Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (43 page)

Ben leaned over and spoke to his lawyer in hushed tones. Damien Cresswell looked up at the two policemen and nodded. “My client has instructed me to find him a flight back to New Zealand just as soon as his stitches are removed, and in any event no later than mid September.”

The meeting closed and hands were shaken all around.
Damien Cresswell and AC Garrett left the room, chatting about England’s chances in the cricket winter tour of India, and Ben was left with DCI Coombes and DS Scott.

“I was wondering, Ben,
” DCI Coombes ventured in his least threatening tone, a tone he liked to think of as comradely. “I am retiring in October; if the missus and I were to come to New Zealand, would you be interested in showing us around, maybe taking in a game or two?”

“I can do better th
an that. Let me know when you’re coming and you can stay at the ranch. Dad will be pleased to have you.”

“Dad being Patrick Fogarty, the former New Zealand Minister for Justice
?”

“The very same,
” Ben smiled, and shook hands with both detectives before going in search of Max Richmond.

Vine Street Crescent, Tower Hill, London.

Thursday, September 8th 2011

Max Richmond pressed th
e button on his laptop, sending the last instalment of his story on the London Riots winging its way to the Guardian Editorial Offices in Manchester. Ben was talking on the phone and a woman’s voice came from the kitchen. It was Ilsa, who had called herself Katrina for the last time.

“Max
, do you want salt and vinegar on your portion?”

“Of course. I write for t’Guardian now.
I’m a northern lad. Come to think of it, is there any gravy?” Max’s mimicry of the Mancunian accent made Ilsa laugh, although she was still getting used to his sense of humour.

Ilsa brought out three portions of fish, chips and mushy peas, setting them all down on the table. The smell was enough to prompt Ben to end his call
, and all three sat down to a celebration dinner fit for an Englishman.

“So, how did the trust application go down?” Max asked th
rough a mouthful of battered fish.

“It is just fine. We are in business.
Congratulations, Max, Ilsa; you are now trustees of the Fogarty Foundation for Community Living.” The two lovers wanted to cheer, but their mouths were full.

When Ben returned the money to the bank he
had assumed that the authorities would sequester the funds, but they did not. Too many legal complications, they said. Knowing that they were client funds, and that he couldn’t simply give them away to keep them out of Ashley’s hands, he’d had a sudden thought. Two solicitors’ offices and a barrister’s chambers later, Ben had the answer he had hoped for - the power of attorney he had been given by Ashley was still valid and binding. It had been so widely drafted that Ben could do what he wanted with the money. Now, a week later, the fledgling Fogarty Foundation was being formed. May Fogarty, Max Richmond and Ilsa Anna Beratov were its first trustees. Working with the police in Trafalgar House Flats, the trust would fight drug abuse, child abuse and criminal behaviour amongst the young, offering courses and training to break the cycle of poverty that had been the hallmark of the flats for a generation.

They were all rounding off one of Ben’s last meals in the UK with a glass of red wine when Max’s phone received a text. He looked at the message on the screen. It read: ‘Skype now, urgent.’

***

Max and Ilsa made themselves scarce, washing up in the kitchen whilst Ben booted up his computer and loaded up Skype. Clicking on the logo that said “TheRancherNZ”, Ben waited as the familiar arrowhead chased its tail around in a circle and the familiar ring tone sounded. There was a click and Ben’s own face appeared in a corner. He smiled. A second later his dad appeared on the main screen. He looked ill and drawn.

“Dad
, are you OK?” Ben asked with concern apparent in his voice. Then in reply, from eleven thousand miles away came a voice he had never expected to hear again. As the voice came closer, the old man’s chair was wheeled to the side and Ben could see that his arms were taped to the chair.

“Hello
, Ben,” Ashley cooed. “It’s a real Fogarty family reunion. Oh, the magic of Skype.” Ben was speechless, and from the kitchen Max came running to see the source of the voice. Ben signalled for him to stay out of sight, as he spoke to his sister.

