His file also contained a number of photographs taken wearing a military uniform or at what appeared to be official functions. Most were of no interest, but one picture particularly caught my eye. Eight men in business suits were shown sitting around a large table in what looked like a crowded hotel ballroom containing several other such tables. The table was covered in mostly empty wine and spirits bottles, everyone looking very jovial and happy, though one man was looking away from the camera. It was recorded as being taken at the senior management’s official dinner after Bartolome Systems’ AGM three years ago. I’d noticed the picture because I recognised Charles Garlinge immediately, and also Jeremy Godfrey and Paul Sampson. Neville Thornwyn was also at the table. This would have been around the time he’d sunk his claws into Sampson and begun blackmailing him. Ibrahim Mohammed was also present, sitting to the left of Garlinge, and the picture suggested they were engaged in conversation.
There was one man I definitely didn’t know, leaving two others. I initially thought I didn’t recognise them either, though, looking closer, I noticed the side profile of the one looking away from the camera was Ian Harper’s. But my eyes jolted open sharply when I realised who the eighth man at the table was.
Harry Ferguson.
He was sitting on the right-hand side of Charles Garlinge. What was his connection to the proceedings? Was he there as a guest of the board or as a participant on behalf of MI5? His presence raised several interesting questions, not the least of which was who did he know on this table, and in what capacity? Three years back he would still have been an MI5 operative, so why would he have been invited to the AGM of Bartolome Systems and be seated alongside its top management at dinner? It was interesting to note Garlinge was sitting between Ibrahim Mohammed and Ferguson.
This presented several intriguing scenarios, mostly as I didn’t believe Ferguson’s presence was because he was friends with someone at the table. The most logical explanation would have been that he was present on MI5 business, representing them in negotiations where there was a national security interest to consider. But, given that I now knew Ferguson had been directly implicated in the IRA obtaining quantities of Semtex from Libya nearly thirty years back, plus the unexplained death of a British agent, I speculated on whether there might be another agenda for his presence. Was he involved with Garlinge in any way?
I was sure there was more to this picture than just a group of well-heeled business types enjoying a convivial evening, so I scrolled through Bartolome’s website. I found out the current chief executive and managing director at Bartolome Systems was Sir Paul Peterson, who was seventy-two and a career company man, having joined the firm directly from Oxford and worked his way up to his exalted position.
Because of the ongoing arms fair at the ExCeL centre, I knew there’d be people staffing the office today, so I contacted Bartolome, identified myself and asked to speak to Sir Paul. I was informed he wasn’t in the office and, after I’d stressed the importance of my request, I was told he was in London for the weekend, attending an arms trade fair at the ExCeL centre, the same event Garlinge had attended yesterday. I asked for and was given his London address: 18 Septimus House, one of the Covent Garden flats in the building recently sold to Russian tycoon Yuri Krachnikhov.
*
I parked on double yellow lines, across the road from the block, and pressed the entry buzzer. I was admitted into the foyer and met by a tall, skinny security guard aged around thirty, looking about as physically imposing as a reception teacher and holding a clipboard, wanting to know who I was visiting. He said security was tight to ensure the safety of the residents, stressing some very important persons lived in the building and they paid top dollar to ensure their safety at home. He said this in hushed, almost reverential tones, as though I was expected to be impressed by this. I wasn’t. I showed ID, saying I didn’t care who lived here and I wanted to speak to Sir Paul Peterson. He called up and, after a brief conversation, I was told Sir Paul would see me in his apartment on the fourth floor.
Sir Paul answered the door almost as soon as I’d knocked. I’d phoned ahead, so I was expected. I clocked him immediately as the man I hadn’t recognised in the picture. He appeared every inch the patrician businessman. He was about my height and had a full head of silver hair. He was smartly dressed in a pale shirt, blue tie and dark grey suit trousers, the matching jacket hanging from the back of a chair. He smelt of cologne, like he’d just showered and shaved. He was looking sombre and I guessed he’d heard the news about Charles Garlinge.
He led me into his small but very comfortable lounge. I could see an impressive-looking collection of hardback books on the bookshelves, including what appeared to be the complete writings of John le Carré, but I didn’t have the time to stand and admire them. The Sunday Telegraph was on the glass-topped coffee table, opened at the business section. From the window I could just about see the top of the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane.
He stood facing me, probably resenting my presence at this time, and looked at his watch. “You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I don’t make too much sense at present. I’m a bit shaken after hearing about the death of my friend and colleague Charles Garlinge. I was only talking to him yesterday afternoon at the ExCeL, and at last night’s reception, and he seemed fine. Any more news about how he died? Was it from natural causes?”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “If you’ve heard the news, you know about as much as I do, so I’ll try not to take up too much of your time. Sorry for your loss, by the way.”
“Thanks.” He nodded his appreciation. “I have to be at the ExCeL centre very soon; I’ve a meeting there with some potential buyers and my driver’s picking me up in a few minutes, so can we make this quick?”
“Okay,” I agreed. I produced the picture I’d printed off and showed it to him. “Do you know who this person is?” I pointed at Ferguson.
