Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (18 page)

“I should remind you that I knew nothing of this deal
, or of the financial arrangements Lawrence had made. Had I known, I would have been desperately worried because we had no equity in our own home either. Although we were both well paid by Garner-Brinkman, we tended to spend money as fast as we earned it. So, without my knowledge, Lawrence approached Dennis Grierson and asked him to invest in the Rectory development. Dennis Grierson saw this as an opportunity to launder a significant amount of his illegal savings to get something that he desperately wanted but which had been denied him - a daughter.

With money provided by Dennis Grierson, Lawrence paid the Voss brothers for their share of the limited company and they went back to the Netherlands to lick their wounds. Grierson’s conditions for lending Lawrence the money were simple. Whilst he could not himself be a director of the limited company, given his criminal past, he wanted the company memorandum to show that I was a seventy five per cent shareholder in the business and Lawrence was the holder of the remaining twenty five per cent of the business. Lawrence told me later that he was so relieved that Grierson was prepared to make the investment that he was about to accept the terms gratefully. At that point, Dennis Grierson stipulated one final caveat. Dennis Grierson was to be given full access to his daughter, and Lawrence was to ensure that I would cooperate in what Dennis saw as
a long overdue reconciliation.

When Lawrence explained this to me I felt sick. I refused to become involved, explaining to Lawrence what Grierson did to the women under his control. Lawrence was devastated, and in the days that followed he became so worried and withdrawn that his father and co-workers were concerned that he might take his own life. Whilst they had no idea what was causing the sudden depression, I of course knew only too well. I knew that only I could offer a cure. Reluctantly I agreed to the plan, and Lawrence was saved the embarrassment of having to go to his father and confess that he had made yet another poor investment and had lost his mother’s inher
itance.

Over the next few weeks Lawrence brightened visibly, and Dennis made few if any demands. I became optimistic that I would be expected to do little other than to visit Grierson in daughterly fashion from time to time. We were then informed that the Churc
h of England school beside the Rectory wanted to purchase the Rectory and its grounds for a pre-school facility under the Free Schools legislation enacted by the coalition government. We were offered almost one point two million, and suddenly life seemed rosy again.

Unfortunately, it soon became clear the Dennis Grierson's grip on the Broadwater Farm estate was slipping, and that his authority was being challenged by the gangs who ran the low-level crime. Grierson knew that his days were numbered, and he was busily liquidating his assets when he informed us that he would be the next occupant of the Rectory. He intended to run his drugs wholesaling activities out of Blackheath, well away from the dealers, the pushers and their clients.

The Rectory was only just completed and furnished to Grierson’s demanding standards, which would have done justice to a Russian Oligarch, when the man himself turned up at the Rectory with an injured leg and a story of woe. He had been ousted from the Farm and his lock up had been looted. He had lost cash and goods wort
h tens of thousands but, worse than that, drugs with a street value of a quarter of a million pounds had vanished and his Belgian suppliers were coming over to collect their share of the money.

Grierson started making demands and, to our shame, we complied. Lawrence lured Ben to the Rectory. Grierson wanted payback for the leg and the loss of his property, which he said was Ben’s doing.”

Ashley looked at Ben and smiled wanly.

“He made me stay with him overnight at the Rectory, knowing that it would drive Lawrence to distraction wondering what kinds of abuse he was inflicting on me. The truth was that Grierson was so high on painkillers that apart from some clumsy groping he couldn’t do much else. Then the next night he told me I would be hosting a dinner for the Belgians, and he wanted me to wear a revealing dress that he had bough
t for one of his ‘other girls’.

As disgusted as I was, I knew I had no other choice. I had to get Ben out of there somehow. So, after I left Ben his dinner, I showered and began to get ready for the dinner. Lawrence poured me a whisky and I downed it pretty quickly. That’s the last thing I remember. I can hardly believe that my own husband spiked my drink with some date rape drug.” Ashle
y paused and wiped away a tear.

“I have to believe that he was protecting me. Maybe he thought I was going to be offered to the Belgians as part payment, or something, and he didn’t want me to remember. I don’t
know. I don’t know any more.”

The barrier was breached and the tears flowed freely. DS Scott and DCI Coombes looked embarrassed as they comforted Ashley, and promised that they would keep her informed about the progress of their investigation. They then left quietly, summoning Ben to the door.

“Listen, Mr Fogarty, we’re pretty sure that if Belgian criminals did this there’s a very high probability that they will be back across the North Sea by now, but just to be on the safe side Mrs Garner will be unde
r twenty four hour protection.”

Ben nod
ded, and DCI Coombes continued.

“Go and get some sleep. You look dead on your feet. Come in and see us on Monday. We have more questions, and hopefully we will be
able to give you some answers.”

“That’s f
ive days away,” Ben complained.

“I know, but most of my officers have been working around the clock for a week or more. They need some time off. We’ll know more after the weekend. In the meantime, get to know your sister. She needs somebody.”

The DCI paused to look into the hospital room. “And who better to comfort her than her long lost brother?”

The Scandic Grand Place Hotel, Brussels, Belgium.

Wednesday 17
th
August 2011; 7pm, local time.

With his
News of the World
expenses and final pay still sitting in his bank account in London, Max Richmond had continued to spend his savings in chasing down the North London Gang story. His last published story for the revered old paper had warned that there was a prospect of civil unrest in North London, which would be started by the gangs who would pass the baton to the excitement seekers, the social networkers and the people who no longer cared about living in a civil society. People had scorned and laughed a month ago, but they weren’t laughing now.

The publicity his prophetic story attracted when the riots began had been helpful to him as he wrote pieces on the riots for the tabloids, the broadsheets and the highbrow weekly magazines. He had also been paid handsomely for a number of radio appearances and one TV appearance. That had been on Panorama, where he sat concealed in shadow whilst an actor voiced his words. Max wasn’t r
ich, but he might be very soon.

