Gant!

by Laurence Todd

  I glanced at my watch. We’d been talking for nearly an hour. It hadn’t seemed that long.

  “How did all this come to light? We were told all records of the camp and the training were going to be expunged. No one would ever know about it.”

  Without going into too much detail I explained about discovering the pictures and the manifesto in the course of investigating a blackmail scam. I spoke in generalities and mentioned no names.

  “So, Perkins gives the order to shoot. What happens to him?” Rothery asked.

  “He got elected to Parliament. What could be worse than that?” I smiled at him. He laughed out loud. I thanked him for his time and insisted that our conversation remains between us. He agreed he would maintain a silence.

  Back on the Tube. It was much less crowded and getting a seat was easy. I was idly speculating. Had England really come close to armed insurrection by a brigade of well intentioned, in their own minds, patriots, encouraged and supported by a compliant establishment? Did people like Selwood and Rothery really believe what they’d been told by Perkins? Was this ever a serious likelihood or some foolhardy venture by a small clique of people in the shadows who would gladly wear the fasces to subvert democracy? Would we ever know the whole story?

  What I did know was that what had begun a few days back, looking of the movements into Louis Phipps and trying to ascertain why a top-notch assassin had killed him, had now uncovered a whole nest of subterfuge and intrigue.

  I still believed Phipps couldn’t organise blowing his nose if he had a cold, much less a blackmail scam on someone in Government. Something wasn’t adding up.

  Friday evening. What was to have been the last night of my week’s holiday, which had instead turned into a work week. I was back in the flat I shared with my partner, Karen. She was out and I was eating a cold pasty and guzzling a cold beer.

  I was watching television when the phone rang. It was Mickey.

  “You might want to watch the London news later this evening,” he began.

  “Is it worth it? Who’s died?” I enquired.

  “Just have a look, eh?”

  After a brief chat he rang off.

  The local news for London followed the national news. The lead item concerned a public meeting in South West London which had ended in uproar. The speaker was the local MP, Christian Perkins, who’d taken umbrage at a question from a man in the audience who’d asked why he’d been interviewed by a Special Branch detective earlier that day, and did it concern the unlawful death of a soldier under his command in the mid 1970s? He’d refused to answer the question, said that both the question and the questioner were out of order and attempted to continue with his talk, but the questioner had been persistent and asked again, requesting an answer. This aroused the attention of the attendant media. After a while, Perkins had left the platform. A few reporters had asked him what the questioner was talking about and asking him what murder the questioner was referring to, but Perkins had slunk off in a huff, refusing to make any statement. The questioner had also left the building before reporters had caught up with him. Despite repeated requests for clarification, Perkins had not made any statement about the matter to the media. What was to have been a routine public meeting had turned out to be something quite unexpected. It had been quite an evening in South West London.

  S I X

  Saturday

  Smitherman was dressed casually for a Saturday, which simply meant he’d taken his tie off and hung up his suit jacket. He was reading my reports about who I’d spoken to the day before and progress on the case. I’d included a lot of detail about my talk with Jonathan Rothery.

  “So, what I believe is that Louis and Paulie Phipps were both killed because someone didn’t want any details of this leaking out into the public domain. I also think Gant was hired by someone who’s closely involved in all this. It’s either someone in, or close to, the intelligence community. Someone who wanted maximum deniability and didn’t want the spooks involved, so he’s gone outside and brought in Gant, who is theoretically expendable. He’s no connection to us so, worse comes to worse, he gets caught, he can be denied,” I summed up.

  “And you think Phipps got the pictures and other stuff you’ve referred to from Debbie Frost’s car.”

  “Yeah, I do. He was pressured to steal the car and give the contents to whoever it was, but this character doesn’t want all this stuff, so Phipps sees the chance for a killing. He contacts Debbie Frost and tries to sell it back to her. He winds up dead. Simeon Adaka has the package of stuff until he gives it to me. He too winds up dead. Coincidence?”

  “But you don’t know who pressed him to steal the car.”

  “I have my suspicions but nothing that’ll stand up in a court of law.”

  Smitherman put down my report and sat back in his chair.

  “CID still haven’t come up with an arrest regarding the death of the Phipps. They’ve talked to a lot of people known to be shooters and who have form but no one can be pointed as a credible suspect. They’ve either got good alibis or can account for where they were last Monday night.”

  “There won’t be any arrests either,” I said in reply. “We both know who pulled the trigger here but can’t pin it to him.”

  “Gant has an alibi for the time in question. MI5 have talked to him and are satisfied with what he told them,” Smitherman stated simply.

  “Let me guess. His alibi witness is Richard Rhodes.”

  “Actually, it is.” Smitherman sounded surprised. “How did you know that?”

  “I spoke to Rhodes last Tuesday morning when I was looking into Gant’s motives for going after the Phipps. Says they’re friends and always meet up whenever Gant passes through London. I saw them together on CCTV Thursday night at the hotel. Rhodes fits the description of whoever rearranged Simeon Adaka’s face for him. I also saw Rhodes with Debbie Frost on Wednesday evening. She, Rhodes and her boyfriend all got out of a cab at her place.”