He took out his glasses, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at the picture for maybe a couple of seconds too long.
“I don’t think I do, no,” he said slowly and evenly.
“You’re certain?” I kept a neutral tone but I didn’t believe him. Nobody the chief executive of any large corporation didn’t recognise would be sitting where Ferguson was.
“He doesn’t look familiar.” He took off his glasses.
“Given he’s sitting opposite you and next to Charles Garlinge at Bartolome’s AGM, I was assuming you’d have an idea who this person is. He’s at a table with three other senior management personnel at the company, and I know he doesn’t work for you, so I’m just wondering why he’s sitting where he is, at high table.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you there.” He didn’t sound too convincing. “Why are you asking me this?”
“What about this person? You recognise him?” I pointed at Ibrahim Mohammed.
“Of course I do,” he snapped, sounding as though I’d insulted his intelligence. “Ibrahim Mohammed, an international arms broker who represents Bartolome occasionally when we have difficult negotiations with new clients coming up. We use him because he’s well known throughout the industry, he has contacts everywhere, knows many of the leading players in many different countries, particularly the Middle East, and we do a lot of business through him. He’d have been there as an honoured guest, I’m sure.” He looked at his watch again.
“Did Charles Garlinge have any dealings with him?”
“It’d be a bigger surprise if they’d not had any dealings, detective. Charles was involved in overseas sales as part of his marketing duties, you know, so he’d obviously know him.”
“He and Mohammed worked together negotiating the contract with Bozetti, didn’t they?”
“I gather there’s a police investigation about this,” he said, evading the question. “A detective spoke to one of our senior managers yesterday at our London office and mentioned something about a problem with the End User Certificate.”
Ian Harper hadn’t kept our conversation
quiet. I didn’t mention the detective had been me.
“Not with the certificate,” I replied; “with where the order ended up. The weapons Bartolome made under licence for Bozetti ended up elsewhere. Did you know this?”
There was silence for several seconds. He was looking at me as though I’d betrayed a confidence somewhere by speaking out of turn. It was hard to gauge what he was thinking from the sullen expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, detective, but I really can’t answer these questions at this time. This is a sensitive issue and, until the matter’s slightly clearer, I ought not say anything.”
“Those weapons didn’t actually make it to Italy, did they?” I asked. “They ended up in Burundi, which’s verified and indisputable. Are you saying it’s not the case?”
“I’m not commenting on anything for the moment, is what I’m saying. I don’t particularly want to talk about Charles, given he’s just died.” He sounded irritable.
“Special Branch believes Garlinge could be connected in some way to why the arms ended up elsewhere. That’s what we’re looking into,” I said firmly, “and this was being investigated before his untimely death earlier today, so anything you can tell me about his contribution in negotiating this contract would help our investigations.” I didn’t mention I’d only started investigating this issue two days earlier.
He looked worried for several seconds.
“Are you saying . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “The board discussed the contract in detail, and it was straightforward. There were no complications I’m aware of. It was a standard business deal.”
I stared at him for several seconds. His expression was flat, almost uninterested.
“The fact that weapons you thought your company was manufacturing for an Italian company ended up in Burundi, being used to kill innocent civilians, implies it wasn’t quite as straightforward as you’re suggesting.” I paused for a few seconds to let my words take effect. His expression didn’t change. “If I were chief executive of an armaments firm, this’d worry me considerably.”
I said this in a way which I hoped didn’t sound too accusatory. Sir Paul looked at me with something approaching distaste, his eyes narrowing almost into a slit. If I’d been a servant I’d probably have been dismissed on the spot for my temerity.
“I’m sorry, detective, I’m not answering any more questions about this for the moment,” he stated firmly, looking away. “My driver will be here any moment now as I’m due at the ExCeL centre very soon.”
“So you’re saying you don’t know who this person is, or why he’s at the company’s AGM, sitting with top management?” I again pointed to Harry Ferguson in the picture.
“That’s correct, I don’t.” He said this without looking at me.
I didn’t believe him. He’d know who Ferguson was and his reason for being there, but he wasn’t going to be drawn into admitting it.
“The man in this picture’s an MI5 operative. You really saying you weren’t aware of this? Was he present on MI5 business or for some other reason?”
I was saying the Branch had a reason to be interested in Ferguson when the phone rang twice, then stopped.
“My driver’s here,” he said, looking pleased, “and I really do have somewhere to be. I also have to find a replacement for Charles at short notice.”
He slid on his suit jacket and picked up a slim black attaché case. We rode the lift together, him blanking me as though I wasn’t even there. The security guard opened the front door for him, and I followed Sir Paul outside into the sunshine. He got in the back of what looked like a brand-new gleaming black Daimler, the door being held open for him by his driver. He took something from his attaché case and was looking at it as the Daimler pulled away, heading towards Kingsway.
*
Late morning. I was reading a preliminary report about Garlinge’s recent demise. There’d been nothing suspicious about the circumstances of his death thus far, and prima facie the police were going with their initial view of death by natural causes. Police had checked with Garlinge’s office to see if he’d been receiving threats or hate mail, through the post, by email or on social media, but hadn’t uncovered anything. The facts of the incident were as stated when Smitherman had told me he was dead.
