Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (36 page)

Radlett pushed the criminal roughly to the floor
. With his hands fastened behind him, Conn could not protect himself from the fall, and landed on the unfinished concrete, grazing his forehead as it made contact with the hard surface.

“I’m sorry about this
, Conn,” Radlett said unconvincingly. “Not my choice, but you can’t be allowed to go Queen’s Evidence. A lot of people would suffer. Better that one man dies than a whole platoon suffers the ignominy of defeat. I think Patton might have said that, or I might have made it up. Who knows?”

Conn Parker didn’t offer an opinion. He was determined to die in silence and not give the bent copper the pleasure of seeing him squirm.
Conn watched Radlett dig into his jacket for something; it looked like a gun. Admittedly the light was limited. A few stray strands of light escaped the boarded up window, and Radlett was silhouetted against the rail yard floodlights shining in through the opening where the missing door should have been, but it looked like a gun.

A second later there was no mistaking what Radlett was planning to do as a round was chambered and the gun clicked. Conn Parker said a prayer to a God he
now thoroughly believed existed - not for mercy, just for forgiveness. Radlett levelled the gun and waited for the approaching goods train to rattle by and obscure the sound of gunfire. He was waiting patiently, listening as the rattling grew louder, when he heard shouting.

“DCI Radlett
. Put the gun down. Metropolitan Police Internal Affairs.” Radlett turned to face the door and saw a man framed in the doorway, arms extended and pointing a Taser in his direction. Radlett felt the urge to laugh. He was carrying a 9mm Smith and Wesson and he was being ordered around by a policeman who chased other policemen and whose only weapon was a Taser.

“I know this doesn’t make any sense to you IAB guys
, but once in a while real policemen have to step over the line with these scumbags to get the job done.” All the while his finger was finding the trigger. “Put the Taser down, son. You’re not impressing anyone. If you want the suspect, he’s all yours.”

A shot rang out and echoed deafeningly around the small building. Radlett had aimed a bullet at Parker’s skull before dropping his weapon to the floor.

“Shit! He made a grab for the gun! You saw that, didn’t you?”

“I saw nothing
of the sort, sir. Put your hands behind your head, slowly.”

Radlett was already working the angles. He had bravely disarmed a well known criminal who had been carrying a gun
with the serial numbers removed. He was just about to call it in when the IAB turned up. The perpetrator had then lunged for the gun and it went off. An accident. Of course, no-one would really believe it, but the Met would cover it up to save face and the CPS wouldn’t prosecute because there was no prospect of a conviction.

“Come on, you
must have seen him grab my hand. Even if you didn’t, well, it’s dark, it’s a stressful situation and it’s your word against mine, isn’t it?” Radlett smiled in the darkness.

“And mine!” came the unexpected response from
Connal Parker still lying on the floor. “Get me an ambulance. The bastard nearly shot my ear off! I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Pargetters Law Firm, City Road, London.

Wednesday 24th August 2011
; 9am.

Ben Fogarty had merely to sign off the last of the transfer documents on behalf of Ashley Morgan and her company and then the final monies would be transferred into his client account, ready to be passed on to his twin sister. This would be finalised once the British fetish for endlessly completing money laundering forms had been satisfied, probably by Monday next week.

He was sitting on a vast red leather s
ofa in the lobby of Pargetters Law Firm, his head tilted back so that he could admire the view of the sky through the roof of the seven-storey glass walled atrium. “How much must this place cost to heat in the winter?” he wondered to himself. The air conditioning was not keeping pace with the solar gain, even at this relatively early hour. Ben could feel himself perspiring slightly. He ran a finger around his collar, exhaling through pursed lips, but at that moment his attention was drawn by a figure approaching him.

A pretty lawyer
, dressed in the unofficial uniform of female lawyers everywhere; black skirt suit, thick black tights and a white blouse buttoned up chastely. She smiled, saying his name, and he acknowledged. He stood up, and followed her to a ground floor conference room. It felt cool, almost chilly after the lobby. Ben sat on one side of the table and the other lawyers sat opposite him. Having been plied with coffee, sparkling water from Scotland, and Walker’s Shortbread, the forms were exchanged and signed. The people in the room shook hands and made small talk for a few moments before Ben was told that the money had been transferred to his client account.

As Ben sat gathering his documents from the highly polished walnut conference table, his phone rang. Ben glanced at the screen. The call was from the front desk at his apartment building. He picked up the
call, apologising to his hosts.

“Mr Fogarty,” the voice on the other end responded after Ben’s cursory greeting, “you might want to avoid comi
ng back here for a while, sir.”

“Why? What’s wrong, Grant?”

“The police have been here looking for you, and they don’t look too friendly today. They’ve left a plain clothes detective constable at the end of the row, waiting to see if you turn up. He’s trying to look inconspicuous, but he sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll act on that information accordingly,” Ben said in conclusion, aware that the other lawyers could hear his end of the conversation. Ben set down the phone and packed his briefcase. The most senior lawyer opposite spoke, embarrassment on his face, nervousness in his tone.

“We were just wondering, Mr Fogarty – would you be so good as to sign these for us?” Ben laughed as each of the three produced a pristine copy of his autobiography. The cover showed Ben in his ‘All Blacks’ rugby shirt, sporting designer stubble and holding a white rugby ball, the title was ‘Ben Fogarty -
My Life in Black and White’. Ben happily signed the three books with personal endearments, and hoped that they wouldn’t shoot up in value because he had become a convict.

***

“Max, we may have a problem,” were Ben’s opening words when Max Richmond answered his mobile phone. Ben was back at the Regus office he had used to interview Trevor Pannell yesterday.

