Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (22 page)

Radlett was in the yard for only a few moments when he was joined by a sickly looking man in his early sixties, with hair as grey as his face. Radlett had known him for over thirty years and he had always looked as if he was on Death’s doorstep. The man was wrapped in a heavy Crombie coat, a suit and a tie, and Radlett suspected he was probably wearing thermals too, even though the
air temperature was over seventy degrees.

“Bob, by lunchtime we will be in the Farm, establishing ourselves. Can we assume that the police are busy elsewhere?” The man spoke with a strange accent that suggested the East End of London but which was tempered with some flat northern vowels. Radlett had always wo
ndered whether his companion had perhaps been born in Lancashire and had moved to London as a child. He had never asked; theirs wasn’t that type of relationship.

“Coincidentally we’re at full stretch south of the river today, rounding up some rioting arsonists, and the football is back on, which means that Arsenal are at home soaking up our uniformed presence in North London,” Radlett informed him. “Add to that sick days for injured policemen, time off in lieu of overtime worked during the riots and I think it’s fai
r to say you have a free hand.”

“Thank you, Bob. Oh, and the Boss
says thanks for rounding up the Trafalgar House Crew. It saved a lot of bloodshed.” The sickly looking man turned to leave. “By the way, if things go well you could be looking at the final transfer of the deeds for the Belize house into your mother in law’s name early next year. I hope she has a nice retirement.”

Bob Radlett smiled. His mother in law was a resident in a council run home in Bournemouth, and she didn’t know which way was up any more.

Trafalgar House Flats & Upton Park, London.

Saturday 20
th
August 2011; 12 noon.

Trafalgar House Flats, Broadwater Farm Estate, North London

Gavin Mapperly cinched his Crombie and fastened the buttons; it was a habit rather than a reaction to the weather, which was seasonably warm. Gavin was in his sixty first year of indifferent health; born prematurely, his weak body had never seemed to catch up. Prone to illness and injury, he had missed a great deal of schooling as a child, the situation being exacerbated by a lonely, overprotective mother who confined him to bed for every minor ailment.

Gavin was
actually quite brilliant, but he was largely self-educated. His lack of formal qualifications had restricted him to meaningless administrative jobs until, in his fifties, he found work with the Boss. The Boss immediately saw an embittered and intrinsically violent man concealed beneath a mild mannered exterior; he was the ideal candidate for controlling a crime syndicate. For nearly ten years Gavin had lived a double life - part time financial manager in the City, and part time controller of low life criminals in North London. The Boss had interests in many businesses, some legitimate, most not.

Gavin looked at his watch. It was almost twelve noon. He took a transparent plastic pill holder from his coat pocket and opened the segment labelled ‘Saturday noon’, then dropped the two pills it contained into his hand. He looked at them in the palm of his hand, one white tablet for pain relief and one pink tablet for his immune system. He threw them into hi
s mouth and dry swallowed them.

Gavin was parked at the entrance to the Trafalgar House flats and his driver was standing with him. They both leaned against the sleek, highly polished, racing green Jaguar limousine. In less than a minute he would lead a convoy of vehicles into the flats proper, and their work would begin.

***

West Ham Football Club, Upton Park, East London.

Ben had hoped that the match, and its attendant hospitality, would clear his mind of the tasks he had been assigned by his twin sister, and that the new found clarity would bring him to a realisation that Max Richmond was plainly wrong about her. Unfortunately neither consequence arose. Ben was deep in thought when a smiling man in a West Ham shirt and a blue windbreaker, bearing the logo of Dyson-Brecht - Loss Adjusters, approached him and extended his hand.

“Josh Hammond. I told Dee that you wouldn’t need a carnation in your buttonhole for me to recognise you. My, you are huge. No
-one will mess with me today.”

Ben grinned. “Do they usually mess with
you?” he asked, playing along.

“Do they ever! If there was sand along Upton Road they’d kick it i
n my face!” They both laughed.

Josh Hammond was in his early thirties; not traditionally handsome, but women seemed to find him attractive. He was young in his outlook and he worked around the world as a loss adjuster for the city firm Dyson-Brecht. He had met Dee Hammond of Vastrick Security a year or so earlier, when she was assigned as his close protection operative following a death threat. They married soon after the case was resolved, and Ben could see what had attracte
d Dee to the man. He was funny.

It was true that Josh told the occasional joke, but mostly people laughed at his heartfelt rants and his ironic humour. Ben was glad of such ebullient company this particular afternoon. The two new friends walked into the stadium through the atrium entrance surrounded by West Ham shields and insignia, the colour scheme relying heavily on the team colours of claret and blue. They ascended the stairs, talking about Dee and the forthcoming baby as they headed for the restaurant. As with all major sporting venues around the globe, corporate hospitality helped pay the bills, thus on every match day fine food was prepared at the stadium and served to those who were willing to pay. Josh had season tickets
that included restaurant service.

In the restaurant Josh introduced Ben to his two regular table companions, a welder and a utility worker, whose lives seemed to revolve around West Ham
United Football Club, and their own families, of course. Ben needed no introduction, however, and a regular stream of fans from both clubs came to the table seeking autographs that Ben was happy to provide, speaking to each person for a few moments, the kids perhaps a little longer. Word of his presence soon spread when the MC for the day, an ex England international and West Ham player, announced:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have in our presence today one of the world’s most prominent egg chasers, or rugby player for those of you who don’t understand slang. Please stand, without damaging the suspended ceiling
, Mr Benjamin Ambrose Fogarty.”

Ben stood and b
lushed as the room burst into spontaneous and good-humoured applause. Perhaps this was going to be a good day, after all, he thought.

