Spider Trap

by Barry Maitland

  Grant also gave them copies of key documents supporting his accusations. His presentation was measured and unemotional until he came to the conclusion, a summary of the likely impact of the drugs on the people of South London.

  Despite herself, Kathy was impressed, and so was the committee. When Hart called for discussion, Hadden-Vane’s attempt to find fault sounded like empty bluster. When he demanded that Grant reveal his sources, Grant neatly turned it into a further attack on the Roaches. He would not name his sources, he said, because they would be at serious personal risk, and to support this he would provide members of the committee with a list of criminal convictions of various members of the Roach family. Hadden-Vane seemed to realise that he was being outmanoeuvred, and after some heated debate around the table he proposed that discussion be suspended so that members could have time to study and digest Grant’s material over the weekend. Grant concurred, adding that he intended to bring to the committee at its next sitting, on the following Monday, a list of witnesses that he would ask the committee to call for interview under oath, including members of the Roach family.

  As the committee moved back to their scheduled agenda, Dot appeared at the door. Her usual poise seemed ruffled. ‘Brock,’ she said, ‘Commander Sharpe on the phone.’

  Brock got to his feet. ‘I’d like a transcript,’ he said. ‘But our priority is catching Sad Simon. Let’s concentrate on that.’

  Later that afternoon Kathy got a call from Dot to say that Brock wanted to see her. He waved her to a seat.

  ‘Damage control. They’re going to keep mum to the press and try to nobble the committee chair, Margaret Hart, behind the scenes. I don’t fancy their chances. How far do you think Tom will go with this, Kathy? You know him better than I do.’

  The coldness in Brock’s voice confronted her: Tom was the enemy now, the threat. She’d sensed that in the others’ murmured comments all morning, but coming from Brock she realised how absolute Tom’s betrayal had been.

  ‘I’m not sure. He was very angry after our meeting on Wednesday, and I haven’t seen him since. I’ve been trying to contact him but he won’t answer my calls.’

  ‘I don’t like to ask you to betray confidences, Kathy.’ He spoke slowly, eyes on a heavily marked-up copy of the webcast transcript lying on the table in front of him. ‘But I need to understand what he’s doing. Is this some kind of elaborate professional suicide, or does he really think he can prove a point and come back to us covered in glory?’

  All morning Kathy had been asking herself the same question. ‘I’ve had the impression, right from the beginning, that Tom felt he had to prove himself in some way. I mean in a personal, individual way, not just as part of the team. I didn’t realise it at first, but he wasn’t being open with me, not about what he was really thinking. He didn’t tell me about what he was planning with Magdalen until I came across a surveillance picture with the two of them together, and then he had to tell me. But he was desperate that nobody else should know until he’d pulled it off, and in the end I agreed, on condition I could go along as back-up. That was a big mistake, I know. I’m sorry. I really am, Brock. This is my fault.’

  ‘Divided loyalties,’ he murmured, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘It does for us all.’

  ‘I think it goes back to a problem at Special Branch. He had some kind of personality clash there.’

  ‘It was a bit more than that. He didn’t tell you?’

  Kathy shook her head, puzzled.

  ‘A couple of years ago there was an IRA group operating in the UK, responsible for a series of big robberies up north. It was believed they were based in a neighbourhood in Liverpool. Tom had had some earlier experience on the IRA desk and it was decided to plant him and another officer, a woman, in the area, as a couple moving in as new teachers at the local school, he for PE, she for maths. They settled in, got to know their neighbours through their children. They’d worked together before, Tom and this woman, and they made a convincing couple. The trouble was that it became a little too real. After a time they announced that they were going to get married, and they did, inviting their neighbours to the party. Branch disapproved, but didn’t do anything. Then things went wrong. A new gang member came over from Ireland and recognised Tom. They did nothing at first, then one night they paid Tom and his wife a visit. Only Tom was away from home, reporting to his people in Manchester. When he got back he found his wife battered to death.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘The Branch brought Tom back to London and moved him into their A Squad, protecting VIPs. He never really settled into it. There may well have been personality clashes as he told you—I’ve only heard his boss’s side of the story. Anyway, I was happy to give him a berth here for a while.’

  ‘He never mentioned any of this to me,’ Kathy said. ‘I didn’t even know he’d been married twice.’ The story was a jarring revelation, throwing everything she thought she knew about Tom into a new context, every word, every action open to fresh interpretation. ‘You said he’d worked with the other officer, the woman, before. Was that in Jamaica?’

  ‘I believe it was, yes.’

  Kathy remembered the evening of Jamaican cooking, the stories, funny and wistful. I have been a surrogate, she thought, no more than a channel to old memories, a bandaid for old wounds.

  ‘I think he’ll go all the way with this,’ she said sadly. ‘Maybe the real question is, how far will Michael Grant let him go?’

  Kathy’s phone rang as she was getting ready to leave the office for home. She recognised his voice, and sank back into her chair. ‘Tom. I’ve been trying to reach you.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve been very busy. There’s been so much to do.’ He sounded elated, speaking fast. ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘Yes, we all did.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I think you’re going about it the wrong way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re a serving police officer.’

