The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  I was about to ask a question based on this, but Smitherman cut me off. “Alecks Krachnikhov was a suspect in Garlinge’s death right from when the body was found, especially when it became known how he’d died. He fitted the picture. We knew about the dealings between his company and Bartolome, and he was interviewed by MI5 the day after Garlinge died.”

  “While I was still chasing down suspects,” I interjected.

  “And he more or less admitted what he’d done,” Smitherman continued, not answering my point. “But what they wanted was for his father to talk to them. So Yuri Krachnikhov was contacted, and he was offered a deal: his son gets immunity if he talks to MI6, and the story’ll go out Garlinge died of a heart attack. That was the arrangement, but he won’t do it now, and there’s not too much likelihood of Alecks Krachnikhov being tried because of the fear of what he’ll say in open court, plus what’s in the papers this morning.”

  This explained why Alecks Krachnikhov had been so blasé when I’d met him.

  Smitherman paused momentarily and fixed me with a serious look. “And all because of your wife’s bloody article.”

  “Two people wrote the article, not just Sally,” I reminded him.

  “The security service wanted Garlinge alive,” he said, sounding calmer but not responding to my point. “He’d have probably been offered some kind of deal to talk about what he’d done, but Alecks Krachnikhov killing him’s put paid to that idea.”

  I sat quietly for a few moments.

  “When did you know all this?” I asked.

  “For the moment, that’s all I can say.”

  I was thinking about the recent investigation looking for the car bombers, and the role Yuri Krachnikhov might have played, when Smitherman spoke again.

  “So, it’s back to your wife’s article,” he said ominously. “Stimpson’s curious to know who her source was for the story about Krachnikhov’s dealings with Blatchford. Also, how did she know about all the business dealings Blatchford had in Gibraltar?” He stared at me as though I was expected to know the answer. I was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

  “She’s not told me and I haven’t asked,” I replied evenly. “Actually, she wouldn’t even if I did, any more than I’d tell her who my sources are. As I said, two people wrote the article.” Taylor didn’t have a source; Jacobs did, and I knew it’d been Qais Jaser, but I wasn’t letting on I’d learnt this from Jaser himself.

  “Well, whoever they spoke to leaked details MI5 would rather have wanted to be kept out of the public purview. Blatchford’s shady business practices were well known – I mean, of course they were – but, because Cartillian served a useful purpose, they were kind of overlooked.” He made a rocking movement with his hands.

  “What purpose?”

  “It was set up by Blatchford, with behind-the-scenes help from Harry Ferguson, for the purposes I mentioned just now. But Blatchford also ran some of his own debts through it, which is part of the reason why the sale of Septimus House was tacitly agreed by the Government, to stop this being known. So now, with what’s known about Ferguson, and with the investigation into Blatchford which’ll almost certainly arise as a result . . .” He shrugged and shook his head, as if to say, That’s it.

  Smitherman looked pensive for several seconds, breathing through his mouth. He took his glasses off and wiped them with a small cloth from his glasses case. He then gave an unsettling ironic laugh, shook his head and sighed.

  “Just when you’d got into Stimpson’s good graces because of your role in confirming his belief Harry Ferguson was a traitor, this happens.” He shook his head again, looking for a moment like he was about to smile, but then looked serious. “Between you and me, DS McGraw, I think I should tell you your wife’s story hasn’t done you any favours,” he said softly. It sounded like an ominous portent of things to come. “Stimpson was quite forgiving about her story concerning John McGreely’s arrest. I mean, neither of you were to know what the background details were at this time, and he accepts this; it’s something you quite literally stumbled across on honeymoon. Nobody even knew he was in the States. But I’m afraid to say he’s not quite so sanguine about this article, especially as Krachnikhov’s now refusing to help MI6 as a result.”

  He sat still, staring directly at me for several seconds.

