Thanking her kindly through gritted teeth I’d decided the day was wasted, so I went off duty early. I went to the gym instead and took out the frustration of sitting around all day on a punchbag and the treadmill, feeling much better when I got home.
Chancery Lane was busy as I strolled along at nine fifteen in the morning, with several members of the legal profession for company. This was right in the heart of legal London, with three of the Inns of Court close by plus a couple of famous law bookshops, including Wildy’s, which specialised in second-hand legal tomes. The Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand were also close by, as well as the bankruptcy court in Carey Street.
I rang the bell for DeeCee Inc. and gave a false name when a sonorous female voice on the intercom asked who was calling. I asked for Gillian Redmond and said it was about an inquiry she was making on my behalf, but I was told she wasn’t in the office yet, though she was expected later in the morning. I said I’d return then.
My inner scepticism told me not to believe she wasn’t in, so I wandered along the road, bought a coffee and stood in a nearby doorway to await developments. Fifty minutes later Gillian Redmond herself came out of the building. She crossed the road and walked along Carey Street. I followed. She turned right into Lincoln’s Inn and strolled along the south side of the square towards Kingsway, walking along calmly with no reason to believe she was being followed. I stayed about a hundred yards behind. I remembered Richard Clements’ magazine, New Focus, had its offices the other side of the square.
In Kingsway she turned right, crossed over the road and turned into High Holborn, where she entered a building. I saw the nameplate. Bartolome Systems Ltd had its London offices on the first floor. Was this the firm that had hired Gillian Redmond? Why would they want me followed?
I phoned Prevental on my mobile and asked for Gavin Dennison.
“Gavin, you know anything about a firm called Bartolome Systems Ltd?”
There was silence for a few seconds. That was my answer.
“Gavin, you didn’t really think I wouldn’t find out who Gillian Redmond was working for, did you?” I laughed. “I’ve just followed her to their London office in High Holborn. She’s in there now, reporting back on her lack of progress, no doubt. Honestly, mate, tailing her’s like following a weasel in a henhouse.” I was in a jokey mood.
“I don’t know what it’s about, Rob. I don’t know what she’s doing for them.”
“She started following me just after I’d been to see my old boss, Neville Thornwyn. What’s the connection to Bartolome?”
“That’s classified information, mate. Can’t tell you.”
“Yeah.” I snorted derisorily.
“No, seriously, Rob, it is. Bartolome’s an important firm in our world. You know what they do and how strategically important they are. You go near them, you’ll have MI5 all over you.”
“Now, why would that be?”
“Look, Rob, I can’t talk about this with you, you know that.” “Yeah, okay, Gav, take care.” I rang off. I was unconvinced. Friday last, Smitherman had asked me to go talk to my ex-boss, Commander Neville Thornwyn, ostensibly about what he knew concerning the resignation of a parliamentary under-secretary. He’d admitted to blackmailing the individual concerned, Paul Sampson. Since then, I’d found I was being followed by Gillian Redmond, an ex-MI6 operative who, I’d been told by Gavin Dennison after I’d traced her movements to Prevental’s front door, had been hired by a leading manufacturing company to do some work for them. I now had every reason to suspect that company was Bartolome Systems Ltd, a major supplier of essential and strategically important military hardware to the UK armed forces, plus several others across the globe. I’d also learnt Paul Sampson’s father-in-law was the production director at Bartolome and Sampson himself had once been a non-executive director of the company.
I remembered Gillian Redmond following me out of Berkhamsted on Sunday. Martha Sampson’s father worked for Bartolome; Redmond had been hired by the same firm. That would explain how she’d known where I’d be; Jeremy Godfrey had told her.
Why would Bartolome Systems Ltd put someone on my tail? This had all begun after I’d talked to Thornwyn last Friday afternoon. Was he connected to this in some way?
Thornwyn had also alluded to Smitherman not giving me the big picture about the situation. I was confused. But I was also outside Bartolome’s London offices, so I waited until I saw Gillian Redmond leaving their premises. I was standing across the road and I resisted the urge to call out and wave at her as she left, hoping she saw me.
At the reception desk on the first floor I showed ID to the young woman behind the counter and asked to speak to a manager or whoever was in charge at Bartolome’s London office. I stressed the importance of my request. She dialled a number and a moment later, just as I was thinking her shoulder-length thick ginger hair was gorgeous and wondering whether the star-shaped tattoo on her neck and the two small studs either side of her nose were essential adornments for the modern attractive young female, a forty-something woman approached me. She introduced herself as Diane Leander and said she was the manager of the firm’s London offices. She was quite short, the top of her head barely up to my shoulder, and she was wearing what would be regarded as a power business trouser suit with a crisp white blouse under the jacket, plus sensible shoes. She invited me to follow her.
I was seated in her comfortable albeit small office. I could see along Southampton Place from here and I could hear traffic noise below because her window was slightly open, negating the effect of the double glazing. On the wall behind her desk was a large picture of a military aircraft but I didn’t know enough to identify it. I declined an offer of tea or coffee. She sat forward in her chair.
