Chapter 14

London Bound Virgin Pendolino Train.

Monday 15th August 2011, 6pm.

 

Despite his own best efforts, and those of Vastrick Security, according to her PA, the first appointment that Ashley had available to meet with him was at 5pm the next day. He could probably have seen her earlier had he revealed who he was, but he had decided to make the appointment under the guise of business. He did not want to alarm his sister by explaining that he was her long lost twin, and that their biological father might want to harm her because of what Ben had done.

Ben was still contemplating what he would say to his sister, and her husband, when his mobile phone rang. He looked at the caller ID, which read, ‘Dee Hammond, Vastrick’. The two chatted amiably for a minute and then Dee read out the findings from her research.

“Ben, the information given to you by your grandmother was broadly correct. The Griersons privately adopted your sister, before she was taken from them by social services when Dennis Grierson was sent to prison. Ashley Marie was then adopted by a couple called Doughty, who sent her to school at Queens Gate Girls’ School in Kensington and to college at Girton in Cambridge. Ashley was an intern at Garner Properties, as it was then, in her year out, taking a full time job with them after graduation. She quickly rose up the ranks and was made a Vice President when the merger between Garner and the American consultancy firm Brinkman was announced. The word in the City is that she runs the UK arm of the business and her husband is only there because of his father’s shareholding. In fact, the elder Garner is the one who left her holding the reins in preference to his own son.

It seems that your twin sister is something of a high flyer. Her office is on Holborn Viaduct at Fleet Place House. Garner Brinkman is on the third floor above the Thameslink Station. There is a taxi rank right outside, in the middle of the road, oddly enough, if you need a cab.”

“Thanks, Dee, I owe you. Perhaps I could take you and Josh out to dinner, once I’m sure that my sister is safe?” Taking a heavily pregnant business colleague out to dinner would be a risk, unless her husband was also present, so that he could deal with any unexpected birth pangs.

“I’ll book a table at Simpsons on the Strand on Thursday night, if you like. We probably won’t be able to get in anywhere decent on a Friday night,” Dee suggested.

“That sounds great, Dee. I’ve heard that they do the world’s best carvery, or certainly the poshest.”

Dee laughed. “OK, Ben. Good luck. Remember, we have Geordie available if you need back-up.”

 

Ben said his goodbyes and hung up his phone. He had seen Geordie, or Pete, to give him his real name, and he looked tough. Ben could certainly use a wing-man if Den or his cronies decided to play rough; still, there wasn’t much the Psycho could do with an electronic tag on his ankle linked to a monitoring station in his flat.

 

***

Nick Palmer had served in Iraq, but he was more nervous walking past the TH Crew on the Farm than he had been at any time during his stint patrolling in Basra. Now working for MetroSec, he was a tagging supervisor, and a tag alarm had sounded at the monitoring centre in the City. The tags had a pre -determined range, and if the wearer was out of range for more than a few minutes an amber alert would be sent down the telephone line. If after an hour the tag was not back in range they would call the house and see if the offender was home. If that was indeed the case, the tag would be reset remotely; if not, a supervisor would attend before the police were called. The police were slow to respond to tagging breaches, mainly due to the number of false alarms caused by faulty tags, or by wearers deliberately testing the range of the tag.

Nonetheless, Nick found himself outside the flat belonging to Dennis Grierson and he could not believe his eyes. Twenty-four hours earlier, this had been a comfortable, if not luxurious flat, but now it resembled a bomb site. The door hung loose on one hinge, all of the contents had been stripped and gang graffiti had been scrawled all over the walls. The place looked as though it had been abandoned for years. Over in the corner, the monitoring unit still flashed red and so Nick disconnected it and placed it in his bag. Dennis Grierson had gone and it didn’t look as though he was ever coming back.

Nick called the Metropolitan Police bail monitoring unit and reported his findings. They didn’t seem particularly bothered. He also called Haringey Council and suggested that they might want to secure the flat before some lout torched it.

As he walked back to his van, teenage boys in purple hoodies, with the arms cut off at the elbows, watched his every move. “I’d resign and go on the dole before I came out here in the dark,” Nick thought, counting himself lucky when he returned to find his van untouched.