According to Turley, the theft had been arranged by Thornwyn and helped by Bernie the Buck. I was doubtful. Thornwyn had proved himself to be capable of many forms of criminal deception, but I wasn’t convinced they would include stealing weapons from a reputable arms dealer. How could Thornwyn have arranged for the CCTV to be switched off? Would he really trust someone like Bernie for such a delicate operation? I’d thought about this over the weekend. Something wasn’t making sense. I needed more information.
On a whim I called up the report about the theft of the weapons. Because of the sensitivity of the theft, Special Branch had taken an interest even though, as a robbery, officially it was a CID matter.
The facts were laid out in a straightforward manner and confirmed what I already knew. But I was more interested in the personnel involved. Who were the three persons who’d known the passcode for this particular evening? What did we know about them?
The first two were trusted employees who’d worked for Byzantium for several years. Neither had a criminal record and there was no suspicion against either man. Both had been questioned by police, had acceptable alibis and had been exonerated.
But I was intrigued by the third person, the general manager of the business, Edward Priestly. He was in his mid-fifties and, prior to employment with Byzantium, had been employed by Bartolome Systems for several years in a senior management capacity, though the reason why he’d left the firm wasn’t given. He’d also been questioned by detectives about his movements that night and who he’d had contact with in the immediate period prior to the robbery, and, after an extensive trawl through his whereabouts on the evening of the robbery, police had been satisfied with his answers and he’d ultimately been eliminated from their enquiries. It was interesting to note the detective leading the investigation into the robbery had been Commander Neville Thornwyn. At this time police would have had no reason to consider Bartolome Systems in any context relating to the robbery, so the connection between Byzantium and Bartolome would not have seemed at all significant.
I was encountering Bartolome Systems a lot. Sampson had previously worked for them and had also been made a non-executive director upon becoming an MP. His father-in-law still worked for them as production director and Thornwyn had become a shareholder in the firm. I was also being tailed by a female PI who I was certain had been hired by Bartolome to follow me, though I didn’t yet know why. I’d been largely deskbound, so I’d not seen Gillian Redmond behind me of late.
I decided to check details about Byzantium Ltd and went onto their website. It was all largely non-contentious: when the firm was established, what it sold, range of products, prices, pen portraits of the two directors of the firm, testimonials from satisfied customers and so on. I clicked onto the section headed General Information and ploughed my way through the dense corporate prose.
My eyes opened wide when I discovered Byzantium had been bought by Bartolome Systems four years previously and, whilst it still functioned as an independent trading entity in its own right, it was now a subsidiary of Bartolome Systems. Had Thornwyn been a Bartolome shareholder at the time he’d questioned Priestly?
This was becoming more intriguing by the minute. Businesswise, it was a rational decision. Bartolome produced weapons and Byzantium sold them, so operating under the same corporate umbrella was logical. But, as with everything else I’d heard of late, the connection was rather too cosy.
Mid-afternoon I took a call on my mobile. It was Andy Harris.
“Mr Jack, I was drinking in the pub last night and these geezers come in looking for Bernie. They were looking to score stuff from him but he weren’t around.”
“Which pub?”
“Same one he always uses, by Chalk Farm tube station.” “By stuff, I’m guessing you mean ecstasy tabs.”
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s what he deals.”
I remembered Harris saying a week ago Bernie hadn’t been around his usual haunts for a while now. The likes of Bernie the Buck weren’t tourists. They didn’t go on holiday; they were creatures of habit; they just hung around their patches and engaged in their usual unlawful activities, which, in Bernie’s case, meant selling ecstasy tabs supplied by the Chackarti family.
“I’ve been to the pub a few times in the last week and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. That’s unusual, Mr Jack. He’s always there, regular as clockwork. I asked the guy behind the bar if he’d seen him and he says no, he’s not been in for a couple of weeks now. That’s not like him at all. Do you reckon something’s happened to him?” Harris almost sounded concerned for Bernie’s welfare.
“I don’t know, but thanks for the tip.”
“I just thought you’d wanna know he don’t seem to be around.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks. You still spending my money?”
“Got some more now, ain’t I? Lots of punters in the market over the weekend. Got myself a few hundred, didn’t I? Had some Kraut’s wallet out of his bag when he was buying a coffee. Had four hundred and something in it. Lucky, eh?” He sounded pleased.
I ignored this comment. I was silently hoping, one day, one of his victims would catch him in the act and give him a slapping. “Well, keep your ears open. You hear anything, I wanna know.”
I brought Bernie’s file up. His last known address was in a block of flats in Mansfield Road, close by Belsize Park tube station. I drove to his residence. His flat was on the third floor and the lift wasn’t working. I rang the doorbell. No answer. I heard no sounds inside the flat.
Two women were walking along the narrow corridor so I showed them my ID, nodded to Bernie’s flat and asked if they knew the man who lived there. One said she lived in the flat two doors along and knew him quite well. I asked if she’d seen him lately but she said he’d not been seen around for a while. I asked her if she knew where he might have gone. She said she didn’t know, though she mentioned a pub in Chalk Farm and said that was where he spent a lot of time, and I might try in there.
