Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (25 page)

Now
, almost fifty years later, the ‘third Monday lunches’ were still held regularly. The Guild had opened up to a wider membership in the 1980s and was rebranded in the 1990s as the ‘Association of Women in Law Enforcement’ (AWILE). In its ranks today were the Home Secretary, Patricia May, who had succeeded Jacqui Smith as Chairman, uniformed and plain clothes policewomen, forensic scientists and even a few security personnel from the private sector. The regular lunches were always well attended, especially when they were held at Scotland Yard, and guest speakers such as Stella Rimmington, former head of MI5, often drew large crowds. Today, the large but soulless function room was brimming with women from across the spectrum of AWILE’s membership and Assistant Commissioner Penny Thomas was their host.

Dee Hammond had decided that she was too busy to attend this particular lunch, but she had sent her apologies to the branch secretary and asked her to let her have a copy of any handouts. The branch secretary was compiling the handout list for non attending members when she was approached by an attractive young woman she didn’t recognise. She looked down to the woman’s lapel
, where the badge bore the name ‘Tilly Morgan, Senior SOCO”. The secretary wondered what Tilly was an abbreviation of, but did not have the nerve to ask the senior Scene of Crimes Officer directly. Instead, she smiled and asked if she could help. Moments later the branch secretary introduced Tilly Morgan to ACC Penny Thomas.

***

AC Penny Thomas was quite used to women in the lower ranks approaching her at these lunches; in fact, she encouraged it. After all, the Association was all about education and opportunity, and the lower ranks rarely had the opportunity to meet one on one with an AC.

“Ms Morgan, I wouldn’t mind betting that you solve more crimes than we do these days, or at least that’s what I glean from CSI and Waking the Dead.”

Tilly laughed politely at the self deprecation, knowing very well that the AC had never solved a crime in her life. She had been fast tracked and promoted through the service, mainly on the management side of the Met. Tilly had thought long and hard about this conversation, but had decided to risk all.

“Ma’am, I don’t know who else to talk to about this.” The AC’s brow furrowed. “You see, I’m working on the Rectory Murders...”

She paused. Penny Thomas smiled politely.

“That’s a vital case for us, Tilly. We really need a quick result on that and I’m sure you are playing a key part.” Tilly ignored the public relations spiel and hoped that the AC was in police management mode.

“Ma’am, a senior police officer has approached me and has tried to persuade me to be less thorough than I normally would be. I think he may be protecting someone.” The AC’s smile wavered and an expression of concern passed fleetingly across her features. She grasped Tilly’s upper arm and squeezed it gently in a gesture meant to invoke silence. Scanning the room to see if anyone might have overheard, and deciding that they hadn’t, she whispered to Tilly.

“My office in an hour.” In an instant the frown on the AC’s face disappeared and the PR smile was back in place.

Chapter 34

ICU, St Thomas’ Hospital, London.

Monday 22
nd
August 2011; 1pm.

Max looked into the screened cubicle holding the frail body of Mary Akuta and tears welled in his eyes. The nurse had warned him in advance about her appearance, but no warning could have prepared him for the sight before him.

Mary’s face was bloated beyond recognition with bruising and fractures. Her eyes
were slits in swollen lids, each of which resembled half a tennis ball. Her face was covered in blood from numerous lacerations, her nose was destroyed and her mouth had stitches in one corner where the flesh had been torn. Max allowed the tears to flow freely down his cheeks as he took the heavily bandaged hand and rested it gently on his own.

“Please be careful, Mr Richmond,” the nurse requested. “We think that someone stamped on her hand, breaking the bones. We won’t know for certain until it is X rayed.” They both knew it would never be X rayed,
unless it was done post mortem.

Mary Akuta was wired up to every monitor in the cubicle
, and tubes connected her to a saline drip, pain relief and oxygen. She was close to death. Her monitors were set to silent because the alarms would otherwise have been constantly ringing as her heart and body fluttered, teetering on the very cusp of the eternities.

Max looked at the face of the woman who had been so ki
nd to him and who had helped him expose criminality on the Broadwater Farm so many times. His face set rigid, and his eyes again took on a rabid intensity when, looking closely at the old lady’s face, he saw the distinct and unmistakeable imprint of shoelaces fastened in the crossover style.

“Bastards!” he muttered none too quietly under his breath. Mary stirred
, and the nurse stepped forward.

Removing the tube from her mouth, she gently wiped away a little saliva and said kindly, “Relax, Mary, it will be better if you just
try to sleep. Are you in pain?”

The old lady shook her head almost imperceptibly and tried to speak. The nurse dipped her head to hear better and heard the word “Max.” She looked at Max. “Please don’t tax her. She now
has minutes rather than hours.”

Max leaned in and spoke through his tears. “Mary, I’ll get them, every last one, and they’ll suffer. Believe me.” Mary again shook her head and Max wondered how anyone could be beaten like this and still not want revenge. She again tri
ed to speak, her voice a croak.

“It was them!” Was all she said but Max knew exactly what she meant. Mary collapsed into the pillow from the exertion, and moments later she passed away. The monitor flatlined and an alarm sounded. The nurse turned off the alarm and
picked up a blue telephone which led directly to the resuscitation team, the crash team. “Hello, this is Sister Salmon. Hold the crash trolley. We won’t be needing it.” She set the phone down and saw the question in Max’s eyes. “There was just too much damage. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Max pressed his face down into the bed cover and sobbed, the first time he could remember doing so as an adult. He came to realise that he was holding Mary’s shattered hand tightly, but he knew
that it didn’t matter anymore.

***

When the nurses came to move Mary’s body to a quiet room where her relatives could view her body, Max started to leave. As he passed the nurses station he thanked Sister Salmon and asked rhetorically, “How could someone do this to a frail old lady?”

