Bill broke off again. Vogel could hear a woman, presumably Charlie’s adoptive mother, sobbing in the background.
‘Please go on, Mr Mildmay,’ Vogel encouraged.
‘Yes, well, we knew he could be a bit moody. But can’t we all? We never thought there was anything wrong. Not really. Not enough for us to upset Charlie, to remind him of terrible things we hoped he’d forgotten. We should have done though. We know that now. We were heartbroken when we thought he’d been lost at sea. But this, this is worse, much worse. We blame ourselves, you see. If only we’d told him all of it. Maybe he could have got help. We blame ourselves now for what’s happened. It’s our fault that Molly and little Fred are dead. Our fault.’
Vogel could hear Bill Mildmay stifling a sob.
‘Why do you blame yourself, Mr Mildmay?’ he asked. ‘How on earth can it be your fault that your grandchildren are dead?’
‘Charlie’s parents died the same way,’ replied Bill Mildmay in little more than a whisper. ‘Their car went off the quayside into the river at Bideford, when the tide was in. Charlie was in the back. He got out – we never quite knew how. The police said there was one window open and they think Charlie scrambled through it and floated to the surface. They said an adult would have been unable to make it. But this was a seven-year-old boy, Detective Inspector, desperate to survive. Think what he must have experienced. He never spoke about it. It was as if he’d blanked it out. We thought it was for the best – people didn’t talk things through back then like they’re taught to now.’
Again Bill Mildmay struggled to compose himself. Vogel remained silent, waiting for the other man to speak.
‘His mother was driving,’ Mildmay continued eventually. ‘Charlie’s mother drove her car, with her husband and son inside, into the River Torridge at high tide. We knew that the police always suspected she did it deliberately, but they couldn’t prove it. You see, Charlie’s mother was schizophrenic, Mr Vogel. Seriously so. She’d been in and out of hospitals all her life. And we never told Charlie. My wife and I now think he must have been ill. How else could he have done what he did? We think he inherited his mother’s schizophrenia, Mr Vogel. And we never told him about it, never told him he might be at risk, never gave him the opportunity to be medically checked, to be given the right medication. Looking back, we ignored all sorts of signs. Charlie was always so changeable. Look at his life: one minute he was a hippie leftie, the next he was part of the establishment, a successful businessman. We told ourselves it was all just Charlie. Our loveable Charlie. We wanted everything to be all right, so we told ourselves that it was, and we told Charlie nothing. That, Detective Inspector, is why we blame ourselves for the death or our grandchildren.’
Vogel was thoughtful when he ended the call. It didn’t make any difference now whether or not Charlie Mildmay had been suffering from schizophrenia, but what Bill Mildmay had told him made terrible sense. It explained why Charlie had become so vulnerable. And if Vogel’s assessment of the sequence of events leading to this dreadful night was correct, it explained why he’d proved so susceptible to the manipulative trickery of Stephen Hardcastle.
‘I’m damned sure that bastard is the real villain, boss, and we have to make sure he doesn’t get away with it,’ he told Nobby Clarke after he had filled her in on his telephone conversation with Bill Mildmay.
At the same time another lead was being explored by the technical department. Henry Tanner had called Stephen Hardcastle on his mobile shortly before being shot. The tech boys had now been able to pinpoint where Hardcastle had been when he took that call.
He had not been in his home overlooking the harbour, as he had maintained when questioned following the shooting. Stephen had either been in Traders’ Court or adjacent to it. Vogel was of the opinion that his precise location had been on top of one of the buildings overlooking Traders’ Court.
This evidence established that Hardcastle had lied, and that he had been at the scene of the crime shortly before Henry Tanner was shot.
‘We’ve got enough to arrest him now, surely, boss,’ said Vogel excitedly.
DCI Clarke agreed.
At 4.30 a.m., Vogel, Clarke, Bolton, and a team of uniforms, including an armed response unit, arrived at Stephen Hardcastle’s Bristol waterside apartment. Given the close association with firearms Hardcastle was now known to have, Vogel and Clarke were taking no chances.
