Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (4 page)

“Ben, go and do what you have to do. Don’t hesitate to ask for help, but come back to us safe and sound. OK?”

“OK, Dad,” Ben replied as he teared up, berating himself for his weak sentimentality. Damn it all, he had been a
n international rugby player.

***

Ben waved to the gathered crowd as he drove the pick-up truck out of the gates and off towards Wellington, where tomorrow morning he was due to fly out to England. Leaving behind him the lush but frost covered landscape he pressed on, knowing what he must do and hoping that he had the strength of character to do it.

Virgin Atlantic Airbus, 42,000 feet above China.

Friday 12
th
August 2011; Noon.

The four-hour flight from Wellington to Sydney had taken off at 6:40am and arrived in Australia at 8:40 am local time. There had then been an interminable wait until three in the afternoon before the Airbus was ready for boarding. Ben had used the time wisely and had studied the portfolio in depth, using Wikipedia and the web to fill in any gaps in his knowledge.

In the transit lounge he had taken a virtual walk up Tottenham High Street and onto the housing estate that he
had once called home, using Google maps. According to the government website, the area had benefitted from hundreds of millions of pounds’ worth of government investment in the eighties and nineties and, to Ben’s eyes, it still looked reasonable - on a sunny day.

Now, relaxing at the bar in Upper Class, Ben decided to read another page or two before he retired to the lie flat seat that would be his bed between here and London. He turned and smiled at the stewardess who was laying out a sheet, blanket and pillow for him. Ben picked up the file and, having read the investigator’s summary of the circumstances surrounding his birth, he read the part of the report covering the period up to the worst day of his life, that terrible day in June 1991.

“It appears that even after the birth Dennis Grierson would not loosen his grip on Siobhan Fogarty. Showing no interest in his child, or in contributing to his upbringing, Grierson regularly called on his young girlfriend and abused her both physically and sexually. By 1991, when she was just twenty five years old, Siobhan had been in and out of hospital over fifty times with drug
or violence related illnesses.

There was some respite in the years between 1986 and 1989 when Dennis Grierson was jailed for his part in the riots on 6
th
October 1985. By then Morris Gibson had been ousted as Kingpin on ‘The Farm’ and Dennis Grierson had taken over the manor after a violent and bloody feud that the police chose to ignore. On his return to ‘The Farm’ in 1990 he had lost his little fiefdom and he was only able to regain control of Trafalgar House and its immediate surroundings, and he had to share that with one of the new black gangs that had sprung up in the area called ‘The Ganga Army’, who themselves were overtaken ten years later by the TH Crew.

With just a handful
of working girls and even fewer drug deals, the Grierson gang turned to organised burglary to raise funds, using young kids from the flats to do the jobs. He also reacquainted himself with Siobhan who had been clean for three years and who had given up smoking and drinking to devote her efforts to her young son. Dennis wasn’t happy about her working as an invoice clerk with London Transport or about her reluctance to see him. During his incarceration his wife had left him and had their daughter adopted.

My informant tells me she was living in Sheffield as far he knew and having never been north of Watford Grierson didn’t bother seeking her out for punishment. In an inti
mate conversation with his cell-mate in prison he said that his main complaint was that his daughter would soon be at an age where she would become more entertaining. His cellmate took this to mean Dennis Grierson had long planned to abuse his own daughter when she reached the age of twelve or so.

After one violent and drunken attack on Siobhan he waited for a couple of days and went around to ‘set things straight’. My informant thinks that would have been a sort of apology.
It seems in his perverted way he loved Siobhan.

As we know from the records May, Roy and Siobhan Fogarty had gone by the time Grierson made the effort to walk up one floor and apologise. May and Roy moved back to Liverpool and Siobhan took young Ambrose Be
njamin Fogarty with her to her new flat in Wilds Rents, Southwark. The council, Siobhan’s new employers, the social services and police had worked together in a case conference to plan the move and to keep the young boy away from Grierson.

Siobhan was dating Daniel Wingrave, an architect, and Ambrose began attending a new school. Both were using the surname Pendleton. On 4
th
June 1991, just two months after their move, Siobhan was leaving her office when a stolen car mounted the pavement and ran her down. The police believe that Grierson was at the wheel.

My enquiries in 2001 revealed that Grierson had a contact in London Transport who helped him track Siobhan to her new place of work. The man was found and dismissed but no charges were brought. His name is
Trevor Pannell and he now works for a property developer in the London area.”

Ben set the file down on the bar and finished his drink. He sat and thought as his bed was prepared.

Those two months had been the happiest of his life; he was attending a new primary school and preparing for life at high school in the autumn. His mum was a changed woman. She laughed a lot, dressed beautifully and when she was made up for an evening out she was spectacular. Daniel Wingrave was about his mother’s age and he adored her. He also had plenty of time for the young Ben, who accompanied him to some of London’s most historic bui
ldings on days out in the city.

It was Friday, it was sunny and he had just arrived home from school. He was excited because they were going to the West End to see a musical, and if he asked nicely they would take him to Pizza Hut afterwards for a late supper. The tap at the door was the first signal that something was wrong. A policewoman with a kindly face asked him to get his coat and anything he needed for an overnight stay away from home. Ben suspected the worst, and had to hold back the tears.

An hour later, at the hospital, Daniel Wingrave took Ben’s hand and led him to a room that was like a cross between a hospital room and a chapel. His mother lay on the bed. A sheet covered her as far as her chin. Her face was a little bruised and grazed, but there was nothing that looked serious. Ben looked at her and instantly knew she was dead. Her body was there, but she wasn’t.

