This Thing of Darkness (80 page)

70

Nailing the fuckers.

Because of holidays and the like, it takes time to get everyone in the same place at the same time. That suits me. I’ve a lot to prepare and I’m enjoying just being me. Living my life.

And I know that I don’t always do things professionally. Sometimes I mess things up that I could get right. Sometimes piss off my colleagues for no reason at all. Sometimes go missing, show up late, go off-piste, ignore instructions, swear.

I can’t see that I’m about to stop doing all those terrible things. I don’t have that much control over who I am. Perhaps none of us do: corks on a current. But Marcus Aurelius, who thought he
was
a cork floating on a current, a cork whose path had been predetermined since the beginning of time, still enjoined us to,
Do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter
.

So I take the man’s advice. Just for once, I do my spick-and-span professional best.

Compile charts. Timelines. Data.

Draw my material up into the best policeish form. The sort of thing that has executive summaries, and indexes, and sources that are listed and checkable. Drawing on my time down in Ifor’s dungeon, I get my stuff printed and bound. Colour-coded covers, straight edges. The smell of warm toner and good material prepared.

I do all this, but don’t obsess. Don’t work beyond six. Don’t ignore my other duties. Don’t omit to put in overtime claims the way we’re meant to.

Once, Jackson happened to walk past my desk as I was hard at work. ‘Good girl, Fiona,’ he said, tapping my desk with his big paw. ‘Good girl.’

The big day comes. The last working day of August, a Friday. It’s been a nice month. Warm. Not much rain. Bute Park has felt like a big city park should. Ice creamy. Green. The sort of place where small girls run and dogs go bounding through long grass.

Our conference room overlooks the waving green. Nods at Cardiff Castle across the way.

Present today: Me. Jackson. Watkins. Brattenbury.

Also – my one concession to my own nuttiness – a modified version of my photo wall. Up on a board behind me, I have 4" x 6" images of my corpses.

Janet Mancini. April Mancini. Stacey Edwards.

Mary Langton. Ali Al-Khalifi. Mark Mortimer.

Hayley Morgan. Saj Kureishi. Nia Lewis.

Derek Moon. Ian Livesey.

Jazz MacClure, Gina Jewell.

A gallery of friends. Their gazes warm, even in death.

No one really comments on the photos. Jackson and Watkins have already said whatever they wanted to say. Brattenbury doesn’t really know what to do with them, so says nothing.

Teas. Coffees. A garnish of small talk.

When everyone’s ready, Jackson says, ‘Fiona,’ and I start.

Quickly rehearse the broad lines of three recent major cases.

One, Operation Lohan, an ugly little sex-trafficking case, with a rich man – a dead one – at its heart.

Two, Operation Abacus, universally known as Stirfry. An arms-dealing case, where the central perpetrator was never prosecuted, though we all knew he was as guilty as fuck.

Three, Operation Tinker. A sophisticated payroll fraud, where we rounded up most of the foot-soldiers, but never so much as got a name for its commander-in-chief.

Mention too, the broad outlines of Zorro. An astonishingly audacious effort to subvert the world’s major financial trading axis. An effort that would, but for a few handfuls of fishguts, have succeeded.

Jackson and Watkins know most of this already, but it doesn’t hurt to lay it out again. And Brattenbury, who is London-based, doesn’t know much about the first two cases, nor a whole heap about the last.

I say, ‘Four cases. Complex, ambitious crimes. In three of them, we know the identity of the perpetrators. Successful, well-connected men. Local men. Welsh. Not outsiders.

‘Numerous common elements between these crimes. Remarkable commercial sophistication. A highly unusual degree of security awareness. Communications. Data. False identities. Use of offshore financial vehicles. Willingness to invest. Long time horizons.’

I push copies of the first of my documents across the table.

Common Elements in Four Recent Crimes: Lohan, Abacus, Tinker, Zorro
.

A lengthy, remorseless analysis of operating practices in each of the four conspiracies. Factual. Objective. And, I hope, compelling.

We start to go through it. Not only me talking now. The others too. Comparing notes. Discussing my analysis.

We run for about an hour. The discussion isn’t finished. Isn’t really started. But everyone wants to know what comes next.

