‘Yes,’ Fortescue replied. He knew that he had opened up a can of worms. He hoped that Archie Cameron could control the situation.
‘What was discussed? Donaldson asked.
‘Allerton was suspicious. He was always a nervous man.’
‘Were you?’
‘Not really. In government, you get used to large amounts of money.’
‘But not into your personal bank account. Also, we know that Lord Allerton received more than one million pounds.’
‘He may have had a different arrangement.’
‘We are aware of at least twenty million pounds in Allerton’s account that cannot be explained. Are you, Mr Fortescue, telling us that you only received a million? Where is the remainder? How much did you know about Codrington and his drug trafficking? Did you know about the deaths of Stewart, of Pinto, of Fuentes, of Alex Hughenden? I put it to you, Mr Fortescue, that you are complicit in the crimes of Keith Codrington and that you should be charged with murder. How do you plead?’
‘My client has nothing to say,’ Cameron replied.
Isaac knew he had overstepped the mark and that their proof was flimsy.
Fortescue, an experienced politician, took it in his stride. He was aware that if Allerton had been there, he would have been reduced to tears, but he was made of sterner material. The politician knew that he would deal with this black apology for a police officer another time.
‘We met at my house to confront Codrington. To tell him that we were aware of what he was doing and that we wanted out.’
‘Let’s break that down,’ Donaldson said. ‘Firstly, what were you aware of, the drug smuggling or the murders?’
‘The drug smuggling.’
‘How?’
‘It was the money. There was just too much, and Griffiths had asked for some financial records on a previous occasion.’
‘Did he receive them?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you assume it was drug smuggling?’
‘What else could have generated that sort of money?’
‘One million pounds?’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ Fortescue said, fully aware of another thirty million offshore.
‘Mr Fortescue, where are you hiding all your money? We will find out in time.’
‘I’ve already told you I will supply you with my bank records.’
Both police officers realised that pursuing Fortescue over hidden financial assets was futile.
‘Let’s come back to the meeting,’ Isaac said. ‘Why was Lord Allerton killed later that day?’
‘Allerton had told Codrington he wanted out,’ Fortescue said.
‘What did Codrington say?’
‘He made it very clear that if he went down, so would we, that’s all.’
‘That’s all!’ Donaldson exclaimed.
‘The meeting ended badly.’
‘Are you aware that Lord Allerton had phoned me before your meeting?’ Isaac said.
‘No, but he said he was ready to confess.’
‘What did Codrington say?’
‘He just repeated what he had said previously. All four of us were guilty and if he went down, then so would we.’
‘My client has been open here today. I would suggest that you focus on the guilt of others, not my client,’ Cameron said.
Isaac ignored the lawyer. ‘You’ve admitted to a later meeting in London.’
‘Jacob Griffiths and I met up with Codrington.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you think? Allerton’s dead, we’re implicated, and we don’t know what to do.’
‘What was said at the meeting?’
‘We confronted him over the death of Allerton. He said nothing about it other than he was leaving and we’d never see him again. That’s the honest truth.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’
‘How? Whatever I say, I’m guilty. It’s the same with Griffiths. We’re respected members of the community without a criminal offence to our names. What were we to do?’
‘Are you planning to leave the country?’ Isaac asked.
‘I will stay and defend myself.’
‘We haven’t charged you.’
‘My political peers will. I’m guilty without a trial.’
***
Back in the office, everyone was delighted. At last they had a connection to Codrington, but no Codrington. It was evident the man was no longer in the country. Bridget had managed to trace where he had been living. He had used the name of Dennis Hennessey when leasing the penthouse flat, subsequently paying cash to purchase it through an offshore company.
Miles Fortescue had left Challis Street Police Station by the back door and in the back of Archie Cameron’s car to avoid the reporters out the front. Even though the police had made no mention of Codrington and the drug trafficking, somehow the press knew something.
It was suspicious, Isaac knew, but it was not their primary issue.
Steve Walters was back in London and ready to be interviewed again, but it was clear that he would not add much to the current investigation. Both he and O’Shaughnessy were in the same prison awaiting trial. Bail had been applied for O’Shaughnessy, but denied.
‘Any ideas on Codrington?’ Isaac asked.
‘We’ve alerted Interpol,’ Bridget said. ‘Also, we’re checking with the airports.’
‘What’s next?’ Len Donaldson asked.
‘Jacob Griffiths,’ Isaac replied. ‘Larry, any idea where he is?’
‘In London. I’ve checked just in case.’
‘Okay, you know what to do.’
Seventy-five minutes later, a late model Mercedes pulled into the car park behind Challis Street Police Station. Jacob Griffiths got out of the car, not with the smiling face that was seen on the television constantly but with the look of a man worried about life.
Isaac watched as he walked across the car park and into the building. Larry walked at his side.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Isaac said as Griffiths walked into the interview room.
‘I didn’t have many options, did I?’
