Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (38 page)

“We’d
better start the day by going to the City, Martin. I need to speak to our lawyers,” Mapperley said from behind the Financial Times as the car pulled out of his driveway and onto the concrete road that was High Mead. The car had travelled barely twenty yards when it came to a halt. Mapperley lowered his newspaper to see what was happening and saw that a motorcycle had ridden directly towards the car, obliging it to stop. As Gavin watched, the motorcyclist propped up his Harley Davison and climbed off, removing his helmet. He looked like Johnny Snake Eyes, but it wasn’t him.

“What shall I do
, Guv?” Martin asked warily.

“L
et’s wait and see what he wants,” Mapperley replied.

The two men were so intent on watching the man who looked like Johnny Snake Eyes as he ambled along the passenger side of the car that they failed to see another leather clad figure approach from the driver’s side of the vehicle. In a second the car door had been opened and the ignition key had been snatched from the dashboard. The second motorcyclist closed the driver’s door, then opened the rear driver’s side door and climbed in. Mapperley slid as far along the shiny leather seat as he could. He was now pressed against the passenger side door.

“Hello
, Gavin.” The voice was muffled under the full face helmet. The man casually dropped the car keys into the footwell of the rear seat, between Mapperley’s Ferragamo loafers, and slipped off the helmet. Gavin Mapperley found himself staring into a handsome face, framed by unruly dark hair and punctuated by opaline green eyes.

“Sorry, Gav, we haven’t met.” The man extended his hand for a handshake and Mapperley was so shak
en he took it. “I’m Ben Fogarty. I think you might know my sister.”

***

DCI Radlett, soon to be the former DCI Radlett, was not feeling as confident as he tried to appear. He had fully expected an investigation to be initiated by the cop catchers, but he had not anticipated being arrested and held in his own police station. He knew that the Welsh git Trevor Griffiths was involved with all of this somewhere, and he fully accepted that there would be no support from his ACC, but the detectives from the Internal Affairs Bureau seemed to know far more than they should have known. There was no way that Conn Parker could offer anything more than hearsay evidence against him, he knew that much. Parker may have delivered the odd envelope and overheard some talk of Radlett being on the take, but it would be Radlett’s word against that of a known criminal and drug abuser. What alarmed Radlett was a question from the red headed detective which pointed to the fact that IAB knew that he had made a bank transfer on the day of his arrest. The only way they could have known that was if they had been monitoring his calls, and if they had been allowed to monitor his calls, he knew he must have been under investigation for some time. “Shit!” he muttered under his breath. “How long have they been listening to my calls? Or following me?”

His lawyer had left the room for a comfort break and Radlett was alone in the interview room. It was pleasant enough, nicely decorated in soothing colours, with comfortable chairs. He had always complained that it wasn’t intimidating enough. He was wrong; it was very intimidating from th
e suspect’s side of the table.

The two detectives returned with Radlett’s lawyer and as soon as they were seated the
digital recorder was restarted.

“DCI Radlett, we have just applied for a court order to seize your assets. We have reason to believe that you have funds in your possession that are derived from the
proceeds of crime and that…..”

“Oh, do shut up!” Radlett interrupted impatiently. “I was doing all this when you were sucking on your mother’s tit. My Met salary is paid straight into my account, and I own my own house outright because I’ve been paying a mortgage for twenty years. You can’t take my assets. You know very well they are legit, and I’ll fight you all the way.” He looked over at his lawyer, who nodded in agreement. Far from being offended, the red headed Detective Sergeant smiled benign
ly.

“We know all about your house, Radlett…” he b
egan, before being interrupted.

“That would be Sir, to you, Sergeant! I am still a DCI until I am told other
wise!” Radlett shouted angrily.

“We know all about your house,
sir
,” the Sergeant sneered. “It was your other house we were talking about. We’re taking your Belize house and everything in it. We would take your bank funds as well, except for the fact that there are none. You used them all to fund the house purchase.”

