“I’m guessing you know two of the main organisers involved in the protests died in a car crash?” I looked at him directly as I spoke.
“Yeah, I do. Went headfirst into a tree, didn’t they?” He seemed pleased.
“This was just after the site’d been burgled. Did you know about the burglary? Were you still working for Ambersial when this occurred?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I knew about it.”
“And, lo and behold, Ambersial gets back what it’d lost in the burglary because the two victims just happened to have it in their car. Convenient, eh?” I said this in a sarcastic manner, which Rhodes didn’t appear to like. I wasn’t winning any popularity contest with him.
He was silent. I was going to have to keep the conversation going.
“What do you know about the burglary?”
“What do I know?” he exclaimed. “Nothing. That’s what I know. How would I know anything about it?”
“For a couple of animal rights protestors, they got past some top-quality security to get into the offices, and they also managed to get into the filing cabinet. I checked with Cambridge police. I described the alarm system at Ambersial and asked if they knew of anyone in their area who could successfully bypass it. They told me no burglar they knew of anywhere in the whole of Cambridgeshire was competent enough to get past that alarm system. So whoever did it was a real pro. Top-class. You make the place more secure, and yet these two animal rights people were just able to wander in and help themselves.”
He didn’t reply to this.
“So, what I’m wondering is, where would such people get access to professional burglars? You and I’d know where to find such people. They wouldn’t.”
“I’ve no idea.” He said this in a dismissive tone.
I pressed on. “According to the woman I spoke to at Ambersial, Kerrie Brandon, all keys have to be accounted for daily, after everything’s securely locked up. Everything was in order on the night in question, and they’ve CCTV, yet someone still got in and was able to gain access to drawers and filing cabinets which were supposedly locked. The CCTV images across the whole site registered nothing, yet this burglary still occurs. Doesn’t sound very secure to me.”
“That’s an internal matter for the company. I was mainly concerned with securing the outer perimeter of the site. I had nothing to do with keys and stuff like that.”
“Did you know the company didn’t even report the burglary?”
“I didn’t, no.” He shrugged. “But that’s not an issue for me. I was there doing work for them, I wasn’t involved in management decisions.”
“You knew the people there, though. Why wouldn’t they have reported a break-in?”
“No idea.” He shook his head. He looked out the window for a moment.
“What do you know about the accident?” I changed tack. “You know the one I mean.”
“I know two people died.” He turned to face me and grinned. “That’s about it.”
“Did you know who the victims were? One of them was the wife of a man who’s friends with your father.”
“Huh? What’re you on about?”
“Her name’s Assa Khoudri, or it was. Her husband’s Jamal Khoudri, who’s friends with Qais Jaser, who works for your father. You recognise the names, don’t you?”
He looked sceptical.
“It’s true. Check with your dad. Did you also know the guy who died alongside her was the stepfather of the police officer who was stabbed last Monday night?”
“No, I didn’t.” He didn’t sound convincing in his denial. “I just know two people died, don’t know who they were.”
“Ambersial’s benefited, though, hasn’t it?” I said. “The protests have largely died down now two of the leading organisers of the protests aren’t around. Means also their business deal with Hembreys goes ahead. Convenient, eh?”
I was wondering how he’d respond to this. He probably wouldn’t be aware I knew why he’d been asked to babysit Donald Dellvay.
“I suppose so,” he said. “I pulled out around then. I’d shown them how to secure their perimeters properly, where they should install lights and CCTV. I changed all the access points and where they should park. Fewer places to enter the site now. They’re coping with these sodding people much better now. I wasn’t needed any longer, so I came back to London.”
“Where you’re with Donald Dellvay while he joins up Hembreys with Ambersial.” I briefly considered mentioning I knew he was doing this on behalf of MI5 but, for the moment, refrained from so doing. I wasn’t sure exactly what Rhodes knew about MI5’s operations, or whether he was fully au fait with the situation regarding Dellvay.
“Yeah.” He seemed momentarily surprised. “I’m body-guarding him. I know he’s a businessman but not what he’s doing. I just hang around with him while he goes to meetings and whatever.”
I didn’t believe him. I waited a few moments.
“Is he better company than a Columbian drugs baron?” I smiled. “I bet this job doesn’t pay as well. No flash Knightsbridge hotel to stay in either.”
“At least he speaks English,” he said firmly. “My mum’s father was Irish. He worked shovelling coal his whole life, and he used to say, Sure, the work is dirty but the money is clean.” He affected an unconvincing Irish accent. “I’m the same. Doesn’t matter to me what someone does for a living. I’m neither for nor against drugs, I don’t care one way or the other. I just like being paid.” He smiled broadly.
I looked at him and didn’t like what I saw. Saying that Rhodes was amoral was like saying night followed day. He’d shrugged off two deaths as though they were just inconvenient incidents, almost collateral damage. I was convinced he knew more than he was telling.
I waited a few more moments. “I’ve heard it wasn’t an accident.”
“What wasn’t?”
“The car hitting the tree and the two protestors dying. I’ve a source telling me the car was run off the road deliberately, forced off by two other cars.”
He looked directly at me like he didn’t believe what was in front of him. “Who told you that crap?”
