“Whatever requires being done.” He smiled again. “We don’t just provide bodyguards and night watchmen; we also advise on security protocols. We provide help to firms that need to make their premises or their procedures safer to prevent being unnecessarily disrupted.” He paused.
I remembered what Debbie Frost had said yesterday. “What, you mean similar to what he did in Cambridge recently?” I didn’t actually know what he’d done in Cambridge recently. I was fishing.
Gregory initially looked surprised but soon recovered his poise. He didn’t ask how I knew about this. Just as well; I wouldn’t have told him.
“Yeah. That was a case we were involved with. In Cambridge not too long ago, the activities of a group of animal rights nutters were continually delaying the building of new premises for scientific research. The company, Ambersial, saw their costs skyrocketing and they couldn’t afford any further delay in getting their new site up and running because of the intimidatory tactics of this group, so they came to us wanting to know how they could make their premises more nutter-proof. We sent Richard. He completely revised their onsite protection policy and advised them on how to secure their work premises more effectively than they were, and since then the new building’s been coming along. They get much less disruption now.” He looked pleased. “This is just one of the services we offer our clients. We received a glowing testimonial from Ambersial for what we did there.”
I thought back to something I remembered reading a few months ago. Two prominent animal rights activists based in Cambridge had lost consciousness when their car had swerved off a main road late at night and crashed into a ditch. Both activists, a man and a woman, had later died in hospital from their injuries. The accident had occurred not too far from the premises of Ambersial, the firm Rhodes was advising about security. Richard Rhodes had been in Cambridge at the same time as this accident. A coincidence?
“How’d you and Rhodes hook up? How did he come to work for you?”
“You don’t advertise in this industry.” He grinned almost slyly. “In our world, people tend to know people who know other people, if you get my drift. His name came to our notice. We needed someone to do a job. Someone we trust knew Richard, recommended him to us. We approached him. He was available. He agreed to help us out, and that’s what he does. He’s not an employee here; he’s an independent, a freelancer. We get offered a job by someone or a firm, and if it’s something Richard’s competent to do, something inside his skillset, we offer it to him, and he decides whether he takes it or not. Independents have that luxury. If he takes it, we advise him of the acceptable parameters, but he’s largely his own boss when he’s out there in the field, so to speak. He takes whatever decisions need to be taken as a situation demands. He’s an expert, we trust his judgement.”
“What do you know about his background?”
“Everything we needed to know about him, plus his military experience,” Justin Gregory retorted firmly. “We had him thoroughly checked out before offering him the chance to work with us. In our industry you don’t just take someone on because they’re ex-military. We needed to be sure he had what we wanted, and he did, so we registered him onto our books as a security consultant.”
“Who’d you check him out with?”
Justin Gregory smiled and shook his head.
“Presumably you were okay with what you heard about his background.” I wondered how extensively Richard Rhodes’ background had been looked into.
“We wouldn’t have hired him had we not been.” He spread his hands and raised his eyebrows in a kind of isn’t that obvious? gesture.
I was sure I knew more about some of the less savoury aspects of his background than they did, but, for the moment, I didn’t mention this.
“People like you probably don’t like firms like ours,” Gregory said, solemnly, “but we offer an important and, sadly, an increasingly necessary service, and there’s no room for cowboys in this industry. One firm screws up, we all get branded as uncaring mercenaries. So, after recent events, only firms whose personnel are highly trained and wholly professional in every way can hope to survive.”
Did Titanomachy know why Rhodes had been cashiered from the British army? Did they know about his time as a merc in the Lebanon? Did this qualify as professional by their definition?
“So, what’s he currently doing for you?”
He paused for a moment.
“Usually such details’d be confidential, but as you’re Special Branch, and you’ve asked nicely . . .” He smiled at me, then looked at his laptop and punched a few buttons on his keyboard. “He’s on bodyguard duty. We were approached by a leading American company who’ve sent one of their top executives to this country to do some work on their behalf. This company has enemies on many continents because of what they do, and their risk assessment suggested the executive could be a target if he was alone in this country, so they asked us if we had anyone who could watch over their man whilst he does his job. We offered it to Richard; he accepted the brief.”
The last time I knew Rhodes had operated as a bodyguard, it had been for a Columbian drug lord, representing the interests of his cartel to various European outlets interested in his produce. Were Titanomachy aware of this? Would Rhodes have told them this when he first spoke to the firm about potential employ?
“Which company is this?”
Once again, Justin Gregory smiled and shook his head. All the smiling was starting to put me on edge.
“Was Rhodes working for you this weekend just gone?”
“The American gentleman concerned is still in the country, so, yes, I’m assuming he was. But that comes with provisos. If the man spent the weekend in his hotel room, for instance, and didn’t have any meetings planned, it’s likely Richard wouldn’t have been on duty, but that’s a matter for negotiation between client and bodyguard. He just has to be available when he’s needed.”
“How do you contact Rhodes?”
“We have a number for him we call when we have something he might be interested in.”
“Give it me. I’ll call him on it.”
