The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  Hearing her laugh sent a warm feeling flooding through my veins, a feeling of pride in how accomplished she was becoming as a journo, alongside how strongly I felt for her. I thought about Michael Mendoccini’s dismissive comments about my now being with a journo and I silently dared him, if he saw the magazine, to read this article and disapprove of what she’d written.

  I knew she’d be busy, so I told her it was a great piece and I’d called because I’d wanted to offer congratulations and tell her dinner was on me tonight. She could choose whichever restaurant she wanted.

  “Oh, that’s so nice, thank you so much,” she gushed.

  *

  Despite everything I’d found out, the investigation into Garlinge’s death had still yielded no leads or firm suspects. The nearest we had to anything remotely resembling a suspect was Angie Delucca, and this was only because her rented car had been spotted in the area late Saturday evening, but she was now back in Italy. Officially, of course, there was no investigation. Garlinge had died from a heart attack, or so the world believed, and police had been stood down. Below the radar, though, we were still looking. But for whom?

  In the wake of the article, and some of the comments made on afternoon news bulletins, Blatchford called a press conference for 5.30 pm. The press room at City Hall was packed to overflowing with journos, television cameramen and photographers, including several representatives from the European and American media. This was shaping up to be tomorrow’s headlines whichever way it went. Taylor and Steve Jacobs had decided to attend and they stood at the back of the hall, out of Blatchford’s direct glare, whilst waiting to hear what he had to say.

  Taylor told me later that, on the way in, she’d bumped into Qais Jaser in the lobby and had half-expected him to jump down her throat. Instead, he’d been all smiles and had welcomed her warmly; he’d asked her where she’d been keeping herself lately as he’d not seen her since the election, and had offered congratulations on getting married recently. He’d also astounded her by shaking her and Jacobs’ hands and congratulating them on a first-class piece of investigative journalism.

  She’d no idea Jaser had actually been the source of much of the information used against Blatchford. Jacobs knew but had kept this from Taylor. I knew but I wasn’t going to tell her.

  At five thirty precisely, Blatchford entered the room from a side door and went up onto the podium through a sea of white flashbulbs, looking like a man being led to his own execution. Once the buzz of anticipation had died down, he recited his pre-prepared statement for five and a half minutes. His talk culminated in his announcing he would be stepping down as Mayor of London as soon as all procedural arrangements for his deputy to step up had been completed, as his position had become untenable on account of the allegations made against him by the Evening Standard. This didn’t take too many of the assembled hacks by surprise, though a kind of collective gasp was audible.

  He mentioned the allegations against him but refused to confirm or deny any of them and, after his statement, he perfunctorily answered a couple of questions, then left the podium, leaving the assembled hacks forlornly shouting questions that’d get no answer.

  At the same time Yuri Krachnikhov, responding to the claims in the magazine, issued a statement through his solicitor denying any wrongdoing on the part of himself, his family or Towerleaf Holdings. He insisted that every set of negotiations, every business deal and every contract his businesses had engaged in had been properly conducted; he’d acted lawfully and had been scrupulously honest and transparent in every instance. He made no comment on the actual buying of Septimus House by Towerleaf Holdings.

  The press had finally, as I’d expected, managed to discover Charles Garlinge had been buying a flat with Paula Jeffries, and he’d been planning to leave his wife in the near future. Paula Jeffries herself had refused to make any comments to the media when contacted and, according to the security guard at Septimus House, had snuck away just after midnight on Tuesday evening, clutching two suitcases, with a member of her family, believed to be her twenty-three-year-old daughter, Mandy. They had presumably gone into hiding somewhere.

  Judith Garlinge had been completely taken by surprise when confronted by the tabloids with evidence of her late husband’s infidelity and, according to what were described as ‘family sources’, was now being treated for serious depression. In the past five days, not only had she lost her husband on the day of their silver wedding anniversary; she’d now discovered, even if he’d remained alive, she’d still have lost him.

