Fogarty

by J Jackson Bentley

  ***

  “What makes you ‘less certain’ of Ashley’s innocence than you were previously?” DS Scott asked through a mouthful of bacon sandwich.

  “Yesterday my grandmother was hospitalised and Mary Akuta died, as a result of a brutal attack on them by a hooded gangster called ‘Rafe’ and his companion. My Gran said the attack was probably promulgated by their call to the police on Sunday afternoon.”

  “Are you suggesting that someone tipped these people off about the phone call?” DCI Coombes asked.

  “It was a terrific coincidence otherwise, don’t you think?” Ben responded. “I guess we all have a bad apple or two in our organisations, and I’ve just been reading about policemen taking cash from News of the World journalists.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read,” Coombes answered gruffly.

  “You can believe that!” a voice called out from behind the two detectives. They both turned in unison to see the owner of the voice.

  “Meet Max Richmond. He shares your suspicions about my sister,” Ben explained.

  A more formal introduction took place, Max shaking hands with the two detectives. “I gave evidence of payments being made to journalists two years ago to a DCI Trevor Griffiths. He rang me later and said I wouldn’t be needed to give evidence in an independent enquiry because that matter was being handed over to another force. I think he believed that the sordid relationships between some of my corrupt colleagues and some of yours would be kicked into the long grass. Anyway, I was warned not to do my own investigation by my editor.”

  The room fell silent. Both detectives knew that Trevor Griffiths was tasked with rooting out corruption, but that was private police business.

  “Max might have a lead for you, anyway,” Ben stated, bringing the discussion back to the present. DS Scott took out a notepad and the two detectives listened as Max explained his trip to Belgium, disguised as Johnny Snake Eyes, and the subsequent events. He noticed that Coombes interest was piqued when he mentioned Gavin Mapperley’s name. Realising that he was the only one who didn’t know who Gavin Mapperley was, DS Scott asked, “Who is Gavin Mapperley?”

  “Don’t you read the DIBs?” Coombes asked, shaking his head.

  “Guv, us sergeants don’t get the Daily Intelligence Briefings, we have to wait until our superiors deign to share them with us.”

  Coombes continued as if DS Scott had never complained.

  “I’m not giving anything away when I say that Gavin Mapperley is one of the most investigated and least charged criminals in London. Initially suspected of financial crimes, he has been interviewed several times by officers investigating gang related violence. He walks every time.”

  “Charmed life,” Max muttered sarcastically.

  “Off the record, I could be persuaded to believe that Mapperley had a contact in the Yard,” Coombes conceded. “But for now, Ben, we need to know where your sister is. We need her to assist us with our enquiries.”

  “I guess she’ll be at the office any time now,” Ben said helpfully. “If not, you could do worse than speak to Vastrick. They’ve been keeping an eye on her for me.” DCI Coombes nodded his thanks. Ben asked, “Chief Inspector, would it be true to say that you’ve uncovered some new evidence implicating my sister?”

  “Why would you think that?” Coombes asked.

  “It’s just that, forty eight hours ago you harboured the same general suspicions as Max here, but now you want her in for questioning, or for something more. I’m guessing that the forensics have turned up some evidence.”

  Coombes thought Ben rather perceptive, but could not confirm anything.

  “Look, Ben, both of you have been very helpful, but until we speak to Ashley Garner we can’t say anything. I will say this, however. Be careful, Ben. Keep your distance, if you can.”

  Chapter 45

  Police Station, 146 Wandsworth High Street, London.

  Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 8 am.

  It had been a busy night, and the desk sergeant was weary. Every cell and room was filled with people involved in last night’s fracas at the Metal Tokens premises. There were detectives from the Yard, local bobbies and a host of Eastern Europeans, all claiming that they needed an interpreter before insisting that they hadn’t known it was illegal to make pound coins.

