by Conrad Jones
“We don’t know that they burned down your gym.” Simon switched the kettle back on and reached for the coffee jar. He twisted the top off and put two spoonfuls of granules into a mug.
“You can kid yourself if you like,” Mark said pointing his finger. “I know who set fire to the gym and so does everybody else. They got to Bryn in a prison. Just how hard do you think it would be to get to mum and dad in a hospital?”
“Once they hear about Bryn we won’t have an option.” The kettle boiled and Simon poured the steaming liquid into his cup. Black coffee wasn’t his first choice but he needed something, anything that might settle his nerves. The smell drifted to him making his mouth water.
“You could narrow down their options by taking the car.”
“What?” Simon asked confused.
“You could go to the hospital now. Gandalf could get you in to see Bryn.”
“I don’t know about that, Mark.”
“It makes sense. Take the car and go and see how he is. I’ll tell mum and dad what happened when they wake up. They might not wake up for hours anyway.”
“What if they do and I’m halfway there?”
“I’ll tell them that you left in the middle of the night and that you’ll let us know what has happened when you get there. They’ll understand when I explain that there are no guarantees that we’d be allowed to see him anyway.”
“What if he dies, Mark and I’m in Liverpool?”
“He won’t.”
“What if he does?”
“He won’t.”
“You have to consider the alternatives.”
“No I don’t.”
“Then I do.”
“If he dies at least they didn’t have to sit there and wait for the door to open and a doctor to come in and say how fucking sorry he is.”
“I don’t think mum would agree.”
“They’re better off here,” Mark hissed, tears in his eyes. “Fucking hell! I don’t know what to do for the best.”
“None of us knows what to do for the best,” Simon put his hand on his shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, Jacob said the same as you.”
“There you go, if Gandalf says don’t tell them then I must be right.”
“What a fucking mess,” Simon said shaking his head.
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to drive to the shops and buy some breakfast supplies, milk bacon, bread, butter and when we come back, I’ll call Jacob, we’ll eat and make a decision what to do. Deal?”
“Deal. Let’s go.”
“You need to go and put some pants on,” Simon gestured to Mark’s lower half. Mark looked down and shrugged.
“Smart arse,” he half smiled and punched his brother on the arm. They laughed but their eyes showed the sadness inside.
CHAPTER 37
Eddie Farrell stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. It was the little things that reminded him of her death. Every day something hit him like a steel dart through the head. The towelling material felt flat and stiff, not soft and fluffy the way they used to before cancer called on their home. It didn’t matter what conditioner the cleaner used, they weren’t the same, one of life’s subtle reminders that his loss was permanent. First his wife and now Anthony; both snatched from him with little to no warning. He blamed that fat fuck Paulie, he blamed Bryn Evans, he blamed the Karpovs but mostly he blamed himself. Anthony’s death had served as the catalyst to change. It was a wakeup call that he could not ignore. It was time to downsize and move on. He was going to move along to the next chapter of his life without the Karpovs. They were a huge outfit but that was their biggest problem. The organisation was too big, too slow and spread too thin. Victor Karpov was a dinosaur but he was getting old and his successors were not as focused as he was. To Victor, the Karpov dynasty had been carved from flesh and fed on the blood of the men who had died to protect it. It was a legacy that those who bore the name Karpov would carry with them for generations to come. The Karpovs’ ancestry was born in the salt mines of the east, a poor family blighted by cold, starvation and disease. Now the Karpov name struck fear into its enemies from the decorated chambers of the State Duma to the back alleys of Europe’s cities and beyond.
All that said, the sum total of the Karpovs’ investment in his city was Nikolai Karpov. He was the token Karpov participant backed up with the threat of the Karpov name and the reputation of its members. It wasn’t deemed necessary to send dozens of its brotherhood to the city when making an alliance with a recognised outfit such as the Farrells was easier to manage. Their men stood out in the UK and their visibility became a liability. Taking on an established outfit and offering them a ‘franchise’ to use the Karpov name amounted to the same thing. It added up to higher profits and minimal risk. If things became violent, it wasn’t their men that died, if the police raided, it wasn’t their men who went to jail and if things were going along swimmingly they had no men to pay from their cut. Having the most soldiers stationed in a city was no longer necessary. Their network of assassins was the key to maintaining power. Anyone who stood in their way, threatened the organisation or became an informer was disappeared quickly and without fuss.
Eddie knew how they operated. He had been partners with them for years but he was beginning to resent their presence. It was his operations that generated their income and his men that put their lives on the line week in and week out, yet the Karpovs took thirty percent. Granted they had direct access to some very useful smuggling outfits on the continent but that didn’t outweigh the negatives. They only sent their men in numbers when someone pressed the panic button. If Nikolai cried for help then a small army of Karpov men would be sent to the city and they wouldn’t leave until order was restored. There were over fifty Karpov men in Manchester, where they had no affiliations with local outfits; twenty in Leeds, fifteen in Preston, fifty in Newcastle and over one hundred south of Birmingham. They were only a few hours away. No one could match them for power or strength. He wanted shut of them but he would have to be clever. If he made an enemy of Victor Karpov then he would die very soon after. It was that simple. He wanted Nikolai gone then he would be able to convince Victor that replacing him was unnecessary and inadvertently he had given him the ideal opportunity to do just that.
