Breach of Privilege

by Graham Ison

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

When MP Hugh Blakemore is shot dead in the Fulham Road, DCI Harry Brock and DS Dave Poole are assigned to the case. Months previously, Blakemore killed an inmate when visiting a prison, and although Blakemore was exonerated, Brock is convinced this is a revenge killing. In an investigation with more ups and downs than fairground ride - and more lies than a villain's alibi - the MP's widow, her ex-husband and their daughter all play starring roles, along with a motley crew of actresses, American gangsters and criminals. And, along with murder, blackmail and corruption are in the air . . .

Release date: October 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 192

Sample

There is a popular myth that prevails among producers of fictional police programmes on television. They imagine that the officer
best qualified to investigate a murder is always the one who gets assigned to the case. In most of these dramas, one detective chief inspector investigates all the murders that take place in his
force area. Usually, this heroic individual is aided by a none-too-bright detective sergeant. Well, I can tell you, it ain’t necessarily so.

My name is Harry Brock, and I know about these things because I’m a detective chief inspector in the Homicide and Serious Crime Command (West). Our offices are in Curtis Green, a building
that is virtually unknown to most people – including the police – that was once a part of New Scotland Yard. But that was before politicians, who wanted the building for themselves,
forced the whole of New Scotland Yard to move to an unappealing glass and concrete pile in Broadway, Westminster. Outside this grey building is a gimmicky revolving sign proclaiming, on two sides
of this magic roundabout, that it is New Scotland Yard. Surprise, surprise. On the third side it says that the Metropolitan Police is ‘Working together for a safer London’. Working with
whom, one may well ask.

It is in Curtis Green that a list is kept showing which officers are available for the next serious crime to be committed in our area. That area stretches from Westminster to Hillingdon in the
west, and includes such places as Barnet, Chelsea, Hammersmith, Heathrow Airport, Kensington and Richmond. And all the other insalubrious hotbeds of crime and general mayhem that lie in
between.

I was sitting in my office one pleasant July Tuesday morning, struggling with yet another report for the Crown Prosecution Service, when Detective Sergeant Colin Wilberforce, the incident room
manager, appeared in the doorway. Colin is an administrative genius, and under his supervision the incident room runs like a well-oiled machine. It will be a sad day for us if he ever gets posted
elsewhere.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Colin was clutching a piece of paper.

‘Good morning, Colin,’ I said, glancing apprehensively at the piece of paper.

‘There’s been a shooting, sir. A drive-by shooting, by the looks of it.’

‘And I’m next on the list, I suppose.’

‘Indeed, sir. The commander directs that you investigate.’

A positive direction from the commander is rare. He usually charges confidently into indecision.

‘How nice of him. Where is it, Colin?’

‘Fulham Road, sir. Near the bus stop at the junction with Old Church Street.’

‘What’s the SP?’ I asked, culling a useful bit of shorthand from the racing fraternity. It actually means ‘starting price’, but when policemen use it, it means
‘What’s the story?’

‘Bit confused, sir,’ said Colin, glancing at his piece of paper. ‘Apparently, two guys on a motorcycle pulled up just as the victim was approaching the bus stop, and blasted
him with a handgun of some sort. They then made good their escape. Local police are on scene and dealing.’

‘Where’s Dave?’ I asked.

‘Here, sir.’ As if by magic my bag-carrier, Detective Sergeant Dave Poole, my most valuable asset, appeared in the doorway. Of Caribbean descent, his grandfather arrived from Jamaica
in the 1950s and set up practice as a doctor in Bethnal Green. His son, Dave’s father, is an accountant, but Dave, having graduated in English from London University, decided to become a
policeman. He often describes himself as the black sheep of the family, a comment that always manages to discomfit those among our ranks to whom ‘diversity’ is the most cherished word
in the English language.

Dave also has a very attractive wife, Madeleine, who is a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet. She, by the way, is white. There is a rumour circulating that Madeleine sometimes attacks Dave
physically. But given that she is five foot two, and Dave is six foot, that particular story is put down to canteen gossip.

‘We have a shooting in the Fulham Road, Dave,’ I said.

‘Really, guv? Someone making a film?’

‘Not that kind of shooting,’ I said with a sigh. Dave is a great wind-up merchant. ‘This one is apparently a shooting with real bullets.’

Dave laughed. ‘Yeah, I know. There’s a traffic car waiting for us.’

