Dead at First Sight, page 23
Should he still go after Jules de Copeland? Or bail out while he could? The money from Barrey was in his bank account. Enough to live on comfortably for the retirement he had planned. Enough for the rest of his days.
He could fly out today and be in Ecuador tomorrow. End of.
Except, never in his life had he left a job unfinished. If you did that you would forever be looking over your shoulder. Because one day, whatever you left unfinished behind you, might instead come looking for you.
He was feeling lousy. Clammy. Giddy. Those flu-like symptoms again from that snake bite?
He dialled the number he had for Steve Barrey. It was answered after just one ring and Barrey did not sound happy.
‘You’ve failed again, Mr Tooth, is that what you’re phoning to tell me? I’ve made a mistake hiring you – you’re a has-been, aren’t you?’
Tooth bristled. But Barrey was right, he had screwed up. He’d lost the plot.
He was a has-been, it was time to quit. This was it, his last job. He’d had enough. ‘I think Ogwang may be in custody,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to find out.’
‘Don’t bother. I have contacts. If Ogwang is in custody I’ll have someone I can trust take care of him. Just deal with Copeland.’
Barrey hung up.
Tooth needed air. He got out of the car and walked around in the salty breeze, as he had done every hour or so during the night, trying to fight the nausea that was overwhelming him. He felt unsteady, his balance all over the place. He clutched the car for support, then sat back in it again and lit a cigarette. Thinking. There had to be a caretaker or janitor or concierge on the premises here, of such a big apartment block. As soon as he felt better he would go and find him.
69
Wednesday 10 October
Jack Roberts sat at the oval table in his meeting room, dressed in a smart, brown open-neck shirt and suit trousers, listening intently to his client. Johnny Fordwater looked every inch the retired soldier and must have cut quite a dash when he was younger, Roberts thought.
Seated across the table from him with fine, military posture, the retired major still had all his hair, a good salt-and-pepper shade of grey and neatly groomed, if in an old-fashioned style. His clothes, too, were conservative. He wore a tweedy suit over a checked Viyella shirt and a club tie. Wrapped up in his anger, ignoring his steaming coffee, the bottles of water and the plate of expensive biscuits, Fordwater poured out his story from start to finish, while the red light on the recorder on the table blinked steadily.
It was the same story, with minor variations, Jack Roberts had been hearing all too often during the past couple of years. ‘Four hundred thousand pounds?’
‘More or less,’ Johnny Fordwater said. Then, as if embarrassed to admit it, added, ‘Perhaps a bit more.’ He shrugged. ‘Four hundred and fifty, actually.’ His anger spent, he looked at the private investigator balefully. ‘I’ve been a damn fool, haven’t I?’
Roberts shook his head. He felt genuinely sad for his client. This was a man who had made serving his country his career. No one went into the armed forces to get rich, and there were plenty of his equally well-educated contemporaries who would have taken a different path and gone for high-paying careers in the City or elsewhere. Fordwater had clearly been a fine soldier, honoured with one of the highest decorations for bravery the nation could give. He didn’t deserve to be in this place now.
‘No, Mr Fordwater, you haven’t been a fool at all. You did what anyone might do in your situation, finding yourself alone, with very many active years in front of you.’
‘You’re kind. You see, the thing is I had a wonderful career in the army. There I was a somebody, I felt wanted. When I retired, for a while I had a focus – my wife, who became terminally ill. I retired early to look after her and for the next three years I was pretty much her nurse and carer, round the clock, until she passed away.’ He gave a wan smile.
‘And I suppose, looking back, that’s when it all started, really. I found myself walking down a street, feeling no different from when I was in my twenties, but pretty girls didn’t even bother looking at me. I tried to get a job, but no one was interested in a man of my age. I started to feel I was on the scrapheap, that this was it. I even toyed with joining the Scientologists, they at least were welcoming and wanted me. Then I bumped into an old army chum, Gerry, who reminded me he’d found the ideal woman through an internet dating site. He convinced me to have a go.’
‘So you did?’ Roberts asked.