  ‘There are higher loyalties than that. To the truth, for instance. This is the only way. They left me no choice.’

  There was a pause, then Kathy said, ‘Brock told me about your second wife.’

  ‘Did he? I didn’t think he knew . . . I’m sorry, I almost told you several times, but then I held back. It didn’t seem relevant to us.’

  ‘Wasn’t it? Isn’t it what this is all about?’

  ‘Is that what Brock’s saying? Listen, Kathy—’ he was angry now—‘what I’m doing is getting at the truth, the only way I can, the only way they’ve left me. I’m sorry you can’t be with me on that.’

  ‘Tom, you—’ But the line was dead.

  twenty-five

  The media were full of the story over the weekend, their appetite for scandal only sharpened by the refusal of any of the players to speak to them. For the moment they didn’t identify the Roaches by name, but there were clear hints that as soon as witnesses were called before the committee, their names would be published and the whole story brought out into the open. There was a great deal about Michael Grant, his background and his history of campaigning for the underprivileged.

  On Monday morning the TV channels were carrying pictures of scenes outside the Houses of Parliament as reporters tried to get access to the committee meeting and to catch participants for comment. It seemed that some agreement had been reached to broadcast the session live on TV, and one of the channels was promising coverage during its morning news show. The picture was clearer than on the webcast, and in Queen Anne’s Gate, just a couple of hundred yards away, someone had fixed up a TV in the main office, around which people were clustering.

  As the committee members took their seats Kathy had the impression that the mood was different from that on Friday, less informal and congenial. When Margaret Hart opened the session she sounded sombre. She reminded them of the duties and powers of the committee, and called upon them to use these responsibly.

  ‘Mr Hadden-Vane has asked to ad
dress the meeting.’

  The MP acknowledged her with a nod, and when he spoke his voice was harsh and forceful, with none of the empty bluster of before.

  ‘On Friday we were confronted by an unprecedented accusation against a British company, and evidence of criminal activity on a huge scale. Since then I, like all of my colleagues, have been trying to form a dispassionate assessment of this shocking evidence. In the short time that’s been available to me, I have been able to discover several witnesses who can throw further light on it. It is crucial that the committee hear what they have to say, and I beg leave to call these witnesses immediately.’

  The room was very still.

  ‘They are here?’ Hart asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know the normal procedure for calling witnesses, Mr Hadden-Vane,’ the Chair frowned. ‘The committee will need notice . . .’

  ‘When he interrupted our agenda on Friday, Mr Grant claimed that what he had to say was of such importance that the committee should suspend its normal procedures and we agreed. I claim the same latitude. People’s reputations are at stake here. Mr Grant has made this a matter of extreme urgency.’

  Hart looked around the room, taking in nodding heads. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Thank you. The first witness is Mr Steven Bryce.’

  Kathy stiffened and turned to Brock. ‘The boss of the plastics company that went bust. The one that was overseas.’

  Hadden-Vane turned to speak to the Clerk and handed him a sheet of paper. While they waited for him to bring in the witness, the MP went on, ‘Madam Chair, I propose that my witnesses give their evidence on oath. I know this is unusual, but Mr Grant proposed that his witnesses should do this and I don’t want mine to be seen as any less credible.’

  ‘This is not a competition, Mr Hadden-Vane,’ Margaret Hart snapped. ‘And they are the committee’s witnesses, not yours or Mr Grant’s. However, under the circumstances, it may be advisable.’

  A slight, rather anxious-looking man came into the picture, and was shown by the Clerk to the witness table across the end of the horseshoe, facing the Chair.

  ‘Mr Bryce,’ Margaret Hart said, leaning forward and smiling warmly at him. ‘I understand you’re willing to assist this committee with your testimony, is that correct?’

  The man cleared his throat and said yes.

  ‘It has been proposed that you give your evidence under oath. If you do so, you will be liable to the laws of perjury. Do you have any objection to this?’

  ‘No, that’s been explained to me. I don’t mind.’ The man’s flat Midlands accent was distinct.

  The Clerk stepped forward and Bryce took the oath, then Hadden-Vane spoke.

  ‘I’d like to place on record our appreciation to Mr Bryce for attending today. He was overseas when we were finally able to contact him yesterday, and he came back immediately when he understood the seriousness of the situation. Mr Bryce, were you the managing director of PC Plastics of Solihull?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Your company ceased trading last December, is that correct? Would you describe what it did before that.’

  ‘We were a small company, manufacturing a variety of plastic components for customers, mainly retail outlets.’

  ‘Was the Paramounts off-licence chain one of your customers?’

  ‘We did several jobs for them, yes.’

  ‘Now I’m showing Mr Bryce the order for 50,000 brown plastic sheaths that was included in the documents Mr Grant provided on Friday. Do you recognise this, Mr Bryce?’

  ‘You showed it to me last night, when I got back from Poland.’

  ‘Will you tell us your reaction, please?’

  ‘I’d never seen it before.’

  ‘You’re quite certain? Would you have seen every order that came into your company?’

  ‘Absolutely. We never received this order.’

  There was a stir of consternation in the room. Michael Grant was staring at the witness, a frown on his face.