I drove to the pub. For just after five in the afternoon, it was moderately crowded with drinkers and a few punters watching the late racing on TV and excitedly shouting for a particular horse named Raven’s Beak. There was a man behind the counter, maybe early fifties, who looked like he might be the manager. He was. He had that bored expression that comes from doing barwork for any length of time, the look that says I’ve seen it all before.
“Looking for someone named Bernie Rayes. I know he uses this place quite a lot. You seen him lately?” I showed ID. As I did so, the man and woman drinking nearby picked up their glasses and moved away to a nearby table. A loud cheer erupted behind me and a group of drunks leapt to their feet, excitedly yelling and punching the air, so I assumed Raven’s Beak had won its race and they were now quids in.
“No, not for a couple of weeks now. He’s usually in here, regular like, but he’s not been in for a while. Maybe he’s got himself a new boozer.” He shrugged.
“Unlikely. Where would his customers go to get their ecstasy when he’s not here?” I asked facetiously. His face took on a shocked expression. “Any other dealers in here? They might know where Bernie is.”
“What you on about?” He looked away sharply.
“Come on.” I smiled knowingly at him. “You and I both know Bernie deals drugs out of this place.”
He half-smiled.
“But, don’t worry, he’s not in trouble. I’m not drugs squad, though I’ll bring them in if I don’t get any answers.” I stared directly at the manager. “I just need to ask him a few things about an unrelated matter.”
Knowing I wasn’t going to bust the pub brought relief to his face. “Someone else was also asking about Bernie recently, asking if I’d seen him lately, where he was and all that. He didn’t show ID but I knew he was police. Couldn’t help him either. This one was bloody angry he couldn’t find Bernie.”
“He’s popular with all the wrong people,” I said.
“Well, as I just said, he ain’t been in for a c
oupla weeks now. That’s the truth. Not like him at all. He usually spends a large part of his week in here.”
I believed him. I thanked him for his help. I looked around the pub and considered asking around, but from the assorted clientele here I doubted I’d get a sensible answer. Most of them didn’t even look intelligent or sober enough to tell me the right time.
I was about to leave when I saw the two drinkers who’d moved away from the bar. One was trying to turn his head away from me. This made me suspicious. I went over to the table. From the side I had an uncomfortable feeling I knew who he was.
“Evening, either of you two lovebirds want to buy the War Cry?” I asked.
They both turned to look at me. The woman shook her head. The other stared straight at me and I realised immediately I knew who it was.
Colin Addley.
Colin was Simon Addley’s younger brother. Both at one time had been adherents to the philosophy of Red Heaven, a Europe-based terrorist group responsible for several bombings over the past few years, including a couple in London. Both had been arrested late last year after Special Branch had foiled their attempt to place an IED near to the Albert Hall on the evening of Remembrance Saturday. Simon Addley had been tried and sentenced to twelve years in prison and was now in Belmarsh. Colin hadn’t been charged because, after the arrests, I’d made the amazing discovery he was one of Smitherman’s informants and had been keeping Special Branch in the loop concerning Red Heaven’s activities, and so he was now at liberty. Simon, of course, didn’t know this; he had assumed his brother was as fully committed to the cause as he was and was now incarcerated in prison somewhere.
I’d not seen Colin Addley since he’d been taken to Paddington Green police station after the arrests and I’d certainly not missed him. Simon, at least, was an intelligent guy, whereas his brother made two short planks look like a Mastermind contestant. If he had a brain he’d be truly dangerous.
I sat down at their table. Colin offered to buy me a beer. I thanked him but said no.
“Can we help you with something?” the woman asked. She was older than Colin, maybe mid to late thirties, with short, closely cropped dark hair, and was dressed in an oversized man’s dark shirt and blue jeans. She wore round wire-rimmed glasses and big dangling gold-coloured earrings, and had piercing blue eyes which focused intently on me as she asked her question. “I know you’re police, I can tell just looking at you. Colin’s not done anything wrong. Why can’t you people just leave him alone?”
“What are you, his mother?” I asked flippantly.
“No, I’m his spiritual guidance counsellor.” She said this as though it was obvious. “Colin’s a member of my group and I’m trying to help him to re-establish himself so as to be able to function as an independent autonomous human
being after living in his brother’s shadow for most of his life.” She looked and sounded like she was in deadly earnest. “I’m trying to help Colin regain control over his identity and become more outer-directed in his aspirations so he can take back control of his own destiny in life and be whoever he wants to be.”
I sniggered inwardly. I didn’t think Colin Addley could even pronounce autonomous. It was a safe bet he couldn’t spell it and an even safer one he couldn’t explain what it meant, but I resisted the temptation to ask him to try.
