Blood Money (16 page)

He and the missus had been living beyond their means for years and when she found out the scale of their money problems she'd left him like a shot, taking the kids with her. If only he'd have had the guts to talk to her and if only she'd have been the type to listen. They ended up selling their modest house and even today…he's still burdened by the debt.

During the 1990's when London was at the heart of the mobile-phone technology explosion, Alan was part of a team that both serviced existing masts and went to potential new sites to check them for suitability as base stations. One day the address he had to inspect was 60 Lombard Street. He could see straight away being a Grade 2 listed building, any phone-mast installation would have to be discretely sited, so as not to diminish the historic character of the building. The owner had been surprisingly helpful and positive when approached. Despite its modest height Alan's survey proved it to be a worthwhile site so long as the planning application got approved.

Unfortunately it wasn't. Too many buildings overlooked it and there were too many objections.

So it came as a complete surprise when he took a phone call from the Greek owner a couple of days later, after the application had been thrown out, during which he suggested they should meet in a Bishopsgate pub called The Duke of Devonshire to discuss a proposal. Vasilakos hinted that it could earn them both a lot of money and this was ‘music to the ears' for a man whose money problems were making his life an utter misery.

Over some drinks, the Greek offered to clear all his debts at a stroke. Sadler wasn't naïve; it was bound to be something illegal, that much was obvious. But he'd been so desperate to rid himself of his debts that he'd been in no position to refuse.

Vasilakos had stated his needs plainly and simply. He wanted to be able to receive radio signals in the area for some sort of new generation mobile phone he had plans on developing. A strange request, but do-able. Alan Sadler didn't want to know any further details because the Greek might turn out to be a major competitor to Mobaphone at some point in the future. If his employers ever found out he'd been helping a rival to start-up against them he would certainly lose his job over it, and although it was a shit job, it was still one worth keeping.

After a little bit of discussion, Alan agreed to do the installation for £70 grand. They shook hands and agreed to keep the matter strictly between themselves.

It wasn't long before Alan was gifted an opportunity to get his hands on some receiver antennae; he had a couple that were faulty on a mast installation in Wanstead. He'd done a fault-finding report on them, putting them down as ‘beyond economic repair' even though the true problem was relatively simple to fix. Coming back later that week with the replacements, him and his mate had unbolted them from the top of the mast, lowered them down to the ground before loading them onto their flat-bed truck. The replacements were fitted and with the day's work finished they'd driven to a nearby pub for some liquid refreshment. It had been pre-arranged that Eddie Slater would be waiting inside.

When they walked in, he walked out. And when the two telecoms engineers eventually left the pub, they were devastated to find their truck had been nicked.

Fortunately for them it was found abandoned nearby, but the faulty antennae units were gone. Their line manager gave them a good bollocking over the whole affair and told them to be more vigilant in future, but he stopped short of disciplinary action due to the stolen property being of little more value than scrap metal.

A couple of months later, back at the depot, a delivery of booster units proved to be one short. After a bit of wrangling with both parties blaming the other, the supplier agreed to reduce the invoice by one to show good faith in light of the upcoming contract re-negotiation. Alan was the only one to know that the booster in question had disappeared from ‘Goods Receiving' at lunchtime, before the stores had had a chance to book the consignment into stock. Cables, brackets, nuts and bolts were easy to pilfer and one day he'd found a faulty power supply that had been gathering dust under a table in the repair station and having been missed-off from a recent stock-take, no one even knew it existed so it was slipped quietly into the back of Alan's van. The time-served electrician had no difficulty in fixing it once he'd got it back home.

The following Sunday, with the square mile hauntingly quiet, the Greek's right hand man Eddie Slater had let him into the deserted headquarters in Lombard Street. Alan took his tools and all the necessary components up onto the roof and got the two antennae installed within a few hours. Once it was up there he made a fair job of building some rough cabinets out of marine ply to hide them from view, painting them in weatherproof grey undercoat and covering the open fronts in fine black plastic mesh. Working on his own, it proved to be an all-day job, but the small fortune he earned for completing the task had made it very worthwhile.

