Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (13 page)

“Garner, how can I assist you?” The voice resonated with the clipped tones Ben associated with pub
lic school boys.

“Mr Garner, this may come as a bit of a shock but my name i
s Ben Fogarty. I am Ashley’s brother and I have reason to believe that she may be in trouble.” Ben realised how crazy this call must sound to his brother in law, and he half expected Garner to cut him off, but instead Garner fell silent for a moment before asking quietly, “What was the given name of Ashley’s birth mother?”

“Siobhan. She was my
mother as well,” Ben responded.

“All right
, Mr Fogarty, I am going to assume for the moment that you are who you say you are. I noticed that you were in Ashley’s calendar for a four o’clock meeting, is that right?”

“No, it was five o’clock, as you already know,” Ben replied
, whilst acknowledging that he was being tested again.

“Right
. Can you be here by five?”

“Of course
. I was just about to set off.”

“Look, Ben, I may be getting unnecessarily paranoid about all things Ashley but it would be better not to meet here in the office. I’ll be sitting at a window seat in the Starbucks just underneath our offices. Meet me there at
five. I think we need to talk.”

“Why? What’s goi
ng on?” Ben wanted to know now.

“It’s Ashley. She went missing yesterday evening after work.”

***

Ben spent the whole taxi ride regretting leaving his meeting with his sister until now. He had known that Grierson was a threat to her for over twenty-four hours. If only he had insisted on meeting her last night. The taxi driver pulled over to the kerb and announced that they had reached the offices of Garner Brinkman on High Holborn.

“That will be thirteen pounds eighty, please, mate.” Ben gave the cabbie fifteen pounds and told him to keep the change as he clambered out of the cab. Immediately in front of him he could see a Starbucks Coffee shop
, and sitting in the window was its sole occupant, a nervous looking man, small framed, wavy hair, handsome features but somehow fragile. Perhaps it was just the effects of the worry that was etched on his fine features.

Ben walked into the restaurant and sat opposite Lawrence
Garner. They shook hands across the table, introducing themselves, and Ben ordered a ‘skinny latte’ from the waitress. The man opposite did indeed appear nervous. Ben supposed that Lawrence’s father would cut a more imposing figure. One doesn’t build a business empire without being made of sterner stuff than Lawrence Garner.

“I expect that we’ll have time to get to know one another better some other time,” Ben said, “but for now, please tell me what’s going on
.” The other man took a deep breath and rambled through his explanation. Ignoring the times when Lawrence deviated and had to be brought back to the topic, Ben found the story both simple and worrying.

Lawrence explained that Ashley had received a personal call on her land line at five o’clock yesterday evening, and as soon as she hung up the phone she grabbed her coat and informed her PA she had an urgent family matter to attend to, adding that she would be back in the office this morning. Another member of staff saw her negotiating with a cabbie on the rank before climbing into a black cab and heading off towards the City. She had not been seen since. Lawrence shook as he explained that he was becoming increasingly concerned late last night, but before he could continue his story, his mobile rang. The caller was identified as Ashley on his screen. His eyes widened and he could no
t hide the relief in his voice.

“Ashley, where are you?” Lawrence switched his phone onto the speaker setting so that they could both hear the conversation. The voice at the other end was not Ashley, but rather it was a t
hreatening and dark male voice.

“Is Fogarty there?” The voice was that of Dennis Grierson. Lawrence frowned with puzzlement
, his eyes showing both suspicion and bewilderment as he handed the phone to Ben.

“Hello, Dad. How have you been? I trust the leg is festering nicely,” Ben said, his voice thick with irony. His assertive tone and flippant reference to the painful leg injury cl
early rattled the old gangster.

“You won’t be so chirpy when I make your sister pay for your insolence,” Grierson snarled. Lawrence was about to butt in, but Ben held up
his hand to stop him speaking.

“Come on, Grierson, I know you were never blessed with a great intellect but ask yourself, just how attached do you think I am to a sister I have never met and didn’t even know about until yesterday?” Lawrence
looked shocked but Ben mouthed ‘I know what I’m doing’ and Garner relaxed a little.

“You’re bluffing, you Kiwi sod. I think I’ll just spend the night with your sister and then we’ll see how keen you are to get her back. She’ll be soiled goods by then,
of course,” Grierson sniggered.

Ben struggled to remain calm. “Two reasons why you might not want to do that, Den; firstly, she is about fifteen years too old for you, you pervert, and second, my new friend Lawrence and I will rain down a shit storm on you that will obliterate you and your gang of pensioned off gangsters. Understand?” There was a moment when it appeared the connection had been lost
, but then they heard Grierson’s voice once again.

“I’ll call you tomorrow with instructions, so you had better be in a mo
re cooperative frame of mind.”

Grierson hung up, and the pho
ne confirmed that the caller had disconnected.

“We need to find Ashley as soon as pos
sible, before tomorrow if at all possible. Who knows what that old sod will do?” There was venom in Ben’s voice but it went unnoticed by Lawrence, who seemed to be overwhelmed by the situation. “Have you any idea where Ashley went when she left the office?” Ben asked.

“No. I was told that she chatted to the driver at the head of the rank and then got into the taxi behind and headed off.” Lawrence fell into a mournful silence again, an
d Ben considered their options.

“Hold on, L
awrence, I have an idea. I’m going outside to talk to the taxi driver.” Ben left Starbucks and headed towards the taxi at the front of the rank. The driver was sitting reading a tabloid newspaper with his door open. Ben approached and smiled.

“Bloody riots! You know who’ll be paying for this lot, don’t you? Yes, that’s right, you and me, the poor bloody taxpayer!” The taxi driver ranted for a moment, then stopped as he realised he had a potential customer and as
ked, “How can I help you, Guv?”

