“Maybe. But we’ve been around his usual haunts and we can’t find him anywhere. He’s disappeared, just like that.” He clicked his fingers. “If he turns Queen’s evidence we’re well and truly stuffed. If you could help, our mutual friends in the Caymans will have the final payment on your mother in law’s house settled.”
“That’s very good of you,” Radlett acknowledged. “If Conn does show his face, I’ll make sure you get to talk to him first.”
Chapter 47
New Scotland Yard, London.
Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 11am.
Ashley Morgan sat with her arms resting on the grey-blue laminated table top. Her lawyer was sitting beside her, leaning back in his chair, spectacles halfway along his nose, making notes on a yellow legal pad. The interview room was the usual spartan space. The dull grey walls matched the laminate table and the thin carpet was mid blue, the same colour as the chair upholstery. Someone obviously thought that this colour scheme would be calming.
Ashley was dressed in a navy blue trouser suit which hugged her enviable figure, over a pale yellow blouse with lace trim. Her lawyer, the eminent Kelvin Grainger, was as grey as the room. His dark hair was flecked with white and it was longer than it should have been. His sallow skin suggested that he didn’t take advantage of the summer sun.
DCI Coombes and DS Scott had completed the preliminaries and had read out Ashley’s initial statement, taken in the hospital.
“Do you stand by your statement?” DCI Coombes asked pointedly. Grainger looked over the top of his glasses and spoke for his client.
“Chief Inspector, my client remembers no more than she did then and so we can take the statement as read, and as it was signed earlier there is no need for further attestation. Can we move on?” Ashley smiled sweetly.
DS Scott then ran through all of the concerns that had been raised by the Scene of Crimes team and the forensic lab. Ashley’s smile faded as she heard that the story she had told about the Belgians being in the Rectory had been comprehensively discounted.
DS Scott then disclosed the blood test and the analysis of her stomach contents, sharing the paper reports with Mr Grainger, who held his glasses up and read as DS Scott continued speaking.
“The blood tests suggest that the GHB that you had taken had not properly metabolised, and so it should not have had the effect on you that was alleged in your statement. The stomach contents confirm the blood test results in this respect. However, the hospital report suggests that you had traces of recreational Class C drugs in your system. Cocaine is the term lay people tend to use for that drug.”
DS Scott passed the analysis over to Grainger, who remained calm and asked, “Presumably you have samples available for us to have tested independently?”
“We do,” Scott responded confidently, “but of course the samples will have metabolised to a different extent after this length of time. That is why we took the liberty of sending out a second sample immediately to an independent lab, who reached the same conclusions.”
Grainger looked over his glasses at Scott, the lawyer’s face an impenetrable mask. “If I understand your position as it stands today, you have now moved away from your original position of seeing my client as a victim and now see her as a suspect.”
Grainger was about to go on when DCI Coombes interjected.
“Actually, as there were only two survivors in the premises at the time of the deaths, we considered both to be suspects. It was only out of concern for the frailty of your client’s mental health that we chose to keep our concerns to ourselves until the test results were available.”
“I see. So you view both Ashley and Ben Fogarty as suspects now?”
“At present, that seems to be the only sensible explanation,” DCI Coombes answered.
“Perhaps to you, Chief Inspector, but not to those of us with an open mind.” The lawyer smiled nastily, and Coombes bristled silently. DS Scott broke the uncomfortable silence. “We also have this lab report, which came in recently.”
DS Scott handed the final report to the smirking lawyer, who stopped smirking as he read the lab’s conclusions. Scott continued. “In short, Ashley, the crime scene techs lifted two palm prints from the side of the bath. They were a match for yours.”
“Hardly surprising when you consider I was in the bath when I was found,” Ashley countered.
“According to your statement you were lifted into the bath by others, and we know the paramedics lifted you out. But these palm prints are consistent with someone lowering themselves into the bath with their hands like this.” DS Scott role played someone lowering themselves into a bath by placing their hands on the rims of the bath.
