by Robert White
Someone turned a switch. Tony produced a smile from somewhere and he stroked Cheryl’s face with his thick fingers. Even so, venom still lurked in his eyes, hiding there, waiting for the opportunity to be released. She had dared to criticise The Three Dogs and made a note never to repeat the action. She shuddered at his touch, part fear, part fascination.
Thompson’s voice was calm, low. “Course we are Chez, course we’re mates. I like yer. I like yer a lot. But, don’t ever try and get between Frankie, Eddie and me eh?”
Cheryl nodded and bit her bottom lip.
“Yeah,” she said. “Course not. Why would anyone do such a thing eh?”
Managing a smile, she took a deep breath and said, “So… which one’s yours? Yer gonna show me around?”
CHAPTER TEN
The news that the cops were onto 3D Ice was a major blow for the Dogs.
Tony’s idea of changing the selling point to cabs was a good one, but how long would it be before some other grassing bastard gave CID the word on the taxis?
Frankie drove a little too fast from his house in Broughton. He’d returned there after the meeting to find Laurie still in bed, nursing another hangover, and the place a mess. They’d argued, again, and she’d tested his temper, again.
Things weren’t at all rosy between the pair. Laurie had started to make noises about weddings and children. Frankie was more interested in making money.
Right now, he needed to go and see Fat Les at the 3D Ice depot, give him the bad news, and make sure there wasn’t going to be anything for the cops to find come Monday.
He drove his Jaguar onto the forecourt of the unit. It had an ‘A’ prefix on the number plate, telling the whole town it was just days old.
Two 3D vans were parked outside having been loaded with goods to take out for the evening run. After all, it was August, and folks did actually buy ice cream from them.
Frankie pulled open the door to find Fat Les had company.
Les was sitting on a solitary chair he’d dragged from the office, whilst his company sat on the bonnet of another 3D Ice van, swinging her legs and eating a cornet.
Frankie took a good look at the girl on the bonnet before turning to his employee, who appeared very uncomfortable indeed.
“Giving our stock away?” he asked, with more than a hint of rancour in his tone.
“Erm… Hiya Frank,” spluttered Les. “No mate, I erm… well I paid for it mate, honest I did. I mean…”
Frankie had lost interest in Fat Les’ meanderings and was taking an even greater interest in his visitor.
“And who might you be?” he asked, removing his aviator sunglasses to reveal his most powerful weapons.
The girl stopped swinging her bare legs, cocked her head to one side and smiled. Before she could answer, Fat Les was in.
“This is Maisy, Frank. Our Margaret’s eldest. She lives next door see. She’s just nipped in to drop off me sandwiches. I forgot them when I left this mornin’. She ain’t doing no harm, I…”
“Shut the fuck up Les,” spat Frankie, turning to the girl.
“Maisy eh?”
Frankie walked closer to her. She had fine shoulder-length blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and a full petal-lipped mouth. She licked her ice-cream seductively, knowing exactly the effect it would have on the well-dressed handsome man in front of her.
“That’s me,” she offered. “But who are you?”
Frankie presented Maisy with his best smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t know who I am?”
Maisy licked her lips and shook her head. “Nope,” she lied, and began swinging her legs again.
“I’m Frankie Verdi, I own this place. I own that van you are sitting on, and I own that ice cream you are eating.”
The girl raised her eyebrows, stretched out her arm and offered the cornet to Frankie. “Would you like a lick?” she said, raising the sexual odds even further.
Frankie locked eyes with the girl but spoke to his employee.
“Why don’t you step outside and have a fag or two Les? Take a look at my new Jag whilst you’re at it.”
Les shuffled in his seat, knowing exactly why Frankie wanted him gone.
“Erm… well, Frank, look mate, Maisy’s just nipped in to…”
Verdi spun on his heels, eyes blazing, fists clenched.
“I fucking know what you said, you fat bastard… now piss off!”
Les went pale, stood, and shuffled outside, shaking his head as he closed the door behind him.
When Frankie turned back, Maisy had stopped her leg swinging, and had crossed them, revealing her tanned thighs in all their splendour.
Frankie admired them.
“That’s a very short skirt Maisy,” he offered.
“It’s my tennis skirt,” she said, gripping the hem with her free hand and lifting it even higher. “I like to play on Saturday morning.”
“And then come here to steal my ice cream?”
The girl took the whole head of the cone into her mouth and twirled it around. She pulled it out with a “plop”.
“Les pays for them,” she said, tossing it into a nearby bin. “Anyway, if you can afford a new Jag, you can afford an ice cream.”
Frankie got in close. The girl had full breasts that strained against her white T-shirt. He traced his finger across them and for the first time, Maisy’s confidence seemed to waiver.
“I can buy anything I like, Maisy… anything, or anyone.”
Maisy pushed his finger away.
“You can’t buy me,” she said.
“No?”
“No.”
Frankie gave up on her breasts and traced patterns on Maisy’s thighs with his nail. “Do you have a boyfriend Maisy?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
Maisy nodded.
“And do you let him touch those nice big titties of yours?”