Ben never returned to either the flat or the school. Daniel took him by train to Liverpool, where his Gran met them at the station. Surrounded by strange accents and a strange city, Ben felt vulnerab
le. More than vulnerable. Lost.

The next month was a whirlwind of confusion. People from the Soci
al Services came and went, the police came and promised they would get Dennis Grierson and pleaded with Gran not to take matters into her own hands. Then, suddenly, Daniel Wingrove was gone after a tearful hug, and Ben was packing new clothes ready to fly to his new home in New Zealand.

May Fogarty had been deva
stated when the authorities explained that Ben was not safe in the UK and that the New Zealand option would most likely be given approval, considering the status of the adopting father. She told Ben to make himself a good life and remember his mother, and with that he was taken away, crying and confused. What had he done that was so wrong? So wrong he had to be sent to New Zealand. Wasn’t that what they did with criminals in the olden days? How was a small boy supposed to understand any of it?

***

Ben slipped into
lie flat bed and closed his eyes. The flight still had more than ten hours to go before landing in London and he knew that he would not sleep a wink, even though he was very tired. He had already been awake for almost twenty-four hours. He rested his head on the pillow and, despite his reservations, fell into a sound sleep.

New Scotland Yard, London, UK.

Saturday 13th August 2011; 9am.

Detective Sergeant Scott leaned back in his chair and stretched his limbs, trying to stay alert and focussed. He was bone weary. Since the riots had kicked off a week ago he had worked six shifts of twenty hours. Last night he had been in court until midnight, accompanying sobbing teens and their disbelieving mothers into the family room, a bare reception room with fixed seating where parents could say goodbye to their kids before they were carted off to a cell somewhere in London for who knew how long.

By the end of his shift the reporters had begun to annoy him, pressing their cameras and microphones into the faces of grinning looters as if they were celebrities, and asking banal questions; “How do you feel about the damage you caused?” “Did you realise people could have been killed?” “What sente
nce do you think you will get?”

Daryl Trasker, dressed in the wh
ite fatigues given to him forty-eight hours earlier when his own clothes were confiscated by Forensics, was the last defendant of DS Scott’s shift. A regular in the magistrates’ courts, Daryl had been remanded on Sunday night for sentencing in the Crown Court. Either his lawyer had been too busy to tell him, or he was too stupid to understand -either one was possible - but Daryl had not been sent to the Crown Court to be let off lightly again. The clever ones, the middle class student rioters, had twigged early on that if the magistrate could send you to jail for six months and he still referred you to the Crown Court for sentencing, you were likely to get a year or more.

With the bravado of the ignorant, Daryl confidently speculated that “The prisons are full, man, I’m only
just eighteen, I’ll get an ASBO. I can handle that, man.” The cameras greedily sucked in his arrogance for tomorrow morning’s news bulletins, as his mother advised him to be respectful. Angered at her intervention, Daryl turned to the woman who bore him and uttered a string of expletives which, when translated, told her to shut up. DS Scott accidentally punched Daryl in the kidneys.

An hour later a shocked Daryl, white as a sheet and crying for his mother to do something, was being guided towards the prison van that would deliver him to an adult prison, where he woul
d spend a minimum of two years.

DS Fellowes, on loan from the City of London Police, tapped
his old friend on the shoulder.

“There’
s a celebrity in the house. He’s waiting downstairs in room 1.111. Are you coming, or are you topping up your beauty sleep?”

“Give it a rest, mate, I only had six hours’ kip,” Scott replied, standing up anyway.

***

Ben Fogarty had arrived at Heathrow at 5am and by six thirty the chauffeur had dropped him at his hotel, Saint Ermin’s, which was conveniently placed for his visit to Scotland Yard. The hotel was worthy of its four stars and his room could have been in any hotel in Hong Kong, Dubai or Oz. The room had magnolia walls, lots of dark wood, and designer furniture. Ben showered, changed and walked over to Scotland Yard, taking advantage of the warm sunshine.

The door to ro
om 1.111 opened and two men, both similar in stature to himself, walked in. Both were smiling, although their faces showed signs of fatigue. The slimmer of the two detectives held out his hand and introduced himself as DS Fellowes.

“Ben Fogarty. I never thought I would get to meet you. I saw your three tries at Twickenham in 2009. Steve Borthwick’s guys made it difficult for you, but you were terrific. It was a great match.” Ben smi
led as he shook Fellowes’ hand.

“Bloody egg chasers!” DS Scott muttered under his b
reath as the other two laughed.

“I guess you’re a football fan. Do you support Chelsea?” Ben
asked as he shook Scott’s hand.

“I do, as
it happens. How did you guess?”

“Well, as you walked in behind Fellowes here, I guessed you were used to coming second.”

Fellowes bellowed with laughter, and even Scott managed a wry grin.

“Ha, bloody, ha. What brings one of the
All Blacks eleven thousand miles to New Scotland Yard, then?”

“Vastrick Security suggested that I speak to you.
I can identify the man who put that poor WPC into a coma.”

Fellowes and Scott fell silent and looked at each other, each more perplexed than the other.

***

“That’s interesting, but
how does an antipodean know who this bloke is when he lives eleven thousand miles away, and yet no one in London seems to know him?” DS Scott asked reasonably.

Ben reached into his pocket and withdrew a photograph of Dennis Grierson; it had clearly been taken with a long lens
, because the betting shop behind him was out of focus. The picture bore the Vastrick logo in the bottom corner. Ben passed it to DS Scott as he explained.

“This photo was taken a year ago. The subject is one Dennis Grierson, also known as Psycho. He lives in the Trafalgar House Flats in Tottenham. The reason I know that this is the same man is that he is my father!”