Broken Windows

by Janet Pywell

  Peter has the man’s arm tucked firmly up behind his back and shouts in Swiss German, ‘It’s alright, I’ve got him. Police!’

  And, without waiting, Peter marches the man securely from the market and into a cobbled quieter backstreet.

  I linger awhile at the market, and I reassure people nearby that I’m okay and have my iPhone back, and because it’s Christmas and it’s a festive atmosphere, it’s quickly forgotten and I make a swift exit.

  In the backstreet, Peter has the man pinned against the wall while expertly patting him down.

  ‘Who are you?’ Peter asks first in English, then Swiss German, holding him against the wall, but the man doesn’t reply.

  ‘He’s the kind one,’ I whisper to the man. ‘But I’m not so nice. You’re following us – why?’

  He refuses to answer, so I grab his balls and give them a gentle squeeze.

  He cries out.

  ‘Just tell us who asked you to follow us.’

  ‘Herr Bonnington.’ His voice is husky, and his eyes begin to water as I squeeze.

  ‘Jeffrey Bonnington?’

  He nods.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wanted to make sure you were leaving.’ His accent is heavy.

  ‘Leaving Basel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugs. ‘He didn’t tell me.’

  I squeeze.

  ‘Arrggg …’

  I stop and ask, ‘Who are you, police?’

  ‘Nein, nein, nein … I’m his secretary.’ He sounds breathless.

  ‘Good! Then maybe you can tell us where Jeffrey Bonnington keeps his weapon collection?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Nein! I don’t know. I don’t—’

  I squeeze.

  ‘Arrgghh, not here. It’s not here in Basel.’

  I stop squeezing. ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know, I promise, but it’s not in Switzerland.’

  * * *

  On the train from London Heathrow into the city, Peter says, ‘There’s a message from Keith. Filming was delayed today because of the weather. So, they’re filming in the morning.’

  ‘Maybe we should check out where Jeffrey Bonnington has his homes. Then it’s a process of elimination.’

  ‘Mikky, what’s the point?’

  ‘To check the dagger ourselves, to see if the real one is in his collection.’

  Peter sighs. ‘I don’t know if that will make much difference. You’re not going to steal it. There’s no point in going down that route.’

  ‘Mulhoon’s officers found out about a dagger, that’s why he asked us to find it. Now, I’m sure there’s a link to this dagger and the Asian. There’s too much of a coincidence, you know, with Jeffrey Bonnington turning up at the charity auction in support of Raymond Harris.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten the most important aspect, Mikky. Raymond is fighting street crime. He’s hardly likely to be involved in supporting the Asian and increasing the drug war in his constituency.’

  ‘Okay, that’s true. You have a point.’

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ he asks.

  ‘I think we have to go back and trace Ali’s steps from the moment that he arrived back in London. We know he went to his foster family, he saw Kiki, and he also saw his father. But we need to know what he found out. If we are right in our assumption that he knew something and he was ready to tell the police, then we need to know what it was. Who else did Ali meet? He’d been with us in Morocco, and there was nothing to suggest he knew anything then.’

  ‘We’ll have to tread very carefully,’ he says, just as the train pulls into the station. ‘Very carefully indeed.’

  ‘Can you ask your friends to help? Maybe he used a credit card, or can you track Ali’s phone calls?’

  Peter sighs. ‘We can try.’

  ‘I’m worried about Monika,’ I add. ‘She went off with Adam.’

  ‘Adam is her friend,’ Peter reminds me.

  ‘Maybe we should pay a visit to Dixon House?’

  ‘It’s too late now, Mikky. Let’s go home and get some rest.’ Peter’s phone pings and he glances at the message. ‘Oh no, I think the proverbial mess has just hit the fan,’ he says.

  ‘Really, why? Who is it?’

  ‘Joachin is in London. He wants to meet us in an hour.’

  ‘Does he know about our trip to Switzerland?’

  ‘Not unless Jeffrey Bonnington has complained already to Mulhoon.’

