by Toni Parks
Balloch thought, “Mmm.” He then stood and said, “OK this is what we do. Keep hold of your cup and don’t tip anything out.” With that he went off in search of Queen Laelia. Seth remained seated twiddling the cup and contemplating finishing off Balloch’s whittling. Within minutes two came back from where one had gone. Queen Laelia brought a presence, dressed in her colourfully bright attire. Her face looked to have travelled considerable miles and certainly stronger suns than ours had touched her taut skin. She acknowledged Seth and retrieved the cup from his grasp.
Her slight smile gave nothing away as the cup turned and turned again in her almost delicate fingers. Seth began to hyperventilate, knowing that his fate as a man and respected elder of the village was literally now in the hands of this petite but formidable gypsy. At last she was ready to make her pronouncement. “Nothing in these leaves tells me that this man is a liar, nor that he has been anywhere near your Rawnie, no matter what conclusion you may have reached yourself. The same goodness shines out of Seth Macleod as it does out of this brew.” With that the cup was half filled with water, swirled around and the contents thrown to the ground along with Seth’s fate.
“Thank you for that, Queen Laelia. Your foresight and telling is final so I now need to ask our friend here how our community may be of help in his hour of need?”
“Thank you for having faith in my integrity. It’s all well and good but it won’t stand up in court; all this hocus-pocus, if you pardon my scepticism; there’s too many incriminating facts stacked up against me. There’s a letter allegedly written by Rawnie and pictures too, showing us both in compromising positions. So they at least are going to be hard to override, aren’t they?”
“Well, as for the letter, she’s obviously come on in leaps and bounds, to say that when she left here she couldn’t read and write. And even I know that today photos can be doctored to show whatever you want.”
“So how do we proceed?” asked Seth feeling just a little bit more optimistic.
Balloch looked from Queen Laelia to Seth before saying, “The only thing we can do, we’ve got to find Rawnie and be quick about it. But, for the moment, we’ll keep what you’ve told us between ourselves. After all, we don’t want to throw good fortune after bad, now do we?” With that Queen Laelia departed in search of her crystal ball and Seth went to explore a more conventional approach to the problem. Leaving Balloch somewhat redundant, although happy enough to return to his whittling.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR Time was running out for Francisco. He knew that even his father would soon become bored just gazing at heaps of treasure, no matter how shiny and sparkly. Therefore, after the aborted mission to fleece Hunter-Bell’s bagmen, a more solid plan was expected of him and concocted by him. Having lost Hew in the explosion, he called on Jimmy to step up to the plate. Jimmy’s nature and demeanour had moulded him into being proficient around explosives, particularly his calmness and ability not to sweat under pressure. For those very reasons he was now earmarked to play a very important role in the destruction of Calum McLaughlin’s empire, starting with his new build. Under cover of darkness and a poor excuse for a moon, Jimmy and two colleagues ducked under the cordon as they prepared to enter the still unfinished building on Guild Street. As his eyes followed the scaffolding upward Jimmy could not believe that it had only been a week ago since Francesco had created the dunking man. ‘And how true the saying, ‘a lot can happen in a week,’ or whatever the saying was,’ he thought.
They entered the building and set to work. With having previous construction work knowledge one of his two assistants was quick to identify the columns supporting the load bearing cross members and both were equally as quick at applying the C-4 plastic explosives and accompanying long period delay detonators. Jimmy was not too fussed about the explosives proximity to each other as he ordered that they be individually fused anyway, as opposed to relying on sympathetic detonations from the initial receptor explosive. The foil of the detonators could then be triggered to explode by a laser pulse, via an optical fibre, so delivering the initial shock wave. A simple mobile would activate the whole process and ensure the building toppled in on itself. All Jimmy had to do now was get out of there with his two collaborators in order for Francesco to proceed with the second part of the plan, that of enticing McLaughlin’s men in; into their own den.