  The one man missing was one Paul ‘Paulie’ Dobson, who was under guard in hospital accused of carrying and discharging a firearm in a public place contrary to public safety, a charge that could put him away for seven years. “That would be longer than his dad ever served,” the sergeant thought to himself, “but then, his dad never carried. Wasn’t that daft?”

  The desk sergeant ran his pen down the report, ticking boxes as he went. The building had been secured, the specialist pound coin dies and eleven thousand fake coins were on their way to the Royal Mint for examination, fourteen foreign nationals were in custody and the factory manager was being questioned at New Scotland Yard.

  The sergeant set the clipboard down as the senior detective stepped outside onto the High Street for a smoke. The desk sergeant didn’t like smoking. It was a filthy habit, in his opinion, but he was curious to know what was on his superior’s mind, so he joined the detective outside. The detective drew deeply on the cigarette, getting his nicotine fix as rapidly as possible. His eyes squinting against the smoke, he used his free hand to brush his receding hair back into place. Soon he wouldn’t need to. There wasn’t much left at the front.

  “What do you reckon happened, then?” the sergeant asked, opening the conversation. The squat and slightly rumpled detective turned to face Clive, the uniformed sergeant he had worked with in Southwark, and looked at first as though he wasn’t going to give him an answer, but he relented. It would be good to share his views with someone, even if it was just to get the confusing scenario straight in his own head.

  “It looks like a rival gang turned up at the factory and duffed up the guard. Maybe he got a couple of shots off, maybe he didn’t. Anyway, someone shot out the windows and scared everyone shitless, and then they shot into the door to discourage the workers from escaping. Some Indian bloke, maybe a passerby, dialled 999 and presumably the gang heard the sirens and dispersed before we got there. Bloody funny, though, Clive.”

  “What’s that?” Clive asked.

  “No GSR, gunshot residue, on Paulie’s hands. The 999 call came from his phone and no-one, not even the neighbours, saw any sign of the gang making a getaway. The CCTV footage shows no cars in the vicinity, either immediately before or immediately after the shooting. Invisible bloody criminals, that’s all we need, Clive.”

  ***

  The green Jaguar drove along Wandsworth Road, slowing as it passed Metal Tokens Limited. Martin had been roused from his bed early by Mapperley, who was boiling mad about something. In the light of day the light coloured brick building didn’t look too bad. True, it had lost a couple of windows and it was now covered in yellow police tape, but the site of a gun battle? No.

  “I guess we’re not calling in today, Mr Mapperley?” the driver queried, not expecting an answer. Mapperley ignored his driver and took the call coming into his second phone, a non contract phone. He listened for a few moments and then gave the caller an account of what he knew.

  “The police have got the workers in custody, along with Paulie, but none of them knows anything that can link the unofficial nightshift back to us, although Cresty Group is likely to have its assets seized. We tried moving the cash funds online, but the account has been frozen.”

  The person on the other end asked a question. “I think we had about seven hundred thousand in the Isle of Man,” Mapperley responded. He then held the cheap phone well away from his ear, whilst a tirade of invective poured out of the loudspeaker.

  “I think we ought to assume that the Manx authorities will cooperate with SOCA or the National Crime Agency, whatever they call themselves now,” Mapperley replied. “We have to assume that the money is lost and that the transactions
will be disclosed to the police.”

  Mapperley listened again, before speaking once more. “The most important transfers that were made from that account were to Bob Radlett’s offshore account in the Caymans, and to the Panamanian account of Blackheath Voss Properties. If the Panamanians give up Cresty Group’s electronic transfer, SOCA may be able to trace the link between Metal Tokens and the Rectory.”

  ***

  Ashley Garner was enraged; her face was so red and contorted that a seizure seemed inevitable.

  “Gavin, the whole point of money laundering is to have double, triple, even quadruple blinds, separating us from the crimes. Hell’s teeth, Gavin, we pay a fortune in fees to nominee directors in seven countries, and now you tell me that these shell companies might collapse like a house of cards! How could you let that happen? We are supposed to be anonymous!”

