by Ted Tayler
“I’ll need to check they’re in the country. You know those two.”
“Well, if we want them to change their plans, we can work on them next month, when they are at Larcombe for Hope’s christening.”
“Very devious,” laughed Athena, “it’s becoming a habit. When were you going to tell me about this chap, Fraser?”
“If Zeus hadn’t mentioned the matter, I would have ignored it for as long as possible. I know I’ve been pushing it too hard of late but handing things over to someone else is tough. I want everything to be right; and so far, the only way to ensure that is to do it myself. On Monday morning, as I read through his reports, I realised he’s more meticulous in his preparations than I am, and his success rate is as good, if not better. It was too good an opportunity to miss. In all honesty, I hadn’t decided on a course of action until Zeus posed the question.”
While they chatted, the room had emptied. Phoenix spotted Zeus and Hera saying a final goodbye to Ambrosia. They waved as they left, and the young woman came towards them.
“Is it permitted for me to visit you at Larcombe, Athena?” asked Ambrosia. “I want to run an idea past you regarding the recruiting of agents. I’m concerned that we will not have enough bodies to complete the fight against the organised crime network strangling the UK.”
“We don’t encourage visitors,” said Phoenix. Ambrosia gave him a stare.
“What my husband means, Ambrosia,” said Athena, “is that to the outside world Larcombe Manor is the home of the Olympus Project charity. If we had frequent visitors, other than the Charity Commissioners and their inspectorate, people might question the purpose of those visits.”
“I understand that,” said Ambrosia. “I believe my cover story will suffice to deter questions. I became an Ambassador for the Veterans Association UK earlier this year. My presence would be natural, don’t you think?”
“Well, in that case, yes, I don’t see a problem,” said Athena. “When do you want to visit us?”
“I’ll be in Bath first thing on Monday,” replied Ambrosia. “I’ll see you then.”
With that, she turned on her heel and left Athena and Phoenix open-mouthed.
“She doesn’t let the grass grow, does she?” said Phoenix.
“At least we’ve got the weekend to get the house ready for inspection,” said Athena.
“She’s not royalty,” said Phoenix.
“Maybe not; but she’s ambitious. I want her to see what she’s up against. I don’t want her leaving Larcombe thinking I can’t bring up a family, keep my home spotless, and run Olympus.”
“Multi-tasking is your middle name, darling. I’ve always known that. It will be a breeze.”
“Time to get home,” said Athena, “we need to get started. You can help me plan the menus for Monday, and organise a detail to tackle the lawns, gardens, and vegetable plots. I’ll get the staff to sort out the reception rooms, and bedrooms. The trainers will need briefing too. The stable-block, transport garage, and workers cottages will need a fresh coat of paint and a deep clean. They can handle that. The ice-house is off-limits. No matter how grand she thinks she is, she’s not getting clearance to go there.”
“I love you, Athena,” said Phoenix. “You always take things in your stride. You never overreact. It’s your greatest quality.”
Athena chased him along the corridor to the lift. As the lift doors closed behind them he gathered her in his arms, and kissed her, hard.
“We’re a great team, aren’t we?” he said as they stepped out onto the ground floor. “Together we’re a match for anyone. Everything will be in tip-top condition by Monday morning, don’t worry.”
In the car, as they began the journey south to Bath, Athena called Maria Elena.
“Can you give Hope a kiss from Mummy and Daddy? Tell her we’ll be home in time to give her a bath and tuck her up in bed, please?”
“Will you tuck me up in bed tonight and read me a bedtime story?” asked Phoenix.
“No chance,” Athena replied. “I know you. We’ve got far too much to do in the morning. We need a full night’s sleep.”
CHAPTER 3
Sunday, 6th July 2014
Nobody in the village noticed anything remarkable about their arrival.
Limousines and luxury SUV’s were commonplace in the leafy suburbs near Oxshott, Surrey, these days. One by one, under Hugo Hanigan’s express instructions, the vehicles entered the car park of the exclusive country hotel, in nearby Stoke D’Abernon. Then their passengers made their way quietly, to the front door.
