Reece looked unimpressed with this badinage. I adopted a more formal tone. “What did you find in Dellvay’s room?”
Loveland largely repeated what Reece had told me earlier. He’d not touched the body but had noticed Dellvay had been shot once, probably from close range. Nobody had reported anything sounding like a gunshot.
“He have any visitors last night?”
“Two. One we know, someone named Richard Rhodes. He’s been in the hotel quite a lot. I think he’s working with Dellvay. Came back with him around seven, left about an hour later. The other one I didn’t recognise.”
He gestured for both of us to follow him. We went through a door marked Security, which led into a small room with all its walls covered with cameras, each showing a different view of the hotel: the floors, dining room, the bar and the grand foyer. A man was looking at the screens. He nodded towards a screen. Loveland pointed to it. The picture had been frozen.
“This is the second floor,” Loveland said. “Ten twelve last night. Watch this.”
The view was a long, well-lit carpeted corridor. A door opened halfway along the corridor and a man walked out, turned left and walked towards the camera. As he got nearer the picture paused.
“Him, coming out of Dellvay’s room,” Loveland said. “That’s the best image we could get. Camera in the foyer clocked him arriving about twenty minutes before this picture was taken. Guest was notified, agreed the visitor could come up to the room.”
We all looked at the screen for a moment.
“Either of you know him?” Loveland asked. “I don’t.”
Reece shook his head. “I don’t recognise him.”
I recognised the man in the picture. “Yeah, I know who he is.”
The others turned towards me. “Who is he?” Reece asked. “His name’s Moshe, works for Israeli intelligence.”
*
Back in the office, I was informing Smitherman of what I’d found. I mentioned Loveland saying Dellvay’d been shot once and had probably been dead for around twelve hours. I also said he’d had a visitor to the hotel room at nine fifty who, for me, was the likely suspect.
“Who was it?”
“Someone named Moshe. He’s with Israeli embassy security staff, works with Joachim Balpak. I ran across him earlier today. Apart from Rhodes, he’s the only person went up to Dellvay’s room last night. It almost certainly wasn’t Rhodes, so it has to be this Moshe. He’s clearly seen on the hotel CCTV, coming out Dellvay’s room around ten past ten.”
Smitherman didn’t respond to this. He sat looking at something on his laptop screen. There was something about his expression I couldn’t read. I was beginning to worry.
“Do we know anything about this?” I asked.
“I can’t comment on that for the moment, as I’m not certain myself. I do know Dellvay was winding down over here, booked a flight home this coming weekend. I’m not sure how the rest falls into place. You mentioned meeting Moshe earlier. How did that occur?”
I filled Smitherman in on my talk with Blatchford after being told who he’d been seen with in the bank, and what I thought the significance of the meeting was. I outlined my suspicion Peter Brenchley was party to whatever it was Blatchford was doing. Why else would he and Blatchford be in the bank together? After talking with Blatchford, I’d been approached by Balpak, Moshe and another man. I mentioned Balpak’s admission of culpability for the deaths of PC Jones and Jamal Khoudri, as well as his annoyance Blatchford wasn’t in custody. “He’s adamant Blatchford’s harmed Israel’s national interest in some way through screwing up Zealiac’s deal with Ambersial. I read what it was they were working on: something about a pill to combat heatstroke, wasn’t it?”
“Something like that, I believe, but there’s a little more to this than just that.”
“Blatchford said something similar. He said this whole thing’s a little more complicated than it would appear to be, and he couldn’t talk about it. What did he mean by that?”
Smitherman sat back in his chair. He looked lost in thought. I suspected he was considering what he could or couldn’t tell me. “That’s classified, I’m afraid.”
