by Robert White
The timing of the Army and Navy incident, the arrest for the Morris murder and now the newspaper article, projected The Three Dogs to another level. Frankie Verdi’s plan had worked a treat.
It announced the arrival of a criminal gang, of an age never before seen in a Northern town.
Despite my minor involvement in the Kirklevington case, I had never even spoken to any of The Three Dogs, let alone arrested or interviewed them.
I’d spent my time working other cases, and simply looked in on their lives from the outside with a quizzical morbid interest. My only contribution had been that one telex. How Frankie Verdi knew about that, I still have no idea; but when I got home that Monday night, my wife was arranging a bouquet of flowers in a vase.
They had been hand delivered and came with a card.
It read, “To my dear Marie, Sorry I missed your birthday, Frankie.”
I cannot describe the fury that burned inside me that day. Not even after all these years. What I do know, is that in smashing her flower display across our kitchen, I scared my wife so much, I made her cry; something I had never done before, or since.
Frankie Verdi thought he could intimidate me; scare me off and allow him to build his criminal empire in peace. Well he did scare me. I admit that. I would have been a fool not to have felt some modicum of fear; but I have never been a coward, and he and his Dogs would never prevent me from doing my duty.
In the coming weeks, I continued my job as a junior detective and did my best to curb my burgeoning obsession with Frankie’s flowers.
Life, as they say goes on.
I had passed my sergeant’s examination the previous autumn, and my divisional commander, one Ch Supt Harrison, had suggested that a change of scenery would be good for my development, and aid faster promotion.
I was unsure about a transfer, but when Marie fell pregnant with our second child in the August of that year, I took his advice, and moved from CID, to the Plain Clothes Department.
Promotion to sergeant would mean an extra thirty quid a week and it couldn’t come soon enough.
Plain Clothes worked from a different station and I moved away from the criminal matters that would keep me close to The Three Dogs.
I greeted this event with a mixture of discontent and relief.
Plain Clothes dealt with two particular areas of policing; vice… and dead people. That is not to say “murdered” people, but people who had died suddenly and unexpectedly. Each member of our small team took weeks about, acting as Coroner’s Officers.
This was a terribly depressing posting for me.
Dealing with heart attacks, strokes, falls, accidents on the road and at work, and worst of all, SIDS or “cot death”, were a regular part of my day.
I hated the fact that for a full week at a time, I would be dealing with bereaved relatives and attending the harrowing procedure that went along with each investigation, known as the post-mortem examination.
The remainder of my work was little better, spending many cold and disconcerting hours in gentlemen’s public lavatories, attempting to catch homosexual men in the act of gross indecency.
I hoped and prayed that promotion would be swift.
Swift, it was not, but in September of 1980, I was indeed promoted to Detective Sergeant. Unfortunately, I still languished in the Plain Clothes Department I hated.
For reasons that will become clear later in my story, the 27th of October of that year, is a date that will stay with me forever. On that day, during the course of my duties at Sharoe Green Hospital, I met a man called Harry Strange.
Harry was as broken a man as I’d ever met. His wife had been struck by one of those new style minibuses whilst she was out shopping in Leyland, a small town some five miles from Preston. She had suffered catastrophic head injuries and had been pronounced dead at the scene.
I was to produce the body to Harry, so he may identify her as Rose Helen Strange, forty-one years.
Mercifully, Rose had suffered trauma to the back of her head, and her beautiful pale features were undamaged.
Harry walked into the chapel of rest that day, ramrod straight, touched Rose lovingly on her forehead, nodded his acceptance that she was his wife, and left the room in silence.
As was my duty, I covered the body and asked the attendant to return Rose to the chiller. After collecting my paperwork, I sought out Harry to obtain his official signature.
I found him sitting on a metal bench close to the front of the hospital entrance. He was staring onto the garden area. Unseasonably, the sun shone, and two children chased each other between the hedges.
I sat, Harry signed, and from that moment, under the most awful of circumstances, we began a great friendship.
Harry was a military man, as was his father before him. He had a son, Jamie, who had also followed the calling, and was away completing his All Arms Commando training course at CTCRM in Lympson, Devon. Jamie would come back a Green Beret attached to 40 Commando within the week. He was just nineteen.
On the anniversary of Guy Fawkes, Rose Strange was buried.
It was against force policy for me to attend the funeral, as Rose was one of my coroner’s officer’s cases, but Harry insisted, and I went anyway.
My first recollection of the events that day, was the wind that blew thousands of brown shrivelled leaves around our feet. They twisted in ever-tightening circles about the graveside, drowning out the priest and his words of comfort.
The second, was Laurie Holland.
I was three mourners to the left of her. She held onto the hand of Harry’s son, Jamie Strange. He was a handsome strapping lad and wore his full Royal Marines uniform, standing steadfast and apparently emotionless, as his mother’s coffin was lowered into the grave.
The stunningly beautiful Laurie wiped a tear away with a black-gloved hand.
Cops are notoriously good at remembering faces, I was no different. It had been a few years, she was taller, more elegant, but it was her.
