by Denis Byrne
‘They’re for my heart,’ Matthew said coldly, determined not to give these thugs the satisfaction of showing the slightest sign of fear, ‘I need to take one now, if you don’t mind.’
‘Be my guest,’ Needles said, handing him the phial. ‘For a minute there I thought you might be carrying.’
‘Good old Needles!’ Dapper laughed. ‘Always looking out for spanners in the works! You wanna to be careful he don’t have a couple of derringers strapped to his ankles, or you could wind up as mortuary meat.’
Needles watched Mathew Dawson slip a pill into his mouth, roll it around to mix with his saliva, then swallow it. He hated going on jobs with Desmond. Needles was always on edge until everything was successfully completed. And Dapper was forever ribbing him about it. Needles was five foot nothing, built like a refill for a biro, and had a face akin to an enraged ferret. In contrast, Dapper Desmond was six- three, had the well-toned body of a professional athlete and, just to rub it in as far as Needles was concerned, looked like Brad Pitt’s brother, only better looking. And he hated the way Desmond insisted on talking as though he’d stepped right out of some American gangster movie. Here’s the deal! Pops! Got it!
Sometimes Needles found himself slipping into the same way of talking, and when he thought about it later, he always wanted to kick himself for unconsciously imitating someone he both envied and disliked so much, the man who’d been responsible for giving him the nickname he detested. Needles! Dapper had pinned it on him about two seconds after he found out how easy it was to get under his skin.
Gerald Casey kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead. He was feeling a little guilty for the part he’d played in his boss’s kidnapping. But only a little, especially after he found out he’d no other option. He’d been made an offer he couldn’t refuse.
*
When he’d been approached some months ago one night as he was having a drink in his local public house, he initially refused point-blank to have anything to do with it. He was sitting at the bar, reading the racing results. Two men came in and sat either side of him on the high stools running the length of the counter. He didn’t pay either of them much attention, being more interested in seeing if Flapjack had won the four-thirty at Kempton.
It was the favourite. Gerald had fifty Euros on him to win at odds of six to four. Just his luck Flapjack had had an off day. Not only had he not won, he hadn’t even finished the race, unseating his jockey a furlong from home, before trailing in riderless after the rest of the field. Sometimes Gerald wondered why he bothered. And swore to himself he was going to give up the gee-gees as a bad job, though knew in his heart he’d be into the bookies tomorrow as usual, trying to recoup his lifelong losses.
Gerald was addicted to gambling. He was a devout member of the bookmaker’s benevolent society, someone who’d never be satisfied until he’d passed over the last of his money to ensure those gentlemen continued to live in large houses and enjoyed an opulent lifestyle. Not that Gerald ever thought about it in those exact terms. He just loved the excitement of gambling, and would never for a second admit, even to himself, much less anyone else, that he was an addict.
He folded up the newspaper in disgust and placed it on the counter, picked up his drink and finished the last of it. Gerald was about to ease himself off the barstool, when he was tapped gently on the arm by the man sitting to his right. Gerald looked at him quizzically. He’d never seen him before in his life. Nor was he in humour of being engaged in conversation by some stranger right now. He was still brooding over his most recent loss, and annoyed that he hadn’t enough money left to buy himself another drink.
‘Gerald Casey?’ Myles Moran enquired politely in a refined voice, pretending he didn’t know exactly who Casey was, despite the months of research he’d instructed some of his people to engage in to find out every detail about him. ‘Would I be correct in that assumption?’
Gerald was taken aback somewhat. He wasn’t accustomed to being addressed in such beautifully modulated tones in his local public house. Granted, his boss, Matthew Dawson, spoke in much the same manner, but Gerald certainly wasn’t expecting to hear that accent replicated by anyone else when he was off duty, especially by those who might happen to wander into his local in the housing estate where he lived.
‘Who wants to know?’ Gerald Casey asked, frowning, hoping it wasn’t someone representing anyone he might be in debt to.
