Fogarty

by J Jackson Bentley

  The main entrance was around the side of the building in a courtyard, and it had blue painted wooden double doors in a glass panelled surround. The final entrance was a roller shutter door about the size of a domestic garage door, which was presumably used for deliveries. The roller shutter door was electrically operated and the key operated switch was on the brick wall beside the door. As an additional security measure, the door was padlocked closed at the bottom, making its use as an exit impossible.

  As they watched the building they could hear the muffled thump, thump of the press. Ben wondered how the home owners on Wandsworth Road put up with it. Any doubts that they may have had about this being a legitimate night shift disappeared when they saw the hoodlum guarding the front door.

  “OK, let’s stick to the plan,” Max said softly. “If I get into trouble you come steaming in with one of those famous rugby tackles of yours, OK?”

  Ben nodded. The two men walked up Miles Street, carefully remaining out of sight of the guard. Just as they were about to walk into the guard’s field of vision, Ben stopped and Max walked on alone, singing out loud.

  ***

  Paulie, as he was known to his mates, hadn’t finished school. To be strictly accurate, he’d barely started before he was playing truant more often than he attended. As a result he was twenty two years old and he could barely read or write, but in this game you didn’t need academic skills. You needed simply to look, and be, hard.

  He didn’t mind this gig in the spring, summer and autumn, but it could be a grind in the winter. All he had to do was guard the door and make sure he kept any nosy parkers away. That was easy. He rarely saw anyone on his shift; this was mainly a daytime office complex and it was on a one way street. Anyone approaching in a vehicle at night would be obvious because they had to come under the dark railway tunnel halfway down Miles Street, and pedestrian traffic was almost non-existent. Paulie was, therefore, more than a little surprised when he saw a drunk careening in his direction.

  The man couldn’t maintain a straight line. He was almost shaven headed and had what looked like the remnants of a tattoo on his neck. He was singing a discordant version of ‘Flying Without Wings’ and Paulie couldn’t help smiling. This man was a happy drunk, not like Paulie’s dad. He had been a violent drunk and Paulie had often been his punchbag. The man saw Paulie and turned off Miles Street into the mini industrial park, grinning. Paulie stood tall and put on his best menacing look. The man looked as though he was going to engage Paulie in conversation.

  “Hold it right there, pal. This is private property.”

  The man looked puzzled for a moment, then took out an aerosol and appeared to spray it into his throat. He must be freshening his breath, Paulie thought. The man took another step forward and grinned drunkenly.

  “Can I interest you in some mountain fresh mint spray?” The man slurred as he pointed the spray towards the guard. Paulie shook his head and approached the man, ready to usher him back into the street. All at once the man depressed the plunger on the aerosol and a fine mist coated Paulie’s face. It took a moment for Paulie to realise that the spray wasn’t breath freshener after all. Whatever it was, it blinded him and it stung like hell. Rubbing his eyes instinctively, and making matters worse, he swore. He didn’t see the kick coming, but he felt it. His testicles were mashed by the drunk’s boot and he began to fold at the waist. As he doubled over, still blinded by the spray, a hard knee came up under his chin. Paulie’s head snapped back and the world went black.

  ***

  Ben heard the crack of the man’s neck from five yards away and ran to join Max. Max’s clinical attack had left the guard unconscious in less than thirty seconds. This was no ordinary journalist, Ben thought.

  Max tested Paulie for a pulse. He, too, was concerned that in his rage over Mary’s death he might have hit one of the gang responsible a little too hard, but Paulie’s pulse was regular. The two men moved Paulie out of sight behind a large skip. As they set him down, they heard a noise. It sounded like metal hitting concrete.

  “Well, well,” Max said. “Our friend here was carrying. Excellent, when the police arrive he can explain why he’s carrying an unregistered gun.”

  Ben checked the unconscious man’s pockets and withdrew the expected cell phone, which he handed to Max. In accordance with the plan, Ben then pulled a green wheelie bin from its place beside the skip and trundled it around to the front of the building. The wheelie bin, about four feet tall and two feet square, was then tipped on its side and wedged between the fire door and the wall. It didn’t quite fill the space, but anyone trying to push open the fire door from the inside would be able to open the door no more than four inches, which was nowhere near enough to squeeze through.

  Max, meanwhile, was looking through the glass panels by the side of the door. He could see the reception area, which was dark and deserted, but he could clearly hear the whump, whump of the pneumatic press.

  Everything was going according to plan. The two men stood together out of sight of the houses opposite and the main road and, using Paulie’s mobile phone, Max dialled 999. Ben listened as Max adopted yet another voice; this one was an accurate rendition of a frightened Indian man.

  “Please come, come quickly. There have been gunshots. Someone may have been killed. They are shooting out of a building at the corner of Miles Street and Wandsworth Road. We are in danger here.” Max took the phone from his ear as the emergency operator said that the police were on their way and could he stay on the line.

  “That’s do-able,” he said to himself as he dropped the phone, with the connection unbroken, in Paulie’s lap.

  ***

  Max had said that the police kept vans all over London, with armed response officers at the ready, and the time it took for the police to arrive depended on how close they were parked. Max figured they had at least five minutes.