“Colin came to me because he’s troubled and confused and doesn’t know what he wants or where he wants to go in his life.” He was nodding his agreement as she spoke. “So through therapy and human interaction sessions with some aspects of his past life, like drinking in here, for instance, Colin is gradually coming out of himself and leaving his old self behind and discovering who he is and what he’s capable of. He’s acclimatising to changes really well so far.” She looked at him like a mother speaking well of a child who’d just got a good school report.
When I’d seen Simon in prison after his sentence recently, he too had been shedding the outer skin of his previous life and finding his spiritual core through meditation. How serious the Addley brothers were about changing their mindsets I didn’t know and, being honest, I didn’t much care either. But if this was the way they wanted to go, then better that than being part of an organisation conspiring to commit a terrorist atrocity.
“Good for you, Colin,” I said. I tried not to sound patronising.
“That’s why I moved away from the bar. I recognised you, and you’re a reminder of the past life I’m trying to escape from.” He turned to the woman, who was now sitting alongside him. From the warm glow on her face, and the way she was cuddling up to him, I briefly wondered exactly what type of therapy she was giving him and whether it extended beyond formal boundaries. “This is the police officer who arrested me in the garage that night,” he said.
“Oh, really?” She looked at me in amazement.
“Yeah, really. Him and his brother.” I jutted my chin at him. “A real pair of pilgrims.”
There was an awkward silence for a couple of moments. “Well, given the role you played in his arrest, and the trauma it induced in him, Colin’s handling your reappearance in his life remarkably well. I’m really proud of you, Colin.” She leaned across, kissed his cheek and laid her head on his shoulder. He looked pleased. He held her hand and rested his head against the top of hers. It dawned on me that, as well as looking vacuous, he also looked extremely vulnerable. It was clear from the way she looked at him she really cared for him. Perhaps my scepticism was misguided and being with this woman was a good thing for him. Maybe she wasn’t the flake I’d initially assumed she was.
“I know who you’re looking for,” he calmly stated.
The look of surprise on my face must have been all too real.
“You were asking about Bernie Rayes?” he asked.
I agreed I was.
“About two weeks ago, another bloke came in here looking for him. He wasn’t here, no one knew where he was either. Bloke said he’d been to his flat and he wasn’t there either. He asked around but no one could tell him anything.”
“Who was asking about him?”
“Didn’t show ID but said he was police. He said it was important he find Bernie Rayes.”
“He say why?”
“No.”
“Did you get a name?”
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
He thought for a moment. “About your height, maybe a little taller. Thin. Dirty. Scruffy looking.”
“I remember him having really fuzzy eyes, almost like he was having problems adjusting to daylight,” his therapist volunteered. “He’d also been drinking.”
I thanked Colin for his help and, despite myself, I wished him a good life. His therapist gave him another kiss on the cheek as I stood up. He definitely wasn’t getting one from me.
I left the pub. I’d recognised the description given. I knew exactly who he meant.
I rang the bell and a few seconds later the door opened. I didn’t wait to be invited in. I barged past the man and went into his still horribly depressing bedsit.
“Fuck you think you’re doing, McGraw?” Brian Turley said as he followed me into the room and closed the door. He tried to convey a stern, angry agitation at how I’d entered but didn’t quite succeed. His voice was too slurred for this to have any meaningful impact and his eyes were wholly unfocused. He was under the influence.
“You didn’t tell me everything when we spoke last week, did you?” I began. I spoke in a calm manner as I didn’t want to alarm him. Not yet, anyway.
“What do you mean?” He was looking nervous.
“You didn’t tell me you’d been looking for Bernie the Buck in Chalk Farm a couple of weeks back. You were suspended by then, weren’t you? Why would you need to see Bernie? He wasn’t anything to you.”
He sat down on the settee. He picked up his drink and took a chug of it. He still looked a pathetic wretch, dirty and dishevelled. I could also smell body odour. To think, six years ago, this was the man I�
��d looked up to and respected when I’d first joined the team.
I remembered one occasion when he and I were attempting to arrest a couple of muggers we’d chased into a multi-storey car park. One had pulled a knife, waved it a few inches from my face and shouted obscenities, challenging me to come and get sliced up. Turley had instantly leapt at him, pinned him against a wall, kneed him forcefully in the groin and, at the same time, twisted his arm around, forcing him to drop the knife. When it was out of his hand, Turley had spun him around and punched him hard, dislocating the man’s jaw. The victim had later claimed he’d been unarmed at the time his jaw was dislocated and his injury was a graphic example of police brutality. I’d claimed not to have seen what happened as I was arresting the other mugger, which’d been easy as he was so surprised by the punch, he’d meekly surrendered to police custody.
I’d been impressed by Turley’s courage in tackling a desperate man brandishing a knife. Looking at him now, anyone waving a knife in his direction would probably cause him to soil his trousers.
I waited a few moments. He sighed.
“Yeah, you’re right. I was looking for the little bastard. He owes me some money and I wanted it. Told you, didn’t I, I’m skint.”
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