  * * *

  Joachin isn’t happy. He’s like a severe judge in a courtroom. He’s scowling and his normal amenable affability has gone. We sit at a table in the corner of the pub, very near the Angel in Islington, ten minutes’ walk from Dixon House and fifteen to the estate. I’m wondering if he’d like to see the area and meet Matt, but I don’t ask Joachin. He’s monosyllabic and uncommunicative, and he waits for Peter to return with our drinks.

  ‘Gin and tonics all round, I got us doubles.’ Peter beams at us both as if there’s nothing wrong.

  ‘Cheers.’ I raise my bulbous glass and tap it against his and Joachin’s, not waiting for them to raise their glasses. I relish the taste on my tongue and smack my lips as if it’s the last drink before my prison sentence.

  ‘That tastes good.’

  Joachin leans forward and twists his wedding band around his finger. ‘I made it very clear that we have no jurisdiction here in the UK. We’re no longer part of what’s going on in this country, and until the election is over next week, we have to be very careful and tread cautiously—’

  ‘But—’

  He holds up his hand to silence my interruption, waits, and then toys with the stem of his glass. ‘The thing is, is that there have been complaints about your behaviour. You have put children’s lives at risk—’

  ‘But—’

  He holds up his hand again. ‘Mulhoon is seriously pissed off with you both. Matt has complained that you’re using the children and working out of Dixon House, and now … and now it transpires you took it upon yourselves to fly to Basel and harass one of the world’s most prolific and revered scientists.’

  ‘Jeffrey Bonnington is hiding something,’ I say.

  Joachin shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s out of bounds.’

  ‘But he doesn’t live in England – that’s why we went to Basel,’ I argue.

  ‘Mikky! Stop! He’s out of bounds because he is not involved in the seedy, gangland, county drug wars in England.’

  ‘He might—’

  ‘He might nothing!’

  ‘He owns the original dagger that the gang here swears allegiance to, and we thought that perhaps his dagger – the original one he owns – had been stolen.’

  I pull the pictures I’d shown Jeffrey Bonnington out of my bag and lay them on the small round table between us.

  Joachin glances down at the photographs.

  ‘Is this important?’

  ‘This is what we do, remember? We find fakes and forgeries. We thought we were doing him a favour, by alerting him to the fact that his dagger might have been stolen from his collection.’

  It’s a wild presumption on my part, but I play my role well.

  Joachin inhales deeply. I can see him still glancing at the printed images on the table, not wanting to get hooked into my tale.

  ‘Bonnington insisted that it hasn’t been stolen,’ adds Peter. ‘Which is incredibly strange, considering he paid $3.3 million for it.’

  ‘What’s strange about that?’ asks Joachin.

  ‘He didn’t even want to check,’ I reply. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell you if he did check, would he?’ Joachin counters with a frown.

  ‘It’s a crazy sum of money for a dagger.’ Peter sips his gin.

  I know that Peter has no appreciation of collectors and the amounts of money they would pay and the lengths they would go to acquire something they wanted; call it greed, passion, desire – to him it’s an illness, like alcoholism o
r drug addiction.

  ‘Perhaps the cult members swear to a similar dagger. It can’t be the original,’ Joachin says. ‘Although it may be an excellent fake.’

  ‘I’m looking into that,’ I reply.

  Joachin glances down at the photographs again. ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes.’ I think of Martin, the assistant in Bond Street, and make a mental note to call him tomorrow.

  ‘How did Jeffrey report us? Through Mulhoon?’ Peter asks.

  Joachin looks up, surprised. ‘Yes.’

  I glance at Peter and then back at Joachin.

  ‘This seems to be a coincidence. Everything keeps leading back to Mulhoon.’ Peter scratches his chin.

  ‘He’s the investigating officer.’

  ‘He’s not getting very far,’ I argue. ‘What if we have a problem with the police?’ I whisper, glancing over my shoulder to make sure we are not overheard. ‘What if, after Ali returned from Morocco, he wanted to tell the truth. What if he wanted to go to the police and tell them everything about the Asian and the drugs gang, and he set up a meeting, but the police betrayed him?’

