Thornwyn

by Laurence Todd

  I was taking this all in. It was chilling to realise a team of eleven detectives and some uniformed officers I’d served in for three years, and had good memories of, was now being perceived as wholly corrupt. Despite what Smitherman had said, would any of this stick to me? It was a daunting thought.

  “So, as I said, Thornwyn wants to see you and has vouched for you as someone who wasn’t a member of his inner circle and who, so far as he’s concerned, was clean. That’s been investigated and found to be correct. I’d have you out of the Branch if it wasn’t, trust me on that.” He glared at me again. “So the powers-that-be have given permission.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning you’re off to sunny Belmarsh to talk to him in a moment; find out what you can from him, anything that hasn’t come out yet but we ought to at least be aware of. He’s agreed to talk and we need to know what it is he has to say.”

  I backed up a little. “So I’ve already been investigated?” “Yes, you have,” Smitherman agreed. “That’s why the questions. You served with Thornwyn, so of course IPCC’s going to look into you, but don’t worry; you came out clean. No suspicion against you whatever. As I said, I wanted to be satisfied you had no skeletons deeply buried for IPCC to find. They’re not going to let Thornwyn see anyone suspected of being corrupt.” He then gave me a very serious look. “I’d suspend you myself, this very second, if I thought you were lying to me just now. If I’d got the impression you thought you’d got away with something.”

  I didn’t doubt this was true. Integrity was Jack Smitherman’s middle name.

  “But if I have to go talk to Thornwyn, that’ll mean I’ll miss this afternoon’s meeting, and I was really up for it as well,” I said facetiously. Smitherman ignored it.

  I considered everything that’d been said so far for a few seconds. Smitherman was as straight as a die and as honest as a summer’s day was long, and any notion there could be corruption inside the force he loved almost produced physical pain for him.

  “You know,” Smitherman reminisced, “I joined the police straight from the army in the late seventies. Up to that time, the British police were routinely seen as the best in the world. That was what the public saw out there on the street. But there was so much corruption and intrigue beneath the surface. I take it you’ve heard of Sir Robert Mark?”

  “Yeah, ’course I have.”

  Being a London copper and not having heard of Sir Robert Mark was like being a football fan and never having heard of Pelé. He might have been before your time, but you knew who he was, what he’d done and why he was feted.

  Robert Mark had become the Commissioner of the Met in the early 1970s and he’d been appalled at the levels of corruption he’d found in the organisation, especially near to the top of the force. He had taken drastic steps to purge the police of those officers he’d thought were more crooked than those they caught. Whole squads were disbanded or merged with others, long-time detectives in one squad were transferred to other squads, and several who were suspected of corruption but against which nothing could be proven to the standard required by a court of law were virtually forced to retire early or resign from the force if they refused to go back into uniformed service. In the space of a few short years he’d transformed the entire culture of the monolithic Metropolitan police and produced a far more effective force in the process. Despite initial horror at some of the revelations which emerged, the public had been solidly behind Mark’s changes and the reputation of the force was re-established in the eyes of the public. The Met in 1980 was a much different and cleaner force than it’d been a decade earlier.

  “He aimed to create an environment where crooked cops couldn’t flourish out in the open any longer, and he largely succeeded. People like Thornwyn are now the exceptions rather than the norm. You wouldn’t believe how endemic corruption was back then. Some top coppers openly boasted about how much Soho pornographers were paying them to let them operate unhindered. It’s not like that any longer and I don’t want the likes of Thornwyn bringing it back either.”

  I remembered a Politics course I’d taken at King’s entitled Britain in the 1970s. One strand of the course had been about policing as this was the decade where major demonstrations became regular sights, political and industrial militancy having become the norm by this time. Police strategy and tactics had been the subject of much contention, particularly after events like at Saltley in 1972 where sheer weight of numbers had forced police to accede to requests to close a coal depot after thousands of miners and their sympathisers, in pursuance of furthering their industrial claims, had blockaded the gates and prevented lorries leaving with coal to help bring pressure on the National Coal Board. In this instance the police were seen as victims, as nobody had foreseen the vast numbers arriving at the gates at Saltley. But this had also been the decade when the extent of police corruption had finally been made public and where senior officers had gone to prison after having been found guilty of bribery and corruption in, amongst other things, allowing the porn trade in Soho to continue unmolested in return for sizeable cash favours. It was also the decade when TV shows like The Sweeney had shown the reality of police life in more graphic detail, suggesting that PC George Dixon was receding into mythology.

  A popular piece of graffiti found on London walls at that time read: A good police force arrests more criminals than it employs.

  For an honest young man like Smitherman, to have joined the police in the midst of all this controversy and societal turbulence had to have been a real eye-opener. That he’d survived and risen to his current exalted position in the force was testament to his honesty and integrity.

  “So he wants to spill his guts; so what?” I asked. “Why does he want to speak to someone in Special Branch? Can’t IPCC or someone else handle it? I don’t particularly want to see Thornwyn.”