Justin Gregory looked as though I’d just told him I’d asked his mother out on a date, a what the hell? kind of expression, but then he read out a number which I wrote down.
I dialled the number. It was an answering service which took messages for clients who were on the move without means of contact. I mentioned this to Gregory.
“What can I say? It works for us. He gets the messages we send him.”
I thanked Justin Gregory for his time, and told him to be sure to tell Rhodes that Special Branch wanted to talk to him next time he was in touch with his firm.
*
I checked out the other three names whose descriptions had matched the person the Longhursts had seen leaving where the shots at al-Ebouli had been fired. One was now living in Spain, and it could be established he’d not left Spain for the last three years; one was serving eight years in Parkhurst Prison on the Isle of Wight, and the other was living in Cornwall. A call to the Cornish police established that he’d been in the area all weekend because he’d run the line at a rugby match Saturday afternoon between local police and a team from Dawlish. Only Richard Rhodes couldn’t be accounted for.
Christian Perkins lived close to the Yard, in Buckingham Gate, so I decided to inquire with his office as to whether he knew where his son might be found. I phoned his listed number and was told by his very well-spoken assistant that Christian was at a meeting in Portcullis House, opposite Parliament, which was due to finish soon and, if I needed to speak to him, that’s where he’d be. I told her to tell him to expect me.
Perkins was a senior backbench Conservative MP and, given his seniority in the party, it was surprising he’d never held any Government office, though I’d seen recently he’d been appointed chair of the influential House of Commons Intelligence and Security Committee: a politically sensitive position and one which was fitting, given his close links to MI5. Perkins had nev
er held political power, but he had undeniable influence in political circles.
My last conversation with Perkins had centred on my belief he’d hired Phil Gant to kill the Phipps brothers. According to him, though, it’d been Debbie Frost who’d put Gant on to the Phippses. He’d become belligerent at my questioning and refused to admit any complicity in their deaths, and Gant had evaded all liability for the deaths of two brothers who, though about as desirable as painful mouth ulcers, didn’t deserve what became of them.
I walked to Portcullis House and, after showing ID and being screened and body searched but allowed to keep my gun, I was escorted to a corner office on the top floor overlooking the Thames and Big Ben. The perks of seniority. As we approached Perkins’ office a short, Middle Eastern looking man wearing a charcoal-grey business suit and carrying a briefcase emerged from it. He nodded at my escort, who returned the gesture, and walked away. He looked familiar but initially I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before.
Perkins’ meeting had just finished and he was back at his desk, reading an official-looking document, which he immediately put down when he saw me looking at the cover.
I identified myself to him. He looked me up and down with a peculiar expression, as though I were a lab experiment he couldn’t quite figure out. He still had a beard and a full head of hair and I wondered whether he dyed them as, despite being in his mid-sixties, they showed no sign of grey. He was overweight and had a double chin I could use to hold my gym kit, and his neck looked as though it was in danger of disappearing. His thick glasses made his eyes look like liquid pools.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he finally said. It was noticeable he didn’t offer to shake hands.
“We have indeed,” I replied, “at your flat. I was inquiring about an event I thought you’d been involved in during the mid-1970s.”
He knew what I was referring to. “That’s right.” He sat back in his seat and made himself comfortable. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this time?”
“Before I start, who was that just left your office?”
“One of my staff, Qais. We just had a meeting about a routine matter.” He shrugged as though it was of no importance.
“Okay. I’m here because Special Branch needs to talk to your son Richard about something. He’s no longer resident at the last address we have for him, so I’m wondering if you know where he’s now residing. It’s important we speak to him.”
“This is about Saturday’s shooting, isn’t it?” Before I could respond, he continued. “Miss Frost phoned me yesterday evening, told me you’d been by to ask about Richard’s whereabouts because of your belief it was he who shot at that Arab terrorist al-Ebouli.” This he said in a challenging tone. I didn’t rise to it.
“There’s no belief, just suspicion. Richard fits the description of a person seen coming out the building we believe the shots were fired from. Richard’s a known shooter because of his involvements in various campaigns abroad,” I said neutrally, “so he’s a viable suspect until we can talk to him and, if his story tallies, eliminate him from our inquiries.”
Perkins sat quietly and reclined in his seat for a moment. I noticed he’d put on weight since I’d last spoken to him. His already ample stomach had expanded, stretching the gaps between the buttons on his shirt. Wearing a blue striped shirt made him look even fatter. It seemed to me that a man his size shouldn’t wear stripes, but then what I knew about style or fashion could be painted onto the back of a first-class stamp.
“I can tell you where Richard is. He’s staying in my flat whilst he’s looking for somewhere else in the London area. I’m not always there as I’m either in the House” – he nodded to the building across the road – “or, at weekends, I’m in my constituency in Richmond, and I have a house there. I offered Richard the use of my house, but he said he needed to be in central London because of the nature of his current employ.”
“Yeah, working for Titanomachy, isn’t he, a private security firm?”
“That’s right, he is.”
“Is he at the flat now? I can talk to him there.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s currently acting as a security liaison officer for a visiting American businessman, so I assume he’ll be wherever this person is.”
