Smitherman looked thoughtful for several seconds and didn’t respond to what I’d said. Something about the expression on his face and his manner gave me the impression I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. I was beginning to wonder why Special Branch was even involved in what appeared, prima facie, to be a fraud squad case.
“You’re aware of the recent situation inside Bartolome, aren’t you?” he asked at last.
He knew I was. This was no doubt about Bartolome coming close to bankruptcy several months ago, when only a secret Government financial bail-out had kept the company afloat.
“So you know the importance Government attaches to this company and the products it manufactures. You remember what happened when Paul Sampson was threatening to go to the press to expose what he saw as corrupt practices?”
I did. Sampson had threatened to tell everything in a newspaper interview, and I strongly suspected this would have included information about bribery, so he’d been silenced, though his untimely death had been sold to the world as a suicide.
“I’m not saying that’s going to happen here,” Smitherman said, “but the situation’s very delicate, more delicate than you probably realise.”
I wondered what he meant by this, but he went on before I could ask about it.
“So, what is Garlinge proposing to do?”
“So far, nothing. He’s refusing to meet with Armswatch and discuss the matter. I’m not sure blasé’s the word, but I get the sense he’s just hoping the whole thing quietly dies.”
“If this becomes public knowledge, it won’t die for some time,” Smitherman replied firmly, shaking his head, “and it won’t be quiet either. Stimpson said there’s real concern about it becoming known weapons manufactured in this country were used to kill innocent civilians in Burundi. We supposedly don’t even sell arms to Burundi. The fact a member of the Government’s involved in all this doesn’t exactly help either.”
Neither of us spoke for a few moments.
“Graves says they particularly want all the relevant details of Garlinge and his complicity in the Burundian massacre to be made public,” I said.
“Well, no matter what happens, they’re certainly not going to get that,” Smitherman stated assuredly. I was taken aback by the vehemence in his voice.
I thought for a moment.
“So it’s true, what Armswatch’s claiming.” I came straight out with it. “Garlinge’s taken bribes from this Bahraini arms dealer, and weapons manufactured by Bartolome were used to kill demonstrators in Burundi.”
“If Bartolome knows it’s lost important documentation, and it’ll likely bring everything crashing down on their heads, they can go to court to get an injunction to prevent this being used to make political capital. Then there’s the issue of who’s actually leaking sensitive information to Armswatch. Stimpson doesn’t like whistleblowers where the national interest’s likely to be affected.” He’d neatly sidestepped the question. “So I’m going to talk to Stimpson again, see what the picture is regarding Garlinge. But my feeling is, even if every one of Armswatch’s claims is completely true, it’ll involve DSMA notices being slapped on the press to stop them becoming public. Once certain people in the press get to know this, how long do you think it’ll be before they discover the deal which prevented Bartolome going out of business? If that ever became public knowledge, Government’ll have to face a lot of awkward political questions, not least from the European Commission.”
I thought for a few seconds more. “So what’s needed is an outside view from someone not directly involved in this case, but who knows the score about the company.”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you get me in to see Neville Thornwyn ASAP?”
“Thornwyn?” Smitherman almost spat his name out. Dirty police were the lowest form of life in his world. If Thornwyn was drowning in quicksand, Smitherman would throw him both ends of the same rope. “Why d’you need to see him?”
“He was in thick with Paul Sampson’s father-in-law Jeremy Godfrey, and he knows what went on inside Bartolome from the material he blackmailed Sampson to get, so it stands to reason he probably knows Garlinge as well. If he can confirm bribery and slush funds, this’ll make it easier if we have to go after Garlinge, and he’s got nothing to lose talking to me, has he?”
“Maybe.” Smitherman nodded and picked up his phone.
*
I drove fast to South-East London through rush-hour traffic, using the siren to clear a path. After negotiating all the security protocols and procedures at the front gate, including some hostile questioning as to why I would want to speak to a corrupt cop, I was back in the same comfortable room where I’d previously spoken to Thornwyn.
