Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (6 page)

***

On Sunday morning Grierson was questioned for thirty minutes in the presence of his lawyer, but said nothing. His lawyer listened to the charges and told Den that if he wanted any chance of bail he must plead not guilty. They’d worry about the additional tariff - extra prison time - for not pleading out if he was ever convicted. Grierson was picked up at the police station in a prison van and delivered to the Magistrates’ court for his remand hearing. He arrived shortly after eleven for a scheduled two o’clock hearing. Time dragged and eventually, at a quarter past six, Den Grierson and his brief entered the courtroom. Den found himself standing behind a perspex screen; in front of him was a microphone.

Malcolm Penderley
was delighted that Den had chosen to say nothing, and he expressed disbelief that his client had been so inconvenienced when he was innocent of all charges. The harried prosecutor found Grierson’s sheet in his pile and quickly scanned it before presenting the information to the magistrate. Penderley, Grierson’s solicitor, stopped speaking after he demanded bail and threatened a writ of habeas corpus if his client was jailed for another second.

The prosecutor read the charges from the sheet
, but something looked wrong. Thinking on his feet, he said the police needed more time as this was an attempted murder and, in any case, Grierson was a flight risk. The hard pressed magistrate should have simply remanded Grierson in custody and set a trial date, but he saw panic in the prosecutor’s eyes.

“Mr Thompson, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of documentation behind that sheet. I presume we do have evidence that Mr Grierson
is the man you are accusing?”

Thomson quickly ran through the files whilst speaking.
“Of course, sir. Mr Grierson has been identified by a witness and from CCTV footage. We also have his clothing, which is being processed for the WPC’s blood and DNA, which we believe will seal the matter.”

“Can I see something, then,
Mr Thomson? Anything will do.”

“I appear to have mislaid it, sir. It has been rather a torrid day,” the CPS lawy
er blurted out somewhat lamely.

“For us all, Mr Thomson, for us all. Now, when do you think you can have this information ready f
or me?” the magistrate pressed.

“Tuesday morning, sir. I bel
ieve that is our next window.”

“Tuesday it is, then.” The magistrate was about to remand Grierson when Pend
erley shot to his feet, fuming.

“Sir, this is an outrage! This case screams injustice. My client is being held with no evidence whatsoever. He should be released on his own cognisance this very moment,” he stated, his red
face burning with indignation.

“Sit down, Mr Penderley, and please try to be sensible. Let me have a word.” The magistrate leaned over and spoke to the cl
erk before making his decision.

“Mr Grierson, the charges you face are serious and carry the prospect of a long term of incarceration. However, we have insufficient information to justify holding you until Tuesday, and so I will grant bail and order that you are electronically tagged, at least until the next remand hearing. The charges against you are of such seriousness that you will be delivered to your home, where you will be confined until Tuesday. I understand that if you stray more than
a few yards from the agreed address, an alarm will sound and you will be apprehended and arrested again. If that should happen, you will be remanded until your trial without the possibility of bail. Is that clear?” The magistrate paused before continuing. “Mr Penderley, are these terms acceptable to your client?”

Penderley looked at Dennis Grierson, who couldn’t believe his luck
. He nodded vigorously.

“Sir, my client is unhappy about the restrictions on his movement, as any innocent man would be, but he appreciates the difficulties you are w
orking under and so he agrees.”

By eleven o’clock
that night, Dennis Grierson was ankle tagged and back in the Trafalgar House Flats, planning to run.

St Ermin’s Hotel, Caxton St, London, UK.

Sunday 14th August 2011; 9pm

After a busy day Ben was ready for his bed, even though it was only nine o’clock, but before he could make a move towards his bedroom the phone rang. It was DC Fellowes and he was ranting about the Crown Prosecution Service and the courts and society in general, but the main purpose of the call was to inform Ben that Dennis Grierson was out on bail and electronically tagged. Despite the DC’s complaints about a suspect facing a charge of attempted murder on a police officer, he was not too worried. Dennis Grierson was locked in one place or another, and on Tuesday Fellowes and Scott would hand deliver the files.

Ben listened, and replied where expected. He saw advantages in both forms of containment. Out in the community Grierson was free, but he was also vulnerable, and Ben might just be able to take advantage of that vulnerability.
He had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. It was his father, calling from the Ranch in New Zealand. Patrick was an early riser but it was still only eight in the morning on Sunday in Masterton.

“Ben, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Ihaka died peacefully in his sleep last night.” A lot more was said before and after that sentence was uttered, but that was the only sentence that Ben remembe
red once he put the phone down.

Ben lay down on the bed, tears welling in his eyes, and tried to remember the first time he had met the old Maori Elder.

Homebush Ra
nch, Masterton, Near Wellington, NZ.

Friday 19
th
June 1991; Twenty Years Ago.

An eleven year-old Ambrose Benjamin Fogarty waved goodbye to Danielle Morgan, a cousin he didn’t know he’d had until recently, as she left the ranch to return to the UK. She had accompanied the eleven year old all the way to his new home from Liverpool. Ben was sorry to see her go. She was a pretty, bubbly twenty year old who had hugged and kissed the cute little orphan until he was nearly fed up with it, but not quite.

His new dad, Patrick Vernon Fogarty, was away on business, and Ben, as the locals had taken to calling him, was in the care of Nanni and under the tutelage of Ihaka Nga Hiwi, a very important Maori leader, or so he was told.
The other Maoris wore western work clothes and spoke like the locals, but Ihaka was an old school leader; he dressed traditionally and followed the old ways. The old man was wiry but strong, uneducated but wise and stern but caring. He was looking forward to taking the youngster under his wing. By the time he was sixteen and was ready to go walkabout, he would be more Maori than white man.

