Thornwyn

by Laurence Todd

  “You and Paine buy shares in them as well? Is that what you did with all that extra money you two were raking in from the Fund?” I said wickedly.

  “Me? Fuck no. Got better things to waste my money on.” He smiled and lifted his glass in a toasting gesture towards me. I could guess what those things were. Interestingly, he didn’t refute my suggestion of extra money coming in. Neither did he seem concerned about hearing John Paine’s name or mention of the Fund.

  He drained his glass and put it down on the heavily stained coffee table. He had a satisfied expression. Cheap liquor was obviously having the desired effect.

  On a whim I asked him something else. “Did he ever mention someone named Jeremy Godfrey?” The thought had dawned on me that Thornwyn might know him.

  “Jeremy, Jeremy Godfrey.” Turley looked thoughtful for a few moments. “Name does sound vaguely familiar. Who’s he?”

  “Something to do with Bartolome, company you just mentioned.”

  “Maybe that’s where I’ve heard the name. It definitely rings a bell with me.” He sounded certain.

  “He also has a connection to the guy I was asking about earlier, Paul Sampson. It’d be logical to assume Thornwyn knew Godfrey as well.”

  “I never heard him mention anyone called Sampson.” He got up and went to the toilet.

  I looked around the bedsit. It was possibly the untidiest I’d seen in a long while, though it wasn’t as filthy as Harris’s flat. The curtains were partly pulled and, despite it being midday, you’d be forgiven for thinking dusk was falling as the room was quite dark.

  The thought struck me that Brian Turley was probably a very lonely man and quite likely spent most of his days engaging in solitary drinking here in this flat, watching daytime television and sleeping one off. Maybe, when he could afford it, he’d spend some time in a pub, where any company would be better than none. I didn’t know whether he had access to his children now. His was probably a very bleak and solitary existence, suspended from duty and therefore excluded from the friendship circles he’d formed in the team, who were the only friends he ever had. Being suspended also meant he’d be persona non grata amongst other police officers. I wasn’t even sure I should be here talking to him, but I could at least justify it by saying it was part of an ongoing investigation. I didn’t know what the evidence was against him, but his suspension had to mean the IPCC had at least a credible prima facie case against him and, if that was substantiated, he’d soon be keeping Thornwyn company in prison.

  Turley and I had never been friends in any meaningful sense, but we’d worked together a number of times and I’d initially respected him as a colleague because when I had first joined the team he’d been an effective police officer. I wondered whether his drinking had played any significant role in his being suspended, aside from any allegations he was part of what Smitherman had referred to as the Fund, money being collected from criminals by Thornwyn in exchange for allowing them to operate.

  He returned and sat down again.

  “What about Thornwyn’s informer, Bernie?” I asked. “You know him?”

  “Bernie the Buck? Is that little bastard still alive? Yeah, I know the scumbag.” The venom in his voice was obvious.

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Thornwyn used to get intel from him about various things going on, and we made a few decent arrests off of what he gave us. Other than that, he’s a slimy piece of dog shit. World’d be a better place if he was dead. Him and Thornwyn.”

  “Why’s that?” I was curious.

  “You remember, earlier this year, those weapons being nicked from that gun shop in Battersea?”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “Bernie was involved in that. He was in on the break-in.”

  “Bernie?” I was very doubtful. “Oh, come on.”

  “It’s true.” He was adamant. “Bernie and Thornwyn. Security was all over police on this because they thought the weapons were heading for the Middle East and would end up in the hands of terrorists. We were all grilled by the security boys but nothing came of it, or nothing I ever heard about. Funny thing is, nobody ever knew where they ended up.” Turley found this amusing and he laughed loudly. “S’far as I know, they’ve never been recovered.”

  I remembered hearing about the weapons being stolen from what was said to be a secure storage facility. The word in police circles was it had to have been an inside job because removing them would have necessitated using a passcode to access the storage room. News of the theft of a sizeable weapons cache had never been given to the media as the public would expect at least an arrest and to know the guns had been recovered. Unrecovered stolen guns doing the rounds would not have been good news for the public to read about. Nobody had ever been arrested for the theft of the weapons.