I greeted this information with some misgivings. Traffic officers of the Metropolitan Police are the finest drivers in the world, but I always get a sinking feeling whenever I’m conveyed
anywhere by one of them. In fact, despite being a detective, I frequently feel that I am most at danger when travelling in a Traffic Division car. Actually, it’s now called a Traffic
Operational Command Unit. Personally, I couldn’t see what was wrong with ‘Traffic Division’, but the boy superintendents at Scotland Yard – they of the funny names and total
confusion squad – thought differently.

I saw one of the aforesaid boy superintendents emerging from Scotland Yard the other day, a rarity in itself. I knew he was a boy superintendent: he was blinking in the strong and – to him
– unaccustomed daylight.

I emerged from the traffic car somewhat shakily. It had taken six minutes to get from Curtis Green to Fulham Road and, by some miracle of advanced driving, I was still
alive.

The scene of my latest investigation was shrouded in a small tent, and the immediate area cordoned off with the customary blue and white tape. Fulham Road had been closed, thus causing the
maximum disruption to traffic. It is this sort of disruption that the aforementioned Traffic OCU delights in attributing to ‘sheer weight of traffic’, rather than doing anything about
it.

An inspector with a clipboard homed in on me. ‘And you are?’ he enquired, waggling his government-issue ballpoint pen.

‘DCI Brock, HSCC.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The inspector wrote it down, and glanced at Dave. ‘And you?’

‘Colour Sergeant Poole, ditto,’ said Dave, with a grin on his black face. It was a comment that caused the inspector to suck briefly through his teeth, but Dave is a great one for
disconcerting pompous uniformed inspectors. Especially those who have achieved their exalted rank via the accelerated promotion course held at Bramshill Police College.

‘What do we know?’ I asked.

‘There’s a DI from Chelsea over there, sir,’ said the inspector, swiftly abdicating any responsibility in the matter of briefing me.

The Chelsea DI ambled across, hands in pockets. ‘You copped this one, then, guv?’ he asked.

‘Yes. What’s the score?’

‘At eleven thirteen a solo motorcycle stopped long enough to allow the pillion passenger to pull out a gun and fire at the victim.’ The DI waved at the tent.

‘I don’t suppose anyone noted the number of this motorcycle,’ I said.

‘You suppose wrong, guv,’ said the DI. ‘A vigilant passer-by took a note of it.’

‘Excellent,’ I said. But, in the event, my joy at this revelation proved to be premature.

‘However, the motorcycle’s been found abandoned. Not that the number would have helped much. It’s got bent plates on it that go out to a milk float in Exeter.’ I got the
impression that the DI was rather enjoying this, secure in the knowledge that he would shortly walk away from this particular crime, and have nothing more to do with it.

‘Where was it found?’

‘In Belgrave Square.’

‘That’s a strange place for it to have finished up,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Isn’t Belgrave Square full of bloody embassies?’

‘Yes, guv. There’s about seven of them.’ The DI knew what was coming next.

‘And embassies have policemen standing outside them,’ I continued. ‘Are you going to tell me that none of these officers saw anything?’

‘Nothing of consequence, guv. Within about ten minutes of the shooting the motorcycle was driven into Belgrave Square. Two officers, one outside the German Embassy, the other outside the
Syrian, saw the rider and the pillion passenger alight and run towards a car. The engine was running and there was a third bloke already behind the wheel. It was about then that the call came out
over the air, just as the car took off at high speed. They’d noticed its arrival only minutes before, but hadn’t thought anything of it.’

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find fault with that. ‘They’re armed, aren’t they, these Diplomatic Protection blokes?’ I asked, just for the fun of it.

Beside me, Dave laughed. ‘Well, they couldn’t fire at fleeing felons, guv, could they? Might get done for murder, and the victims’ families would get legal aid to sue the Job
for pain and suffering, or whatever. Then they’d appear on television muttering about justice and closure.’

‘Did they at least get the number of the bloody car then?’

The Chelsea DI nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s the mixture as before. Duff. Seems to belong to an invalid carriage in Dyfed Powys.’

‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘What about ID? Do we know who the victim is?’

‘According to documents found on his person, his name is Hugh Blakemore with an address at seven, Carfax Street. It’s a turning off Old Church Street, so the guy wasn’t far
from home when he was topped.’

‘Anyone informed the family?’