  Max ran around to the front of the building carrying Paulie’s gun and shot out four of the upper floor windows, using less than half of the bullets in the Browning’s ten-round magazine. Ben stood at the reception door and loosed off four blanks. People could now be heard screaming inside the building, and the fire door came open before shuddering to a stop when it hit the up-ended wheelie bin.

  Max joined Ben at the reception door, and out of sight of the houses opposite, then, after ensuring that the reception area was still deserted, he fired four rounds through the wooden doors, sending splinters everywhere.

  Panic was rife inside the building and lights started to come on in the neighbouring houses. Max placed Paulie’s gun back in the unconscious man’s belt band and he and Ben strode quickly away up Miles Street. They turned left behind the houses onto Bondway, keeping tall walls between them and the house windows. Walking normally, so as not to arouse suspicion, they crossed Perry Street and carried on walking away from the scene of chaos they had left behind. Five minutes later, having taken a circuitous route, they arrived back on Wandsworth Road in time to see unmarked police cars and vans speeding off in the direction of Metal Tokens Limited, lights flashing and sirens blazing.

  A cabbie waited on the taxi rank outside the Wandsworth Tube station, reading a newspaper with his light on. Max approached him and, in a strong American accent, he asked for himself and Ben be taken to Tower Bridge Station. The cabbie folded his paper, took off his glasses and placed them on the dashboard before pulling away with his two passengers.

  A moment later the cabbie had to stop to allow three squad cars to cross in front of the cab and head down Wandsworth road. Still using his American accent, Max asked, “Say, that’s a hell of a lot of police vehicles. What’s going on around here?”

  “Dunno, mate. Somebody probably made a homophobic remark.”

  Ben and Max both laughed, mainly from relief, and the cabbie smiled, well pleased with his witty repartee.

  Chapter 43

  Lambrook House, Peckham High Street, London.

  Monday 22nd August 2011; 11pm.

 
; The black BMW approached the junction of Peckham High Street and Clayton Road slowly, hoping that the traffic lights would change to green by the time he reached them, but the lights stayed on red and so the car came to a stop and waited. The last vestiges of light were still visible in the sky to the west, even though it was eleven o’clock at night. As they waited for the lights to change the car’s occupants glanced around. On their left stood Gaumont House, a purple metal clad residential building which filled the large corner plot left behind when the old Peckham Gaumont cinema had been demolished years earlier. The car driver remarked that, if you had to live in Peckham, Gaumont House would be as good a place as any to be. It was stylish, modern and was bedecked with shiny metallic balconies overlooking the High Street.

  The lights changed and the BMW turned right onto Clayton Road. On their right hand side was Flamborough House, where they could safely park their car, and on the left hand side they could see Lambrooke House, their destination. Lambrooke House largely overlooked Peckham High Street. The ground floor was mostly made up of small independent shops and empty retail units, with deck access flats above. The building was faced with sandy coloured brickwork for the most part, bisected with eighteen inch thick concrete slabs at every floor level. The BMW driver said that, in his opinion, if you had to live in Peckham, you wouldn’t choose Lambrooke House.

  ***

  Rafe sat across the table from his two colleagues. He had been expecting a visit from someone; he was relieved when it wasn’t the police. Lambrooke House may not have looked like much from the outside but inside the flats were much more spacious than their modern equivalents.

  The BMW’s passenger spoke as his eyes took in the spotless and meticulously ordered flat.

  “Where are Maisie and the kids, Rafe?”

  “I sent them off to her mother’s when the riots started. We live right over the High Street shops, as you can see, and I was convinced that some of the yobs around here would get drunk or get high and join in the rioting. I just didn’t want the kids around.”

  “Sensible,” the BMW’s passenger said honestly. “Look, Rafe. Tony and me, well, we didn’t really want to come around here, but, you know how it is.”

  “I know,” Rafe said, the terror showing on his countenance.

  “Na, na, nothing like that,” Tony said, trying to settle Rafe’s nerves. “What we were told is that Gavin’s police friend is going to put some other poor sod in the frame for the old lady. To be fair, Gavin said she deserved it.” He paused. “Thing is, Rafe, you worked over the Boss’s grandmother.”

  Rafe’s eyes widened, and he looked scared. “No-one told me! How was I supposed to know? Bloody hell, Tony, I’m sorry!”

  Tony held up his hand in a gesture meant to stop Rafe’s bleating. “Calm down. Gavin thinks that, if you write an apology, the Boss might give you a bit of a slap and that will be the end of it.”

  “How much of a slap, Tony?” Rafe asked nervously.

  “Dunno, really. Shouldn’t think it would involve hospital or broken bones, though. Too many questions, know what I mean?” Tony heard Rafe expel an audible sigh of relief. “And, if Jess and me are asked to take care of it, we’ll make it look bad but we’ll go easy on you, won’t we, Jess?”

  “Course we will, Rafe, we’re your mates.”

