“But Mendoccini didn’t see you?” Smitherman asked.
“No, I’ve not seen him,” I truthfully replied. He’d seen Taylor, twice, but not me.
“And you probably won’t now either. His car, the one he visited the hospice driving, was caught on the hospice’s car park CCTV and its registered owner is a” – he looked at a sheet of paper – “Raymond Fiddley. Police spoke to this Fiddley character, and he confirmed Michael Mendoccini had returned to the UK to visit his dying grandfather, and he’d asked to borrow his car to get to Chilham. He returned it yesterday morning and told Fiddley he was off back home. So it’s MI5’s belief he’s now left the country. Fiddley checked out; he’s got a record, mainly for petty stuff, but no connection to Red Heaven.”
“How’d he even get in or out the country?” I was more curious than Smitherman realised.
“They’re investigating how, so, at present, we don’t know.”
I sighed and shook my head. “Bloody Fiddley,” I said quietly.
“You know this man?”
“Sadly, yeah. He was classmates with Mendoccini and me back in the day, though I’d little to do with him. Horrible little bastard, he was.”
The look on my face made Smitherman smile.
*
I met Taylor at the small Italian restaurant by South Kensington tube station we liked. It was one of our go-to places when something good happened to one or both of us, and this was where she wanted to eat. I approved. The ambience here was delightful, the food always excellent, and it stocked an Italian beer I particularly liked.
It being a Thursday evening, there were few other diners, so we’d got our favourite table. Taylor and Jacobs had received a number of compliments on the quality, and the impact, of their article from leading figures in the media, as well as warm congratulations from the paper’s editor, and, as we’d passed a couple at a table, we’d overheard them talking about how the Mayor of London had betrayed their trust, so Taylor was looking serenely happy.
“Blatchford saw me at the back of the hall when he was speaking.” She smiled. “He just stared blankly at me for a few moments, then looked away.”
“So, where did Jacobs get all this information from about Blatchford?” I feigned innocence. “He’s unearthed some very sensitive material from the look of it. I’d have thought only a few people would know as much about him.”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I’ve asked him the same question a few times. He just says he acquired a source close to City Hall, but he won’t say who. I mean, the only person I know there’s Qais Jaser, and he’s Blatchford’s head honcho. They’re also good friends, so it’s not likely to be him.”
Not that good. I grinned to myself as I sipped some rather good Italian beer and said nothing, just looking at her as she spoke.
“What was strange earlier was Steve and I met Jaser on the way into City Hall, and he congratulated us on what we’d written.” She smiled.
“Perhaps it was Jaser,” I offered, flippantly.
She looked deep in thought for a moment, tapping her fingers.
“No, it’s just not possible. Him and Blatchford are as thick as thieves. Jaser’d never rat on Blatchford, even if he knew it all.” She shook her head firmly. I loved it when she did this as her gorgeous mop of hair looked even more lively. “So, what’ll happen to Blatchford now?”
“Something,” I suggested, “but I’ve no idea what.”
She then told me the Evening Standard was planning to run a front-page story tomorrow, alleging Garlinge had obtained his discount on a flat at Septimus House because he’d covered up the unlawful killing of a soldier whilst he’d been an army sergeant. But for Jacobs’ brother being an army major, they’d never have found this out, though the brother would not be mentioned. The information would be attributed to a source at the MOD.
I didn’t indicate I was already aware of most of this, but I was interested to know the article was coming, not least because of the ramifications likely to follow.
We finished after I’d spent a lovely evening with the woman of my dreams, and I requested the bill. Whilst waiting I slid my hands across the small table and laid them on top of hers, squeezing them lightly, and we just stared into each other’s eyes, smiling at the same time.
What we said to each other without speaking said everything.
T H I RT E E N
Friday
The front page of the Guardian led with an exclusive, alleging it had a source in the UK security service who claimed there could be more to Charles Garlinge’s untimely demise than was reported earlier in the week, because a routine inquiry to the coroner’s office had revealed the autopsy reports had been removed yesterday under the authority of the Official Secrets Act. When asked why, the coroner had refused to explain who had removed them or why this had been done. Quoting an authoritative source, the paper also alleged Graeme Ownsley’s questions to the Secretary of State had set alarm bells ringing across Whitehall because what Ownsley had said in the House had actually posed even more questions than had been realised at the time. The article concluded by asking the question of what the Government really knew about the massacre in Burundi, and whether it was complicit in any way. I wondered if this source was the same person Clements had mentioned yesterday.
Through an impressive feat of journalistic sleight of hand, the paper had somehow managed to keep this revelation under wraps until the first editions were published in the early hours, which guaranteed it would be the main headline in the morning news cycle. It had also removed any opportunity for Government lawyers to wake up a friendly High Court judge and seek an emergency injunction preventing publication. This, as well as the story itself, had led to some lively exchanges on this morning’s Radio 4 Today programme between a Home Office minister and the paper’s editor.
