A Frequent Peal of Bells

by Ted Tayler

  Colleen grew curious. What was in this other file? The one labelled ‘Gonzo’. She opened it. There was far less inside this one. Those dodgy photos Tyrone kept mentioning, and glossy pictures from a celebrity magazine. They were taken last night at the Dorchester. That magazine wouldn’t be on the racks in the newsagents yet. This must be from a digital issue. Who’s this Gonzo, Colleen wondered? Is he in these photos?

  According to the captions, these photos came from a society wedding party. Two people with more money than sense getting married in their sixties to avoid being lonely. Colleen didn’t need that complication.

  The deep massage this afternoon stirred a few emotions she had suppressed for too long, but the eighteen-stone gay masseur didn’t put his hands anywhere he shouldn’t. More’s the pity. Colleen wanted someone young and fit, and their role would not be to stop her from getting lonely.

  “Very posh,” she said, looking at the female guests’ dresses and jewellery. Tyrone had enlarged one photo. Colleen clicked on it. The bride and groom were dancing. He was a Sir somebody, and she was a Duchess. Behind them seated in the corner sat a group of people. A man was being led towards the dance floor by a tall woman in a gorgeous maroon dress. The diamond necklace around her neck had to be worth fifty grand.

  Colleen looked again at the man. Good looking, a few years younger than her. Punching above his weight with the woman he accompanied. He must be rich. Why did Tyrone think this important enough to send her? She glanced back at the photos of the men involved in the moped gang business in West Hampstead.

  Tyrone was still trying to find proof of a secret organisation at work in the country. Was he clutching at straws as she kept telling him? It was a leap, but when she compared the man’s appearance in the various images, there was something familiar. Inconclusive, but maybe Tyrone had a point. It wouldn’t hurt to follow the trail from this wedding party.

  The photos were first-class, professional shots. An expert could enhance the images of the other guests near where this couple had sat. As for the hosts, their details would be plastered over the pages of the magazine. How did they connect to the couple in question? She could shortcut that process by finding a Dorchester employee who needed to earn quick money. Colleen had to have the guestlist for that party.

  *****

  The stable block at Larcombe Manor was often a hive of activity. The building contained the living quarters for various agents. Henry Case, Giles Burke, and Hugh Fraser lived next door to one another. At various times in the past, they entertained female companions. Sarah Gough, Maria Elena Urbano, and Ambrosia were familiar with the spartan surroundings in which their lovers lived.

  Kelly Dexter and Hayden Vincent had moved into enlarged accommodation when they took over the training programme. Not as comfortable as their previous home in Shrivenham, but they were together, and in far less danger than on active duty. The two agents met in Helmand province. Times with Olympus were different from those in the military but no less hairy.

  “Have you done the test?” asked Hayden.

  “Twice,” replied Kelly, “both times it confirmed what we hoped. I’m pregnant.”

  “We have to tell them,” said Hayden.

  “Are you pleased?” she asked.

  “Over the moon,” he replied, “but we still have to tell them. You can continue training full-time when this wretched morning sickness is over, but they need to arrange cover for the training programme during your maternity leave.”

  “I don’t think Athena took much time out,” said Kelly. “She got Maria Elena to help her with Hope within a week of the birth. I’ll get back as soon as I can to my training role, but the childcare is a problem.”

  “That’s why we must talk to Phoenix and Athena,” said Hayden. “We can’t drop our little one off in Bath every day. It’s out of the question for us to have a live-in nanny. If we raise the matter straight away they have six months to consider opening a creche. Maria Elena can tend to our child when we’re working. Hope will need less and less attention as time passes.”

  “It’s a bit of a cheek,” said Kelly.

  “Henry Case is getting married next year, so who knows? Artemis is broody, according to Rusty. The place could be overrun with kids in two years’ time. It wouldn’t be a luxury, more a necessity.”

  Kelly Dexter decided her partner was right. There was no time like the present. She would make the call and tell Athena their good news. Tomorrow, she would do it tomorrow.