  The board at Bartolome Systems had finally met earlier today in the wake of the disclosures in the House and issued a carefully worded, bland, anodyne statement, refuting any allegations they’d knowingly supplied arms to Burundi. According to the statement, Charles Garlinge had been a loyal employee and had worked tirelessly for many years for the good of Bartolome, and the company very much regretted the smearing of his name by an MP who’d seen fit to defame him through the usage of Parliamentary privilege. I wondered whether Sir Paul had put his name to this comment as chief executive through gritted teeth.

  In Parliament, hostile questions had been asked, and demands for the resignation of James Blatchford had been made by both Ian Mulvehill and Graeme Ownsley, but no Government front-bench minister was prepared to make any further statement until more information was known. The MOD had also been asked for a comment about supposed breaches regarding its policy on the sale of arms, but had refused to issue any statement.

  The more serious newspapers had been investigating the claims made in the House by Graeme Ownsley on Tuesday. On the grapevine, I’d heard Nick Graves had been contacted by the Observer and asked if he’d like to write an article for the following Sunday’s editorial section, regarding what he knew of dirty dealings by Bartolome Systems. Would this mean mentioning Sir Paul Peterson, despite our conversation earlier? Ownsley had been asked to do something similar concerning why he’d said what he had, though, as far as I knew, he had yet to decide.

  *

  At six fifteen I was contacted by Richard Clements, asking if I wanted to meet him for a drink in the usual place. At this time of day there was only one usual place.

  The Clarence was crowded with early evening quick one for the road office types when I entered ten minutes later. Clements was already there, having come from Blatchford’s press conference, scanning the Standard’s magazine. He came across, bought me a tea and we returned to the table. After the usual round of greetings and how you doing, he raised his glass in a toasting gesture.

  “RIP James Blatchford; how are the mighty fallen,” he jubilantly said. He took a long swig of his beer. “Quite the week, eh? Garlinge buying it, Ownsley naming him as a crook in the House and now our esteemed mayor falling on his own sword. Tragic.” He laughed and shook his head. For a political animal like Clements, this really had been a week to savour.

  He held up the magazine. “This is the piece Sally alluded to at the wedding, wasn’t it?” He was grinning.

  I said it probably was.

  “Well, congrats to Sally on her article.” He flicked through it, nodding approvingly. “It’s a fucking super piece of journalism, really is. Who’d have thought a rag like the Standard would have been capable of something like this? I wish the Focus’d got this first. Where’d she get all this stuff about Blatchford from, anyway?” He was wide-eyed with excitement. “I’d love to know who they spoke to to get this depth of information about Blatchford. I mean, it’s obviously gotta be someone who’s familiar with him.” His eyes lit up. “Hey, you think it might have been the same person inside City Hall who sent me all the stuff about Blatchford’s insider share dealings?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve no idea.” Actually, I did, but I wasn’t going to tell him.

  He shuffled nearer the table and leaned forward, conspiratorially. “So, I just wanted to ask, between you and me. Was Garlinge murdered or was it really a heart attack, like the papers say?”

  “Heart
attack, according to the coroner at the post-mortem.” Not technically a lie. I’d simply omitted the part about the heart attack having been stimulated by the external intervention of a syringe. For the moment he accepted this.

  “I’m asking because I’ve heard a whisper in the lobby. The word there is Garlinge was taken out, it wasn’t a heart attack at all, he was eliminated.”

  I inwardly took a deep breath but retained a neutral expression. If this was printed I could imagine the furore which’d follow. “Where’d you hear this?” I asked, aiming for a tone of surprise.

  “Oh, around, you know, journos in their watering holes sharing what they’ve heard from their sources.” He shrugged.

  I wondered if Steve Jacobs had heard this.

  Clements changed the subject. “So, what’ll happen about all the bribery allegations made by Armswatch now?”