“Someone in a position to know. Someone closely involved who knows a lot about the situation.”
I wasn’t actually sure how closely involved Kevin Sharone was, but, if his source was Israeli intelligence, I’d no reason to disbelieve it, especially as he’d said Israel had an interest in the activities of both companies.
“What, you’re saying they were murdered?” he asked.
I nodded. “Sounds like it, doesn’t it?”
He narrowed his eyes for two seconds. He then smiled, sort of.
“Oh, now I get it. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” He spoke slowly and his voice remained calm. “You think I had something to do with it.”
I said nothing for a moment. “I don’t know enough about the accident, if that’s what it was, to comment. I’m just struck by the number of coincidences I seem to be running into.”
Rhodes sat impassively.
“Ambersial’s got a business deal going with Hembreys but it’s getting delayed by protestors, so you get sent up there. Problems disappear. The deal’s back on. Two people die. You’re bodyguarding Hembreys’ man, who’s here smoothing over the deal. I then discover one of the two dead protestors is the wife of someone close to your father. Her husband was shot yesterday, and the stepson of the guy who died is the police officer who was killed Monday evening.”
“Is there a point to this?” He was looking at his watch.
“Yeah, that it stinks is the point. Ambersial gets robbed and doesn’t even report it, so police can’t ask any awkward questions about how come security had been breached as easily as it appears to have been, yet two days later they conveniently find what was taken amongst two dead bodies after a car crash. It’s almost as though they were expecting to get their stuff back this way, which would explain why the burglary wasn’t reported. They didn’t need to report it. By the time police even begin
investigating, they’ve got it all back. It all seems to fit together very conveniently.”
Rhodes looked unimpressed, as though I’d just told him what I was having for lunch. It was hard to explain but I got the very real sense, looking at his face, and in particular at how his eyes rolled slightly, that I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. He put the paper down and stood up. I tensed slightly.
“Also, Jamal Khoudri was shot and killed yesterday,” I reminded him. “His wife just happens to be one of the protesters who died in the accident. Are those two points connected in some way?”
“Pity about Jamal. I was just reading about it.” He jutted his chin at the paper on the table. “But I can’t help you with that. Sorry.”
He picked up his mobile phone from the table. “Well, as interesting as this is, I’ve gotta go to work, so unless you’ve got something else to tell me . . .” He looked at me, evidently hoping I hadn’t.
“Why would Qais Jaser and Khoudri have even been at Khaled al-Ebouli’s meeting last Monday?” I asked. “Neither of them are supporters of his, yet they were both outside Conway Hall, and we’ve got them on CCTV talking to the guy who’s the Branch’s suspect for killing PC Jones. If they work for your dad, I’ll bet you know who they are.”
“I know of them. My dad says police think the suspect’s an Israeli.”
I tried not to show I was surprised. How would Perkins know that? “Could be. Haven’t positively identified him yet.”
“You might want to be careful there.”
“Why’s that?”
“You want an international incident?” He looked concerned. “Israel won’t take kindly to police harassing one of its citizens working in this country.”
It sounded like a veiled threat. Smitherman had also alluded to treading carefully where Israel was concerned. I was starting to wonder where this was going.
“Investigating murder isn’t harassing. Police killed on London’s streets, or any streets for that matter, is something we don’t take kindly to, whoever’s involved.” I said this with some force behind it. Rhodes knew I was serious.
“Yeah, well, I’ve gotta go.” He walked towards me. He lowered his voice slightly. “I were you, pal, I’d be careful about accusing me of anything else.”
He said this as he walked by me, deliberately nudging me aside with his left shoulder. This was a blatant attempt to intimidate me, and it fired me up. I instantly turned and shoved him hard with my right hand in the middle of his shoulders, pushing him up against the bookcase. I had the momentary advantage of surprise as he hadn’t been expecting this response. I put real force into my push and he hit the bookcase hard, front-on, and stumbled slightly, though he quickly regained his balance. Several of the ornaments tipped over and a number of hardback books fell onto the floor.
He immediately spun around, hands raised and looking angry, like he wanted to come at me. But in the instant before he pushed himself off the wall, I’d produced my service revolver, taken a step back and aimed it directly between his eyes. He tensed but didn’t move. I held his glare.
“Bad move, Rhodes,” I said quietly but firmly. I stood seven to eight feet away from him. One-to-one I had little chance of physically overcoming him. We both knew this. He was bigger and stronger than me, and could break my neck without even thinking about it.
The stand-off lasted five seconds, then he smiled.
“Just seeing if you’ve got a pair. Seems you do.” He sounded impressed.
I maintained my shooting stance for another couple of seconds. I lowered my weapon.
“You pull a gun on me again, you’d better be ready to use it.” He said this in an almost casual manner, but I didn’t doubt there was a threat contained in his words.
“Oh, I was ready this time, trust me.” I spoke calmly and with feeling, still holding his stare.
He spent a few moments picking up the books and replacing them in their positions on the shelf, and rearranging the ornaments. I didn’t offer to help him.