Radlett slumped in his seat. All these years he had worked two jobs, one on each side of the law, and now what did he have to show for all his hard work? Nothing. Not even his police pension. It was over. He would fight the charges, maybe he would even escape prison, but he would never come back from this, especially if any of his criminal paymasters turned on him. Mrs Radlett would be more than unhappy. At least there was one glimmer of light; his miserable wife would suffer as much as him.  “You have to smile, don’t you?” he inadvertently said out loud, to the surprise of all in the room, not least himself.

***

Mapperley was now sitting between the two leather clad motor cyclists as Max had joined
him and Ben on the back seat. 

“Bit
of an unexpected bonus last night, Gav. You don’t mind me calling you Gav, do you?” Ben asked, smiling. Mapperley refused to take the bait, and so Ben explained.

“We thought that the rats would get Hedo’s shut down and disrupt your cash flow, but then that loony in the robes ran outside, spilling spliffs and white powder as he ran. It was a sight to be seen
, Gav. Wasn’t it, Snake eyes?”

Snake Eyes n
odded. Mapperley looked at Max.

“You aren’t Johnny Snake Eyes. I’ve seen you before, at the flats.” Max was a little t
aken aback, but he just smiled.

“We also took out Metal Tokens, Gav. Maybe you’d already guessed, as it came so hot on the heels of you having Mary Akuta murdered.” The green eyes drilling into Mapperley hardened and darkened, causing the old
er man to shiver involuntarily.

“What do you care about an old black woman? You we
re avenging your grandmother.”

Max grabbed Mapperley by the collar and spoke for the first time. “I cared deeply about Mary Akuta, Mapperley! You had better be careful what you say or you may find out what a real beating fe
els like.”

Mapperley backtracked.

“I never ordered anyone to be hurt, you’ll have to take that up with the cretin who took matters into his own hands.” Then, gaining a bit of confidence, he continued. “Oh, but you can’t, can you? He committed suicide out of remorse, didn’t he?”

The two leather clad men tried not to show any surprise. That
was one less name on the list.

“We came here to tell you that we’re taking you down, Mapperley. You and every last one
of your little army of thugs.”

“You might want to rethink that, Ben. You don’t mind if I call you Ben, do you?” Mapperley smiled nastily. “Especially if you ever
want to see May Fogarty again."

“If you have touched a
hair on her head…” Ben scowled.

“Don’t worry. She’s being cared for by her grand-daughter and some friends. She was discharged from hospital last night.” Mapperley caught sight of Ben’s surprise. “Oh yes. She discharged herself rather than see her precious grand-son go down for murder. A deal th
at we might have to renege on.”

Ben pushed his face into Mapperley’s, their foreheads touching. There was concern in Mapperley’s eyes and the stench of fear emanated from his pores. Max pushed Ben back into his seat. Mapperley straightene
d his tie and composed himself.

“Saturday night at eleven. Be at Carter’s Yard, in Wandsworth. The gates will be open. Just the two of you, no tricks, and bring the money you owe the Boss. If you don’t, May Fogarty will live to re
gret it, but not for too long.”

“I can’t get to the money without Ashley’s consent, and even t
hen I couldn’t get it in cash.”

“There will be a signed Power of Attorney waiting for you at Pargetter’s offices later today. Martin and I were just on our way to the City to organise it when you rudely interrupted our journey.” Mapperley leaned over Ben and opened the door. “Until Saturday?” he teased. Ben and Max climbed out of the car and watched as it drove away.

South Colonnade Apartments, Canary Wharf, London.

Saturday 27th August 2011
; 7:30pm.

Ashley Garner had just returned from Smollensky’s restaurant, an American Diner which specialised in the type of comfort food that Ashley had craved tonight. Using what was left of her nervous energy, she had speed walked around Canary Wharf, taking the long route back to her apartment in the South Colonnade building. She had barely noticed the impressive skyscrapers surrounding her, such was her intensity of thought.