  ***

  Rafe was careful to use his best handwriting. He was in enough trouble already, and so he wanted his apology to be sincere and neat. The finished note was more or less dictated by Tony. He was the one who had been to college up at Feltham somewhere. Tony even had a certificate of some kind. He was a proper scholar, Tony was. He knew all sorts of things about books and films and things, and he read the Telegraph. Rafe read through the note slowly, not because he was being careful but because it was the only pace at which he could read.

  ‘Sorry, I never meant to hurt the old ladies but they attacked me. Now I done and killed someone. I am heart broken. I’m also deeply sorry for the other old lady. I shouldn’t of done it. It has taken the light out of my soul and darkness is all that is left. Sorry. Rafe.”

  It was a good apology. Rafe liked the last bit about the soul. Tony had suggested that. Rafe decided he would take a beating. After all, he had lost his temper and killed someone. After his punishment he would try doubly hard to get back into the Boss’s good books.

  Tony and Jess stood up. Rafe folded the paper, walked over to Tony and handed him the letter. Tony put it in his pocket. Rafe was just about to thank them when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jess’s hand flying at his temple. It was too late to take avoiding action and the lead filled cosh sent Rafe reeling into blackness.

  Tony took the folded note and laid it on the kitchen table. Being careful not to leave any prints, he wrote on the note, ‘To Maisie’, in block capitals, using Rafe’s own pen. Leaving the pen and the note where they would be found, he crossed the room and opened the door leading to the balcony. Jess asked Tony for some help with the dead weight of Rafe’s body. They made sure no-one was around when they threw the body over the rail.

  “Five floors, Tony. Will that be enough to kill him?”

  “I would think so. If not, he’ll bleed to death. Did you see the blood pooling under his head?”

  ***

  Jennifer Peters was a light sleeper in any event, but it was so sultry at night that she slept with the windows open. An unusual sound broke the stillness, waking her. It took a few moments before she was fully awake, but the sound had disturbed her so she decided to investigate. The scum around here were more than capable of climbing up to her third floor balcony and helping themselves to her belongings.

  Wrapping her bathrobe around herself, she cinched the belt at her waist. The robe was more for modesty than warmth, as the night was warm and humid. She stepped onto her balcony and looked down. She wasn’t sure at first, but as she peered into the gloom she was able to see a shape on the paving at the back of the flats. It couldn’t be what she thought it was, surely? As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she felt her heart lurch as she realised that her suspicions were correct. Between the wheelie bins lay a body, eerily lit by the dim orange sodium security lights. She screamed, slowly composed herself and stepped back into her flat to dial 999.

  ***

  Rafe’s companion on the disastrous visit to the Trafalgar House flats had been heading down Clayton Road on his way to see how Rafe was holding up when he saw Jess’s black BMW turn into the car park in the front of Flamborough House. He didn’t know what they wanted with Rafe but, whatever it was, he knew it wasn’t going to be good news.

  Conn had blurted out Rafe’s name in the flat, he knew he had. Rafe hadn’t noticed because he was so mad, but the old lady had heard. Conn could see it in her eyes. As a result he spent the whole day expecting to get a call saying the police had pulled Rafe in for questioning. After all, how many Rafes could there be in the police records office with his history of violence? Their computers would surely have flagged him up as a suspect, and they should have had him in a cell by now.

  Connall Parker was hiding in the yard behind Rafe’s flat, contemplating events and waiting for Jess and his mate to leave, when he sensed something. Con looked up to see someone falling from the fifth floor. He knew instinctively it was Rafe. He stepped quickly back into the shadows as the body hit the ground with a squelching sound just a few feet away from where he stood.

  “Shit!” Con exclaimed quietly as he wiped a fine mist of Rafe’s blood from his face. “They’re cleaning house. My God! I’m next!”

  Conn ran back up Clayton Street towards home and safety, but he almost stopped in his tracks when he realised that home was never going to be safe again.

  Chapter 44

  Vine Street Crescent, Tower Hill, London.

  Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 8 am.

  Ben was already up and dressed. He was making breakfast and could hear Max in the guest bathroom. They had arrived home quite late and the adrenaline had kept them awake for
hours, and so Max crashed in the spare bedroom. Ben was just about to turn on the grill when he heard a loud knock at the door. Someone had got past the security on the ground floor. Ben immediately knew who that must be; the police.

  Ben opened the door and a dour faced DCI Coombes and DS Scott stood on his doorstep. The New Zealander smiled and ushered the men inside. They muttered a brief greeting. Ben asked them to take a seat and he returned to the kitchen area to finish the breakfast.

  “Would either of you like a bacon sandwich?” Ben asked amiably. Scott opened his mouth to accept the offer, but DCI Coombes stopped him.

  “Mr Fogarty, before we go any further, I am informing you that Ashley Garner is now a person of interest to us in the Rectory murders, as well as being a witness. Are you representing her in any capacity, or do you intend to represent her?”

  Ben set the grill pan down and looked directly at DCI Coombes. “I have no intention of representing my sister, either now or in the future. In fact, I’m rather less certain of her innocence than I was.” He looked down at the grill pan awkwardly, ashamed that he was declaring his suspicions to the police.

  “Now, I’ll offer one more time. Would you like a bacon sandwich?”