Ben asked him whether he remembered seeing Ashley the previous evening. He began to describe her, but there was no need
as the cabbie interrupted him.

“I know Mrs Morgan well enough.
I’ve got a contract with her company. I pick up a lovely disabled lady here every night at five thirty and take her back home to Richmond. Suits me, as it’s usually my last fare before knocking off and I live in Isleworth.” The cabbie could see that he wasn’t making sense to his new companion. “You know, I drop her at Richmond and I’m at home with my feet up in ten minutes. I don’t have to drive half way across London to knock off.”

“Did you see Mrs Morgan last night?” Ben asked, more hopeful now.

“Oh yes. We would have
had a nice chat about the bloody Speaker’s wife signing up for Big Brother, the tart, but she was in a hurry and so I put her in Don’s cab and off she went.”

“Do you have a central booking point where they keep records of where each cab goes and when?” Ben recalled that in New York detective dramas this was of
ten a good way to trace people.

“Nah, we’re all independents, mate. There are some computer taxis but most of us like our independence; we don’t want to be told what to do. When my old dad had to be at work at Billingsgate Fish Mar
ket every morning at five....”

Ben interrupted. “How would I get in touch with Don, the
other cabbie, then?”

“Don’t rightly
know. I know he comes into the City from Basingstoke to work evenings and nights, but I don’t know how to contact him. I just see him around.” Ben was becoming frustrated with the garrulous driver. “Anyway, what do you want with Don?”

“I need to know where Mrs Mor
gan was dropped off yesterday.”

“Oh, I can tell you that.” Ben was incredulous; he began to think the man might be deliberately winding him up. “She asked me to take her to Blackheath, but I couldn’t because I was waiting for my contract run. In any case
, it’s miles away, in the wrong direction for me. I live in Isleworth, as you know, and if I’m not home by seven the wife......”

“Did she say where in Blackheath she wanted
to go?” Ben interrupted again.

“Of course. She was going to the Princess of Wal
es pub, overlooking the heath.”

Ben politely took his leave of the talkative cabbie before another conversation could ensue and ran back into Starbucks. Law
rence was texting on his phone.

“I have a lead,” Ben blurted out. “Ashley took a cab to Blackheath, the Princess of Wales pub. Any reason you
know of why she might do that?”

“No,” Lawrence answered, looking puzzled. “I don’t recall us ever having been to Blackheath.”

“OK, I’ll take a cab to the Princess of Wales in Blackheath and see what I can find out,” Ben said. “You go to her office and see if you can find any link to Blackheath, maybe check to see if Grierson has any sort of link to Blackheath as well.”

Lawrence left ten pounds on the table and walked o
ut of Starbucks with Ben.

“I’ll call you if I find anything that might help. Be sure to cal
l me, though, if you find her.”

“Will do,” Ben shouted as he stepped into a cab and gave the driver his destination.

***

Forty five minutes and forty pounds later Ben was looking over a huge green space with a white church at its edge. The taxi driver had dropped him at the Princess of Wales pub on the edge of Blackheath common. The pub was plain Georgian design, as was most of Blackheath common, but it had been coated with stucco and was painted white. It looked like a village pub, and indeed the local referred to Blackheath as a village even though it was on the southeast edge of London. Trees overhung a red telephone box and outside groups of adults sat at benches, shaded by patio style umbrellas, drinking lager and cocktails with tiny matching
paper umbrellas floating beside a cherry.

Ben stepped through the heavy wooden door and approached the bar. A young student with a trendy haircut, beer stained white shirt and dark tie with a huge knot and almost no tail came across to greet him. Ben ordered a pint of shandy and paid the young barman bef
ore striking up a conversation.

“Were you serving here last night, Rick?” he asked, deriving the boy’s name from a badge
on his shirt.

“Last night and every other night until Uni starts again in October
,” he answered in confirmation.

“Did you see a pretty and smart young woman come in? She looks a bit like me; she’s my twin sister.”

Rick looked closely at Ben. “You look familiar, but to be honest I don’t recall seeing anyone like that in here last night, but I’m sometimes called down to the cellar and so I don’t see everyone.”

“Thanks anyway,” Ben said as he sipped his shandy. As he looked around the bar a middle aged man, tough looking, perhaps a man
ual worker, approached the bar.

“Mine’s a Guinness if you’re buying.” The
man was clearly addressing Ben.

“I’m sorry; I don’t understand what you mean,” Ben replied
, trying to work out why the man expected a free drink.

“If you want to know where the lady went last night I’d be happy to tell you, but my throat is so parched
with this hot weather that....”

“OK, OK, one Guinness coming up.” Ben caught Rick’s attention and made the order
. “Now, tell me what you know.”

The two men resiled to a booth near the window and sat opposite one another. After the man raised his glass in salute to his new antipodean benefactor, he told Ben what he knew.
According to the man, who introduced himself as Lenny, Ashley had come into the Princess of Wales just before six the previous evening and had ordered a Vodka and tonic. After a short while two men, who ‘looked as though they could handle themselves’ came in, spoke to her for about a minute and she followed them out of the pub.

What the man said was interesting enough, but Ben couldn’t help being distracted by a tiny tattoo of a teardrop under the man’s left eye. The man saw him looking. “Oh, that. T
he wife and I lost our first. Lovely little girl, never reached three, though. She was a sickly child but when she died I didn’t cope well. I went out one night and got completely drunk. When I woke up, I’d got this keepsake.” Ben didn’t know what to say, and so he picked up his shandy and took a long drink.