Management at the upmarket venue had welcomed the influx of so many guests on a late mid-summer’s weekend evening. The generous sum of money offered for the drawing-room for a meeting scheduled to last only two hours had been obscene. An amount not to be dismissed out of hand.
The sun set at ten past nine. Twenty minutes later their visitors could begin to arrive with impunity. Staff had been informed of what had to be provided within the room. Their presence after that was not required. They were well-drilled in melting into the background to allow clandestine assignations to occur in this area. Nobody would call the media with a possible headline in the morning. Discretion had become a vital ingredient in every employee’s curriculum vitae.
In the semi-darkness, figures slipped inside the building and made their way into the drawing-room. Meanwhile, Hugo Hanigan, leader of The Grid, sat in the rear of his Rolls Royce and watched from behind tinted windows. He mentally ticked off the various gang leaders as they passed.
Hugo smiled; this was the perfect setting for such a disparate collection of nationalities. They fitted this part of suburbia like a glove. Something one could never have dreamed a decade earlier.
As the property boom played out, large country houses and city penthouses fought for headlines. Behind the scenes, the term ‘suburbia’ no longer covered the properties enshrined in the boundaries of the capital’s orbital motorway. After a decade of growth, the very best areas had earned the dubious accolade of ‘Superbia’.
When the Crown Estates released land for building after the war. executives who worked in finance and business services congregated in the corridors of wealth leading from London into the countryside. Houses in the old stockbroker belt now attracted international buyers - Middle Easterners, Russians, Asians and Europeans, as well as sporting superstars and celebrities. In those middle years of the last century, the original houses were built, thrived, and matured. With the monied newcomers in recent years, they were often demolished and replaced by modern monstrosities.
Tasteful, was not the overriding impression one gleaned from the transformation, thought Hugo. He was happy, however, that he had chosen this venue well. The Grid’s leaders came from each of the four corners of the country, and their international flavour a perfect match for the owners of properties surrounding this hotel. There was no reason for suspicion over why a meeting had been convened at such short notice.
Hugo looked at his watch. Five minutes to ten o’clock. He left his car and walked toward the front door. He would be the last to arrive; his checks had confirmed that. Fifty-eight men now waited in the drawing-room. Many, if not all of them armed. The banker stood in the hotel foyer, to collect his thoughts, and listened to the low hum of conversation behind the drawing-room door. The minute hand on the clock in the deserted reception area clicked forward to twelve as Hugo threw open the door and swept inside.
“Good evening, gentleman,” he said, “thank you for coming. Let us get straight to business.”
The Grid’s leader stopped at the head of the table, turned and faced his audience. Every man in the room looked towards him. Hugo took his seat, and the others took their appointed place at the tables arranged in a large oval in the centre of the room. Four men remained standing. They were Hugo’s bodyguards. As the leaders had arrived, they performed the role of drinks waiters and ushered each criminal to their reserved seat.
Now the bodyguards occupied the four corn
ers of the room, ready to respond if someone dared draw a weapon, and threaten their employer. Fergus Mallon gave a brief nod to Hugo. This confirmed that every mobile phone and recording device had been switched off. The room was swept for any listening devices before the guests had arrived. Nothing said within these walls must go any further.
“I felt we needed this meeting to lay to rest misconceptions that arose in the past three months,” Hugo began. “Since April, the Grid has not entirely been in control of matters across the country. This is not how we envisaged our joint enterprise would operate. Anyone who opposes us by not joining forces with us, or betrays us from within, must be eliminated. The stranglehold on criminal activities on these shores must be total.”
“Are you accusing one, or more of us, of having betrayed the Grid?”
Hugo knew this voice belonged to Artem Klimenko, the East Anglian gang master. Only thirty-three years old, the Ukrainian had facilitated the smuggling of hundreds of illegal immigrants into the region since 2010, to pick fruit and vegetables. His reputation was that of a ruthless thug, and he controlled the one hundred gang members in his organisation with an iron fist.
