Free Fogarty: A City of London Thriller by J Jackson Bentley

client. “OK, Ben, this is going to cost you, but it’s the quickest way to get to where you want to be. If you take a taxi to the heliport, our regular helicopter pilot could take you to Bootle, landing at the docks, which is about a mile or so from the home. But he can’t wait for you, because he has a jockey to transport to an evening race meeting. You would have to return by train. Is that all right?”
    “That’s marvellous, Dee, thanks.” Ben stood and shook Dee’s hand. “Can I come around in the morning? I might need some help tracking down my sister.”
    “Call any time, Ben. You have my mobile number here on the card.” Dee handed him the card. “Please don’t take unnecessary risks. We have a well trained team here, and they are perfectly capable of handling the worst of what Nort h London has to offer.”
    Ben left the office and Dee unconsciously rubbed her thigh. It was in a factory unit in Tottenham where she had received the first of her three bullet wounds and, although things had turned out well, it still remained vivid in her memory as probably the worst few hours of her life. She hoped her new client would be especially careful. She was about to sit down when she swore under her breath and made haste to the bathroom.
     
    ***
    Ben had managed to live for thirty years without taking a helicopter flight, and now he appreciated what a sound move that had been. The Bell 206B Jet Ranger was alleged to be spacious enough for five people but, at six feet four, it felt like a glass coffin to Ben. The rotor noise had been brutal to his ears before take off and, even though he now wore a helmet with built in microphone and headset, the background noise meant he still had to shout to be heard.
    Despite the discomfort, Ben loved the journey. Within minutes they were out of the London sprawl and into open countryside. Somehow he always imagined sixty million people living on this small island would mean overcrowding, but from up here there was more open space than he would have expected. Phil, the pilot, asked about Dee Hammond and explained that he often ferried Vastrick staff ‘up north’, e specially an operative he referred to as “Geordie”, who lived in Newcastle. Phil apologised for not being able to take Ben back by air, but confirmed that there was an hourly rail service in the early evening rush hour.
     
    Ben sat back and admired the lush rolling pastureland below. He saw fields of wheat being harvested and flocks of birds were gathering for their migration. Autumn in England was obviously just around the corner. As he allowed his mind to wander, he wondered what his gran would be like. He imagined a plump, white haired old lady, maybe kindly, maybe a little grumpy, maybe she had all of her marbles and maybe not. He hoped that she would be well enough to point him in the direction of his twin sister. He was still pondering these things when the helicopter swung out over the sea and then banked in towards an industrial landscape. A moment later he saw a giant ‘H’ in a circle on a concrete apron. Phil headed straight for it.
    Phil was still speaking to ground control as the rotors slowed and eventually stopped. A man in a yellow visibility vest, a white helmet and ear defenders came out of a small building bearing the words “Merseyside Docks and Harbour Company”, a name represented on the back of his jacket by the acronym MDHC.
    After Ben had waved his goodbyes to Phil he entered the nineteen-fifties-built brick building with a concrete slab for a roof. Another man, this one wearing a polo shirt bearing the MDHC logo, met him with a smile and a handshake.
    “Welcome to the MDHC helipad, Mr Fogarty. We understand you’re in a hurry, and we see very few taxis roaming around here, so we’ve arranged for one of our cars to take you where you want to go.”
    “Thanks,” Ben responded, glad of the efficient use of h is time.
    “Is it OK if we add the transport to the landing fee?” his