I agreed it was. He continued.
“. . . were putting together a piece about the sale of Septimus House to Towerleaf Holdings, I contacted Jacobs, told him a few places where they should focus their enquiries if they really wanted to do a number on Blatchford, and it would appear they did.”
“How did you find out what they were planning? Did Jacobs contact you directly?”
“No.” He shook his head firmly. “Through a friend in Companies House. She alerted me to the fact that two journalists had been in and were asking questions about Towerleaf. She told me who they were, and I got in touch with Jacobs.”
“So you met up with Jacobs.”
“Oh yes, a few times. We had a few, ah, quite interesting discussions, shall we say, and I gave him some facts and figures, pointed him towards websites he ought to look at, plus the names of several businesses James was connected to he should look into. I told him where they should focus their research efforts, and they seem to have listened.”
Jaser sat back again, looking content. There was no going back now, so, as he was feeling talkative, I decided to press ahead.
“Blatchford knew Yuri Krachnikhov before Septimus House was sold, didn’t he?”
“Of course he did.” His tone of voice suggested I was an idiot for even asking such a question. “You didn’t seriously think Krachnikhov just materialised out of nowhere, did you? James had a lot of money invested in Drawbridge. Do you know this company?”
I said I did.
“He got to know Drawbridge through one of his friends, the late Charles Garlinge. It was Garlinge who advised him it’d be worth investing in Drawbridge, so he did.”
“And Garlinge ends up with a flat in Septimus House at a sizeable discount?”
Jaser looked temporarily surprised but recovered. “He did, yes, and do you know why?”
I was about to say I did, but Jaser continued.
“Because it was Garlinge who set up Towerleaf Holdings for him, which made it easier for Krachnikhov’s laundered money to be funnelled across to the UK from his Swiss account, after it’d done the rounds through various other accounts across the globe. James couldn’t do it, you see, he’s too well known in the City, but Garlinge wasn’t, so he did it.”
I said I’d been told Blatchford had set the company up.
“No. No, he couldn’t do that.” He sounded definite. “He’s too well known in the City to do something like that. Think of how it’d look if Septimus House had been sold to a company through an account the mayor himself had set up. That’s why Garlinge did it. I know he did; I was with him when he deposited the initial documents, the memorandum and the articles.” He stared directly at me as he spoke. “That’s how my friend at Companies House knew to get in touch with me when Sally and Jacobs were enquiring about Towerleaf, because I was there when it was incorporated.”
“And I’m guessing Blatchford knew where the money to buy Septimus House came from.” This wasn’t a question.
“Oh really, detective?” Jaser shook his head and grinned, revealing brilliantly white teeth. “Of course he knew. You couldn’t not know. Which leads me to another point.”
He paused and looked around for a moment or two.
“Why’d you think the Government’s refusing to have Krachnikhov held and extradited back to Russia, as per their request? Everyone knows where his money came from, but if he got extradited to Russia, he’d have quite the story to tell, one which’d cause considerable embarrassment to the Government.”
“How’s that?”
“Because the Secretary of State agreed to Septimus House being sold, despite the official denial they made; that’s why. So, if it’s made public the Government had nodded the sale through . . .” He shrugged and didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The implications were obvious.
This was a startling revelation. More than this, it was politically explosive. I wondered if Taylor and Jacobs knew about this. “Was there any pressure put on Blatchford not to sell Septimus House?”
“What, from Government? None at all. He got a good price for the London council tax payer and it can be reinvested to build more homes.”
“Did anyone in the Government question why he was selling Septimus House?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“So, he was planning to sell it all the way through the mayoral campaign, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” Jaser agreed, “and that’s the mistake he made, talking about Septimus House during the campaign, agreeing it was a brilliant investment for London whilst, all the while, knowing it was going to be sold as soon as he became mayor.”
“You know why as well, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, indeed I do.” He laughed. “I know it all. He had no choice but to sell. His debts were astronomical and agreeing to sell Septimus House was his way out from under them.”
I’d learnt so much more than I’d ever thought I would when Jaser had asked if he could speak to me. We sat silently for several seconds. I was attempting to absorb what I’d heard and the implications of it.
“So, if Blatchford had lost the election . . .?” I posed the hypothetical question.
“He’d have been . . .” Jaser smiled as he drew a finger across his throat. “It would have all come out about the debt he was in, and then I would imagine he’d have been up to his neck in lawsuits and litigation. It would have been a spectacular financial crash and burn, not to mention scandal.”
You may well get one yet, I thought.
“But,” Jaser went on, “one thing the article doesn’t mention is Cartillian. I wasn’t sure whether to mention it to Jacobs, so I didn’t.”
“Who or what is Cartillian?” I asked.
“It’s a firm in Gibraltar used by Yuri Krachnikhov. Basically, it’s just a nameplate on a wall and a desk in some lawyer’s office. It’s a front company which certain kinds of businesses use when they’re looking to hide money, or when criminal enterprises want to launder the money they get from selling drugs or arms on the black market.”
My eyes opened up in surprise. Somebody I’d recently spoken to had also mentioned Cartillian, and I was trying to recall who it was. I was about to speak when Jaser continued.
