Chapter 41

New Scotland Yard, London.

Monday 22nd August 2011; 8pm.

 

DCI Trevor Griffiths, team leader in charge of Operation Bilbao, sat in front of the AC’s desk as she tried to absorb the information in the report she had just received.

“Let me see if I have this right. Sorry, Trevor, but I have only really had time to skim your report. You appear to be saying that the murder of Mary Akuta could be related to the Rectory murders?”

“Ma’am, if it isn’t then it’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“OK. Give me the highlights; I want to get home before midnight.”

Trevor Griffiths, as honest as the day was long, had been seconded to the Yard almost ten years earlier from Cardiff when Sir Ian Blair was Commissioner. He was seen as being independent, a good solid Detective Inspector who could root out corruption in the Met without being tainted by fear or favour. As a result he was admired by some but abhorred by others. He relaxed into his chair and his mellow Welsh tenor voice told the story calmly and quietly.

“Bob Radlett picked up the Mary Akuta murder this afternoon, from the Superintendent. It seems he canvassed for it; said that he had a confidential informant who could bring in the murderer in forty eight hours. His Super wasn’t going to turn down an offer like that, obviously. I heard about it and insisted on tagging along to keep my eye on Bob, as you had asked. Radlett told me to get my ‘Taffy Welsh arse’ out of his case. I think he may need some cultural and ethnic orientation training, Ma’am,” Griffiths joked. The AC frowned; she was aware that some policemen did not take her equality initiatives seriously. Her subordinate saw the frown and continued.

“I tagged along with him and that bloody insolent DS of his, Grant Pearson, when they went to the hospital. They weren’t happy, but I told them I’m still in charge of Operation Bilbao, and the Trafalgar flats are my domain until the operation is over.

We spoke to the doctors about Mary Akuta and saw the body. It was bad, Ma’am, very bad. She’d been beaten to a pulp. We then interviewed a lady who introduced herself as May Fogarty, who had also been badly beaten in the same flat.”

The AC’s eyes widened. “Why do I know that name, Trevor?”

“Because, Ma’am, May Fogarty is the grandmother of Ashley Garner, who was born a Fogarty, and of Ben Fogarty, the only two survivors of the Rectory massacre.”

Penny Thomas took a sharp intake of breath, and Griffiths could see her mind was racing. He waited until she asked him to go on.

“May Fogarty told us that the man who beat Mary Akuta had been called ‘Rafe’ by his companion, but she had no idea what either man looked like because they wore ski masks. She described ‘Rafe’ as white, around six feet, quite slim, maybe two hundred pounds, with brown eyes. She then said something quite alarming and also quite interesting. She said that they had called the Operation Bilbao hotline the day before to report new criminal activity in the flats, and to request help in resisting a new criminal take-over of the flats. She said that the attack, coming so soon after the call, was not a coincidence.”

“That is alarming, Trevor, but why did you use the word interesting?” the AC asked.

“Well, I thought it was quite important, and I said so in the car on the way back, but Radlett said that old biddies like May Fogarty were always ringing our hotlines about lost cats, noisy kids and so on, and that we should follow the evidence and look for Rafe. This evening I printed off the case file, the one on your desk which has notes of the interview typed up by DS Pearson, and guess what? No mention of the phone call.”

“So Radlett is hiding something?”

“I believe so, Ma’am. Anyway, just before I came in to see you I spoke to Tanya, the Operation Bilbao hotline supervisor, and she confirmed that a very specific call was made on Sunday afternoon to the hotline. Mary Akuta, May Fogarty and three others were on a conference line, asking us to meet with them at the flats as soon as possible to discuss some new criminal activity they had witnessed.”

“Presumably the call was logged?”

“It was, Ma’am, by an operator who is not due back on duty until tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, we won’t know who, if anyone, he passed the message on to until tomorrow. The transfer paperwork is missing.”

“Missing or deliberately removed?” the AC asked pointedly.

“Don’t know, Ma’am. All we can say is that a data transfer slip was allocated to that call on the log, number 0017 from memory, but neither the paper record, nor the detective’s acknowledgement, is in the file.”

 

“You need to speak to this operator as soon as you can. Do it under caution, let him know this is a criminal matter, not a job related matter. Let’s scare the truth out of him.” The AC was a little taken aback when she realised what she had said, but she saw Griffiths smiling and let it go.

“I’ll have an answer on that by nine in the morning, Ma’am.”

Derek Clegg was clearly covering for someone, and If Trevor Griffiths wanted the truth from him he would have to make himself more fearsome than that someone.