Calum envisioned that the war with Francesco was quickly coming to a head. Lucisano had been wound up to maximum torque by McLaughlin’s recent successful skirmishes and his patience must have just about expired. The banner goading over Lucisano HQ had unfortunately only created a damp squib reaction, as it turned out, but a reaction nonetheless. And now with sources close to McLaughlin informing him that Alonzo was out of the country, he could not prevent himself taking the final twist. He was already aware that two of his undercover informants had been despatched to aid some Italian colleague. But his remaining contacts were still furnishing high quality intelligence on Francesco’s men’s movements as they worked under cover of darkness, to such an extent that he purchased a phone jammer and signal recognition transceiver, on the strength of information received.
From Hunter-Bell’s own hideaway tucked discreetly off the B9077, Calum McLaughlin nursed his tumbler of Isle of Jura Prophecy Peated and gazed out across the River Dee. ‘So Francesco, we are approaching our climax, are we? The spider is coming for the fly? But which is which? Who is going to entrap whom? What will our prophesy predict?’ he thought, chuckling at the pun as he enjoyingly sipped the dry, smoky flavour, with its tease on his tongue and catch to the back of his throat. ‘Will we ever leave such a renowned legacy?’ He reckoned that another 12 to 15 hours would resolve their fates and all the issues between them. With the additional manpower supplied by his minor players’ associates he knew they should succeed but he could not underestimate Francesco’s guile. Joey Donaldson had told him on more than one occasion that the Italian was a very bright guy, bullheaded but bright. So Calum was targeting that bullheadedness in the hope of disrupting his clarity of thought.
“Oh, Ma’am. Mike Dolan rang from forensics. He’s advised us that all the work has been completed on the Guild Street building, so the cordons can now be dismantled.”
“Yes, that’s great,” replied DI Barbour sarcastically and thought, ‘They’ve probably not found anything and now leave us to tidy up as if we’re just some minor maintenance crew.’ “Get on to DC Thorne tomorrow. He might be able to drum up a couple of Special Constables to do the job,” she replied waspishly. She contemplated on the building and the murder it harboured and could not believe that it was still just over a week ago since it happened. And since that time what had happened; the whole world had gone mad, that’s what happened. There had been more murder and mayhem than in a whole 12 months of normal policing. She knew they had been at sixes and sevens but from here on in she was determined to get to the root of the warring factions and stop the rot. Much to McLaughlin’s and Lucisano’s disagreement, and determination to thwart her.
The day remained calm with the pleasant sunshine belying what the moonshine held in store. Sure enough though, as dusk arrived the time was right for Lucisano to execute his plan of entrapment. He made it obvious to any and all interested parties that he was amassing a large body of muscle at the mill and moving southeast towards Guild Street. Once there his intention was to cross the police cordon and enter the Hunter-Bell unfinished building. As expected, Calum and his men rallied and followed at a distance. On seeing their protagonists corralled and cajoled into their premises, the instinctive reaction would have been that of pursuance, which would no doubt have ended in a gunfight with many deaths. Stopping short of the building was not in the calculations, and worried the previously buoyant Francesco. The plan should have been that they, McLaughlin’s men, charge in the front whilst Lucisano’s retreat out the back. At which point Francesco would activate the fuses with his pre-programmed mobile. But Calum’s caution was giving Francesco concern. Here he was, snared in
his own trap, trying to entice his prey with C-4 lurking at every turn. Admittedly, it was safe; he had been told that gunfire alone would be highly unlikely to trigger an explosion even if suffering a direct hit. But his dilemma rooted him to the spot. He had to make them come in before he could go out.
Calum already had a dog and so wasn’t prepared to bark himself. He had purchased the phone jammer and signal recognition transceiver right enough, but he gave over the task of operating them to one of his IT techies. So unknown to Francesco, even if the Hunter-Bell men did attack, no explosives would explode. The jammer was in operation and covered an area of up to 300 square metres. The techie’s signal recognition transceiver had also locked on to the GPS signals emanating from all the surrounding phones, both inside and outside the building. With the sole job being to recognise and isolate the one series of synthesised numerals, which would never be recognised through the cyber telephony network and could not now be transmitted whilst the phone jammer was in operation. Time moved on and Francesco stood still. His men were becoming restless and if the attack did not happen soon, they would begin to lose their nerve and he would have to psyche them up all over again.
