by Toni Parks
“But how do they get away with all the power they are using? That must have some pull on the grid?” asked Charlie Byrne.
“Well you would think so, but no. The actual energy used is no greater than most industrial units and most lights and appliances are low wattage. And a freezer depot would require constant power use anyway, so from the outside they are two businesses trying to make a living. And according to Joey, they even have a set of fake accounts produced each year along with VAT returns, talk about working within the law. Anyway enough on extolling Lucisano’s talents let me now tell you how we’re going to bring him down! Taking the longhouse first, it has three, covered ventilation shafts, all standard sized. So this will simply be a matter of unscrewing and prising off the security screens. As for the other building, we’ll need a competent cat burglar. Any offers?”
Frankie Millar raised his hand. “I’ve got two of the best in my crew. They’re tried and tested, and never panic under pressure.”
“Great. That’s good to know. So Frankie’s men jemmy open either top- or side-hung casements for an easy entry. They’ll have to make sure to bring ladders, as the upper floor will be receiving a visit too. Right. Now just picture this. We have access to both buildings, so what do we do then?” Blank answers, was the answer. “OK, I’ll put you out of your miseries. I’ve had half a dozen boys working with these little beauties for weeks now, so before I flesh out the strategy I’ll let you be introduced to them via a little demonstration.”
Shock spread around the room as the doors opened, with more than one of those present thinking that they were being double-crossed. However, whoever were doing the doublecrossing were certainly taking their time. The audience sat patiently whilst a low hum grew louder and louder until their eyes, following the sound, caught sight of six state-of-the-art drones in formation flying towards them. Closely followed by their operators trooping in like high-tech early 20th century butlers serving up the first course. A Red Arrows display it was not, but impressive it certainly was. The alien, disembodied UFOs carried out a sweep of the room, hovered over the centre of the table and split off to hover individually over six of the shocked spectators’ heads. Although impressed, several present were also spooked, and began trying to swat away the intrusive objects as if giant hornets were plaguing their personal space. Calum gave a signal and all six drones repositioned themselves in perfect synchronicity one behind the other and flew back through the door from whence they had come.
“Those little beauties are going to do our dirty work. You may have noticed the black boxes mounted underneath, those represent the exact weight of the incendiary bomb devices that will be fitted for the actual mission. Once unleashed Lucisano’s drugs network will be wiped out for months. By the time he’s back up and running we’ll have a large number of his punters and customers: shooting, snorting or eating out of our hands. And picking through the remains of the buildings, even the cops should be able to deduce what had been going on there and start looking for answers. At least, they’ll have a huge heat signature to light their way,” he laughed. “So that’s it in a nutshell. ‘How do ya like them apples!’ as Stumpy said in Rio Bravo.” And that’s how Calum left it.
Of course everyone was excited at the audacious plan, if somewhat stumped by the quotation. But even though there was assent by way of nodding around the table, most feared that there could be a precipitated backlash once the action had unfurled. But as Calum emphasised, Lucisano was himself targeting the bigger fish first, but once caught and dispatched he would continue fishing until all the smaller ones had been hooked too. So with that threat of no stone being left unturned, the smaller fry had to agree, albeit some more reluctantly than others.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN The taxi from Edinburgh Airport halved the time it would have taken Emma on the bus, which meant in turn that Eduardo and her were sitting, sipping coffee just before 6.00pm. From Jessica’s sofa he glanced around admiring the symmetry and compactness of her life.
Everything now neat, tidy and regimented, once the offending garments had been removed. Garments, which had been draped across the backs of anything upright and stationary. He had soon grasped that these items belonged to Emma, confirmed by her mad dash around the room to hide the various offending articles, before his eyes should even have alighted upon them. Once cleared, Eduardo had sat and ruminated at how a woman of Jessica’s character had found herself in her present predicament. But not for long; being a man of action, he replaced his mug, stood and grabbed both Emma’s trolley bag and his own holdall and headed upstairs to deposit them in the two bedrooms as directed, with Emma following in tow. All thoughts of Jessica receded to the back of his mind for the present; he freshened up and set Emma the task of choosing a restaurant for their evening’s meal.
Having taken somewhat longer in her toiletries than anticipated, she decided that the best option would be to stay local and so suggested the Buccleuch Arms, with it being within walking distance. She perceived their offering of a selection of Scottish fayre would be to Eduardo’s liking, that’s what she hoped to be the case anyway.
Eduardo proved to be the prefect host and Emma luxuriated in the kind of attention to which she was now becoming accustomed. He enjoyed his role too with Emma being a fun character and not too prone to seriousness. He had managed to pump her surreptitiously for information all evening and by the time she turned down the offer of dessert, he too was satisfied in having obtained all the necessary details appertaining to her sister. They both refused the offer of coffee and walked back through the village, lost in their own thoughts. Emma crashed out on the sofa with the intention of watching a feel-good film whilst Eduardo sat at the dining table, a glass of wine in front of him as his laptop searched for Jessica’s WiFi network. Eduardo had all his ‘data in motion’ before Emma’s film was thirty minutes in. He had connected to the Tor browser of the Dark Web and SpiyWeb came into life within seconds. Details of Jessica’s personal information, her impending case, present prison location in Stirling, solicitor’s name and address and alleged evidence against her; were input into the relevant allotted boxes and all before ‘Larry took the young girl’s cash because she was careless with her pawn move in their alfresco chess game’. Not that Emma noticed either of the events, as for the past fifteen minutes she had been sound asleep, with snores aplenty to prove it.