I had been sitting forward in the chair. I sat back and sighed. “Making real progress, aren’t I? A killer I can’t arrest and now someone who may have done something to interfere with the national security of a sovereign nation state, someone this country’s friendly with, and he tells me it’s complicated and can’t talk about it. Balpak’s admitted killing Khoudri, and I think he did that either because of something Blatchford’s done, or because Khoudri’s in it with Blatchford.” I was frustrated and venting. “But that doesn’t explain Jones. How does all this impact on a young police officer, someone not even two years in the force?”
“I don’t know,” he said resignedly.
“The other thing that concerns me is something Balpak said. I told him we had him on CCTV, caught him leaving the square, but he just said you sure about that? He said it quite casually, as though he knew something I didn’t. What the hell’s going on?”
Something wasn’t making sense here. I was beginning to feel worried.
Smitherman sat quietly, nodding slightly. His expression was deadly serious, like someone just told he only had a month to live. “It’s like this, DS McGraw.”
The use of my surname immediately told me this was indeed a serious matter, and I ought to be aware of that.
“This case will never get to court, even if we wanted it to. We couldn’t arrest him even if it were possible. That’s because the CCTV tapes have been wiped. All the tapes showing the person with a covered face who you think is Balpak, plus the others where this person’s seen removing the scarf from around his face, have been cleansed. There’s nothing we can identify him from.”
He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. He evidently saw the look of incredulity on my face. I was about to respond but he continued before I could speak.
“We have no eyewitness testimony from anyone close enough to have seen what happened to Jones, do we? Yes, I know you have someone claims to have seen him running away, but that person didn’t see Balpak in the square, did they? Didn’t actually see him using a knife. Without any of this, we have nothing but CCTV. And it now seems we don’t even have that.”
My eyes had opened wide. My mouth involuntarily opened in surprise.
“What?” I exclaimed. “On whose say-so were the tapes wiped?”
“I don’t know. All I know is what I’ve been told, which is the decision’s been taken not to pursue this investigation further.”
“But how would Balpak know this? How would he know the tape’s been wiped?”
He shrugged. “Someone obviously told him, but I don’t know who.”
“So, what happens now? We just let this Israeli killer get away with it?”
“It’s out of our hands, DS McGraw. We just do what we’re told.”
Smitherman didn’t look happy saying this. But, being a vital link in the chain of command, he couldn’t cherry-pick his orders. Told not to pursue a case, he had to comply. And he in turn passed it down the chain to me.
*
I looked up Moshe on the Branch database. I had no surname for him but, on our lists of embassy staff across the capital, he was easy to find. Moshe Brinke was thirty-one and had been a sergeant in the Israeli army until being seconded into the Mossad two years previously. He was listed as being a cultural attaché, which was about as likely as Smitherman joining the Labour party. His address was also given as being c/o the Israeli Embassy, Kensington. I entered the registration of the car he had been driving earlier, and it was unlisted.
I put a call out to Dispatch, asking for this car to be stopped if spotted, because the driver was suspected of being involved in a fatal shooting at the Cumberhall House Hotel last evening. I also mentioned the driver was likely to be armed and dangerous, and should be approached with caution.
*
Later on, early evening, I wa
s at a public meeting where Blatchford was speaking. It was another all-party forum but, given the proximity of the election, one where all the main candidates for mayor were speaking. The meeting was being held at Central Hall, the large, imposing Gothic-looking building across Parliament Square, opposite Parliament.
There was a large crowd gathering for the meeting, most entering the hall and talking excitedly. The great and the good of London political life were present, including Debbie Frost, whom I could see on the far side of the foyer talking to James Blatchford and a slightly older lady. Mrs Blatchford? They were dressed impeccably, as if going to the royal garden party. There were television crews present, with arc lights set up outside illuminating the scene, as well as several journalists. A couple of reporters were talking into microphones and looking directly into TV cameras. I spotted Richard Clements, talking with an important-looking person in a suit and, every so often, looking into the screen of his tablet. He didn’t see me, engrossed as he was in his conversation.
I wasn’t here for the meeting, though. I was looking for someone because I knew he’d be here, and I soon saw him.
