Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (12 page)

The constable passed the brief report to DS Scott, who briefly scanned it before dropping his head into his hands and swearing for a full minute without repetition.

Whittington Hospital
,
Magdala Avenue, North London.

Tuesday 16
th
August 2011, 11am.

With no court hearing to attend, DS Scott and DS Fellowes met with DCI Coombes at the hospital, where all three were directed to the Police room. The three men were mismatched; DCI Coombes was a surly, heavily built middle aged policeman of the old school, whose red hair was now peppered with grey. DS Scott was amiable and outgoing and, at six feet tall, he was four or five inches taller than his boss.  In his late twenties, he had a thick crop of untidy dark brown hair. Scott had a slightly crumpled look, and his suits and shirts never seemed to fit quite right. The oddball in the group was the impeccably dressed DS Fellowes from the City police. DS Fellows was the same height and weight as Scott, but his toned body carried a superbly fitted suit with panache. His ties were silk, and his shirts always crisp Egyptian cotton with double cuffs and gold cufflinks.

The differences between them owed as much to personality as occupation, but DS Fellowes tended to deal with city crimes such as fraud,
often interviewing bankers, insurers and other professionals, whereas Scott and Coombes dealt with less well turned out criminals, who probably stole a whole lot less but went to prison for a whole lot longer.

Sergeant Botterill came into the room. Based in Tottenham, he knew the area very well, and he knew all of the criminals just as well as he knew the area. After brief introductions
he began his summary of events.

“It appears, gentlemen, that we have a coup on our hands. Dennis Grierson has been King of the Hill on the Broadwater
Farm Estate for almost twenty-five years, and last night he was ousted. Two of his boys are in this very hospital, one with a compound fracture of the forearm, the other with a fractured skull. Mikey, the fractured skull, was Psycho’s second in command and he has taken a right beating. As for Barty, well, he isn’t so bright, but he has been Dennis Grierson’s minder for years.

Grierson’s flat is being boarded up, but it’s already been stripped to the walls and floorboards and there are gang tags on the walls. It seems Dennis was evicted. The TH Crew, and particularly Michael Tambo, alias Metal Mickey, are parading around the flats as if they own the place – which they may well do by now. Our best guess is that the two Crew members who were involved in this morning’s farrago were trying
to take Dennis Grierson out once and for all.” He paused and made an aside. “And, in my view, it’s a shame they didn’t succeed. It would have saved us a lot of time and effort. But that’s by the way.

The car is licensed to Ron Trussler, another of Grierson’s cohorts. Obviously he wasn’t expecting
any trouble, or they would have nicked a car instead of using one that could be traced back to him. He and Dennis Grierson are not at any of their local haunts, so we must assume they are in hiding. The car was caught on cameras heading out of London on the A2. They could be anywhere by now, but Kent would be the obvious destination.

The gun is an East European copy of a Glock, and has the surviving gang member’s prints all over it. His name
is Jeremy Barlow, nicknamed Jaz.” The Sergeant paused again as he looked at the report. “And here is the kicker; ballistics have confirmed that the gun has been used before.... in the Robby Traylor murder.” Silence fell across the room.

Robby Traylor was a young third generation Afro Caribbean boy who worked hard at school, was well loved throughout the flats, and who was returning home from a music lesson when he was shot in the head. Witnesses saw a boy in a hoodie leaving the area on his bike immediately after the shooting, but no-one was ever charged. The shooting
had taken place two years ago.

DCI Coombes said aloud what everyone else was thinking. “A gang member from Trafalgar House Flats is caught in possession of a firearm known to have been used to kill a young boy from Trafalgar House Flats. The
kid was killed by the TH Crew.”

The sergeant continued. “Coincidentally, you have within this revered establishment three crew members, and two
of Den Grierson’s gang.”

DS Scott looked
puzzled. “Three gang members?”

“Yes. The third one was admitted after the attack on that lady police officer last week. He’s being kept in be
cause he has just lost an eye.”

The sergeant folded the papers and sa
t on the edge of a table.

“This is one hell of a mess, boys. If we don’t get a cap on it soon, we’ll have a whole hospital full of bodies.” DCI Coombes’ expression was even more serious than usual.

***

Jaz was lying awake in his hospital bed in a side room when DC
I Coombes and DS Scott entered.

“I ain’t saying nuffing,” the boy sta
ted, his words full of bravado.

“Well, guess what, Jeremy - you don’t mind me calling you by your poncey real name, do you?” DCI Coombes asked without expecting an answer. “We aren’t going to be asking you anything, as it happens. We’re here to charge you with murder, possession of a firearm in a public place, possession of a firearm without a permit, two counts of attempted murder, and the CPS are looking at what we can charge you with in connection with th
e death of your friend Marty.”

The boy paled and his jaw dropped open. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. DCI Coombes continued. “And we have some more good news for you. As you will soon be eighteen, we are trying you as an adult
, and so when you go to jail for twenty years you won’t have pesky kids around. A pretty boy like you should quickly make friends in a proper grown-up prison. Don’t you think so, Scott?”

“Yes, Guv, I think they’ll be lining up to be his friend. Good looking eighteen year olds a
re real popular in the Scrubs.”

“I still aint talking,” Jaz insisted,
sounding rather less sure of himself this time.

“OK,” DCI Coombes answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “There’s nothing more we can do for you. We have your gun, covered in your prints, and witnesses who saw you shooting live rounds at a car with people inside. The same gun was used to kill little Robby Traylor, and so you w
ill be charged with that, too.”

“I didn’t do Robby. I liked him. His mum would take me in when my dad went off on one
, and she wouldn’t let me go back until he sobered up and apologised. I wouldn’t hurt Robby.” Jaz was beginning to sound like the child he still was.

