Gant!

by Laurence Todd

  Mickey was back in his bar. I was back in the office and had brought up Louis Phipps’ record from the PNC. I reread the details of what passed for his criminal career. It was still as underwhelming as before. Nowhere was there any evidence he was a criminal mastermind in training and I didn’t doubt that, had he lived longer, he would have ended up in jail for a long stretch or would end up dead, but not from the gun of a top-notch assassin.

  I was going to have to talk to Ms Debbie Frost to get her view of events. Before doing so I went into the PNC to see what, if anything, was known about her.

  Deborah Anne Frost was 33 and had an address in Chelsea. She had a flat in Mulberry Walk, which was quite close to the King’s Road. She was a graduate in Politics and History from New College, Oxford, where she’d gone after attending public school, and she was currently employed as a senior research analyst for the Conservative Party, where she’d been since leaving Oxford, apart from a short spell in a Merchant Bank in the City.

  I sat forward when I saw that. That meant she would be close to the epicentre of power as the research department was based in Millbank, a goal kick’s distance from the Houses of Parliament. Her duties included preparing briefing packages for Government ministers on issues they were contemplating legislating upon. This was a very sensitive position and would have involved her being vetted by the security service when the Tories won the 2010 election to ascertain whether she could be trusted with top secret material, though there were no details of the vetting in her Special Branch file. I was interested in politics myself and could imagine a job like this being intellectually stimulating, particularly if you subscribed to the political philosophy behind what you were doing. But how many of them actually subscribed to any real political beliefs?

  She had no criminal record and her credit rating was excellent. Her father was a small businessman and Tory councillor back home in Witney, Oxfordshire, and her mother ran a small shop selling knitwear and fabrics in the town centre. She had a younger brother who’d been in the army and had served in Afghanistan but he’d left when his time was up and he was currently back in the UK working for his father.

  Debbie was engaged to someone named Darren Ritchie, whom she’d met at Oxford, and who was listed as being a merchant banker working for a prestigious American firm in Cheapside. He also had the same address as Debbie, so even I could deduce they were living together. He too had no record or any major debts beyond having a mortgage. They were almost the perfect modern Tory couple. Yet her name had come up in connection with a car theft and a petty criminal who was supposed to be involved in blackmail. And he was dead. Time to talk to Ms Debbie Frost.

  I phoned her office and was told she was in a meeting. I left my number and asked her to call when she was able to. She returned my call twenty minutes later. I explained who I was and asked if she’d be available for a routine conversation concerning the loss and recovery of her car. She said she would be happy to but didn’t want to do it at work so could we meet elsewhere. I suggested a coffee shop at the top end of Victoria Street and we agreed to meet there at 3pm.

  She was there when I arrived. I recognised her from the picture on her file. She was a stunningly attractive woman. She had dark hair, and lots of it, cascading past her shoulders, as well as eyes a man could drown in. She was wearing a dark coloured business suit and a pale blue blouse, with a white silk scarf hanging loosely from her shoulders. There was a copy of Cosmopolitan on the table in front of her. Everything about her oozed style and class and she projected herself with all the confidence gained from an expensive education, plus mixing with the elite of the political classes.

  The waitress was just bringing her a latte so I ordered a tea and sat opposite her. I introduced myself as the Special Branch officer who’d called earlier and repeated why I wanted to talk to her.

  “You reported a car being stolen, didn’t you?” I began.

  “Yes, I did.” Her voice was calm and assured.

  “You reported it as being stolen from a car park by Waterloo station.”

  “That’s right. I parked it there as I was at a meeting nearby. When I returned I saw the car had been taken and I phoned 999.”

  “You initially said you were concerned about the loss of the bags in the car, but I was told that changed. Why was that?”

  “I was concerned about losing my handbag because I thought it had my purse and credit cards and all that, but it didn’t. They were in my other bag, so all I lost was some junk really.” She sounded relieved.

  “What about the other bag? I believe there was also an official looking briefcase taken as well. What was lost there?”

  “Oh, nothing really, just some old papers, memos, notes made from talks with various people in the office, a few ideas for what we need to talk about at forthcoming meetings, that kind of thing. There was nothing of any value and most of it was probably going to be shredded anyway, so once I was told it was all junk I was less bothered about the loss. If whoever stole the car was hoping they’d get something from what was in the bag, they’d be very disappointed as it was of no value. ”

  “Who told you it was all junk?”

  “I reported it missing to the office but was told not to worry as there was nothing of any value in the case, just mainly stuff nobody cares about too much.”

  “No official files or photos, anything of that kind?” I ventured.

  “Photographs? No, nothing like that. Why do you ask?” “I’m just trying to ascertain what’s missing. The bags have never been recovered and we need to keep a record of missing property in case it materialises later.”

  “Fair enough.” She sipped her latte. From the look on her face she liked the taste.

  “Would whoever took the briefcase have been able to open it easily?”