He towelled himself dry and sprayed deodorant under his arms. His tan was dark, his white bits milky and unhealthy looking. He looked in the mirror, breathed in and opened the door, padding along the corridor to his bedroom. Bob Marley was singing ‘Exodus’ on the radio and he hummed along to it as he opened his double wardrobe and picked out a dark blue Armani suit, white Versace shirt and dark tie to match. He wanted to look smart, professional and intelligent while he made arrangements for Anthony. Nobody was going to take him for a mug while he organised his funeral. Then he would have to do the rounds of meeting family members, close and distant and old friends, some in the business and some not. Meeting with Nikolai had not been on his agenda but he was curious what had gone wrong. Apart from that the zombie shipment would net him a fortune once it was distributed. Of course he would make sure the Karpovs got their full share this time. It would be the last. He dressed and checked himself in the mirror, happy with what he saw. A splash of Armani Code made his skin sting for a second and he grimaced as he walked out of the bedroom door.
Eddie walked down the stairs and slipped his feet into polished black brogues. He felt a draft on his neck and noticed that the front door was ajar. It creaked and opened slightly as a breeze moved it. Eddie walked over and opened it, looking around the garden quickly before closing it once more. Junior was forever leaving the bloody thing open when he went for a run around the grounds. He had lost count of how many times he had scolded his son for it. He picked up his wallet and keys from a marble coffee table and then headed into the kitchen for his mobile.
“Eddie Farrell!” a voice called out jovially. He turned around to see Eddie Junior sitting on a kitchen chair, his mouth
gagged with duct tape, hands tied behind his back and a sawn-off shotgun to his head. His eyes were wide open; fear sparkled in the black pupils. “You work for the cunt who stole my drugs and I want them back,” Tucker smiled evilly, his face was red and blistered in patches. The weeping bald patches on his scalp and tufts of frazzled hair gave him the appearance of a character from a Hollywood horror movie. He rammed the shotgun hard against Junior’s ear. The jagged edge of the barrel ripped into the top of Junior’s lobe; blood trickled down his neck. Eddie sensed people behind him blocking any escape and he heard a pump action shotgun being chambered. “Now you need to answer two questions for me or Junior’s brains will be sliding down your fridge, understand?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Simple, Eddie. Where are my drugs and where will I find Nikolai Karpov.”
CHAPTER 38
Braddick walked over to Google’s desk which was next to the windows on the north side of Canning Place, overlooking the Pier Head. A giant white cruise ship was docked behind the Three Graces and a tidal wave of passengers was heading into the city centre. He sat on the edge of the desk opposite his sergeant and folded his arms.
“Look at all those tourists heading into town. The shops on Mathew Street will be booming today.”
“It is a good day to have a stall full of Beatles t-shirts.”
“Some of them will be wearing Beatles t-shirts for the rest of the voyage.”
Braddick chuckled. “I wonder how many relatives get a t-shirt. Red one for mum, white one for dad, suitcases full of Beatles memorabilia sailing across the Atlantic.”
“I would rather have a fridge magnet.”
“Any day,” Braddick agreed. “What is bothering you about Danny Cook, Google?”
Google picked up two photographs and handed them to Braddick. One showed an injection point on the left arm, the second a point on the right. “How long did you say Danny Cook was using heroin?”
“From his teens he said.”
“So we could assume that he would know what he was doing with the stuff.”
“I would say he was an expert.”
“Both of these injection marks were fresh. You can see where they bled here and here.” Red stains marked where blood had trickled down his forearm. “I haven’t met any users who would be able to inject and then be clear enough to inject a second time shortly afterwards.”
“You’re right. That wouldn’t happen,” Braddick looked at the photos again thoughtfully. “What if he injected but missed a vein in one arm and then tried again in the other?”
“That is possible but then I looked at the number of empty wraps near the body.”
“Go on.”
“He couldn’t have loaded that much heroin into one shot. That means that he injected and then gathered himself together and prepared a second hit.”
“I can’t see how it could be done without help.”
“They were my thoughts exactly. If he wasn’t our witness I wouldn’t be questioning this but I find it difficult to ignore. What do you think?”
Braddick shrugged and looked at both pictures. “I think that you’re right. What does the tox screen show?”
“Nobody asked for one.”
“Have one ordered.”
“Thanks, Guv. Do you think it is a coincidence?”
“Not a chance but proving it is anything but an accidental overdose will be difficult.”
“Well maybe there is a way.”
“How?” he frowned. “What have you found?”
“I checked the list of items found at the scene and there are two syringes listed, one of them is used, one clean.”
“If someone else injected him then there may be prints?” Braddick nodded. He rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Have you sent them to forensics?”
“I needed you to sign off the cost. It isn’t strictly our case.”
“Get them sent off. Any problems come to me.”
“That’s what I thought you would say but I wanted to check with you.”
“Even if we find a print we couldn’t prove much but at least we’ll know what happened to him. Good work,” Braddick patted his shoulder as he walked away.
