The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  Table of Contents

  Article

  O N E

  T WO

  T H R E E

  F O U R

  F I V E

  S I X

  S E V E N

  E I G H T

  N I N E

  T E N

  E L E V E N

  T W E LV E

  T H I RT E E N

  F O U RT E E N

  F I F T E E N

  S I XT E E N

  LAURENCE TODD

  The Real World

  Copyright © 2019 Laurence Todd

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.

  The right of Laurence Todd to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by The Choir Press

  ISBN 978-1-78963-024-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events in real locations or to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  O N E

  Saturday afternoon

  At no point in my life had I knowingly ingested any hallucinogenic drug, but, from what I’ve been told, I imagine it would produce a feeling akin to what I was experiencing at this very moment. Because I currently felt as though I was floating by on a cloud, looking down on the world as it passed by, happier than at any other time in my life.

  Sally Taylor and I had just tied the knot. I was now married to my soulmate, my forever friend and the woman of my dreams. How many guys can truly say that?

  Today had been one of those all-too-rare days when absolutely everything had gone right, in most cases spectacularly so. The weather had been perfect, the church had been garlanded with flowers and looked divine with the sun streaming through the stained glass windows, the music chosen had reflected the occasion, everyone inside the church had looked happy and the service had gone without a hitch. I hadn’t felt nervous or even too uncomfortable in my rented suit, white shirt and tie. When I’d heard the organ playing and turned to see Taylor walking down the aisle towards me on the arm of her father Henry, her hair beautifully styled, her dress gorgeous, flowing and creamy white with roses on each shoulder, she’d looked so devastatingly beautiful I had lost the power of speech for several seconds. She’d smiled at me and lightly squeezed my hand when she reached the altar.

  During the ceremony, when the priest officiating, Father O’Connelly, was about to join Robert James McGraw and Sally Jane Taylor together in holy matrimony, Taylor had slipped a ring on my finger and whispered, ‘Someone owns you now, McGraw.’ I was unprepared for this and, in that moment, when we’d looked each other in the eye for about five seconds, we both dissolved into laughter. Nothing raucous; more like intense sniggering. We were still grinning when we turned to walk back down the aisle.

  Outside the church, after posing for more pictures than the average drunken C-list celeb coming out of a restaurant to face the paparazzi, we’d left for the reception, to be held in the social club attached to a prestigious members-only golf club near her parents’ place in Twickenham. Her father, being a long-standing member and vice-chairman on the club’s governing committee, had managed to hire the hall at a sizeable discount. The service itself had been a small affair, just relatives, but the reception was for friends and colleagues, so the hall was bustling when we arrived.

  I was leaning against the bar sipping a beer, having just finished talking to one of Taylor’s relatives, when I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Thought you might at least’ve had a haircut before getting married.”

  I knew who’d said it. I turned around. “I’ve washed and combed it, though; doesn’t that count?” I could afford a little levity, because I’d be forgiven on the day of my wedding.

  It was Commander Smitherman, Head of Special Branch and also my senior officer. As he lived in the area I’d invited him to the reception, ninety-nine percent plus certain he’d say he couldn’t make it and thank me for the offer but, to my amazement, he’d said he’d love to attend. Here he was, G&T in hand and smiling: a disconcerting sight.

  “Thank you for coming, sir.”

  “My pleasure, DS McGraw. I live just on the other side of the course, my house backs onto the fourteenth hole, so my wife and I just strolled across.”

  He introduced me to Mrs Smitherman, who congratulated me, and we shook hands. His happy smile then changed to an evil grin.

  “Did you know your father-in-law and I play golf together?” he said in a mischievous tone.

  “No, I didn’t.” I tried not to sound too anxious.

  “Neither did I till last weekend. I started playing again several months ago when my doctor told me I needed to take more exercise,” he said. “Henry and I were playing a doubles game last Sunday morning, and he told us his youngest daughter’s getting married to a detective sergeant in the Met next weekend, and the reception was being held here in the clubhouse, so, as I already had an invite for a wedding reception here on the same day, I asked him, She wouldn’t be marrying someone named McGraw, would she? And he said yes, she was, and asked if I knew you.” He laughed loudly. He’d had a couple of drinks and was in a jovial mood. “I took great delight in telling him you worked directly under my command.”

  He raised his glass and looked over my shoulder. I turned slightly and saw my father-in-law returning the gesture with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  Smitherman adopted a serious tone. “I’ve been out of the office for the past few days, so, first off, I want to congratulate you on your nomination for the bravery award. Well deserved. Good police work, DS McGraw.”

  On Thursday I’d received official notification I’d been nominated for a police bravery award for two events which’d occurred on a Monday afternoon within three hours of each other, just over two and a half months ago. I’d disarmed and arrested the man who’d just stabbed my colleague, DI Paul Glett. He’d come at me waving a bloodstained knife, but I’d managed to subdue him, though not before he’d sliced the tip of my nose, which’d stung madly.