  “I don’t know.” I didn’t. From what I’d discovered there were all kinds of backstories concerning Garlinge, Bozetti and MI6 and, so far, I’d been unable to formulate any coherent picture of events. I knew a lot but could do little with it. “Obviously, with Garlinge now out of the picture, it’s more difficult. Also, after the statement made in the House the other day—”

  “Yeah,” Clements cut in. “How did Ownsley know about this? Graves says Armswatch didn’t tell him, and Ownsley’s saying nothing, but he must have got it from somewhere. You guys know who told him?” He looked at me like a pet waiting for a treat.

  “I don’t, no,” I lied. I wasn’t going to drop Sir Paul in it just yet, as I didn’t know what was happening behind the scenes. “So far he’s refusing to talk. If the Branch knows what’s gonna happen, they’ve not told me.” This was probably the first thing I’d told him which was true.

  I didn’t want another tea, but Clements wanted another beer as his bus wasn’t due for another twelve minutes. He was still admiring Taylor’s article and nodding approvingly as I left.

  *

  I’d reached the wall. I knew about the bribery allegations against Charles Garlinge, and I now knew who’d leaked them to Armswatch. Garlinge was dead, and I knew it hadn’t been from natural causes, but we had no leads at all. Whoever had killed him had done a very professional job, leaving no clues and no traces.

  I was aware of Garlinge’s role in arms ending up in Burundi, and I knew of his involvement in helping Yuri Krachnikhov’s son, Alecks, out from what would have been a jail sentence, which had earned him a discount on his new flat in Septimus House. I knew of Garlinge’s role in helping MI6 with a plan to work alongside the Italian AISE in capturing leading Red Heaven operatives, which had seemingly been successful, but had it ended up costing Garlinge his life? I also now knew, of course, that Garlinge had been named in the House of Commons by Graeme Ownsley, who had been tipped off by Sir Paul Peterson, Garlinge’s ex-boss at Bartolome Systems.

  I knew all this at the same time I was aware Michael Mendoccini was back in the country, and accompanied by Bartlett ‘Post’ Poe if Fiddley was to be believed. Was his presence in the country at the time of Garlinge’s death purely coincidental, or could he be involved in some way? It seemed to me I knew so much but had nothing I could act upon.

  *

  Just after seven twenty-five I was about to leave when Smitherman requested my presence in his office. He nodded to the seat in front of his desk. I sat.

  “I’ve just been contacted by MI5.” He sounded concerned. “You tried accessing information about a firm called Cartillian earlier today.”

  I agreed I’d tried but with no success, restricted access only.

  “Why were you looking for information about this firm?” He sat back.

  I explained carefully that I’d been looking for a connecting point where James Blatchford, Yuri Krachnikhov and Charles Garlinge all came together, and that point appeared to be Cartillian as all of them were listed as being associated with this Gibraltar-based business. I explained that the chief executive of Titanomachy, Justin Gregory, also had a connection with this business, and so, I suspected, did Harry Ferguson. “But, as I said, I was denied access, so I wasn’t able to discover exactly what this connecting point is. I’ve not been able to find out what kind of business Cartillian was.” This wasn’t strictly true, but I was curious what Smitherman would tell me, if anything.

  “Why did you need to know this?”

  “I wanted to know the extent of the connection between Krachnikhov and Blatchford. I’m aware how Garlinge and Krachnikhov met up through the arms trade, but I wanted to know where Blatchford fitted into this scenario. Also, where did Ferguson fit into the equation? That’s what I was after.”

  “I see,” Smitherman said, sitting forward in his chair.

  He sat still for a few seconds. I waited for his response.

  “My information is, anything about Cartillian is strictly on a need-to-know basis, DS McGraw, therefore I can’t share any information relating to this with you.”

  I explained that I was also attempting to look for any kind of link or clue which could help police in finding a potential suspect for Garlinge’s murder.

  “I accept you were doing your job, but I’m not authorised to give you information on Cartillian,” he reaffirmed.