  Further up the corridor was Orion’s office. Staff accommodation wasn’t provided for the ex-policeman. He was a day visitor. His window on the world was small and looked out on a forest of trees and bushes that delineated the start of the estate’s boundary. He was denied the views across the lawns the others enjoyed.

  Phoenix needed the freedom to move between the main building and the ice-house. When he visited the stable block, he avoided the hours when Orion was at work. The cosmetic surgeries since 2010 reduced the risk of his identity ever being uncovered, but it was wise not to take chances.

  Orion had been following up on the leads he established on the Fiona Grant-Nicholls disappearance this afternoon. The time had flown past, it was five o’clock. That was the witching hour. Hayden Vincent warned him to leave Larcombe by then. He pushed the paperwork to one side and pulled on his jacket. Time to head home to Erica and the kids.

  As he joined the driveway that led to the main entrance he spotted a group of people outside the front door. A car had parked with the rear door raised. Annabelle Fox supervised two men carrying in bags of shopping. One elderly gentleman he guessed would be her father. The other man had his back to him. He looked familiar, but it wasn’t the security man who interrogated him. Nor one of the senior officials he met while on earlier visits.

  Former Detective Superintendent Phil Hounsell arrived home on the other side of Bath none the wiser. The name would come to him in time. Every good copper was the same with faces. Once seen, never forgotten. Especially, when that face belonged to a criminal.

  *****

  Friday, 10th October 2014

  It was nine o’clock in the terraced house in Lawrence Hill. Ahmed Mansouri had been awake since dawn. His colleague, Omar Harrack was nervous. He had visited the bathroom three times already. The rain had continued throughout the night. Now, the birds screeched in protest as the neighbour’s cat tormented them.

  This would be over soon. When the call came, they would carry out the task as planned. Ahmed sat in the conservatory, closed his eyes, and envisaged the station. He retraced every step they took with al-Hamady around Temple Meads to remind himself of the layout. He tried to predict where the Syrian would order the pressure cooker bombs to be placed.

  Pressure cooker bombs were relatively easy to construct. Except for the explosive charge itself, most of the materials required could be bought with ease. The bomb would be triggered using a simple electronic device. This bomb maker preferred to use a mobile phone. New Street had been planned as a series of devices that exploded over a period of several minutes. The suicide bombers were to have detonated their vests on the most crowded section of their platform.

  In Bristol, al-Hamady had opted for three huge explosions. The power of the explosion depended on the size of the pressure cooker and the amount and type of explosives used. The containment provided by the pressure cooker meant the energy from the explosion was confined until it exploded. That produced the bloody big bang the Syrian desired and generated lethal shrapnel.

  Omar had returned.

  “How much longer must we wait?” he asked.

  “Why not visit the mosque again, Omar? Go to prayers. We won’t hear from Bakar until one hour before we must leave. If you have not returned when he rings me, I shall come to the mosque to collect you.”

  “I don’t wish to travel in the burka this time,” said Omar, “if anything goes wrong I want to run without drawing attention.”

  “Why should something go wrong?” said Mansou
ri, “you worry too much. Bakar has planned everything. Nothing went wrong at Canary Wharf or Edinburgh.”

  “Everything has felt wrong since Birmingham,” said Omar.

  “New Street was unfortunate,” Mansouri agreed, “but the bomb maker didn’t make a mistake. We didn’t make a mistake. The fault lay with one, or all the suicide bombers. They died because of their carelessness.”

  Omar sat beside Mansouri. His colleague was skilled at putting his mind at ease.

  “I’ll wait until ten o’clock,” he said, “and then I’ll attend Friday prayers.”

  Ahmed gave a huge sigh of relief.

  *****

  Athena chaired the morning meeting at Larcombe. She was aware Phoenix and Rusty had to leave on a mission at any moment.

  “What have you been able to tell them, Giles?” she asked.