“You mean he’s a bodyguard,” I corrected him. “Who is it he’s protecting?”
“I don’t know the name of this person, and I don’t know where they’d be right now either.” He avoided eye contact with me as he spoke.
I didn’t believe him. Something about his manner and the slight adjusting of his posture made me think he was lying, but for the moment I didn’t call him out on this. People like Christian Perkins lie as easily as they breathe.
“Okay, give me Richard’s mobile number. I’ll call and arrange to meet him.”
He looked aghast, as though I’d asked him to reveal the details of his bank account. He wasn’t pleased at having to divulge personal details about his son, but he complied. He recited a number to me. I took out my police radio and called the number. It went straight to answerphone. An abrupt voice said, “This is Richard; leave a message.” Short and succinct.
I identified myself and said Special Branch wanted to talk to him concerning an incident at the weekend. I gave him a number to call and arrange a time to be interviewed.
“Thanks for that.” I turned to leave.
“Have you got a moment, DS McGraw?” Perkins asked, standing up.
I turned to face him. I hoped this wouldn’t take long. Too long in the company of someone like Perkins would cause me to lose the will to live. I waited.
“So?” I was still waiting five seconds after he’d asked me to wait.
“Do you seriously believe Richard’s the person who shot at al-Ebouli?” He looked almost worried.
“I don’t believe anything. The description we obtained of the person seen leaving the building matches Richard, and we both know he’s a gunnie. That’s enough for me to want to talk to him about it.”
I held Perkins’ stare. He was looking directly at me as if challenging me.
“I also know about some of his other activities,” I stated, “which is added justification to want to talk to him.”
“Such as what?” He seemed reluctant to believe bad news about his son.
“I believe he was involved in the murder of Dennis Reagan last November, but he wasn’t brought in because all we had was coincidence and suspicions. Reagan was the prime suspect in Red Heaven’s attempt to set off an explosive device by the Albert Hall. That’s a fact, but he was shot and killed the night before we arrested the perpetrators, and all the circumstantial evidence points to Rhodes. There’s no hard evidence, though, which is why we didn’t bring him in.”
Perkins sat quietly and didn’t respond. I waited a moment. “I saw him with Reagan on at least two occasions in the planning of the bombing. Reagan, in case you’re not aware, is, or rather was, a prolific IRA bomber.”
“I know the name. World’s probably a better place with him dead.” He sounded very sure of what he’d said.
“Could be. I certainly didn’t shed any tears at his demise, but that doesn’t mean he can be killed with impunity and his killer can sail away into the sunset, immune from any liability for the murder.”
“You may well find Richard will face no liability for that, if indeed he was even involved. The plot never materialised, and Richard cannot be definitively identified as being part of whatever was going to occur.”
“Not officially, perhaps, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop looking at him for it.”
“And if you’re told not to pursue your inquiries into him?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Someone with more juice than you’ll have to tell me.” I turned to leave again.
As I did, the office door opened and in walked Colonel Peter Stimpson of MI5. He nodded to me as he walked by. I was too surprised to return the nod. The thought immediately hit me
: this was why Perkins had asked if I had a moment. He knew Stimpson was on his way here and wanted me present when he arrived.
Stimpson walked across the room to the chair by Perkins’ desk. He put down his briefcase and took off his black military-style overcoat, folded it and carefully laid it across the back of the chair.
“Good morning, Christian,” he said in a firm voice.
“Morning, Peter.” They shook hands. For a moment I felt as out of place as a mouse in a cattery. Stimpson turned to face me.
“DS McGraw, how are you today?” He smiled.
“Fine,” I replied, warily.
“I won’t keep you long. Take a seat.” He gestured to the other chair by the desk. I sat down with the same reluctance as a prisoner about to be sentenced.
“You met with my niece recently, I’m told.”
He knew I had. Whilst investigating the activities of Commander Neville Thornwyn recently, I’d discovered I was being followed by a female PI. I’d later learned she was the niece of Colonel Peter Stimpson, who’d suspected I was working alongside Thornwyn. A suspicion I had later heard had been quashed by the evidence.
“I did indeed. I hope her skills of trailing suspects have improved.” I smiled at him. He didn’t respond to this. He waited a moment.
“And how’s your friend Mendoccini?” He smirked. His belief was I’d deliberately let Mendoccini escape capture because we’d once been close friends.
“Next time I see him, if I ever do, I’ll ask him,” I said in a neutral voice.
“Anyway, by the by. I’ll be brief as Christian and I need to be somewhere else soon,” he began. “I believe you’re currently looking for Richard Rhodes in connection with Saturday’s shooting.”
I agreed I was.
“Well, for the moment, that will no longer be your concern. So you needn’t worry about looking for him. This inquiry’s now out of your hands.”
I was about to speak when Stimpson raised his right hand.
“Commander Smitherman’s been put in the picture, if that’s what you were about to ask. He’s been apprised of the situation and has been briefed in as much as he needs to know. This is now our concern.”
The Rules Page 6