‘Yes, and I met Ingrid. She gave me back my feeling of self-worth and made me feel wanted again. She – or whoever it really was – is clever. Knew how to pull all the strings.’ He looked wistful. ‘You know, I believed her, I really did.’
‘Mr Fordwater, my wife and I have a number of friends who’ve found love through internet dating agencies. Unfortunately, there are some extremely cunning scumbags out there – I think you might be surprised to know just how sophisticated their techniques are, thanks to digital technology. Yes, you are a victim, but please don’t ever think you are a fool.’
‘You’re very kind,’ he replied. ‘I wish I could agree with you.’
Roberts knew from experience that all internet scammers had their subtle differences. Their specific MOs – modus operandi. Whether it was running banking scams, phoney retailer scams or romance fraud. The way they talked to their marks, the time spans over which they let everything play out, reeling in the victim little by little. Roberts employed an analyst who had created algorithms to spot any similarities between scams. Not that Jack Roberts needed a computer very often, he was an experienced enough PI to recognize patterns without the help of technology. And he was recognizing one now.
Without even running the case file through the algorithms, he was already certain that Johnny Fordwater and his US pal, Matthew Sorokin, were victims of the same scammers who had targeted his client Elizabeth Foster’s mother, Lynda Merrill.
He was also recognizing something else in the quiet anger of the old soldier – a kindred spirit. He decided to test the water. ‘Major, you told me when we started that you’re aware it would be all but impossible to recover any of the money you’ve lost, and I’m afraid I would have to agree with you. So I’m not quite sure how my agency can help you?’
‘You can help me by finding the scammers. Taking me to them. Then leave the rest to me.’
‘You want to take the law into your own hands?’
‘What law?’ Johnny Fordwater said, defiantly. ‘You know damned well that only the tiniest percentage of these bastards will ever be caught and brought to justice by the police, don’t you?’
Roberts shrugged. ‘I’m afraid so, yes. The majority are operating way out of UK jurisdiction, mostly in countries where the police are institutionally corrupt.’
‘Exactly.’
There was a long pause before Fordwater continued.
‘I’ve spent most of my life fighting enemies of our nation, Mr Roberts. The nature of the beast constantly changes. Eighty years ago, long before my time, it was the Nazis. More recently it’s been the IRA, al-Qaeda, ISIS. You might not put internet scammers on the same footing, but they’ve destroyed my life and, from what I read, the lives of countless others. These people are a scourge.’
‘I can’t disagree with you,’ the PI replied.
‘I still have a little bit of money left, Mr Roberts. We haven’t discussed your fees yet, but so far as I’m concerned, every penny I have left in the world is yours – if you can get me the names of whoever did this to me. And an address where I can find them. I have some contacts at quite a high level in international policing – one is in a similar position to me.’
‘I may be able to give you some leads,’ the PI said. ‘Although I’d be doing myself out of a lucrative part of my business if they were arrested.’
Johnny looked at him, unsure whether he was joking. ‘Really?’
Roberts shook his head. ‘No. I’ve seen too much misery. If I can help you bring even one of the bastards out there to justice, I would be very happy.’
70
Wednesday 10 October
A night alone in police custody was never going to be a happy one for anybody, Grace knew from long experience. The thin blue mattress and tiny, rock-hard pillow. The humiliating toilet facility in plain view. The light that stayed on, giving zero privacy. The deliberate hard slam of the steel door when you first entered the drab, comfortless cell. The frosted glass skylight high up, reminding you of the world beyond, all happening without you. The rubbish tracksuit and even worse shoes to humiliate you. Within hours, most people started to feel institutionalized.
It would make all but the most hardened of recidivists glad to see anyone in the morning. Even, he thought irreverently, the sight of Glenn Branson, all suited and booted in shiny designer gear, accompanied by a shaven-headed Norman Potting, seated across the hard, metal table of the interview room. Both detectives were looking as happy as pigs in the proverbial to be here, as if there wasn’t anywhere on earth they’d rather be than this room.
Watching on a CCTV monitor from a tiny adjoining room, Roy Grace was focused on the thin black man with a tight, mean, scowling face and straggly hair, wearing a shapeless custody tracksuit, seated beside the solicitor. He was leaning forward on his elbows in an insolent, aggressive stance, diluted by a pallor of tiredness.