The main issue which dominated most of the other papers, though, was the Mayor of London’s intention to resign as soon as practical, following on from the allegations made against him in yesterday’s Evening Standard. Several papers had expressed outrage at the selling of Septimus House to Towerleaf Holdings for the reasons stated in the article, and they’d demanded to know for what reason the Government had nodded through the sale. This had led to demands in some quarters for Blatchford to be investigated for malpractice and corruption in public office, amongst other things, particularly when the issue of Septimus House being bought using laundered money, initially stolen from the Russian exchequer, had been raised. Two papers had even used the word corruption when describing the mayor’s actions.
There was considerable condemnation of Blatchford’s failed business ventures and his Gibraltar-based businesses for going broke in the way they had, with several papers condemning him for the losses many had suffered when his investment trust had gone broke, leaving many investors deeply out of pocket. Few, if any, commentators, or indeed people from his party, had spoken in his defence.
The Labour leader, Ian Mulvehill, had added his voice to the clamour by calling on the Prime Minister to explain what the Government knew about James Blatchford’s business dealings. A few of the broadsheet papers had also reminded their readers of the allegations made against Blatchford concerning insider trading several months earlier, and the Independent went as far as to ask the question of whether Blatchford had ever been fit to serve in an elected public office.
It was now twenty to ten and, despite having been at my desk for almost an hour, so far all I’d done was read the papers and look at online news sites. This was largely because I’d realised the investigation into Charles Garlinge was probably now concluded and I might as well focus on other cases needing my attention. The case wouldn’t be officially signed off on, as this would be an admission of defeat, but it would now become low priority unless circumstances changed.
Garlinge had died after being injected with air, though the official story was death from a heart attack. There were no leads, so any investigation into his death was no
w stymied. Any allegations of bribery in the possession of Armswatch were now largely an irrelevance. I knew who’d sent them and the person concerned wasn’t going to make it known he had, and, from what I’d heard yesterday, the security service didn’t want this made public either. Graeme Ownsley was also refusing to say who’d leaked him the information used to ask questions about Garlinge in the House.
I was aware Garlinge’d been involved in a surreptitious plot with MI6 to help AISE capture leading Red Heaven personnel, and so any allegations of illicit funds being taken were unlikely to be made public, as the security service would veto any public declaration, but I’d also been told Garlinge, in some way, had helped foul up the operation by accepting payment from Ibrahim Mohammed. Why he’d done this and what level of damage had been caused I had no idea, and I suspected I never would either. Not least, arising from this, there was the issue of arms ending up in Burundi and their usage in a massacre of innocent demonstrators.
I sat back and thought about how Garlinge had died. Shooting at him, even from a short distance away, there was always the possibility of missing the target, but he’d been injected with air, and this could only be done up close. Whoever had done this would have to be someone known to him, someone whose presence wouldn’t be unwelcome, someone he would trust. Judith Garlinge had mentioned hearing voices in their driveway sometime just after midnight. Not too many people arrange meetings for early on a Sunday morning, so whoever had been there waiting would have been someone Garlinge would have been comfortable seeing, someone whose presence wouldn’t have alarmed him, despite the late hour.
Who would fall into this category? Angie Delucca’s hire car had been spotted nearby, but I strongly doubted it’d been her. Garlinge wouldn’t even know her. Could it have been Michael Mendoccini? I seriously doubted he’d been the killer, but I had to admit I couldn’t swear to it. Post Poe wouldn’t be known to Garlinge, and anyway he’d probably have just broken Garlinge’s neck. Injections wouldn’t be his style.
I decided, before I passed the file on to Smitherman to sign off on, to look back through all the case notes and Garlinge’s file one last time, so it could be officially listed as a cold case unless and until we got a break.
After reading case notes for forty-four minutes I thought of something which made me sit bolt upright. I was thinking about the persons involved in this whole sorry case, and then realised there was one person I’d not considered too thoroughly. I brought up the case files again and read the details closely, absorbing the implications of what was mentioned. I took a blank sheet of paper and drew out a mind-map, with Garlinge in the middle and with the branches linking everyone supposedly involved, and noting where they connected.
Immediately I realised there was someone who presented himself as a very likely suspect. This person had the motive and also the training to commit murder. I checked something, and immediately realised my suppositions were looking very promising. I then made two phone calls and received the answers I was hoping to get. I was delighted.
Because, finally, I now knew who Garlinge’s killer was.
*
I found him at his company’s registered office, on King Street, which ran off St James’s Square. The family lived in an exclusive address in nearby Duke Street, so the walk to work wasn’t exactly onerous.
The office was on the first floor of a five-storey red-brick block. I entered the foyer and gave the name of the person I was here to see. I was immediately told politely but firmly by the silver-haired lady of indeterminate age behind the desk, anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five, that “he’s a busy man and doesn’t see anyone without a prior appointment.”
I showed ID. “Oh, I think he’ll see me,” I said neutrally, nodding at the phone.
She scowled and made a quick call, then replaced the phone and directed me along the corridor to room three at the far end. I thanked her, walked along to the office and knocked.
“Enter,” an authoritative voice called out. I did.