*

Eddie ushers the telecoms engineer through into Alexis's office and then closes the glass door behind them. When the Greek looks up he smiles broadly at the trembling man. “Ah, Mr Sadler, so very good to see you. It's been quite some time!”

“I didn't expect we'd ever cross paths again. I did what you asked me to do and I thought the work was complete. I'm not here of my own free will…-your man over here” nodding at Eddie, “well, let's just say he persuaded me that it was in my best interests to come along.”

“Apologies if there was any heavy handedness. I can only imagine Eddie must have sensed some sort of reluctance on your part. I'd have thought you'd be quite willing to provide me with some further assistance. What you did for me the last time proved highly successful and I'm sure the money you earned came in handy, didn't it?”

“So what's it about this time?”

“Well, l would really appreciate some advice from you on a few matters that have been bothering me recently. You see I was wondering if there might be a way of getting me a bit more range. Perhaps you could boost the signal strength or something? How about some more antennae? I'm sure you still have the ways and means of getting hold of the necessary equipment.”

“Look mister; let's drop the bull for a start. Next generation cell phones? There's no research and development laboratories around here. This is a financial office. I don't know what you're up to and I don't want to know. It's none of my business. What I can tell you is that you've got all the reception strength that's achievable. I can't do anything more for you on that score.”

Despite having clearly been rumbled, Alexis continues with the charade, as coming up with an alternative fabrication would simply require too much effort.

“I can assure you, I'm serious about my cell phone interests. Ok, things got stalled a bit and of course I would have wanted to be a bit further ‘up-the-field' than where I am at the moment. The really clever technical stuff is all being done out of sight in the basement. My prototypes are now reaching a pivotal stage in their development cycle and as soon as I can find some suitable offices nearby I'll be moving this financial business out of here to provide more space. However before I start pouring serious amounts of cash into the ‘R & D' budget I need to know if we can make any improvements to the receivers up on the roof.”

Despite the Greek's genuine sounding explanations, Alan knows his story about cell-phone development to be complete twaddle. These guys clearly know nothing about telecommunications let alone about advanced electronics. The one thing they do understand however is how to intimidate, bully and threaten. So for reasons of self-preservation it seems best to drop the argument.

“Look, to be honest with you, it's not your two receivers that are the problem. It's the height of your roof versus the height of the surrounding skyline that's your limiting factor. It was always going to reduce your range and give you a weak and intermittent signal reception. Though this isn't a particularly small building, compared to what's close by it's simply not tall enough. You're always going to be getting line-of-sight signal loss and realistically if you're getting a ½ mile radius of reception then you shouldn't be complaining. Maybe with good weather conditions you'd get more. But that's all those receivers can give you positioned where they are. To the west, there aren't too many high rise buildings so you might reach out up to a mile away, but to the north-east…that's where you're really going to struggle.”

Alexis can't argue with the engineer's appraisal. “Go on; -give me more of your insight.”

“Well, take 20 Gracechurch Street for instance. It's some twenty storeys high and it's only about 100 metres away. You're also in the signal shadow from the Lloyd's Building, Tower 42, Heron Tower and the Gherkin. In fact, I could put ten times the number of receivers up there, but it won't do a thing. I positioned the two receivers I was able to get for you facing away from all the major skyscrapers. One faces out to the north-west and the other due south. You've got an effective arc of coverage from St Pauls to Liverpool Street Station. If receiving coverage is what you need then you're going to have to do what all the major network providers have had to do. You're going to have to build up a network of receivers on the highest buildings in the area so you get complete coverage.”

“Well, thank you for your very professional appraisal of the problem. You can be assured I'll review the situation with my Technical Director later this afternoon. Apologies for dragging you away, I do hope it hasn't been too much of an inconvenience and please allow my assistant to compensate you for your valuable time.”