  Three hours later I’d helped in the arrest of a wanted IRA man, Cormac McGreely. He’d been armed with a gun, which he’d been pointing at me, and I’d managed to drop the weapon from his grasp after he’d been distracted by a police siren outside the flat.

  The sheen was taken from the award, though, because Glett had died next day, and the man I was at the flat to take into custody, Harry Ferguson, had somehow managed to escape in the confusion after hitting me with my own gun, laying me out cold.

  I was gratified but didn’t see either action as anything other than doing my job. My parents, though, were delighted, and had insisted on informing the local paper in my hometown, who’d said they’d run a story about it. Taylor had hugged me and said, You’re my hero, McGraw.

  Now wasn’t the time to inform Smitherman I was seriously thinking about refusing to accept the nomination. It somehow didn’t feel right to accept it, what with Glett dead and Ferguson on the run. But that was a conversation for another time.

  “Anyway,” Smitherman said, “I just came over to wish you and your new wife well, and” – he took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket – “to give you this. We didn’t know what present to get, so I hope this suffices.”

  “Thank you.” I too
k the envelope and made to slide it into my pocket.

  “Open it, then,” he insisted.

  I did, and my jaw dropped.

  Inside the card was a cheque for £250.

  “Thanks, but I can’t accept it.” I was aghast. “This is far too much.” I attempted to pass the cheque back to him, but he stood impassively.

  “Oh, you can, and you will.” He smiled, but he made it sound like an order. “We can’t stay long. I just came to give you this,” – he nodded at the cheque – “to finally see you smartly dressed,” – he looked me up and down – “and to congratulate you on doing the most adult thing you’ve ever done, DS McGraw. This is one of those occasions when I believe there really is hope for you.”

  He smiled, shook my hand warmly, and then he and his wife walked away. The cheque was an amazing gift. There are moments when I think, beneath his chiselled exterior, carved from the same granite as Mount Rushmore, Smitherman really is human.

  My journalist friend Richard Clements, Smitherman’s son-in-law, had been watching from further along the bar. He was wearing a dark grey suit, white shirt and tie, an ensemble which, on him, looked about as natural as smoked caviar does on top of a hot dog.

  “What’d the tight old bastard give you, a fiver?” he asked, laughing. Smitherman and his son-in-law are friends in the same way America and North Korea are.

  “Yeah, something like that,” I agreed.

  “You got a moment to talk?” He fixed me with a direct stare. I assumed it wasn’t just to congratulate me, so I said I had.

  We strolled past the bar to a vacant table near the ladies’ toilets. He was looking serious, and I knew whatever it was he wanted to talk about could only be work-related.

  “Apologies for bringing this up now, today of all days, but I only found out about this recently, and you’re away on honeymoon next week. I’m just asking for information purposes, so, for the moment, can we keep this off the record?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, okay, what’s up?”

  “I’m wondering if the Branch has heard anything about this.” He paused for a moment. “You remember, a few months back, New Focus was sent a package of documents someone had filched from Bartolome Systems? We ended up having to give them back. I wanted them published but, once the Times had returned their copies unopened, we either had to return them or face being prosecuted, so we returned them, and I thought no more about it.” He sipped some beer, looking thoughtful.

  “The thing is, though, very recently, Armswatch’s had a pile of documents sent to it from someone inside Bartolome Systems.” His eyes betrayed his excitement. “According to the information contained in these documents, Bartolome Systems is deeply implicated in paying bribes to other defence contractors, and also government officials in places like Saudi Arabia and Qatar, to secure contracts. Armswatch says it’s got hold of accounts showing the company’s paid out a fortune in bribes to various key individuals, which is how it’s managed to secure certain contracts. It’s also received information detailing how Bartolome’s been engaging in knowingly selling arms to countries on the Government’s ‘no-sell-to’ list, with some devastating consequences. I’m gonna be talking to someone from Armswatch about it soon, so I was wondering, between you and me, does the Branch know anything about this?”

  “Don’t know about the Branch, but I’ve not heard anything,” I replied. “How well placed is this whistleblower?”

  “I’ve no idea, and my guess is Armswatch probably doesn’t know either, but someone inside the firms evidently had a twinge of conscience.” He nodded sagely. “Leaked all kinds of details regarding who got paid what, which banks it was paid into, that kind of thing. It’s potentially explosive if this becomes public knowledge. Remember what happened to Rolls-Royce not too long back? They were dragged through the mud and fined close to a billion pounds for engaging in bribery and corrupt business practices.”

  I knew Bartolome Systems. Whilst I was aware of what the company manufactured, I’d also had contact with several individuals who’d been employed by the firm, and I hadn’t liked any of them. Two were now dead and one was in Brixton prison. Bartolome had also, at one time, put an inept PI on my tail as it’d thought I was working alongside Commander Thornwyn in extorting confidential information relating to the firm’s activities, whereas Thornwyn had in fact been blackmailing someone for this information. I’d been completely exonerated, but the incident had left a bad taste in my mouth.

