Fogarty

by J Jackson Bentley

  Penderley looked at Dennis Grierson, who couldn’t believe his luck. He nodded vigorously.

  “Sir, my client is unhappy about the restrictions on his movement, as any innocent man would be, but he appreciates the difficulties you are working under and so he agrees.”

  By eleven o’clock that night, Dennis Grierson was ankle tagged and back in the Trafalgar House Flats, planning to run.

  Chapter 8

  St Ermin’s Hotel, Caxton St, London, UK.

  Sunday 14th August 2011; 9pm

  After a busy day Ben was ready for his bed, even though it was only nine o’clock, but before he could make a move towards his bedroom the phone rang. It was DC Fellowes and he was ranting about the Crown Prosecution Service and the courts and society in general, but the main purpose of the call was to inform Ben that Dennis Grierson was out on bail and electronically tagged. Despite the DC’s complaints about a suspect facing a charge of attempted murder on a police officer, he was not too worried. Dennis Grierson was locked in one place or another, and on Tuesday Fellowes and Scott would hand deliver the files.

  Ben listened, and replied where expected. He saw advantages in both forms of containment. Out in the community Grierson was free, but he was also vulnerable, and Ben might just be able to take advantage of that vulnerability. He had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. It was his father, calling from the Ranch in New Zealand. Patrick was an early riser but it was still only eight in the morning on Sunday in Masterton.

  “Ben, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Ihaka died peacefully in his sleep last night.” A lot more was said before and after that sentence was uttered, but that was the only sentence that Ben remembered once he put the phone down.

  Ben lay down on the bed, tears welling in his eyes, and tried to remember the first time he had met the old Maori Elder.

  Chapter 9

  Homebush Ranch, Masterton, Near Wellington, NZ.

  Friday 19th June 1991; Twenty Years Ago.

  An eleven year-old Ambrose Benjamin Fogarty waved goodbye to Danielle Morgan, a cousin he didn’t know he’d had until recently, as she left the ranch to return to the UK. She had accompanied the eleven year old all the way to his new home from Liverpool. Ben was sorry to see her go. She was a pretty, bubbly twenty year old who had hugged and kissed the cute little orphan until he was nearly fed up with it, but not quite.

  His new dad, Patrick Vernon Fogarty, was away on business, and Ben, as the locals had taken to calling him, was in the care of Nanni and under the tutelage of Ihaka Nga Hiwi, a very important Maori leader, or so he was told. The other Maoris wore western work clothes and spoke like the locals, but Ihaka was an old school leader; he dressed traditionally and followed the old ways. The old man was wiry but strong, uneducated but wise and stern but caring. He was looking forward to taking the youngster under his wing. By the time he was sixteen and was ready to go walkabout, he would be more Maori than white man.

  ***

  In 1962 George Frederick Fogarty had accepted a job and an assisted passage to Wellington, saying goodbye to his brother Roy, Ben’s grandfather, at the docks. George, Jane and their children, Margaret and Patrick, set sail for the new world with no idea of how successful they would become.

  George was a welder and his wife Jane a tailor. The kids were primary school age when they arrived, but by the time they went to high school Jane already owned her own shop in Wellington. Its name was Todd Latimer – Master Tailor; New Zealand men would never buy a suit from a woman tailor. When Margaret left for medical school in the USA and Patrick was accepted at the university, Latimer’s Tailors were on the high street in most big cities. Within a few years George and Jane had sold up and moved out to Masterton, where they bought a managed ranch from a descendant of the pioneer, Joseph Masters, who gave the town its name.

  ***

  By the time Ben arrived, his great uncle and aunt were long dead, and the population of Masterton was still somewhere short of twenty thousand people. The school was primitive but the next large high school was a two-hour drive away, and Patrick did not want Ben boarding during the week, as most kids did. So, with the help of tutors, Ben was educated locally from 7:30am to 1pm, six days a week. The only other student of his age was Charlotte Baker, nicknamed Lottie, and the two became as close as brother and sister over the next five years.