  “Well, he’s asked for you, and I’ve agreed to it. I agreed because one of Thornwyn’s cases touched on something the Branch was investigating,” Smitherman said, almost airily, “and I want you to talk to him about it. Get his side of the story.” He smiled wickedly. He knew I’d sooner fall down stairs than see Thornwyn.

  “Huh? He was CID, wasn’t he?”

  “True, but this case crossed over into something we had an interest in, and I don’t think we ever got to the bottom of it either.”

  “Which case was that?”

  “You remember the controversy about the resignation of that parliamentary under-secretary to the Home Secretary a few months ago, Paul Sampson?”

  I did. Paul Sampson had suddenly stood down from the Government and, soon after, caused an even bigger stir when he’d resigned his seat as an MP, citing health as well as personal reasons. The media had taken a keen interest in this because Sampson was only forty-three and seen as a rising star in the Conservative party, and his out-of-the-blue resignation had taken the political establishment by surprise and provoked much comment in the media about the real reasons behind his departure. Within a month of his resignation and standing down, though, he’d committed suicide by swallowing three quarters of the contents of a bottle of strong sleeping pills, as well as most of a half-bottle of cognac to keep them company. His wife had stated he’d been suffering from deep depression and had seemingly lost all interest in everything.

  “I remember reading about it,” I said. “Interesting case. It never did come out about why he really stood down, did it? I only know what I read in the press, but he seemed a bit too young to jack it all in like that.”

  “He was. Unofficially, there were whispers from above.” Smitherman nodded upwards. “Sampson was pressured into resigning to keep the lid on something, and it was suspected Thornwyn had something to do with that, but that was never established because Sampson wouldn’t talk about it, and now can’t as he’s dead. Any undue interference with the duties of a minister is a serious offence. We need to know if the whispers are true.”

  “How could Thornwyn get a minister to resi
gn?” I was puzzled.

  “We don’t know if he did, so you’re off to talk to him and find out.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No. There’s something else as well. I can’t be too specific at present, but the media have somehow got wind of an ongoing investigation into possible breaches of the ministerial code of conduct. The suspicion was someone in the Government wasn’t playing by the established rules.”

  “They have a code of conduct?” My sarcasm was evident. “When did that happen?”

  “Yes, they do.” Smitherman looked sternly at me over the top of his glasses. I thought his faith in the integrity of those at the top was somehow touching. ”Anyway, one of the MPs concerned was a senior member of his party. He was in Government when the coalition was first formed in 2010 and, before becoming an MP, used to work for a leading arms manufacturer supplying weaponry of all kinds to the armed forces. He was supposedly lobbying on the manufacturer’s behalf for orders to be put its way. The rules state they can’t do this whilst in office, and it’s a clear violation of the ethics of the office held. The thing is,” Smitherman said, matter-of-factly, “he was probably lobbying because the coalition was continuing with policies the last government had inherited from the previous one, one of which was selling arms and weaponry and other military equipment to countries the UK officially does no business with, especially not selling them weapons.”

  “What sort of weapons?”

  “Firearms mainly; rifles, pistols, things like that.”

  “Which countries?”

  “That’s classified, I’m afraid.”

  “Let me guess; Paul Sampson’s the MP concerned.”

  “Yes. Suffice to say none of this was ever intended for public consumption, but someone’s leaked it to the media. Government was trying to hush this up and clear it up without it making the press, and the media’s now making waves, asking questions Government doesn’t want to answer just yet. The last thing it wants is for the public to know a minister who committed suicide was involved in selling arms to hostile countries.”

  “So, what’s actually being looked into and who’s doing it?”

  “Customs and Excise is investigating the issue of exporting of weapons to places they shouldn’t have been going to, and I believe the House Intelligence and Security Committee was going to be investigating as well.”

  “Thornwyn was involved in this?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out. It’s known Thornwyn and Sampson were seen together a few times, so I wanna know what Thornwyn knew about this and whether the whispers we’ve heard about blackmail are indeed true. Also, anything else he knows about Sampson and his activities on behalf of the firm he used to work for.”

  “Sounds like I’ve got a fun afternoon, doesn’t it?” I stood up.

  “Fun? You work for me and you expect fun?” He flashed a sardonic smile.

  Belmarsh Prison. Thornwyn had been remanded here because it had the appropriate facilities to keep him away from those whose spiteful resentment of the police might easily spill over into the dispensation of violence against a senior representative of the state agency they held responsible for their incarceration. Belmarsh was also equipped to hold high-security prisoners on remand or detain those found guilty of serious terrorist offences. It would be easier to keep him confined here whilst he waited for whatever sentence the judge was mindful to give him after considering all the reports currently being prepared for his perusal.

  I’d visited Belmarsh not too many weeks before when I’d come to talk to Simon Addley about matters I was investigating, and it had been no more inviting then. The atmosphere was still austere and psychologically inhibiting, as though once inside, all possibility of returning to the outside world any time soon should be forgotten as quickly as possible. What would it be like to work in such a place? How did prison officers deal with their own feelings about the people here, several of whom had committed disturbingly violent offences? Was it different here from anywhere else, given that many inmates in Belmarsh were unlikely ever to be freed?