  Ashley listened whilst Gavin explained that they could not personally be linked to the companies, and that any evidence of a link would be circumstantial at best, but unfortunately her high profile in the Rectory murders would mean that the police would suspect a link, even if they could not prove it.

  “I’m too angry to speak to you. I’ll call you later.”

  Ashley disconnected the call before saying out loud, “I’ll see you in a box, Gavin Mapperley. If I go down, you’ll be in a coffin!” She yelled the last few words and the sound reverberated around her Canary Wharf apartment.

  Ashley considered whether she should go into the office, where she could be easily found. The flat where she was staying was safe and anonymous. It was owned by Ashlaw SA, a Swiss company she had formed with Lawrence when they married. No-one knew she was here. After thinking it through she decided to maintain appearances. After all, it would take weeks for SOCA to extract the account information from the offshore banks, and by then she could be long gone, if she had to be.

  Chapter 46

  Lambrook House, Peckham High Street, London.

  Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 9am.

  Trevor Griffiths held the evidence bag containing the suicide note and looked at it again.

  “See if there any prints on it other than those of the deceased,” he instructed one of the forensic team.

  “Waste of time, Griff. You should leave it to the professionals. You belong behind a desk doing the professional policing.” The Detective Sergeant sniggered at DCI Radlett’s quip. “It’s obvious. He did it; he topped himself, end of. For God’s sake, the man even left a poetic note.”

  Radlett was grinning, Griffiths was not.

  “I’m going back to the Yard, Radlett. Are you coming?” DCI Griffiths asked.

  “I’ll be in this afternoon to do the paperwork. Come on, Griff, it’s a good result. We found a murderer in twenty four hours. We should be due a commendation, at least!” Griffiths left the apartment without another word. He had a meeting with a certain police telephone operator.

  “Freddie,” DCI Radlett called over to the forensics guy. “Don’t put yourself out on the fingerprint analysis. We know a suicide when we see one.”

  “What about Chief Inspector Griffiths, sir?” Freddie queried.

  “Don’t worry about him. He’ll forget all about it when he starts investigating another real copper who shouted at a violent rapist and abused his right to a quiet life.” Radlett and his DS laughed. Freddie shrugged and bagged the evidence.

  ***

  “DCI Trevor Griffiths, Mr Derek Clegg and PC Janet Horne present at the commencement of the interview,” Griffiths said for the benefit of the digital voice recorder. He pressed a red backlit button labelled DTI, which stood for Digital Time Imprint. An automated female voice read out “ten sixteen and forty seconds a.m.”

  “OK, Derek. You have chosen to have your federation representative with you for this interview, as is your right. Let me commence the meeting by confirming that this is not only a personnel matter, it may also be a criminal matter. If either you or your representative believe at any time that you may incriminate yourself, you can suspend the interview and seek legal advice. Is that clear?”

  Derek looked shocked and scared. He glanced at PC Janet Horne, who nodded and smiled to calm him down.

  “If at any time I believe that a criminal charge is likely to result, I will read you your rights. Is that clear?” Again Janet nodded for her client.

  “Derek, on Sunday afternoon you logged a call on the Operation Bilbao hotline from a group of people who claimed to be from Trafalgar House Flats. Is that correct?” Derek remembered the electronic log had been backed up, and so he said yes for the sake of the recorder.

  “You should have notified the duty officer of that call by the end of your shift, in accordance with procedures, is that correct?” Again Derek confirmed that he agreed.

  “The notification is usually done by either an electronic receipted email or by a paper transfer form from an NCR, or no carbon required pad, is that correct?” Derek answered yes for the microphone.

  “Derek, an old lady died yesterday, and another almost lost her life after making that phone call to the hotline. We need to understand how that happened. There have already been claims that someone here at New Scotland Yard shared that information with the attackers. If that is true, that person will be charged with a series of crimes, the most serious of which is conspiracy to murder, which potentially carries a life sentence. Is that clear?”