  “Highly unlikely. The lock was especially made for that type of bag to give extra protection against theft. It’s a make very popular with businessmen who carry sensitive documents with them when they travel. To force it open would cause real damage to the whole case and significantly detract from any resale value it might have. They’d need the key to open it and I had it on me.”

  I’d heard earlier that Phipps had been able to open the briefcase and what he’d seen had formed the basis of his assertion that the contents were going to make him rich. Why would Debbie Frost maintain she had the key with her?

  “So, who did the bags actually belong to?”

  “Me,” she relied instantly. “They’re my bags.”

  “Your bags,” I repeated. “I was under the impression the briefcase belonged to someone else, possibly your boss?”

  “No, no. They’re both mine, or were till someone swiped them both with my car. But at least I got my car back. That’s far more important.”

  “You know someone was charged with stealing your car, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She smiled, though I got the impression it was a forced smile. “A couple of wastes of space who I think were identified from their fingerprints.”

  “That’s true, they were. Funny thing is, despite the loss to the victim, car crime doesn’t usually require someone being fingerprinted, or a DCI ordering it to be done.”

  “Well, whatever, the culprits were identified and punished. That’s all I care about.”

  She took another sip of her latte. I began to get a sense I was about as welcome as dandruff. She’d gone from answering questions politely to almost surly.

  “Do you remember getting a call from someone called Louis Phipps?”

  “Who?”

  “Louis Phipps. He’s one of the two men who took your car. I’m told he phoned and offered you the chance to buy back what he’d taken from you.”

  “No, I don’t think so. No one contacted me about it. The only contact I received was from the police when they told me my car had been found in Herne Hill. Who told you about my being contacted?” She seemed concerned.

  “Oh, perhaps I misheard. I thought I heard you’d been cont
acted by someone about the theft.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “Nobody contacted me about the car except the police.”

  This also contradicted what Simeon had said earlier today. Interesting.

  “Also, I heard the bags were lying on the passenger seat in the front of the car. Bit careless, isn’t it, considering who you work for and what you do?”

  “The bags were not visible. They were under the front passenger seat. Anyone looking in the car window would not have been able to see them at all,” she stated with certainty.

  “You’re quite sure about that?”

  “Definitely. I placed them under the seat myself.”

  This was also at odds with all I’d heard earlier. Curious. “So you’ve no idea why it was your car that was stolen?” “It’s brand new, a Prius. For a criminal it would mean the chance to unload it for a profit. That’s why. I was just unlucky. My car was in the right place but at the wrong time because those two crooks were there and took it. But, aside from a broken side window, they didn’t cause any damage to it. I was worried they would.”

  She seemed certain in her answers. What she was saying, however, was at odds with what I’d been told earlier by people who knew Louis Phipps. I was feeling somewhat bemused.

  “Did you ever get the sense your car was targeted? I mean, there were quite a lot of cars in that car park, including some quite high powered top of the range models, but the two guys went straight for yours, which wasn’t even on the ground floor.”

  “Targeted? What are you getting at? You mean the person who stole my car deliberately singled it out?”

  “That’s just what I mean.”

  “No, I didn’t. I was just unlucky. Those scumbags saw my car and took it. That’s what I think.”

  “Okay.” I nodded my agreement. “Anything else you want to add to what you’ve already said?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Is that it? I really should be going back now.”

  I agreed I’d nothing else to ask her and I thanked her for her time and cooperation. I stood up as she rose and left the café. I then realised she’d left me with the bill.

  Walking back to the Yard I replayed the conversations I’d had that day and they all led me to the conclusion that this case was not as straightforward as it had initially seemed. Debbie Frost was adamant she’d lost nothing of value in what to her was simply an unfortunate random car theft, yet Louis Phipps was convinced he’d come across something that would make him rich. He’d also told Simeon he’d stolen the car at the behest of someone who wanted the car but who ended up just taking whatever it was from a bag.

  Whatever, the fact was that Louis and Paulie had been shot dead two nights back and I knew two things: that Phil Gant had pulled the trigger, though proving it would be a challenge, and that somehow it was all connected to whatever was in those two bags.

  What had Louis and Paulie Phipps got themselves into?

  I was pondering everything I’d heard today. The only certainty was that Louis and Paulie Phipps were dead. I knew; I saw it happen. I’d initially expressed disbelief they could have done anything that would involve someone unknown hiring a triple-A assassin. But, talking to Gant and learning he had indeed been hired to kill the Phipps brothers, and his being in proximity when they died, had removed some of my early scepticism. I’d since learned from two of his friends that Louis Phipps believed he was going to get rich from what he’d found in a car it would appear he’d been paid to steal for someone. I’d been told he’d contacted the owner of the car he’d stolen but Debbie Frost had denied any contact at all. Why would she do that? Or had Simeon been lying to me? He had nothing to gain by lying. He was a friend of Phipps, or at least someone he had drugs in common with.