They were admitted into Conqueror House by prior arrangement with the caretaker. Hardcastle’s flat was on the first floor.
‘Go on, Vogel, you take the honours. It’s your collar,’ said Clarke.
Vogel led the way, taking two stairs at a time. This wasn’t something he would usually do, but he couldn’t wait to arrest Stephen Hardcastle. He thought the man was despicable. And arrogant with it.
Vogel hammered on the door of number 15. There were two armed response men right alongside him. They told him to stand to one side of the door. Behind them lurked a team carrying an enforcer, the heavy steel battering ram used by UK police to force entry if necessary.
It wasn’t necessary. Although, it did seem a long time before Vogel heard Hardcastle unlocking the door from the inside. He had been on the verge of ordering the two PCs carrying the enforcer to break it down.
The door opened slowly. Hardcastle was standing in the hallway looking bleary-eyed. But if he had been taken by surprise, as surely he must have been, he made a pretty good fist of concealing it.
‘Can I help you, Detective Inspector Vogel?’ he asked pleasantly.
Hardcastle was wearing only a pair of white boxer shorts, which, contrasting with his ebony skin, helped show off his muscular physique. He made no attempt to cover himself.
‘My my, both of you,’ he remarked in his Etonian drawl, registering the arrival of DCI Clarke. ‘And you’ve brought some of your friends too. How lovely. But I’m afraid you’re a little early for breakfast.’
This was some cool customer, thought Vogel. But he too kept his cool as, stony-faced, he began the customary caution.
‘Stephen Hardcastle, I am arresting you on suspicion of having perverted the course of justice, theft, and the attempted murder of Henry Tanner,’ Vogel declared. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Hardcastle remained smiling. If a little stiffly.
‘Prove it,’ he said.
Epilogue
Vogel and Clarke proceeded to do just that. It took time. There were a number of fruitless interviews with Hardcastle, who barely gave an inch at any stage.
And during this period, whilst on police bail, Stephen Hardcastle finally achieved his ambition. Henry Mildmay, now unable to remain in charge himself, made Hardcastle a partner in Tanner-Max, or what remained of it, and handed over the running of the company to him.
This incensed Vogel, who became more determined than ever that Hardcastle be brought to justice.
The weapon used to shoot Henry Tanner was never found. Neither were any computers carrying information pertaining to illicit gun dealing, other than the laptop owned by Charlie Mildmay. However, records were found of Hardcastle having purchased through Amazon the previous year a laptop which could not be accounted for. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The laptop was still under its manufacturer’s guarantee. Hardcastle claimed he’d lost it. He’d left it on a train. It hadn’t been insured.
The IT boys did their wizardry on Charlie’s laptop. Using advanced techniques now available, they were able to ascertain, from pressure on the keys, that Hardcastle had frequently used it. The problem was, he had never denied doing so. Both he and Henry had admitted to hacking into the laptop in order to check up on Charlie after his disappearance.
The police had more luck with the powerboat. They now knew that Hardcastle’s Goldfish had left Instow on the night that Charlie had set off on his supposedly fatal voyage the previous
November, thanks to the emergence of a witness who had initially been reluctant to come forward. Once given assurances that his wife need not hear about his extra-marital adventures at the marina on the night in question, he had given a statement.
And it was already known that Hardcastle had taken the vessel out hours after Henry had been shot.
Forensics were able to prove that the envelope containing Charlie Mildmay’s fateful letter to his wife had been opened before she received it. Both the letter and its envelope bore the fingerprints of Stephen Hardcastle and Henry Tanner.
Most of the evidence was circumstantial, but eventually the CPS made the decision to charge Stephen Hardcastle with all the offences for which he had been arrested, namely: perverting the course of justice, theft and attempted murder.
Eight months later, in January 2015, Stephen Hardcastle stood trial before Bristol Crown Court.