  “How does this involve Thornwyn?” I asked.

  Turley sat forward in his seat and placed his now-empty glass on the coffee table. “I think he was involved in removing the weapons in the first place.”

  “Oh, come on.” I was dubious. “Thornwyn? He’s corrupt, but stealing weapons as well?”

  “No, honestly, Rob. The word I got was, he helped Bernie steal the weapons and then told him to give us the wrong address to arrange for their disappearance.”

  “Huh? Why would he do that?”

  “Because Bernie arranged for them to be sold on to whoever was buying them. Then he’d tell Thornwyn where they were and he’d have them all arrested.” He stated this with a degree of certainty in his voice. “But it didn’t happen like that, did it? The little shit gave Thornwyn the wrong address and, when we went to recover them and arrest the people involved, they’d all gone. We got fucked over, mate.”

  I looked straight at Turley. He had a determined expression on his face, like he had an important point to convey and wanted to be taken seriously. I paused for a moment.

  “Thornwyn was involved in stealing weapons from a firm selling them so they could be sold on to criminals on the black market? You’re sure about this?” I was still sceptical.

  “Not so I’d swear to it, but it all makes sense. Bernie couldn’t organise the theft of those weapons on his own, could he? He’d have to have someone help him. Thornwyn would have been able to get access to the weapons cache. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

  “How could he do that?”

  “When the theft was reported to us, he told me he knew someone who worked for the firm where the guns had been stolen. Maybe that’s how he was able to get hold of the password to get into the warehouse and get Bernie to steal them.”

  “Who did he know there?”

  “Never said, but it’d have to be someone he knew well to give him a secure password, wouldn’t it?” Turley was adamant.

  I was still doubtful. I couldn’t imagine why Thornwyn would be involved in stealing weaponry like this.

  “Thornwyn incidentally let Bernie off for giving us a bum steer. He was taken in but he wasn’t charged because of insufficient evidence,” Turley said, sneering. “And no money was ever recovered from the selling of the weapons. Where did all that end up?”

  I thought about what had been said. My scepticism was moving into overdrive. “You’re telling me Thornwyn arranged for those weapons to be stolen and sold on to criminals and he used Bernie the Buck to cover his tracks?”

  “That’s what I heard, mate.” He was adamant.

  “Who from?”

  “Who do you think?” His voice rose. “Thornwyn told me. We’d both had a few one night and he poured it all out, what he’d done. Quite proud of it as well, he was.”

  “He admitted his involvement in an arms theft to you?” I wanted to be clear about what Turley was claiming.

  “Yup.” He nodded solemnly.

  “He say why he did this?” I enquired.

  “Not to me, he didn’t.” He sat forward and picked up the bottle to pour another drink.

  I leapt up and snatched it from his hand.

  �
��Hey, what the fuck you doing?” He sounded like a child being punished for something he hadn’t done, aggrieved at the injustice of it all.

  I remained standing, looking down at him. I noticed how dirty and greasy his hair was.

  “You’re not bullshitting me, are you, Brian?” I said this calmly but forcefully, looking him right in the eyes. “’Cause if you’re bullshitting me . . .”

  I was tempted to pour the half-full bottle of vodka down the sink. He seemed to sense what I was thinking.

  “No, honest to God, Rob, I’m not. That’s what I heard, that’s what he told me.”

  His eyes were pleading with me to give him his bottle back. He reminded me of a helpless puppy wanting a treat. I relented. He poured himself a drink and took a long gulp. He was a wreck. I wasn’t sure how he’d stand up to the professional interrogators at the IPCC once they started on him.

  He’d told me an intriguing story but I wasn’t certain I believed it. Was Thornwyn really that duplicitous? Why would a CID commander be involved in the theft of firearms? What could he possibly gain from this?

  “I mentioned Thornwyn blackmailing someone earlier,” I said. “He was able to do so because of info he got from Bernie. Bernie pointed out the victim to him.”

  “Figures.” He sat back in his chair. “Told you Bernie was a little shit, didn’t I?”