After talking to Smitherman, I’d sat at my desk and drawn out a mindmap, linking up what I knew had happened with the dramatis personae involved, and I had realised there was someone I had yet to talk to in any real depth. He would be clued in because of his central role and, if I needed to, I could put the squeeze on him. I had him pegged as the weak link. I was also hoping he could connect me up to someone else I was hoping to implicate, or at least confirm a suspicion.
He was sipping tea from a plastic cup in the grand foyer and talking to someone wearing a blue rosette. I waited a few minutes, and then the other person joined the crowd entering the main hall. I saw an opening and moved in.
“Evening, Qais.”
He looked shocked, as though I’d just materialised out of nowhere.
“What do you want now?” There was a slight tremor in his voice.
“You and I need to talk.”
“I have to be with James in a few moments.” He sounded panicked. “He’ll be going on stage soon, speaking.”
“You’re gonna be a little late. He’s a big boy now; he doesn’t need you holding his hand wherever he goes.” I nodded towards the exit. “Let’s go somewhere and talk. It’s in your best interests.” I wasn’t giving him a choice.
He spoke to someone on his phone, saying he was going to be slightly delayed, and to pass his apologies along to the candidate.
We left the foyer, walked past various fringe political groups selling their newspapers, turned left along the passageway and retired to the Two Chairmen pub, which was behind the hall in Queen Anne’s Gate. We found a table against the wall. I bought a large gin and tonic for him and a cappuccino for myself. If only Richard Clements could see me now.
Jaser was looking nervous, tapping his fingers on the table. Every time he’d seen me I’d been talking to someone else, but now he was the focus of my attention. His eyes betrayed the fact he was out of his comfort zone.
“I want to ask you about your boss, the man you’re working for,” I began lightly.
“What about him?” He narrowed his eyes as he sipped his drink.
“Why he deliberately spiked Zealiac’s deal with Ambersial, for instance. I know he did this, his bank confirmed it with me, and I know it’s led to interest from Israeli intelligence. I’m also investigating who killed Jamal Khoudri, someone who was your friend,” I said, holding eye contact as I spoke, “and I think something about what your boss did ended up getting him killed. I also think you know what it is, so if you want Jamal’s killer apprehended, you need to talk to me.”
I sat back and sipped my drink. I didn’t bother telling him I already knew who’d killed Jamal because I also knew he was beyond the reach of UK law.
Jaser was looking at the table, thinking and holding his drink as though it were the business end of a venomous snake. I waited a moment for my words to register with him.
“You withholding material evidence in a murder investigation, which prevents police finding the killer, makes you culpable as well; it’s called perverting the course of justice.”
He now looked very worried, like he was about to have a stroke. I waited a few more seconds for the words to sink in.
“Look,” I said softly, “anything you tell me’ll be in confidence, okay? No one need ever know. I won’t tell Blatchford if you don’t.”
He sipped more of his drink.
“All right.” He sighed, placing his drink on the table. “You know about the deal with Zealiac?”
I nodded my agreement. “What specifically about the deal?”
“Well, you know the proposed deal went sour.”
I nodded again.
“James basically made sure it didn’t go ahead.” He was speaking slowly. “I’m not a merchant banker, so I don’t know how he did it, but, whatever it was, it put Zealiac in a position whereby they could no longer continue or they’d face financial ruin. He brought the proposed transaction to an end.”
“I’m aware of all this. What I don’t know is why.”
“Because he was asked to.”
“He was asked to?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.
“Yes, he was asked to ensure the deal between the two companies didn’t go through,” Jaser repeated.
“By who?”
He hesitated for a second or two. “You won’t tell anyone I told you this?”
“Only my boss, and he has to know,” I reassured him.
“Okay.” He paused for three seconds. “Christian Perkins asked him to do it.”
I sat forward. I’d suspected involvement by Perkins somewhere along the line, but I hadn’t realised he was the instigator. “Perkins? Why’d he do that?”
