Thornwyn

by Laurence Todd

  “The CIA was involved?” I blurted out.

  Smitherman looked at me as if to say, Don’t even ask. I didn’t.

  I waited a moment. “So, what about the robbery at Byzantium? Where does that fit into all this?”

  Smitherman almost smiled. “Thornwyn had found out about the arms sales, again it’s assumed through Godfrey. He decides he wants to embarrass the company, so, as Byzantium sells guns and is part of the Bartolome group of companies, he arranges for the shop to be robbed and, through a middleman, to have the weapons sold on to some Muslim jihadist. He said, as we’re already selling weapons over there, why not sell them to them over here? He wanted them to be used in this country to put pressure on the Government. The funny thing is, though, he arranges for this through an MI5 source.”

  “Huh? Who’s this?”

  “The man found dead in the flat.”

  “Noel Partias? He was MI5?”

  “Not as such. He was a source, tipping them off about movements of weapons and things like that. That’s why you going to see Khaled al-Ebouli was unnecessary, though a day’s never wasted if you’re upsetting someone like him. Partias had already told MI5, so they knew he had the weapons and were tracking them.”

  Turley had killed an MI5 man and hadn’t known it.

  “The security people believe two men entered the shop that night. You say one’s in custody, but they don’t yet know who the other one is. You’ve said Thornwyn’s involved, but he’s saying nothing unless he gets a deal, which he’s not going to get,” Smitherman said firmly. “So, when you go talk to the other one about the robbery, see if you can get out of him who he robbed the shop with. Offer him some kind of deal if he’ll name his partner, but don’t make it too generous. Partias would know, but we can’t exactly ask him, can we?” He almost smiled at his attempt at a witticism.

  “What’s gonna happen to Thornwyn? And what about all that confidential information he purloined from Bartolome?”

  “Another disgrace to the uniform.” He snorted derisorily. “He’s going down for a long time, that’s an absolute certainty; mostly he’ll be in solitary, and not just for his own protection either. He knows too much to be allowed free association with others. The stuff he’s supposedly buried about the company, hoping to use for his own gain, is useless to him. He was going to give it back to Bartolome if they went public and admitted they were selling weapons to unfriendly nations. But, as I said earlier, the financial situation’s being rectified and, should what was stolen ever come to light, it’ll simply be denied. The bank’s being brought onside. The other stuff’s just designers’ drawings and some rough ideas, nothing really; the company just didn’t want them falling into competitors’ hands.” Smither- man exhaled. “Didn’t want them knowing what the company’s thinking.” He looked pensive for a moment. “Thornwyn’s role in all this will never be admitted or acknowledged. When he’s sentenced soon, the media will simply portray him as a corrupt cop, though the full extent of his perfidy will, of course, never be known.”

  “I wanna see him again, ask him a few things before he’s sentenced, preferably today if possible?” I raised my eyebrows.

  Smitherman nodded. He dialled a number and asked whoever he spoke to on my behalf about visiting a prisoner being held in top security at Belmarsh. He hung up a minute later.

  “No problem,” he said.

  To Belmarsh again. It was mid-morning but traffic was flowing steadily as I drove along the Plumstead Road. I’d been thinking about Paul Sampson and about Smitherman’s assertion he’d been removed by MI5 to stop him talking publically about matters which would cause very considerable embarrassment to governments going back two decades or more, and I could imagine the reluctance of any PM to stand up in the House and admit what Sampson had said was true. Governments rarely, if ever, talk about sensitive security matters at the dispatch box.

  Nobody would ever know, now, what had triggered Sampson’s fit of conscience and his desire to make public what he knew about arms sales to unfriendly nations. What I did know, however, was that Sampson’s life had been weighed in the balance of the national interest and had been found to be expendable.

  Smitherman, of course, had only given me the barest details. There was a whole lot more I didn’t know about the situation and probably never would. But at least I now knew that whoever had spoken to Richard Clements, when he’d asked about Paul Sampson, had been telling the truth. Presumably it was this person Sampson had been planning to give the interview to. I briefly wondered whether he’d spilled so much detail to Richard Clements as a means of exacting revenge for the death of Paul Sampson, hoping Clements would eventually publish it.

  Inadvertently, Clements was now in possession of facts that’d cause a political firestorm if he ever put them in print. I hoped for his own sake this wasn’t what he was planning. I’d have to talk to him and advise him to keep what he knew under wraps. I certainly wasn’t going to confirm the truth about Sampson’s demise to him.

  I also wanted to know who this person was he’d spoken to, but I knew it’d be futile asking. Clements had already named one of his sources to me a few months back and he’d made clear it was not a precedent.

  After showing credentials at the front entrance to Belmarsh and passing through the security checks, and after attracting some dirty looks from a group of women and children as I walked past them to the front of the queue to be admitted, I was again escorted to the same block and taken to the same room where I’d previously spoken to Thornwyn. I saw the same prison officer who’d taken umbrage last time I’d visited standing by the door, and he fixed me with a dark glare as the door was opened. I nodded to him but he didn’t return it. The escort then walked off, leaving just this one friendly prison officer to wait outside.

