Soft Target 04 - The 18th Brigade

by Conrad Jones

  “Then if there`s nothing further then I must insist that you release my client immediately,” the lawyer tried for checkmate.

  “Your client is going nowhere until we get some answers,” The detective slammed his hand on the desk.

  “Oops! Calm down now officer, you`ll do yourself a mischief if you`re not careful,” Terry sniggered at him.

  The policeman stood up quickly, his chair scraped noisily across the floor. Terry Nick jumped up to meet him and the two men glared at each other across the table. Alan Williams placed his arm on Terry`s shoulder and whispered into his ear.

  “Don`t give them any excuse to hold you.”

  The door opened and in walked a heavily decorated police chief. Terry didn’t recognise his rank, but he looked important. The two detectives blushed red and looked perturbed at the senior officer`s interruption,

  “Do you have anything to charge Mr Nicolas with?” he asked curtly, showing no emotion at all.

  “Chief Constable, sir we are interviewing Mr Nicolas as a key witness to a violent murder late last night.”

  “I asked you if you were going to charge Mr Nicolas with anything detective,” the chief flushed angrily, his hands shaking slightly.

  “Not at this stage sir.”

  “Your client is free to leave,” the chief spoke to Alan Williams, completely ignoring the Brigade leader. Terry smirked across the table at the silent detectives.

  “But sir, we haven’t finished questioning the witness.”

  “Are you deaf detective?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then see Mr Nickolas out of the station and do it now,” the chief nodded at the solicitor and slammed the interview room door behind him.

  Tank watched the scene from behind the two-way glass and turned to Major Timms.

  “What just happened there then?” he said confused and amused at the same time. He hadn’t expected anything much to be gleaned from the interview in the first place. The Brigade seemed to be a tight run ship nowadays.

  “I think someone further up the pecking order has applied some pressure, don’t you?”

  “They must be very high in the pecking order because that was the Chief Constable of Cheshire,” Tank remarked.

  “Do you think he was withholding anything?”

  “What about the roadside bomb?”

  “Yes, and the bank,” the Major added.

  “No, I don’t think he knew anything about it. His face didn’t even flinch when they showed him the pictures,” Tank answered rubbing his shaved head with a big hand.

  They watched slightly bemused as the Brigade leader left the room with his solicitor, followed by two angry detectives.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Lewis

  Lewis woke up in a very distressed state. His mouth was so dry that he couldn’t swallow, and when he tried he was gagging on something that had been stuffed into his mouth. His head was foggy with alcohol, and it took him several minutes to realise that he`d been bound and gagged. The sound of a diesel engine and the sensation of moving at speed indicated that he was in a vehicle, but he couldn’t understand why anyone would tie him up and kidnap him. He swallowed hard and gagged again almost choking. There was the distinct taste of white spirit on the material that was in his mouth, and it was making him nauseous.

  He tried to recall what had happened prior to waking up in this nightmare, but it was a drunken blur. He remembered being in a gay bar on Canal Street, because the Yardie gang that he belonged to weren`t welcome in the clubs frequented by mostly black customers. They had made too many enemies within the Afro-Caribbean communities of Moss Side, especially since the arrival of Omar to the gang. It was dangerous going out into the city centre anyway, but with just two of them they daren`t risk Marley`s bar or the other reggae clubs. In hind sight it was a mistake going to town, full-stop. The gang members had been warned that there was something big going down, and to take precautions, but the call of women and beer had been too tempting to resist.

  Lewis had been born in the coastal town of Marka, one hundred miles south of Mogadishu, Somalia. He had been brought up as strict Muslim by poverty stricken parents, who struggled daily to feed their eight children. At ten years of age he had been taken to the capital city, Mogadishu by his father, and sold to a militia for three bags of rice and some powdered milk. The militias were always on the lookout for new recruits. In return for pledging allegiance to the militia the young recruits were fed daily and given an endless supply of drug weeds, which they chewed every day giving them a cocaine type high. It was here that he`d first encountered Omar.

  Omar was older than Lewis and already had a reputation as a cold blooded assassin. He feared no man, which is a valuable attribute in a cauldron of violence like Mogadishu. As time went by more and more rival militias had a price on Omar`s head. His notoriety was becoming a liability to the entire militia, which wasn’t the strongest outfit in the city by a long chalk. Eventually the militia leaders realised that Omar was worth more dead than he was alive and they betrayed him by setting him up to be taken by a neighbouring gang. If captured he would have been tortured to death as an example to others. Lewis caught wind of the plot to betray his older comrade, and he warned him of the conspiracy. They both left the city under the cover of darkness and headed for their new life in Britain. Lewis looked forward to a new life, a life of peace. He couldn’t have been further from the truth. Omar had ambitious plans and a driving desire to achieve his goals regardless of how they affected anyone else. Lewis was dragged along in his wake.