  After the formal schooling every day, Ben would spend hours with Ihaka and the other Maoris, learning how to hunt, fish, whittle wood, ride bareback and play rugby. Patrick was around most evenings and weekends, as was Lottie. Occasionally Aunt Margaret would take time off from her surgical residency in Auckland’s main hospital and come to the ranch to relax. During her visits she would teach Lottie and Ben biology and first aid, and complain to their parents about good minds being wasted.

  At sixteen Lottie went off to a Wellington Girls’ College to study for her highers, but Ben and Ihaka disappeared for almost three months into the wilderness. Aunt Margaret was livid, but Patrick just shrugged his shoulders. He knew Ben would be safe.

  When Ben returned, adorned with temporary body paint in the form of ta moko, Maori tattoos, he was leather skinned and without an ounce of body fat. After a period of challenges which allowed Ben to move into manhood, Patrick took charge again and ensured that Ben would have a career in western society, at least until he took over the ranch.

  When Ben left Massey University, where he was reacquainted with Lottie, who now preferred to be called Charlie, he had a half decent law degree but also, more importantly, a place in the All Blacks rugby squad.

  After moving out of the Cube Residential block at the university, Ben shared a house with Charlie and another girl. They were friends but they weren’t his girlfriends. Then one evening, two weeks before he started work at a major law firm, he arrived back to find Ihaka on his doorstep. The old man looked uncomfortable in his borrowed jeans and sweatshirt.

  ”Hehu,” the old man began without any explanation of why he was there, “you have more to learn.” In the next two weeks Ben refreshed his hunting skills and was schooled in the use of the Patu. When he thought he knew all that there was to know, Ihaka invited him into the horse paddock for a test. Every Maori worker was present, as was Nanni and Patrick. Ihaka and Patrick were the only two inside the fence.

  “Hehu, I see you on the television screen playing rugby with so called Maoris. You are more Maori than them. Please charge at me and take the ball from me.” He held out an old and battered leather rugby ball.

  At first Ben refused. He was six feet four and sixteen stones of solid muscle; Ihaka was skin and bone. Then Patrick said, “If you get the ball off him in a tackle in three attempts I will buy you a Porsche on your first day at work.”

  Ben raced at Ihaka twice without success. Somehow, by the time he made the tackle, the old man had gone. He had vanished like a wisp of smoke. But Ben had been holding back. On his third attempt, he could already see the Porsche in his mind’s eye. He gave it everything, even anticipating the mysterious Maori sidestep, but he still ended up face down in the dust with no tackle made. To laughter all around, Ihaka danced around comically with the ball held aloft.

  By the time Ben had returned to Wellington he had mastered the move, and he, too, was untouchable. To the western eye he appeared to be able to dematerialise and re-materialise behind the tackler. It was a trick born out of nature. The Maoris were doing no more than mimicking the behaviour of animals sidestepping their oncoming prey, and now Ben was doing the same. The Fogarty sidestep was born.

  ***

  Ben fell asleep with fond memories of Ihaka passing through his mind. He would need his rest, as he had a plan to execute tomorrow. He laid the greenstone Patu on the bedside table. “Goodnight, my friend,” he said to the ancient weapon. “Tomorrow we go to work.”

  Chapter 10

  Trafalgar House Flats, Broadwater Farm Estate, Tottenham, Monday 15th August 2011; 9am.

  Den ‘Psycho’ Grierson had to
be helped into the old upholstered Queen Anne chair his mother had used in her last days. He rested his arms on the armrests and closed his eyes while the pain receded. The beating may have failed to break any bones, but every muscle in his body ached and his kidneys were sore. He had also passed blood in his water for the last couple of days. Barty left Den sitting in the chair and went to make a cup of tea.