This wasn’t the standard prison interview room; it was more like someone’s cosily carpeted lounge, with pictures of pastoral scenes on freshly painted creamy white walls. It was furnished with a table and chairs which weren’t made of gunmetal or bolted to the floor, a glass-topped coffee table and a window with a view of the world outside, even if it was only the car park. The only thing missing was a television.
Only the best for a disgraced former Metropolitan Police commander.
On the last occasion I’d visited him in Belmarsh, I’d put him on the floor with a quite delicious right cross he’d not been expecting. All the frustrations and hassles he’d put me through in the previous couple of weeks, such as being suspected by MI5 of involvement with his blackmail schemes, as well as being followed by an inept private investigator, Stimpson’s niece, had been put into the punch, and it’d been cathartic to see him sprawled on the floor. I’d found out later he’d even dislocated a finger in falling, which had been an unexpected bonus.
But, today, I was possessed of no such enmity. Today I was just a detective seeking information about a possible starting point for an investigation. After the security checks, I’d been shown to the room by the same prison officer as last time, and he’d expressed his disappointment I wasn’t planning to floor my old boss again. But he didn’t hold it against me and said he’d bring refreshments along soon.
After I’d waited a few minutes, Thornwyn was escorted into the room by the Governor of Belmarsh himself, no less, with no prison officers present. They were talking easily, like they were old friends. Thornwyn was casually dressed: a navy blue Nike sweater, jeans and trainers. I’d only ever seen him in smart attire before, so seeing him dressed down took me by surprise. I noticed his hair had turned greyer since my last visit, and he was now wearing glasses. I’d not known he needed them.
He’d been told he had a visitor but hadn’t been told whom it was, and his eyes opened wide when he saw me sitting in one of the comfortable armchairs. The Governor said something sotto voce, which caused both men to smile, then shook hands with him and left the room.
I remained in my chair as Thornwyn approached. I’d originally thought I’d shake hands with him and apologise for laying him out last time I’d visited, but I decided he’d deserved what I’d done, so I didn’t.
“Detective Sergeant Robert McGraw,” he said in an even tone, staring straight at me. “How you doing, Rob?”
He was looking almost pleased to see me.
“Yeah, I’m good. You?”
“I’m comfortable, if that’s what you mean, though I don’t seem to get out and about as much as I used to.” He grinned. A flash of humour.
He sat down across from me in the other cosy little armchair just as the door opened and a tray with a cafetière of coffee, and delicate bone china cups, was brought in by the same prison officer. He looked at me and nodded, poured a coffee, handed it to me, ignored Thornwyn and left.
Thornwyn poured himself a coffee, sat down and crossed his legs. “Well done on the bravery nomination,” he said formally. “Trained you well, didn’t I? Governor just told me about it on the way over here, said one of your old team’s up for an official pat on the back.”
For all Thornwyn now was, prais
e from him still meant something. I was flattered.
“Thanks.” I didn’t tell him I was thinking about refusing to accept it.
“Oh yeah, before I forget, congratulations.” He smiled at me.
I was puzzled.
“I heard you got married recently.”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Oh, come on, Rob, you’re an old friend, and good news about old friends always travels fast.” He spoke slowly, still smiling. “What’s she like, your wife?”
“What’s she like? She’s the best,” I stated emphatically. As I spoke I was thinking of how gorgeous Taylor had looked when we’d met at lunchtime.
“Whoa.” His eyes opened wide and his head jolted backwards, like he’d had a minor electric shock. “I’ve been married three times and I could never say that about any one of my ex-wives.” He laughed. “She with the job?”
I shook my head. “Journalist, Evening Standard.”
“Oh, we get the Standard in here. I’ll look out for a woman named McGraw, see if there’s a picture of her.”
I didn’t bother explaining Taylor hadn’t taken my surname.
He nodded, then stood up to pour another coffee.
“Well, good luck to the two of you,” he toasted me, sitting down again. I thanked him.