Garlinge lived south of Hemel Hempstead, in a high-end estate of five-bedroomed, seven-figure-valued detached properties with large gardens, and police had conducted a canvass of the area but nobody had seen or heard anything at this time of the night. The local Neighbourhood Watch coordinator had come forward to say, apart from a few cars driving through the estate, it had been a quiet night, nothing out of the ordinary.
But what was interesting were the comments made by Charles Garlinge’s wife, Judith Garlinge. She’d told police that sometime just after midnight she’d been asleep in their bedroom, at the front of the house, and had been woken up by what she’d thought were voices coming from the front driveway. She’d gone downstairs and opened the door, wondering if her husband had brought someone home with him, but, in the dark, hadn’t seen anyone, so she’d assumed it was a couple talking loudly as they passed by on the pavement, around thirty yards from the front door. She’d not heard anyone walking away.
She hadn’t been able to identify either of the voices, hadn’t been certain if they were male or female voices, and she wasn’t even sure whether her husband’s had been one of them. She’d heard a slightly raised voice, though it didn’t sound like someone yelling, then the talking had stopped. She thought the talking had gone on for several seconds but didn’t know if or for how long they’d been talking before she awoke.
Did this suggest Garlinge had met with someone in his driveway? Had this been a pre-arranged meeting or had he been surprised by whoever had been there? Had this person anything to do with Garlinge’s untimely death?
*
Smitherman had returned to his office from whatever meeting he’d been attending at the Home Office. What kind of sadist arranges meetings for nine thirty on a Sunday morning?
I showed him the picture featuring Garlinge sitting alongside Harry Ferguson at Bartolome’s AGM and explained I was wondering what Ferguson’s link to the company was. I mentioned Sir Paul Peterson hadn’t known, or had claimed not to know, who Ferguson was and why he would have been present at the AGM. Smitherman replied he’d talk to Stimpson about the matter.
I read the report again and then began to investigate Garlinge and his recent movements. I found the number for Garlinge’s secretary and dialled it, but I was told by her husband she was too upset at the news of Garlinge’s death to talk, so, as she was low priority, I left a message stating I’d call again later.
I decided to check in with a few sources, people who might be able to fill in some blanks. I phoned Christine Simmons, an MI5 operative I knew, but learnt she was away for the weekend. My question, for business or pleasure, went unanswered. I phoned Kevin Sharone, who worked for the American think tank Lantanis in nearby John Islip Street, but was told by his partner he was unavailable until this evening. I then contacted Richard Clements. No response either at New Focus or on his mobile phone, so I left a message. Lastly, I phoned Nick Graves at Armswatch. The recorded message said the office was closed until Monday, and his home phone wasn’t answered.
I spent a little more time reading Garlinge’s file again and looking at figures for Bartolome’s sales in the Middle East but learnt little else.
Did Bartolome do any business in Italy with firms other than Bozetti? I scanned the business section of its file and soon saw Bozetti was the only Italian firm it did business with. I contacted someone I knew in MI6 and asked, off the record, if there was anything known about an Italian company named Bozetti which was somewhat askew. Was it a company of interest to them? I was told he’d do some unofficial checking and get back to me.
So many dead ends. I went off duty late afternoon.
*
&nbs
p; Taylor’s article about the selling of Septimus House had now been written up and approved by the paper’s top management. The editor had commented favourably on the story, in particular on the quality of the in-depth research which had gone into the article and on its likely explosive impact, which the editor had declared he was anxiously awaiting, then had it put to bed, meaning the magazine was now being printed ready for publication next Thursday. She claimed it read so much better than she’d expected and was ecstatic all her efforts had resulted in what she immodestly described as something which’ll give Blatchford indigestion next Thursday.
After her initial rush of excitement had subsided, she said today had been rather more of a rush than expected because she’d had to make a few unplanned last-minute changes to the article. She then surprised me by saying I’d be interested in one of these changes. I asked what it was.
Earlier in the day, she’d met up with her fellow journo Steven Jacobs, who’d researched the article with her, and he said he’d uncovered a new source who’d added a few more salient facts to the story. One of the things Jacobs had discovered was that the Conservative MP who’d died last night had an apartment in Septimus House and was also known to be a friend of the building’s new owner, Yuri Krachnikhov.
“Charles Garlinge?” I sat upright in a hurry. This new address hadn’t been on his file.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” she agreed. “Steve contacted the Mayor’s office and asked what Blatchford knew about this, but he’s saying nothing, refuses to speak to anyone connected to the Standard. He did find out one interesting thing, though. The name on the lease for the apartment is the woman who lives there with him. The lease isn’t in Garlinge’s name, which explains why hardly anyone knew he lived there.”
“What else did he find?” I was interested in this.
“Garlinge’s also a shareholder in Towerleaf Holdings Ltd, the firm Krachnikhov owns which bought Septimus House. Bought several thousand shares a few months ago, at slightly below market price, which is around the time he and this lady took up residence there. This is one of the angles the story’s covering; who scratched whose back and why?”
The Real World- the Point of Death Page 15