“Ashley, what are you doing?
Why don’t you disappear off to some remote island somewhere, you know, where Interpol won’t find you? It’s all over. Mapperley sold you out.”

“You did
, you mean!” Ashley snapped back. “I’d like nothing better than to hide away on a tropical island, little brother, but I don’t have any money. But I have Patrick, and he must be worth a million pounds of anybody’s money. Well, Ben, what do you say? You wire me a million pounds and I don’t slit his throat.”

Max had disappeared back into the kitchen and was madly dialling a number
already stored in his phone, as Ben replied.

“Ashley, the money is gone. T
he UK seems to have a policy of not letting criminals keep their ill gotten gains.”

It seemed that Ashley didn’t believe him. “Dear Ben.
I had rather hoped that you cared for Patrick a little more than that.”

Ashley pulled out a knife
, and the picture froze. “Don’t give her the money,” Patrick said, before Ben heard a loud slap, but all he could see was the frozen picture of Ashley holding a knife.

In the kitchen, Ilsa watched M
ax pace the room as he waited for the phone to be picked up. Finally it was, and he looked up. “This is Max, and it isn’t a social call. Patrick is in danger. Where are you?” There was a pause as Max listened to the answer. “Well, get back there now. Ashley has a knife to his throat.” The call ended abruptly, and Max and Ilsa signalled to Ben that they had called Hirini. Max put his hands together and slowly pulled them apart. Stretch it out, was the message conveyed.

Suddenly the picture pixelated and cleared. Patrick’s lip was bleeding and the knife was at his throat.
Ashley was speaking again, her voiced calm and flat. “Ben, I don’t really care where you get the money from, I just want it now. Get your law firm to telegraph it. They know you are good for the money.”

“If I did
that it would take days, you must know that.”

“What I do know is that
, if I don’t get at least half a million pounds wired to me in the next twenty minutes, Patrick dies and we get to Skype again tomorrow, when another one of your loved ones dies.”

Ben looked puzzled.
Ashley continued. “I was thinking of the pretty girl in the picture in your room to start with, what do you think?”

“I think
, Ashley, that if you touch either Dad or Charlotte you are a dead woman.”

Ashley screamed in anger. “You’
re not taking me seriously!” She took the knife and sliced open Patrick’s throat. Immediately regretting it, she tried to stem the blood. She was sobbing now as the life force in Patrick’s eyes ebbed away. He mouthed “I love you, son.” before he slumped down in his chair.

“You made me do it
, Ben! It’s your fault!” The madness was in full flow now. She had crossed a line and she would never return. Tears flowed down Ben’s face, and he sobbed.

Ashley was still shak
ing Patrick’s body and yelling “Wake up!” She stopped abruptly as the door behind her flew open and two Maori warriors burst into the room. One ran to Patrick, before realising they were too late. The other approached Ashley. She tried to fend him off with the knife, but he kept coming at her. She lunged at him and he didn’t even bother defending himself. The blade cut through his clothing and skin before skittering off a rib and under his arm. Ben watched the whole macabre drama play out on screen.

Hirini t
ook hold of Ashley as if she had been a rag doll and, as she screamed for mercy, his right arm reached around her head and grabbed her chin. With tears flowing down his face, the big Maori pulled her chin quickly and snapped her neck cleanly, dropping her to the floor without further ado. Hirini and Ben stared at each other across eleven thousand miles, and Hirini sobbed.

“I am sorry
. We were too late, Hehu.”

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©Fidus Publishing 2012

All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above,
no reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

First published on Kindle by Fidus Publishing in the United Kingdom 2012

www.fidusbooks.co.uk

PO Box 16, Rawtenstall, Lancashire. UK

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.

Kindle Version:
ISBN 978-1-908042-06-4

Cover Design by Altered Images, photo of man by Eric Hossinger, photo of fire by Ben Watts both altered and used under Creative Commons License Deed/attribution, see licenses at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/hozinja
and
http://www.flickr.com/photos/benwatts