Alexis glances over nonchalantly at the intimidating man guarding the glass door. “Eddie, a grand sounds like an appropriate sum to me. You can take it out of petty cash on your way downstairs.” Eddie nods by way of reply. “Alan, once again, I appreciate your input on this. Perhaps when things get up and running we might utilise you on a more of a long-term arrangement. Now I'm sure you're as busy a man as I am, so we really must say goodbye.”

Relieved to have apparently survived the encounter unharmed, Alan Sadler is thankful to be going home in one piece.

As soon as the initial reports of the Finsbury Park murder reach Bishopsgate Station, Bill Warren is the first to recognise the name of the victim, Rebecca Kavanagh. He spreads the news to a couple of CID officers who sit nearby before going over to alert DCI Jenkins.

Within seconds Bill and the DCI are descending the stairs to the parking lot and jumping into an unmarked car to begin heading north. Whilst Jenkins drives, Bill gets on the radio and contacts the Met to determine the known facts about the incident. Details are sketchy at this early stage, but they do find out that the victim has been taken to the nearest A&E department to the scene, so Jenkins alters his course for the hospital near Highgate.

Enquiring at the reception desk, they find their man's location and within moments they're at John's side. Sat on a cheap plastic chair, hunched over with his head in his hands, he's looks to be in a pitiful state. Flashing their warrant cards at the WPC sat next to him they introduce themselves.

“DCI Jenkins and DI Warren from City of London CID. John here is one of ours. Thanks for looking after him, but we'll take it from here.” As she gets up, DCI Jenkins walks her outside to extend his thanks, and to discretely find out what she knows about the circumstances of Rebecca's death.

Being in the police does at least prepare you for awful moments like this and placing a comforting hand on John Gibson's shoulder Bill begins to reassure his grieving colleague. “Come on mate. Old Bill's here now.”

On hearing his partner's voice John acknowledges his presence by lifting his head just a few inches. “She's gone and there was nothing I could do about it. I was right there but I couldn't stop her from dying.”

“You can tell me all about it later, but first let's get you home. There's nothing more we can do here.” Bill lifts-up John's right arm as he helps his anguished friend onto his uncertain feet. Stood upright, John would normally be several inches taller than Bill, but right now his slumped and dishevelled colleague is a mere shadow of his normal self.

Bill and the DCI drive John back to Ark House, and as they approach the flats along Severn Sisters Road they can see the area behind is heavily congested with police activity. A white incident tent has been erected in the middle of the approach road and the surrounding area has been cordoned off with blue and white ‘POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS' tape. As well as a couple of uniforms, there are at least half a dozen scene-of-crime officers in white body suits combing the area for evidence. Parking-up on the main road they go into Ark House through the front entrance and go up to flat Number 7.

Having stumbled through the front door, John goes to sit down on the side of his bed, leaving his two colleagues standing out in the hallway. DCI Jenkins grabs Bill Warren's wrist and pulls him back so he can have a quiet word out of earshot.

“Listen Bill. The WPC said that he's in a state of shock, and from the way he was staring in the back of the car just now I think I'm inclined to agree. He can't be left on his own whilst he's like this, so I think it's best that you stay with him, at least for the time being. Perhaps he's got a close friend or a relative who he'd like to come over…you know the drill. –Oh…and I don't want him back at work until sometime after the funeral. Tell him to have at least a couple of weeks off until he straightens himself out.”

“Yes boss.”

“You're ok stopping with him for a bit longer?” checks DCI Jenkins

“Yeah, I think it's best if I hang around here to make sure he's alright. Hopefully, when he's ready he'll open up and tell me something about what happened outside. Plus, if I'm here I can keep those clowns from the Met from trying to talk to him whilst he's in such a state.”

With DCI Jenkins on his way, Bill figures it's best for his partner to get some rest, so he helps him by removing his shoes and jacket and once he's got him lying down Bill covers him over with a duvet. Closing the curtains to cut out some of the brightness from the late afternoon sun, he offers to call someone to come-over and be with him but the stunned man is clearly completely out of it. Bill has to ask several times before John mumbles out an intelligible response.