As a precaution, Calum gave the order for the bulk of his men to retreat quietly and seek protection from the lee of other buildings along Guild Street. Traffic had already reduced considerably, even in the 10 minutes since their arrival and now the techie had presented the button to Calum. One push and an Italian dynasty would be wiped out. He signalled silently for the remaining men to move back from the blast area, as he himself was doing.
Jimmy whispered, “They’re on the move, Boss. I think they smell a rat. Can’t see them walking into the trap now.”
“Don’t nobody move. We could end up walking out into one. For all you know they may have men covering the back now. Just give me a minute to think.”
Jimmy heard a faint click next to his right ear, looked across to investigate and said resignedly, “I don’t think you’ve got that minute, Boss!”
With that, the faint click became an explosion and repeated itself along the eight columns that up to that point had been standing symmetrically around the basement area. Now concrete shattered and splintered, allowing high velocity shards to cut through the air in devastating shrapnel-fashion, destroying everything in their path. Pressure shock waves knocked over anything left standing and contributed to the huge plume of dust escaping through the non existent windows as bricks, concrete and scaffolding warped and collapsed in on itself, just like the proverbial pack of cards. 30 seconds was all it took to raze the building to the ground and end the lives of the men who had placed their faith in Francesco Lucisano. Calum McLaughlin and his men continued to retreat, and they were warned to curb any loose talk, and to blend into the surrounding buildings. An unusual reaction in retrospect, when all innocent bystanders were rushing towards the scene: in surprise, confusion and with a willingness to help, if required.
The circling aeroplane gave its passengers a birds-eye view of flashing lights, both heading to and surrounding a dust plume shrouded area, quite close to the docks. Alonzo was thankful that the problem was in the city centre, so he would be able to take the minor roads south, cross the Dee and get home to Drumoak without all the hindrance such a catastrophe would be likely to cause.
He envisaged the look on Francesco’s face when he told him the actual amount the Agostis’ had amassed on their behalf. Too much to bring back that was for sure, but the odd trip to Zurich every now and again would not go amiss. He even contemplated handing over more power to his son, now that they were financially secure, but that would be dependent on whether or not he had behaved himself this time in his absence. ‘It’s all about carrot and stick. Too much of either defeats the objective,’ he thought as the plane touched down on Scottish soil for the first time since the death of his son.
The huge explosion, shaking the very fabric of the granite city, broke DI Barbour’s lulled sense of security itself. First thoughts were of terrorists, closely followed by a gas explosion, and then with the proximity to the Hunter-Bell building, it morphed into sabotage. A dull ache mysteriously appeared in the back of her head in acknowledgment of her supposition. Her only saving grace being that this disaster was so huge, no one person’s shoulders could bear its burden. She remained sat at her desk with one hand supporting her head, as much to relieve her neck of its sole purpose, whilst the other wrote, well more accurately doodled.
> Dunking man found dead on 10th floor of Hunter-Bell building on Guild Street
> Museum grotesque (if he’ll forgive me the expression) found dead in warehouse
> Three men (aka The Three Amigos) fatally stabbed twice each in red-light district of docks
>Two buildings destroyed by explosions on St Fittick’s Road – multiple deaths – drug dens?
> Possible street gang warfare diverted in docks area (no firm conclusion)
> Hunter-Bell building on Guild Street demolished – death toll as yet unknown
Putting her pen down she massaged her brow as much to insert answers as to tease out pain. The links are all there; with our manpower we should at least be able to couple them up together. DCI McVay shook her out of her lethargy by ordering her to bring in a team of six detectives and get them over to the disaster site. Easier done than said in this instance, as you would have to be totally deaf not to have heard the explosions, so most of the detectives were ringing in off their own bat anyway. And with emergency services already at the scene, initial reports were of numerous limbs and other body parts tangled up in the rubble. The DI nominated her colleagues and speedy access was achieved through the gridlock of the city by the use of flashing lights and sirens. Her first impression was of a ruined, mini Roman or Greek amphitheatre permeated by the sweet yet pungent and nauseous smell of burnt flesh. Irregular sized columns rose up into the night sky, unobscured by floors or ceilings and very few sidewalls too, thus offering minimal resistance to the unwelcome biting wind blowing off the North Sea. DC Brownlee was the first to comment, “Ma’am, can you believe it’s less than two weeks ago that we were stood atop the scaffolding and looking out to sea?”