“My client has used that bath in the past. Those prints could have been old ones. Come on, Chief Inspector, this is very tenuous. It is certainly not enough to impugn a woman whose character is unimpeachable and who was abused and drugged during the commission of a multiple murder.”
“We believe that the final finding will be enough to convince a jury that Mrs Morgan is not an innocent in these events. You will see on page 2 at the top of the page under the heading; ‘Phlebotomy’. Within the palm prints were microscopic traces of blood.”
Ashley’s face looked ashen. There was more.
“The blood was that of Dennis Grierson and Lawrence Garner.”
The lawyer tried to hide his concern, but the effort pinched his face and his lips tightened.
The two detectives saw the signs and knew that they had unsettled Ashley Morgan’s defence. What they didn’t expect was the outburst from Ashley.
“I can’t live with this any more. I have a confession to make. I lied before, but now I’ll tell you the truth.”
She broke down in tears as her lawyer looked on, open mouthed.
Chapter 48
Vine Street Crescent, Tower Hill, London.
Tuesday 23rd August 2011; Noon.
Ben was alone in the apartment. Max had a meeting with a contact somewhere in North London, and so he set about finalising the sale of the Rectory to the School Governors for the agreed price. The contracts had been written up by a conveyancing agency in Blackheath at a fraction of the cost of a City law firm. The school was anxious to exchange contracts and to complete before the new school year, because they were already oversubscribed in years 1 and 2 as well as in pre-school.
Ben ensured that all of the documents had been signed before he agreed to the exchange by DX, a British Lawyers’ postal service, he had been told, at 4pm. Packing up the contract and the memorials into a sturdy envelope, he sealed it and addressed it with the name of the School’s solicitors and their DX number. At 4pm the administrators for Blackheath Voss Properties would receive a deposit cheque for one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, a cheque ultimately destined to go to Ben’s sister as the last remaining shareholder of the single purpose company.
The artwork had already been sold pre auction, or it would be offered at the auction on Thursday, and the creditors had already been satisfied from the cash proceeds, so Ben was almost done. The total assets of Horrsen-Vert would be in the region of one point eight million pounds. Taking into account the administrators’ fees and his own fee, Ashley stood to inherit around one and a half million pounds, which did not include whatever equity Lawrence left in their London home. Not a bad result for a thirty year old who was already earning a six figure salary.
The doorman rang to tell Ben that a courier was waiting downstairs, and so Ben had him sent up. Ben signed for the despatch and the courier took the contract and set off to deposit it in a borrowed DX box.
***
Ben was wrapping up the remainder of the Blackheath Voss documents when he came across the spreadsheet prepared by Gavin Mapperley for the Rectory Rescue Plan. Clearly, Mapperley had been acting for Grierson at the time, because the rescue plan was proposed by Grierson and, recognising the weak position of Lawrence Garner at the time, the plan was weighted heavily in favour of Grierson.
Now Max was claiming that Mapperley was fronting up Dennis Grierson’s old criminal enterprises with the blessing of the Belgian drug suppliers, and Ben knew that the man also worked for Ashley, or at least for her employers, Brinkman Garner. Ashley was involved in this criminal conspiracy to some degree; how involved he could only guess.
The mobile phone beside him trilled and he picked it up, answering with a brisk “Hello.”
The caller seemed taken aback by the abruptness of the greeting.
“Oh, hello. Are you the solicitor handling the Blackheath Rectory sale?” The voice appeared to belong to a middle aged Londoner.
“I am, yes. How can I help you?”
“I was given your number by the receptionist who is fielding calls for Mrs Garner. I wanted to speak to her because I am a creditor of Blackheath Voss. I haven’t been paid for my consulting work on the Rectory, and I need to lodge a claim as I understand Blackheath Voss are likely to be in funds.”