Andrew Rushton, Griffiths’ lawyer, arrived soon after. Isaac had not liked the man the first time; his opinion did not change on their second meeting.
‘If this is a waste of time…’ Rushton said.
‘It is not,’ Isaac’s curt reply.
With the formalities dealt with, the interview commenced, following the same procedure as with Fortescue.
‘Mr Griffiths, we have proof that you received substantial payments as a result of a criminal act,’ Isaac said.
‘Can you prove it?’ Rushton asked.
‘We have interviewed Miles Fortescue. He has admitted that you knew that Keith Codrington was importing large quantities of illegal drugs into this country.’
‘Not at first,’ Griffiths said.
‘When?’
‘When we met with Codrington at Fortescue’s house.’
‘The day of Allerton’s death?’
‘Yes.’
Len Donaldson and Isaac knew immediately that Griffiths had been contacted by Miles Fortescue after he had left the police station. They knew further questioning would only give them parrot responses, with each of the two men aiming to corroborate the other’s story, and to prove their ignorance about how Codrington had been able to pay them so well.
‘And yet both you and Fortescue chose not to contact the police. It’s hardly the action of innocent men.’
‘We were not sure what to do.’
‘Are you telling me that Allerton’s been murdered, and you could not come to the police?’
‘Keith Codrington was a vicious man. If he could murder Tim Allerton, he could murder us.’
‘And what about all those drugs you sold? Did you ever worry about them?’
‘We didn’t know.’
‘Rubbish. We have records of conversations between you and Codrington. We are aware that you knew of the murder of Alex Hughenden, even relucta
ntly agreed to its necessity.’
‘How?’
‘We found a printout of a phone bill with a mobile number at Codrington’s flat. We were able to obtain records of conversations. It’s only a matter of time before you and Fortescue are fully implicated in the murders of five men, as well as the importation and marketing of illicit drugs. Mr Griffiths, you will be charged with murder at the end of this interview,’ Isaac said.
‘My client will not answer to unproven allegations,’ Rushton said.
‘We didn’t know. All three of us needed money, and when Codrington put forward his idea, we went for it.’
‘Even though it was illegal?’
‘We didn’t know that.’
‘Are you telling me that you, a successful businessman, did not smell a rat?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Did you agree to the murder of Allerton?’
‘No. We thought it was alright with Allerton, and that he was going to do nothing for another week. Codrington told us he was finished with the business and for us to give him three weeks. Allerton’s death frightened us.’
‘You and Fortescue?’
‘Yes. If Codrington could kill him, then he could have us killed.’
‘And still you did not come to the police.’
‘To say what? That we were criminals in fear for our lives?’
‘Are you in fear now?’
‘Keith Codrington, wherever he is, could still deal with us.’
‘Are you willing to make a confession?’
‘Not to murder.’
‘I need a confession stating that Keith Codrington was a major drug trafficker and that five people to your knowledge were killed as a result of his instructions.’
‘I will say that we never knew the nature of the business or of the deaths. We were purely men who trusted a fellow Etonian; allowed ourselves to be hoodwinked.’
‘That’s fine,’ Donaldson replied.
‘What will happen to me?’ Griffiths asked.
‘You will be charged.’
‘Not with murder.’
‘You will be charged with the lesser charge of drug trafficking.’
‘But I didn’t know. Rushton, what should I do?’
‘Give them their confession stating clearly all the facts. They’ll not be able to prove that you’re actively involved.’
‘How long?’
‘Two years, maybe five,’ Rushton said.
He’ll be lucky if it’s less than ten, Isaac thought.
***
Miles Fortescue was arrested later that day. For once, he had stood up in Parliament to make a speech. The one day when he should have felt some pride in his political career; the one day when he suffered the ignominy of being led from the Houses of Parliament to a police car, his hands cuffed with police regulation handcuffs.
Two days later, Keith Codrington was walking along the beach in Abu Dhabi. He was aware of what had happened in London with his former friends. He smiled. The extradition laws were weak, and he had contacts; contacts who would protect him for a price.
He did not see the car parked to one side of the beach. If he had looked, he would have seen the window wound down, the barrel of a gun, its telescopic sights trained on him.
The gun fired, and Codrington collapsed to the ground.
The man who fired the shot turned to his colleague in the driver’s seat. ‘The man never paid us the full amount for the last shipment,’ he said in Russian.
The End
Murder is the Only Option
Phillip Strang
ALSO BY PHILLIP STRANG
DEATH UNHOLY
MURDER IN LITTLE VENICE
MURDER IS ONLY A NUMBER
MURDER HOUSE
MURDER IS A TRICKY BUSINESS
MURDER WITHOUT REASON
THE HABERMAN VIRUS
MALIKA’S REVENGE
HOSTAGE OF ISLAM
PRELUDE TO WAR
Chapter 1
Nobody ever doubted that Big Greg was anything other than an educated man. In the homeless shelter where he occasionally bedded down, he had become something of a legend with his reciting poetry as well as occasionally playing an old, out-of-tune piano that sat forlornly in one corner of the main room.