  Peter stares at me like I’ve gone crazy, and so I continue.

  ‘What if whoever Ali spoke to – a policeman – sold him out and back to the Asian? The Asian knew where to find him. The Asian was going to kill him, but Ali wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, so, unfortunately, he killed himself.’

  ‘Mikky, this is ridiculous—’ Joachin holds up his hand.

  ‘What if someone or maybe even a few police officers are bent? What if they’re on the same side as the Asian?’

  ‘Mulhoon isn’t!’ Joachin argues. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Maybe not, but there is at least one person who betrayed Ali.’

  ‘You have no evidence at all, Mikky. This is all guesswork. You’re going from one theory to the next.’ Joachin smacks his glass on the table.

  ‘Mulhoon lost two undercover officers. Someone must have betrayed them!’ I whisper urgently. ‘It’s Mulhoon who knows you, and Raymond and Matt.’

  ‘How well do you know him?’ asks Peter.

  ‘Mulhoon? We met years ago at a European conference when the political climate was less tense; we have worked well together in the past, but now …’ Joachin’s sentence trails off as he looks at Peter and then to me. ‘You must stop with these ridiculous ideas. You have no evidence of anything and you’re just stabbing at ideas in the dark.’

  ‘That’s not very appropriate,’ I say, taking the moral high ground.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Joachin shakes his head. ‘Now, I forbid you to get any more involved with this business. Stay away. Leave London – go to Blessinghurst Manor or go sailing around the world with Marco. But you can’t stay here.’

  * * *

  In the morning, when I wake up and shuffle into the lounge, Peter is at the computer.

  ‘Have you been here all night?’ I yawn and place strong black coffee for him on the table.

  ‘I slept for a few hours.’

  ‘You need to shave,’ I suggest. ‘Aniela doesn’t like you with too much stubble, remember?’

  Peter grins. ‘Thanks for reminding me, but we just Skyped, and she seems to think I am still hot.’

  ‘How’s the baby?’

  ‘Gorgeous, more and more like me every day.’

  ‘A hairy little girl? Lovely.

  Peter laughs. ‘No, devastatingly handsome.’

  ‘Umm, she definitely must take after Aniela or perhaps the baby isn’t yours. What does the milkman look like?’

  ‘We don’t have a milkman.’

  ‘Umm … postman?’

  ‘She’s female.’

  ‘Ah, well I don’t know what to think – maybe it’s a genetic thing. Are your mother and father attractive? I guess they must be, and the genes skipped a generation to your daughter!’

  ‘Do you want some good news?’ he asks.

  ‘You’ve been away for a few weeks. Is Aniela pregnant again?’

  Peter laughs. ‘Not yet! Why don’t you switch on the TV?’

  ‘Why? Are you tired of speaking to me?’

  ‘You might find it interesting.’

  I pick up the remote and find the news channel, and it’s filled with pre-election promises, political gaffs, and interviews with junior ministers. There’s one person whose face is very familiar.

  ‘Raymond Harris,’ I mumble under my breath.

  Peter stops tapping his keyboard, and we listen to the conversation on the screen.

  ‘It’s imperative that we have more social housing in our society. We need to provide for the homeless. We have far too many millionaires already—’

  A female from the opposition party interrupts him. ‘But we need foreign investment in the country. Just because we left Europe, it doesn’t mean we don’t welcome our overseas investors—’

  Raymond’s eyes darken. ‘You mean Russian oligarchs—’

  ‘I mean people who bring wealth to our city—’

  ‘It isn’t their wealth we need. We need a government who helps …’

  ‘If I can interrupt you both there,’ the newsreader says with a smile. ‘Thank you for coming on the programme today to discuss the plans for the vacant building in Islington. It’s an eyesore for the locals. Our politicians can’t agree. Should it be a multimillion-pound high-rise investment for rich millionaires who want to invest in our country? Or a place for hundreds of British people who can’t afford their own home – this could be a valuable opportunity for the local homeless people and those living on the breadline in north Islington. Send us a message on Twitter or contact us by email. Thank you for your insight today. I’m sure this will be resolved soon, perhaps even before the election. Meanwhile, let’s see what’s happening outside where you are. Here’s Alan with the weather …’

  As the camera pans to the daily forecast, Peter reaches to mute the volume.