“The Blackheath Voss administrators will handle that. Let me take your details and I’ll pass them onto my contact there.” Ben took a pen and was ready to write.
“Right. My name is Trevor Pannell and my address is 106 Staverdale Road, North London, just up from the Emirates Stadium.”
Ben was speechless. The man who, twenty years earlier, sold his mother’s details to Dennis Grierson, was talking to him on the phone but clearly had no idea who he was. This man had caused the death of Ben’s mother, just as surely as if he had been driving the car that mowed her down. A red mist descended over Ben, but he spoke calmly.
“Listen, Trevor. I think I can sort this out. Let’s meet up and I’ll see to it that you are repaid in full for what you’ve done.”
***
Ben recalled hearing that Trevor Pannell had been involved in the acquisition of the Rectory somehow, but he couldn’t remember what his involvement had been. Ben dialled a familiar number.
“Jeremy Fraser speaking.”
Fraser was the Administrator for Blackheath Voss and so had been in constant contact with Ben for a week.
“Hi, Jeremy. Ben here. I wonder if you can help me. I just came across a reference to a Trevor Pannell, who might be owed some money. Are you dealing with it?”
“Hold on, I’ll check the computer. Yes, here he is. Three thousand two hundred pounds in consulting fees, work in relation to planning approval. The invoice is on hold.”
“Why?” Ben asked, somewhat puzzled.
“Because he was paid for his work as property manager in 2010, but we think this invoice was for Pannell to bribe officials so that they would allow the Rectory to be split into apartments. Firstly, we don’t pay criminals, and secondly, the application to convert to flats was lost in appeal. Pannell won’t get a penny, don’t worry.”
Ben thanked the accountant and disconnected. He had two hours to prepare for his meeting with Pannell.
Chapter 49
New Scotland Yard, London.
Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 1pm.
The meeting with Ashley Garner and her somewhat subdued lawyer resumed at just after one o’clock in the afternoon.
“Gentlemen, let me point out that my client killed no-one, but she wants to tell the truth, here and in court, so that the real murderer does not escape justice. In so doing, she wants a deal. She does not want to face time in jail for wasting police time, when she was disoriented and under the influence of drugs, or for attempting to pervert the course of justice. Can we get that in writing?”
“No, I’m afraid we can’t,” DCI Coombes answered firmly. “We can’t make deals like that these days. The CPS will decide, not us.”
“OK. Would you recommend to the CPS that they drop these charges in return for testimony? I can’t imagine they would go against the Met’s recommendation when a murder conviction is on offer.”
“If Mrs Garner agrees to testify, and if the CPS believe that, with her evidence, we can secure a conviction, we will make a recommendation and frame it as you wish. Now, can we get on?”
Grainger accepted DCI Coombes’ compromise and asked Ashley Garner to explain what really happened in the Rectory on that fateful night, and what she saw. The digital recorder picked up every word of her story.
“I was obliged to be at the Rectory that night because Dennis Grierson was meeting with some important suppliers from Belgium. Lawrence and I believed that we were going to be having dinner at the Rectory. I realise now that all the signs indicated that there was going to be no such dinner, but what Grierson’s intentions were I shudder to think. Anyway, I was about to start to get ready for the dinner when Grierson told me that he had Ben Fogarty in the cellar and that I might like to take him his last meal. He laughed in such a way that I knew he was serious. So, I prepared something for Ben and took it down to him.
I slipped Ben the spare key for the locked door of his room, and told him to wait until the dinner was underway and to quietly unlock the door. I said I would try to get some sleeping pills into Lenny, but even if I didn’t he should have been no match for Ben if he was taken by surprise. I told Ben he could escape through the ground floor study. I would ensure that the door and the windows would be unlocked.
