Shadows

by Conrad Jones

  “We’re home now, Norman,” she whispered and kissed his forehead. “I’ll make you your favourite in a while.”

  “I didn’t like that place, Irene,” he said, shaking his head. “My arms are sore.”

  “I know, darling,” she said, holding him tight. She missed him holding her. It was one of the things that she yearned for, his embrace. “Don’t you worry now. We’ll put you in the shower and then I’ll make some tea. You’ll feel better after that.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I know you are,” she said, stroking the back of his head. He laid his head on her shoulder. She kissed his forehead. “I love you, you beautiful, beautiful man. I always will.”

  As she kissed him, a plug-in timer switched on, igniting the leaking gas from a severed pipe behind the cooker in the kitchen. A cloud of gas ignited instantly. The burning sensation was brief and excruciating as her skin blistered and peeled. She felt Norman hold her tightly as the delicate tissue in her lungs sizzled and popped before death took them. The blast ripped the front elevation from their home.

  5

  Ronny Mason stepped off the bus and looked around. He had spent the night trying to sleep in a garden shed to keep out of the biting wind and torrential rain. His stomach was tied in knots; fear, embarrassment and absolute shame twisted his insides. Every time he dozed off, he was snapped awake by guilt. He felt completely helpless. His phone was dead and he couldn’t call anyone to tell them what had happened. What could he say? ‘I left them there and ran away. I saw them being hurt and did nothing.’ He was confused, tired, hungry, and frightened. More frightened than anything else. His father would kill him. He would get the blame. He knew it. They had said that nothing bad would happen. They were wrong. They lied.

  Sleep eluded him all night. Every gust of wind had brought the sound of demons approaching, every raindrop on the roof was a footstep. He had cowered, shivering and shaking from the cold, for hours. It was all he deserved for leaving his family there. He had done nothing. He had run away.

  When daylight had finally arrived, he made his way to a bus stop and got on the first bus that arrived, a double-decker headed across the island and over the bridge to the university town of Bangor. After an hour, the bus stopped outside the railway station and he climbed off, stiff and exhausted. He pulled up his collar and jogged across the road, dodging the busy morning traffic. His dark tracksuit was damp and cold, his Adidas trainers sopping wet. A lorry drove by and splashed his pants with dirty surface water. Ronny swore and flicked a finger to the driver and ran for the shelter of the railway station. The huge slate roof shielded him from the rain but the wind still cut through him. He checked the timetable, searching for trains that were heading for Chester; there he could switch trains to Liverpool. Ronny struggled to read the station names, his dyslexia a constant handicap. School had been a nightmare for him. He wasn’t stupid but he wasn’t bright either. Intellectually challenged and born with no drive or ambition, he had left school with nothing but a twenty-five metre swimming badge. It took him fifteen minutes to work out that there were no trains for forty minutes. He couldn’t wait on an exposed platform for forty minutes. If they were looking for him then they would have the station watched. Paranoia gripped him. Ronny decided that he would be safer walking through town, finding a bar that was open, one that had a Samsung charger in their lost property, then he could turn up last minute for the train. He needed to get his mobile charged and find a signal. Letting the family know what had happened was imperative. They needed to pick him up and hide him until things settled down. It was the least that they could do. They always looked down on him and gave him the shitty jobs, especially his father. He gave him one shitty job after the other. He had heard them calling him thick. Once, his cousin had called him a retard. Well, he might not be the brightest bulb on the tree but he knew a fuck up when he saw one. This one was a monumental fuck up. They had assured him that nothing could go wrong, nothing bad would happen. They lied. It couldn’t have gone worse. The fact that they lied cut him deep.

  Ronny walked as fast as he could without looking suspicious. Every car that splashed by was a threat, every glance in his direction terrified him. He asked a couple of student types if there were any bars with early opening hours and they directed him to the local Weatherspoon’s. Five minutes later, he was walking into the warmth of The Black Bull Inn. It was surprisingly busy, the tables occupied by a menagerie of drinkers, some there to socialise, others to drink alone. Whatever had gone wrong in their lives, alcohol for breakfast seemed to be the solution. The chatter of voices and the smell of ale made him feel normal for the first time in days. He ordered a pint of strong cider and a double whisky and downed them in minutes, ordering the same again before asking for a charger. The barmaid handed him one and pointed to a socket across the room. He carried his drinks to the table and plugged his phone in. The light began flashing and he stared at the screen while the battery light scrolled up and down.

  He thought back to the night before, hiding next to the monument, watching through binoculars. When the men with guns arrived, he had called Gary constantly until he heard the gunshots and the screams. Then he called the police and another car arrived. When he looked through the binoculars again, someone was looking right back at him through theirs. That was when he turned and ran. He didn’t stop running for over an hour. Gary had always said he was a shitbag, no balls, no backbone, no stomach for the job. Ronny tried to convince him otherwise but when it came down to it, Gary was right. He had turned and ran. Ronny swallowed his drinks and tried to work out who to call and what he was going to say. Ron senior, known to everyone as Big Ron, had gone bananas when Uncle Gary had told him that he had set the deal up. Big Ron had seen it as a threat to his authority. Once Gary had explained that it was a massive payday, Ron had relented and given his consent. He had insisted that his son, young Ronny should be included but Gary was adamant that Ronny wasn’t up to it. Big Ron insisted and if Big Ron said something should happen then it happened. He felt like he had let him down. He couldn’t phone him. His father would kick him from Monday to Sunday. He had beaten him from as far back as his memory went. Ronny was terrified of his father. Most people were. He racked his brains for the words to explain to him what had happened. His hands were shaking as he watched the battery icon growing. There was no choice. If his father heard the news from someone else, he would be double pissed off. One more round of drinks and he would make the call. His hands were shaking visibly as he emptied the whisky glass.

