Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (23 page)

By the time West Ham scored at Upton Park, the bulk of the business in the flats had been done. With businesslike efficiency the hoods in suits had separated into teams and had spread over the flats and the surrounding area, each tasked with bringing someone into the fold. Max looked on with amazement at the organisation of the takeover. The drug dealers were all approached and, no doubt, told where they would be getting their supplies from in future, at what price and in what quantities. Some of the bigger fish would have sit-down meetings with Gavin Mapperley, and would be able to negotiate terms, but there was likely to be precious little room for manoeuvre.

A skinny young woman with an East European accent appeared on the decking in front of the flat where Dennis Grierson had sought sanctuary when he was under attack from the TH Crew, just a few days before. The girl was dressed in cut off jeans, a pair of crocs and a white halter-top that concealed nothing of her underdeveloped torso. The girl’s face and small pointed breasts were typical of those of a young teenager, and Max guessed that was why her clients patronised her. When the suited men were otherwise occupied
, he sidled along the deck, away from a very unhappy Mary Akuta and towards the girl.

“Looks like I have a new
boss,” Max grumbled as he leaned on the parapet beside the girl.

“You too?” The girl looked at Max, puzzlement written across her face, and Max thought he may have pushed too hard. Then she smiled; she looked like a kid. Her teeth were brilliantly white but crooked. He guessed that she showered and cleaned h
er teeth a lot in her business.

“New partners, you mean,
” the pretty Romanian girl laughed. “At least Sophie and I get a new kitchen, a new bathroom, new furniture and complete redecoration. What do you get….er……?.” She fished for his name.

“Sorry. Johnny. My name is Johnny.” He extended his hand and she took it in her small hand and shook it, giving her own name as Katrina. Max could hardly feel her tiny hand in his own
. It appeared to have no weight and no grip. “I’m getting a new BMW,” he said, and shook his head to show it was a bad joke. The girl laughed.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” Katrina said as she looked out over the bleak concrete landscape that served as the courtyard to the flats. Max was surprised by the girl’s remark
, and she saw his surprise when she turned to look at him.

“I do not spend all of my time on my back, Johnny. I am a student of literature at North London University. I am familiar with the works of Alphonse Karr, the French novelist.” Max smiled by way of apology for his judgement of the girl. She could be a good source of information for him, especia
lly if Mary did leave the area.

“Well, you have enlightened me today, Katrina. I thought George Bernard Shaw came up with the saying first, in
the Revolutionaries Handbook.”

Katrina smiled and Max realised that she had seen through his cover immediately. “Well, Johnny, or whoever you really are, you would be wrong. GBS didn’t publish that work until thirteen years after Karr died.” The young girl stared at Max with such intensity that her eye contact made him feel as though she could read his thoughts. “You are an unusual man, Johnny. I know men, and my Mama says I have the gift, just like her. Maybe one day we can talk and find out who Katrina and Johnny really are.” She pouted her lips and blew him a kiss as she turned on her heels and went back into her soon to be refurbished flat. Max was surprised by his reaction to the waiflike girl. Normally she would have been the last woman to stir him, but there was something in her eyes tha
t intrigued and interested him.

West Ham Football Club, Upton Park, East London.

The half time talk in the restaurant was all about the mysterious Leeds penalty award, which the penalty taker had fortunately sent wide of the right hand post. The others at the table seemed to think that it was awarded for a handball against Matt Taylor, but Ben and Josh had seen nothing and the continuous replays on the ceiling mounted TVs didn’t help. Talk soon turned to the ‘rock solid certainty’ of a West Ham penalty, for a foul on Cole, which had not been awarded. There was genuine astonishment on the faces of the West Ham diehards as they discussed the travesty, much to the amusement of Ben Fogarty, who had been subjected to many insane refereeing decisions in his career.

Before too long people started to amble back to their seats, and Josh and Ben found themselves alone, watching a TV screen that was showing football highlights from around the co
untry.

“Josh, I may need Dee to do some investigating for me. Is she still making it into the office?”
Josh looked at Ben and grinned.

“Ben, my little baby boy will probably be born in the Vastrick office, wrapped in a blanket and laid in Dee’s Stressless recliner
until close of office hours.”

They both laughed.

“Have you heard of Max Richmond?” Ben asked cautiously.

“As it happens, yes I have. When he was with the News of the World he wrote a piece on a member of the House of Lords. He took the man to task in print
, but the establishment gathered around and protected his Lordship. If they had listened to him then, he wouldn’t have been in a position to shoot Dee.”

“I heard that she’d been shot. That was when you
were first married, wasn’t it?”

“We were on our honeymoon.” Josh paused. “Are you OK, Ben? You look tense.”

Ben thought about telling Josh his worries about his twin sister, but decided to let Vastrick investigate first.

“I was just concerned that Leeds seemed to be coming back into the game at the close of the first half. Can’t have West Ham losing my fir
st ever English soccer match.”

The tannoy announced that the teams were coming out for the second half
, and the two friends headed outside to retake their seats.

West Ham started the second half brightly by pressuring Leeds into defensive errors from set pieces, but then Leeds broke away and Aiden White found himself in the penalty area with a shot for goal. Scott Parker slid in,
and the nervous West Ham fans rose to their feet as if orchestrated and took a communal sharp intake of breath. Aiden White pushed the ball forward and Scott Parker took his feet from under him. The Leeds fans bellowed and the West Ham fans fell silent. The referee waved play on and denied the appeal. Josh hadn’t realised that he had been holding his breath and he let out a huge sigh of relief as he turned to face Ben. They sat down again and listened to the fans behind them who knew that their team had been gifted a decision they did not deserve. Perhaps this was to be West Ham’s day, after all.

