East of the City (25 page)

‘I put it to you,’ the barrister interrupted, ‘that the only reason you were on that plane to Izmir with the loss adjustor was because the Mortlake Group had already decided, prior to gathering any evidence, that the legitimate claim of Ottoman Air was going to be denied. From that day, before you had even glimpsed the security arrangements in Izmir, you knew that you were preparing to end up here, in this court.’

Half-rising, Batri said, ‘My lord, does my learned friend have a question he wishes to ask?’

The Ottoman barrister offered to rephrase, and Batri sat down.

‘Didn’t you know, from the moment the Mortlake Group hired you to accompany the loss adjustor, that Ottoman’s claim was going to be denied?’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘You didn’t know that they’d already prejudged the claim?’

‘You’re saying they prejudged it. I never said that.’

The barrister went at it again, the same issue but from a different angle, banging away at the idea that Ottoman had got the rough end of the pineapple, that the Mortlake Group weren’t interested in the rights and wrongs of the claim, that Allen Mortlake had made up his mind to fight them way back at the start. And through his questions, the barrister trailed Allen’s motive for the fight, protecting his daughter’s professional reputation. Bill turned a lot of the questions aside, saying that what happened within the Mortlake Group wasn’t his affair. But whenever the questions returned to that business about him being sent out to Izmir so quickly, Bill’s answers got more and more defensive.

Beside me, Clive doodled on his pad, the muscles in his jaw clenched hard. In all the pre-trial sessions we’d had on the Ottoman case, nobody had spotted this. Any one of us could have seen it, but the major responsibility for sending Bill into the firing-line underprepared was Clive’s. While Bill did his best up front, Clive kept his eyes on the pad.

After half an hour, the barrister had made his point in half a dozen different ways, then he saw the judge glance up at the clock.

‘So, to move on.’ The barrister twisted his wedding ring as he consulted his notes. ‘You arrived in Izmir.’ He looked up at Bill and smiled. ‘Rather earlier than you might have been expected to, nevertheless you arrived. Did you begin your — what shall we call it? Preliminary investigation?'

‘Call it what you like,’ Bill said, and Clive looked up, frowning. Bill’s irritation with the barrister was starting to surface, not a good sign.

‘Did you begin your investigation immediately?'

‘The same afternoon.’

The barrister gave a fake look of surprise. ‘You had access to the Ottoman hangar?'

‘Yes.’

‘Immediately?’

‘They faxed my passport details to Allen Mortlake. He confirmed who I was.’

‘And the staff at Ottoman Air never obstructed you? They let you get straight on with your investigation?'

‘Mr Mehmet came out to the airport. When he arrived, he took a look at the faxes, I think he rang Allen, then—’

‘Allen Mortlake?’

‘Yes. Then he told the Ottoman staff to show me what I wanted to see. Me and the loss adiustor both.'

‘So the staff of Ottoman Air never obstructed you?’

‘No.’

‘Were they helpful?’

Bill thought about it a second. ‘They didn’t obstruct me. They were helpful enough.'

‘Did that surprise you, Mr Tyler?’

Bill picked up a glass of water, eyes on the barrister. ‘No,’ he said flatly.

‘I am going to refer you,’ the barrister said, opening the Tyler Associates report, ‘to page 72 of your own report. Bundle sixteen.’ There was a pause while Bill and the judge both turned pages. ‘Do you have it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please read the second paragraph for us, Mr Tyler. Aloud, if you will.’

Bill glanced down the page for a second, then read, his voice expressionless. ‘In short, the general standard of security at Izmir Airport is low, in addition to which Ottoman Air itself has three major weaknesses. One, poor background checks on flight crews prior to employment, and lax monitoring procedures thereafter. Two, failure to render their aircraft inoperable during extended ground time. Three, failure to institute proper security checks, with clear assignations of duty and lines of responsibility among staff members.’

Bill looked up. The barrister rested an elbow on the lectern.

‘On what basis did you reach these conclusions, Mr Tyler?’

‘I called it how I saw it.’

‘Yes—’ the barrister looked pained — ‘but that is just my question. How did you see it? How were you able to see it? You were in Izmir, what, four days? Assuming you’re not psychic, how were you able, in such a short space of time, to discover, for example, what the monitoring procedures for the flight crews actually were?’

Bill saw where this one was headed now. He moved uncomfortably in his chair.

