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Bodies of Evidence - Chapter 9 - Endgame |
| Written by Philip Neale | |
| Sunday, 01 June 2008 | |
 Giorgio looked from one to the other and back again. He sighed and shook his head – it was now all down to damage limitation. They had him and knew it, he had only one option and Martins would have to pay the price. He began his story at his first meeting with Miles Thomas, a postgraduate without sufficient funds to continue his academic career. Gasparini saw him as an ideal supply line into the university campus and its student population. Harold Martins had been only too pleased at a new avenue for the sale of the narcotics which he was importing from the Far East, and Giorgio’s regular meetings with him ensured that sufficient quantities were directed towards Miles Thomas to satisfy the constant demand from his customers. The problems started six months ago when Thomas became greedy, demanding a greater payment for his ‘service’.
A man like Harold Martins had to be handled carefully. Like a modern day Dick Whittington, Martins had come to Berkshire a penniless youth some thirty-five years ago. By a combination of sheer hard work and the luck of being in the right place at the right time, he had made his fortune in the import of textile products. His nose for an opportunity and a sound business brain allowed him to carve out a niche as a merchant, and he quickly made his name in a trade full of uncertainty in the mid 1960s. By the time the British textile trade began to crumble in the 1970s he was well placed to take advantage of the expanding import trade from the Far East. His name became synonymous with honesty and integrity when the more established around him were failing, and his personality and good standing earned him a place on the local council.
Then things started to go wrong, but it was not through the intervention of some unscrupulous competitor that his business began to fail. His increasingly lavish and hedonistic lifestyle placed higher and higher demands upon his skill in the market place. After a succession of inadvisable deals and a run of pure bad luck, he felt the hot breath of creditors breathing down his neck. That was when he was approached by a nameless man in a bar with a proposition which would restore his flagging finances and return the business to its former glory. It had never been intended as anything more than a temporary fix, but the increasingly lucrative returns pushed the original enterprise into second place. The plan was simple; certain cartons of textile goods would be marked in a special way for Martins to identify. Initially they would be treated in the same way as any other package to avoid attention being drawn to them. Only when his normal daytime staff had gone home would the contents be removed, repackaged and dispersed.
When Miles Thomas sought to muscle in on him, he did not take too kindly to the small time dealer making waves in his organisation. He said ‘No’. Thomas started withholding payments and somehow managed to discover details of the foreign supply chain. Word got back to Martins that attempts were being made to undercut him, but no more information was available as to the identity of the party involved. Gasparini was detailed to watch Thomas and report back on his movements. It didn’t take the Italian long to discover Miles’ method of approach, and when Martins had been informed, a ‘disciplinary’ session was organised. This was the incident involving the roof of the flats and the table leg.
“Martins told me to take care of the matter, and make sure that Thomas understood who he was dealing with and how far over the line he had stepped. He reckoned that a spell in hospital would set it all straight, and that it would end there. I didn’t intend to kill him, and I’m sure that I didn’t but Martins is the man responsible, and I’ll swear to that in court.”
Gasparini refused to say any more until a deal had been offered to him, and Marks had him locked up pending further enquiries. He told the duty solicitor that no charges would be raised at this point, but that they would be returning to the matter within the seventy-two hours allowed. Matters now moved on at a faster pace, and the visits to Martins would have to take place before news got to him about Gasparini’s arrest. Two teams of armed police arrived simultaneously at the business and private addresses of the councillor and removed property and documents from both locations before sealing them off. Martins himself was arrested on narcotics and murder charges and taken away to the central police station for questioning.
Sifting through the mountain of documentation seized from warehouse and home took some considerable time, but a picture was quickly emerging of a failing business which had rapidly turned around due to the injection of significant amounts of cash. Marks knew that they had to work quickly in order to be able to charge Martins, and the following day evidence emerged that narcotics from the Indian sub-continent had been concealed within cones of cotton yarn delivered to the Martins warehouse, where they had been removed prior to the cotton being repackaged for sale. The shipper had taken care to vary the shipping lines used together with agents, ports of loading and destination. Some of the consignments had even been trans-shipped and had lain in bonded storage for weeks prior to being moved on. Funds transferred had been laundered through a variety of innocent parties, but they all ended up in the same place – an offshore account in the name of Amanda Martins, Harold’s wife.