‘Yes, guv,’ said the Chelsea DI. ‘It’s a Mrs Anne Blakemore. He paused before delivering his punch-line. ‘And Hugh Blakemore was a Member of Parliament.’

‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘Just what I needed.’

‘Morning, Harry.’ The Home Office pathologist, Henry Mortlock, emerged from the tent clutching his bag of ghoulish instruments, and joined our little group.

‘What can you tell me, Henry?’ I asked. Mortlock is a master of witticisms and black humour to rival any CID officer. He didn’t disappoint me.

‘He’s dead,’ said Mortlock. ‘If you want to know what killed him, you’ll have to wait for Part Two, and that comes after the postmortem.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. I shouldn’t have asked really. Henry Mortlock is never one to commit himself. He left us, whistling a snatch of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

It was nearly three o’clock by the time the first of the witness statements had been typed and filed, and I began to read them. As usual the witnesses gave widely differing descriptions of
both the event and the suspects, and – also as usual – they were pretty useless.

‘The car’s been found abandoned, sir,’ said Colin Wilberforce, entering my office with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

‘Where?’ Despite all the legislation prohibiting smoking just about everywhere, I lit a cigarette. It’s my way of making a protest.

‘Richmond Park. Just near the Richmond Gate.’

‘Richmond Park! How the hell did it get from Belgrave Square to Richmond Park without anyone spotting it? I presume the embassy PCs put the number up the moment it took off.’

‘Yes, they did, sir,’ said Colin.

‘Well, why wasn’t it seen?’ I couldn’t believe that it hadn’t been spotted by a police officer somewhere along the route.

‘There’s a simple answer to that, guv,’ said Dave. ‘Probably because there aren’t any coppers on the streets any more. They’re all indoors writing up reports
for the Crown Prosecution Service, I expect.’ His comment was larded with the usual sort of cynicism I’d come to expect from him.

‘Has it been examined yet, Colin?’ I asked, ignoring Dave’s aside.

‘It’s been removed to Lambeth and the forensic practitioners have made a start, sir,’ said Colin. ‘Forensic practitioner’ is a recent title visited upon those who,
for many years, we knew as scenes-of-crime officers. I wondered why they’d changed it, but I knew. ‘The crash helmets and two sets of leathers were in the boot, and the lab guys are
working on those and on the interior of the vehicle.’ He paused to give his next statement added emphasis. ‘And there was an American passport in one of the pockets of the
leathers.’

‘Was there really?’ This sounded too good to be true. ‘What sort of murderer leaves his bloody passport for us to find, Colin?’

Colin shrugged. ‘I suppose everyone has to make a mistake at some time or another, sir,’ he said. ‘But it could have been the passport of the guy they stole the leathers from.
I don’t suppose they went out and bought them.’

‘What’s the name in the passport?’

‘Vincent Rosso, born in Delaware, Ohio, thirty years ago. I’ve lodged an enquiry with Joe Daly.’ Daly was the euphemistically styled legal attaché at the American
Embassy. In reality, he was the most senior FBI agent in London.

‘And the motorcycle, Colin? Any joy on that?’ I asked.

‘They’ve gone over it with a fine-tooth comb, sir. The engine and frame numbers had been filed off, but the lab is confident of bringing them up. Until we know where it came from
there’s not much we can do about it.’

‘Fingerprints?’ I asked hopefully.

Colin laughed. ‘We should be so lucky, sir,’ he said. ‘However, there is something in General Registry about Hugh Blakemore.’

I never had to tell Colin Wilberforce to do anything. He just leaped into action doing all the things that needed to be done.

‘And what’s that?’ I asked.

‘There was an incident at Melbury prison some months ago, sir. Blakemore was on a sort of fact-finding tour of the prison when a prisoner went for him with a knife.’

‘How the hell does a prisoner come to possess a knife, Colin?’

Colin just smiled. He knew the answer and so did I. ‘Unfortunately for the prisoner, Blakemore was an Oxford boxing blue, and before the screws could intervene, Blakemore chinned the
guy.’

‘Good for him,’ I said.

‘Not really,’ said Colin, referring once again to the file. ‘The prisoner fell backwards down a flight of stairs, fractured his skull and died.’

‘Sounds like my sort of MP,’ I said.

‘The file contains a number of threatening letters, sir, but they’re the usual sort of crank rubbish that most people in the public eye receive from time to time. There were a few
referring specifically to the Melbury incident, but they ceased after a while.’