‘I’m your fairy godmother,’ Myles replied, smiling into Gerald’s face, ‘and I’ve come bearing tidings of good fortune for you in the future.’
Dapper Desmond, sitting on the other barstool, turned his face away and put his hand to his face to smother a smile. The Boss always knocked him out the way he talked. Dapper loved working for him. The man was a genius. He could see Gerald Casey’s face in the mirror behind the counter, and it was an absolute hoot. He only wished he’d brought his digital camera with him. He was sure the shot would win first prize in a photo competition confined to startled looking goldfish.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t time for this,’ Gerald said as evenly as he could manage, thinking that the distinguished looking gentleman with the silver locks and beautiful accent must surely have escaped from some lunatic asylum. ‘I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to be somewhere else in about five minutes.’
‘Oh, please stay,’ Myles said softly, but with such remarkable authority that Gerald found himself compelled to obey like some schoolboy being told to do something by his headmaster. ‘I assure you you’ll benefit greatly from what you’re about to hear.’ Myles clicked his fingers in the direction of Dapper Desmond. ‘Mr. Desmond, where are your manners? Please be good enough to carry out your duties as host. Myself and Mr. Casey will be in consultation in that booth over there where we can have some privacy. Kindly do the needful. The usual for me and whatever Mr. Casey’s heart desires.’
It wasn’t long before Gerald Casey found himself snugly ensconced in the booth referred to, a double brandy sitting on a beer mat in front of him, sitting opposite this posh gentleman with the beguiling manner and impeccable dress sense. His fairy godmother. But there was a catch somewhere. There had to be. Men like this didn’t materialise out of the blue when you were on your uppers and hand you an envelope containing a thousand Euros for no reason whatsoever. That only happened in fairytales. Which made Gerald smile when it came into his head. The man had alluded to the contents of the envelope as a retainer.
‘Fair enough,’ Gerald said cautiously, despite the nice warm glow in the pit of his stomach the brandy was responsible for. ‘But I think maybe you’ve got the wrong person. I’m not a hitman or anything like that.’
Moran’s face took on a look of offence at the very idea.
‘Oh, please, Mr. Casey, how could you dream I’d be requiring the services of such a person? I’m astonished you should bring up a reprehensible subject like that. I merely wish you to carry out something perfectly simple for me. And when it’s been satisfactorily concluded, you’ll be richly rewarded.’
Gerald Casey liked the sound of that.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘Shoot! What’s so perfectly simple it’s going to turn me into a Lotto winner?’ The brandy on top of the pint of Guinness he’d had earlier was beginning to make him feel less in awe of the headmaster. ‘What do you want me to do, and how much do I get afterwards?’
Myles Moran smiled. ‘That’s more like it, Mr. Casey.’ He sipped from his glass of Ballygowan in which at least half a dozen ice cubes bobbed about. ‘A man after my own heart. But first another drink before we discuss our business proposal.’ He snapped his fingers again, and Dapper appeared with another double brandy at the ready, which he placed on the table in front of Gerald after removing his empty glass. He was about to return to the counter, but Moran forestalled him. ‘Take a seat, Mr Desmond, if you’d be so kind. We’re about to open proceedings. I’d like you to bear witness to the outcome.’
What a Boss, Dapper thought to himself for about the millionth
time since joining Moran Enterprises. He’s something else. Cracks me up every time. Mr. Desmond! Classy, or what? The only other times Dapper had been addressed as Mister was when he was up on charges and his free legal aid brief was pleading his innocence. Dapper had a record. A long-playing one. Funny thing, though, ever since Myles Moran had taken him into his employ, no charge had ever been proven against him. And that was because the most expensive brief in the country now pleaded his case whenever necessary, tying witnesses into knots and making them out to be people who shouldn’t be let out on their own without a seeing-eye dog.
The Boss was magic. He snaps his fingers just like he did a minute ago, and people do things. Dapper had no idea how or why, all he knew was once you did what you were told, you were looked after. Good enough for Dapper Desmond.
