The two detectives returned with Radlett’s lawyer and as soon as they were seated the digital recorder was restarted.
“DCI Radlett, we have just applied for a court order to seize your assets. We have reason to believe that you have funds in your possession that are derived from the proceeds of crime and that…..”
“Oh, do shut up!” Radlett interrupted impatiently. “I was doing all this when you were sucking on your mother’s tit. My Met salary is paid straight into my account, and I own my own house outright because I’ve been paying a mortgage for twenty years. You can’t take my assets. You know very well they are legit, and I’ll fight you all the way.” He looked over at his lawyer, who nodded in agreement. Far from being offended, the red headed Detective Sergeant smiled benignly.
“We know all about your house, Radlett…” he began, before being interrupted.
“That would be Sir, to you, Sergeant! I am still a DCI until I am told otherwise!” Radlett shouted angrily.
“We know all about your house, sir,” the Sergeant sneered. “It was your other house we were talking about. We’re taking your Belize house and everything in it. We would take your bank funds as well, except for the fact that there are none. You used them all to fund the house purchase.”
Radlett slumped in his seat. All these years he had worked two jobs, one on each side of the law, and now what did he have to show for all his hard work? Nothing. Not even his police pension. It was over. He would fight the charges, maybe he would even escape prison, but he would never come back from this, especially if any of his criminal paymasters turned on him. Mrs Radlett would be more than unhappy. At least there was one glimmer of light; his miserable wife would suffer as much as him. “You have to smile, don’t you?” he inadvertently said out loud, to the surprise of all in the room, not least himself.
***
Mapperley was now sitting between the two leather clad motor cyclists as Max had joined him and Ben on the back seat.
“Bit of an unexpected bonus last night, Gav. You don’t mind me calling you Gav, do you?” Ben asked, smiling. Mapperley refused to take the bait, and so Ben explained.
“We thought that the rats would get Hedo’s shut down and disrupt your cash flow, but then that loony in the robes ran outside, spilling spliffs and white powder as he ran. It was a sight to be seen, Gav. Wasn’t it, Snake eyes?”
Snake Eyes nodded. Mapperley looked at Max.
“You aren’t Johnny Snake Eyes. I’ve seen you before, at the flats.” Max was a little taken aback, but he just smiled.
“We also took out Metal Tokens, Gav. Maybe you’d already guessed, as it came so hot on the heels of you having Mary Akuta murdered.” The green eyes drilling into Mapperley hardened and darkened, causing the older man to shiver involuntarily.
“What do you care about an old black woman? You were avenging your grandmother.”
Max grabbed Mapperley by the collar and spoke for the first time. “I cared deeply about Mary Akuta, Mapperley! You had better be careful what you say or you may find out what a real beating feels like.”
Mapperley backtracked.
“I never ordered anyone to be hurt, you’ll have to take that up with the cretin who took matters into his own hands.” Then, gaining a bit of confidence, he continued. “Oh, but you can’t, can you? He committed suicide out of remorse, didn’t he?”
The two leather clad men tried not to show any surprise. That was one less name on the list.
“We came here to tell you that we’re taking you down, Mapperley. You and every last one of your little army of thugs.”
“You might want to rethink that, Ben. You don’t mind if I call you Ben, do you?” Mapperley smiled nastily. “Especially if you ever want to see May Fogarty again."
“If you have touched a hair on her head…” Ben scowled.
“Don’t worry. She’s being cared for by her grand-daughter and some friends. She was discharged from hospital last night.” Mapperley caught sight of Ben’s surprise. “Oh yes. She discharged herself rather than see her precious grand-son go down for murder. A deal that we might have to renege on.”
Ben pushed his face into Mapperley’s, their foreheads touching. There was concern in Mapperley’s eyes and the stench of fear emanated from his pores. Max pushed Ben back into his seat. Mapperley straightened his tie and composed himself.