  We talked about a few other things and then I got up to leave. I probably wasn’t going to learn anything more from Turley but he’d given me a couple of things to think about, though I certainly didn’t believe everything I’d heard. I thanked him for his help. He followed me to the door, then fixed me with a sheepish smile.

  “You couldn’t, er, do me a favour, could you, Rob, for old times’ sake?” His voice had dropped somewhat and he wasn’t quite looking at me as he asked. “I’m a bit flat and, well, you know how it is. Don’t worry if you can’t.”

  He looked longingly at me. I knew what he wanted and I sensed his acute embarrassment at asking. Against my better judgement I withdrew £20 from my wallet and gave it to him. He beamed and thanked me profusely, saying I was a hero and I’d saved his life. After I left I didn’t doubt he’d be off down to the nearest off-licence to fortify himself with some decent brand name vodka. I left him to it.

  I returned to the Yard. Smitherman saw me and asked me to come into his office. Happily he was sitting the right side of his desk. No one-to-one interrogation today.

  “Just read your report about your chat with Commander Thornwyn,” he said. “So, just to confirm, he definitely admitted blackmailing Paul Sampson.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “Yeah, he did. Sampson stood down because Thornwyn pressured him to come out. Sampson wouldn’t, so he resigned.”

  My disbelief as to this being the only factor involved must have registered on my face. Smitherman looked quizzically at me.

  “You don’t seem convinced.”

  “I’m not. I think Thornwyn’s involved in something else which in some way contributed to Sampson killing himself.”

  “Why do you think this?”

  I explained my belief that being homosexual was no longer a handicap to pursuing any career, and that even the Conservative Party had become more tolerant and inclusive,

  and had Sampson admitted to his sexuality and done so openly and honestly, he’d have been free of Thornwyn’s blackmail demands. The fact he hadn’t made me think he had resigned to keep the lid on something else. Smitherman asked what I thought it might be.

  “I don’t know, but I think it’s something to do with the firm Bartolome Systems. I don’t exactly know why yet, but I keep stumbling over this firm.” I paused. “I’m also being followed by a PI who I’m almost certain’s been hired by Bartolome,” I said, almost casually.

  “What?” Smitherman was stunned. He jolted forward as though he’d just had a minor electric shock.

  I explained how I’d come to know this through following the person who’d been tailing me to Prevental’s door and being told the woman’d been hired by a leading manufacturing firm, though they had claimed not to know why. I’d since followed the woman to the London offices of Bartolome but had received no explanation about her activities. I conveniently omitted any reference to meeting Richard Clements to ask about Sampson.

  “Does Thornwyn have any connection to this firm?” Smitherman asked.

  “No tangible one, so far as I know,” I replied. For the moment I didn’t tell Smitherman about Thornwyn being a shareholder in the firm. I wanted more information before I said this. Just buying shares prima facie proved nothing. “I’ve also discovered from someone who knew Sampson he didn’t drink cognac or take super strong sleeping tablets but, when he was rushed into hospital, his stomach was pumped and that’s what came out. The same person alluded to Sampson being murdered, though the post mortem ruled it as death through suicide.”

  “Where’d you hear this?” Smitherman’s eyes narrowed. “From one of my sources.”

  Smitherman looked thoughtful for a moment.

  “My being followed started last Friday evening, not long after I’d been to Belmarsh to speak to Thornwyn,” I said. “This is what makes me think Thornwyn’s involved with this firm somewhere along the line. You told me before I saw him that Sampson used to work for an arms manufacturer. I bet I can guess which firm it was.” I smiled. I didn’t tell him I already knew.

  “So far as I know, Bartolome’s not under suspicion for doing anything wrong, but I can ask a few questions, see if anything’s known about them we should be aware of.”

  “Okay. Ask why they’ve put someone on my tail.”

  “They’re quite an important firm in the defence world; you know that, don’t you? We ought to be clear what we’re looking for if we’re suspecting them of something. Until then, back off a little. Wait until I hear something through official channels.”

  I then remembered something Thornwyn’d said in Belmarsh last Friday. “Can I ask you something?”