Vogel had been able to ascertain beyond any reasonable doubt, after meticulous dissection of all available records and a certain amount of intercourse with criminal contacts, that no arms or defence materials of any kind had been siphoned off from Tanner-Max and sold on to any criminal elements within the UK.
It was, however, possible to prove that a number of firearms that had been in the custody of Tanner-Max, including at least two Dragunov SVUs, had found their way to ZIPA in Zimbabwe. And Hardcastle’s family links with ZIPA were also easy to prove.
Tanner-Max records showed that a third Dragunov could not be accounted for. The prosecution argued that this was the weapon Stephen Hardcastle had used to shoot Henry Tanner, and that he had disposed of it by taking his powerboat out to sea and throwing the rifle overboard.
Hardcastle denied that he had ever been in possession of the rifle, and he also denied that he had ever received any training in the use of firearms, even of the most unsophisticated nature.
But police in Zimbabwe, anxious to discredit ZIPA, had supplied tangible evidence that Stephen Hardcastle was a regular visitor to their country and had undergone such training with the militant breakaway group.
The prosecution sought to prove that Hardcastle had both opportunity and motive. Janet Porter was a witness for the prosecution. She told the puzzling story of the letter, from the allegedly dead Charlie, which had been withheld from Joyce Mildmay.
Mark Mildmay also gave evidence for the prosecution. He claimed that he had known nothing of the arms brokerage activities of Tanner-Max, over which his grandfather, father and Stephen Hardcastle had presided. His mother had told him that his father had claimed these arms deals were a covert activity on behalf of the British government. He said that did nothing to alter his opinion that the international sales of arms by sovereign nations was morally repugnant. Such was his disgust with all aspects of arms dealing, particularly with regard to chemical weapons, that he had relinquished all claim to Tanner-Max and had now moved to London, where he would, in the near future, be embarking on a new career in banking.
The defence dismissed Mark’s references to covert activity on behalf of the British government as being merely fanciful, and the judge ruled inadmissible as hearsay any reference to it, in terms of Mark’s mother having related to him what his father had allegedly told her.
Charlie Mildmay could no longer speak for himself. A week after his near drowning, and without ever recovering consciousness, he had suffered an aneurism, brought on by his brain being deprived of oxygen when he had stopped breathing. And this time Charlie Mildmay was definitely dead.
Joyce Mildmay was unable to be called to give evidence by either the prosecution or the defence, whether she might have wanted to or not. She was a broken woman who had spent the eight months since the violent death of her daughter and her youngest son in and out of various clinics and mental institutions.
Her doctor was called to the stand as an expert witness, to give evidence on the mental state of both Joyce and her mother Felicity. Felicity was almost as ill as her daughter, and had taken up residence in a Bristol nursing home. On the basis of the doctor’s testimony, neither woman was called to give evidence.
Henry Tanner did take the stand. Since the shooting and the destruction of his family he had lived alone at the Corner House, rarely going out, and with only Geoff Brooking, the driver DCI Clarke had always suspected as being rather more than that, in occasional attendance.
Stephen Hardcastle had been banned from personal contact with Henry, as a condition of his bail, until the impending legal proceedings were concluded.
Henry was incoherent, resolutely vague about the nature of the Tanner-Max arms brokerage, and seemingly unable to remember anything. He even claimed he couldn’t remember whether or not he had seen Charlie’s letter before it was ultimately delivered to his daughter.
He was a terrible witness. Vogel wondered whether it was yet another performance. Perhaps his last performance. Desperately maintaining a lifetime’s discretion regarding the covert activities of his company.
Henry might not be the man he was, but now that his family had abandoned him, Tanner-Max was all he had left. Perhaps he remained determined that his legacy should survive. Which meant he needed Stephen Hardcastle – now the boss of Tanner-Max and the one man who could keep the business going – to be cleared of the charges against him.
To the annoyance of Clarke, Vogel, and the whole Operation Binache team, the attempted murder charge against Hardcastle was reduced to grievous bodily harm.
Hardcastle was found guilty by majority verdict on that and the two other remaining charges, and sentenced to eight years in jail.