“Yes, that’s where the money to buy Septimus House came through from, if that’s what you were about to ask. Sent from Cartillian to Switzerland, through various other tax havens around the world, and then on to London.”
He was right; it was what I was going to ask.
“And, yes, Blatchford knew this. How? Because he’s a shareholder in Cartillian, along with several other people.”
Blatchford was a shareholder in a company which had used laundered money to buy the building he’d sold. I was amazed but attempted to retain focus. “Who else was a shareholder, apart from Blatchford and Krachnikhov?”
“Krachnikhov’s son Alecks, and also Charles Garlinge. There were a couple of others, but I don’t know who they were.”
“And this’s where Blatchford and Garlinge met, presumably?” I wondered.
“Exactly right, and also where he got to know the Krachnikhovs.” He nodded to himself. “It all started from there.”
Blatchford was in for a torrid time late today when the magazine hit the newsstands. Jaser was looking around casually, as though what he’d said was of no consequence, when, in fact, it was absolutely sensational. What Richard Clements wouldn’t give to be privy to this conversation.
“So, what’s your take on Blatchford’s likely response when the magazine comes out” – I glanced at my watch – “in a few hours?”
“I hope he’ll resign, but that remains to be seen. Me? I also want him to be arrested, and not just because he’s committed any number of offences under company law, but I’m not convinced that’ll happen.”
“Why not?”
“You know how well connected the Krachnikhovs are?” he immediately came back with.
Another few seconds’ silence. Jaser was looki
ng pleased with life.
“Interesting the other writer should be Sally Taylor,” he said, smiling. “James was actually quite fond of her till he read her piece about share dealings earlier this year. I wonder what he’ll think of her now?” He laughed.
Jaser stood up and looked around for a moment.
“So, I’m telling you all this in confidence.” He looked serious. “I like Sally and I don’t want to see her get into trouble, so I wanted you to have an idea of what Blatchford’s done. Jacobs knows, but he won’t tell her.”
I grinned. “I’m rather partial to her myself.”
“What will happen to James after today?”
I knew what he meant. “Won’t be my decision, but it’s a fact someone’ll wanna talk to him.”
We were silent for a few seconds.
“Blatchford doesn’t know about . . .” I gestured between the two of us.
“No, of course not. I’m about the only person over there” – he nodded towards City Hall, grinning – “he implicitly trusts. He’s in a state of advanced paranoia just now.”
I thanked him for what he’d told me and assured him what he’d said wouldn’t be made public knowledge, not even to Taylor; my boss might need to know one or two of the points, but no one else. I told him I hoped the rest of today wouldn’t be too traumatic for him.
“Oh, it’ll be far from traumatic, detective,” he said with certainty, smiling broadly. “In fact it’ll probably be highly amusing. I’m actually really looking forward to this afternoon. I believe you know the old saying about revenge being best served cold?”
With that, still smiling, we shook hands and he turned and walked off towards the vulgar monstrosity which was the seat of London government, City Hall. I walked away pleased to know Taylor was covered, even if Blatchford litigated the matter.
*
I entered the name Charles Garlinge into the Branch database and cross-referenced it against James Blatchford and Yuri Krachnikhov. All three were indeed listed as having been directors of Cartillian, a private company registered in Gibraltar. I was intrigued to note one of the non-executive directors listed was Justin Gregory. I knew the name from somewhere and thought for a few seconds about where it might have been. I remembered. He was the chief executive at Titanomachy, a London-based private security business I’d come across when I’d been looking into someone named Richard Rhodes, who’d been a freelance operative there. I tried to look up more information on Cartillian, but instantly the screen flashed up a message: Restricted access, red code only; permission to access denied.
Blatchford was also listed as being a shareholder in Drawbridge, but what I found really interesting was the fact Ibrahim Mohammed was also a shareholder in both companies, and all four men were listed as shareholders in Bartolome Systems. I now had evidence the four men moved in the same circles.
The thought struck me Harry Ferguson also had a connection with Bartolome, so, on a whim, I entered his name and clicked to cross-reference for any connections to the others. Again the screen flashed up the Restricted access message. I tried again but the same message appeared, and again when I tried for a third time. This suggested there was something here about Ferguson the security service didn’t want made known.
As I got up to leave my phone sounded. I answered and was surprised to hear Victoria Sacchialli’s voice.
“We’ve discovered where Michael Mendoccini’s been; he’s recovering from extensive knee surgery in a cabin close to the Swiss border. It seems he had a car accident some while back and damaged his left knee quite badly, so he’s been recuperating quietly, which explains why nobody’s seen him recently. So you can eliminate him from your inquiries into Charles Garlinge’s death.”
“You’re quite sure about this?” I asked neutrally.
“Yes, we are very sure.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know, and thanks again for agreeing to talk the other day.”
“It’s no problem. Christine’s vouched for you, so any time.” We rang off.