Myles called everyone Mister in Moran Enterprises. Except himself. Boss was what he liked to be referred to as. Even Needles got the Mister treatment. His little ferret face almost managed to form itself into a smile the first time it happened. But didn’t quite make it. Dapper was sorry he hadn’t had his digital camera on hand that day too.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gerald said after the proposal had been fully outlined to him. ‘I couldn’t pull something like that on Mr. Dawson. He’s an old man with a dodgy ticker, and he’s been good to me. A hundred grand is tempting, but I just couldn’t bring myself to - -’
‘Oh, dear,’ Myles Moran interrupted him in no more than a whisper, carrying in it a trace of disappointment. ‘I was hoping our business meeting wouldn’t transform itself into vulgar haggling. I really dislike horse trading. But I’m afraid that’s my final offer. You take that, Mr. Casey, or perhaps you’d prefer to conduct further negotiations with Mr. Desmond instead.’
Dapper understood now why he’d been ordered to sit in on the meeting. The Boss thought of everything. Desmond casually unbuttoned his jacket and let it swing open, revealing his shoulder-holster, in which his Glock 9mm snuggled close to his chest. Dapper had checked immediately he’d entered the public house to ensure there were no CCTVs in evidence. There rarely were in watering holes like this one, but you never could tell these days. Gerald blanched, suddenly not feeling too well, despite the free brandy he’d been plied with. In fact, he felt terrible, and was having great difficulty tearing his eyes from the weapon, still staring fearfully at where it had been, even after Dapper had buttoned up his jacket again.
‘Well, Mr. Casey, are you sufficiently impressed with our Organisation now to reconsider my offer?’ Myles Moran enquired, having given Gerald a few minutes to recover his composure. ‘I assure you, we’re extremely efficient in what we undertake. I’m certain you won’t be disappointed should you change your mind.’
‘It doesn’t look like I’ve got a choice,’ Gerald finally managed, shrugging his shoulders in resignation, consoling himself with the thought of the riches coming his way for his services. ‘But I’ve one favour to ask before we pull this off.’
‘And what might that be, Mr Casey?’ Moran asked him softly.
‘I don’t want Mr. Dawson to know I’d anything to do with this. I want whoever’s carrying out the snatch to make it look like I’m being taken captive just like he is, and that I’m being forced to drive the Merc to wherever you’re planning taking him. Okay?’
Myles Moran smiled and held out his hand to shake on the deal. ‘It will be as you wish, Mr. Casey. And may I commend you on your loyalty to your employer.’ He stood up and, for a minute, Gerald could have sworn he was going to give a formal bow before he left, but he merely nodded his head in acknowledgement of their coming to terms with each other. ‘Come, Mr. Desmond. We’ve arrangements to make. And we’ll contact you, Mr. Casey, in due course.’
Gerald didn’t doubt it for a second. He only realised after they’d left that he hadn’t a notion what his fairy godmother’s name was.
*
Anna Conway couldn’t believe it had been so easy. Granted, the Boss had made all the prior arrangements for the abduction to be carried out smoothly, but still - - .
‘Trust me, Miss Conway,’ Myles Moran had assured her, ‘They’ll be expecting you.’
And they were. When she knocked on the Headmistress’s door, Lily already had her coat on over her school uniform. The Headmistress had received a phone call from Lily’s Mother half an hour before Anna Conway parked her BMW beside the row of teacher’s cars in the school grounds.
‘I’m afraid my husband’s been involved in an accident,’ Lily’s Mother had told Miss Rawlings, her voice trembling appropriately to suit the occasion. ‘No, no, I’ve been assured it’s not too serious, but I’m still at my wit’s end.’
‘You poor thing!’ Miss Rawlings commiserated. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? I can bring Lily home myself if - -’.
‘That’s very kind of you, Miss Rawlings, but I won’t be here. I’ve to dash off to the hospital straight away. One of my neighbours will pick her up and mind her until I get home. She’ll be there in about half an hour or so. I’m sorry for taking Lily out in the middle of - -’.