I tell them.

‘Brendan Rattigan. Idris Prothero. Galton Evans. Men we know to be behind three of these crimes. I want to add three further names to that list. David Marr-Philips. We don’t know if he’s involved but he did own a twenty per cent stake in Prothero’s little enterprise. Didn’t seem particularly concerned by its criminality. Also Ned Davison. Not wealthy on the scale of these other men, but one whose name came up in connection with Project Tinker. And finally Owain Owen. A successful businessman, with no police record and no intelligence suggesting criminal activity. You’ll just have to bear with me on that name for now.’

I produce my next document.

Known Links Between Rattigan, Prothero, Evans, Marr-Philips, Davison and Owen
.

Push it across the desk. Start to talk it through.

Common investment projects. Gold club memberships. Yacht clubs. Dining societies. Kids’ schools. Anything.

Talk for ten minutes before Jackson interrupts.

‘Fiona. This is good stuff, but look. These are rich guys. Of course they know each other. This isn’t London. Out here, it’s a small group you’re talking about.’

I nod.

‘Yes. Yes it is. And if you found these men did, for example, meet for dinner on a social basis, you wouldn’t be surprised.

‘But here.’ I unfold a chart that depicts their various activities – business, financial, recreational, social, educational, philanthropic. ‘There’s nothing that connects them all. You find things that connect any two or three of them. Maybe even four of them. But not all. Not that we know.’

Jackson nods. Doesn’t say anything. But the room feels on the brink of something now. My moment to deliver.

I hand out the photo that Cesca gave me.

Prothero.

Marr-Philips.

Owen.

Rattigan.

Davison.

All five men, seated at Galton Evans’s table in the south of France.

I say, ‘I obtained this photograph from a source in the course of Operation Zorro. The photograph was given to me on the basis of total confidentiality. I can’t and won’t reveal the source’s name. At the end of our meeting here, I will collect these prints back again and destroy them. I will not answer questions on how they came to be in my hands. Nor will I allow the picture to appear in any court proceedings.

‘What I will tell you, however, is that this photograph was taken in France. And the other occupants of this villa were ordered to leave so that these men could talk in privacy.

‘And one more thing. This photograph was taken on the same day. The figure of possible interest is the one in the little parking area, next to the blue BMW.’

I hand out Cesca’s photo. The one that might or might not show Vic Henderson.

The picture means nothing to Watkins, who wasn’t involved in Tinker.

Jackson is slow to make the identification, but when he does his eyes dart across to Brattenbury, who led that project.

‘Adrian?’ says Jackson.

Brattenbury nods. ‘Yes. Yes. I think it’s him.’

Three pairs of eyes stare back at me. I didn’t just know Henderson, I kissed him. Stood naked in front of him. Was almost killed by him.

Gravel-voiced, I say, ‘Yes. I think so too. But I would. I’m looking for evidence of this kind. I’m not a reliable judge.’

Brattenbury: ‘I’ll get this analysed. Can I do that?’

I nod. I asked Cesca and she said OK. But even the best analysts in the world need better material to work with and in the end Brattenbury’s analysts will just offer us a more jargon-filled version of ‘yeah, could be, definitely possible.’

Watkins says, ‘Just to be clear, Fiona: what precisely are you suggesting?’

Jackson likes the question, but he holds a hand up, stopping me.

Reaches for the conference room phone. Dials a number.

‘Hey, June. It’s Dennis here. Is the chief around? . . . Oh, is he? Good. Excellent. Can you give him a bell? Tell him I want to see him right now if possible. Twenty minutes, that’s all.’ He waits for me to remind him which conference room we’re in, then tells June Whoever where we are, then hangs up.

The chief: the Chief Constable of South Wales. Works in the Bridgend HQ, but is apparently in town right now.

In town, and heading for my little show and tell.

We pause, as we await the great man’s arrival.

Brattenbury, making chit-chat, says to me, ‘You’re a sergeant now, are you? Do I need to congratulate you?’

‘No.’

Jackson says, ‘Oh bollocks. OSPRE
II. That damn stupid role-playing day happened while you were away. I don’t think they’ve got another date this year. I totally forgot.’