Walking over to the far end of the lounge with his partner's mobile, Bill finds the phone number of Steve Kavanagh on the contacts menu. The call is picked up straight away, and before Bill can say a thing Steve begins frantically talking.

“John, I've just had the police call me, please tell me there's been some mistake?”

“Steve, this is Bill, John's partner at Bishopsgate CID. I'm here at his flat looking after him and I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but I can confirm that what you've been told is correct. Rebecca was killed as she left the flat with John this morning. All that I know is that someone stabbed her and she died within minutes. There was nothing the paramedics could do. The police are outside right now, gathering evidence and I can assure you that everything will be done to catch whoever did this.

John's got me to call you so I can ask for you to come over and be with him. But I have to warn you, he's in quite a state of shock, so he'll need you to be calm and re-assuring when you get here. Whatever you do, drive carefully, there's been enough incident today without you having an accident as well. Oh, and avoid the back of the flats, it'd be better for you use the front entrance, okay?”

“Yes alright, I'm on the far side of town just now, but I'll be there within the hour.”

“Ok. See you when you get here.”

Bill ends the call and carries a chair through into the main bedroom so he can keep a watch on his partner who's still lying motionless on the bed, exactly how he'd left him.

“John, I'm here to listen if you want to talk about what happened…but if you want to rest then that's just fine.”

John Gibson's eyes are open but he doesn't respond to his partner's voice. Concerned for his friend's health Bill tries talking to John every ten minutes or so and generally keeps an eye on his condition.

Gibson simply stares at an indeterminate point somewhere in front of him. The traumatic experience has left him feeling stunned, and he's only faintly aware that there's even anyone else in the room.

Helpless to prevent it, he sinks into a trance-like state and feels himself falling face-first into the centre of a dark whirlpool of confused black shapes spinning around him. His mind is in shock, absorbed with replaying the images from this morning, trying to understand, trying to make sense. John's consciousness doesn't want to see such things; it wants to flee, to deny them, to block them. But his subconscious is stronger and takes control, replaying them over and over.

He succumbs to the overwhelming feelings of helplessness, distress and sorrow. His senses numb to all external stimuli. He's unaware of the passing of time and is oblivious to the surroundings. His thoughts are immersed in a maelstrom of dark shadows. He sees his fiancée's body collapsed on the tarmac, the darkness of her warm sticky blood escaping from the deep and fatal wound in her throat. He sees her lifeless form laid-out on the mortuary trolley. He sees her ashen, sleeping face.

He and Rebecca were meant for each other and they both knew it. They were partners. They were friends. They were soul mates. They were lovers. With so many plans for the future, everything had been looking so reassuringly simple and happy. Now he's lying alone on their bed, trying to push this nightmare away, imploring the dark spinning vortex to evaporate, so this horrendous dream can end. But his beseeching prayers are unanswered. He's unable to escape from the haunting reality that Rebecca is indeed dead. He's racked with a sense of total emptiness; his body feeling like a fragile shell torn bare of its contents.

Moving for the first time in over an hour, John begins to awaken from his trance-like stupor. Remaining on his side he pulls his knees up into his gut, adopting a foetal position, an instinctive reaction in response to a situation of intense pain and suffering. Wrapping his arms around his knees he pulls them tight to his abdomen and almost imperceptibly rocks himself to and fro.

The doorbell rings, shattering the gloomy silence. Bill walks to the front door and checks through the spyglass before letting Steve Kavanagh inside. He points across to the main bedroom. “John's through there.”

Hearing the sounds in the hallway, John slowly rouses from his dark delirium. Still dressed in his clothes he pushes away the duvet and moves his legs gradually off the bed. Sitting himself up on the edge of the mattress for the first time in over an hour he realises where he is at last.

Steve moves quietly through the doorway and into the darkened bedroom.

Through the half-light he's relieved to see that John is awake and sitting-up. Steve speaks to him in a quiet and friendly manner “Hey, Johno! – Come on mate, how are you doing? What the hell happened today? Are you alright?”