  Once in the country they headed for the Somali community in Moss Side, and soon joined their ranks. Lewis was mesmerised by the city centre and its night life. He had never seen white women in the flesh and he became obsessed by them, partying at every opportunity. While Lewis was becoming a social animal, Omar was becoming an animal of different type. The two men drifted apart as they established their relative positions within the gang, Omar as the new ruthless leader, and Lewis as a fringe member, rarely given anything important to do.

  Lewis realised with a jolt that Michael had been winding up the skinhead doormen all night. He had joined in himself although he wasn’t sure why. There was a foggy memory of going outside to answer his phone, and then he recalled a concussive blow to the back of the neck. Now he was trussed up like a prize pig, and he had no idea where he was being taken, or by whom. There was one thing that he had learned from his experiences in Mogadishu, and that was when someone was kidnapped and tied up, it rarely had a happy ending.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Terry Nick/ Jay

  The sun had been up a few hours when Jay eventually woke up. He was still tired. The police found the Yardie’s dead body in a skip down the alleyway and had shutdown everything on Canal Street. Jay had slipped through the back doors of the club and headed for his motorbike, leaving Danny Holley to coordinate their men in Manchester. Everywhere had been quiet, and there were no other sightings of any of the Somali gang members.

  There was a loud banging on the front door, which dragged him from a deep slumber. He stood up and wiped sleep from his eyes. In front of him there was a wide mirror fixed to the wall and he caught his reflection in the glass. Thick heavily muscled shoulders and arms, covered in tattoos supported his massive neck and shaved head. He slapped his belly and breathed in, any desire to own a six pack had been beaten down by age and a taste for beer. The loud knocking at the door began again.

  He walked down the stairs stealthily, stepping lightly on the carpet with bare feet, suddenly feeling vulnerable in just his boxer shorts. Heavy bangs on the door again made him jump. There was a baseball bat positioned next to the front door, leaning against the frame in case of emergencies. It would take a brave crew to come looking for Jay, but it was not unheard of, and the audacity of the Yardies had taken everyone by surprise. He picked up the bat and held it behind his back, hidden from view by his legs. Then he slid the security chain into place. It wouldn’
t stop a sustained attack, but it might hold an attacker long enough for him to make a quick getaway. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Open the door dickhead,” Terry Nick barked through the narrow gap between the frame and the door.

  “Fucking hell Terry! What are you doing here?” Jay complained as he unfastened the chain and opened the door.

  “I need a word in your ear,” Terry growled as he pushed past him into the house.

  Brendon followed Terry like a mini-me into the house, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  “Alright fatty,” he sneered and patted Jay on the belly as he walked by him. Jay breathed in instinctively.

  “Don`t push your luck Brendon, it`s too early in the morning,” Jay scolded the younger man.

  Jay followed Terry Nick and Brendon into the kitchen, feeling like his personal space had been invaded. Terry was filling the kettle with cold water from the tap in silence. Jay was worried as to the reason for this uninvited incursion into his home. Terry plugged the kettle in and switched it on. He opened a cupboard door and rummaged around for teabags and a sugar bowl, which he placed on the worktop next to the kettle. Then he reached in again and came out with a packet of Hobnobs. He took the first three from the top of the packet and stuffed the first one into his mouth, and then passed the biscuits to Brendon. He followed suit eating hungrily from the packet.

  “Just help yourself why don’t you?” Jay snatched the biscuits from Brendon and put them back into the cupboard, slamming the door shut. Brendon burst out laughing, and sprayed the kitchen with half chewed Hobnobs.

  “We need to talk Jay, but we are tired, and hungry, been awake all night in the cells,” Terry Nick said.

  “That`s fine Terry, but I`m not having this little toe-rag walking into my home and taking the piss out of me,” Jay stepped toward Brendon and stabbed a chunky finger in his chest.

  Brendon fronted up, but he stood a long way short of the big general, and a good three stones lighter. He would definitely have come off second best against Jay. Jay glared down at the younger skinhead, and Brendon backed down and broke his gaze, thinking better of annoying him.

  “Brendon tells me that we have a surprise package in his lockup,” Terry said ignoring the standoff next to him, and pouring boiling hot water into three mugs.

  “That`s right,” Jay said, turning away from Brendon and opening the refrigerator to remove a bottle of milk.

  He smelled the white liquid to confirm that it was still fresh, and then passed the bottle to the Brigade leader. As he turned toward Terry Nick, Brendon was standing directly behind him, holding his index finger to his lips and pointing through the kitchen window. Jay was confused and looked at Terry, who nodded slowly and placed his finger to his lips, in a shushing action. Brendon grabbed a post-it-note pad from the fridge, which had a small plastic pen attached to it by a coiled plastic extendable spring. He scrawled one word on the pad.

  `Police! `

  “I`ll have two sugars in mine,” Jay said looking out of the window, but he couldn’t see anything untoward.