  “This could well come back to haunt you sometime in the future,” he said quietly. “Stimpson’s furious the investigation into Ibrahim Mohammed’s come to a halt like this. There’s little chance Yuri Krachnikhov will change his mind; in fact he’s intimated he’s going to be moving his base of operations out of this country as soon as is practical.”

  There was no answer to this. I sat, saying nothing.

  “The fact of Michael Mendoccini being in the country at the same time doesn’t help you, either,” he said quietly. “Stimpson’ll likely think you two met up again surreptitiously and had a few drinks for old times’ sake. He can’t prove it, but it won’t stop him thinking it.”

  “I didn’t, and that’s God’s truth.” I raised my right hand. Smitherman said nothing for several seconds, nodding slowly. “For the moment, that’s all.”

  *

  I spent the rest of the day at my desk, completing a couple of long-overdue reports, as well as writing up my concluding report about the death of Charles Garlinge. Unless Alecks Krachnikhov voluntarily submitted a sworn statement admitting to the killing, the investigation was now at a dead end and would probably be signed off as a cold case, albeit unofficial because there never was an official case. Smitherman had said in as many words that the authorities knew about Alecks Krachnikhov’s involvement, so prosecution was unlikely. Also, with what had already been published, plus the real likelihood of New Focus publishing something else in their next edition, there was going to be plenty of light and heat but nobody in handcuffs for the death of Garlinge.

  I didn’t know what was likely to happen regarding Sir Paul Peterson’s leak of confidential information to Armswatch, or his tipping off Graeme Ownsley. Blatchford was to be interviewed by fraud squad detectives very soon and I awaited the outcome with interest.

  Thinking back over the case, I’d heard about Cartillian from Qais Jaser yesterday, but I was sure someone earlier in this investigation had also mentioned Cartillian. I couldn’t remember whom it had been, and, looking back through my notes, I’d not included it in my report. After I while I gave up trying to remember.

  I was relieved Michael Mendoccini hadn’t been involved in the death of Charles Garlinge, though I was still wondering why Post Poe had been with him. Michael was almost certainly now back home in Italy and, as I thought about him, I wondered whether Angie Delucca had been Alecks Krachnikhov’s driver last Saturday evening. I felt a tinge of sadness at knowing Michael was back in Italy, plus knowing Taylor had met him, twice, but I hadn’t. There was also the fact I was in Stimpson’s bad books again.

  Lying in bed the other evening, listening to Taylor softly breathing as she slept, I’d had this absurd thought about the four of us, Michael, Angie, Taylor and me, sitting around an alfresco dinner table in a Sicilian port in the warm early-summer evening sunshine, looking at the calm waters of the harbour, eating a sumptuous antipasto, drinking good wine and laughing, me having a wonderful time with three great people. As dreams go, it was a good one, but I knew it’d never happen. It had taken me some while to doze off.

  *

  I left the office at six and, waiting for the bus to Battersea, I picked up a copy of the Evening Standard. The banner headlines on the front page declared that the recently deceased Tory MP Charles Garlinge had covered up a soldier’s death whilst still a sergeant in the army. I read the article on the bus; it stated Garlinge had been able to buy a flat in Septimus House at a sizeable discount because of his actions in covering up a murder, ensuring the real details were never made known. No names were mentioned, but there was enough suspicion to make other journos look more deeply into this story. Steve Jacobs already kne
w the identities, and I guessed others would soon. How long before someone found out the soldier who’d committed the murder was Alecks Krachnikhov?

  Taylor was in the kitchen with her back to me as I entered. She was slicing up something giving off a delicious aroma.

  “Hi, hun, how was your day?” she called out cheerfully. As she put the knife down and went to turn around, I wrapped my arms around her from behind, grabbed her hands, crossed her arms around her chest so she couldn’t move them and pressed right up against her. I nosed my way through her hair and spent a few seconds lightly biting her ear and running my tongue around the back of her neck through her hair, which smelt of the Late Autumn raspberry-and-lemon-scented shampoo she’d recently bought at Lush. She loved it when I did this and I could hear her softly sighing mmmm to herself.