‘Think nothing of it, Mrs. Cartwright. You’ve more important things on your mind right now. I’ll see to it Lily’s ready to leave as soon as the lady arrives. And try not to worry, Mrs Cartwright. I’m sure everything is going to be fine.’
‘I hope so,’ Lily’s Mother replied hesitantly, ‘I sincerely hope so.’
‘Should I say anything to Lily about - -’
‘Oh, no! I don’t want her worrying unnecessarily. Just tell her that her Mommy said to go along with Mrs. Stevens, and stay with her until I get back from – from - -’.
‘I’ll think of something, Mrs. Cartwright,’ Miss Rawlings interrupted her, telling herself the poor woman had enough on her plate right at the moment without having to come up with some excuse to put her daughter’s mind at rest. ‘You run along now and don’t fret yourself any further. Lily’s a very obedient little girl. She’ll do as she’s told.’
*
Lily Cartwright thought it odd that her Mommy had sent this strange lady to collect her before the school day had even ended. Sitting in the back seat of the BMW not unlike the one her Daddy owned, except for the colour, that was, she was being driven out the school gates before she had time to ask who the lady was. Miss Rawlings had distinctly said her Mommy phoned to say she was to go with the lady, so Lily supposed that she was one of Mommy’s friends she’d never met before. She was positive the lady was wearing a grey wig.
Lily wondered why. It certainly made her look a lot older than Lily suspected she really was. But adults were funny that way. This lady seemingly wanted to look older, while her Mommy was always trying to make herself look younger. And she’d even heard her Daddy making a fuss from time to time about getting another grey hair. As if it mattered. He only had about four or five as it was.
Lily couldn’t help thinking that adults never seemed to be satisfied with their appearances. She was also wondering if the lady in the wig had lost her way. As far as she could tell, they weren’t anywhere near where she lived. And it wasn’t long before there were fields and hedges and trees flying past in the opposite direction. But Lily wasn’t in the slightest bit worried. If she had taken a wrong turning somewhere, the lady could always stop and ask someone for directions back to their neighbourhood.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Minister for Justice was going crazy. It was at his desk that the buck inevitably stopped in such a high profile case. He was demanding answers, and demanding them immediately. The Chief of Police was getting it in the neck. A week after the kidnappings, he had nothing concrete to report. Sitting in the Minister’s office now, with the Minister raving and ranting at him wasn’t exactly his idea of a relaxing afternoon. It certainly wasn’t doing his high blood-pressure any favours. He’d already explained that he was every bit as concerned as the Minister was, but may as well have been talking to a concrete block. The Minister wasn’t an individual known for his tolerance and understanding
at the best of times. Right now, he was all but frothing at the mouth.
‘Do you realise what all this is making me look like, Carter?’ he demanded, ‘Have you been reading the reports in the papers every day?’
‘Yes, Minister,’ Carter said wearily. ‘Both of us are being referred to as incompetent fools.’
‘Exactly! But it won’t do, Carter! It’s not good enough! There’s an election coming up in six months time, and I’m being written about as though I’d personally carried out the abductions. The Opposition are screaming for my head already! And if I go down, Carter, you’ll be coming with me! So what are you going to do about it?’
‘Practically every member of the force is out there looking for leads, Minister. We’re doing everything we can. They seem to have vanished into thin air.’
The Minister, who had arisen from his large leather chair, and was now circling the desk in agitation, his face puce, didn’t look at all impressed with this latest statement. If there was anything he abhorred in a subordinate, it was being informed of something he was only too well aware of. He’s already huffed, puffed and bluffed his way through the last few days. He’d had his spin doctors working overtime preparing a statement, declaring that everything was under control, and that a breakthrough would be announced in a matter of days.
‘I know they’ve vanished into thin air, Carter! The media keeps pointing that out to everyone! It’s when you’re going to make them reappear is what I want to know! Surely your people have come up with something by this stage? Something substantial I can publish in my next statement. Some tiny piece of information to keep them all from clamouring that I should be hung, drawn and quartered for allowing such a thing to happen in this day and age!’