  Thornwyn was already there. He’d been told to expect a visitor and he was looking very dapper in a smart white shirt and tie and crisply ironed dark suit trousers. He was sitting in one of the armchairs, glancing at a copy of the Daily Telegraph. He smiled when he saw me and stood up.

  “DS McGraw, how are you?” He sounded as though he was pleased to see me. He extended his right hand to shake. Walking towards him, I extended my left hand whilst turning my body slightly rightwards and flexing the fingers on my right hand.

  “’Allo, Nev,” I said in an exaggerated thicko voice.

  For a split second he looked bemused but, in that time, I launched myself at him and, with perfect timing and precision, as my friend Mickey Corsley had taught me, I hit him square on the jaw with an almighty right cross, possibly the best right cross ever thrown in Belmarsh. I put every ounce of strength and dislike of him into the punch. He was wholly unprepared for this assault and he staggered back one pace and dropped as though shot by a sniper. He waited three seconds, shook his head and tried getting up. I dragged him to his feet whilst he was still dazed and threw him towards the armchair he’d been sitting in. He crashed into it and knocked it over backwards, with him falling over the top of it. He let out a pained yell. I only discovered later the little finger on his left hand had been dislocated when he’d landed on the floor.

  I heard a gasp behind me. The prison officer was open- mouthed at what he’d just seen, but, looking down at Thornwyn and then at me, he looked very pleased.

  “Come on, Nev, off the floor, mate. You’re making the place look untidy.” I was still talking in an exaggerated thicko voice.

  Between us, the prison officer and I pulled Thornwyn to his feet and pushed him down sharply onto the now righted chair.

  “Sit there and shut up,” I ordered in an authoritative tone. “Tripped over his own feet, didn’t he?” The officer winked at me as he walked out the room. At the door he looked back at Thornwyn. “You should be more careful, mate.” He was laughing as he closed the door.

  Thornwyn was rubbing his jaw with his right hand and looking at me with a what the hell? kind of expression. He was flexing the fingers on his left hand. He certainly wasn’t look
ing pleased to see me now. He sat fuming for a few more seconds.

  “Feel better now, do you?” he asked sourly.

  “That’s from Sampson and Tilling. They asked me to give you their best wishes.” I sat opposite and pulled my chair closer until we were only a few feet apart.

  I felt a very small twinge of conscience at assaulting a man now close to sixty, but it lasted barely two seconds. He’d deserved at least one good crack in the mouth. At least, as it was me, he knew it’d been given with love. Sort of.

  “You tried to set me up, didn’t you?” I asked. “You knew, when I came here that first time, it’d make MI5 think I was some part of what you were involved with. That’s why you requested to see me, wasn’t it? It hasn’t worked. Stimpson’s cleared me.”

  I wanted to hit him again. And again. But I resisted the desire. Hitting him the once had been cathartic. It was enough.

  “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you, Rob?” He was still rubbing his jaw and flexing the fingers on his left hand, looking in some discomfort doing so. I couldn’t ascertain whether he sounded pleased or was being sarcastic.

  I leaned forward.

  “I’ll make this short and sweet,” I said quietly and firmly. “You ever mention Brian Turley in connection with the robbery at Byzantium to anyone, I’ll come back and I’ll spend all afternoon doing what I’ve just done. Fair enough? You understand?”

  “Eh? What’s Turley to you?” He sounded puzzled. “He’s just a fucking drunk.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I shook my head. “We have a deal? You’re not gonna mention his name, ever, in any context. Right?”

  He exhaled and looked directly at me, thinking about what I’d said. He waited a few moments.

  “Okay, I’ll not mention him. I’ll keep him out of it. But you should be aware others know of his involvement. It’s not just me.”

  “Not an issue. Bernie’s in custody and Partias’s dead, as is Jeremy Godfrey.”

  Thornwyn’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Dead? Both of them?”

  I nodded. “Yup. Neither of them from natural causes either.”

  “Bloody hell,” he sighed. He looked shaken. Obviously news of their demise hadn’t made it to this part of South- East London.

  “Priestly’s also confessed to his part in the robbery,” I continued, ignoring his feelings, “and Bernie’ll say nothing, not after I talk to him again. You can drop Bernie in it all you want, I don’t much care what happens to him. You can say Bernie or Partias recruited someone to help him but you don’t know who. Just leave Turley out of it. Understand?” I was emphatic. He could tell from my authoritative tone I was serious.

  He nodded his agreement. “Alright,” he said softly.

  I stood up. I looked at him for a moment.

  “You take care.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry about just now.”

  I meant it. Despite everything he’d done and was responsible for, there was still a very small part of me that recalled how fondly I regarded my time serving under Thornwyn when I’d been promoted to being a DC, and there was no doubt I’d learnt a considerable amount about the realities of policing and detective work in his team. I remembered a few of the arrests we’d been involved in and some of the squad’s nights out in the West End. I recalled how chuffed I’d been the first time I’d made an arrest in his team. Afterwards he’d looked at the paperwork, smiled at me, shook my hand and said, “Well done, DC McGraw. I’ll make a bloody copper out of you yet.”