The recent travelling to and from Edinburgh via Aberdeen and then, to and from Edinburgh via Naples had taken it out of the newly declared pregnant Emma, even if a doctor had still not put the seal on her condition. So breakfast was arranged and waiting upon her awakening. She was dubious about showing herself in public sans makeup, but reckoned Eduardo, having slept under the same roof, was now family. She sat down to the best Italian breakfast her local Coop could provide and into the bargain Eduardo had to apologise for using her sterling currency, having not had a chance to convert any euros at the moment. As they sat he took the opportunity to inform Emma of his recent activity. “I’ve set the ball rolling with SpiyWeb. They have all the basic details and will now start, as you say, putting flesh on the bones. I’ve checked out the flights to Aberdeen and with it taking nearly five hours to travel under 200 miles I’ve decided to catch the train instead. So I’ve a taxi booked to arrive in a couple of hours.”
“But you’ve only just got here. You can’t know enough about Jessica or her problems. And it should have been me making breakfast for you.”
“I know more than you think and I’ve got to go. There are things happening in Aberdeen, which need my immediate attention too. But if I could beg some more sterling currency, that would be a help.”
“Yoesph. Off corsee,” replied Emma trying to chew the chuck of croissant she had just bitten off, then swallowing and talking all at the same time. “I’ll just throw on some clothes and a basic face, and nip to the post office. In fact, they left a reminder card for a package, which I need to collect whilst I’m there.” Five minutes later she was escorted down the street
, her head held high and on the arm of a suave and sophisticated Italian. Emma exchanged her reminder card for the package, which turned out to be an envelope and Eduardo exchanged his euros for sterling; so a result all round.
The taxi arrived early but Eduardo was earlier still. His bag was packed and he’d even loaded the dishwasher. He leant across to collect his jacket from the back of the sofa and the recently collected envelope tumbled to the floor. “Emma, my taxi’s here. I’ve got to get moving,” he shouted up the stairs, as he stooped to retrieve the fallen envelope. Emma descended and they both met in the doorway where they hugged and said their goodbyes, Eduardo transferring across the envelope at the same time. Emma fingered it whilst he said positively, “Don’t worry about Jessica. We’ll have her out of there before you know it. Do not underestimate the power we hold and wield. That is always our opponents’ weakness.”
Emma listened, holding back tears as her short-term lodger headed for the taxi. Before she knew it she had worried open the envelope and was looking at two more; one being addressed to ‘Jessica and Emma’ and the other to ‘To the people of Secondigliano’. Eduardo was now sitting in the car with the driver beginning to pull away from the curb. Emma threw herself at the almost stationary car and shouted Eduardo’s name. He expected a wave at best and a smile at worst, so this performance seemed a little over exaggerated. Winding his window down to question Emma as to the problem, she thrust a white envelope in his hand and said, “Have a safe trip. Hope you’re right about Jess.” The taxi moved off leaving Emma looking at a disconnected arm and hand waving out of the car window as it headed north on the A68 towards Edinburgh. The other hand was stuffing the envelope in Eduardo’s shirt pocket so that it could be read later.
And later it was, settled with a buffet car coffee and still one and a half hours remaining of the journey. He pulled out the envelope, ironed it out on the table top with the palm of his hand, meeting a ridge of resistance, and then read the inscription on the front: ‘To the people of Secondigliano’. ‘Strange that Emma wanted to write a letter so soon after visiting and then me seeing her,’ he thought, turning the envelope over and over in his inquisitive hands. Not receiving any answers from this action, excepting the movement of an object of weight moving up and down in unison to his turns, he crudely opened it by running his finger along the top edge. A key spilled out and satisfied his curiosity, plus a folded manuscript, which Eduardo opened up and began to read.
‘Dear good people of Secondigliano This letter is my last wish upon this earth and who else should the task fall to but yourselves. I have thought through the scenarios of this letter reaching you or not, as fate dictates. And my mind plays tricks on how to proceed in a positive manner. I have to take assumptions on board, but being a father that is what one does all one’s long, or in my case, short life. My dear friend Jeremy has been charged with more tasks than I have ever before asked anyone. He has had to hold my confidence for nearly twenty years and that presumes that my daughters are still alive to receive the knowledge that I wish to impart to them. Presuming all goes well, in whatever timescale, my daughters, both or one, have a near impossible task to locate monies hidden away from thieving hands. Monies that will benefit you and your families for generations to come.
The fact that there is the slightest possibility of success means that I now continue this letter. Back in the 70’s my wife and I were charged with the responsibility of safeguarding huge sums, not just from criminals but also from inflation too. The lira was always unstable and additional noughts were required on a regular basis to sustain its value. The fact that you are holding this letter would lead me to believe that we succeeded. And that success has become the triggering mechanism for this request.