“I don’t know the exact reasoning, but if I heard him right, British intelligence apparently favoured a deal between Hembreys and Ambersial, rather than Zealiac getting involved. For whatever reason, Zealiac wasn’t trusted. So Christian asked James to do what he could to screw up the deal, do whatever he could to stop it going ahead. And he did.”
“Were Ambersial in on this as well?” I was thinking of Blatchford and Peter Brenchley being seen together in the bank yesterday.
“I’m not exactly sure how deeply they’re involved, but it’s a safe assumption they had to know something was going on. I mean, they were told about Hembreys’ interest in doing a deal if Zealiac pulled out, and they were keen to get involved with doing business with them once they knew of their interest.”
I was about to ask who would have told Perkins, but the answer was obvious. Colonel Peter Stimpson. He’d know through his security contacts and, for reasons we’d never know about, Zealiac was not to be permitted to enter a partnership deal with Ambersial. So he tips off Perkins, who enlists Blatchford’s help, and Blatchford takes the appropriate action. This explained Blatchford’s buying a large number of shares in Hembreys and Ambersial, because he knew about the deal and, as a City man, he’d know the impact on share values once the deal was announced.
“But how did this piss off the Israelis?” I wondered. “I know Zealiac had to be bailed out, otherwise it would have gone under, but there has to be more than that.”
“There is. James also helped to steal something from them.”
“What?”
“The formula for whatever it was Zealiac was manufacturing. Ambersial was holding files on it, and obviously Israel wanted them destroyed as soon as the deal fell through. Someone from intelligence came into the negotiations, pretending to be a banker, whereas the truth was he was there to make sure the files stayed where they were: insisted nothing could be destroyed until the bank had a full profile of what had gone wrong, buried Zealiac under paperwork, and he bought enough time for Perkins to send someone in to steal the formula,” Jaser said, calmly. “I heard James telling someone it was something British security had an interest in seeing and obtaining.”
&nbs
p; “So we stole something from the Israelis.” I wanted to be certain.
“Yes, I’m afraid we did.”
“What was so important about it?”
“I’ve no idea about that. I just know he did it.”
This would explain Balpak’s claim of Israel’s national interest having been harmed by the deliberate collapsing of this deal. Small wonder he’d wanted Blatchford in prison. Or worse.
“And the Israelis took a deep exception to this,” I said.
He laughed. “Oh, they most certainly did. Most agitated they were.”
“So how did we actually get our hands on the formula?” I asked.
“There was a burglary at Ambersial.”
The burglary, I thought. It was probably Rhodes who’d broken into Ambersial’s office and stolen the documents pertaining to the deal. Perkins was his father, for a start. Rhodes had worked on the site, so he’d have a key and he’d know the layout, as well as the routines of the security personnel onsite. This would be easy for someone like Rhodes. That was why the security guard was able to say all keys had been handed in that evening; Rhodes had made a duplicate. He’d also know how to avoid the CCTV cameras. No wonder MI5 hadn’t wanted me looking into him.
This would also explain why the break-in was never reported, because there never was a break-in. The documents were always going to be returned to the firm.
I suspected what Rhodes had next done was pin the blame on two of the most prominent demonstrators, which had somehow led to the car chase, the crash and the two deaths. It was all a cover-up. My best guess was that Rhodes had been in one of the cars and Balpak in the other. Balpak thought he was getting back the formula for his country. Rhodes was just trying to get himself off the hook: volunteer to help Balpak take the activists out, and he’d be able to ‘find’ the documents in the wreck. Balpak wouldn’t look any further into the burglary, and he’d never figure out that his friend had shafted him.
I considered what I’d heard for a moment.
“That’s why Jamal was shot, wasn’t it?” I asked. “His wife’s wrongly identified as being one of the burglars, so the Israelis killed him, didn’t they? Do you think, because his wife was supposed to have been involved, the Israelis thought he was as well?”
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