  Sitting outside enjoying the sunshine, Mikey kept watch. Times were tense; the Bill had been on The Farm every day since the riots, though not the Trafalgar House section. Den wanted to be warned if the police or any other gangs encroached on his turf. Mikey was sipping from a can of lager and enjoying a cigarette, aware that he was starting the day badly. He was over fifty and, despite being in the gang for thirty years, he had little to show for it. Overall he made more money from his car re-spraying business than he did from crime. His probation officer had opened his eyes last year when she pointed out that if he had spent his time building his business, rather than running around with Den, he wouldn’t have lost his wife and kids, would have had a blossoming business to pass on or sell, and probably a pension. Instead he had a crappy rented flat, an old BMW and twenty thousand pounds sifted away for his old age, which he felt was already here.

  A tall, well built man in a dark suit came onto the Farm through the brick walled gateway and headed straight towards Trafalgar House. He was carrying a briefcase. As he came closer, Mikey stood up. The man was his height, but he was carrying less weight and more muscle. Mikey hoped he wasn’t the physical kind; an altercation with this guy might not bring a good result.

  “You look lost, mate. It’s a bit dangerous for strangers around here. Maybe I can help you.”

  The man smiled and handed Mikey a business card that read ‘Clive Williamson, Solicitor for Kendall Bailey’. Even Mikey knew that Kendall Bailey were a top City law firm.

  “I don’t think anyone is interested in any mergers or acquisitions today,” Mikey remarked, handing back the card.

  “Why don’t you just call Mr Grierson and tell him I’d like to speak to him about his next remand appearance? I’ll wait.” Mikey wanted to punch the arrogant bastard’s lights out, but he held back. Maybe Den wanted to see the brief. Lifting his mobile from his pocket, and without taking his eyes off Clive Williamson, he pressed speed dial number one. The phone was on speaker and both could hear it ring. It was answered with a grunt.

  “Den, I’ve got some bloke called Clive Williamson here, a lawyer, wanting to see you. He’s from Kendall Bailey.” There was a pause.

  “Tell him I’m quite happy with my current brief,” Den answered politely.

  “I don’t think your current solicitor has Kendall Bailey’s power in the courts, nor is he likely to do the case pro bono, or free of charge,” the lawyer said, loudly enough to know he had been heard by Den.

  “I know what pro bono means, you smarmy git!” Grierson hissed over the speaker-phone. “Mikey, let him come up. Barty will meet him at the door.”

  ***

  Barty Tones was twenty stones of muscle and fat, not necessarily in the most ideal proportions. He had been Den’s enforcer for fifteen years but, at forty-three, he was well past his best. Nonetheless, to a preppy lawyer from a City law firm he would no doubt pose a formidable threat. When Clive Williamson smiled and showed no sense of alarm or fear as he was being patted down by a hard man in a wife beater tee shirt, Barty was a little taken aback. Clive was shown in to the lounge and Barty retired to the kitchen. Clive passed his business card to Dennis Grierson, who scanned it briefly.

  “So, Kendall Bailey are doing pro bono work for the rioters, are they? How very public spirited of them. Still, I expect it’s good publicity. Lots of TV time, eh?” The older man grinned; he still hadn’t invited Clive to sit. “Pardon me if I don’t stand up, but those bastards at the Met worked me over good and proper.”

  “I expect you deserved it,” Clive responded without a hint of irony. Den looked shocked. Clive continued. “You can’t beat a policewoman half to death and expect to be given the first pick of the Krispy Kreme doughnuts, can you? That’s always assuming that the toe rags from this estate hadn’t wrecked the Krispy Kreme shop, which of course they did.” Clive smiled. His grin was wide and, Den thought, condescending.

  “I might just get out of this chair and wipe that smile off your face, you poncey turd!” Den was angry but still restrained.

  “Come on, Psycho - you don’t mind me calling you Psycho, do you? It seems so appropriate, somehow. I just want to help you get that nice bracelet off your ankle.”

  Den was fuming and on the verge of ordering Barty to hammer this insolent lawyer into the ground, but free legal advice was better than paying five grand a throw to Penderley.

  “OK, Mr smart arse lawyer, just how do you anticipate getting this bracelet off and having me set free?”