Rebecca's distraught brother is visibly relieved to see that his friend is ok. John rises unsteadily to his feet and takes a faltering step toward his life-long buddy. They greet each other with a big bear-hug that lasts several seconds. They've shared so many things in life, and today they're sharing the painful loss of someone they loved so dearly.

It was at nursery school where John and Steve first got to know each other, making theirs a friendship going back almost thirty years. Throughout their childhood years Rebecca had just been Steve's little kid sister until suddenly everyone was grown-up and she came back from university one summer and he realised she'd become this beautiful young woman. It was strange at first; dating the sister of your best mate, someone you'd known for years. But the chemistry was undeniable and it didn't take long before it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Sometime later, Rebecca confessed to John that she'd always had a crush on him, right from a very early age. Only she'd been too shy to do anything about it, embarrassed in case anyone ever found out.

Having Steve and Bill in the room, John is forced to compose himself. He owes it to them both to describe what had happened, “Ok, I think I'm ready to talk to you about Rebecca's death.”

Bill and John walk through into the lounge whilst Steve fetches a bottle of whisky and three glasses from the kitchen. Moments later the three men are all sat down, each with a glass of scotch, ready for John to tell them what he remembers of the incident. Ever the policeman, Bill gets out his pad and pen in readiness.

“Beccs and I had just finished talking about Mustard being killed. After thrashing out all the possibilities that might explain it, we both agreed that it made most sense if it had been done as a warning. I remember thinking how she seemed to be really annoying people by persistently calling for FSA resources to be allocated into investigating Kronos. I told her how I thought she was in real danger and that if she didn't stop talking about Kronos all the time at work that she might even wind up dead. Yeah…that's right…” John sombrely recollects his exact words “I said something like: ‘you might not get a second warning'. I only got her to agree to shut-up by promising that I'd help her investigate Kronos in secret.”

“It all sounds like a horrible premonition now.”

John takes a gulp of the peaty spirits before continuing. “Then I offered to go with her to work and we were walking along the access road and…and I was on my phone talking. Yes…one moment she was by my side, walking along and then she wasn't. I stopped to wait for her, still on my mobile…and when I turned round she was slumped on the tarmac. Just before that a car, no a van, a white van, something like an old escort van drove past me. I remember the smell from its exhaust and its empty roof rack.”

John closes his eyes and attempts to picture the memory more reliably before continuing. “There was no one else around, I swear. Nobody running off, no passers-by, no shouting. Shit, it all happened so quietly. I saw her lying there and then as I got closer I saw this dark expanding puddle. When I picked her up she didn't say a word, the front of her was drenched in blood. Her eyes were just staring and there was this big wound in her throat and she couldn't say a word, not a word.”

“By the time I found a pulse it was already really weak. Then I couldn't feel it any more. Nobody was around. Can you believe it? London in the middle of the morning and nobody to be seen. The van, the van driver. It had to be him. He must have been waiting outside. I'm not sure, but I think I heard them say a few words to each other, but I wasn't watching so I can't be certain.”

Chilled by John's description of the events, Bill is eager to know more “The van, did you get a license plate, what about the driver? Did you see him? Can you describe him? Was it someone you know?”

“It was a white van, dirty, not new; I remember the roof rack, like it was a decorator's van. But there were no graphics down the side. The driver…he was white, I saw his hands on the wheel, and I think he had a green baseball cap on, or perhaps it was blue? There were newspapers, cigarettes, and sweet wrappers between the dashboard and the windscreen. Number plate…shit no, even though the van passed right in front of me. I really only had time to look down at it as it went past. He drove off smoothly and carefully, calm as you like. Not in any rush. When I looked back at Beccs I never had the time to put the two things together. I was confused with what she was doing. I remember thinking maybe she'd fainted or something. –Can I describe him? Hang on…No, he had this baseball cap on. Shit! I didn't get to see the bastard's face.”

“That's ok. You've told us quite a lot. I'll pass-on everything you've said to the chief investigating officer at the Met and that'll give them something to work on until you're ready to be interviewed in full. –Steve, if you're ok staying with John, I think I'm going to make a move for home if that's alright?”