***

Trafalgar House Flats

Residents came out onto the decks to see what was happening as four black cars with darkened windows followed a large Range Rover onto the estate. Amongst the gathered crowds a familiar face stood on the third floor landing with an ageing lady of Afro Caribbean descent.

“Shit!” Max Richmond uttered to himself audibly
. The woman beside him groaned.

“Maxwell, it is all starting again, I can feel it in
my bones,” the old lady said.

Max understood what she meant
, and knew that she was right. Max wouldn’t normally have been found anywhere near the vicinity of the Farm on a Saturday, but his cell phone had chirruped a short while earlier, signalling an incoming call. Max took the call as he waited for a taxi near Tower Hill, following his meeting with Ben Fogarty. Once he answered that call, his plans for the day changed in an instant.

“Maxwell, you need to get here as soon as you can, child. There is something happening, I have had a vision.” The lady who had spoken to him on the phone
, and who now stood beside him, were one and the same. Her name was Mary Akuta, the lady who had helped deliver the Fogarty twins; she was one of Max’s informants on the estate.

When he had arrived at Mary’s door, disguised once again as a hoodlum, she allowed him in, and then fed him tea and biscuits bef
ore she told him what she knew.

“You know how difficult it is to get a builder in this estate. Impossible is what it is, yet for days now tradesmen have been in and out of Den’s old flat and it is completely redone. Builders, mind you! When did they ever learn to work so fast? They are scared, is what it is, believe me.” The old lady looked into the distance and took a breath. “I see them putting in some real smart kitchen equipment and a one of them bubbling baths, but I don’t think no
celebrity wants a crib in the Flats.” Mary turned to look at Max to make sure he was listening. “You watch MTV?” she asked, not as irrelevantly as it at first seemed. She was clearly referring to Celebrity Cribs, a TV programme that showed the houses of famous folk. “I mean, I don’t like all that music, rap and bang, bang, bang with electric distortion and so forth but….”

“You were telling me about what’s going on in the flats, Mary,” Max interrupted. He needed her to g
et to the point some time soon.

“Yes, child. Drink your tea, there is more in the pot and I can’t drink it all myself, my bladder isn’t what it used to be. Anyway, since the
Crew were removed by the polis -” that was Mary’s way of pronouncing police - “there have been meetings on the Farm. The girls were talking about going independent. Won’t happen, of course. Some man will take over their wickedness. And, the white boys dealing drugs have been told a new supplier will be providing them with top quality products soon.”

“I heard the same, Mary. I was hoping that this was a
chance for a new start for the Flats.”

“No, Maxwell. Best chance we have for that is they knock it all down and start again. I’m too old for all this. I’m going
to the coast to retire.” Max smiled at the old lady. “You hear what happ’n to those boys?” Mary asked. Max nodded. Apart from the gang members charged with weapons related crimes, and the ones involved in the murder of the young boy, the others had all been bailed.

“Are any of them
back here in the flats, Mary?”

“No, they won’t be coming back here. Their mamas don’t want them home, no sir. Any case they would likely be under the ground in a week. They lost their respect, Maxwell, and nobody r
ecovers from that in the Farm.”

As they spoke, the five black vehicles were joined by a green Jaguar and a veritable army of heavies emerged from the blacked out cars, all wearing ill fitting dark suits and ties. For a moment Max was going to joke that the Men in Black had arrived to search the flats for aliens
, when he noticed that trademark Crombie coat.

“Well, well, well. Gavin Mapperley. I wasn’t expecting that.”

***

West Ham Football Club, Upton Park, East London.

The Leeds United players ran onto the pitch, wearing an away kit consisting of black and green shirts that were so luminous they looked as though they had been coloured with a highlighter pen. West Ham’s team appeared at the same time, wearing their usual shirts of claret with blue inserts down the sides of the shirt and under the arms. Ben was aware of a certain disappointment amongst the crowd. Specifically, there was a generally held view that West Ham shouldn’t be sullying themselves playing in the Championship. They should have been at the top level of English soccer in the Premiership, where their loyal supporters believed they belonged.

Leeds United had a reputation that had reached as far as New Zealand – and possibly even Alpha Centauri
- as a team that played hard and dirty. Ben relished the prospect of watching the fixture unfold.

Ben and Josh had bonded during the pre match lunch and Josh was just the kind of guy that Ben liked to have in his coterie of friends; he was clever, charming and completely unfazed by Ben’s achievements or celebrity. To Josh, Ben was just a mate, and that was how Ben
liked it.

The opening flurries of the game favoured West Ham
, but the ball was shooting around the park at a pace unfamiliar to anyone who watched the New Zealand version of the game. Ben had watched Auckland play many times. They were a good soccer team; after all, they had made it to the World Club Championships a year ago, but Auckland would have struggled against either of these teams, let alone a top Premiership team.

In the first minute the West Ham fans were on their feet as midfielder Jack Collison sent the ball goalward. The shot was on target but the Leeds keeper, Lonergan, saved it easily. West Ham followed up with a lot of pressure down the wings, trying to get the ball into striker Carlton Cole at every opportunity and succeeding at five minutes. Matt Taylor had sent an in swinging corner from the left hand side into the box
, where Cole had escaped his marker. The inevitable volley left the keeper with no chance and it was one – nil to West Ham. Josh leapt from his seat and hugged his welder friend before turning to hug Ben, lost in the excitement of the moment. Ben saw Josh’s hesitation and threw open his arms. Josh bounced up and down until the game resumed and he took his seat.

***

Trafalgar House Flats.