  “You’re sure it was Rhodes?”

  “No mistaking that big bastard. It was definitely him. Yet when I asked Debbie Frost yesterday whether she knew a Richard Rhodes, she didn’t seem to think she did.”

  Smitherman cupped his hands together and touched his chin with his index fingers. His eyes ascended upwards towards the ceiling. He nodded sagely.

  “I’m going to show her Rhodes’ picture. If she still denies knowing him, I’m going to bring her in.”

  Smitherman said that was a good idea. He also told me Richard Rhodes had still not been apprehended despite police looking for him after his assaulting Sergeant Bales. That was baffling. He couldn’t have left the country without someone alerting the intelligence community. Where could he be hiding?

  I drove past the Saturday shoppers through Sloane Square and along the King’s Road. The area was crowded with people taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. I pulled up at the top of Old Church Street and turned left. I parked in a nearby space and walked along to Mulberry Walk. At the corner I looked along and noticed the front door open. There was a Prius parked on the road with the front door open on the passenger side. I waited.

  Five minutes later a man came out to the car, picked up a bag of groceries and went into the house.

  I rang the bell marked Frost-Ritchie and the same man opened the door. I asked for Debbie. He invited me in and led me up the stairs to their flat. Surprisingly he didn’t ask to see any ID.

  She was in the small kitchenette making a late breakfast. Something smelled good but I didn’t think she’d invite me to join them at their repast.

  “Who was it?” she called out.

  “You’ll never guess,” I replied. She turned to face me.

  “You again,” she snapped. “What now?” She looked about

  as happy to see me as she would if she’d just been told she had a life-threatening illness.

  “Who’s this guy?” Darren Ritchie stood next to me. He’d adopted a stroppy tone of voice and I suspected
his close proximity was designed to make me feel uncomfortable. I turned and moved towards him. He had to back up to avoid being bumped into.

  “I’m a police officer, sunshine.” I thrust my ID about an inch from his eyes. He took another step backwards. “You got a problem with that?”

  I took an instant dislike to this guy. He was about five ten and thin but very wiry, looking like he might be good at a racquet sport like squash. I hated squash, saw it as a yuppie poseur’s game. Hard to believe he’d once been a squaddie.

  “What do you want now?” Debbie had put down the tray she was carrying. She was casually dressed in a blue sports sweater and cream coloured sweat pants, and her hair was tied back in a bunch. She looked good, glowing and smelling like she’d just had a shower.

  I took a picture from the envelope and showed it to her. “You know this man?” I asked evenly.

  “Yeah, I do. Why? What’s he done?”

  “I asked yesterday if you knew him and you said no.”

  “You didn’t ask me about Richard.”

  “I definitely did. I asked if you knew Richard Rhodes and you said no,” I stated emphatically. I was fed up being misled by her. Maybe I should threaten to arrest her.

  “I still don’t. The man in that picture is Richard Perkins. Who’s Richard Rhodes?”

  “What?” I exclaimed. I was staggered. “Richard Perkins?”

  I did a quick mental recall in my head and remembered the file I’d seen when first looking into Richard Rhodes’ background. There’d been no mention of a father in his army details. It couldn’t be, could it? I began to feel uncomfortable.

  “Is he any relation to?”

  “He is,” she interrupted me. “He’s Christian Perkins’ son.”

  “Jesus.” I shook my head. The son of Christian Perkins. “You’re absolutely sure about this?”

  “What do you think?” She gave me a look of withering scorn.” “Course I’m sure. I work with the man. I’ve known him since Oxford. I would certainly know if he had a son, don’t you think?”

  This wasn’t what I was expecting. I’d hoped she wouldn’t recognise the picture so I could collar her for lying and obstructing justice; but, not only had she done so, she’d thrown me off track somewhat with this revelation. I regained my composure.

  “Do you know where this Richard guy is now? He’s wanted for questioning concerning an assault on a police officer last Thursday night.”

  “I don’t, no, I’m afraid not,” she said. “I’ve not seen him for some while. He’s not always in the country, you know. He works abroad.”

  “No, honey.” I was deliberately patronising her now.” I think what you meant to say was you’ve not seen him since last Wednesday night when he left here.”

  She looked annoyed. Darren Ritchie even more so. He snorted and shuffled on his feet as though he was thinking of moving. He didn’t.

  “Left here?” she said incredulously. She was irritated. Good.

  “Yeah, left here. You all arrived in a taxi around 10.30pm and Rhodes, or whatever his name is, left soon after. I watched you all get out the cab. I asked the driver and he said he’d picked you three up by Green Park. I even have the taxi driver’s licence number.”

  Actually I didn’t but they weren’t to know that.

  “I saw it. I was over the road.” I nodded at the window. “Saw Rhodes come in and I saw him leave. You wouldn’t know the truth if it stood close enough to kiss you.” I sneered as I said this to her. “I think you’re a lying bitch.”

  I was out of order with that comment but, suitably riled, she might just let something important slip out. I was hoping she would.