“We don’t get many visitors from Special Branch,” she said in a pleasant manner. “So, what can I do for you?”
“The woman who’s just left this office, ten minutes back? Her name’s Gillian Redmond, and I’m wondering what her connection is to your firm because I know she’s not an employee here,” I said, equally pleasantly. “She’s an inquiry agent and she’s also an ex-MI6 operative. She come in here to submit her CV?”
“Whoever she is, she doesn’t work for this firm, you’re right, so she has no connection to Bartolome Systems.” She maintained the pleasant front.
“Oh, really? Redmond’s been following me for the past few days, including up to Berkhamsted last Sunday. I was puzzled as to why this lady’s on my tail. What was I doing to arouse her curiosity? So I trail her to the firm she was hired through, Prevental – and I’ll bet you know who they are, don’t you?” I said, only slightly flippantly. “And I learn, through them, a leading company’s hired Redmond to do some work for them. The thing is, your production director just happens to live in Berkhamsted. I was there to talk to his daughter and then, out of nowhere, Gillian Redmond appears on my tail once again. Funny, eh? What do you think? How would she know where I’d be going, and why would the investigations of a police officer be her concern? So I follow her again and, guess what, she leads me right to the London offices of Bartolome Systems Ltd. And, even more coincidentally, the father of the woman I went to Berkhamsted to talk to just happens to work for Bartolome, and he was there with her when I arrived. He even knew who I was without being told. I wonder how he’d know that?”
She sat back in her chair and looked directly at me, clearly displeased with my little speech, but didn’t reply.
“I should tell you, if you’re gonna hire someone to sit on my tail, hire someone who’s better at the game than Gillian Redmond. I’m pretty sure I’ve caught her out every time she’s tried following me. I don’t think you’re getting the quality of service you’re paying good money for.” I gave her my best evil grin.
She said nothing.
“So, is Bartolome’s interest in me or in Paul Sampson?” I asked formally. “He also used to work for this company, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, Detect
ive, but this company’s done nothing wrong,” she finally said as she sat forward, “and unless you can show evidence of wrongdoing, it also doesn’t have to justify what it does or doesn’t do to you.”
“Is that right? You should be aware any interference with the actions of an officer of the Crown in pursuance of his or her sworn duty is an obstruction. That’s a criminal offence, and putting a tail on a police officer counts as obstruction.”
I heard the door behind me open as she stood up.
“I stand by what I’ve just said, Detective, and I’ve nothing further to add, so, if you’ve no objections, this conversation’s concluded.” She looked at someone behind me. “This man’ll show you the way out. Show the detective out, will you, Josh?”
I stood. I then felt someone grabbing hold of my left arm. I turned and saw a man, slightly bigger than I am, standing alongside me, wearing a fawn-coloured shirt and a tie, plus a badge stating Security pinned to his shirt pocket. He was around mid-fifties and probably ex-military, working as a security guard to supplement his pension. He had a very stern expression on his face.
“C’mon, pal, this way.” He tried to pull me along.
In a flash I grabbed his left wrist firmly and, in a swift movement he wasn’t expecting and was wholly unprepared for, I twisted his wrist around, turned him and bent his arm up behind his back, wrenched my arm free from his grip, grabbed his shirt collar and slammed him up against the nearby wall, face first. Neutralising this clown had taken less than three seconds. I maintained my firm grip on the wrist halfway up his back and I kept his face pinned against the wall. I could hear from his moans he was in some discomfort.
“You wanna dance with me, you should ask first ’cause I like to lead. That clear?”
He gasped his agreement. I turned him around, releasing my grip, and pushed him away with some force. He stumbled against Diane Leander’s desk, knocking over her desk lamp, spilling her drink and pushing a few folders onto the floor. She had an astonished look on her face, as though she was gawping at one of the Seven Wonders of the World.
“It’s okay, I know the way out.” I smiled at both of them and left.
Larry Jasper had told me a couple of days earlier that Brian Turley was one of the two detectives on Thornwyn’s team who’d been suspended from duty pending further investigations concerning his dealings with Thornwyn. I knew Turley quite well as we’d occasionally partnered up.
Towards the end of my time in the team, Turley’d been drinking heavily and he’d become about as reliable as a second-hand watch bought from a boot fair. His absences because of back pain or having a cold were covers for his sleeping off the after-effects of yet another bender. On more than one occasion someone in the team had made excuses for him, either saying he was with us for an arrest when he wasn’t even at work that day, or writing a report for him to sign off on. Everyone except the senior brass knew this but somehow he got away with it.
Even though I was unsure how reliable he now was, I decided I’d go see what I could learn from him. He knew Thornwyn better than most, so he would be a good place to start.