As she’d been speaking I’d known what she was telling me wasn’t true. She’d not been intentionally lying; simply speaking what she’d been told was the truth. But he’d been here in the UK. Taylor had spoken to him Saturday lunchtime. I knew Michael’s girlfriend Angie Delucca had been in the country because she’d hired a car last Friday and I’d seen her picture. I’d spoken to Ray Fiddley three nights ago and he’d claimed to have met Michael Mendoccini, as had his mother, and they would certainly recognise him. I’d also received the disturbing news Michael had been seen with Post Poe.
Either Victoria Sacchialli had got her facts wrong, or Italian security had been scammed by someone pretending to be Mendoccini.
*
Villiers Street was a five-minute walk away from the Yard. At the reception desk I asked to speak to Justin Gregory. On my last visit here, the office secretary had been a burly former US marine with an attitude problem, but behind the desk this time sat a petite young English woman with a very pleasant smile and bright red hair, which matched her fingernails and lips. I mentioned I’d no appointment but showed my police ID. She made an internal call and, a few seconds later, I was shown into Gregory’s small, cramped office overlooking Villiers Street.
“You need to talk about Richard again, DS McGraw?” He’d remembered me.
“No, that’s all under control.”
He nodded at a chair. I sat.
“So, what do you need?” he asked.
“I’ve a couple of questions for you.”
He nodded. I continued.
“You used to be involved with a Gibraltar-based firm, Cartillian, didn’t you?”
He appeared initially surprised by the question. “Yeah, though I wouldn’t say involved; I was just a shareholder. It stopped doing business about a year or so back.”
“What happened to it?”
“You know, I don’t really know,” he said calmly. “I just received an official-looking letter one day from some lawyer in Gibraltar telling me Cartillian was no longer operational. That was it.” He shrugged. “The reason why it’s no longer functioning I have no clue.”
“How did you even get involved in Cartillian?”
“This isn’t a large industry, detective – quite small, in fact – and people know people. I knew Yuri, so—”
“Yuri Krachnikhov,” I said.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “and eventually he asked if I wanted to help out there.”
“How did you know him?”
“Through his son, Alecks. He worked here for a little while. He’s ex-army and he came recommended, but he didn’t last too long. Bit of a loose cannon, if you want the truth, wasn’t always too keen on staying within acceptable parameters, and he screwed up one too many times, so we told him his services were no longer required.”
“What was Cartillian involved in?” I was curious to see what he knew about Cartillian.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what did it do, what business was it involved in?”
He appeared to be thinking for a few seconds.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, spreading his hands. “All I knew was I was asked to become a shareholder, but I wasn’t involved in the day-to-day running of the business. I was just told one day Cartillian was shutting up shop. That was it.”
“By whom?”
“By whichever lawyer’s firm sent me the letter. I junked it, so . . .” He shrugged again. “And soon after I got a cheque for the shares I’d bought, though not the full amount.”
“I’m just finding it odd I can’t seem to access this firm on Special Branch files, and someone like you, who was involved with Cartillian, doesn’t seem to know what it did or why it stopped trading.”
“I can’t help you there, I’m afraid.” He shook his head. “I just agreed to become a shareholder as a favour to a friend. I took no part in its operations.”
“Did you know someone named H
arry Ferguson? It’s possible he was also involved with Cartillian.”
I was looking at his eyes as I asked and, for a split second, a flicker of recognition appeared. It was fleeting but I’d noticed it.
“Don’t think I do, no,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “Name isn’t familiar.”
I didn’t believe much of what he’d said but, for the moment, I didn’t pursue the matter any further. I thanked him and left.
*
Walking down Villiers Street towards Embankment tube station, I saw the news vendor piling up copies of the Evening Standard magazine, ES, just before the first editions of the paper came out. The small billboard carried stark headlines in bold black type: EXCLUSIVE:SENSATIONAL REVELATIONS MADE AGAINST LONDON’S MAYOR. I picked up a copy as I walked past, imagining the excitement Taylor must be feeling as it was a certainty this would be making headline news later today.
Back at my desk I opened the magazine to the four-and-a-half-page article, entitled Blatchford: the Mayor, the Debts and the Russian Oligarch. I felt a warm glow of pride when I saw the name Sally Taylor listed as one of the two writers, alongside Steven Jacobs. I already knew most of the contents, so I just skimmed through it, noting certain phrases and comments. It was an excellent article, and also a thorough vindication of the new editor’s policy of making the magazine much more hard-hitting and relevant, featuring real news stories of genuine public interest, rather than fluff pieces about new fashions from Milan or articles about chic restaurants written by vacuous celebrity chefs whose opinions few gave a damn about.
I phoned Taylor at her office. She answered immediately.
“Your article’s out,” I began.
“Yeah.” I could hear the excitement in her voice. “The editor’s really chuffed, said the printed version looks great. We’ve already had some favourable comments from various quarters, and I hear Ian Mulvehill’s already issued a statement calling on Blatchford to resign, as well as calling on the PM to explain what the Government knew about Blatchford and the situation he’s in. Seems like we’ve hit the jackpot with this one. Hugh’s going to be talking about this on Newsnight later this evening.” She sounded pleased. “I’ve also heard Blatchford’s not a happy camper and he’s gonna be making an official statement later this afternoon at City Hall. You think they’ll let me in if I turn up?” She laughed.
The Real World- the Point of Death Page 28