Enclosed is a key to a safe deposit box in the same bank and in the same city. The code is 3113. I have withheld the other details due to worries of this falling into the wrong hands. If you are one of the rightful recipients then you will already hold the necessary knowledge to complete the task.
However, this one remaining task for you is to ensure that the contents of the box are given over in their entirety to our good Camorristi friends, the Lucisano family, in Aberdeen, United Kingdom. By now they will have cursed me for reneging on my pledge to protect their earnings and ensure its continued growth, but life took me, along with others, in a different direction. Whether I would be able to expel any energy in turning in my grave I have not the foresight to know, but what I do know is that the collateral should still be there along with accurate account records of all transactions. This key and code is the only one in existence and is now placed safely in your hands, in order to carry out a dead man’s wishes.
Do not deliberate, as my heartfelt desire is that they receive their good fortune sooner than later and so are able to benefit from it in their lifetime.’
Nella morte come nella vita (In death as in life Luigi and Laura Agosti Eduardo stared blankly at the seat opposite, and consciously ordered his mouth to close so as to return it to a more sensible position. His usually olive skin was relegated to a much paler hue and his chest heaved as a reaction to him releasing the breath that he never knew he had been holding. He took a sip of his coffee and spit it back into the cup gasping as it was stone cold. He returned the key and letter to the envelope, folded it securely and placed it back in his pocket. Stretching for another sip of his coffee brought him up with a start as the phenomenon of déjà vu took hold. He stood and casually swayed towards the buffet car in tune with the carriage’s motion. His return was anything but casual as he concentrated on avoiding stray legs, cases and other obstacles, which had since been strategically placed so as to separate him from his freshly brewed coffee. His sigh confirmed his success and enabled him to now sit and sip in peace, even if the coffee came from no barista of his acquaintance. But it was hot and tangy and complemented the considerable information of interest now generating a reaction in his brain. Most significant of which was his ‘red letter day’ treat of being given a psychological key into the Aberdeen faction. What could have proved an extremely difficult introduction, with Lucisano not accepting his authority, would now take on a totally different complexion.
His mind wandered as he recalled ‘red letter day’ and contemplated when he had first been made aware of the saying. A sacerdote from his childhood had referred to the phrase when highlighting the dates of certain holy days. His Book of Common Prayer featured those events in its calendar and they were always printed in red ink. He then hopped forward to Luigi Agosti, who used it on more than one occasion when talking to his uncle Franco, and so presumed it had been imported to the village by Luigi’s life in Scotland and his constant travelling back and forth to Italy. Wherever it was from, it seemed appropriate at the moment as no other description quite fit the occasion.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN It was not Sunday but still DI Barbour got down on her knees and thanked the Lord. She had been pilloried both externally by the media and local inhabitants, and internally by her superiors; and one of those being the one who had dodged the bullets himself by bending down and shovelling shit elsewhere at the appropriate moment. Bodies were springing up in the most surprising locations and the DI needed to catch her breath and take stock before the next onslaught. So news from Edinburgh brought a deep and satisfying sigh. Forth One radio station was the first to feature, ‘Breaking News. The Borders serial killer is in custody on murder charges. Jessica Lambert from St Boswells, the alleged perpetrator of up to five murders is now in prison awaiting trial at The High Court of Justiciary. Bail has been rejected on safety grounds and everything is being done to speed the process along so that justice is brought to the families of the victims who lost their lives in these heinous crimes. Full story to follow on the hour.’
No one really knew how this information was arrived at, nor who voiced it, but suffice to say that the opportunity had been there for the taking. Perhaps via the Sheriff & Justice of the Peace Court, where Jessica was first processed. Or the
prison to which she was taken. Or indeed, the solicitors’ offices acting on her behalf. But whether by accident or design, the news was now in the public domain and Edinburgh’s frenzy became Aberdeen’s calm, even if it was to be just before a storm.
Whatever the turmoil in the eyes of the media world, it could not make an inroad into Jessica’s mind. She was resigned to her fate and had already begun to turn in on herself. She had found it nigh on impossible to talk to her solicitor Amy Price, and although she managed to talk to her sister Emma, it was on a rather superficial level. ‘No, that’s not fair on M. If she’s really pregnant, which I think she is, then I’m really happy for her and feel aggrieved that I’ll never see the child, certainly not as a child anyway. But fair play, she’s had it tough and been here in the past, where I’m sitting now and I never even knew. At least I know she’s out there rooting for me, whatever good that will do,’ she thought. And they were the last lucid thoughts she had for some time. From thinking about Emma her mind switched to their leaving, and in Jessica’s mind their final parting, and rather than remembering it with warmth it would now always be tinged with regret, fear and anger. ‘That fucking guard. Why did he have to say that word? I was doing OK and keeping strong until he said that word. And now he’s brought it all back. Sweetie! Sweetie! Sweetie!’ And so the word tumbled round in her head as punishment for her childhood failings and for not being a good girl.