It was then that it hit me. Something in Thornwyn had changed. I couldn’t explain exactly what it was or even, if I’m honest, how I knew – I’m not a psychologist – but at that moment, I got the very real sense he wasn’t whole any longer. He’d lost something, some part of his persona, and he was incomplete. He wasn’t radiating the same sense of being someone as once he did. I formed the impression some part of his identity had been taken from him. He didn’t have his usual in command of everything he sees persona. His aura of being someone had dissolved. Months in custody had dulled his edges; inside Belmarsh prison he was a nobody, a disgraced ex-cop, detested by prison officers and hated by prisoners. He was no longer in command of anything and had no subordinates answering to him.
In prison argot, he was also a nonce, Not of Normal Criminal Element. It’s a term usually reserved for paedophiles, regarded by other prisoners as the scum of the earth, the absolute lowest of the low, and usually kept in isolation for their own safety. But it was a term also applied to police officers guilty of corruption on a grand scale, as Thornwyn had been, and his twenty-two-year sentence was the highest ever awarded to a senior police officer. In prison, being branded a nonce is a death sentence waiting to be carried out.
I thought of those evenings when the squad had gone out on one of its occasional piss-ups in the West End where, even in a group of up to twenty detectives, it was obvious who everyone deferred to. He may have been out with the chaps, but he wasn’t one of the chaps; we all knew this. I remembered him once paying a bill for drinks and meals totalling around a thousand pounds; paying for it with a wad of crisp £50 notes. I discovered later he’d used money he’d been taking from criminals he’d been squeezing.
With the length of sentence imposed, he almost certainly knew he’d be in his early seventies before even being considered for parole, and I couldn’t help wondering whether this knowledge weighed heavily on him. The fact he now spent a sizable proportion of his time isolated from other prisoners probably didn’t help his mindset. This was because, as well as being a nonce, officially he was a Category ‘A’ prisoner in a maximum-security building, full of prisoners with long memories and even longer sentences, who would think nothing of getting up close to him, if it were possible, and shanking him just for the pure thrill of it. Many prisoners inside Belmarsh were never likely to be released, so they had nothing whatever to lose by taking out a very senior former police officer, either for their own gratification or after being asked to as a favour by someone in another prison. This would afford the assailant considerable respect on the inside. All it required was just one bent prison officer to forget to lock the door to the showers, then turn his back for a few moments whilst somebody shanked Thornwyn with something rusty, and probably not very sharp, to ensure he suffered more.
Being a disgraced senior police officer in prison was the equivalent of having a large bullseye painted on his forehead. Thornwyn was living on the edge of a live volcano, and he knew it. I wondered what he thought about, alone in his cell at night.
I watch him sip his coffee. Despite everything I knew about him, I still had a slight soft spot for my old boss; much of what I knew about being a detective came from working under him in CID for a few years. But the fact he was corrupt couldn’t be denied. He deserved to be where he was, so I didn’t feel too sorry for him. Actually, when I considered what had happened to Paul Sampson and Geoffrey Tilling, I didn’t feel sorry for him at all.
“So, what do you need, Rob? Why’re you here?” He settled back in his chair.
Without going into too much detail or naming anybody, I explained the Branch was looking into Bartolome Systems, in particular claims the firm maintained a slush fund to pay and receive bribes. I also mentioned armaments going to places they were never intended for, again mentioning no names.
“So, I’m interested in what you know,” I said. “I mean, you’ve had extensive dealings with people inside Bartolome, haven’t you?”
“Oh yes.” He’d been nodding and smiling as I’d been talking.
“From your dealings with people like Jeremy Godfrey, would you say there’s any credence to what I’ve just said? Is there any truth in what the Branch has heard?”