  6

  Patrick Finnen was standing on the O’Connell Bridge watching the River Liffey flow beneath it. He hadn’t heard from the trawler crew or the buyers for twenty-four hours and his contacts across the sea in Holyhead had told him that there was an incident near the harbour. A big one. They told him that the police were all over the place and a refrigerated van had been seen arriving on scene and had left a few hours later. Refrigerated vans spelt dead bodies. Not good. The longer the silence went on, the sicker he felt. Everything he had worked for had been snatched away in an instant. Patrick had been an amateur boxing champion in his teens and when he climbed into the professional ranks, he commanded a big following of Irish fans. He was tipped to become a middleweight champion when a detached retina brought a swift end to a promising career. No career meant no money. His nest egg dwindled away until he decided to use his remaining funds to buy a kilo of coke. He tripled his money and built up a reliable customer base and developed a trusting relationship with his suppliers. Things went well until he saw the opportunity to export across the Irish Sea. Moving drugs in bulk brought massive profits. It also brought massive risk. He made contacts and found backers. He had taken the step-up to the big league, made assurances, guarantees that the buyers were solid and could be trusted. The entire plan had disintegrated before his eyes. No million Euros and no drugs. The delivery men and the buyers were incommunicado and that could mean only one of two things: Either they had conspired
to rip him and his backers off, or the deal had been hit by another outfit. The second was the most likely, not that it mattered long term. If he couldn’t produce the cash or the goods, he would be at the bottom of the Liffey very soon. His position was dire, the options limited. The backers had told him to be at the bridge where he would be contacted.

  “Patrick, how’s things?” A voice disturbed his thoughts. Patrick turned to see a man in his sixties approaching. He was powerfully built with a neck like an ox. His olive-green military jacket looked as old as he did and his army boots were scuffed around the toes. A wool beanie hat covered his head, the exposed hair silvered by age. He didn’t make eye contact as he sidled up next to him. Looking down at the muddy waters, he rubbed his hands together and blew into them to keep them warm. “Are you having a bad day?” the old man asked chirpily.

  “I’ve had better.”

  “And I’m sure that you have had worse too, no doubt?”

  “If I have, I can’t recall it.”

  “Think positively.”

  “I am trying.”

  “The General wants to know what you’re going to do about his money, Patrick. He’s very concerned that you might disappear and leave him with his dick hanging out in the cold.” He looked at him for the first time and smiled. “You wouldn’t be planning anything like that would you, Patrick?”

  “No.”

  “No plans to travel at all?” he said, frowning. “That surprises me.”

  Patrick shook his head and sighed. “I won’t be going anywhere without his say so. I wanted to see what he had to say before I do anything.”

  “So you have a plan?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Good,” he said patting him on the back. “Positive attitude. That is what we want to see. What are you going to do?”

  “I can’t find out what happened by standing on this bridge talking to you.” Patrick sighed. “I need to speak to the buyers before I can tell him anything and I don’t think a telephone call will suffice. I need to look into their eyes when I talk to them.”

  “Assuming they’re alive, Patrick,” the old man said, turning towards him again. His eyes were sharp and alert, belying his age. “My experience of these situations is that the people being robbed tend to die and the thieves disappear.”

  “They always leave a trail,” Patrick said firmly. “No one can sell a shipment that size without leaving a trail.”

  “Who was your contact?”

  “A guy from Liverpool called Gary Mason.”

  “Do you know who is behind him?”

  “No,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “He fronts a big family. They won’t be hard to find. He told me that they were big players in Liverpool.”

  “He told you that, did he?”

  “Yes,” Patrick frowned. “Why?”

  “Usually when someone tells you that he is a big player, he isn’t.”

  “I checked with some people in the city. They confirmed that Gary Mason is a known face.”

  “A known face?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jürgen Klopp is a known face but he wouldn’t be any good at setting up a fucking drug deal, would he?”

  “I was happy that they were reliable. They had the money. It should have been a quick deal, in and out.”

  “Should have been.”

  “I think someone hit the deal. Another outfit.”

  “Maybe, or maybe they made it look like another outfit hit the deal.”

  “Until I speak to them, I don’t even know what actually happened. All I know is the trawler captain and the buyer are silent. Nothing from either.”

  “It doesn’t look good for you, lad.”

  “I know that.”

  “You know it will be on your head, don’t you?”

  “I know that too. All I want is the chance to get the money back.”