  “Hey, copper or not,” Ritchie said loudly. He moved towards me threateningly.

  “One more step,” I pointed at him, “and you’re nicked. You too, sweetheart.” I looked at Debbie Frost. She looked forlorn. Her Saturday was not going to plan.

  “I know the kind of work this character does when he’s abroad.” I held up the picture. “He’s a merc, a paid killer. You’re aware, aren’t you, he was implicated in an attack on a hotel in Lebanon last year where a number of women and children died?”

  Both Debbie and lover boy stood still and said nothing.

  “Does your employer know about Christian Perkins’ little boy, about what he does for a living? How would that go down with the party faithful? Is that what’s being hidden here?”

  Debbie didn’t respond.

  “Ask Christian if you think I’m lying. He’s connected with British Intelligence,” I slid the picture back in the envelope, “but you know that already, don’t you? Do you know this guy’s friend, Phil Gant?”

  I was looking directly at her as I spoke. For a second her eyelids moved, as though she was surprised at hearing something unexpected.

  “Yeah, as I thought.” I left them to their cold breakfast.

  Back in the car. Richard Rhodes, the son of Christian Perkins. That had really taken me by surprise.

  I radioed the office and asked for the address of the mother of the guy I knew as Richard Rhodes. I was given a Shoreditch address. Using the siren, I managed to reach her flat in only thirteen minutes. I caught her at home. I showed her my ID, asked to speak to her briefly about her son and she invited me into the flat.

  I guessed she was close to 60 but was too polite to ask her real age. She was surprised that a police officer would want to talk to her about her son. “What’s he done now?”

  “Well, to be frank, I’m more concerned about his father,” I said.

  “His father?” she said flatly.

  I glanced around her neat and very tidy little flat but could see no pictures of either Christian Perkins or Richard Rhodes.

  “Yeah. I’d just like you to confirm something for me. Richard’s father is Christian Perkins, isn’t he?” I asked in a sympathetic tone. I was wishing a female officer was with me.

  She sat still for a few moments. She then reached for her bag, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up.

  “I knew this would come out one day. Told him it would. You can’t keep something like this a secret forever. I told

  them both that,” she said neutrally.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to broadcast it. Nobody’ll know who doesn’t need to. I just needed to know as both names have arisen in a case I’m investigating. I was told who Richard’s father was and I didn’t believe it, so I was just seeking confirmation.”

  “Well, believe it, because it’s true.”

  For the next ten minutes she told me her story. She’d been working for the Conservative Party at its Smith Square head office as an administrative assistant in the late 1970s. During the run up to the 1979 election she began working longer hours as there was much to do at the office to help keep the party machine ticking over. She met an up-and-coming young man named Christian Perkins who was helping to organise the campaigning. They worked closely together for a while and, a few weeks before the election, they’d had an affair. She’d broken it off but, around the same time, she discovered she was pregnant. Determined not to seek a termination she’d approached Perkins to help out as the father. But he was more concerned with his public image and his reputation inside the party so he offered her a one-off cash settlement of five thousand to keep the matter out of the public eye. She agreed to take it and signed a confidentiality clause prohibiting her from ever mentioning the affair to anyone. She’d raised Richard on her own and, in her view, had done a good job raising a headstrong boy who’d later joined the army and, after leaving, was now working as a “Security Consultant” for a firm in London.

  “And that’s the story,” she concluded. “I’d wanted to make a career in politics but that was lost when Richard was born. Being a single mother back then was a lot different than it is now. I was a fool to have taken that money from him. Bastard. He was more concerned about his sodding career than about his son. He’s a bloody MP now, if you will, lording it up in Westminster.”
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  “You realise that gagging order was probably never legally binding? You could have got out of it any time had you wanted.”

  “Maybe, but it’s too late to worry about that now.” She sounded bitter. I didn’t blame her.

  “Where did the name Rhodes come from?”

  “My maiden name. Mary Rhodes.”

  “Did Richard have any contact at all with his father growing up?”

  “Not through me he didn’t.”

  “I believe Richard and his father are now reconciled. I think they spend time together, if I’ve heard right.”

  “Could be,” she shrugged.

  “How would he have found out who his father was if there was a gagging order?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that, a few years ago, he came home and said he’d finally found out who his natural father was. He was pleased about it as well, but how they eventually got together I can’t tell you because I don’t know.”

  The flat was small. It was hard imagining a big guy like Richard Rhodes growing up in such a small environment.

  “Who’s he a consultant with? Do you know which firm?”

  She paused for a moment to think.

  “I think they’re called “Prevention,” or something like that.”

  I realised I knew who she meant.

  “You mean Prevental?”

  “Yes, that’s the name,” she replied eagerly. “He must be doing good work there as they keep sending him abroad to do work for them.”

  I wasn’t going to disillusion Mary Rhodes and tell her that, au contraire, her son was a fully trained merciless killer who fought for money in places he had no official business being in, and being somehow implicated in three recent deaths, as well as being wanted for an assault on a police officer. If she was ever going to learn the truth about her son, it would not be from me.