  I needed to know more about Debbie Frost, and I knew the very person to ask.

  I met him in a pub near to where New Focus had its offices. Richard Clements had been just about to leave work when I phoned him around four thirty and he agreed to my request to meet in an hour for a quick chat and a beer. I was still technically on holiday so I permitted myself a pint of London Pride whilst he stuck to lager.

  I sat opposite him. His hair had been cut though it was still quite long and his beard was now almost designer stubble. Was the George Michael look coming back? I hoped not. It amused me knowing he was now the son-in-law of my boss Smitherman and, given the polarity of their politics, I could imagine the conversations around the dinner table. It amazed me even more that a friendship of sorts had evolved between us over the past six months. At one time, as students, I’d wanted to stick his head down a toilet, preferably an unflushed one, but now I was sharing a beer with him. Times change.

  When I’d phoned earlier I asked if he knew someone named Debbie Frost and he said he did. Or rather knew who she was as they’d met at various political gatherings he’d covered for his magazine. He’d said he could get more information on her in a little while and he said he had. I began by asking what he knew about her.

  “She’s a looker, I know that much.” He grinned lecherously. “What’s she done to get herself on Special Branch radar?”

  “Her car was stolen a while back and there’s some issue concerning the contents of the bags she lost. But, before any of that, what can you tell me about her?”

  “What, Miss hoity-toity Sloane Ranger wannabe? She’s a couple of decades too late. She’d been around when Lady Di was still alive, I’ve no doubt she’d have been one of her little coterie of fawning acolytes.”

  “What else?”

  “I’ve met her a few times, usually when I’ve been at a press conference. She’s sometimes involved with putting them on. I was at the last Tory Party conference and she was helping out at a fringe meeting about Civil Liberties, if memory serves. I attended that meeting. Usual blue rinse Tories there, arguing about what Civil Liberties we should have in the UK. In other words, just the liberty to get rich by any means possible.” He laughed at his own witticism. “She followed me into the café afterwards and asked what a magazine like the New Focus might be doing at the conference. We had a bit of a chat but not much else. It was all very friendly.”

  “What does she actually do? I know she works for Conservative Party research.”

  “Yeah, she does. She’s something to do with preparing policy briefs for ministers in the areas of Defence and Civil Liberties. She’s at that kind of level. Very pushy, very ambitious; sees herself as the next iron lady leader of the Party. Every time a Tory safe seat comes up her name goes forward but she’s yet to be selected for one. I hate what she stands for but, when you look at some of the idiots on their front bench, she’d certainly be an improvement on what’s already there.”

  “Is she Cabinet material?”

  “God yeah. I can imagine her as Home Secretary. That would make her the titular Head of MI5. That’d be interesting, all those spooks answering to her.” He smiled at the thought.

  “What about her background, you know anything about that?”

  “Usual high flying Tory pedigree. Went to some flash public school, seamlessly onto Oxford, then a cushy job in the Tory Party. Parents had money. She’s probably never had to work for anything in her life. Meritocracy still lives in the Tory Party.” Sarcasm abounded in his tone. “There’s no doubt she’ll get a safe seat, sooner rather than later I suspect. People like her use their position as a stepping stone to a seat in the House. The only thing likely to get in the way is her views.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “She holds very right-wing views, even for the Tories, on just about everything, especially race and Europe. No more immigration to the UK, especially non-white immigrants, let’s get out of the European Union, Britain for the British, that kind of Little Englander mentality. You should hear them at their Party conference. She hasn’t caught up with the fact the world has moved on quite considerably in the past few decades. I suspect, had she been old enough, she’d have been in Portsmouth in 1982 waving goodbye to th
e task force on its way to that useless lump of rock in the South Atlantic.”

  I thought I’d got some sense of what her political slant was from the way she’d referred to the Phipps brothers and the tone of voice describing them.

  “What’s your interest in her, Rob? She been stealing the silver in the Commons?”

  “Her name came up in a case recently. The person who stole her car a few months ago wound up dead in suspicious circumstances the other night and I’m looking into the case, given who she is and what she does.”

  “Is there a connection between the two things?” He looked puzzled.

  I debated how much to tell him. I decided to go with my gut instinct. My instinct had been wrong before but I thought I could trust it this time.

  “This is strictly between us and completely off the record. We clear?”

  He nodded his assent.

  “Did you see yesterday’s Standard? Two guys shot dead in Bayswater Monday night?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, nasty business.”

  “They’re the ones who stole her car. I think I know who killed them but I’d rather not say just yet. What I do know is that the two guys, brothers, were a pair of losers, in and out of trouble their whole lives. They steal a car a couple of months back, though, and soon after they get shot dead. The car just happens to belong to Ms Debbie Frost. According to one of the two guys, there was something in the car that was going to make him rich, yet the car owner says there was nothing in the car and, soon after, both guys are shot dead.”