He didn’t often grace the premises with his presence, preferring on most nights to find a spot under a bridge not far from Paddington Station, with heat from a fire in an old metal dustbin.
Big Greg would not have been in the shelter that night under normal circumstances, but the weather had gone against him. It was the beginning of November, and for London it was cold.
Those who knew him would tell you that he was a cheerful man, always ready with a good story and a smile. Not that any of them knew much about him. There were some things that he never spoke about: where he had come from, what his real name was, and why he was on the street. It didn’t concern Big Greg, a title he had been given in part because he was tall, in part because of his commanding voice. Many on the street looked to him for assistance whenever the police came to move them on, or the social services wanted them to get a job.
Big Greg, a man who apparently enjoyed living on the street, showed none of the vices that afflicted so many others. There was never a time when he could be found drinking a bottle of cheap alcohol. Those who knew him estimated his age at between fifty-five and sixty, but even that was unreliable as he had an unkempt beard and a closer examination was not possible.
‘What is it with you, Big Greg?’ one of his street-dwelling friends asked.
‘I mind my own business. I suggest you do the same.’ It was the standard reply from the man that most regarded as a friend, even if his smell could be off-putting at times, the main reason that the local homeless charity was reluctant to allow him to stay for more than the one night at a time. One of their rules, archaic according to Big Greg, was that every person who stayed there had to have a shower, with plenty of soap, and clean clothes. Even though the charity offered to take his clothes, threadbare and worn-out with patches covering the holes, and to wash them for him, he always refused.
Any questions about why he did not want the benefit of their assistance were always met with the standard reply: ‘I mind my own business, I suggest you do the same.’
As far as anyone knew, Big Greg had been on the street for more than ten years, and in all that time no one had broken through his shield. Bob Robertson, the manager of the charity, where Big Greg came every day for a midday meal, knew him better than most.
He would have told you that Big Greg probably had a secret, like almost everyone on the street did. With some it was a violent relationship, with others it was drugs or drink, but with Big Greg, there was apparently nothing. The man didn’t smoke or drink, and he certainly did not use drugs. The only vice that he would have agreed to was a propensity to read, and he could always be found with a book or two in his hand. Also, others had noticed him writing in a notebook. Once it was filled, he would start another, discarding the old one in a bin.
Nobody knew why, not even Bob Robertson, and he had asked him enough times.
Robertson had once taken one of the discarded notebooks from a bin and read through it. Even he, a literate and educated man, had difficulty understanding what was written. All that he could see were disconnected paragraphs of five hundred words or so, with complex mathematical formulas and technical drawings.
He knew that an admittance that he had read some of Big Greg’s writing would have been met with a rebuke, although he was curious to know more.
Robertson had run the charity for fifteen years. During that time, he had met a disparate group of people, but no one like the big man who every day presented himself at the charity’s premises. There, he helped himself to two helpings of whatever food and drink were on offer. Some days it would be meat, others fish, even a good salad on one occasion, but that had not gone down well with those who ate only one meal a day. But with Big Greg there was no com
plaining. He came in, loaded up his plate, spoke congenially to everyone, and then left. No fuss, no fanfare, no interest in anything else.
The last time, Robertson had stood to one side of the room where the street dwellers ate. He studied the man that intrigued him. There was no question in his mind that Big Greg had a story to tell, a story so shocking that the stories of the others who relied on the charity would pale in comparison.
What did he know about Big Greg, Robertson thought as he sat in front of his computer: tall, well-spoken, obviously educated and articulate, and able to recite poetry, Shakespeare mainly, although also the other English poets of note, and then the man could write mathematical formulas that he could not understand.
Robertson entered one of the formulas from the notebook he had kept into the computer, and pressed search: no success. He entered two others with the same result. The fourth time, a result. Robertson looked at the screen, attempting to understand what it was telling him. The mathematical paper that he had discovered was far too complicated for him.
With no more to do, Robertson left his office and walked outside into the street. It was ten in the evening, and for once the area outside the charity’s premises was quiet, save for a couple of the homeless dossing down for the night, wrapped in blankets, the ubiquitous shopping trolleys full of their possessions and whatever else they had picked up off the street nearby.
A man came close to Robertson’s left-hand side as he rounded a corner. ‘You’ve been spying on me,’ he said.
‘Big Greg, I never expected to see you around here at this time of night.’
‘I’ve told you enough times.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Robertson replied. He looked up at the man, only to see a metal pole coming down at him. Robertson fell down, cracking his head against a concrete kerb. The two vagrants, no more than twenty feet away, did not even look in the direction of the noise. If they had, they would have seen a dead body, another man walking away.
***
Inside Bob Robertson’s hostel, most had been asleep, although one, a woman in her late thirties, struggling with the pangs of withdrawal from a drug habit that had blighted her life, had been fluctuating between sleep and wakefulness.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 23