  “We traced al-Hamady’s movements from Birkenhead to Bristol,” he replied. “Now we’ve discovered the taxi driver who picked him up outside the station. They drove to Bradley Stoke, north of the city. He asked to be dropped off on the corner of one of the sprawling housing estates.”

  “So, we don’t have an address then?” said Henry Case.

  “Not yet,” said Giles, “but Artemis is still searching. I told her to stay in the ice-house. She’s more valuable there this morning than at this meeting.”

  Athena nodded.

  “What progress on the bombers?” she asked.

  “We have boots on the ground in Lawrence Hill. I’m optimistic we will have an answer before the end of the morning.”

  “Last but not least, the bomb maker,” asked Athena.

  “Nothing yet, I’m afraid,” said Giles.

  *****

  Omar Harrack left the safety of the terraced house at ten o’clock. He followed the same route to the mosque as on Wednesday. There was a break in the clouds and a thin sun appeared for the first time in days. Omar felt more comfortable now. His stomach had settled.

  The nerves remained, but Ahmed had reassured him. The Syrian’s plans had served them well so far. British security forces had never suspected a thing. The fools they entrusted with the other bombs caused the failure at New Street. Today would be the start of the next series of bombings designed to cripple the rail network.

  Omar passed rows of houses and shops lining the street. Here and there were businesses; some commercial, others industrial. Everywhere, he saw signs of people struggling to keep their heads above water. The buildings were intact, unlike in Aleppo and Homs, but desperation was etched on many faces he met. As a devout Muslim Omar tried to change things for his people. Desperation fuels anarchy and this country too cried out for change.

  Friday prayers were an important occasion. The mosque filled with happy worshippers. Omar enjoyed the social nature of the day’s session. Men there on Wednesday recognised him. When prayers ended, he wondered whether Ahmed was on his way to collect him. He looked for him outside the mosque, but he was nowhere in sight.

  On the return journey up Days Road and Queen Anne Road, Omar had company. When he searched for Ahmed, he ignored the man on the far pavement. Dylan Griffiths, had a guitar slung on his back. He busked for an hour near Cabot Circus and was switching positions before the police moved him.

  Dylan was homeless until a few weeks ago. Although he now worked as an Irregular he continued to perform as a street musician. He wore the same tattered camouflage jacket and faded jeans he always wore. Music lovers dropped coins into his hat when he played. Especially those who followed the artist after whom he had been named. Dylan played and sang as well as anyone with a recording contract.

  He spotted Omar Harrack outside the mosque. The photo he carried of the terror suspect from Canary Wharf was accurate. There was no doubt this was the man Hugh Fraser asked him to find and follow. They headed up to Lawrence Hill. No big surprise, the place had the highest concentration of Muslims in the city. Dylan knew he must follow his man right to the door. That address needed to reach Hugh Fraser.

  Omar turned into Hanover Street. Dylan waited on the pavement opposite the turning. When Omar reached a terraced house with a royal blue door, he went indoors. Three minutes later, Dylan crossed the road, walked up the right-hand pavement. He looked at the door and checked the number. Dylan continued walking with purpose as if he knew where he was headed and found his way back to civilisation. He called Hugh Fraser, passed on the address, and forty minutes later he sang ‘Like A Rolling Stone’ in Corn Street.

  Inside the house, Omar and Ahmed still awaited the call from Bakar al-Hamady.

  At Larcombe Manor, Phoenix and Rusty had received the news they needed. Hugh Fraser joined them at the transport garage. Rusty sat at the wheel of a dark coloured van. The signage suggested the trio onboard installed smart meters.

  “Where did you ask our Filton team to meet us?” asked Phoenix.

  “They should be at the end of the street before us,” said Hugh. “If our suspects are on the move when we arrive, they’ll follow them.”

  “No news is good news,” said Rusty, as they hit the Keynsham by-pass. “Have you ever known this stretch of road to be quiet?”

  “Imagine how manic it must have been before the by-pass,” muttered Phoenix, “when Horace Batchelor appeared on Radio Luxembourg every night.”