  There was silence for a few seconds. I was about to suggest this meant that, unless we got a fortuitous break somewhere, this case might never be solved. Officially, of course, it didn’t matter as there was no murder case in progress, but the security service would be aware Garlinge had been murdered. Before I could say anything, however, Smitherman sat upright in his chair.

  “But I asked you here because I’ve some news for you, and also to ask you something,” he said solemnly. “Your friend Mendoccini, what do you know of his family line?”

  “What do you mean?” I wasn’t sure where this question was coming from, or why.

  “Do you know anything about any of his relatives in this country?”

  I thought for several seconds. “I know he has a couple of uncles and aunts who live in my hometown, and also there’re several cousins,” – I thought about Marie – “but I don’t know about anyone else. Most of his family’s in Italy.”

  “What about the name Perluigi Mendoccini? Does this mean anything to you?”

  I racked my brains for several seconds and then recognised the name. “Oh yeah. Yeah, I’d forgotten all about him.” I smiled, remembering the argumentative old bugger. “If I remember rightly, he’s Michael’s grandfather, his father’s father. God, the cantankerous old goat must be late eighties by now.”

  “Eighty-nine. You ever meet him?”

  “Yeah, quite a few times. I remember him once claiming to be the only anarcho-communist in my hometown. He used to visit Michael’s house occasionally, and there’d be all these furious political arguments about whatever it was in Italian. Couldn’t understand a word they were saying.” I laughed. “I had to get Michael to translate for me.”

  I stopped talking as a thought suddenly hit me. Could Michael Mendoccini’s involvement with Red Heaven have anything to do with being influenced by his grandfather? I knew he’d been very close to the old bugger and they used to talk a lot. I remembered Perluigi once suggesting certain political tomes Michael and I ought to read as they’d open your eyes to what’s really going on. I’d not taken him up on it. Had Michael?

  “What’s the relevance of his name coming up here?” I asked carefully. I’d not heard his name for at least fifteen years.

  “He died two nights ago, early Tuesday evening. Died from an inoperable brain cancer.”

  “Aw, sad news for the family.” I nodded but still wondered why I was being told this.

  “Was Michael Mendoccini close to his grandfather?”

  “Oh God, yeah, he was, loved his old poppa, as he called him. He was the favourite grandson, used to spend a lot of time talking to him, used to visit him a lot. I imagine he’ll be quite upset when the family in Italy gets the news. That’s if they don’t already know.”
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  “Oh, he knows all right.”

  I looked up, startled.

  “That’s because we believe he was at his poppa’s bedside when he died.” Smitherman fixed me with a direct stare.

  “Michael’s in the country?” I feigned surprise. “How’d he get in?”

  “At least, the supposition is that it was him. The old man was being looked after in a hospice down in mid-Kent, somewhere around the Chilham area,” – I nodded; I knew exactly where it was – “and admin there said there’d been a visitor who’d signed in as a family relative, a grandson. He sat with him for a few visits last week, sat several hours with him and, even though the old man was in and out of consciousness for the last two days, he sat with him at his bedside till he died, then he left saying the family’ll be in touch about the funeral arrangements. Evidently he was rather distraught when Poppa died, was seen crying in the corridor.” Smitherman looked almost sympathetic to the loss.

  I felt a mild lump in my throat at the thought of Michael in tears.

  “I can believe that,” I said quietly. “He loved the old guy.”

  “The death was reported to the coroner and, as the deceased’s surname was Mendoccini, it rang a bell somewhere, and a police check revealed he was Michael Mendoccini’s grandfather. Police checked with the hospice to see if he’d had any visitors. He’d had a few, though only one person visited often and stayed for any length of time. From the description local police obtained, it sounded like Michael Mendoccini.”

  I nodded. Was this the errand he was here to do, comfort his dying poppa and be with him when he left this world? Maybe he hadn’t returned to the UK to seek out new sources of weaponry or, worst case, to kill Charles Garlinge.

  I sighed a few times. Despite his being an argumentative old sod, I’d liked the old man. It was sad news. Was this the errand he’d said I would approve of?