  ‘Have you any other comment on the document?’ Hadden-Vane went on.

  ‘Well, that’s certainly our name and address at the top, but the rest looks pretty odd to me. In the first place, I don’t think we’d have been capable of carrying out such an order. We did fibreglass mouldings, some vacuum forming, generally small-scale, short runs—shop signs, display stands, promotional material, that sort of thing. I’d say this job would have needed a large injection moulding machine. We’ve never had one of them.’

  ‘I see. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, the letterhead is Paramounts’ London head office, but we never had correspondence with them before. We always dealt with their regional office in Birmingham.’

  ‘Right. What about the signature at the bottom of the order, that of Mr Ivor Roach?’

  ‘I’ve heard of Mr Roach, but I’ve never had any dealings with him. I wouldn’t know if that’s his signature or not.’

  Hadden-Vane beamed. ‘Thank you. That’s all I wanted to ask, Mr Bryce.’

  Margaret Hart asked if anyone had further questions, and all heads turned to Michael Grant. He seemed stunned and didn’t react for a moment, then said, ‘Your company went out of business in December, you said?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘You’re in financial trouble, are you?’

  Hadden-Vale exploded. ‘That’s irrelevant and insulting!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Bryce said mildly. He smiled at Grant. ‘I’m not down on my uppers, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I own eight other companies that are doing very nicely, thanks. I just decided to get out of plastics. It’s an overcrowded field.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Bryce,’ the Chair said hurriedly, raising her eyebrows at Grant. ‘I don’t think we have any other questions. We’re most grateful.’

  Hadden-Vane’s next witness was a document expert. His credentials were impeccable—formerly head of documents section in the Police Forensic Science Laboratory, now in private practice and well known to Brock and several of the other detectives in the office. His evidence was brief and decisive. He had examined the signatures on the order to PC Plastics and the handwriting on the summary sheet, and had compared them with dozens of samples of Ivor Roach’s signature and handwriting taken from other documents, and declared Michael Grant’s material to be forgeries. When the rumpus that this provoked had died down, he added the dryly amused comment that it seemed a little odd that the Paramounts letterhead used on these forgeries was obviously old stock, since the telephone and fax numbers listed in small print at the bottom of the pages predated the change in the London codes.

  ‘From your long experience, could you make any general observations on these forgeries?’ Hadden-Vane invited.

  ‘Well, I’d say the forger was either incompetent or in a big hurry.’

  Michael Grant didn’t ask any questions.

  A third witness, an office manager from Paramounts’ London head office, confirmed that the letterhead design in Grant’s documents hadn’t been used for at least four years. She had been unable to trace any record of the order to PC Plastics.

  By now a new mood had settled over the committee members. They no longer shook their heads in astonishment at each new revelation from Hadden-Vane’s witnesses, but instead focused more and more openly on Grant to see how he was reacting. It seemed to Kathy that the spaces on either side of his seat had widened.

  ‘I’ve had less than seventy-two hours to demolish Mr Grant’s so-called evidence against Paramounts and the Roach family,’ Hadden-Vane said. ‘Given more time and resources and expertise than I possess, I’ve no doubt that much more could be uncovered. But I think we’ve heard enough.’ There were murmurs of agreement around the table. ‘I believe I’ve established the “What” —a number of forged papers have been added to a file of real documents relating to a legitimate consignment of beer from Jamaica to the UK to give the appearance of a criminal act. Our colleague was then persuaded to put thi
s rather crude deception before us and broadcast it in the public domain under cover of parliamentary privilege. But that’s only part of the story. We must also discover the “How” and the “Why”. I now call on the Member for Lambeth North to explain to the committee exactly how and from whom he obtained the documents in his report.’

  There was a long silence while the two men held each other’s eyes, Michael Grant with a look of loathing apparent even on the small screen. Then he turned to Margaret Hart and said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that.’

  A murmur of disapproval grew steadily louder.

  ‘I understand,’ Hadden-Vane pressed on, ‘that a departmental select committee cannot order a Member of the House to appear before it as a witness under oath, but I nevertheless invite the member for Lambeth North to volunteer himself to do so now.’ By the end of this sentence he had to raise his voice to an angry shout to make himself heard over the hubbub. ‘Madam Chair,’ he roared, ‘Michael Grant’s failure to respond amounts to a deliberate contempt of this committee and of the House!’ He let the turmoil seethe around him for a while, until it looked as if the Chair was about to act, then he cut in, ‘Nevertheless, we are not entirely dependent on his cooperation.’

  The noise died away as people registered this.

  ‘I have here a piece of written evidence provided by another witness that may help us understand just how this was done.’ He held a piece of paper dramatically aloft. ‘This sworn testimony has been provided by a member of the Roach family. Given the public libel against her family by Mr Grant, she is reluctant to appear here in person, and asks that her name not be released. When you read what she has to say, you will appreciate why. She feels embarrassed and humiliated by the story she has to tell, but tell it she does, because she feels she must. Let us call her “Ms A”. She describes how she, a recently divorced and emotionally vulnerable young woman, met a personable man at a nightclub. She met him again on a number of subsequent occasions, seemingly by accident, and he befriended her and gained her trust.