“You live in the countryside, Artem,” Hugo replied, with a wry smile, “you may have missed the significance of events since mid-April. A message was sent to the authorities. A message designed to demonstrate we could strike anywhere in the country at will. The killings were never linked by the police or security forces. They were too pre-occupied with meeting targets, promoting political correctness, and attempting to cover more crimes with fewer resources.”
“You underestimate my thirst for information,” Klimenko sneered. “We were aware of the pattern of killings, and the message you meant it to convey. Even in the Fens. Perhaps the source of the Grid’s problems began with the murder of the jurors in the O’Riordan case? Was that not too parochial? It endangered every one of us, yet the only gang to benefit would have been his own in Kilburn. The link between you two stretches back to childhood. Did you ignore the wishes of the many, to satisfy the thirst for revenge of a few?”
“Our friend from the Fens has a point,” said Gregor McGrath. “The attempted murder of the High Court Judge before sentencing proved a step too far. Who thwarted that attempt? Not one of the local gangs or you would have weeded them out and got rid of the bodies by now.”
Hugo paused for a moment. McGrath was a senior leader, north of the border. He had held sway in the city of Glasgow for decades. Not a man with whom to cross swords.
“That was my decision,” Hugo answered. “I was disappointed the authorities hadn’t recognised our hand behind the rash of killings a fortnight earlier. I felt an example had to be made. The initial attacks were handled with precision; someone intervened at the airfield. That someone will pay with their lives. We have yet to identify them. I suggest we pass the word to our junior members. The offer of a reward of one hundred thousand pounds should loosen a few tongues.”
Hugo heard the murmurs as they rippled around the room. Money was a great motivator with criminals. One voice could be heard above the rest. It was Klimenko again.
“I hope this money will come from your pocket, and not ours? You accept responsibility for the decision to attack the Judge and his family; so, it’s only right you clean up the mess it left. What of those men here who lost valuable personnel since that ill-fated decision? Were the same people responsible for the London deaths, in Selhurst, and Park Royal? What of Handsworth, Solihull, Manchester, and Portsmouth? Is this a series of one-off attacks on the Grid by rogue elements from the criminal fraternity, or is a separate highly organised group responsible?”
“Aye,” muttered McGrath “it stinks. The next question hangs over what occurred at Rayleigh. Almost on your doorstep, Artem. Who killed Tommy O’Riordan, and the others? What happened to the one man who survived?”
“Simms?” said Hugo. “He was a loose end, hired to help spring O’Riordan from the prison transport vehicle. He never worked for me. Sean Walsh put that team together. Walsh was O’Riordan’s brother-in-law and former second-in-command. I had Simms picked up for questioning. He saw nothing. Their car was struck from the side, trapping him against a dry-stone wall. The first gunman killed the driver and front-seat passenger. Tommy O’Riordan got out of the rear door and was killed by a second shooter. Why they left Simms alive, I have no idea.”
“You said Simms was a loose end?” asked McGrath.
“He’s in a home of his own now,” said Hugo. “If you’re travelling back via the M1 later, he’s stood in the footings of one of the bridges they replaced last week.”
“I’ll remember to wave,” said McGrath.
A new voice emerged from the far end of the room.
“Excuse, please? Where is Walsh? Who is running the gang O’Riordan led?”
“Shabbir Shah? You operate out of Cardiff, don’t you?” said Hugo. “You have family in Tower Hamlets, no doubt?”
“You are well-informed, Mister Hanigan.”
“When O’Riordan was imprisoned, Walsh took charge. He was an excellent second-in-command but wasn’t keen on stepping out of his brother-in-law’s shadow. In recent weeks, he surprised me with his grasp of the bigger picture, but this business with the prison break proved too much for him. He drank heavily. As a result, most of the planning was done by O’Riordan’s wife. Colleen O’Riordan came to terms with her husband’s death far quicker than I thought possible. She ordered her brother and his family to the Dominican Republic, which was her husband’s proposed destination after his escape. She reasoned Walsh could crack under questioning when the police came calling.”