  Clive set his briefcase down on the floor and folded his arms. With a vindictive smile on his face, he replied to Den’s question.

  “Personally, I thought I might hack your foot off with a blunt knife. The tag would fall off and you could hop to freedom. Maybe you could get to Spain and join the rest of the pond life from London who became too old and too stupid to avoid justice.” The lawyer stood and grinned. Den gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles were white.

  “Barty!” Den yelled. “Teach this arsehole a lesson!”

  Barty stood just inside the kitchen door, as if to block the exit. As the lawyer turned to face him, the old bouncer smiled and lifted up his right hand to reveal a hunting knife with a razor sharp blade and an uncompromising serrated edge. Barty expected the city lawyer to be terrified, but the man merely looked bored. Barty was even more surprised when the lawyer shook his head and spoke. “How pathetically predictable.”

  The next thing that happened was lost in a blur of movement. Before Den’s minder could react, the lawyer was standing in front of him with his back to the old bouncer, holding Barty’s right wrist in his iron grip. Somehow the man had moved and spun in one slick movement. The lawyer crashed Barty’s forearm against the jamb of the door. Everyone in the room heard the bones crack. The ulna and the radius were both cleanly broken and the radius pierced the skin, revealing a sharp, bloody bone and torn flesh.

  “Oops, a compound fracture,” the lawyer said sarcastically as the knife skittered to the floor, and then he threw his head back into Barty’s face. The old minder, whose body had long ago gone to fat, fell to the kitchen floor, moaning.

  Seeing the imminent danger he faced from the lawyer, Den began to rise, the adrenaline obscuring the pain from his bruised and damaged muscles, but before he was upright the lawyer threw a punch that hit the gang leader in the chest like a sledgehammer, then threw him back into his old mum’s chair, where he slumped, gasping for breath.

  The man Dennis Grierson knew as Clive Williamson pulled up a chair and sat three feet away, facing the tagged criminal.

  “You aren’t from Kendal Bailey at all, are you?” Dennis Grierson was calm, although he now believed he was looking at his executioner. Ben Fogarty played with the knife as he replied.

  “No, I’m not. Clive was good enough to exchange business cards with me yesterday in the bar at the hotel. I am indeed a lawyer, though.”

  “You’re Australian.”

  “Not quite. Many people think I’m Australian, but I’m actually from New Zealand. I just flew in on Friday to give your name to the police.” Ben took satisfaction from the scowl that crossed Den’s face.

  “I knew no one from around here would have shopped me. Question is, how did you know it was me? You aren’t from around here.”

  “I used to be from here, a long time ago.”

  “Not from these flats. I would know if anyone from these flats was a lawyer or went to New Zealand. I know everything that goes on here. So, what’s your real name?”

  “Ben Fogarty.” Ben watched the blood drain from the face of his biological father. After a stunned silence,
Den found his voice.

  “So, you came to kill your dear old Dad, did you, Ambrose? Kill the man who mowed down your whore mother and made you an orphan. What an irony, being killed by my own bastard kid.” Den figured he might as well go down fighting.

  Ben had visualised this meeting and had replayed the vile things that might be said over and over in his head until his reaction was calm and controlled, as it was now, when faced with the reality.

  “I’m not sure that I want to kill you, actually. You are already destined to go to prison for the rest of your life, and if you don’t - well, I’ll still be here to ensure justice is done.”

  The whole time they had been speaking, Den’s right hand had surreptitiously slipped behind the arm of the chair, where he kept an old Zastava 9mm automatic handgun, an East European copy of the Sig Sauer. His hand gripped the gun, and his finger found the trigger as he raised it into firing position.

  Ben had been watching the older man carefully, and had guessed that he would have protection close at hand. Before the gun was aimed in his direction, Ben raised the hunting knife and arced it down in one swift movement. Den screamed and dropped the pistol as the knife plunged into his left thigh, embedding itself right to the hilt. In fact, the sharp knife went right through his leg, pinning it to the chair beneath.