  ‘That’s the building where Sandra is filming,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know there was such controversy about it.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ Peter says with a grin. ‘But that newsreader certainly got under Raymond’s skin. He appears very angry. He wants the building for the people in his constituency – and we both know why.’

  * * *

  It’s mid-morning. I can’t contact Marco as he’s still at sea, so I’m comparing daggers – quality and engravings.

  Peter stands up from his computer and walks over to the window, staring out across the London skyline.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  He scratches the bristles on his chin and then turns his attention to me. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he says softly.

  ‘What sort of problem?’ I close the lid of my laptop, because when Peter is serious, I know there’s trouble.

  ‘I’ve been looking at CCTV from the night Ali died. Come and have a look.’

  We sit at the table together, and I study the screen.

  ‘Here’s the grey Audi, with the same registration you gave me, the night you saw that boy abducted from the flats. Then here’s Raymond Harris’s office in Islington. It’s a five-minute walk from the Angel, where we met Joachin last night. Look, the car is parked in the same street. You can see part of the front car number plate, so we can assume it’s the same car. We can’t see who gets in or out but look here …’ He points at footage from another CCTV camera.

  ‘I recognise his walk and his mannerisms,’ I mumble. ‘He’s also wearing his flying jacket over his hoodie.’

  Ali is walking confidently in the same street as Raymond’s office, with his grey hoodie over his head and his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Did Ali go and see Raymond Harris after he came back from Morocco – the night he died?’

  ‘We can’t see that he actually goes inside Raymond’s office. But Ali disappears for fifteen minutes between the CCTV camera at this end of the street, and this camera at the junction of the next road. It’s 18:22 here, and 18:37 here.’

  Peter
pulls out a map.

  ‘Here is the Audi.’ He uses a stub of his finger to point. ‘And here is Raymond’s office.’

  I stare at the map, imagining the street view in my head.

  ‘Ali didn’t take fifteen minutes to walk that short distance and there’s no pub or other buildings he could have gone into, so he must have gone into Raymond’s constituents’ office.’

  ‘Was the car following Ali?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s facing in the opposite direction,’ Peter explains.

  ‘The occupants of the car didn’t follow Ali?’

  ‘It was already parked in the street.’

  ‘The people in the Audi knew Ali was heading to Raymond Harris’s office?’ I ask.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘So, I was wrong – it wasn’t a corrupt policeman that tipped off the Asian and told him where to find Ali,’ I muse, ‘but Raymond?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but it could possibly be someone who works in Raymond’s office.’

  While Peter and I sit watching the CCTV recording again in silence, I think about the implications of the possible involvement of one of Raymond Harris’s employees in the drugs cartels.

  ‘You know what this means,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ali knew something.’

  ‘What could it be?’ asks Peter.

  ‘I don’t know, but I have to find the Asian quickly or none of these kids will be safe.’

  ‘We should tell Joachin.’ Peter taps his fingers on the table. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘His friend is Chief Inspector Mulhoon. None of them will want a political scandal before the election next Tuesday.’

  Peter doesn’t reply.

  ‘We can’t trust anyone,’ I add.

  ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘Can you check Ali’s phone record and see who he contacted? Who did he phone that afternoon? We need to find out how high this goes; Mulhoon said he lost two men – two undercover officers. Someone must be supplying information to the Asian.’

  ‘But would Raymond Harris have known about them?’

  ‘I doubt it – maybe – who knows? But it must be someone quite high up to have that level of information,’ I say.

  ‘Ali must have found something out – and that level of information cost him his life.’ Peter looks at me.

  ‘If the Asian is a paid employee, then there’s someone higher.’ I lean toward Peter and list on my fingers. ‘We need to find out who Ali met, find the Asian, and if there’s a dagger we have to steal it.’