‘I was told.’

‘By whom?’

‘I don’t remember the names.’

‘Let’s not be coy now, Mr Tyler. You were given the information, were you not, by the staff of Ottoman Air?’

‘I don’t see anything wrong with that.’

‘Is the answer yes or no?’

Bill fixed him with a cold look. ‘Yes.’

‘And Mr Mehmet, the owner of Ottoman Air, even he gave you some of the information contained in your report. Is that right?'

‘Yes.’

Clive had stopped doodling in his pad. He was watching Bill hard, like he was willing him through each question.

‘Mr Tyler,’ the barrister said, ‘at any time in your four days in Izmir, the days immediately following the theft of the plane, did Mr Mehmet or his staff say or do anything at all that indicated to you they might have doubts about the legitimacy of their claim?’

Bill took quite a while with that. He glanced across to Batri before answering. ‘No,’ he said finally.

‘In fact they gave you, who they knew to be in the employ of the underwriter, every assistance, didn’t they?’

‘They were helpful, okay?’

The barrister pressed on. ‘So the situation is — is it not? — that the plane was stolen. Ottoman immediately notified WardSure, as per policy. The Ottoman Air staff, and the owner, were materially helpful to you in your investigation, and gave no indication that they expected their ` legitimate claim to be challenged. And the help they gave you is now central to your report, which is central to the Mortlake Group’s case here today. I put it to you that actions here speak louder than words. Ottoman Air hid nothing because it had nothing to hide, but the Mortlake Group—’

‘My lord—’ Batri broke in, but the other barrister talked over him.

‘——the Mortlake Group, by precipitately employing you, showed a clear intent to deny a legitimate claim before examining one shred of evidence.’

‘My lord, I really must protest.’

Everyone looked up to the judge. He seemed to be weighing things up. Then, unexpectedly, it wasn’t the judge but Bill who spoke.

‘I’m not party to the Mortlake Group’s decisions,’ he said.

Batri shot him a warning look, but it was too late. The judge leaned back, fingertips touching together beneath his chin, studying Bill Tyler. You could feel the change in mood through the court. That stock answer of Bill’s hadn’t gone down at all well this time. In fact, it sounded just how the Ottoman barrister might have prayed for it to sound, hollow and self-serving. Lame. Beside me Clive had his head in his hands.

At last the judge made a note to himself, then nodded to the Ottoman barrister.

‘I presume you have more questions for Mr Tyler?'

‘Yes, my lord.

The judge, for the first time in days, had lost his bored look. Gazing down, he rested a finger along one cheek.

‘Let’s not waste time then,’ he said.

'B
utchery,’ Clive muttered as we came out at the lunchtime recess. ‘They butchered Tyler, and Batri just sat there.'

While he was telling me this, he had a smile fixed on his face, you’d never have known how angry he was. When I told him I thought the last hour hadn’t gone so badly, he barked a dry laugh.

Out in the men’s room, we were alone. He dropped the smile then, and swore as he splashed his face with water. Taking a leak, I said, ‘I’ve had a rethink on Mehmet. I can’t see what he had to gain, killing Sebastian.’

‘Oh please,’ Clive said. He was drying his hands on a paper towel. He glanced across at me. ‘Not now, Ian. I’ve got a real case on my plate here, and it’s turning into a stinker.’

‘A real case? Clive, I’ve got a cop trying to fit me up with a murder.’

‘So you said.’

He flicked the paper towel in the bin and faced the mirror. He smoothed down his hair. Zipping up, I went to the basin.

‘What’s that mean, So I said? You think I’m lying?’

‘I don’t think you’re lying.’

‘Then how about some advice.’

‘I don’t have any.’ He paused, reconsidering. ‘Keep your head down, Ian. Now that’s good lawyerly advice.’

While I soaped up my hands Clive braced himself against the next basin, arms locked. He stared at the mirror, a worried man. Keep my head down? Had he listened to a single word I’d said back there in his office?

Then he added, ‘That’ll be best all round. Don’t stir the pot.’

And that’s when I got it. Finally. He turned to go and I grabbed his arm. ‘You’re worried I’m going to mess up your case.’ He jerked his arm free and straightened his jacket. I’d hit the bull’s-eye. ‘I’m being stitched up for murder, and you’re worried that me trying to protect myself is going to fuck up your case against Ottoman. Clive,’ I said laughing, not quite believing it. ‘Jesus, what is this?’