Watkins says, ‘They sometimes make extra dates available in the autumn. I can ask if . . .’

Jackson: ‘No. Sod that. Adrian, would you say this young lady needs to do some bullshit roleplay thing to prove her professional fitness?’

Brattenbury laughs. ‘No.’

‘Rhiannon?’

Watkins doesn’t like the idea of circumventing rules, but she twists her face up and says, ‘No.’

‘OK. I’ll just phone ’em up and tell ’em I’ve got Fiona employed on actual police work. Can’t spare her. See what they say to that.’ His face changes a bit, and he adds, ‘Any case, it’s true. Fiona’s the only capable exhibits officer we’ve got right now.’

Brattenbury: ‘Fiona? An exhibits officer?’

‘That’s right. Can’t spare her.’

I know Jackson is messing with me, but I don’t know what he’s on about and even the mention of that job sends a shiver through me the way that the Rhayader barn now couldn’t.

I say, anxiously, ‘Sir?’

He’s about to continue his thing, whatever it is, but sees my face and stops short. ‘Our guys are all at some big exhibits meet-up in central London. A conference of exhibits officers, eh? Just imagine the hi-jinks. But’ – this bit to me – ‘don’t worry, you’re more useful up here anyway.’

Ifor Dawes is back now, part time only, three mornings a week, but the doctors say he’s mending well. As for the conference itself, we laugh about that. What do exhibits officers get up to when they’re feeling frolicsome? Go over long columns of figures? Correct each other’s location references?

I think,
I have a job. Friends. The respect of my colleagues. I am lucky to be a part of this world. Lucky at all that I have.

I allow my thoughts to travel to the barn again. Not stopping at the walls, but going all the way.

Think of myself taped to that chair under the bulb. As the light dwindled and time died.

Think of the questions, the sleeplessness, the interrogation, the threats.

Think of the jab of that thing. The picana. Its explosive touch.

Remember all that. Feel it all.

Feel
it. The fear, yes, and the pain, but also my awareness that I’m still here, in one piece, happy. I think,
I survived that
.
Not just bodily, but mentally too. Here I am, on Planet Normal, having a laugh with my colleagues.

I think that I have never been as well as this. As intact. My Cotard’s has never been more distant.

These thoughts are interrupted by the door opening. The chief enters. Jackson introduces him to me – strictly speaking, reintroduces him, as the chief has already met me once – and to Brattenbury.

Jackson says, ‘Fiona, from the top please. Give us a ten minute recap.’

I do as he asks.

‘Good. Now Rhiannon’s question. What exactly is your theory here?’

I say, ‘I believe these men – Evans, Prothero, Marr-Philips, Owen, Rattigan – are or were some of the principals in a large scale conspiracy.

‘Each of those men has some totally legitimate business interests. No funny stuff. No nothing. But I believe they also share – in Rattigan’s case, shared – an interest in originating, funding and operating a variety of criminal enterprises.

‘Those enterprises are typically very audacious. Very well planned and organised. They reflect exceptional levels of investment and expertise. The execution is completely ruthless. Murder, and worse, are simply the incidental by-products.

‘I have no idea how the conspiracy is organised in detail. For example, do they all contribute equally to each project? How are the risks and rewards shared out? For what it’s worth my guess would be that they follow a fairly regular business model. That is, the principals all have the right, but not the obligation, to participate in a given scheme. That if, let’s say, three of the five were interested, and two of the five wanted to pass, then the three would go it alone.

‘But that part is speculative. What we do know is that these schemes have been highly commercially ambitious. We successfully disrupted the group behind Tinker, but even so, they stole more than thirty million pounds. The potential gain on Zorro was even larger. Perhaps an order of magnitude larger.

‘I have very little evidence to support these conjectures. In the end, it comes down to three things. One, the extreme unlikelihood that completely unrelated schemes of this type should be proliferating in South Wales. Two, the degree of operational similarity, as documented in my
Common Elements
booklet. Three, the photographs that I’ve placed in front of you today.’

I’ve said what I need to say. Don’t know what to do next. So I sit down. The chief gets a good view of my corpses for the first time.

Corpses, meet the chief.