  I’d assumed I’d be going to the same block where I’d spoken to Addley, and I very vaguely toyed with the idea of an unannounced visit because it was a safe bet he hadn’t just popped out for the day, but, just as I decided I’d sooner have toothache than spend any more time with him than I had to, I was taken in the opposite direction. I was escorted into a different block by the prison officer who’d checked my credentials at reception. We engaged in some small talk along the way about prisons, the police and our respective roles inside them but, once he found I’d come to Belmarsh to talk to Commander Thornwyn, he let loose with a stream of invective about him and how he’d like to leave him unattended in the prison yard for ten minutes when some of the most violent and homicidal offenders were exercising. He looked at me with a satisfied smirk as his rant finished. He unlocked the door to the interview room. I stood face on to him, close enough to hear him breathing.

  “I don’t remember asking for your opinion about Commander Thornwyn,” I said calmly. “I don’t give a fuck what you think about him. Keep your fucking opinion to yourself. Okay?”

  “I’m just saying,” he said defensively.

  “Don’t,” I snapped back. “You know the consequences if anything happens to Commander Thornwyn whilst he’s on remand.” I stared at him as I entered.

  “Nice. We bend over backwards looking out for some corrupt cop, and then we have to take shit from other police officers as well.” He looked at me with evident displeasure. “I suppose you think he deserves four-star treatment?”

  “How about just doing your job, eh?” I muttered. I walked over to an armchair and sat down. The prison officer looked at me for a few moments with what I assume he thought was an aggressive stare and left the room.

  Compared to the room where I’d interviewed Simon Addley, this room was almost palatial. The pale blue walls looked as though they’d recently been painted. There were two soft armchairs, a shag pile carpet and a table with four chairs, none of which was secured to the floor. There were two framed pictures on the wall, views of Belmarsh taken from the air. There was even a window letting in the sunshine, making the room appear bigger and brighter, and with a view of the main road. I was taking all this in as I sat back in one of the soft armchairs waiting for Thornwyn’s arrival.

  I didn’t have long to wait either. A minute later the door opened and a senior prison official, someone I recognised as having seen on television recently talking about penal reform policy, led Thornwyn into the room with another prison officer behind him.

  I looked at my ex-boss. He still cut an imposing figure; immaculately turned out, with his silver-white hair stylishly groomed, a jacket carried nonchalantly over his shoulder, smart but casual trousers, a white shirt and a tie slightly loosened at the collar. He looked like he was on his way for a night out and carrying himself as though he didn’t have a care in the world. If I’d not known where we were, I’d have assumed he was still on duty as a ranking officer. Had I been expecting a broken man after the outcome of his recent trial, I’d have been very disappointed.

  The official whispered something to Thornwyn, which seemed to amuse both men, and then left the room with the other officer. I was alone with probably the most reviled man inside the British police force.

  I remembered the respect I used to have for him when I was a new DC in his section, and now I wondered whether I’d been taken in by the illusion he perpetrated and the patrician aura he undoubtedly radiated. He carefully hung his jacket across the back of one of the chairs, then sat in the armchair opposite and pulled it closer to the table. At that moment I think he realised I was actually in the room as he finally acknowledged my presence.

  “DS Rob McGraw,” he said in a knowing manner. “How are you, son? Long time no see.” He still had the faint trace of a northern accent despite his years in London. Henry Higgins could probably have placed exactly where in the north. He extended his righ
t arm to shake hands with me. I didn’t reciprocate.

  “Commander.” I nodded, acknowledging his rank.

  “You’re still working for Smitherman, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Must be quite a culture shock working for someone as uptight as him after being in my team for a few years, eh?” He laughed. “You like it?”

  “Working for Smitherman? Yeah, he’s a good bloke. Could have done worse.”

  “You like Special Branch?”

  “I do, yeah. I like what we do. We make a difference.” It felt like I was being interviewed.

  “You think so, eh? Don’t you think you made more of a difference in CID, helping get the real scumbags off the streets and behind bars, where they belonged? That’s where the difference gets made, son.”

  “Don’t call me son. I didn’t come here to be patronised.” I didn’t like his sneering tone.

  “Hey, calm down, Rob, no one’s patronising you.” He sat back in his chair.

  At that moment the door opened and a prison officer entered carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, two mugs and a plate of biscuits, which he placed on the table. He poured coffee for Thornwyn and me, then left. At the door I could see the officer who’d escorted me looking disgusted at what was occurring.

  When the door was closed, Thornwyn passed a mug of coffee to me. “So, you drew the short straw, eh? You’re the one Special Branch sent over to talk to wicked old uncle Neville about his wrongdoings, eh?”

  “I was told you’d specifically asked for me.” I was surprised. “That’s true, I did. I just never expected them to agree to it. I wasn’t sure you’d want to, either. I told them I wanted to talk to you because you’re straight.”