“Last bloke who pulled a weapon on me like you just did, some Arab when I was in the Lebanon.” He looked up whilst placing books on the shelf, “I took it off him and broke both his arms at the elbows, left him lying in the middle of a road.” He smiled as he spoke. “But you know what’s really funny? It was dark, and a car ran over him and broke both his legs while he was trying to crawl out the road. Ended up a cripple.” He shook his head and laughed at the memory. “I almost felt sorry for him.”
He took a jacket from behind the door and slid into it. He held the door open for me. I walked past him. He followed me out the door, locking it behind him. I followed him down the stairs. Outside, he nodded towards me, then turned right into Horseguards. I went the other way, wondering how Christian Perkins knew about the Israeli suspect.
But I’d stood my ground against Rhodes. I was impressed with myself.
*
Back at my desk, I contacted Dispatch, gave them the registration number of the taxi I’d spotted outside Rhodes’ flat earlier, and enquired as to who operated it. The cab was registered to a private taxi company, Abacabs, based in Avery Square, Victoria, behind the coach station.
At Abacabs’ front office I showed ID to a man sitting in a kiosk, who said he was the manager. He had what old-time Londoners referred to as a Frank: bald on top but with long straggly hair from both sides of his head brushed up and over in a vain attempt to hide his scalp. It was an effort not to laugh at it.
I read out the registration number and told him I wanted to get in touch with the driver of this cab, as I needed to know where he’d taken the fare he’d collected about an hour earlier. I was told the cab was fitted with a mini camera, located on the Perspex sheet behind the driver’s head, to record every passenger in the back, as added security after several late-night attacks on cabbies. The film in the cab was relayed back to the office and uploaded into their main computer terminal.
I saw the cab door open and a man get in and sit down. He asked to be taken to the Israeli Embassy in Kensington. The image was grainy but sufficiently clear for me to recognise Joachim Balpak. I took a picture of it on my iPhone, and then told the manager not to dispose of the tape, as police might well want to review it again.
Sitting at my desk I sent the picture as an email attachment to Richard Clements, asking if he recognised the man in the picture. A minute later he replied.
Yeah. That’s the man who ran into me Monday night, almost certainly.
I entered the picture into the Branch database, asking for a match against our files. It came back listed as Joachim Balpak.
This confirmed Balpak knew Rhodes. But in what capacity? Rhodes was supposedly doing something for British security, and Balpak was listed as connected to Israeli intelligence. At what point would they connect together? Was this some British-Israeli operation? This worried me because Balpak was a credible suspect for having killed PC Dan Jones two nights back. Surely that couldn’t be part of any plan?
*
After ascertaining it’d been Joachim Balpak whom I’d clocked leaving Rhodes’ flat, I drove back to the Kentish Town industrial estate, to the HQ of Blatchford’s campaign for Mayor, as I’d been told by the woman answering the phone that the candidate was going to be in the office until lunchtime. I was hoping to talk to Qais Jaser about Jamal Khoudri and also about the campaign.
The room looked exactly the same as the day before, except for the book of condolences which’d been opened on the main table, next to which was a lighted candle and a picture of a smiling Jamal Khoudri. I saw the notice saying last night’s meeting had been cancelled due to an unexpected event.
I saw Jaser standing with James Blatchford by the desk. Both men looked as though they were deep in conversation, and neither noticed me approaching until I was right up alongside them.
Both men turned to face me. Jaser knew who I was. Blatchford didn’t.
“Good morning, and you are?” Blatchford asked in an even
voice.
He was my height, with rapidly thinning hair on top, covered over by a slick haircut rather than a Frank. He was wearing a crisply ironed white shirt, a dark tie and an expensively cut dark suit which probably cost more than my monthly take-home pay. I could almost see my reflection in his black, well-polished shoes. He looked at me with a quizzical expression, as though wondering whether he could count on my vote.
“DS McGraw, Special Branch.” I showed ID.
He held the quizzical look. “I saw you yesterday, didn’t I? Camden High Street, just before Jamal was found dead.”
“I was there, yeah. It was my colleague and I who found him. Sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” He nodded. “Came as quite some shock, I can tell you. I was only talking to him an hour or so beforehand.” He sighed, shaking his head.
“Can you think of any reason why someone would just walk in here and shoot Jamal?” I asked formally. “Did he have any enemies you knew about? Had anyone made any threats against him?”
“No, no one,” Qais Jaser answered. “There were no threats we knew about. I mean, we’d received some abusive comments on Twitter and other social media, all candidates get those, but no direct threats against either James or Jamal. As I think I said yesterday, we’d’ve reported them if they’d come in.”
“What about threats against the campaign?”
“Same. We’ve not received any I know of,” Blatchford replied. He looked at Jaser, who nodded in agreement.
“Have you seen anyone hanging around your campaign office, out there,” I asked, jutting my chin towards the door, “who seems to be around everywhere you go but doesn’t take part, just stands around and watches?”
“What, like a stalker?” Blatchford asked.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“No, I don’t think so.” He shook his head firmly.
“What about here? Anyone hanging around here frequently?”
“Nobody’s seen them if there is.”
“Any cars out there regularly nobody recognises?”
“No,” Jaser said.
“Was Khoudri often alone here in the office?”
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