Read Online A Conflict of Interests by Clive Egleton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clive Egleton
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homicide of two law enforcement officers in Galveston, Texas, sometime between May 24 and 28, 1975. The CIA was also anxious to question him about three thousand M16 rifles and one million rounds of 5.56mm ammunition which had allegedly been shipped to Chile.
Without going into too many details, the head of K Desk had indicated there were several good reasons why DI5 should do everything in their power to apprehend Patterson on behalf of these two agencies. To this end, the director general himself had said he was prepared to sacrifice Raschid al Jalud if or when the necessity arose. In the meantime, however, Caroline Brooke was to take whatever action was thought necessary to shield the Libyan diplomat from any police inquiries connected with the Whitfield case.
Caroline Brooke placed the file on one side, opened her copy of the Daily Telegraph at page 3 and studied the photograph taken of Coghill as he arrived at Wimbledon Police Station for the press briefing. A tallish man with an angular face that suggested a strong character, she thought, and good-looking too. She would need to keep an eye on him if Raschid al Jalud was to be safeguarded, and there was only one way to do that. Lifting the phone, she called the DI5 contact at New Scotland Yard.
Eight miles away at Linsdale Gardens over the river in Kennington, Patterson finished unpacking everything he intended to leave behind and got to work on the floorboards in the bathroom. The blade of a penknife served to raise the linoleum around the pedestal washbasin; then, using a nail extractor, he loosened and removed a plank two foot long by six inches wide. That done, he carefully laid the .22 caliber Iver Johnson revolver in the cavity between the joists, together with all the video cassettes, except the one featuring Raschid al Jalud. The floorboard and linoleum replaced, he collected a suitcase of clothes from the bedroom and drove out to Heathrow, where he left the Mini he'd purchased that morning with the Ace Airways garage. Half an hour later, he boarded the 4:00 P.M. Air France flight to Paris.
6.
The offices of Quainton, Phipps and Slingsby were located in Putney High Street above a florist's shop and a ladies' hairdressing salon. A brass plate on the wall to the right of the narrow passageway between the two shops informed Coghill that the partners were also Public Notaries and Commissioners for Oaths. There was no sign of either Phipps or Slingsby, but he and Mace did come across an earnest-looking man in his mid-forties who claimed he was the managing clerk and asked if he could be of any assistance. Coghill said he hoped so, told him they were police officers and briefly explained why they wanted to see Mr. Quainton. The clerk buzzed the solicitor on the intercom, repeated the message, got a monosyllabic grunt from Quainton and then showed them into his office.
The room was at the back of the building, overlooking the courtyard behind the ladies' hairdressing salon. It also afforded a depressing view of row upon row of terraced houses, which Coghill thought must be the reason why Quainton had arranged the furniture so that he had his back to the window. There were four trays on the desk in front of him, In, Out and two Pending, all of them overflowing with bulky files done up with narrow red tape. The ashtray to his right was brimming with cigar stubs and a pall of blue-gray smoke eddied below the ceiling. Not surprisingly, the white paintwork on the window frame was now a brownish-yellow.
"Well now, Inspector," Quainton said, "what can I do for you?" His offhand manner and limp handshake suggested he was not pleased to see them again.
"It concerns your client, Mr. Trevor Whitfield."
"He's not my client."
"You were present when we questioned him this morning," Coghill pointed out.
"But not in an official capacity. I represented the late Mrs. Whitfield."
"When she purchased the boutiques in Fulham and Wimbledon and the house in St. Mark's
Without going into too many details, the head of K Desk had indicated there were several good reasons why DI5 should do everything in their power to apprehend Patterson on behalf of these two agencies. To this end, the director general himself had said he was prepared to sacrifice Raschid al Jalud if or when the necessity arose. In the meantime, however, Caroline Brooke was to take whatever action was thought necessary to shield the Libyan diplomat from any police inquiries connected with the Whitfield case.
Caroline Brooke placed the file on one side, opened her copy of the Daily Telegraph at page 3 and studied the photograph taken of Coghill as he arrived at Wimbledon Police Station for the press briefing. A tallish man with an angular face that suggested a strong character, she thought, and good-looking too. She would need to keep an eye on him if Raschid al Jalud was to be safeguarded, and there was only one way to do that. Lifting the phone, she called the DI5 contact at New Scotland Yard.
Eight miles away at Linsdale Gardens over the river in Kennington, Patterson finished unpacking everything he intended to leave behind and got to work on the floorboards in the bathroom. The blade of a penknife served to raise the linoleum around the pedestal washbasin; then, using a nail extractor, he loosened and removed a plank two foot long by six inches wide. That done, he carefully laid the .22 caliber Iver Johnson revolver in the cavity between the joists, together with all the video cassettes, except the one featuring Raschid al Jalud. The floorboard and linoleum replaced, he collected a suitcase of clothes from the bedroom and drove out to Heathrow, where he left the Mini he'd purchased that morning with the Ace Airways garage. Half an hour later, he boarded the 4:00 P.M. Air France flight to Paris.
6.
The offices of Quainton, Phipps and Slingsby were located in Putney High Street above a florist's shop and a ladies' hairdressing salon. A brass plate on the wall to the right of the narrow passageway between the two shops informed Coghill that the partners were also Public Notaries and Commissioners for Oaths. There was no sign of either Phipps or Slingsby, but he and Mace did come across an earnest-looking man in his mid-forties who claimed he was the managing clerk and asked if he could be of any assistance. Coghill said he hoped so, told him they were police officers and briefly explained why they wanted to see Mr. Quainton. The clerk buzzed the solicitor on the intercom, repeated the message, got a monosyllabic grunt from Quainton and then showed them into his office.
The room was at the back of the building, overlooking the courtyard behind the ladies' hairdressing salon. It also afforded a depressing view of row upon row of terraced houses, which Coghill thought must be the reason why Quainton had arranged the furniture so that he had his back to the window. There were four trays on the desk in front of him, In, Out and two Pending, all of them overflowing with bulky files done up with narrow red tape. The ashtray to his right was brimming with cigar stubs and a pall of blue-gray smoke eddied below the ceiling. Not surprisingly, the white paintwork on the window frame was now a brownish-yellow.
"Well now, Inspector," Quainton said, "what can I do for you?" His offhand manner and limp handshake suggested he was not pleased to see them again.
"It concerns your client, Mr. Trevor Whitfield."
"He's not my client."
"You were present when we questioned him this morning," Coghill pointed out.
"But not in an official capacity. I represented the late Mrs. Whitfield."
"When she purchased the boutiques in Fulham and Wimbledon and the house in St. Mark's
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