Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (31 page)

Ben opened the door and a dour faced DCI Coombes and DS Scott stood on his doorstep. The New Zealander smiled and ushered the men inside. They muttered a brief greeting. Ben asked them to take a seat and he returned to the kitchen area to finish the b
reakfast.

“Would either of you like a bacon sandwich?” Ben asked amiably. Scott opened his mouth to accept the offe
r, but DCI Coombes stopped him.

“Mr Fogarty, before we go any further, I am informing you that Ashley Garner is now a person of interest to us in the Rectory murders, as well as being a witness. Are you representing her in any capacity, or d
o you intend to represent her?”

Ben set the grill pan down and looked directly at DCI Coombes. “I have no intention of representing my sister, either now or in the future. In fact, I’m rather less certain of her innocence than I was.” He looked down at the grill pan awkwardly, ashamed that he was declaring
his suspicions to the police.

“Now, I’ll offer one more time. Wo
uld you like a bacon sandwich?”

**
*

“What makes you ‘less certain’ of Ashley’s innocence than you were previously?” DS Scott asked throug
h a mouthful of bacon sandwich.

“Yesterday my g
randmother was hospitalised and Mary Akuta died, as a result of a brutal attack on them by a hooded gangster called ‘Rafe’ and his companion. My Gran said the attack was probably promulgated by their call to the police on Sunday afternoon.”

“Are you suggesting that someone tipped these people off about the
phone call?” DCI Coombes asked.

“It was a terrific coincidence otherwise, don’t you think?” Ben responded. “I guess we all have a bad apple or two in our organisations, and I’ve just been reading about policemen taking cash from News of the World journalists.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Coombes
answered gruffly.

“You can believe that!” a voice called out from behind the two detectives. They both turned in unison
to see the owner of the voice.

“Meet Max Richmond. He shares your suspicions a
bout my sister,” Ben explained.

A more formal introduction took place, Max shaking hands with the two detectives. “I gave evidence of payments being made to journalists two years ago to a DCI Trevor Griffiths. He rang me later and said I wouldn’t be needed to give evidence in an independent enquiry because that matter was being handed over to another force.
I think he believed that the sordid relationships between some of my corrupt colleagues and some of yours would be kicked into the long grass. Anyway, I was warned not to do my own investigation by my editor.”

The room fell silent. Both detectives knew that Trevor Griffiths was tasked with rooting out corruption
, but that was private police business.

“Max might have a lead for you, anyway,” Ben stated, bringing the discussion back to the present. DS Scott took out a notepad and the two detectives listened as Max explained his trip to Belgium, disguised as Johnny Snake Eyes, and the subsequent events. He noticed that Coombes interest was piqued when he mentioned Gavin Mapperley’s name. Realising that he was the only one who didn’t know who Gavin Mapperley was, DS Scott asked
, “Who is Gavin Mapperley?”

“Don’t you read the DIBs?” Coombes asked
, shaking his head.

“Guv, us sergeants don’t get the Daily Intelligence Briefings, we have to wait until our superiors
deign to share them with us.”

Coombes continued as if
DS Scott had never complained.

“I’m not giving anything away when I say that Gavin Mapperley is one of the most investigated and least charged criminals in London. Initially suspected of financial crimes, he has been interviewed several times by officers investigating gang related
violence. He walks every time.”

“Charmed lif
e,” Max muttered sarcastically.

“Off the record, I could be persuaded to believe that Mapperley had a contact in the Yard,” Coombes conceded. “But for now, Ben, we need to know where your sister is. We need her to
assist us with our enquiries.”

“I guess she’ll be at the office any time now,” Ben said helpfully. “If not, you could do worse than speak to Vastrick. They’ve been keeping an eye on her for me.” DCI Coombes nodded his thanks. Ben asked, “Chief Inspector, would it be
true to say that you’ve uncovered some new evidence implicating my sister?”

“Why would
you think that?” Coombes asked.

“It’s just that, forty eight hours ago you harboured the same general suspicions as Max here, but now you want her in for questioning, or for something more. I’m guessing that the forensics have turned up some evidence.”

Coombes thought Ben rather perceptive, but could not confirm anything.

“Look, Ben, both of you have been very helpful
, but until we speak to Ashley Garner we can’t say anything. I will say this, however. Be careful, Ben. Keep your distance, if you can.”

Police Station, 146 Wandsworth High Street, London.

Tuesday 23
rd
August 2011; 8 am.

It had been a busy night, and the desk sergeant was weary. Every cell and room was filled with people involved in last night’s fracas at the Metal Tokens premises. There were detectives from the Yard, local bobbies and a host of Eastern Europeans, all claiming that they needed an interpreter before insisting that they hadn’t known it was illegal to make pound coins.

The one man missing was one Paul ‘Paulie’ Dobson, who was under guard in hospital accused of carrying and discharging a firearm in a public place contrary to public safety, a charge that could put him away for seven years. “That would be longer than his dad ever served,” the sergeant thought to himself, “but then, his dad ne
ver carried. Wasn’t that daft?”

The desk sergeant ran his pen down the report, ticking boxes as he went. The building had been secured, the specialist pound coin
dies
and eleven thousand fake coins were on their way to the Royal Mint for examination, fourteen foreign nationals were in custody and the factory manager was being questioned at New Scotland Yard.