He looked past me.

‘Talk to me,’ I said.

And maybe he would have, but then the door opened. Bill Tyler came in. As he wandered over to the pisser, Bill said, ‘How’d I do?’

‘Not too bad,’ Clive told him. It must have just about choked him to say it, but there was no point in letting rip now. Bill still had another session to do in the witness seat, he needed his confidence intact.

After reminding Bill of the judge’s instructions not to talk to anyone about the case, or his evidence, during the recess, Clive made his exit.

Bill looked at me, rolling his eyes. ‘Fucking lawyers,’ he said.

Out in the hall I ran into Angela. When she asked me how the morning went, I pulled a long face.

‘That bad?’

‘Worse, but don’t tell Bill.’ I glanced over my shoulder. ‘Clive wants him in shape for after lunch.’

Angela took my arm and steered me outside onto the pavement. She said, ‘I’ve tracked down your Name.’ For a moment I was lost. ‘Hello, Ian. The Name that sent that note. Bonfires and pig-sticking?’ She pulled the note out of her bag. Clipped to one corner there was a scrap of paper with a name and address scrawled in Angela’s handwriting. The name was Mr White. ‘Seems like he’s a farmer down in Kent,’ she said, then added, ‘Brentwell’s in Kent, no? I wondered if I should tell Bill, or just hand it over to the police.’

I took the note and re-read it. It was pretty much how I remembered, threatening in an unhinged kind of way. But there was a bit I’d forgotten, it was that part that really leapt out at me now.
Sebastian Ward. I know him to be untrustworthy
.

I read it aloud to Angela.

She put out her hand for the note. ‘Ian, the man’s talking about sticking people like pigs. Who cares who he says is untrustworthy? He’s bonkers.’

Maybe, I thought. Probably, even. But what would Angela have said if I’d shown her the photo I had in my pocket? Sebastian, the Mortlake family’s old friend, giving Justine the shaft. Sebastian and Justine might both have been grown-ups, but fifteen years earlier Sebastian had been giving Justine dolls to play with at Christmas. An uncle figure in the Mortlake family. But somewhere along the way Sebastian had moved the relationship on, and I wondered what Angela would think of Sebastian if she knew.

I tore off a corner of the note and propped my foot against some railings. I started copying out Mr White’s name and address, using my knee for a desk.

She asked why I needed the address.

‘As far as Bill’s concerned, the kidnap’s over. He’s been paid, and that’s the end of it.’

'I’ll give the note to the police then.’

‘I can tell you right now, they won’t be interested,’ I said, and when Angela looked sceptical, I explained. ‘If a note like that suddenly drops into their hands courtesy of the Mortlake Group, they’ll think they’re having sand chucked in their eyes.’

‘By whom?'

‘Me,’ I said. Angela gave me a sideways look, and right then the Ottoman team came out of St Dunstan’s, the solicitors and the two barristers, all smiles. As they walked by, the lead barrister nodded to me. You could see in his eyes he was looking forward to tomorrow, when I’d be in the witness seat. Once they were out of earshot, I said to Angela, ‘The cops think I was involved with Sebastian’s death. One cop in particular.’

‘Why?’ She got a worry-line straight up between her eyebrows. ‘Involved with? Are they accusing you?’

‘Not officially. Not yet. And in case you’re wondering, Angela, it’s not true.’

She said that’s not what she was thinking at all. She asked why the police had picked on me.

I told her it was a long story, not one I had the time for just then. I tried to cut the conversation short, get going, but Angela knew me too well. After twelve years on the 486 box together, she could read me like a book.

She said, ‘My car’s round the comer.’

‘I’ll get a taxi.’

‘Not all the way out to Kent you won’t.’ She turned on her heel. ‘I’ll drive, you talk. This one I really have to hear.’

Leaving out the photo, I told Angela the same story I’d told Clive Wainwright. She did what he’d done, asked a few questions, but mainly she just listened, weaving her car through the traffic. We were well down the Old Kent Road before I’d finished.

Angela was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘So you think if I took Mr White’s note and showed the police, they’d just think it was you trying to get them off your back.’

Yes, I told her. That’s how I saw it.

She mulled that one over, then asked, ‘If Mehmet’s a crook, and Nigel Chambers is tied up with him and this Pike fellow, why do you want to pay a call on Mr White?’