The man I was here to see looked up from typing on his laptop behind an oak-panelled desk, staring at me over his glasses. He looked like the picture I’d seen just recently on his file.
Alecks Krachnikhov stood up and smiled, gesturing to a seat in front of his desk. He was probably between six-one and six-two, well built and wearing a pale blue short-sleeved shirt with a slightly loosened tie, plus suit trousers. His hair was still army-regulation short. He looked tanned, fit and healthy, carried no excess weight, and the muscle definition on his forearms suggested he pumped some serious iron. He sat back in his chair, radiating an air of calm. I produced ID again and identified myself as we both sat down.
“Morning, officer; what can I help you with?” he began pleasantly.
“I’d like to talk to you about last weekend.”
He sat looking at me for about five seconds. I was about to repeat the question when he finally spoke.
“Okay.” He nodded. “Any part of it in particular?”
“Well, let’s start with Saturday. Could you account for your movements last Saturday?”
“Why d’you need to know this?” He fixed me with a stare I found hard to read.
I didn’t reply. I looked him in the eye for several seconds.
“Okay.” He relented, shrugging his shoulders. “Last Saturday? I was at an arms fair at the ExCeL centre, over by the O2. I was there from mid-morning right up into the late evening. My father’s business had a display stand, and I was there to offer help and advice, and talk to potential customers as and when needed.” He spoke slowly and firmly.
“Your father’s business being Drawbridge.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“What time did you leave?”
His eyes flitted upwards for a few seconds. “When the reception at the end finished, so probably around eleven, maybe a little later, that kind of time. From there I went home as I had to be back there again all day Sunday, which I was.”
“Can anybody confirm this?”
“My father could as we left together, but he’s now abroad on business.”
“Your wife, perhaps?”
“She’s with my children visiting her mother in Munich. Gudrun, my wife, is German.”
“And I suppose there’s no one else who can vouch for you last Saturday evening after you left the ExCeL.”
“That’s about right.” He shrugged casually.
I was certain, even if his wife and father were still in the country, they’d both vouch for his story. I knew, as, I suspected, did he, that I had no firm evidence to associate him with the incident I was planning to bring up, but this technicality wasn’t going to stop me saying it.
“At the ExCeL, did you happen to see Charles Garlinge? I mean, you’d certainly know who he is, wouldn’t you?” I asked, somewhat mischievously.
“I saw him, yes.” He tried to ignore the barb in my comment, but I could see from his eyes it had resonated with him. “He was part of the ministers’ official party.”
“You talk to him?”
“Only briefly.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Just how business was, how did he like being an MP, small talk really.” He leant back in his chair, still apparently calm. I noticed a picture on the wall behind him of a group of soldiers and wondered if he was one of them.
“Did you see your father made the news yesterday, and also made the front of today’s papers?”
“Cheap tittle-tattle from a paper nobody reads or cares about,” he said dismissively. “It’s all speculation and guesswork, no real evidence of any wrongdoing, a smear story.”
It was much more than this and he knew it, but, for the moment, I decided not to go into the allegations made. That would be for another time. “When you saw Garlinge, did you talk about your time in the army together?”
He didn’t respond to the question, just sat and stared at me.
“You knew Charles Garlinge rather well at one time, didn�
�t you?” I asked.
“What does that mean?”
“Means you and him go back, don’t you? Way back to when you first met twenty or so years ago, when you were both in the army. That’s true, isn’t it?”
“He was a sergeant in my regiment when I was in the army, if that’s what you mean.” His calm seemed not to be quite so tranquil now.
“And he helped you out of a difficult situation at one time, did he not?”
He didn’t reply. There was a tense silence. From the look in his eyes, he wasn’t liking what I was implying.
“And, but for what he did after you broke another soldier’s neck in a brawl, you’d have ended up in a military prison, wouldn’t you?”
Again, he didn’t reply.
“And, for this, you and your father gave him a sizeable discount on a flat in Septimus House.” I smiled as I spoke.
He took a deep breath and sighed. “Do you actually want something?” he asked, not quite politely.
I stared at him and didn’t respond.
“I mean, I’m assuming you’re here for a reason?”
“The thing is” – I sat forward – “you left the ExCeL before eleven. Actually, you left before ten, and not with your father either. You were seen leaving the ExCeL on your own.”
He didn’t respond. He just stared at me with an almost indifferent expression.
“I’m just wondering why you’re lying about what time you left,” I said.
Before coming here, I’d phoned Nick Graves as I knew he’d been involved in organising the static demonstration against the arms fair outside the ExCeL centre. I’d asked if he knew Alecks Krachnikhov and he’d replied that he knew who he was and would recognise him if he saw him. I’d asked if he’d seen Krachnikhov leave the ExCeL. He’d paused for a couple of seconds. I’d then told him, if he helped me out here, I’d not mention to anyone that he’d been involved in helping Graham Ownsley ask the questions in the House. After another few seconds, Graves had confirmed he’d seen Alecks leaving on his own around quarter to ten.
The Real World- the Point of Death Page 30