The sergeant set the clipboard down as the senior detective stepped outside onto the High Street for a smoke. The desk sergeant didn’t like smoking. It was a filthy habit, in his opinion, but he was curious
to know what was on his superior’s mind, so he joined the detective outside. The detective drew deeply on the cigarette, getting his nicotine fix as rapidly as possible. His eyes squinting against the smoke, he used his free hand to brush his receding hair back into place. Soon he wouldn’t need to. There wasn’t much left at the front.

“What do you reckon happened, then?” the sergeant asked, opening the conversation. The squat and slightly rumpled detective turned to face Clive, the uniformed sergeant he had worked with in Southwark, and looked
at first as though he wasn’t going to give him an answer, but he relented. It would be good to share his views with someone, even if it was just to get the confusing scenario straight in his own head.

“It looks like a rival gang turned up at the factory and duffed up the guard. Maybe he got a couple of shots off, maybe he didn’t. Anyway, someone shot out the windows and scared everyone shitless, and then they shot into the door to discourage the workers from escaping. Some Indian bloke, maybe a passerby, dialled 999 and presumably the gang heard the sirens and dispersed before we got there
. Bloody funny, though, Clive.”

“What’s that?” Clive asked.

“No GSR, gunshot residue, on Paulie’s hands. The 999 call came from his phone and no-one, not even the neighbours, saw any sign of the gang making a getaway. The CCTV footage shows no cars in the vicinity, either immediately before or immediately after the shooting. Invisible bloody criminals, that’s all we need, Clive.”

***

The green Jaguar drove along Wandsworth Road, slowing as it passed Metal Tokens Limited. Martin had been roused from his bed early by Mapperley, who was boiling mad about something. In the light of day the light coloured brick building didn’t look too bad. True, it had lost a couple of windows and it was now covered in yellow police tape, but the site of a gun battle? No.

“I guess we’
re not calling in today, Mr Mapperley?” the driver queried, not expecting an answer. Mapperley ignored his driver and took the call coming into his second phone, a non contract phone. He listened for a few moments and then gave the caller an account of what he knew.

“The police have got the workers in custody
, along with Paulie, but none of them knows anything that can link the unofficial nightshift back to us, although Cresty Group is likely to have its assets seized. We tried moving the cash funds online, but the account has been frozen.”

The person on the other end asked a question. “I think we had about seven hund
red thousand in the Isle of Man,” Mapperley responded. He then held the cheap phone well away from his ear, whilst a tirade of invective poured out of the loudspeaker.

“I think we ought to assume that the Manx authorities will cooperate with SOCA or the National Crime Agency, wh
atever they call themselves now,” Mapperley replied. “We have to assume that the money is lost and that the transactions will be disclosed to the police.”

Mapperley listened again
, before speaking once more. “The most important transfers that were made from that account were to Bob Radlett’s offshore account in the Caymans, and to the Panamanian account of Blackheath Voss Properties. If the Panamanians give up Cresty Group’s electronic transfer, SOCA may be able to trace the link between Metal Tokens and the Rectory.”

***

Ashley Garner was enraged; her face was so red and contorted th
at a seizure seemed inevitable.

“Gavin, the whole point of money laundering is to have double, triple, even quadruple blinds, separating us from the crimes. Hell’s teeth
, Gavin, we pay a fortune in fees to nominee directors in seven countries, and now you tell me that these shell companies might collapse like a house of cards! How could you let that happen? We are supposed to be anonymous!”

Ashley listened whilst Gavin explained that they could not personally be linked to the companies
, and that any evidence of a link would be circumstantial at best, but unfortunately her high profile in the Rectory murders would mean that the police would suspect a link, even if they could not prove it.

“I’m too angry to speak to you. I’ll call you later.”

Ashley disconnected the call before saying out loud, “I’ll see you in a box, Gavin Mapperley. If I go down, you’ll be in a coffin!” She yelled the last few words and the sound reverberated around her Canary Wharf apartment.

Ashley considered whether she should go into the office
, where she could be easily found. The flat where she was staying was safe and anonymous. It was owned by Ashlaw SA, a Swiss company she had formed with Lawrence when they married. No-one knew she was here. After thinking it through she decided to maintain appearances. After all, it would take weeks for SOCA to extract the account information from the offshore banks, and by then she could be long gone, if she had to be.

Lambrook House, Peckham High Street, London.

Tuesday 23
rd
August 2011; 9am.

Trevor Griffiths held the evidence bag containing the suicide note and looked at it again.

“See if there any prints on it o
ther than those of the deceased,” he instructed one of the forensic team.

“Waste of time, Griff
. You should leave it to the professionals. You belong behind a desk doing the professional policing.” The Detective Sergeant sniggered at DCI Radlett’s quip. “It’s obvious. He did it; he topped himself, end of. For God’s sake, the man even left a poetic note.”

Radlett w
as grinning, Griffiths was not.

“I’m
going back to the Yard, Radlett. Are you coming?” DCI Griffiths asked.

“I’ll be in this afternoon to do the paperwork. Come on
, Griff, it’s a good result. We found a murderer in twenty four hours. We should be due a commendation, at least!” Griffiths left the apartment without another word. He had a meeting with a certain police telephone operator.

“Freddie,” DCI Radlett call
ed over to the forensics guy. “Don’t put yourself out on the fingerprint analysis. We know a suicide when we see one.”

“What about Chief Inspector G
riffiths, sir?” Freddie queried.

“Don’t worry about him.
He’ll forget all about it when he starts investigating another real copper who shouted at a violent rapist and abused his right to a quiet life.” Radlett and his DS laughed. Freddie shrugged and bagged the evidence.