I knew he used to live somewhere around Shepherd’s Bush, so I checked with the Branch office and obtained an address for him. He had a small place in Loftus Road, and I remembered him always complaining about the increased volume of traffic on the days QPR played at home and his never being able to find a parking space on those days. He’d moved there when his wife had become sick of his habits and had thrown him out because he was rarely at home and, when he was, he was usually drunk or getting drunk. The inevitable divorce had been bitter and he’d been denied access to his children until he dried out. What had happened to him after this I didn’t know because I’d been promoted soon after and had lost contact with him. Still wondering if I was doing the right thing, I took a taxi to his address.
He lived on the ground floor of a terraced house. There was an overflowing wheelie bin just inside the front gate and the smell emanating from it was putrid.
I rang the bell and he answered almost immediately. To say he was surprised when he saw me would be to understate the case. He looked like a fish struggling to breathe on dry land. He squinted his eyes a few times, trying to focus on the person at the door.
“McGraw?” he eventually exclaimed after regaining his composure. “What the fuck you doing here?” He laughed. He was holding a small glass of something in his hand. I guessed it was liquor. His fondness for the bottle was the stuff of legend and, from the glazed expression of his eyes, I suspected he was already well into one, despite the early hour.
“Good seeing you as well, Bri.” I patted his shoulder. “I need to talk to you about a few things when we were in Thornwyn’s team.”
He tensed up hearing Thornwyn’s name and he looked worried. But after I’d eventually convinced him I was still in Special Branch and not from the IPCC, and I wasn’t there to interrogate him about the reasons for his suspension, he invited me into his home.
It was a large bedsit with a single unmade bed in the far corner, a couple of creaky armchairs, a coffee table and a TV. The wallpaper had several bare patches and the ceiling was a delightful shade of nicotine yellow from years of accumulated cigarette smoke. The place was a mess but, compared to Andy Harris’s flat, it was a page from a glossy magazine advertising new home furnishings.
Turley offered me a drink and I settled for tea. I assumed the corner where the sink was also functioned as his kitchen because it housed an electric kettle and two cartons of Pot Noodles. There were also a few empty spirits bottles.
He made a cup of tea by putting a teabag into a cup and adding hot water from the tap. There was a film of something floating on top and it looked about as appetising as drinking dirty bath water. I sipped it. It tasted disgusting.
He sat down or, rather, he slumped down as his movements were uncoordinated due to alcohol. It was sad realising how much he’d really let himself go. In that brief moment I found myself wondering, if he eventually ended up going inside, how he’d cope in his current condition. But that wasn’t my problem.
He confirmed he’d been suspended and wasn’t able to talk to me about his case as he was waiting to hear from his police union rep before deciding on his next step. I assured him this wasn’t an issue and I wanted to talk to him about something else. He looked relieved.
“What about our old skipper, then? How long you think he’ll get?” He sounded excited to know my answer.
“No idea. I’m just following up a couple of leads concerning something he was involved in before he was arrested. You might be able to help me. You okay with this?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” He didn’t sound too certain.
“Okay. Did Thornwyn ever talk to you about someone called Paul Sampson?” I began. He pursed his lips and briefly looked at the ceiling. “Did he ever mention the name?”
“No.” He shook his head. “At least I don’t think so. Who’s he?”
I briefly described who he was and what had happened to him. “Thornwyn was blackmailing him about something.” I didn’t say it was for refusing to publically declare his homosexuality. I didn’t want to broadcast details about this to anyone who didn’t need to know about it. “You worked closely with him; did you know anything about this?”
“Why would he be blackmailing an MP?”
“That’s what I was hoping you might be able to tell me. He was into him for something. I can’t exactly ask Thornwyn ’cause he’s being kept incommunicado at Belmarsh,” I said, grinning, “so, given how close you and him worked together, I thought you might know something. Trust me, it’d be a big help to the Branch if you did.”
He poured himself another drink. It was vodka and the bottle displayed a brand label I didn’t recognise. Was he now so desperate for alcohol he was plumbing the lower, less discerning end of the market? Had he fallen this far?
“No, I don’t know anything about him blackmailing anyone.” His voice sounded slightly slurred.
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“Did you ever hear him mention a firm called Bartolome Systems Ltd?”
He thought for a moment.
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He suddenly sat up in his chair.
“In what context?”
“I remember him saying once he’d just bought shares in the company. He said he was looking for a decent investment for the future and he’d bought a whole batch of shares in the company. Spent quite a few thousand buying them as well.”
“How would he know what’s a good financial investment?” I was scornful. “Since when did he know anything about playing the stock market? He wouldn’t know preferred stock from livestock.” I smiled at my weak attempt at a witticism. I’d remembered once hearing this said by an accountant friend who’d thought it a highly amusing description of one of his less-than-financially-savvy clients. But it went right over Turley’s head. It’d been wasted on him. In his current befuddled state he probably didn’t even know what livestock was.
“I don’t bloody know,” he exclaimed, almost irritably. “He just said he’d got shares in some firm called Bartolome. I don’t know how he knew about them.”
Paul Sampson had once worked for Bartolome Systems Ltd. Thornwyn had been putting the squeeze on Sampson. Thornwyn now bought shares in the firm. A tenuous connection, but a connection nonetheless. A lead?
Thornwyn Page 10