Sister Salmon shook her head in bewilderment before adding, “She isn’t the only one, unfortunately. There was a second victim. She must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was
visiting from the North West.”

Max looke
d puzzled. The nurse continued.

“You might know her, as she was a friend of Mary’s.” The sister consulted her bed plan. “Her driving license says she is Mrs Burchill, but she insists that her name is Fogarty. May Fogarty.”

New Scotland Yard, London.

Monday 22
nd
August 2011; 1:30pm.

Tilly Morgan had never been on the fifth floor before, and she was slightly nervous as the secretary in the outer office continued working without paying her visitor much attention. On her arrival in the management suite Tilly had been surprised at the quality of the decor, the array of greenery and the rarity of the artwork. New Scotland Yard was, on the whole, a functional building and the workspaces were mostly modern and utilitarian. This section of the building felt more like an upmarket lawyer’s offices, perhaps even a gentleman’s club.

The coffee Tilly had been given on arrival was not the vending machine coffee available elsewhere in the building; it wasn’t even the coffee one might expect from the individual cup machines from Flavia or De Longhi. It tasted at least as good as Starbucks
, and it was delivered by a lady in a domestic uniform. Until today, Tilly had not appreciated that the Yard still had domestic staff operating in the office areas.

The secretary looked up and smiled. Tilly smiled back, over the top of the magazine she was pretending to read. It was a Homes and Gardens magazine and it was current, not five years old like the magazines in the public waiting areas. The secretary carried on typing on her keyboard and Tilly looked around at the plush mid blue car
peting, no doubt chosen to match the pale blue wall covering, which appeared to be some kind of textured wallpaper. The halogen downlighters were inset into a flat ceiling, with concealed wall washer lighting installed around the perimeter. The light was bright and uplifting, far removed from the flat panels set into the suspended ceilings on other floors.

The phone on the secretary’s desk buzzed and she lifted the handset. As she listened she looked in Tilly’s direction, a
nd Tilly set down the magazine.

“They are ready to see you
now,” the secretary announced.

“They?” Tilly had not been expecting “they”. She stood up, suddenly fee
ling more nervous.

***

As Tilly Morgan entered the room one of the two uniformed ACs stood, as gentlemen once used to do when a lady entered the room. The man was tall and athletically built. Tilly recognised the Met’s Triathlon champion immediately, as he was also an Assistant Commissioner. He held out his hand.

“
Dr. Morgan, AC Tim Garrett. As you probably know, I head up territorial policing for the service.” Tilly shook his hand and noticed that the new trend for referring to the police force by the more friendly sounding ‘police service’ had even been adopted by the alpha males in the building.

“Dr.
Morgan, for the purposes of this meeting we think it would be less intimidating if, as a civilian worker, you referred to us as Tim and Penny, no ma’ams or sirs needed.” The AC smiled and winked. “But let’s keep that to ourselves, shall we, Tilly?”

Their guest nodded. After some brief introductory questions about her work and career at the Met, AC Thomas opened the floor to Tilly to explain what had happened to cause her sufficient concern t
o report her feelings to an AC.

“Ma’am, sorry, I have worked in assisting other senior colleagues on crime scenes since 2004
, and since 2007 I have been a team leader. My predecessor, Doctor Trevelyan, taught me to be wary of certain police officers. Two in particular had pressured him into withdrawing or reanalysing data relating to crime scenes. In each case he felt that he had been weak and, whilst it was their case, he felt that between them he and the detectives had weakened the evidential case. Tom - Doctor Trevelyan - didn’t want that to happen to me, and so when he retired he warned the detectives he would not allow them to browbeat me, and he made it clear that I should report any concerns that I have to an appropriate person.” The two ACs knew of Tom Trevelyan, and nodded sagely at the advice he had given.

“I have had a few cases where one particular DCI has tried to tilt scene of crime findings in a given direction, mostly to ensure that when a suspect is arrested and questioned, that person is immediately put under pressure by being faced with incriminating forensic evidence. Whilst that is not terribly ethical, I was not too worried because I knew that, if a case ran, our independent forensic evidence would have to be produced and a jury would be able to decide the case
on clear scientific evidence.“

Tilly looked to see what the reaction would be
, but there was none. She continued. “However, this same DCI came to me a week ago, out on the street, and threatened me. He wanted me to ensure that the Rectory Murder forensics supported the generally held view that foreign criminals were responsible for the executions.”

Tim Garrett jumped in. “Tilly, I have seen your recent reports, they seem to suggest that the perpetrator was in the house and that the foreign criminal angle is nonsense. Is that right? Do I remember correctly?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry. I couldn’t allow a threat against me
to pervert the course of the investigation. My report is one hundred percent independent.”

“Tilly, you know as well as I do that the service employs some people who still like to improve the odds when interviewing a suspect, and if they do it without lying and potentially destroying the case, their superiors will often turn a blind eye. They believe justice is being done, in the end. They will say that the ends justify the means. That’s not true, of course, but we will never stamp it out completely.” The AC paused and rested his chin on steepled fingers as he looked directly into Tilly’s eyes.
“But what you are reporting here today, if accurate, is something quite different. It would constitute an attempt to move suspicion away from the real perpetrator. That is corruption in anyone’s language. Why would a Metropolitan Police Officer do that?”

Tilly was scared now. She seemed to be under attack. P
erhaps they didn’t believe her.

“I don’t know,
sir, but I can assure you it’s true.” Her face was flushed.

“The usual reason, Tilly, is greed. Some people believe tha
t they can take money from the Press, lawyers or criminals and feather their own nests. In the past they thought that institutionalised corruption was the norm and so would go unpunished. Not for many years, Tilly, not for many years. Give us a moment.”