  “I’ve been around people like this for longer than I care to remember. Even when the culprits are identified, it is very rare that a consignment is recovered intact.” Patrick nodded and looked back at the river. He felt his stomach tighten with fear. The chances of him surviving this were minimal. The old man or someone like him would be sent to put a bullet through his forehead. And that was only if they believed that he wasn’t involved in the heist. If the General believed he had set the whole thing up, he would be nailed to the floor, tortured and dismembered until they were convinced that he wasn’t, before his remains were burned in an oil drum. The old man studied Patrick in silence. His eyes seemed to bore into his mind. “The fact that it is on the mainland makes things more complicated.”

  “If you’re trying to cheer me up, it isn’t working.”

  “I’m not here to cheer you up, Patrick,” the old man said, smiling. “I’m here to decide if you are involved in it or not.”

  “I am not involved,” Patrick said looking directly into the old man’s eyes.

  “Okay, let’s say you’re not. What then?”

  “I need to try to get the money back. At least give me the chance to try.”

  “Lucky for you, the General doesn’t think that you’re to blame and he sent me here to see for myself. I agree with him.” Patrick looked at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. “He said he was tight with your old man.” Patrick nodded. He had never met the General and he didn’t know anything about his father but it explained why he wasn’t dead already. “He wants you to get the ferry over to Holyhead and find his goods or the money. You have one week, Patrick.”

  “I’ll go tonight.” Patrick agreed. The relief was enormous, a chance at least to redeem the deal. “Tell him that I said thank you for the chance.”

  “Two more things,” the old man said, pushing his hands deep into his jacket.

  “What? Just name it and I’ll do my best.”

  “Your best better be good enough, lad.”

  “It will be.”

  “Okay. I think you’re on the level. He wants his money and he wants the rats dead. If you can find out who did this then he wants them taken out of the game.”

  “Fucking hell!” Patrick whistled and shook his head. “Even if I find the product, that could be impossible. They won’t be advertising the fact that they did it, will they? They could be in the wind by now.”

  “I agree with you. It is a tough ask but they are his terms. Find the money and remove the rats from the equation.”

  “Why is he so keen for them to be wiped out?”

  “He can see the potential in what you were trying to do.”

  “He does?”

  “Drugs are our business nowadays. Times have changed. Dublin is becoming saturated with that shit. Every teenage wannabe thinks he’s Scarface these days. We’re taking a half a dozen punks out of business every weekend but they’re replaced by another half a dozen the week after. It is a relentless battle just to stay static. We can’t win this battle.” The old man shook his head. “The little fuckers are everywhere and the police are always one step behind. Exporting in bulk makes sense and the risks are lower. The General wants to move out of the retail sector. You showed him that it is possible even if you did fuck it up.”

  “It should have been simple. At least that’s what I thought,” Patrick said thoughtfully, lighting a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke flow slowly from his lungs. “It was a good idea in theory.”

  “It still is,” the old man agreed. He paused. “In theory that is. Now then, what you need to remember is that theories are what we have just before we get fucked over.”

  “Not the best start was it.”

  “Not at all but he realises the potential.”

  “Good.”

  “It can’t be achieved while there is a rat’s nest across the water. Someone opened their mouth and tipped off the wrong people. Finding them shouldn’t be too hard. We speak to your buyers and find out who knew about it. We can narrow it down from there.”

  “We?”

  “Oh yes. The other thing is that I’m com
ing along with you. Just to make sure that you come back, of course.”

  “Of course,” Patrick mumbled. “And what do I call you?”

  “Call me Henry,” he replied with a half-smile. “We had better get a move on. We have a ferry to catch.”

  7

  Braddick walked out of the lift at Canning Place. All leave had been cancelled and the Major Investigation Team was gearing up to full speed. Twenty extra detectives had been drafted in from across the city, bringing the squad to sixty. The Drug Squad were a few steps behind MIT, still reeling from the news that their DI had committed suicide but they were about to be briefed on the case and brought up to speed. The atmosphere was frantic but subdued; losing one of their own had hit the force hard. It was business as usual but laughter was at a minimum. He walked through the bustle and exchanged brief greetings with his people. The tension in the air was palpable. He opened the door and stepped into his office where the ACC was pacing up and down. Sitting in one of the chairs was a dark haired female with sky-blue eyes; the kind of eyes you can fall into. He nodded hello, embarrassed by staring at them for a second too long. She smiled back and lit up the room. She was about to speak but the ACC put a halt to their introduction.

  “At last, DI Braddick,” the officer said stiffly. “You must be shattered after that trip. All the way back from a foreign country. How was the journey back from Anglesey?”

  “Fine, sir.” Braddick shrugged, thinking that they had returned from Anglesey not Afghanistan. “Any more information about DI Cain?”

  “I’m afraid things have escalated. It’s worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “It’s a terrible shame. A bloody shambles,” the officer said, shaking his head. “The fire brigade were called to her parent’s home last night.”

  “What,” Braddick asked confused. “Why?”

  “Gas explosion, we believe. Two bodies were recovered but they’re too badly burnt to identify yet. We’re waiting on a dental report from forensics. On the face of it, we have to assume that her parents are dead too.”