DI Steff Cain stepped out of the lift. Her face lit up when she saw him. “Hey,” she said walking towards him. “I’ve just heard about your witness. That’s a shitty break.”
“It helps Tucker but we’ll nail the bastard,” Braddick said without stopping. He didn’t have time to chat. “I’ll talk to you later.”
His thoughts were on Joseph Tucker. He had a lot to answer for. The more Braddick found out about him the more he despised him. He despised him and people like him. They were bullies. He would get what was coming to him. They always did eventually. The last few days he had become reckless and that would be his downfall. He had crossed too many lines and put himself and his organisation under the spotlight. People feared him but when he was locked up behind bars no one on the outside would fear him anymore. After a while, even his friends and family would stop defending him; most of them would stop visiting completely, their own busy lives the priority. They always did. Braddick had seen it a dozen times. Tucker was a brutal killer, nothing more and nothing less yet people looked at him in awe. Reputation and wealth counted for a lot in criminal circles, no matter how it was acquired. It seemed that the world loved outlaws and gangsters from Robin Hood to the Krays.
Braddick hated the films that glorified gangsters. He had lost count of how many versions of the Kray twins’ story had been made, each one more graphic with better actors and a bigger budget than the last and yet people flocked to see them. He couldn’t see the attraction. Most people knew the story, had read a book about them, seen at least one documentary about them and probably one film of their life and yet they would watch the newest version without question. He didn’t see the fascination with the life of violent criminals. Did people wish they could be like that in another life or did they think the outcome would be different in the latest version where everybody lives happily ever after? Gangsters made a living bullying the weak and killed those who would not be bullied; all for their personal wealth. To Braddick they were murderers and nothing more and he was an advocate for the death penalty. Murder was murder in the eyes of the law but not all killing was murder to Braddick. Shooting the enemy during a war wasn’t murder. Executing a child killer or murder rapist in a Texas jail wasn’t murder. He applauded it. Dropping a drone on a car full of terrorists in Iraq wasn’t murder, in fact it was something to celebrate but murder for greed he couldn’t abide. Tucker, Eddie Farrell and the Karpovs were greedy men prepared to kill for money. That was murder. Killing for sex or just for kicks, that was murder. Killing Karin and Cookie because they were witnesses, that was murder. He knew that they would find Tucker sooner rather than later and he knew that they would have enough to put him away for good; the problem was that he seemed to be on a mission to self destruct and he didn’t care who he took with him along the way. He thought about Cookie and his final list of belongings. His syringes were his valuables, more precious than jewels in his world. He thought about that list and ran his fingers over his stubble. Karin Range had a short list of items found at the scene too; he knew because he had asked for it. He had asked for it and looked at it and then put it away somewhere, its contents of no consequence to him back then. He thought that maybe he should have looked harder.
CHAPTER 39
Harry Bedford watched a steady stream of people come and go. The Spar shop attracted the tourists, the smaller independent Trearddur Stores was patronised by the locals. He could tell the difference by the regional identifiers on their number plates. The locals mostly had plates with ‘C’ for Cymru. Older cars sold on Anglesey had plates ending in ‘EY’. Anything marked ‘M’ denoted Manchester and Merseyside. He was focusing on those. The other obvious difference was that most of the tourists donned sunglasses despite the gloomy weather and the vast majority of holidaying males
wore cargo shorts even though the wind threatened to tear the flesh from their shins. The locals were dressed appropriately for the weather being well aware that they lived on an exposed rock in the Irish Sea.
His attention was drawn to a dark BMW as it drove by him. It indicated left and stopped outside the Spar shop, his theory about tourists gaining more credibility. The number plate was marked Merseyside. Two young males climbed out of the vehicle and headed into the shop. Ten minutes later they reappeared and piled four carrier bags into the boot. Harry could see that one of the bags was full of beer. He checked Bryn’s Facebook page and scrolled through the photos. The younger man was there pictured in a boxing ring, a gym and at home with family and friends.
“Gotcha,” Harry said as he started the engine. He checked both ways and then turned his Volvo around to face in the direction that the Evans brothers had come from. A Range Rover driver hooted his horn in protest at his manoeuvre. The driver opened his window and leaned out to flick the v-sign. Harry felt a flush of anger and opened his window. “What the fuck is your problem?” he shouted across the road.
“You’re my problem,” the driver shouted back pointing his finger. “I don’t know where you’re from but in Wales we use our indicators to let other drivers know where we are going. It’s a simple concept. You should give it a try and take it with you when you fuck off home.”
“Fuck you!” Harry flicked the finger unable to think of an intelligent answer. He leaned his head out of the window, his face red with anger. He had never been good at holding his tongue. The Range Rover drove off in the opposite direction, its driver chuckling to himself as he flicked the v-sign again. Harry wanted to follow him and knock him on his arse but he didn’t have the time. As he looked over his shoulder, the dark BMW pulled alongside to allow another car to pass. The passenger looked at him, their eyes meeting for a second. Harry found it hard to break eye contact despite the need to be discreet. The vehicle moved on and indicated left to follow the coast road. Harry had driven that way the night before but it had been dark then. He put the Volvo into first gear and pulled out to follow them.