think. He had no power over what Philip did or didn’t have. He had more on the dame than anyone, so if he were to go down, she would plunge further, but that was no consolation.

  He thought about his wife and kids and understood why men committed suicide, taking their whole families with them.

  Calm down! He willed himself. Pull yourself together! You’ve never been caught before. He silenced his worries, finished his pint and went for a walk to clear his head.

  It was when he stopped to buy a sandwich that he spotted the car. He’d been in enough precarious parts of the world to know a tail when he saw it, and this one wasn’t very good: they must be police. He broke out in a sweat and decided to test them to be absolutely sure.

  If they were spending money on surveillance, it meant two things: they thought it important, but they didn’t have enough to arrest.

  Oh Christ.

  He went inside another shop. The silver saloon was still there when he came out. He doubled back, walking past it and looking in the window. Two men sat in the front chatting to one another. It didn’t fool him. He pretended to make a call on his mobile and the car began moving again, but this time it carried on and out of sight.