“Saturday night at eleven. Be at Carter’s Yard, in Wandsworth. The gates will be open. Just the two of you, no tricks, and bring the money you owe the Boss. If you don’t, May Fogarty will live to regret it, but not for too long.”
“I can’t get to the money without Ashley’s consent, and even then I couldn’t get it in cash.”
“There will be a signed Power of Attorney waiting for you at Pargetter’s offices later today. Martin and I were just on our way to the City to organise it when you rudely interrupted our journey.” Mapperley leaned over Ben and opened the door. “Until Saturday?” he teased. Ben and Max climbed out of the car and watched as it drove away.
Chapter 59
South Colonnade Apartments, Canary Wharf, London.
Saturday 27th August 2011; 7:30pm.
Ashley Garner had just returned from Smollensky’s restaurant, an American Diner which specialised in the type of comfort food that Ashley had craved tonight. Using what was left of her nervous energy, she had speed walked around Canary Wharf, taking the long route back to her apartment in the South Colonnade building. She had barely noticed the impressive skyscrapers surrounding her, such was her intensity of thought.
She was so close now. If all went well tonight, she would have the Rectory money to place into her US Dollar account; you can spend dollars anywhere in the world, she reasoned. Ashley intended to be on the first plane out of the London City airport in the morning, flying to Schiphol in Amsterdam which offered her flights to anywhere in the world. The thought cheered her. In thirty six hours she could be anywhere on the globe, well away from the ever shortening, long arm of the law in the UK. Her preference was for Dubai, where her rich friend and sponsor, Kasim Bin Hamad, had already rented a villa for her under the name of Nicolette Dubarry, a French Resident of the UAE who had recently died in a boating accident in Cyprus, and to whom Ashley bore a passing resemblance. Ashley would arrive in Abu Dhabi using her own passport and adopt Nicolette’s identity after crossing over into Dubai. No doubt Kasim would come calling at some time in the future, seeking payment in kind, but Ashley could live with that; Kasim was swarthy, dark and not unattractive.
Ashley had shredded all of the papers which could incriminate her or indeed lead investigators to her new door. She would be leaving behind property debts and personal debts exceeding her known assets, but she felt no remorse for defrauding the banks who had treated her husband so cruelly in the past. With the eventual sale of the Canary Wharf apartment she would have another half a million pounds to add to her fortune. It would have been impossible for a fugitive from the law to collect the sale revenue from the apartment if the property had been in that fugitive’s own name. No, the police would have sequestered the apartment before the ‘for sale’ sign went up. Fortunately, the luxurious apartment was owned by Ashlaw LLC, a company she and Lawrence set up in the Isle of Man to avoid tax on a property deal that fell through in the crash of 2008. The company would have folded within weeks had it not been for a cash injection from Cresty Group, the legitimate company fronting Dennis Grierson’s illicit trading.
Ashley sank back in her leather Lay z Boy recliner and flicked the TV remote, changing the channel to Sky Movies Premiere, where she watched the latest Twilight movie and forgot her troubles as she journeyed to Forks in the company of vampires, werewolves and the impossibly naive Bella.
***
Ben paced the floor of Max’s parents’ living room as Max himself spread out a map on the coffee table. The modest terraced house in Vauxhall was furnished in an ad hoc manner, with pieces of furniture dating back to the fifties alongside a comfortable th
ree-piece suite in red leather that shouted DFS winter sale. Max’s parents spent most of the year in their double width mobile home in Norfolk. Perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, they managed a small mobile home park for a local operator between the months of April and October. ‘We open with the Easter Bunny and close when the witches come out at Hallowe’en’, Maxwell Richmond Senior was often heard to say in the local pub.
The house had the advantage of being very close to Carter’s Yard, just off Wandsworth High Street on the A3 main road.
“I’m still unhappy about the meeting place, Ben,” Max reiterated. “There are only two ways in and out, both of which can be blocked by a single vehicle. Once we’re in there we might have trouble getting out.”