I took the file and glanced through it. It contained a collection of the type of letter that most MPs got, often from harmless lunatics, the crabbed writing filling the entire page – a
common feature of the crazed letter-writer – some even written in red ink as if to suggest blood. It seemed that there had been an increase in the number of such letters at the time of the
death of the prisoner in Melbury, not all of them hostile, but for the police to have interviewed the few who identified themselves would merely have inflated their ego.

‘Leave the file on my desk, Colin, and I’ll have a thorough look at it later. In the meantime, assemble as many of the team as you can lay hands on. I have a feeling that this is
going to be one of those awkward enquiries.’ I knew from previous experience that any enquiry involving politicians would present not only difficulties, but a measure of obstruction also.
Politicians don’t like being put under the spotlight.

‘Dr Mortlock called, sir,’ said Colin, as he was leaving the room. ‘The postmortem is scheduled for nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

It took only a matter of minutes for Colin to round up those members of the team who were in the building. In theory, I’m supposed to have three detective inspectors, and twenty-six
assorted sergeants and constables at my disposal. But when you take away those on leave, those who are sick, those who are at the Old Bailey giving evidence, and those who have been filched by
another DCI, there aren’t many left.

In fact, I had about fifteen officers to assist me in discovering the murderer of Hugh Blakemore, deceased Member of Parliament.

I outlined what we knew so far, and then got down to details. ‘Charlie,’ I said, looking round the crowded incident room for DS Charles Flynn, late of the Fraud Squad.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I want you to follow up the enquiry that was made of Joe Daly at the American Embassy. But knowing our luck, the Vincent Rosso of Delaware, Ohio, whose passport was found in the getaway
vehicle had nothing to do with the shooting.’

I turned next to Detective Sergeant Tom Challis who had previously served on the Stolen Car Squad. ‘Tom, follow up on the getaway car and the motorcycle. See if you can find out anything
about them. They’ve obviously been nicked, but we shan’t know for sure until the laboratory comes up with something.’

I decided that I would visit Blakemore’s widow immediately, it being an axiom of criminal investigation that enquiries start at the centre and work outwards, and that they begin at the
earliest possible moment. Speaking to the relatives of someone who had just been brutally gunned down in the street was not a task I welcomed. But it had to be done. In most cases of murder,
victims have been killed by someone they know, and where better to start than their family? ‘What was that address for Anne Blakemore, Colin?’

Colin thumbed quickly through his daybook and read off a Chelsea address. ‘Seven, Carfax Street, sir.’

I glanced at DI Kate Ebdon. ‘You and I, Kate, will visit the grieving widow. See what she’s got to say about it all.’

Kate was an Australian who usually dressed in jeans and a man’s white shirt. Her flame-coloured hair, invariably tied back in a pony-tail, matched her character, and she was extremely
useful when it came to putting the bite on villains. The commander did not approve of her mode of attire, but hadn’t got the bottle to tell her. Our esteemed commander believes that everyone
promoted to the rank of inspector automatically becomes a gentleman. Or lady, as applicable.

Kate had begun her CID career in the East End of London before gravitating to the Flying Squad as a detective sergeant. It was rumoured that she had given pleasure to a number of male officers
on the Squad. Whether that is true or not, I don’t know, but she could certainly charm the pants off recalcitrant witnesses when the necessity arose.

I glanced at my watch. ‘Let’s go, Kate.’

Kate and I drove to Chelsea. Accompanying her driving with a continuous flow of Australian invective, Kate eventually found her
way through the maze of one-way and dead-end streets between King’s Road and the Embankment, and stopped outside the town house that the late Hugh Blakemore had shared with his wife.

‘Now that, Kate, is a real town house,’ I said, looking with envy at Anne Blakemore’s property. ‘None of your neo-Georgian three-storied terraced about
that.’

Kate made a pretence of being mystified. ‘But it is a three-storied terraced house, guv,’ she said.

Kate mounted steps ahead of me to be confronted by a uniformed constable who was guarding the door.

‘And which newspaper are you from, then, darling?’ asked the PC, his arms folded across his chest.

For a moment or two, Kate gazed at the young policeman. ‘If you were doing your job properly, sonny,’ she said caustically, ‘by now you would have checked the index
mark of our car on the Police National Computer and you would have found that it belonged to the Receiver to the Metropolitan Police District.’ After a suitable pause, . . .