Sleaford Noir 1
Page 10
CHAPTER 10.
Of course, it all kicked off big time.
Although McTeague still had the far bigger empire, Wheelan wasn't without resources and a couple of other capos sided with him, especially the Norfolk Farm Boys, hoping to pick over the remnants of McTeague's empire after the older man went down. And maybe they also genuinely knew what it was like to lose a woman they loved and had some sympathy for Wheelan.
Although in the case of the Norfolk boys, that woman would have been one of their close relations. A very close relation. You know what I mean by that. However, the general consensus was that although Wheelan was out of order for taking Claire without asking; McTeague was bang out of order for taking her back by force. Strange how men's minds work.
Unless you're a hermit on the Outer Hebrides or Scilly Isles or somewhere you'll have seen on the News or read in the papers about what happened next. The gang war made headline news; police Chief Constables were dragged blinking before the TV cameras and there were even questions asked in the House of Commons about the crime wave sweeping eastern England. The topic dominated one Question Time on Radio 4 with solutions ranging from the usual 'bring back the rope' from the right wing Tory rent-a-quote member of parliament to the even more predictable hand-wringing 'they are all victims of poor upbringing' liberalism of some pinko quangocrat.
With my skill set I was much in demand. You remember that tourist from Ottawa who was stabbed to death by a mugger in a hoodie thirty seconds after leaving East Midlands Airport's arrivals hall as he waited for a taxi? There was a lot of fuss made at the time about how dangerous Britain was becoming? Visitors not even making it out of a provincial airport before being killed in our increasingly violent country? That was no mugger. And that was no ordinary tourist but a top dollar hit-man flown in to whack McTeague.
The owner of a string of lap-dancing clubs throughout South Yorkshire – that's right. The man who went down in a hail of bullets from a converted Mac-10 'spray-'n'-pray' machine-pistol as he crossed the pavement from his club to his waiting limo one rainy night? There were two people in black leathers on a stolen Yamaha R6 superbike. The pillion rider shredding the club owner like a Swiss cheese before the bike zoomed off into the night. The bike was later found burned out a mile away. But the driver and the shooter still haven't been found. Nor will they ever be.
That club owner shouldn't have thought he could get away with joining forces with Wheelan by bringing some Canadian hit-man in on his new friend's behalf. He'd probably still be alive and enjoying the nightly strip shows to this day.
Then there's the two Kosovan so-called asylum seekers deep underground in Sherwood Forest. Two hard-man chancers in leather jackets who thought they could muscle in and take over whilst the East Midlands went up in smoke. No, wait. They haven't been found yet. And I hope they never will be. You mess with one Kosovan Albanian and you mess with them all. No way do I want their brothers, cousins, uncles, nephews, in-laws and out-laws all after me in one of their unending vendettas.
Of course, this couldn't spin on out of control for ever. The top brass at Lincolnshire Police must have been leaned on by some of the high mandarins at the Home Office to get this sorted before the red top press started another moral panic about Britain's crime rate which would cost the government the 'law and order' votes at the next election.
Superintendent Donelan of the Lincolnshire Police asked to see me. He was respectful but made it crystal that not meeting wasn't on the cards. We met in that same mock Tudor gastropub on the A15 that I'd been in at the start of all this. Where I got my Audi keyed. The previous chef had since moved on and the new chef seemed to be having some trouble as several of the dishes were off the menu.
Donelan came in out of the rain wearing a civvie jacket over his uniform but he still looked like a plug-ugly copper. He ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice and brought it over to my table as I folded up my copy of the Telegraph. He held out his hand and after a moment's hesitation I shook. Although Donelan was okay for a copper, I still don't like shaking their hands. Makes me feel dirty, somehow. He sat down and glanced at the back page headlines.
"India's doing well. Reckon we'll draw the series?" he asked. "On the radio just now it said we're currently two hundred and eight in reply."
I nodded. "I think so. The forecast's for rain but we made a mistake by not asking them to follow on in the First Test. We should have won that easily and then we'd have the upper hand," I said.
We discussed the summer's cricket some more as the drizzle hit the windows. Outside some families dodged the rain under the parasols and a few hardy kids made the best of the small play area. A woman called out for Oliver, darling, to be careful.
Small talk over, Donelan got to the point. It was short and sweet. "Hennessy. Tell McTeague to calm it down. As for you: get out of the country for a while. Otherwise you're going down for a long stretch. And don't cry if it's a fit-up job. You've ruffled too many feathers of people who don't like having their feathers ruffled."
Donelan stood up to leave. "If you go down, forget any appeals even if you can afford to hire the best barristers out of your offshore accounts. The bigwigs in Whitehall will have a quiet word with the judges to laugh any appeals out of court." Donelan made a strange gesture with his hand which I took to be something from the Freemasons' rituals. Not that I'd ever be allowed to join! He couldn't have been any clearer. The Home Office mandarins and top judges all drink in the same Lodges.
Donelan looked down at my newspaper. "Three down. Forbidding Albert and Diana to join royal family? The answer's Grimaldi."
I looked down at my crossword. That was one of my few blank answers but I should have got that. I was annoyed that Donelan had come by before I'd had chance to complete the crossword.
"Finished with this?" Donelan said as he took my Telegraph with him as he left. Coppers. They're as light fingered as everyone thinks they are.