Probably a year before The Three Dogs had been sent to Kirklevington jail for the stabbing of a schoolboy, I had arrested Laurie’s mother, Margaret for soliciting. A strip-search revealed Margaret had secreted two wraps of brown powder inside her brassiere. These were later identified as heroin.
Possession of any amount of a Class A substance, back in 1975, got you sent to prison.
That night, I visited what was laughingly called the family home. As a very junior detective, my purpose was to check for more drugs and maybe a notebook or diary with the name of her dealer.
The poky, two-bed Grange Park maisonette was, as expected, a disaster area.
I entered with Margaret’s own key, announced myself, got no reply and began a search of the grubby lounge, disgusting kitchen and filthy bathroom.
Margaret’s own bedroom was in a similar condition to the rest of the house, with the addition of used needles, condoms and sex toys.
The final room was the spare bedroom. The door, firmly closed, was painted a different colour to the rest of the house. I knocked, announced myself again, and pushed the door open.
Laurie Holland was standing in the corner of the tiny, but pristine room, tears rolling down her cheeks and a crowbar raised above her head. It was definitely not the first time strange men had come knocking on Laurie’s door in the middle of the night.
She was intent on caving my head in with the bar, swinging it wildly and thankfully missing. When I eventually took control, throwing the weapon into the hall and gripping her tight, she begged me not to hurt her.
As she broke her heart, even this detective felt a lump in his throat.
Once she was convinced I was a policeman and not one of her mother’s “friends”, she produced two spotlessly clean cups from her bedside cabinet and made tea. I listened to her story, hardened my heart, and called social services.
S
he was just fourteen, and that was the last time I saw her… until this day.
Laurie wore a tight black sixties-style mini dress, the sort made popular a second time around by the pop stars of the day. Unfortunately, the dress insisted on revealing more than she’d intended, due to the blustery wind. She held it in place by the hem and whispered apologies to Jamie. I noticed an engagement ring and thought they both looked far too young.
As the final words were being spoken and earth was being ceremoniously dropped on the coffin, I studied the seemingly confident young woman who had once been that frightened fourteen-year-old.
Laurie was indeed gorgeous. She was tall and still assumed the coltishness of youth. Her copious blonde curls fluttered across her pale, perfect complexion.
However, as I gazed, somewhat in awe, at her beauty, her expression turned to one I would not expect to see at a funeral. It was one of pure sexual desire. Laurie released the hand of her beau, and cocked her head seductively. She then deliberately released the hem of her skirt. There was the briefest of smiles as the wind caught it and revealed her thighs. Those cobalt blue eyes were gazing directly across the graveside and I followed them quizzically.
Staring back at her from across the cold darkness of the grave, wearing the broadest of grins, was none other than Frankie Verdi.
CHAPTER THREE
5th November 1980
Jamie Strange spotted Frankie Verdi the second he strolled to the grave. He knew all about him and his villainous reputation. Jamie had attended the same school as The Three Dogs, but they had failed to notice the quiet and studious boy at the front of the class, who had now become a Green Beret.
Jamie could feel Laurie shiver at his side. She had chosen not to wear a coat, but Jamie knew deep down, that the reason for her attack of the shakes was not the stiff breeze, but the swarthy handsome man opposite.
A month earlier, on the evening of their engagement, Jamie had chosen Paco’s Italian restaurant for their celebration meal. His parents had recommended the intimate Italian eatery owned by the Verdi’s. They themselves had used it for many years and had become friends with the honest and hard-working owners.
Frankie Verdi had attended to them that night.
It was supposed to be so special, but as Jamie concealed the engagement ring nervously in his hand, he was forced to watch on, helplessly, as Laurie shamelessly flirted with Frankie.
On the way home, they fought, and Jamie had left for camp the next morning without reconciling their differences.
Both had spoken over the telephone since, and Laurie had seemed distant, yet Jamie convinced himself that everything would be fine and that his fiancée’s behaviour was a one-off.
He worshipped her, she had agreed to marry him, and that was enough.
Today, the day of his mother’s funeral, was the first time they had been together since that night.
Jamie just wanted her next to him. After all, her occasional indiscretions could be easily forgiven considering the circumstances.
Those circumstances being that Jamie had just completed thirty-two weeks of basic training and had spent fewer than fourteen days at home during that time. Where Laurie was concerned, Jamie’s forgiveness came as standard.
His friends had warned him about Laurie long before their engagement. She had always been a flirt and she had a reputation for being hard and unpredictable.
Those things he could cope with.
Frankie Verdi was another matter.
Jamie walked to the edge of the grave, drew himself into his own world and looked down at the shiny coffin that contained his mother.
The small gathering started to slip away, and around him there were handshakes and kisses, hugs and condolences. For that moment, Frankie was forgotten and Jamie’s tears fell for his mother.
“Are you bearing up son?” It was his father Harry, damp-eyed but smiling.
Jamie nodded wiping his cheeks. “Yes Dad, I’m okay… could do with a beer now though.”
“The car’s waiting son, we’re all back to Saint Joseph’s club for the wake. We’ll send your mum off proper.” Harry looked around. “Where’s your Laurie?”