  “You know what?” I whispered. “I’m really upset with you.”

  “Oh yeah?” She laughed, tilting her head back slightly.

  “Yeah.” I kissed her neck lightly. “Colonel Stimpson doesn’t love me anymore because of what you and Jacobs wrote yesterday. I’m probably not his favourite person about now.”

  My antipathy to Stimpson was well known to her.

  “Oh Lord,” she said.

  I relaxed my hold and she turned to face me.

  “You’ve not done anything; why’s he got a down on you?” She sounded worried.

  With a judicious mix of withholding pertinent information, mentioning no names and a couple of white lies, I explained briefly why.

  “So what can he do?” She looked concerned.

  “Currently? Probably nothing, but Smitherman thinks Stimpson could hold the article against me at some later stage.”

  “Would he do that?” she asked disbelievingly.

  I nodded. “Y’know, I do believe he would.”

  Taylor slid her arms around me and stared into my eyes. “I’m sorry, McGraw.” She really did sound remorseful.

  “Don’t be.” I smiled and lightly kissed her forehead.

  She returned my smile with a better one of her own.

  We spent a quiet evening together. BBC News at Ten reported the story about Garlinge’s covering up the death of a soldier, and I wondered where this story was going to end, or even if it would.

  In bed later, Taylor wrapped her warm, naked body around mine and told me again how sorry she was for Stimpson being down on me, and the effect it might have further along the line. I thought for a moment, then turned to face her.

  “You know what?” I said softly. “I don’t care what any of them think.” I kissed her forehead lightly. “As long as there’s you and me, nothing else matters.”

  She leaned up and, touching my left cheek, gave me a slow lingering kiss, lips barely touching, which told me everything I’d ever need to know.

  “It’ll always be you and me, pal,” she whispered, kissing me again, then curling herself up around me.

  I lay quietly, looking out the window while stroking her hair lightly, and we eventually fell asleep in the same position.

  Nothing else mattered.

  F O U R T E E N

  Friday, the following week

  I'd been off duty on Monday but, aside from that, I’d spent the past five days working on ongoing cases. I’d eventually managed to catch up with an informer who’d revealed some pertinent information concerning the activities of someone the Branch suspected of being a key figure in smuggling black-market weapons into the country, and I’d learnt this person’s new address, plus where he maintained his armoury and conducted business from. I’d also attended a Britain First public meeting where a prominent Dutch extremist right-wing politician had spoken about the corruption of the values, heritage and traditions of the indigenous white European race as a result of unrestricted immigration and miscegenation, but I’d concluded what he’d said, whilst somewhat inflammatory and in parts distasteful, was insufficient to constitute a hate crime. The meeting passed off peaceably, considering the numbers of demonstrators outside. This was part of what we referred to as a work date as Taylor was also present, covering the speech for her newspaper.

  I’d even managed to catch up on my reports and bring them all up to date.

  I’d signed off on the Charles Garlinge case. I’d concluded I knew who’d killed him but was unable to arrest this person because there was no direct proof linking him to the crime. His admission of killing Garlinge was inadmissible without corroboration. The report had been passed on to Smitherman, who’d accepted my conclusion. Whilst the investigation was not officially closed, it would now be listed as a cold case until either police got a break or, somewhere down the line, the case fell off the radar completely.

  But, even though we’d stopped looking into the unofficial case, the story itself hadn’t gone away. Last Friday’s edition of the Evening Standard had led with the claim that Charles Garlinge, whilst still a sergeant in the army, had covered up the death of a soldier which had occurred during an unsanctioned milling exercise. Neither Alecks Krachnikhov nor the dead soldier had been named, but the story had mentioned the hefty discount Garlinge had received on his new Septimus House flat from Yuri Krachnikhov. I’d wondered how long it would be before someone put two and two together. Steve Jacobs knew, and I wondered what he was planning to get published.