“Yes, DC Brownlee, I was just thinking about that back in the office. Even before I knew of this explosion. It’s now hard to believe that you’ll never be able to see across to Kristiansand in Norway?”
“You’re right there, ma’am,” came the reply.
“OK. Let’s make ourselves useful. Mingle with the ambulance chasers; somebody must have been nosy enough to have seen what went down. Nobody gets to finish tonight, without each supplying me with one new piece of intel.” She said in her sales manager persona voice, thinking, ‘Well if that works I’ll eat my hat.’
*
“Have we anything to eat?” asked Emma. “Or do I have to have a shower, get dressed and put a face on?” “No, there isn’t. And yes, all three, I think. I couldn’t even get to the starting line, let alone perform, if you’re thinking about going back to bed,” said Barnham taking defeat like a man.
“What even if I …”
“No, no. I’m not letting you anywhere near me to do that,” he shouted, scrambling out of the kitchen area at a sprint and heading for the bathroom.
Emma stayed put and said with authority, “I like a man who knows who’s boss.” The shower started up and she quickly qualified her previous statement with, “Hey, Romeo. Make sure you don’t use all the hot water!”
Thirty minutes later, the two were tucking into an all day breakfast and on their second coffees. Emma asked, “So Tel. Tell me when you’re doing your day’s trial?”
Terry washed his mouthful down with another slurp and replied, “Tomorrow actually. I forgot to say earlier, or perhaps I just forgot. Oh bugger, am I ever going to keep more than one thing in my head?”
“Don’t fret about it Tel. You’re doing really well. Most of the time you sound like you’re more with it than me. What with my scatter brain.”
�
��Well thanks, but nobody’s analysing and scrutinising your every move, are they?”
“Well, if you go and don’t like it, just bail out. Throw a fit if you have to.” Barnham looked a little hurt at this comment, so she softened it with, “A figure of speech, Tel. I wasn’t inferring you were nuts of anything.” He looked even more hurt now, so she shut up.
“Ha! Fooled you,” came back Barnham. “I honestly don’t mind you saying stuff like that, coz you’re Emma.” Now it was her turn to feel uncomfortable.
“OK. Let’s change the subject,” she said. “Talk about the weather or what you’ve done today. No forget about talking about what you’ve done today. Look, eat up. You’ve a busy day tomorrow, so you’ll have to be fresh. An early night, on you own, I think. You can walk me to the bus, if you’re confident you’ll be able to get back home,” she joked.
“Yes thanks, Mum. I think I know my way around now.” With that they left the café. Emma caught her bus. Barnham found his way home and opened the door to a cold, silent welcome. No matter what decision he made about the following day’s job trial, he now knew one decision he had already made. So as not to forget it, he wrote it down and pinned it to his notice board.
The next day was as boring as expected. Barnham was given minimal tuition, which did not really accommodate his disability. Although, once he had got the hang of things it was relatively easy anyway. He had been given carte blanche to work at the pace most suited to him and stop should he become: stressed, confused, tired or suffer signs of an impending headache. In fact the usual ailments most workers experience in everyday life. He did not feel any of these, not even after three caffeine-fuelled coffees, but he did find the work repetitive and therefore boring. It consisted of manually inputting additional hard copy, hand written and typed statements, from both witnesses and his fellow officers, which were supplementary to the original documents already held on file. Primarily, this was for their own station’s use but being fully cyber computerised allowed for the files to be accessed from across the country by use of their own Intranet.