Ben was aware of the logistical issues but his main concern was the safety of his grandmother. Neither Ben nor Max could try anything until it was clear that May Fogarty was safe, even if that meant giving up the money.
Ben’s busy forty eight hours had started when he picked up the letter of authority that was sufficiently worded to give him entire Power of Attorney over Ashley Garner’s affairs. Pargetter’s were concerned about their professional indemnity insurance and their potential involvement in a breach of Law Society rules. The bank flatly refused to give Ben the money in cash without raising the matter at Head Office. Hours had passed in negotiations before the bank released the cash to Ben, along with an armoured car. The guards were instructed that the money had to be delivered to a secure location or they were to return it to the bank. To ensure that he could access the money freely, Ben compromised and arranged the use of a security box at a central London bank. Even when that was done, Ben was made to sign a disclaimer, a copy of which would be sent to the police to cover the bank in the case of a money laundering investigation. The bag now sat on the floor of the lounge by the door.
In addition to securing the funds, Ben had been running from office to office in the City, organising legal matters and trying to find a chink in Mapperley’s armour. Vastrick Security had helpfully provided a good deal of background information on Mapperley’s operation and, along with Max’s research into Grierson’s criminal exploits, Ben thought he had an angle. It would be touch and go whether his plan would work because it relied on his pursuers at Scotland Yard trusting his information, which could not be guaranteed as long as he was wanted for questioning on a murder charge.
Late on Thursday night, and into the small hours of Friday, he had called home and spoken to his dad in New Zealand. The old man sounded frail and it became clear that he had been suffering from an infection, which had led to pneumonia. As usual the Senator had said nothing about it to Ben, preferring not to burden his ward with bad news. They spoke for over two hours on the telephone and then again on Skype. As frail as he was, the old man organised everything that Ben asked, time being of the essence.
Now, with all legal and practical measures in place, all Ben had to worry about was whether Mapperley intended to let him and May Fogarty live. A letter explaining everything had been lodged with a solicitor in the City, and would be sent to the Metropolitan Police in the event of his death. Mapperley had been angry at that unexpected turn of events when Ben explained his insurance policy to the gangster in their last phone call, the one confirming that he was ready to make the exchange.
“You aren’t listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” A smile played across Max’s lips as he quizzed his friend. Ben wandered over and they looked at the map again, together.
Chapter 60
Carter’s Yard, Wandsworth High Street, London.
Saturday 27th August 2011; 10:55pm.
Carter’s Yard was no more than an alleyway leading from Wandsworth High Street to a car park behind the buildings facing the main road. The yard beyond housed small industrial units, workshops and around fifty car parking spaces. Once in the yard there were only two ways out, and both were little more than a car’s width wide. The yard itself was surrounded by buildings on three sides and by trees on the fourth side. Beyond the trees stood a high brick wall bedecked with razor wire.
The yard was deserted at this time of night, as Mapperley had known it would be. Cresty Group operated one of the few functioning workshops. During the day the yard served as off road parking for council workers and others who worked a few yards along the main road in either direction. The space was poorly lit, with three white lights at waist height mounted atop parking bollards and the dim orange glow of two tall streetlights, whose eerie shadows strayed over the surrounding buildings onto the yard. One further source of light was added to the mix; the workshop under the Cresty Group building had its roller shutter up and a single fluorescent tube offered an oasis of brightness on the dark side of the yard.
Mapperley entered the yard in his green Jaguar. He had been driven by ‘Tug’ Kaplinski, whose first name was unpronounceable but whose lust for killing made him invaluable. Tonight wasn’t a night for Martin, Mapperley’s usual driver, or for any uninvolved witnesses.
As they pulled off the High Street, passing by the grey brick building with a red wooden shop front still bearing the name of ‘WG Child, Fine Tailors’, the long defunct gentlemen’s outfitter, Mapperley’s men in the yard confirmed that the yard was empty. Mapperley smiled. He would take the money and get rid of the Fogartys in one evening’s work, and to make sure it all went according to plan, he had his entire crew in the yard. His only concern was that he couldn’t raise DCI Radlett, and Radlett’s wife had left town urgently. Still, he couldn’t worry about that now.