  Rusty didn’t have a clue what Phoenix was saying. Fraser’s Dad had mentioned using the famous infradraw method when he tried to win the football pools jackpot. He couldn’t tell the young Hugh how it worked. But Hugh never forgot how to spell Keynsham because of the number of times his Dad recited the advert.

  That’s K-E-Y-N-S-H-A-M, Keynsham, Bristol.

  Radio Luxembourg broadcast it several times, every night, for years.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Are those our guys in the car up ahead?” asked Rusty, when they reached Lawrence Hill.

  “It is,” said Hugh, “I told them to stand by while we enter the house. I’ll call them if we need help.”

  “No, get them to join us now,” said Phoenix. “This has the hallmarks of a multi-occupancy place. Four bedrooms, with half a dozen living in each. Everyone fighting for the same bathroom. We can’t risk several of them having weapons.”

  Hugh called the Filton crew forward.

  Phoenix handed the two men official-looking cards and boxes that purported to contain smart meters.

  “Grab a toolbox. Knock on the door and gain entry. Do a quick recce. Tell them you’re popping outside for the ladders. I want to learn numbers, and if we face any real opposition. Also, find out which room our targets occupy.”

  Phoenix counted off the three answers he needed on his fingers.

  “No problem,” came the joint reply. They rang the bell. A middle-aged Muslim woman answered the door. The two men were inside the house in seconds.

  “Ready?” asked Phoenix.

  “Can’t wait,” said Hugh, “I’ve been office-bound too long.”

  “Here we go,” said Rusty, as one agent reappeared.

  “There must be twenty people living in there,” he said. “We’ve gathered the women and small children in the front room. I told them they wouldn’t disturb us then, and we’d be out of there quicker. One of the younger ones spoke a little English. She said their men were at work. There are only two guys at home. They’ve been living in the conservatory for a couple of days. They don’t have contact with anyone else in the house.”

  “That’s Mansouri and Harrack,” said Rusty, “they don’t suspect a thing?”

  “They didn’t come out to see what was going on,” said the agent, “my mate’s upstairs, in case they try to escape over the back fence.”

  “You keep the women quiet,” said Phoenix, getting out of the van. “We’ll take care of our targets.”

  Hugh and Rusty followed Phoenix through the hallway. The agent re-entered the front room. Rusty heard a low murmur of voices, but the women didn’t sound frightened. The agent closed the door behind him.

  At the far end of
the hallway, they found the door to the conservatory locked. Phoenix turned to Rusty and gestured with his foot. One well-placed boot removed the obstruction. Phoenix and Fraser rushed inside, Rusty stood guard at the door.

  Ahmed Mansouri and Omar Harrack had been sitting in the early afternoon sun. The warmth had made them sleepy. When the door burst open, they had to become fully awake before being alive to the intrusion. The two agents had more than enough time to fire the two shots that thudded into each man.

  The silenced weapons caused no reaction in the front room. Sounds of traffic outside in the street was more noticeable. Children continued to play on the floor. The womenfolk talked to one another in their own language. One of the Filton agents stood by the door and waited for a knock.

  “Clear,” called Hugh, knocking on the door. The other agent ran downstairs.

  “Is that it?” he said, “did I miss the fun?”

  “I’m afraid so,” smiled Hugh. “Keep the ladies occupied for a few minutes longer. We must take these two to the van. Can you fetch the rolled-up carpet from the back?”

  “Okay, will do,” said the agent, “but what do I do with these meters?”

  “Tell them you were given the wrong kind. You’ll come back another day.”

  Hugh returned to the conservatory. Phoenix and Rusty were collecting everything the two bombers had brought with them. It didn’t amount to much. A collection of male and female clothing. One mobile phone. A well-thumbed copy of the Koran. Two wash kits. Two knives. A few sheets of paper with hand-drawn maps of Bristol, and detailed layouts of Temple Meads.