Continuing to play the role he first adopted in Tottenham in March 2011, Max had travelled to Brussels to meet a drugs wholesaler who had granted him an audience,
believing that Max - or John “Snake Eyes” Patterson, as he had become known - was in the market for a range of hard drugs. As Max walked along the Grande Place in the humid hot air that accompanied a Brussels summer’s evening, he caught sight of a reflection of himself as John “Snake Eyes” Patterson in the window of a patisserie.

Max had deliberately dressed in a suit that fitted badly, the collar of which failed to conceal the tattoo of the lunging snake that stared out from beneath his hairline. Max’s natural hair colour had been replaced with bleached blonde hair closely cropped,
military style. A pair of snake eyes had been expertly carved into the hair on the back of his head, forever watching all those who followed behind. John Patterson - he was in character now - straightened the tie that looked as uncomfortable as it felt around his neck, and curled his lip in a snarl. That would do, Max thought.

A minute later ‘Snake Eyes’ walked into the foyer of the unassuming white stuccoed building on t
he Grande Place which housed the Scandic Hotel. The flags outside the hotel were brightly coloured and varied but, he noted, they did not include the flag of the European Union.

The foyer was air-
conditioned, a welcome relief after the sweltering heat of the day. Snake Eyes took a deep breath and followed the signs to the Waterloo Suite, where he was due to meet his Belgian contacts. The real John Patterson had fled London in June after a violent dispute with a North London villain called Dennis Grierson. Max had interviewed the terrified man, who was now staying with his sister in Manchester, rarely leaving the house for fear of retribution. Young Mr Snake Eyes confessed to Max that he had siphoned off almost fifty grand of gang money over five months before being caught in the act by a brute of a man called Barty, Grierson’s minder.

Hopefully, the Belgians would accept Max as John Patterson. If they didn’t - well, Max didn’t want to consider what might happen to him if they rumbled him as an undercover reporter. There was no reason why the drug lords should suspect that he was anyone other than Snake Eyes. Max and John were a close match in height, build and eye colour, and, the temporary tattoo of the snake writhing up his neck was wh
at caught everyone’s attention.

Max saw a suited heavy standing outside the door to the Waterloo Suite and with an exaggerated swagger he approached the mountain of a man. He was about to announce himself when the minder opened the door and nodded Max in
without a word.

***

Inside the suite he could see a long meeting room table surrounded by a dozen chairs. The surface of the table was so highly polished that the reflection from the window dazzled Max as he entered. As the door closed behind him, a man stepped out of the shadows and Max was professionally frisked and wanded before he could go any further. Satisfied that the magnetic wand and the frisking had turned up no weapons or listening devices, the man nodded to the men at the back of the room.

Walking around the table, Max moved towards two men who appeared as no more than silhouettes as they rose from an overstuffed sofa. As he approached them Max’s eyes adjusted to the glare
, and he could see that both men were middle aged and immaculately turned out. They both wore expensive suits, cut in the slightly brutal European style, and their crisp white linen shirts bore double cuffs that were fastened with gold links. Max’s expert eye caught sight of a Rolex Oyster watch with gold bezel and strap, and a Patek Phillipe Chronograph as he shook hands with the two men, calculating that they were wearing thirty thousand pounds’ worth of watches between them.

“Well, Mr Patterson, your persistence is certainly more impressive than your reputation,” the taller man teased. Max figured that John Patterson would not have known how to respond and so he stayed in character and looked puzzled.

“I am Willem Peters and this is my partner, Peter Willems - a strange coincidence, yes?” The tall man’s eyes laughed at Max, but the man himself just smiled. Max knew that these men considered Snake Eyes Patterson a bit of a joke, but hopefully they would underestimate Max and let something slip during the meeting.

The three men sat down and the taller man who had introduced himself as Willem Peters spoke first.

“John, we were minded not to meet you at all but, as I said before, your persistence persuaded us that you might be useful to us, although we are wary of thieves who steal from their employers.” The man let the comment hang in the
air as if inviting a response.

“Well, thieving is in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it? I mean, if you steal from a bloke who owes you money, it ain’t stealing unless you take more than you’re entitled, right? I mean, even the courts agree
with that.”

Peter Willems replied by directing
his response to his colleague.

“Whilst Mr Patterson’s response was inelegantly worded, he does have a point Willem!” Max was being patronised with style. “John, we are busy men, as you must be, and we don’t want to waste valuable time that you could be spending in the tattoo parlour, so
please outline your proposal.”

Max replied as he imag
ined Patterson would have done.

“Right, OK, my plan is simple, really. As you know, Dennis Grierson was booted out of the Farm before someone topped him.” Max stared meaningfully at each man in turn, but their faces bore no signs of guilt. “So, me and a few of the guys who have been distributing your gear for Grierson, we thought we could form a cooperative sort of thing, you know, and step up a bit. Maybe miss ou
t the middle man, so to speak.”

“Missing out a level of management does seem to offer an improvement on margins. It worked for Shell, after all,” Willem grinned, and Peter stifled a laugh. “But, John, we have a problem. The only reference for you that we could acquire, in the short time we had to prepare, was from the colourfully named Red Ronnie, who said, and I quote: ‘Don’t trust
that thieving little scrote’.”

“Well, of course he would say that, wouldn’t he? It was probably him what topped Dennis. Wants the business for himself, to my mind,” Max replied boldly. “Look, the word is that you had Dennis seen to. Now, I have no problem with that, I’m happy to take it as a warning that we can’t mess with you lot over the water. But
I think I can take his place.”