Ben wasn’t happy. He paced around like a caged animal and his face was terrifying. It was the look in his eyes, mainly. I knew that if they tried to hurt him he would take some of them down with him. He told me not to worry; I wouldn’t have to pander to Dennis anymore. I assumed he meant that he would shop Dennis to the police as soon as he was out. He then said that Lawrence was a worthless fop for selling me to a criminal and betraying Ben’s trust. I could see he was out of control, but there was nothing I could do without alerting Grierson.
I was in the bathroom with the door closed when I heard a popping noise. I opened the door and saw Ben with a gun in his hand, and Lawrence was lying dead on the bed. I screamed and shook Lawrence, hoping for signs of life, but I knew, really. I was beside myself with grief. All the while Ben just stood there, emotionless, his face like stone. I eventually blurted out “What have you done, Ben?” He said, quietly and calmly, “They were all scum, Ashley. You’re safe now”.
Realising what he meant, I ran from room to room. I found Dennis first. His throat had been cut. I checked for a pulse, but I knew it was pointless. Then I went downstairs and saw Lenny. Ben was waiting for me when I came up from the cellar.
Ben rifled through the drawers upstairs and found what we thought was GHB. The letters were imprinted in each pill. Ben told me what to do, assuring me that rescuers would arrive before the pills took full effect, and he held my head above the water as I dozed off. I guess he was surprised that the tablets were so fast acting, but I hadn’t told him that I had done a couple of lines of coke earlier to help me through the evening. He rang the emergency number whilst he held my head up, and the next thing I recall was waking up in hospital.”
The story sounded logical, told with tearful emotion, and it explained all of the forensic evidence, yet neither detective was convinced by what they had just heard. They both believed that they had witnessed an Oscar-winning performance, but they were not in the least convinced by her story. The problem, however, was that it might appeal to the CPS.
The two policemen had no option. They had to let Ashley go on her own recognisance, whilst applying for an arrest warrant in the name of Benjamin Ambrose Fogarty.
Chapter 50
Regus Offices, 1, Liverpool St, London.
Tuesday 23rd August 2011; 3pm.
Blackheath Voss was essentially a paper company, and therefore had no need of permanent offices. Instead, the company had an arrangement whereby they used office space by the hour or day with Regus at 1, Liverpool Street, centrally placed in the City and close to the tube station and railway station. As their legal representative, Ben had used the facility a couple of times and it seemed best to use an anonymous location for this meeting.
Ben stood at the window of the small meeting room, gazing out of one of the long t
hin windows. The room was furnished with a light coloured wooden table with a chair at either side, each one behind a leather desk protector. The magnolia walls were lifted by an anonymous piece of colourful modern art.
He heard a polite knock at the door, before the Regus secretary entered at his behest and introduced Mr Pannell. Ben smiled in greeting and ushered in a man who was close to pensionable age but who looked much older. Trevor Pannell had not worn well. Ben pulled out the chair which had its back to the window and invited his guest to sit. Ben then took the seat opposite, with his back to the door. Trevor Pannell dipped his hand into his inside pocket at produced a sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of an invoice. Ben looked at the headed paper; ‘Pannell Consulting, Victoria Pannell, Sole Proprietor’.
“So where is Victoria?” Ben asked, to open the conversation.
“Oh, that’s just a tax dodge, really. Vicky wouldn’t have a clue. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your first name. I know you only as Mr Ambrose, a lawyer from New Zealand.”
Obviously the Regus secretary had played her part well. Ben hadn’t wanted Pannell to be scared off by the name Fogarty. Ben wasn’t sure whether his guest would even remember leaking Siobhan Fogarty’s whereabouts twenty years ago. After all, she had been using a different surname by then.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Ambrose is my middle name. It seems to sit well with other lawyers, but people usually call me by my first name, which is Ben. Ben Fogarty.”
There was no immediate recognition from Pannell but, with his untidy thinning grey hair and milky eyes, Ben suspected he wasn’t the man he once was.
“So, Trevor, you heard about poor Dennis Grierson. Awful affair. I was the one who called the police.”
Fogarty Page 24