Glenn Branson addressed the camera, fixed high above them on the wall. ‘The time is 9 a.m., Wednesday, October 10th. Detective Inspector Branson and Detective Sergeant Potting. Interviewing an unknown male using the name Donald Duck, in the presence of his solicitor, Alison Watts.’
Grace couldn’t help grinning, glad no one could see him. ‘If everyone in the room could please say their name for the benefit of the recording,’ Branson continued.
They all did in turn except the suspect, who remained silent. After a brief pause Glenn asked, ‘Would you like to tell us your real name?’
Ogwang looked at his lawyer. She was occupied with her phone. ‘This my real name,’ he replied.
Norman Potting, playing Mr Nice Guy, said, ‘We do have a bit of a problem with that, with all due respect.’
Ogwang gave him a hostile, facing-off stare. ‘Daz my name.’
‘I’m afraid you are going to have to help us out here,’ Potting said politely. ‘You are from Accra, Ghana, right?’
He shrugged.
‘You see, I’ve been in contact with your very helpful embassy. They’ve only been able to find one person named Donald Duck and they don’t think that is his real name. He is ninety-two years old. I mean, let’s face it, even if you’d taken some youth pills, it would be hard to swallow that you are really ninety-two.’
Grace saw the solicitor was struggling to keep a straight face.
‘Yes, I took the pills.’
‘The same ones as Mickey Mouse?’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘I suggest you tell us your real name?’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We’re going to find it out, and we’ve a pretty good idea what it is, so you might as well save us time and tell us.’
Ogwang consulted, in whispers, with his solicitor. He turned back to the two detectives.
‘No comment.’
There was little Roy Grace liked less than a suspect who went ‘no comment’. It was almost always a sure sign of guilt. And it was deeply frustrating.
‘Could you tell us,’ Norman Potting asked, ‘what you are doing in Brighton?’
‘Holiday,’ he replied, immediately.
‘Holiday? October’s not the best month for a holiday in Brighton.’ Potting looked at him dubiously. ‘June, July, August, September perhaps. But you come from sunny Ghana to rainy, windy Brighton in October? I have a problem understanding that. Although good weather for ducks, I suppose.’ He waved his hands in the air. ‘Are you sure there isn’t something else that’s brought you here?’
Looking increasingly panicky, Ogwang again consulted with his solicitor. ‘No comment.’
‘There’s another reason why we don’t believe Donald Duck is your real name,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We’ve checked with Immigration, and they have no record of anyone of this name entering the UK – and this gives us a bit of a problem. Either you are not telling us your real name or you’ve entered this country as an illegal immigrant. Would you like to explain this to us?’
‘No comment.’
Branson and Potting exchanged a glance. ‘Do you have a colleague, a gentleman with red shoes, Mr Okonjo?’ Branson said, immediately noticing the slight flicker of the man’s eyes.
‘No comment.’
‘I want to make you aware,’ Branson continued, ‘that you have a legal right to stay silent. But it doesn’t always do you any favours in court. Some judges take a dim view of accused people who come up in front of them who’ve gone “No Comment”, when being interviewed. Just saying.’
Ogwang did not reply.
The solicitor looked as if she was going to say something, then appeared to change her mind.
‘So,’ Norman Potting said. ‘You went clothes shopping yesterday. Did you buy anything nice?’
Ogwang did not react.
‘You went to a boutique called OnTrend in Brighton’s Lanes. There was a gentleman with you, wearing red shoes. Do you remember?’
Ogwang looked uncomfortable and consulted, again in whispers, with his solicitor.
‘No comment.’
Branson took over. ‘Mr Toby Seward, of fifty-seven North Gardens, Brighton, who had his right hand severed by a man with a machete last night, has described you, and this matches the description of a man we believe to be you, outside the boutique. We believe you and this other man were the two who came to Mr Seward’s house and threatened him. And that after leaving, you returned, holding a machete, which you used to cut off his hand. You had that machete on your person when you were arrested last night. It had fresh blood on it, which has been sent for DNA analysis. We think it is likely to show that the blood was from Mr Seward. Can you give us an explanation of how you knew Mr Seward, and the reason for your actions?’