  “I was questioned for three hours by detectives this morning,” Terry said, adding milk to the steaming brews, as if he was talking about the weather.

  “About the shooting at the Turf?” Jay played along with the charade.

  Terry Nick passed out the hot tea to each of them, and slurped a mouthful of his own before replying.

  “Well, they obviously wanted our witness statements, but they spent more time quizzing me about a firebomb attack at that bank in town,” Terry moved his hands in a circular motion indicating that they should draw out this particular conversation.

  He put down his tea and picked up the note pad and pen, and he started to scribble something that Jay couldn’t see from where he was standing, so he moved closer to him, sipping his tea as he went.

  “Why would they be asking you about that then?” Jay waffled.

  “They seem to think that is was a racially motivated attack, and that we might know who did it,” Terry continued to scribble.

  `I think we were followed by a surveillance team, don’t say anything about the Somalis` the note read.

  “Why would they think it was us?” Brendon piped up, trying to join in the pretence, but not quite having the intelligence to carry it off.

  Jay and Terry looked at each other in disbelief, shaking their heads.

  “Have you had a look in the mirror lately you stupid twat?” Jay answered him. Brendon flushed bright red realising how stupid he had sounded. His hand went to touch the swastika tattoo under his right ear almost unconsciously, confirming that he looked every inch the racist thug that he was, as did all his colleagues.

  “I wish we had done it,” Terry nudged Jay and pointed to the notepad, “Whoever it was did a blinding job of it. They firebombed the bank and wacked the owner when he was called out to the fire. Now that is classy, well impressed I am.” Terry finished writing and passed the note to Jay.

  Jay read the note, nodded and started to scribble the answer to Terry`s written question, while keeping up the staged conversation for the benefit of the police surveillance team.

  “That would take an awful lot of planning. I don’t think any of our boys could have pulled that off without someone knowing about it, do you?” Jay said.

  “No way, I think they are barking up the wrong tree, but we`ll have to investigate just in case, we`ll need all the rotas for the last week or so, and then we can see if anyone has been absent without leave,” Terry took a long gulp of tea, and read what Jay was writing.

  Brendon looked on a little bored of the game now that he`d realised that it was better if he kept quiet. He picked his nose and pulled out a meaty piece of snot, which he studied closely before wiping it on the side of Jay`s refrigerator.

  `I have a CD of our last meeting. I`ll put it on then you two fuck off out of the back door the Somali boss is called Omar, his missus lives on the fourth floor, number 43 Salford Towers, off Cross Lane. I`ll meet you at the lockup in a few hours` Jay`s scruffy handwriting was barely legible.

  Terry nodded in the affirmative, and finished his tea with one huge gulp, and he folded the note into his jean`s pocket. He patted his huge general on the back, a gesture of praise and gratitude. Jay went into his living room and flicked through some CD cases until he found the one he wanted. He looked at the label and then thought for a moment. The one underneath was more suitable. It was an interview with a reporter from the Liverpool Echo newspaper, who wanted to talk about the increase numbers of disgruntled people joining up to right wing organisations like the 18th Brigade. It was mostly himself and Terry waffling on with well prepared answers, which they had since edited for use elsewhere. He slotted it into the stereo and pressed play. Terry`s voice filled the room mid sentence, explaining that the Brigade was ultimately a legitimate limited company, often maligned and blamed for any racist attacks that occurred in the north of England. Jay turned it down a touch and then went back into the kitchen. He pressed play on a cassette recorder that lived on top of the fridge. The right wing skinhead band Screwdriver burst into song, adding to the sound of the recorded interview.

  Terry passed Jay his car keys, shook his hand, gave him a bear hug and slipped out of the back door. Brendon passed Jay, thought about bear hugging him, and then thought better of it. He jogged through the back yard catching up to the Brigade leader, and gave Jay thumbs up sign as he entered the alleyway at the rear. Jay closed the back door deftly and headed upstairs. He was going to get an hour`s sleep while the police listened to no one. It would take at least an hour before they realised that the recording was on a repeat setting, by which time Terry would be free from surveillance, and a team would be well on the way to Salford Towers.

  Omar would wish he`d stayed in Somalia.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The Arsenal

  Dano had been released from the cells in Warrington an hour before Terry Nick. He`d made a few calls and arranged for one o
f the Brigade members to pick him up from outside the police station. His junior colleague turned up in a dark blue Jeep Cherokee, the old model with the square bonnet. Dano opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat, rocking the vehicle as he did so with his considerable weight.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” his junior handed him a brown paper carryout bag from McDonalds, two Big Macs, large fries and a fried apple pie, washed down with a chocolate shake.

  “You are a fucking superstar,” Dano said stuffing the salty fries into his mouth with one hand, and ripping open the first Big Mac box with the other. He didn’t speak for a few minutes while he chomped his way through most of the food. Quick service restaurants had become the staple diet for doormen across the country, as the burger giants started to open their doors twenty four hours a day.