“Look, Jeremy, you told us just now that you weren’t going to say anything. If you do want to speak
, I’ll have to read you your rights and you can defend yourself until the cows come home, understand?” The boy nodded. “Do you want to defend yourself on record?” The boy nodded again, and DCI Coombes took out a digital voice recorder and set it on the bedside cabinet. He pressed the time signature button and a robotic voice said; ‘Eleven oh eight am, Tuesday sixteenth August two thousand eleven’.

“This interview is taking place at the bedside of Jeremy Barlow, aged seventeen of 243 Trafalgar House, Tottenham. He is under mild medication and is coherent. As this interview is being taped on a single machine, DS Scott will make verbatim notes and a copy of the tape will be made available to the interviewee’s counsel.” Jaz listened quietly as DCI Coombes proceeded to explain his rights, asking him if he wan
ted to wait for representation.

“No. I want to talk now,” the boy added when asked.
Coombes spoke into the machine.

“DCI Coombes and DS Scott in attendance. Jeremy, do you appreciate the seriousness of a conviction for the murder of a minor, two counts of attempted murder and possession of a firearm?” The boy nodded. “Answer
out loud for the tape, please.

“Yes I do. But I ne
ver killed no one!” he blurted.

“If you did not kill Robby Traylor,
can you tell me who did? And before you tell me you don’t know, remember that we have your prints on the gun that killed him, and it’s possible that you’ll go to prison for life for a crime you allege was committed by another.”

“I aint saying who done it, but it weren’t me. I was at home playing on my Playstation when I got a text saying R
obby had been done by mistake.”

“Who
was with you? Was it your dad?”

“Come off it. The pub was still open
, weren’t it? I was on my own.”

“So you have no alibi for the time of Robby’s murder! You are in a shed load of trouble, young man.” Coombes turned to Scott. “Get Jeremy’s phone records. I want every call and text made and received since he took out the phone. Then we don’t need to offer anything to young Jeremy here by way of reduced charges; we can find out who called him and track the calls back to the original call from the murderer. We’ll pull in the whole gang and send th
em away for a long, long time.”

“Wait!” Jeremy called out. “I’ve helped you. I don’t want to spend my life in prison. All I did was shoot a gun
, and I missed, anyway. I didn’t hit nuffing.”

“But you conspired with another boy to kill, and he is dead,” Coombes told him bluntly. “That makes you responsible for his death. You would have to do something pretty damn big to get a court t
o overlook your part in that.”

The boy began to cry. He made no sound, but tears were rolling down his cheeks. Scott handed
him a tissue and spoke gently.

“Jaz, look, we see this all the time. Young gang members going down for crimes they didn’t commit, and do the others on the outside care? No, Jaz, they get on with their lives. They get girlfriends,
get married, have kids, buy a Beamer, who knows what they do? But they don’t even think about their supposed ‘brothers’ inside.” DS Scott paused to let his words sink in; he knew they had found their target.

“What I want you to do is remember one of those nights when Mrs Traylor took you in to protect you. Remember her kindness; remember little Robby. He must have been a nice kid. Then ask yourself, did he deserve a bullet in the head? Did you know that he was still conscious as he lay on his own in that dark courtyard, dying? He was crying for his Mama when the paramedics arrived much later. He couldn’t move. He was in awful pain, terrified of dying and even more terrified of living. The paramedic who watched him die in her arms has left the service because, when she was cradling his head, he looked into her eyes and said “I love you, Mama” and he
died.”

Jaz was sobbing uncontrollably, and even the hardened DCI Coombes’ eyes were wet.
Jaz got control of himself and spoke through his tears.

“It was Pete Dockerill who shot him. He thought it was one of the N17 Gang on our manor. He said he was firing over his head. He said he never meant it.” The words tumbled out almost incoherently,
but the tape caught every one.

DCI Coombes knew that by the time they brought in fifteen year old Pete Dockerill and they extracted all of the information from Jaz, Dockerill and the boy upstairs, they would have everything they needed to close down the TH Crew, and the forensic computer and phone records would just be the icing on the cake. Mickey’s reign over the flats was to be short lived. The two policemen closed off the interview and left Jaz to think about the boys who were dead because of the TH Crew
, and the boys who would be jailed for the best part of their lives.

Coombes shook his head and addressed his Detective Sergeant. “Scott, that stuff about the paramedic really got to me. You should have been presenting Crimewatch instead of that stuffy assistant commissioner. He never mentioned half of that stuff.”

Scott coughed to cover his embarrassment. “I may have add
ed in a few enhancements, Guv!”

“Artistic l
icense, you mean?”

“Artistic license, Guv,” Scott confirmed apologetically. C
oombes slapped him on the back.

“Bugger me, Scott, you had me the
re. You’ll soon be a grown up.”

“Thanks, Guv,” Scott answered, genuinely pleased at his
boss’s scant praise.

St Ermin’s Hotel, Caxton Street, London.

Tuesday 16
th
August 2011, 4pm.

Ben Fogarty had just freshened up for his journey across London to meet his long lost twin sister when his mobile phone rang. Very few people in the UK had his private number but one of those was his sister’s PA. Ben answered the phone and Ashley’s personal assistant began with an apology.

“Mr Fogarty, I am so sorry but Mrs Garner has been called away from the office on urgent family business and so we will have t
o reschedule your appointment.”

Ben was worried. “Listen, Val, I should have mentioned this yesterday but I didn’t want to raise any unnecessary alarm. The fact is, I am Mrs Garner’s brother and it is imperative that I speak to her soon. She may be in danger.” The PA was silent for a moment while she absorbed this new information. After a moment she told Ben that she was connecting him to Mr Garner’s mobile phone. The phone rang
twice before it was picked up.