She was so close now.
If all went well tonight, she would have the Rectory money to place into her US Dollar account; you can spend dollars anywhere in the world, she reasoned. Ashley intended to be on the first plane out of the London City airport in the morning, flying to Schiphol in Amsterdam which offered her flights to anywhere in the world. The thought cheered her. In thirty six hours she could be anywhere on the globe, well away from the ever shortening, long arm of the law in the UK. Her preference was for Dubai, where her rich friend and sponsor, Kasim Bin Hamad, had already rented a villa for her under the name of Nicolette Dubarry, a French Resident of the UAE who had recently died in a boating accident in Cyprus, and to whom Ashley bore a passing resemblance. Ashley would arrive in Abu Dhabi using her own passport and adopt Nicolette’s identity after crossing over into Dubai. No doubt Kasim would come calling at some time in the future, seeking payment in kind, but Ashley could live with that; Kasim was swarthy, dark and not unattractive.

Ashley had
shredded all of the papers which could incriminate her or indeed lead investigators to her new door. She would be leaving behind property debts and personal debts exceeding her known assets, but she felt no remorse for defrauding the banks who had treated her husband so cruelly in the past. With the eventual sale of the Canary Wharf apartment she would have another half a million pounds to add to her fortune. It would have been impossible for a fugitive from the law to collect the sale revenue from the apartment if the property had been in that fugitive’s own name. No, the police would have sequestered the apartment before the ‘for sale’ sign went up. Fortunately, the luxurious apartment was owned by Ashlaw LLC, a company she and Lawrence set up in the Isle of Man to avoid tax on a property deal that fell through in the crash of 2008. The company would have folded within weeks had it not been for a cash injection from Cresty Group, the legitimate company fronting Dennis Grierson’s illicit trading.

Ashley sank back in her leather Lay z Boy recliner and flicked the TV remote, changing the channel to Sky Movies Premiere, where she watched the latest Twilight movie and forgot her troubles as she journeyed to Forks in the company of vampires, werewolves and the impossibly naive Bella.

***

Ben paced the floor of Max’s parents’ living room as Max himself spread out a map on the coffee table. The modest terraced house in Vauxhall was furnished in an ad hoc manner, with pieces of furniture dating back to the fifties alongside a comfortable three-piece suite in red leather that shouted DFS winter sale. Max’s parents spent most of the year in their double width mobile home in Norfolk. Perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, they managed a small mobile home park for a local operator between the months of April and October. ‘We open with the Easter Bunny and close when the witches come out at Hallowe’en’, Maxwell Richmond Senior was often heard to say in the local pub.

The house had the advantage of being very close to Carter’s Yard, just off Wandsworth High Street on the A3 main ro
ad.

“I’m still unhappy about the meeting place, Ben,” Max reiterated. “There are only two ways in and out, both of which can be blocked by a single vehicle. Once we’re in there we m
ight have trouble getting out.”

Ben was aware of the logistical issues but his main concern was the safety of his grandmother. Neither Ben nor Max could try anything until it was clear that May Fogarty was safe, even if
that meant giving up the money.

Ben’s busy forty eight hours had started when he picked up the letter of authority that was sufficiently worded to give him entire Power of Attorney over Ashley Garner’s affairs. Pargetter’s were concerned about their professional indemnity insurance and their potential involvement in a breach of Law Society rules. The bank flatly refused to give Ben the money in cash without raising the matter at Head Office. Hours had passed in negotiations before the bank released the cash to Ben, along with an armoured car. The guards were instructed that the money had to be delivered to a secure location or they were to return it to the bank. To ensure that he could access the money freely, Ben compromised and arranged the use of a security box at a central London bank. Even when that was done, Ben was made to sign a disclaimer, a copy of which would be sent to the police to cover the bank in the case of a money laundering investigation. The bag now sat on the floor of the lounge by the door.