  The story also alluded to a claim by an unnamed source that Garlinge had been told, if he left the army when his time was up, the matter would be forgotten. I wondered if this source had been Jacobs.

  The Ministry of Defence had refused to make any comment on these claims, other than to say the death of any soldier in a non-combat situation was a matter of profound regret and every such incident was thoroughly investigated.

  The Government had come in for considerable criticism as several of the Sunday newspapers had focused on the case. Yuri Krachnikhov had also come in for some unfavourable comment, with several of the more serious newspapers asking why he’d been allowed to buy a property initially built for ordinary Londoners, and what the Government’s role in the sale had been. Questions had been asked about how someone like James Blatchford could have been allowed to run as a candidate for the highest elected public office outside Westminster, when it must have been obvious to senior officials in Government that Blatchford was deeply mired in what one paper referred to a tangled web of deceit and corruption.

  The board of Bartolome Systems had released another statement on Monday afternoon, in response to an article by Graham Ownsley in Sunday’s Observer, where he’d reiterated his belief the company and Charles Garlinge had been complicit in the Bujumbura massacre, because bribery had been a factor in the granting of the initial contract. Bartolome had vehemently denied claims of both complicity in the massacre and involvement in bribery, stating the company had acted in good faith at every stage of the negotiations, and the sale had signed off by Government. The role of Charles Garlinge in the negotiations had been defended vigorously, and the company had stressed it could not be responsible for the actions of other individuals after the weapons had left the United Kingdom.

  Even though it was known who’d leaked the information about Bartolome and Bujumbura to Graeme Ownsley, no action had yet been taken against Sir Paul Peterson. I wondered if any ever would be.

  James Blatchford had spent an uncomfortable weekend being interviewed by fraud squad detectives and, on Tuesday afternoon, he’d been formally arrested and charged under several sections of the Companies Acts with false accounting and knowingly trading whilst insolvent, amongst other matters. Taylor had reported on this in the Evening Standard.

  However, Alecks Krachnikhov, I had learnt yesterday, had left the country and flown to Dubai to join his father, wife and children. According to the grapevine, he’d been approached by journalists who claimed they knew he’d been in the army and had had Garlinge as his sergeant, and they had asked what he knew about the soldier’s death. Sufficiently rattled, the family had now begun the process of relocating Drawbridge to Dubai and win
ding down all production in the United Kingdom. Notice had been given to their workforce that relocation would occur when all current orders were completed in two to three months’ time, and no new orders were being accepted for the UK factory. It appeared the bastard had got away with murder.

  I was reflecting on all of this, and the realisation suddenly struck me it’d been Edward Priestly who’d first mentioned Cartillian when I’d spoken to him in Brixton a week last Saturday. He’d said something about Bartolome paying money to a firm named Cartillian in Gibraltar, even though they did no business there. He’d also said he’d been told not to worry about it. By whom, I wondered?

  *

  After a quick word with Smitherman, I was back outside Brixton prison. Security seemed tighter today than it was two weeks ago and, even with Special Branch ID, the search was still very thorough, to the amusement of several watching women and children. Finally, I was shown into a different interview room and I waited for Priestly.

  A prison officer escorted Priestly into the room five minutes later, and he looked very surprised to see me again. He sat down and asked why I needed to talk to him.

  I leapt straight in. “I’ll make this brief. You mentioned a firm called Cartillian when we spoke recently. What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “I just saw the name on a set of accounts. I didn’t recognise it and, as I knew we did no business in Gibraltar, I mentioned it to a senior manager and asked why we were paying money into this firm’s account. He just told me to ignore it.”

  “Can you remember the amount?”

  “Not exactly, but it was an eight-figure sum, somewhere around sixteen or seventeen million, that kind of figure.”

  “Who told you to forget about it?”

  “Charles Garlinge. And the chief executive, who’d just come into the room when I was talking to him, concurred. He said just let it go, it’s nothing to worry about, it’s all in hand.”