“You’re a bit late in telling me that!” Max stated. “My flat was visited by the boys in blue at eight this morning. Luckily I wasn’t home last night, I was staying with a lady friend. When we heard that the police were looking for me she made a couple of calls and discovered I am a person of interest in the Rectory Murders all of a sudden. I’m afraid that you, my f
riend, are the prime suspect.”

Ben let rip with a string of exple
tives before replying properly.

“I guess this is down to your forensic friend. She must know that there is not
hing linking me to the deaths?”

“Ben, she doesn’t believe it was you but she can’t prove a negative. She can say that there was no evidence linking you to the deaths, but either you or your sister did it, and it seems Ashley got her story in first, once the Be
lgian angle had been rejected.”

Ben swore again. “Can you get to the Regus offices at 1 Liverpo
ol Street as soon as possible?”

There was a silence for a moment, before the door opened behind Ben and Max walked in holding the phone to his ear.
Ben’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I suggest you switch your GPS off, mate,” Max said, showing Ben the screen on his iPhone, which displayed a map showing a big red dot at 1 Liverpool Street with the epithet ‘Ben, Friend.’

“I didn’t know they had an app for that!” Ben joke
d, finding his sense of humour.

***

Gavin Mapperley had been unable to contact Ashley Garner, the Boss, on her mobile, and so he was relieved when she called him.

“Have we got Connall Parker yet?” Ashley enquired b
rusquely and without preamble.

“Good morning to you, too, Boss,” Mapperley responded sarcastically. “Not yet. We’ll hear from
DCI Radlett if he turns up.”

“Gavin, I’m on the verge of collecting over a million pounds on the Rectory sale in the next few days. Once I have the money I will resign from Garner-Brinkman and travel. You will be free to take over the business; you’ll be your own boss at last. Don’t let Conn Parker screw it all up.”

Gavin Mapperley almost salivated at the prospect of taking over the whole of the criminal enterprise with its earnings in excess of five million pounds a year, but there was still a problem.

“I hear what you say, Boss, but there may be no business left if your twin brother has anything to do with it. He told Trevor Pann
ell that he’s coming after me.”

His comment was greeted by silence as the penny dropped with Ashley Morgan. “Gavin, could he have been responsibl
e for the Metal Tokens fiasco?”

“I don’t see how. He has only been in the country for a few days, but it does seem to be the only thing that makes any sense. Radlett was insistent that the police were responding to an emergency call, and I’ve spoken to all of our competitors, so I don’t believe they were responsible. If they were, they’re denying it. But what would they have to gain? No, Boss, the more I think about it, the more
I’m certain it has to be him.”

Ashley thought fo
r a moment before she answered.

“It came too quickly after the May Fogarty incident for it to be a coincidence. OK, Gavin, you have my permission
to deal with my twin brother.”

“P
ermanently? Mapperley enquired.

“Absolutely. I’ve just received an email from my bank, telling me that once the money laundering checks are complete the money will be available for me to transfer from Ben’s client account
to any account of my choosing.”

“Will it cause you a problem if he disapp
ears sooner rather than later?”

“No, Gavin. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned. The money is in an escrow account, and so in practice it’s already mine. The transfer will happen automatically when the funds are cleared, regardless of
whether Ben is around or not.”

“OK, I’ll deal with it at the weekend.” Mapperley concluded the call and set down his phone, marvelling at the lack of emotion Ashley displayed when agreeing to the murder of her own twin brother. Maybe she was the sociopath, not Dennis Grierson, he thought.

New Scotland Yard, London.

Wednesday 24th August 2011
; 11am.

DS Scott picked up the phone as soon as it chirped. It was a new handset linked to the computer server. The new phones allowed Voice Over Internet Protocol, or VOIP, which cut the Met’s phone bills but it also allowed the call recipient to see the caller’s details on their computer screen. With the new technology even a humble Detective Sergeant could initiate the tracking of a phone from his office desktop computer. The main problem was that, with all of this technology, there was only one ring tone.

The caller ID showed that Ben Fogarty was calling from his mobile phone. Ben was in DS Scott’s address book, and so his name came up instantly. Scott automatically traced the call by aligning his mouse cursor on a yellow icon
dominated by a black capital T.

“Ben! We’ve been looking for you. Where are you? We need a chat.” DS Scott
tried his best to sound casual.

“The Met must be awash with policemen if you can afford to leave a DC outside my flat just to ask me o
ver for a chat,” Ben responded.

“Yeah, sorry Ben, DC Welsh isn’t a natural, I’m afraid. But we do need to talk. There’s an arrest warrant out for you, and we don’t want it all to get out of control, do we?” The tracer showed the phone was located at Liverpool Street Station. No point in sending a car out there to apprehend Ben, since he could be on any t
rain or tube in thirty seconds.

“Paul, you know I didn’t kill anyone, so why are the police suddenly
so determined to bring me in?”

“Look, Ben, we can’t do this on the phone. Come in and we’ll see if we can sort it out. But you should probably bring a lawyer with you, too. I’m afraid we have a sworn witness statement that gives a first-hand account of you killing
the three men in the Rectory.”

“As there was only one other person left alive in the Rectory I don’t suppose I have to guess who’s putting me in the frame. If I come in I’ll be arrested and held pending a hearing. I can’t do that, Paul. There are things that need to be done.” DS Scott remained silent. “On a lighter topic, how did the
Metal Tokens raid go for you?”

“Bloody hell, Ben! Was that you?” DS Scott’s change of pitch signalled his surprise.