This was enough to tie both the textile merchant and his wife to the Thomas case, and they already had Gasparini’s testimony that Miles’ beating had been ordered by Martins. Along with the drugs trafficking the man was staring down the gun barrel of some serious charges. Marks still wanted to make sure that the case was watertight, and in order to do that he would need Carlton-Smythe to confess to the writing of the anonymous letter. Returning to Flat 2, the detectives found no-one at home but when their visit took them to the apartment of Alice and Jeremy Masterson on the first floor, raised voices were heard coming from inside. They stood silently at the door and listened.
“I told you before George we can’t get involved any further. You have nothing to hold over us any more because the police know about the Cannabis and aren’t taking any action. You’re on your own.”
“You bloody fool, man. They’ve already got the Italian for Miles’ death so they’re not looking for anyone else. All you need to do is hold your nerve and we’ll get through this.” Carlton-Smythe was becoming highly agitated.
“What does ‘we’ mean? You’re the one who finished him off, remember? Don’t forget the state you were in when you came down from the roof and cleaned up in our bathroom. Scared to death you were, and if you hadn’t seen Alice smoking that joint we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.”
“He had it coming to him. Trash like that don’t deserve to live amongst decent people. I did what any one of us would have done, and there’s more than me taken issue with him, I can’t be blamed if none of the rest of them had the backbone.”
Marks had heard enough, and a sharp rap at the door brought complete silence from within. A second, louder knock was answered by Jeremy Masterson in a state of some distress. The Colonel was about to leave when Peter Spencer barred the door and ushered him back inside. It didn’t take long before the truth about the whole matter came spewing out from the Mastersons, leaving Carlton-Smythe high and dry.
Miles Thomas had been the cause of a good deal of bad feeling throughout the apartment block since his arrival, but the situation had worsened over the past twelve months. His dealings in drugs and the stream of prostitutes in and out of the flats had resulted in a number of complaints to the house manager. Grant Thornton failed to do anything about the situation, presumably because Thomas paid his rent on time. Apart from the brushes with John Fraser and Leroy Randall, Thomas had very little to worry about until he crossed swords with Harold Martins. It was then that Carlton-Smythe saw his chance.
He had seen Gasparini on a few occasions coming in and out of the premises, and had witnessed the encounter on the day of Thomas’ death which resulted in them going up on to the roof. He followed quietly and hid behind one of the ventilator shaft covers, where he witnessed the beating meted out by the Italian. He picked up the discarded table leg, still covered in Miles’ blood and bearing the thumbprint of Gasparini, and finished the job which Martins’ enforcer had left undone. Taking the weapon with him, he returned down the stairs where he met Jeremy Masterson coming home. It had been too late to conceal the facts from him, but when it became apparent that Alice was using Cannabis supplied by Thomas, the Colonel used it as a lever to keep them both quiet. His alibi was thus complete and the Italian would take the blame for the whole thing. It was only later that he had the idea of dumping the table leg in the alley to make it appear that Giorgio has thrown it there.
“George Carlton-Smythe, I am arresting you for the murder of Miles Thomas. You have the right to remain silent; but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
“Yes” The reply was resigned, and the Colonel could see his entire life evaporating before his eyes as he was escorted to the waiting squad car by the two detectives.
Back at the CID office Dennis Marks was carrying out the final review of the case with Peter Spencer. All of the pieces had slotted into place with exception of the killing of Roger Preston. The DI frowned – damned loose ends, they were his nemesis. Giorgio Gasparini had denied any involvement, and had done so in such a cavalier manner that Marks was certain that he was responsible, but there was no proof. At that precise moment the telephone rang – it was George Groves.
“Dennis, have you charged anyone with Preston’s death yet?”
“No, and I’m up the creek without a paddle on that one.”
“Not any more. We found traces of sweat on the collar of Preston’s shirt, and they weren’t his.”
“Go on, make my day – tell me you can match them up to someone.”
“We took a swab from Gasparini when you brought him in, and his DNA profile is a perfect match to the stains we found on the shirt. He was there at the time of the murder, so you should be able to charge him now.”
He could have kissed the man. It was typical of the pathologist that no stone would be left unturned until all the evidence had been accounted for and cross-checked. It was the end of a perfect day. Peter Spencer noticed the change in his boss’s demeanour.
“That it then?”
“Absolutely. We’ll pass on the information on the drugs trafficking to the boys in narcotics, and let our friends at Customs and Excise deal with Martins’ business side of the affair. He’ll be lucky to have two pennies to rub together by the time he gets out. Come on, I’m hungry let’s go home.” Copyright 2008 Philip Neale |
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