The girl giggled at his brashness, leaving Frankie to suspect that she wasn’t as old as he’d first thought.
“Maybe,” she said.
Frankie could smell her perfume. Laurie hadn’t touched him in weeks. He felt he may burst.
“And what else do you let your boyfriend do?”
Maisy was excited too. Scared, but excited. She’d known exactly who Frankie Verdi was, the second he walked through the door; knew he was one of The Three Dogs, the most powerful gang in town. Her fear was surmounted by her desire to get close to such a powerful and handsome man.
“Stuff,” she said. “I let him do some stuff, you know?”
Frankie grabbed the girl’s hand and placed it on his crotch.
“This kind of stuff?” he panted, planting his mouth on her neck.
Maisy thought to pull her hand away, but Frankie held it in place, rubbing himself against her palm.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Stop teasing Frankie now.”
Maisy had never gone all the way. She knew her virginity was a prize many of the boys on Moor Nook estate coveted. She also knew that to lose it to this man would mean something different… something maybe very special.
“I… I… don’t know,” she managed.
Frankie pushed Maisy further back onto the bonnet of the van and buried his face between her bare thighs.
“Oh, I know honey… Frankie Verdi always knows best.”
* * *
Frankie stepped out to his car, flushed with exertion. He wiped sweat from his brow with a white handkerchief, before straightening his tie and replacing his aviators.
Les’ guts churned with hatred. He hated Frankie Verdi almost as much as he hated himself.
Les knew what Frankie had just done, and knew he’d allowed it to happen. He’d been too scared to stop it.
Les cursed his cowardice and cursed The Three Dogs.
Frankie didn’t notice Les’ distaste or feel an ounce of regret at taking Maisy’s virginity.
“The cops are onto us Les,” he said flatly. “Make sure you clean the unit and vans up good. There’ll be no gear sold until further notice. I’ll take the stash with me now. I don’t want so much as a fuckin’ roach found inside the gaff. Understand?”
Les nodded.
Frankie studied him for a moment.
“What’s up with you? Fuck me Les, it should be me that has a face like a wet weekend. You should be fucking grateful you still have a job.”
Les was scared of Verdi, he was scared of all the Dogs, but he had to say something.
“You shouldn’t have done that Frank.”
Verdi turned instantly, his voice the embodiment of savagery.
“What’d you say fat boy?”
Les jutted his chin toward the unit.
“That… to our Maisy… she’s just fifteen for fuck’s sake.”
Verdi let out a callous laugh. He grabbed Les by the chin and squeezed hard, his voice a mere terrifying whisper.
“Listen you fat lazy prick. Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher… that’s what they say eh? She wanted it right? She was begging me for it. She’s inside there now, with a big fucking smile on her face, twenty quid in her knickers and two complimentary tickets for Toast. And I’ll tell you this too fat boy, she’ll be back for more of the same… but…”
Frankie increased the pressure on Les’ jaw.
“But if anything should ever come on top over what happened here today, I’ll know exactly where to come looking eh?”
Verdi slapped Les across the cheek hard enough to knock him down.
“Now, take my new little plaything home to mummy, and get this place cleaned up.”
* * *
Detective Jim Hacker
The operation on 3D Ice was to be completed in two stages. The first, a surveillance operation on the vans, followed by a fingertip search of the 3D depot and eleven other addresses identified as being used by The Three Dogs and their associates, including the nightclub, Toast.
As I stood before my team on the morning of Monday 15th August 1983, I recall my stomach churned with anticipation, and no small amount of concern. I had put myself out on a limb, in the hope of netting The Three Dogs, and I was fully aware should a positive result not be forthcoming, that my fledgling career as a DI, could be over before it had begun.
I had been allocated seven additional officers to assist my department with the operational side of matters.
These were made up of just three fully fledged detectives, the remainder being uniformed constables who had been earmarked for a possible future in the CID branch.
These, mainly junior constables, were willing to don plain clothes and sit in the back of a roasting van for hours on end, in the hope it gained them brownie points with the powers that be, when it came to their final CID interview.
I had also requested further support in our intelligence gathering, and a very attractive young lady by the name of Candice, had been drafted in from HQ control room, to work alongside our dedicated collator, Colin Whittle.
As I completed my briefing, I was confident that the complicated logistical issues of such a critical observation had been overcome, and within hours, rather than the five days I had been assigned, we would have enough evidence to move on Frankie Verdi, Eddie Williams and Tony Thompson.
I was, at best, over-optimistic.
* * *
By the end of day three, not one gram of cannabis had been sold, nor a single wrap of amphetamine sulphate recovered. My officers, however, did report and record the visits of dozens of known drug users to the vans, yet all appeared to walk away either empty-handed, or with nothing more than an innocent ice cream.
At 0800 hrs on Thursday 18th August 1983, I was summoned to my DCI’s office and given an ultimatum.
Either execute the search warrants issued by Preston Magistrates to search The Three Dogs’ premises or call off the operation altogether.
I had often felt alone in my role as a policeman, but never so much as that morning. I walked to the canteen, bypassed the mountain of bacon and sausages on the grill, took refuge in a lone cup of over-brewed tea and pondered my fate.