He smirked to himself for a moment. “Credence, eh? Good word, Rob. Let me tell you something.” He sat forward. “Bartolome’s directors used to have an unofficial contest amongst themselves throughout the year: who could secure the biggest sweeteners from clients, who could get away with paying out the least but end up with the biggest orders. The loser had to buy dinner for the whole board and their families.” He was still smiling. “Jeremy Godfrey was quite open about there being a slush fund. So, yes, there’s credence all right.” He obviously liked this word.
“How d’you know this?” I asked.
“How? I went on a couple of their jollies, that’s how,” he replied. “I heard what Godfrey and others were saying, and some of the figures they were spouting about payments made and received were almost obscene.” His voice rose slightly as he spoke. “You think I’m corrupt, your head’d swim if you knew how much some Bartolome directors were raking in in bribes. So, if someone’s claiming Bartolome maintains a slush fund, they’re right, they do.”
This I was definitely interested in. If Thornwyn knew about a slush fund, and he didn’t even work for the company, as an insider Garlinge would have known this when he was dealing with Ibrahim Mohammed. Moneys paid to this dealer would have been drawn from the account set up for such a purpose.
“The worrying thing from the outside, though,” I said, “is the people making this claim received this information from inside Bartolome. Given its strategic importance, only a very few inside the company would ever be fully conversant with the bigger picture. You knew some of the board and others in top management. You have any idea or even a best guess who might’ve been the source of any leak?” I paused a moment. “Oh, don’t worry, your name’ll be kept out of any inquiries the Branch makes.”
He sat back in his chair and rolled his eyes. This used to indicate he was deep in contemplation. He sat like this for about a minute. I finished my coffee whilst I waited.
“You’d be doing us a favour, Neville, and we’d be very appreciative,” I said. It felt strange calling him Neville rather than sir. “A favour would also mean you’d be owed.” I didn’t have to explain what this meant.
He sat quietly, looking pensive and thoughtful, for several more seconds.
“There’s no one I can pinpoint exactly,” he said, “but the only senior manager I’d say was completely honest is Ian Harper, something to do with European marketing. He rarely attended the jollies I was just referring to, didn’t a
pprove of them, but he’d certainly know the situation with illicit payments because he’s on the board. If anyone there’s the soul of probity, it’d probably be him. In your position, I’d talk to Harper.”
I made a mental note of the name. “Did you know Charles Garlinge when he was at Bartolome?”
“Charlie Garlinge.” He chuckled to himself. “I called him Charlie once and he hated it, told me to address him by his proper name.”
“How’d you know him?”
“Godfrey introduced him to me a couple of years ago, just after he’d been given a place on the Conservatives’ list of approved Parliamentary candidates to contest an election.”
“You know anything about him?” I asked.
“Only that I’d trust him as far as I could dropkick him,” he said, smiling, “if that’s what you mean. There’s something not quite right about him, but I don’t know what it is.”
He wasn’t going to be drawn. I changed tack. “You know anything specific about Bartolome’s slush fund?”
He pursed his lips for several seconds.
“I know they’d established some kind of ad-hoc hospitality fund” – he made inverted commas with his index fingers – “which money was paid into and taken out of. I know this because Jeremy Godfrey told me about it. Paul Sampson implied it as well. A director, or whoever was negotiating with whichever buyer, would be authorised to draw against this particular fund. Ostensibly it’d be listed on the company’s accounts as entertainment expenses. You know the kind of thing, families in luxury West End hotels, theatre tickets, corporate boxes at Twickenham et cetera, but this went much further. The reality is it’s a slush fund used by top management for facilitating bribery.”
“And they all knew what it was for?”
“What do you think?” He scoffed. “You’re not really that green, are you, Rob? There’s all kinds of legislation prohibiting firms from utilising bribery to secure contracts, but everyone knows it goes on. There’s hardly an arms sale anywhere in the world where someone hasn’t had his back scratched. How do I know all this? Jeremy Godfrey himself told me. He was quite open about using what he called sweeteners to get business. I admit I took money, and they called me corrupt, but isn’t what people like Godfrey and Garlinge do also corrupt?”
The Real World- the Point of Death Page 10