  I also knew Armswatch, a pressure group growing increasingly radical in its activities. Not too long back I’d help arrest eight individuals from the group who’d broken into a weapons storage warehouse in Wembley and destroyed valuable merchandise. All eight had been imprisoned for terms ranging between two and five years.

  “Any other details leaked?” I asked.

  “I can’t be too specific. I mean, I’ve not spoken to them yet. But if only half what we’ve been told is true,” he said, grinning, “there’ll be some seismic shock waves in Whitehall.”

  I thought about what I’d heard.

  Clements’ smile turned wicked. “I’ve also been told a Tory MP’s one of the people listed as being involved, supposed to have trousered several grand down the years, which is why I was wondering if the Branch knew about this. If it’s true, there’d be a security angle.”

  Given Clements’ political standpoint, well to the left of centre, this on its own was probably what was exciting him.

  “Possibly,” I agreed. “You know which MP?”

  “No, but they won’t be too hard to find.” He drained his beer. “So you’ve heard nothing about this, then?”

  “Nothing at all.” I looked around the hall and gave him an ironic grin. “I’ve, ah, been a bit distracted lately.”

  “Can’t imagine why.” He laughed and toasted me with an empty beer glass. “Well, good luck and congrats, mate.”

  I just hoped Smitherman didn’t hear him call me mate. It’d been risky inviting both of them to my wedding reception in the first place.

  I gestured to Taylor and, when she arrived, I introduced her to Clements. They were both journos and, unbeknownst to them, it’d been me who’d put them in contact earlier. I’d sent Clements details outlining insider trading by the prospective Tory Mayor of London, James Blatchford. I’d also suggested to him these details should be forwarded along to Sally Taylor at the Evening Standard because she knew the situation better, as she’d been covering Blatchford’s run for mayor all the way through the election campaign. The revelations had made national headline news two days before the election, though they hadn’t prevented Blatchford winning and becoming London’s mayor.

  I feigned surprise when they smiled and said hi to each other. “You two already know each other?”

  “Yeah, I know Sally. You’re with the Evening Standard, aren’t you?” Clements asked, looking at her. “That’s right, it was you I gave the information about Blatchford to, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, you did,” she agreed. “Thanks. The Standard got some favourable coverage for the story. You ever find out who sent it to you?”

  “My guardian angel, apparently,” he said. “No, I didn’t. They said I should pass it across to you, though, so whoever it was must’ve known you. You investigated this leak, didn’t you, Rob?” He turned towards me.

  “Yeah. I’m pretty certain it was one of Blatchford’s team,” I lied, keeping a straight face. “No one else could have had access to that amount of classified information, so it had to be an inside job. Several top members of his team had access, and they’d all have known Taylor from her coverage, but I couldn’t identify exactly who might’ve leaked it.”

  Clements leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I did hear, from someone I know at City Hall, Blatchford was spitting blood after he read the story. He went batshit fucking crazy – sorry, Sally – trying to find the source of the leak. He had all his top staff in his office one at a time and really went to town on them, grilled the
m all for quite some while, but he never did find out whoever it was leaked the info.”

  And he wasn’t going to either. I smiled to myself. I’d covered my tracks too well.

  “If he didn’t like that one,” Taylor said, “he definitely won’t like the story I’ve been helping put together over the past five to six weeks.”

  Clements’ eyes lit up in excitement. But Taylor cut him off before he could speak.

  “No, I’m not telling you what it’s about.” She smiled and shook her head. “But I’ll guarantee Blatchford won’t like this one either. We’ll be publishing it in a couple of weeks.”

  Clements nodded sagely. As a journo he’d know why Taylor wasn’t going to tell him.

  She nudged me playfully in the ribs whilst looking at Clements. “I even had Special Branch interviewing me about the leak as part of their investigation, and look where it’s ended up.”

  *

  Not long after that, Taylor and I were summoned to the middle of the hall, where we were to lead the dancing with ‘Majorette’ by Beach House, a song we both loved which had become our song. We’d first heard it in a restaurant about a month into our relationship and we’d just sat and listened whilst it played. Now, every time I heard the song, it reminded me of how I’d felt at the exact moment in time when we’d looked across the table at each other, touched each other’s hand and smiled. In that moment, I absolutely knew I was with the woman I wanted to spend eternity and beyond with.

  I have all the natural rhythm of a farm tractor crossing a ploughed field, so, with the lights dimmed around the hall and a lone spotlight shining on us, aware I was being watched by around a hundred and thirty people, I clung to Taylor as though I were drowning when the music began, forlornly hoping nobody was recording it on their iPhone. I was just so relieved Smitherman had already left. She held me tightly, her head nestling on my shoulder, as I attempted to move in time to the music. She then looked at me in a way I’d never seen before, a look which said more than any million words ever could.