Chapter 29

New Scotland Yard Security Gate, Dacre Street, London.

Saturday 20th August 2011; 10am.

 

Tilly Morgan hated working weekends. To begin with, it meant she had to make child minding arrangements or call on her mother. If she relied on her mother, as she had to do today, she could expect a lecture about how couples should work through their problems, and how it was wrong of Tilly to give Jordan his marching orders. Tilly had closed her ears to the familiar lecture and kissed goodbye to Francesca, who looked so much like her father it broke Tilly’s heart. Her mother would never understand that Jordan’s serial infidelity had destroyed their relationship. Her mother knew about Jordan’s affairs, but she simply spouted the dictum she herself had lived by; “Men need distractions, dear. As long as it’s you they come home to each evening, that’s as good as it gets.”

Depressed by her mother’s fatalistic view of marriage, she left her apartment and walked to work. It was nearly two miles, but she was wearing trainers with her business suit and would change into a pair of flats when she arrived at the office.

Tilly’s initial scene of crime report had sent shockwaves through the ranks of detectives investigating the rectory murders, all of whom seemed to be sweet on the alleged victim, Ashley Morgan. Men - they were gullible, so easily manipulated by a pretty and needy female.

Tilly had just turned into Dacre Street, and was walking towards the William Hill Betting Shop, when she caught sight of Detective Superintendant Bob Radlett passing through the security turnstiles leading out of New Scotland Yard. The high tech entry system was a godsend on a Saturday, as it prevented long security check queues, and one rarely encountered other employees.

Radlett saw her and slowed his pace so that she would have to pass him. Tilly Morgan was an accomplished and highly skilled officer whose reports had saved the Met from embarrassment on more than one occasion. She had a nose for a suspicious crime scene and knew instinctively when something was not right. It was that instinct which had brought her into contention with Radlett when he had been a Detective Sergeant and then later, after he had progressed through the ranks to the level of Inspector. In her view, Radlett was corrupt and evil; he made her skin crawl. She had no trouble believing the rumours that he had been taking bribes from criminal gangs for years. Her suspicions were confirmed when her scene of crime colleagues caught him covering for a career criminal a few years back by tampering with evidence, and arranging a false alibi for the perpetrator. How he had managed to talk his way out of that one no-one knew, but what was well known was that he was the first partner of the recently departed Chief Constable, a great friend to the then Prime Minister.

“Miss Morgan. How fortuitous,” Radlett smiled nastily, and Tilly was reminded of a variety of smiling predators until she considered an alligator to be the closest match.

“Superintendent, I have been Doctor Morgan for as long as we have been acquainted, and married for longer than that, so maybe you need to revise your formal greeting.” Radlett winced. He was the superior officer but she knew far more than she should about his past and also, he suspected, about his present.

“Ah yes. Doctor, Mrs Morgan,” he continued, with layers of sarcasm being laid one upon another. “How is Jordan these days? Still fighting for the poor oppressed criminal classes, getting drug dealers and prostitutes off and not getting paid?” He paused for effect. “Well, not paid in cash, anyway.” The nasty smile was back.

Tilly did not rise to the bait. Radlett knew that Jordan had left the marital home long ago.

“Listen Mrs, Doctor Morgan, you mix with a lot of strange men. First you marry a defence lawyer, and now you have an ex News of the World reporter in your bed. I suggest you keep a low profile if you don’t want an internal investigation into your personal relationships, especially concerning the Rectory murders. It was a drug related killing, and your suggestion that it was anything else is a slur on the poor victim. Understand?”

“I understand that your annual family holiday to Belize may be off now that Grierson’s contributions have come to an end. Are there any brown envelopes in your pocket you would like me to fingerprint?”

The venomous look on Radlett’s face let her know she had gone too far. “I don’t know how you know about my private holiday arrangements, but if a word of any of it gets to the Press or the Yard’s water cooler gossipmongers you will regret it. That boyfriend of yours nearly cost me my job in 2008 when he said I wasn’t doing my job on the ‘boiler room’ scams. As it was, I was denied promotion for two years. So, think carefully before you make an enemy of me, missy!” He paused to regain his composure. “And do give my love to little Francesca. You need to take good care of her, living in a high crime area like yours.”

The threat was implicit and she knew that Radlett had won this verbal battle. He probably always would, whilst he had influence over the police and the criminals they sought.

 

***

Radlett watched Tilly Morgan pass through the security gate before he entered the barber’s shop next to William Hill. “Gentlemen’s hair designs”, the window of ‘Clipper of the Yard’ proclaimed, but to Radlett it would always be a barber’s shop.

After a shampoo, colour and trim, Superintendent Radlett paid his money and told the owner that he was going into the back yard for a smoke, and that if a man in a Crombie coat should come in he was to be directed to Radlett; it was police business. The owner smiled and, whilst he was uncomfortable with the arrangement, it was not the first time Radlett had pressured him into allowing him to use his premises for ‘off site’ meetings.

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 wondered 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 fair 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.