Again Ogwang consulted his lawyer. Again he said, ‘No comment.’ The two detectives looked at each other.
Glenn Branson said, ‘You could be facing a very serious charge of Grievous Bodily Harm With Intent. This offence can carry a life sentence. You are not helping yourself in this interview. We cannot promise you any special treatment, but if you assist us with our enquiries, this would be taken into consideration by a judge sentencing you, if you were found guilty of any offences. I’d like to give you one more opportunity to tell us about your colleague, about how you know Mr Seward and why you may have committed this act of violence that you’ve been arrested for.’
Ogwang again glanced at his solicitor, who remained stony-faced. ‘No comment.’
‘OK. Would you consider yourself an intelligent man?’
He gave a nod.
‘Good. So let me cast your mind back a few weeks to Wednesday, September 26th. Biometrics matching yours, one hundred per cent, show a man who came into London Heathrow Airport on a Lufthansa flight from Munich. He was travelling on a Ghanaian passport which bore the name Dunstan Ogwang. Could this be an alias you use?’
Ogwang leaned over and whispered to his solicitor.
‘My client says he has never heard of that person,’ the solicitor said.
‘OK, perhaps this might jog his mind,’ Branson retorted. ‘On May 17th, a gentleman by the name of Kofi Okonjo flew into London Gatwick Airport from Munich. Now, this is what makes me think our client is not as smart as he would like to think. You see, as is standard, Okonjo’s biometrics were taken by the Border Control Officer. What’s interesting to us is that the biometrics taken from your client, when he came into London Heathrow on September 26th under the name of Dunstan Ogwang, were an identical match to this Kofi Okonjo. This wasn’t immediately picked up at the time because, luckily for him, the Border Control computer system had a software glitch. As a solicitor practising criminal law, I probably don’t have to tell you the percentage chances of two sets of biometrics being a match, do I?’
‘You probably don’t,’ she retorted, coolly.
Branson consulted his notes. ‘Now there’s another thing that intrigues us here. Back in May, at Gatwick Airport, the person who followed you into the Border Control desk was travelling on a Ghanaian passport, under the name of Tunde Oganjimi.’ He paused. ‘Does this name ring a bell?’
Ignoring the cautioning glare of his solicitor, Ogwang shook his head.
‘It means nothing? You never heard of this gentleman?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever heard the expression, “bang to rights”?’
‘What’s this got to do with anything?’ Alison Watts asked.
‘Quite a lot, if you’ll allow me to continue,’ Branson said. He leaned forward, suddenly, on his elbows, so he was virtually eyeballing the suspect. ‘Now on September 26th, when you flew into London Heathrow Airport and arrived at the Border Control desk, the person who followed you was also travelling on a Ghanaian passport, under the name Jules de Copeland. Do you know this gentleman?’
‘No.’
‘OK,’ Branson said. ‘It must be a coincidence, then, but quite a big coincidence. Do you believe in coincidences, Mr Ogwang?’
Ogwang stared back at him in silence.
‘Einstein called them God’s calling cards. But hey, whatever. You see, the biometrics match identically those of Tunde Oganjimi, who followed you into the same Border Control desk at Gatwick on May 17th, and was travelling on the same flight. Are you really sure you don’t know him?’
Again Ogwang consulted in whispers with his solicitor. Again he replied, ‘No comment.’
‘Mr Ogwang, we’ve been busy since you were arrested last night, as we don’t like our citizens having their hands hacked off.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just not a very nice thing to happen to them. We’ve been in touch with the police in Ghana. They tell us that a certain Mr Kofi Okonjo, who also goes under the name of Dunstan Ogwang, and a certain Mr Tunde Oganjimi, who also goes under the name of Jules de Copeland, are persons of interest to them. Believed to be major practitioners of Sakawa. My understanding of Sakawa is that it involves internet fraud combined with fetish rituals. Could you enlighten me on that?’