  Smitherman nodded his assent.

  “When I talked to Thornwyn, at the end of our conversation, he said I’d not been told what the bigger picture was. He seemed quite amused at this, as though that should have been the reason I was there. What did he mean by that?”

  Smitherman nodded to himself a few times. “I’ll just tell you this, for the moment. Commander Neville Thornwyn’s being investigated for a number of things involving his work in CID, plus other things I can’t go into at the moment. I was hoping he’d tell you himself last week, but clearly he didn’t.”

  I looked straight at Smitherman. I took a stab in the dark. “Does this have anything to do with MI5?”

  Smitherman remained silent, still nodding slightly to himself.

  “So there is a bigger picture,” I said. “This isn’t just about his blackmailing an MP.”

  “For the moment, until other issues become clearer, that’s all I can tell you.” He said this in a tone suggesting I shouldn’t ask anything else for the moment.

  I left the office. I’d not told Smitherman about Brian Turley’s assertion Thornwyn was involved in an unsolved arms robbery, partly because I wasn’t sure about its veracity, given I’d been told this by a man who’d now taken up almost permanent residency inside a vodka bottle, but also because I wanted to know more about this before I said anything.

  F I V E

  Monday

  Since talking to Smitherman, I’d spent the last few days catching up on some routine paperwork he’d been on at me to get done; I’d completed my account of the trial I’d wasted a day at, which was only a week late; I’d attended a routine albeit pointless department meeting about whatever it was (I didn’t really pay any attention to it), which was ninety minutes of my life I’d never get back, and I’d immersed myself in a couple of ongoing investigations into the activities of a few known Islamist militant clerics who’d been accused in the tabloid press of radicalising their followers, familiarising myself with where they were.
I had gone out on a couple of occasions with another detective to talk to a couple of his informers about this last thing and, given some of the language employed, was wondering whether a charge for inciting racial hatred would be appropriate.

  I’d also had a couple of strenuous workouts in the gym, plus some unarmed combat training with my friend Mickey Corsley. He took training seriously and he’d unceremoniously put me on the canvas on two occasions, warning me about not concentrating and consequently dropping my guard. Just as well I’d been wearing a headguard as I’d still be hearing bells otherwise.

  But, the previous Saturday morning in the office, during a quiet moment, I’d spent a little time looking up details of the weapons theft which had occurred a few months earlier. I’d been thinking about what Brian Turley had said last Tuesday and I was intrigued by the role Turley said Thornwyn had played in the theft of the weapons.

  The weapons concerned, mainly Beretta 92 series handguns, had been stolen from the shop premises of a company named Byzantium, located on Battersea Park Road, not too far from the park. Byzantium was a licensed seller of firearms to marksmen and shooting clubs. The weapons stolen had been stored in the warehouse behind the shop, in line with the current laws and regulations regarding the storing and selling of firearms, stating that stringent safety conditions had to be put in place and had to be inspected and approved by a senior police officer. These included determining those inside the firm who could have access to the firearms, which involved a police check as to their suitability to work with firearms, and the conditions under which the firearms should be stored. These security procedures had to be reviewed and updated on a regular basis to ensure compliance with the law, and any changes had to be approved by a senior police officer.

  Accessing the warehouse where Byzantium stored its firearms meant having to go through to the back of the shop. There was no other entry point. Getting into the storeroom meant entering a passcode into a sophisticated computerised locking system, and the code was updated on a regular basis. There was also twenty-four-hour CCTV coverage. But, conveniently, on the night in question, the CCTV had gone on the blink a few hours prior to the robbery, as had the alarm system. The correct passcode had been entered and a number of handguns and rifles had been taken. Only three people working for Byzantium at that time would have known what the passcode would have been on this particular night, as it had been recently changed, but all could satisfactorily account for their movements that night. All three had been interviewed strenuously by police but nothing could be proven against any of them. The keypads had been dusted for fingerprints but, other than those of employees, none were discernible. In keeping with legal requirements, none of the three with passcode access had a criminal record and all had been vetted by the police. The weapons taken had never been recovered and no one had been arrested.