Thirteen minutes into the second half Ben’s mind was settled. He had forgotten his woes temporarily, and was immersed in the game when Leeds broke yet again. This time a nifty back heel and a simple cross left Leeds’ striker Ross Mc Cormack with a simple tap in. It was 1-1 and the West Ham crowd were subdued
, whilst the Leeds fans jeered and taunted that they weren’t singing any more. But the Leeds fans’ joy was short lived. Three minutes later a weak cross from the West Ham substitute was knocked into the Leeds net by a defender, Patrick Kisnorbo.  As much from relief as joy, Josh leapt up from his seat and, grabbing Ben’s right arm, he squeezed and danced around in celebration of West Ham regaining the lead.

Leeds seemed to fade and the match had descended into a midf
ield kickabout when Josh spoke.

“Ben, I’
ll tell Dee that you need to speak to her on Monday, if that’s soon enough for you.”

“It’s amply soon enough, Josh. Let the girl have her weekend,” Ben answered, but he didn’t really mean it. He would have preferred the investigation to get underway immediately. Josh spoke again, but without making eye contact, as men do when they think a c
omment is somewhat sentimental.

“Ben, I hope you know that if you need a friend, or just
someone to speak to whilst you’re here and so far away from your family, I’m here.”

When the words were out
, he turned to face Ben.

Thanks
, Josh. That means a lot.” Ben’s words were almost drowned out by West Ham fans as they roared again, concerned at an 89
th
minute, last ditch attack. Howson, for Leeds, took the ball in the penalty area, steadied himself and belted an unstoppable ball goalward. Josh and Ben held their breath, convinced they were about to witness an equalising goal. The ball arced through the air as if in slow motion, beyond the reach of the goalkeeper, but bounced off the crossbar. The West Ham fans cheered. Unfortunately, the ball fell to another Leeds player, Adam Clayton, who rifled the shot home for an equaliser. The West Ham crowd sank to their seats and groaned again. Some had their heads in the hands. For them it represented two points lost in their race for the top spot in the Championship.

***

Trafalgar House Flats, Broadwater farm, North London.

By the time the final whistle blew at Upton Park, Gavin Mapperley was gathering his troops. Their business was done. He would have to spend a few thousand on gratuities and on refreshing a couple of the girls’ flats, but it was no more than loose change, really. With the
Boss running things, and Mapperley organising the troops, the former Grierson empire would be more profitable than ever.

As the men climbed into their cars, Gavin Mapperley reflected on the events of the past week or so and on the irony of the situation. Grierson had maintained an iron fist over the whole criminal enterprise until just a week ago, even though the main money spinning activities had been instigated by the , not Grierson, and Psycho had thrown it all way. I
t seemed ironic that Grierson’s foolish foray into the 2011 riots had ended the reign that began with the original riots in 1980s. More ironic still was the fact that it was the brazen attack on Grierson in his own fiefdom by his long forgotten son that provided the catalyst that led to his overthrow.

Gavin Mapperley was sliding into the comfortable leather seat o
f his Jaguar when he caught sight of a shaven headed man walking purposefully away from the flats. Although he couldn’t say why, Mapperley thought instinctively that the man did not fit. He was dressed like the residents, he looked like the residents, but he had a poise that belied his appearance. Mapperley was about to dismiss his feeling when the man turned, looked in his direction and smiled. Gavin Mapperley was not a man who believed in premonitions, but he shivered all the same. He didn’t think he recognised the face, but he had a strong impression that he would see it again.

New Scotland Yard, London.

Monday 22
nd
August 2011; 8:15am.

The remainder of the weekend had passed slowly for Ben Fogarty. He ambled about the large apartment, watched a little TV, listened to music, had a bath and wandered the streets looking for something to eat. He did a little shopping at a Tesco Express and ordered a takeaway, anything to fill the time. He was nervous. He was anxious to speak to Dee and to set Vastrick loose debunking Max’s wild accusations.

It had been almost eight in the evening when the phone rang and Ben was invited to meet DS Scott at Scotland Yard early this morning. The journey across London had been trouble free; the schools were still on their summer break and the tube trains were only half full.

Ben had been ushered into a meeting room on the ground floor, which lacked the ambience and decor of the meeting room upstairs. He sat with a cup of coffee steaming in a paper cup, fresh from a vending machine. At least, he understood it to be coffee. It was a dark liquid but it lacked any defining taste.

DS Scott and DCI Coombes entered through the open door and closed it behind them. DS Scott was carrying a manila folder, the type that was often used in hanging files. They both smiled as he rose and shook his hand. After a brief discussion that encompassed the relative successes of Chelsea, Tottenham and West Ham over the weekend, DS Scott opened the file. Ben laid his hands flat on the Formica topped table, a trick he used as a lawyer to prevent his hands from trembling.

“Ben, what we are about to tell you mustn’t be shared with anyone yet. We are still investigating the circumstances surrounding the Rectory murders. Are you OK with that?” DS Scott asked. Ben nodded.

“Good. Guv, over to you.” DCI Coombes slid the file over until it rested in front of him.

“Mr Fogarty, I want to start by saying that we have every confidence that you have told us the whole truth as far as you know it. You are in the clear. We also accept that you have no reason to doubt your sister’s version of events.” Coombes paused and looked directly into Ben’s eyes. “We didn’t, either, until the crime scene reports started rolling in.”

Ben shuddered and hoped that it wasn’t obvious to the policemen.

“The fact is that we have tracked everyone who left the country on Eurostar, and the various flights to the Low Countries, for twenty four hours after the murders. No one on any of our watch lists or those of Europol or Interpol travelled. In short, no Belgian suspects known to the authorities were picked up in our trawling exercise.  That isn’t to say it’s impossible to get past border controls; it isn’t. Private plane, yacht, ferries, you name it, there are many ways of keeping a low profile as you travel within the European Community.