“Another loose end?” asked Klimenko.
“If it proves to be a problem; I will handle it,” said Hugo. “It’s early days in the police investigation into the attack on the prison van and the subsequent killings. They are scratching around for leads. Colleen O’Riordan has had a visit from them, I understand, and played the grieving widow well enough. Whether they will return to question her further, I don’t know. The widow has since gone to ground. I haven’t seen or heard from her since before her husband died; when I rang to congratulate her on the successful engineering of his escape. She had the funeral to arrange, which took place last Friday.”
“Who told you the police questioned her?” asked Klimenko.
“The buffoon Sean Walsh selected as his number two after Tommy O’Riordan was sent to jail; one Seamus McConnell.”
“So, he’s in charge of the Kilburn gang now?”
“No, Artem, he is not,” replied Hugo. “Somehow everything is running smoothly in that borough. Who’s steering the ship, I don’t yet understand. There may be a power struggle taking place between the O’Riordan, Walsh, and Kelly clans. McConnell is due to report back tomorrow morning.”
“The sooner it’s sorted, the better.”
The hairs on the back of Hugo’s neck bristled. That gruff voice was rarely heard. It belonged to Michael Terence Quinn, known to everyone from London as Mighty Quinn. Quinn was a hard bastard who at sixty-three years old had spent as many years behind bars as he had on the outside. A man of few words, but when he spoke, it was wise to listen.
“McConnell is due in my office at nine o’clock, Michael,” said Hugo. “Everything will become clear before ten.”
“Word on the street is Tommy’s widow’s been running the show for the past fortnight, mate,” said Mighty Quinn. “Whether she had a funeral to arrange, or not. I don’t see many birds sat at these tables, do you? It needs sorting, it stands to reason. I thought you had your finger on the pulse. Kilburn’s only around the corner from your gaff, and you’re in the dark.”
Hugo sensed the mood in the room change. He needed to nip this in the bud, and fast.
“I’m sure the Kilburn problem can be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. There are less than twelve hours between now and my meeting with McConnell. You know you can trust my judgement. I’ve laundered your money through the Glencairn Ba
nk for the past few years, at a favourable commission. None of you could have handled your affairs better.”
He nodded to Fergus Mallon, and files were distributed by the four bodyguards. Eyebrows raised as each man noted their personal copy handed to them with unerring accuracy. Hanigan’s men knew precisely who sat where, despite the lack of any identification on the table, or their person. Hugo stood and paced the width of the room. He began to relax. The focus of the meeting had switched.
“You can see the performance of your individual portfolios in these reports. Each of you has profited from our joint enterprise. Your stocks are bucking the national trend and are giving you greater returns than you could hope to receive anywhere else. The bonus is that with the Grid you have greater security. Left to your own devices, many of you would fritter the profits on luxuries. My programme helps you invest in your future while providing you with the cash to indulge yourself now and again. If you decide to retire, you won’t be scratching around trying to survive on a state pension. Without the Grid’s governance, you would be forced to cleanse your money in shoddy, back-street businesses, that would alert the authorities in no time flat. Few of our number has spent time in prison in recent years for financial irregularities; for which I’m sure you, and your families, are grateful. Have these figures checked by an accountant who’s in your pocket if you wish? I’ve simplified the language as much as I can, and for those whose first language isn’t English, I hope the translation is accurate.”
The silence that followed suggested nothing amiss. Hugo breathed easier.
“This is all well and good,” said Klimenko, who clearly wasn’t swayed by Hugo’s diversionary tactic, “but let’s get back to O’Riordan. Who does his widow blame for his death? Not her brother that’s obvious. She spirited him away to a place of safety in the Caribbean. One with no extradition treaty with the UK. She blames you, maybe?”