***

In 1962 George Frederick Fogarty had accepted a job and an assisted passage to Wellington, saying goodbye to his brother Roy, Ben’s grandfather, at the docks. George, Jane and their children, Margaret and Patrick, set sail for the new world with no idea of how successful they would become.

George was a welder and his wife Jane a tailor. The kids were primary school age when they arrived, but by the time they went to high school Jane already owned her own shop in Wellington. Its name was Todd Latimer – Master Tailor; New Zealand men would never buy a suit from a woman tailor. When Margaret left for medical school in the USA and Patrick was accepted at the university, Latimer’s Tailors were on the high street in most big cities. Within a few years George and Jane had sold up and moved out to Masterton, where they bought a managed ranch from a descendant of the pioneer, Joseph Masters, who gave the town its name.

***

By the time Ben arrived, his great uncle and aunt were long dead, and the population of Masterton was still somewhere short of twenty thousand people. The school was primitive but the n
ext large high school was a two-hour drive away, and Patrick did not want Ben boarding during the week, as most kids did. So, with the help of tutors, Ben was educated locally from 7:30am to 1pm, six days a week. The only other student of his age was Charlotte Baker, nicknamed Lottie, and the two became as close as brother and sister over the next five years.

After the formal schooling every day, Ben would spend hours with Ihaka and the other Maoris, learning how to hunt, fish, whittle wood, ride bareback and play rugby. Patrick was around most evenings and weekends, as was Lottie. Occasionally Aunt Margaret would take time off from her surgical residency in Auckland’s main hospital and come to the ranch to relax. During her visits she would teach Lottie and Ben biology and first aid, and complain to their parents about good minds being wasted.

At sixteen Lottie went off to a Wellington Girls’ College to study for her highers, but Ben and Ihaka disappeared for almost three months into the wilderness. Aunt Margaret was livid, but Patrick just shrugged his should
ers. He knew Ben would be safe.

When Ben returned, adorned with temporary body paint in the form of
ta moko
, Maori tattoos, he was leather skinned and without an ounce of body fat. After a period of challenges which allowed Ben to move into manhood, Patrick took charge again and ensured that Ben would have a career in western society, at least until he took over the ranch.

When Ben left Massey University, where he was reacquainted with Lottie, who now preferred to be called Charlie, he had a half decent law degree but also, more importantly, a place
in the All Blacks rugby squad.

After moving out of the Cube Residential block at the university, Ben shared a house with Charlie and another girl. They were friends but
they weren’t his girlfriends. Then one evening, two weeks before he started work at a major law firm, he arrived back to find Ihaka on his doorstep. The old man looked uncomfortable in his borrowed jeans and sweatshirt.

”Hehu,” the old man began without any explanation of why he was there, “you have more to learn.” In the next two weeks Ben refreshed his hunting skills and was schooled in the use of the Patu. When he thought he knew all that there was to know, Ihaka invited him into the horse paddock for a test. Every Maori worker was present, as was Nanni and Patrick. Ihaka and Patrick were
the only two inside the fence.

“Hehu, I see you on the television screen playing rugby with so called Maoris. You are more Maori than them. Please charge at me and take the ball from me.” He held out an old a
nd battered leather rugby ball.

At first Ben refused. He was six feet four and sixteen stone
s of solid muscle; Ihaka was skin and bone. Then Patrick said, “If you get the ball off him in a tackle in three attempts I will buy you a Porsche on your first day at work.”

Ben raced at Ihaka twice without success. Somehow, by the time he made the tackle, the old man had gone. He had vanished like a wisp of smoke. But Ben had been holding back. On his third attempt, he could already see the Porsche in his mind’s eye. He gave it everything, even anticipating the mysterious Maori sidestep, but he still ended up face down in the dust with no tackle made. To laughter all around, Ihaka danced around comically with the ball held aloft.

By the time Ben had returned to Wellington he had mastered the move, and he
, too, was untouchable. To the western eye he appeared to be able to dematerialise and re-materialise behind the tackler. It was a trick born out of nature. The Maoris were doing no more than mimicking the behaviour of animals sidestepping their oncoming prey, and now Ben was doing the same. The Fogarty sidestep was born.

***

Ben fell asleep with fond memories of Ihaka passing through his mind. He would need his rest, as he had a plan to execute tomorrow. He laid the
greenstone Patu
on the bedside table. “Goodnight, my friend,” he said to the ancient weapon. “Tomorrow we go to work.”

Trafalgar House Flats, Broadwater Farm Estate, Tottenham, Monday 15
th
August 2011; 9am.

Den ‘Psycho’ Grierson had to be helped into the old upholstered Queen Anne chair his mother had used in her last days. He rested his arms on the armrests and closed his eyes while the pain receded. The beating may have failed to break any bones, but every muscle in his body ached and his kidneys were sore. He had also passed blood in his water for the last couple of days. Barty left Den sitting in the chair and went to make a cup of tea.

Sitting outside enjoying the sunshine, Mikey kept watch. Times were tense; the Bill had been on The Farm every day since the riots, though not the Trafalgar House section. Den wanted to be warned if the police or any other gangs encroached on his turf. Mikey was sipping from a can of lager and enjoying a cigarette, aware that he was starting the day badly. He was over fifty and, despi
te being in the gang for thirty years, he had little to show for it. Overall he made more money from his car re-spraying business than he did from crime. His probation officer had opened his eyes last year when she pointed out that if he had spent his time building his business, rather than running around with Den, he wouldn’t have lost his wife and kids, would have had a blossoming business to pass on or sell, and probably a pension. Instead he had a crappy rented flat, an old BMW and twenty thousand pounds sifted away for his old age, which he felt was already here.