If I executed the warrants on The Three Dogs and found nothing, I would be an even bigger laughing stock than I already appeared. Should I call off the operation without undertaking the searches, I would save the taxpayer a few thousand pounds, but look as if I lacked both leadership, and the courage of my own convictions.
I was, as they say, between a rock and a very hard place.
As I stirred two cubes of sugar into the dark abyss that was my tea, I was joined by our newest recruit to the team, Candice.
Her presence didn’t alter my mood in any way, but she did brighten my view.
Candice, however, was far more than a pretty face, and after four more cups of frankly awful Typhoo, she had convinced me that some of Lancashire Constabulary’s most stringent vetting procedures had failed us, and that we had a bad egg in our unit. By lunchtime that day, Candice had been able to collate enough circumstantial evidence, to point out a potential suspect.
Colin Whittle.
Colin would be described by most as a nice man. Average in almost every way, he went about his duties in the most studious manner, leaving me in little doubt of his competence. As a result, I’d had no reason to even notice him, or his rather obvious personal issues.
A casual chat around his closer colleagues revealed that Colin had major money worries, an overbearing wife and daughters, with not only ideas above their station, but Colin’s meagre wages.
The family had recently moved to a house that came with a mortgage payment that would cripple most detective inspectors, let alone a civilian worker, and with the recent hike in interest rates, Colin had intimated to some in the office he was struggling.
When one rather vicious sort from the typing pool commented that the Whittle family had just booked a foreign holiday for the coming October, I’d heard enough.
Much to my irritation, at 1400 hrs, I called off our operation and invited Colin Whittle into my office for a friendly chat.
It didn’t take long before Colin admitted his crime. Frankie Verdi had given him a thousand pounds for his tip-off. He had approached Verdi months earlier, because he was broke and couldn’t live with the demands of his wife and family.
Now you could say that Colin was as much a victim in this case as anyone else, and I would concur with that, to a point. Yet Colin had cost the taxpayer eleven times the fee he had solicited from Verdi.
Worse still, he had risked bringing the good name of Lancashire Constabulary into disrepute and allowed The Three Dogs to survive another investigation.
As is the way in most embarrassing scenarios involving large organisations, Colin wasn’t formally charged.
He simply went quietly.
As for me, I remained in my post, even more convinced that I should concentrate on bringing The Three Dogs to justice. My seniors, however, had different ideas and I was instructed to leave well alone, unless further corroborated intelligence was forthcoming.
On a far more positive note, just a month later, on 12th September, my wife announced that she was once again pregnant. As time progressed, we were to find we were expecting a boy. With two fine girls in the household, our family would be complete. Although the news didn’t totally rid me of my obsession with Verdi and friends, it went a hell of a way to it.
* * *
Some three weeks later, I met Harry Strange for a beer or two in the British Legion. He’d finally gotten to see Jamie, who had been home on leave after his somewhat mysterious absence from planet earth. Harry shook his head as he described his son as looking like a layabout.
It appeared that the 1
4th Intelligence Unit worked totally undercover, and Jamie had not only been forced to let his hair grow, but now sported a full set. The bad news was Jamie had only been home a day or two when he’d been called back over the water. Things, as they say in our line of work, had gone pear shaped.
* * *
The Maze Prison escape took place on 25th September 1983.
The Maze, sometimes referred to as Long Kesh, was a high-security prison that held prisoners convicted of taking part in armed paramilitary campaigns during the Troubles.
Thirty-eight PIRA prisoners escaped from the infamous H-Block. During the daring escape, one prison officer died and twenty others were injured, including two who were shot.
The escape was major news and was all over the TV.
Harry told me it was no coincidence that this event coincided with Jamie’s early recall to duty.
I followed the story with great interest.
Of the thirty-eight that escaped, fifteen were recaptured on the first day. Four more escapees were held over the next two days, including two men who were apprehended following a two-hour siege at an isolated farmhouse.
What I wasn’t aware of at the time, was out of the remaining escapees, most ended up in the republican stronghold of South Armagh.
Most, but not all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
28th September 1983. Coalisland, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland
Jamie Strange and Richard Valance had been briefed by a surly suit with a London accent. He didn’t give a name, or department, he simply gave out their orders with brusque efficiency. The two marines, now fully fledged members of 14th Intelligence Unit, Belfast, had gotten used to meeting new faces with each operation. It seemed that the workings of the Secret Service and Special Forces needed lots of people in suits, but only at the blunt end.
These officer types appeared to be flown into the Province, have a single meeting and be instantly whisked away again back to the relative safety of Whitehall.
Their briefing completed, the pair collected a car from the pool of Det vehicles parked in the yard. Bird had a quick check of the log to ensure it hadn’t recently been used in the area they were about to visit, whilst Jamie took a quick sniff inside to ensure a certain other member of the crew hadn’t been using it. Happy neither was the case, they threw in their kit and made for Coalisland, a town in County Tyrone that was over ninety-eight per cent Catholic and where the SAS had shot dead two PIRA players some months earlier.