  I had no doubts that he deserved to be where he now was, given everything I knew he’d done, but it was sad such an illustrious career had come to this.

  “I did a good job on you, didn’t I?” He was smiling now. I didn’t respond. I left the room and saw the same prison officer waiting.

  “Have to get that carpet looked at. Can’t have our distinguished guests tripping over it and falling, now can we?” He was beaming, almost radiantly. “You’ve made my day.”

  I left Belmarsh and drove to Kentish Town police station. Bernie Rayes had been remanded in custody the day before after being charged with being in possession of a dangerous weapon, a knife, and also with conspiracy to supply and distribute dangerous drugs. Due to a shortage of prison places, he was being held in a police cell.

  I had him brought to the interrogation room. I asked DS Roberts to turn off the tape recorder as I didn’t want this conversation recorded for posterity.

  I leapt straight in.

  “Let me tell you how it’s gonna be, Bernie, because your future depends on this. You’re not gonna name Brian Turley as your accomplice for the Byzantium robbery, got that? You tell them you got a friend of a friend whose name you didn’t catch to help you. Okay? Or you can say someone Partias or Thornwyn knew helped you out, whatever, I don’t care which. You do that, I’ll put in a word and see if we can get some time lopped off for you.”

  “Why can’t I name Turley?” He was confused.

  “It’s part of the deal. You don’t name him, and I’ll guarantee you’ll never have to worry about him coming after you. You’ll be safe from his spiteful resentment about being shafted over the money you owe him. I’m protecting you, Bernie. He’s a police officer. You really think he couldn’t reach out and get to you in prison?”

  Bernie looked doubtful. I said nothing for ten seconds. “I’ll put it like this. You name Turley and I’ll see to it you get the book thrown at you for the robbery, plus I’ll add conspiracy to any charges you receive. You remember what I said the other day about how long you could go down for? You’re currently only on remand for the knife you were carrying, as well as drugs charges, but I can make things so much worse for you. You want that? You wanna go down for twenty years?”

  He shook his head. He was scared, the response I’d wanted.

  “Not only that, you’d still be on Turley’s shitlist. You’ll get a long sentence and you’ll still have Turley coming after you. You really think he couldn’t get you in prison? Do you wanna know how many assaults occur in prison because a con’s pissed off someone on the force?”

  I let him think for a few seconds. He now looked very worried.

  “So, we’re clear on what you’re going to do?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he eventually agreed. “I won’t drop his name.”

  “You keep to that, I absolutely guarantee you’ll be safe from Turley.”

  He looked relieved. I didn’t mention he was as safe from Turley as it was possible to be.

  “See? You can make a good decision when you try,” I said.

  Bernie didn’t look convinced.

  Leaving the interrogation room, I met with Roberts again and responded to his question by informing him we now knew who’d killed Noel Partias and Bernie’d helped in this, which might help when he was charged again after further inquiries were made.

  I was unclear whether any prosecution would ever be brought against Bernie for the robbery at Byzantium. That would be for the spooks to determine. They knew who had the weapons and Bernie was likely to go down for possessing an offensive weapon anyway, so the exact situation was uncertain.

  Late afternoon, I was at my desk typing up an account of my talks with Thornwyn and Bernie Rayes, and it was as well I wasn’t doing this under oath as I’d omitted any reference to my threats to both men about mentioning Brian Turley. I’d also omitted any reference to assaulting Thornwyn.

  I was going to considerable lengths to keep anyone from knowing Turley had been involved in an arms robbery which had seen stolen weapons end up with a known terrorist sympathiser. I knew MI5 knew where the weapons were and were tracking them. Turley’s career had stalled due to his suspension but I didn’t want his name besmirched any more than it was likely to be. I figured I owed him that much, though I wasn’t completely sure I knew why. I was hoping, as he’d not been interrogated by the IPCC and had only been on suspension at the time of his death, that the reasons for the suspension would not be made public and his family would
still qualify for death-in-service benefits and his pension, but that was for others to decide.

  I filed the report and, a little later, was ready to leave when Smitherman saw me. He indicated he wanted a quick word in his office.

  He informed me Geoffrey Tilling had been charged with murder and had been remanded in custody by Horseferry Road magistrates’ court to await crown court trial. His lawyer was going to try to plead guilty to manslaughter and this would be subject to discussion with prosecuting counsel. I was hoping they’d agree to it.

  Smitherman then said Martha Sampson had been interviewed by two female detectives earlier this afternoon about Tilling’s claim he’d heard Jeremy Godfrey say that he and his daughter had effectively killed her husband and made it appear to be a suicide. Predictably, she’d denied everything and had vehemently protested her innocence. She said she was still grieving for her father, who’d been murdered the previous evening, and how dare they choose now to come and doubt her story concerning her husband’s suicide?

  There was, of course, only Geoffrey Tilling’s word, which was hearsay and inadmissible as evidence in court, so the truth would probably never be known. I was inclined to believe Tilling as I didn’t doubt Godfrey was capable of such an act, and I’d also been told earlier Godfrey and someone from MI5 had been involved. Had Martha Sampson been involved as well? Did she help because she knew of her husband’s true sexuality?