For Vogel, the best thing about the trial and its conclusion had been the look of absolute surprise on Stephen Hardcastle’s face when the guilty verdict was read out by the jury foreman.
Vogel had no doubt that the man’s self-delusion was such that he had believed he would get away scot-free.
Throughout the proceedings, both prosecution and defence seemed content to allow the involvement of Tanner-Max in the international brokerage of defence materials to be presented as a transparent part of Britain’s thriving and legitimate armaments industry. Only Mark Mildmay even attempted to suggest anything other, and his evidence was struck from the record.
There was no further mention in court of British government involvement, of encrypted phone calls, of covert deals and counter deals, of shipments of arms being dispatched to secret destinations worldwide in such a way that no one would ever know who dispatched them. Neither was there even the slightest whisper of Mr Smith.
DCI Clarke, still officially stationed in London, had, when necessary, commuted to and from Bristol throughout the proceedings, sometimes staying overnight at the Royal Marriott. On the last day of the trial, after Hardcastle had been sentenced, she insisted Vogel return with her to the Marriott for a large drink.
The guilty verdict was a result, and Hardcastle’s immediate reaction had been most satisfying. But both officers were dissatisfied with the sentence that had been meted out.
‘You’re not going to stick to bloody lemonade or whatever it is you put away after that, Vogel, are you?’ Clarke asked as they walked into the same bar they’d been in when the news had come through about the tragic incident at the Floating Harbour.
Vogel shrugged. He didn’t even like the taste of alcohol. And he doubted it would take away the anger he felt at Hardcastle’s punishment, or lack thereof.
‘Eight years – that means the bastard’ll be out in five,’ he grumbled. ‘After all that work to get a guilty verdict! I’m seriously brassed off, boss.’
‘Aren’t we all, Vogel,’ murmured Clarke laconically.
She didn’t seem to have a lot to say. She had a different way of dealing with her disappointment.
‘Get me another drink, Vogel,’ she instructed.
He did so. Then continued to grumble.
‘It’s been yet another damned cover-up, barely a mention of what lay behind it all: the shady goings on of our bloody government, and your flippin’
Mr bloody Smith.’
‘She’s not my Mr Smith,’ said Clarke.
‘Well, he, she or it sure as hell ain’t mine.’
‘Oh grow up, Vogel,’ instructed the DCI.
She knocked back four large malts in quick succession whilst Vogel looked on in amazement. He knew she liked a drink, but he’d never seen her drink like this before. He was so gobsmacked he didn’t even make a move to leave.
Clarke got drunk quickly. More quickly than Vogel had ever seen anyone get drunk. But, he thought, if you pour whisky down your throat at that speed, something is bound to happen.
‘Know what, Vogel, if you weren’t shuch a boring old happily married fart, I’d take you upstairs with me – I would, honest,’ Clarke said, her words not entirely clear.
Vogel blushed and began blinking furiously behind his spectacles. He so wished he didn’t do either.
‘Would you?’ he asked, not sure whether she was joking or not.
He’d been going to address her as boss, like he always did. Under the circumstances, though, that didn’t seem right. But he could never call her Nobby. How could any man address a woman like her as Nobby?
‘Ma’am,’ he added lamely, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Her eyes narrowed.
‘Yep,’ she said. ‘I would.’
She leaned forward conspiratorially.
‘But only if you’d call me “ma’am” in bed. All right?’
Vogel’s blush deepened. His blink rate increased. In common with most of her colleagues he knew next to nothing about DCI Clarke’s private life. The rumour, based on her being spotted by one of the biggest gossips in her old MIT unit strolling through St James’s Park with an arm across the shoulders of another woman, whom she had also been seen with on more than one other occasion, was, of course, that she was gay. And this woman was clearly her life partner.
‘Aren’t you spoken for, ma’am?’ he asked, more directly than he’d intended.
‘Yep,’ she replied, grinning wickedly.
Vogel found more courage. The boss was drunk, after all. He could probably get away with saying anything.
Death Comes First Page 33