Jamie looked along the narrow gravel path that led from the graveside to the road.
Laurie was in deep conversation with Frankie. Her body language told a story anyone could read. Jamie felt a twinge of jealousy.
“I’ll go get her,” he said quietly to his father, and strode toward the pair.
As he closed in on them, their conversation halted abruptly. Laurie looked surprised to see him, Frankie smiled.
“Hey, it’s soldier boy.”
Jamie ignored the remark and took his girl gently by the arm.
“Come on Laurie, the car’s waiting to take us to St Joe’s.”
Frankie stepped in close. He was much smaller than Jamie and he was forced to look upward as he spoke. His black eyes, shark-like, showed no fear.
“The lady and I were having a conversation,” he said. “And you’re interrupting us.”
Jamie locked eyes with Frankie but spoke to Laurie.
“Go to the car honey, Dad’s waiting for you.”
The girl hovered for a second, strangely excited by the threat of violence in the air. The thought of two men fighting for her favours stimulated her. Then she felt Jamie’s grip tighten and knew it was time to make her exit.
Frankie watched appreciatively as Laurie deliberately swayed her hips as she walked to the waiting transport.
Jamie didn’t take his eyes from Frankie’s. His voice, no more than a whisper.
“You made a mistake here today Verdi. You think you’re so clever… some big-time gangster now eh? Think everyone is scared of you? Well let me you something, you’re just a nasty little boy from a shithole council estate. I’m not scared, not one bit lad. So, let me give you some free advice… stay away from Laurie.”
Frankie snorted a laugh.
“Or what… soldier boy? Or fuckin’ what?”
Jamie nodded toward the two men filling in his mother’s final resting place. His grey eyes narrowed, the veins in his powerful neck bulged.
“Or those boys will be digging one just like it for you.” He pushed Frankie hard in the chest with his forefinger, causing him to stumble backward. “And I’ll be here to spit on it.”
Frankie prowled around the back room of St Josephs, like a wounded animal. He thought his heart would burst it pounded so hard.
No one speaks to Frankie Verdi like that, no one. And that soldier boy fucker will pay… oh yes, he will pay.
From where Frankie stood, he could see through into the main lounge where the wake was taking place. He could see Jamie Strange with his arm draped around Laurie Holland. He could see them smiling at each other, sharing private conversations. He downed a third whiskey and water, slammed the glass on the bar and barked at the barman.
“Another!”
The guy was balding, fifties. “You need to find some manners young man. If you ask me, you don’t even look old enough to be drinking.”
Frankie leaned over the bar, teeth bared, voice barely audible.
“Maybe I’m not, but I am just in the mood to do you some fuckin’ serious damage fat boy.” He dropped one of his now trademark knuckledusters onto the bar and raised both eyebrows quizzically.
“I think you’ll just serve me and shut the fuck up.”
Frankie watched the man pour, scooped up the offensive weapon, dropped it back into his suit pocket, smiled sarcastically and turned. He flopped down into a seat and brooded. Halfway down his fourth drink, Tony Thompson appeared from the main room with mountains of buffet piled on a paper plate.
He stuffed two mini sausage rolls into his mouth as he sat.
“Fuckin’ top food in there Frankie… loads of it… free too.”
As he spoke he
spat flaky pastry over Frankie’s new black suit.
Frankie brushed the food from his sleeve and gave Tony a scornful look. “Be careful there Tone, these threads cost me near on a hundred quid.”
Tony found an egg sandwich and added it to his mouth. “Sorry Frankie, just sayin’ like.”
He offered the mountainous plate.
“You not hungry Frank? You must be starving’ mate.”
Verdi sat back, his heart rate returning to something approaching normal. He turned to his lifelong friend, picked up a mushroom vol-au-vent, sniffed it and took a reluctant bite.
“Where’s Eddie? Thought he was coming here once he’d sorted the ice cream money?”
Tony shrugged, “Dunno,” then remembered, “…oh yeah… he said he was going looking at some warehouse or somethin’.”
“A fucking warehouse?”
“That’s what I think he said… somethin’ about more vans.”
Frankie shook his head, then stood and looked back through the bar into the main room. He couldn’t take his eyes from Laurie Holland. He watched her move between guests, playing dutiful host. He loved her graceful movement, the way she smiled. She was class, real class.
I’ll have you Laurie, make no mistake. Nothing and no one will stop me.
Frankie, back in the land of the living, turned to Tony.
“More fuckin’ vans? What are you going on about now Tone, more fuckin’ vans?”
“That’s what he said.”
Frankie grabbed his coat.
“Let’s go find him, see what the big fucker is up to with our cash.”
Tony looked down at his plate. “Aw, I ain’t finished me grub Frankie, I’m starved.”
Frankie made for the door. “Come on. I’ll treat you to a Kentucky after.”
CHAPTER FOUR
6th November 1980
Laurie Holland had always been beautiful. Living with her whore of a mother, it didn’t take her long to realise that her looks were both her best asset and her worst enemy.