  Derek Clegg broke down, sobbing and shaking, before DCI Griffiths could go on, and the interview was suspended for ten minutes. PC Janet Horne was concerned.

  “Sir, I am assuming at this time that you are asking Derek if he has any information that might assist you in finding that person, because if you are about to accuse him I think we need legal advice.”

  “PC Horne, if you listen to the recording you will hear that all I have done so far is explain what has happened. I have asked nothing except whether Derek has understood me. Are you telling me that Derek might implicate himself?”

  “No, sir. Derek has nothing to confess. You can continue.” Derek wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t say so.

  “Look, sir, I had nothing to do with any of it. I passed the message on to the duty DCI, but not the paperwork,” the young man blurted out.

  “What time would this be?”

  “Around eight o’clock. I wrote it down on the....” Derek realised his mistake.

  “On the what, Derek?”

  “I wrote it on the transfer log pad, but I tore it out later, honestly.”

  DCI Griffiths handed the pad to PC Horne, indicating where all three copies of a transfer sheet had been removed. He said what he was doing for the microphone, and PC Horne acknowledged that Derek Clegg was telling the truth and confirmed that the pages were missing.

  “Why did you tear it out, Derek?”

  “Because the DCI said I could be charged for recklessly endangering a member of the public if I didn’t cover it up.”

  “Who was this DCI, Derek? Do you recall?”

  “Of course I do. He scared the shit out of me! It was DCI Radlett.”

  Trevor Griffiths wanted to cheer. Instead, he simply said, “Derek, we need to investigate further. Please go home and speak to no-one, especially the officer you have implicated. Do you understand?” Derek nodded.

  “PC Horne, you are to speak to no one about this, either. Is that clear?”

  The meeting ended with PC Horne’s crisp “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  DCI Radlett sent his sergeant back to the station to begin writing up the report whilst he dealt with a personal matter. It was this ‘personal matter’ which found him sitting in the Riva Sandwich Bar on Borough Road a short time later, eating a hot bacon, sausage and egg roll, when Gavin Mapperley walked in and ordered a tea. The two conversed in whispers as they ate and drank in a corner of the sandwich bar.

  “The Boss has been picked up for questioning by DCI Coombes; they want to have a word with her about some new evidence that has turned up,” Mapperley revealed
.

  “First I’ve heard of any new evidence,” Radlett said, frowning. “I told the Scene of Crimes girl to keep her theories to herself. Are you telling me she needs a talking to?”

  “No. We’ll have to wait and see how it goes. She’s got Grainger with her. It’s costing me a fortune. He’d better keep her out of trouble.”

  “Grainger is probably the best brief in London, don’t worry. When I get back I’ll see what I can find out. They haven’t got anything. They’re shooting in the dark. The last I heard the Belgian theory was being questioned, but it wasn’t out of the equation.”

  “Let’s hope not. Did you hear about the raid on Metal Tokens last night?”

  “Listen, Gav, I’ve tipped you off about raids every time so far, haven’t I? I even persuaded that daft bint in charge of the counterfeit currency team to do the last raid during the day. I can’t be held responsible if the firearms boys are called in to a gunfight.”

  “I’m not blaming you. It’s just that it’s a bit coincidental, with everything that’s going on. I think someone is having a go at us.”

  “If they are it can’t be any of the other teams. I know exactly what they’re all up to. Unless it’s the Romanians, of course. They’re a law unto themselves, that lot.”

  “Thanks for tidying up the Rafe thing. Will the suicide stick?” Mapperley asked as he pushed The Times newspaper across the table.

  “It’ll stick like glue, old friend. Has this got the supplement with it?”

  “It has ten thousand supplements with it. It had to be cash; banking issues.” Mapperley paused to deliver the bad news. “We might need your help on something else. Connall’s gone AWOL, and by now he must have heard about Rafe.”

  “Will he accept the suicide thing and turn up for work as normal tonight?”