***
Alastair Dein didn’t like operations where he had to be tooled up. Carrying guns was a mug’s game, in his opinion. Few if any of the guys who carried guns in London could hit a barn door with a new, calibrated weapon, let alone with the junk that could be acquired on the streets. More than one of his mates had lost an eye or a limb as a consequence of an old gun blowing up when the trigger was pulled. There were eight of them out tonight; the whole crew, except for those being held by the police following what Alastair could only imagine was Conn Parker’s blabbing. Jonno, Lamby and Alastair himself were carrying guns, while the rest had knives, coshes and bats, whatever they felt comfortable with. Jonno had tested the guns as best he could. He couldn’t exactly go to a firing range to test them, and none of the lads could find their way out of London well enough to find some deserted countryside. Besides, he thought, the fresh air would probably kill them.
Alastair and his cohorts had arrived ten minutes ago and had done a quick reconnaissance of the area, which took ninety seconds because anyone standing in the middle of the yard could see the buildings and the trees on all sides. None of the rooftops were accessible, and all were pitched roofs, so there was virtually zero chance of anyone being hidden amongst the tiles and chimneys. Mapperley’s instructions to be there an hour ahead of time, ‘just in case’, had been roundly ignored, but the Boss need never know. As the Boss’s car drove in, piloted by the mad Slovak, Alastair sucked madly on his mint, trying to conceal the smell of alcohol on his breath, which would have revealed that the boys had all had a good night out before gathering to give some lawyer and his mate a good hammering.
***
Mapperley stepped out of the car and Tug Kaplinski reversed it into the brightly lit workshop. “Where’s the woman?” Mapperley asked Alastair, whilst looking around the dimly lit yard. Alastair was sweating in the humid evening air and yet Mapperley was dressed in a suit and tie and was wearing his Crombie coat, buttoned up. “Good Lord! What does this man do in the winter?” Alastair Dein thought to himself.
“She’s tied up and sitting on the bog in the ladies’ room, Guv,” Dein replied. “The door’s locked from the outside and there’s no windows,” he added as an afterthought.
Mapperley smiled to himself. He had seen four men concealed behind tree trunks, one in an industrial unit door recess, and one in the workshop. With one guarding each entrance, and Alastair, that was the full crew. Tug alone would
probably be capable of doing the job, but there was no harm in overkill.
***
Ben drove up Wandsworth High Street, just as he had practised numerous times in the last twenty-four hours. As he turned into Carter’s Yard he had to stop the rented Audi A4 in its tracks. A hefty beast of a man snarled through his wild beard and opened his windcheater jacket to show he was carrying. He had a radio to his lips. Ben wound down the window.
“Only Fogarty goes in. You stay with me and the old lady will come to you. Understand?” Max wasn’t happy about leaving Ben alone, but they had anticipated this situation. Max stepped out of the car to wait with Jonno, as Ben drove on.
If Max and Ben had guessed right, both entrances would be covered by men with guns. They had indeed guessed correctly, and now, unbeknown to Ben, he was heading into the yard alone to face Mapperley, two armed men and four men concealed behind the trees.
Ben drove down the narrow alley between the high brick walls on either side and came into a dimly lit clearing. A tall rangy man ushered Ben around the corner by waving his gun. Parking in the centre of the yard, Ben stopped the Audi and switched off the engine whilst leaving on the headlights. He stepped slowly from the car. The tall rangy man approached him and frisked him, only to find Ben’s Patu tucked into his waistband.
“What is it, Alastair?” Mapperley asked. Alastair responded by illuminating the Patu in the headlights. The onlookers stared quizzically at the old Maori weapon, and quickly dismissed it as being any kind of danger.
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