The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

by Mac Fletcher

  Greg assured her the pictures would be made over to Penmaric’s estate, at which she reached for the phone on a table beside her and rang her solicitor.

  “I’m afraid he's on holiday,” she said on replacing the receiver, “but they’ve kindly agreed to send along an able young assistant to witness the transaction. Is Friday morning alright with you, Mr. Alison?”

  “Yes,” replied Greg, secretly annoyed he’d been so insistent on calling a witness.

  “Someone's due to call anyway,” said the old lady, “to deliver some papers regarding the remainder of my belongings. I’m making everything else over to my son, Mel.”

  In light of what Hemmings had told him, Greg was unable to conceal his surprise, which was obviously relayed to the old lady. "I can’t remain so bitter towards him that I'd leave everything to a cats’ home for spite.” She smiled. “That seems the ultimate dirty trick these days, doesn’t it? Mel disowned me when he found out about Lawson – you'll know all that I'm sure - but I can understand how he must have felt. Since he walked out he's roamed the world, so I hope what I'm doing will provide him with an incentive to settle down and keep the farm on.”

  She paused to stroke the cat, which had found its way back onto her lap. “The last time I saw my son,” she continued, “he brought a man along to value the pictures. Mel believes he has some entitlement to them - along with the rest of the property... though his valuer said they were almost worthless.” Greg somehow concealed his scepticism and just watched as she leaned and prodded a large poker at the log fire, as if for comfort from the crackling eruption.

  The old lady sat back and sighed. “Can I tell you something in confidence, Mr Alison? I need to tell someone before I die.”

  “Of course; what is it?”

  “Worthless they might well be,” she explained, “but if Mel had taken time to talk and listen, the pictures could have been his along with everything else. He'd more legal and moral entitlement than anyone… Mel, you see, is Lawson Penmaric’s son.”

  Greg just inhaled deeply.

  Having confirmed arrangements for Friday, Greg drove back to the caravan, avoiding Wyndham’s cottage until dark. He then waited until almost dusk - when he estimated Eddy would arrive to prepare for opening – before making his way cross country to a roadside kiosk about a mile away. The phone rang for some time, though he was pleased that Eddy himself answered eventually.

  “Eddy,” he said hurriedly. "Listen carefully: if the boat I spoke of is coming, it will almost certainly be tomorrow night.”

  “We'll be ready,” replied Eddy, though he was forced to pause as the call end pips sounded. “Shall I take your number and ring you?”

  "Good idea, I don't have much change, and I intend ringing Sarah."

  “Now,” continued Eddy on getting through again, “whatever you do stay where you are. There were plain-clothes men everywhere in Trevelly this morning - Nigel and his girlfriend have been found dead!”

  “Jacky as well?” gasped Greg with horror, “I saw Nigel - he was dead when I called last night. I’m afraid I fled the scene, terrified I’d get the blame for that as well.”

  “Probably not the wisest thing to do,” replied Eddy, “but it seems you’re safe on that count, anyway. A police statement suggested that they’re not looking for anyone else. Word on the street is that Jacky topped herself after shooting Nigel. All the same, Trevelly’s not a good place for a suspected cocaine smuggler right now. Stick it out up there until we know more.”

  “I've every intention of doing that,” answered Greg. “I’ve a few things to attend anyway, but I’ll tell you more when I see you.”

  “Understood - and don’t worry about this end - we’ll do what we can. I'm sure greed has overcome Vance - cheeky bastard’s got blokes and dogs in the grounds, and it's not even officially his, yet.”

  “He's good reason for that if I'm right. Tell me Eddy, have you ever heard of Skuce?”

  “Skull - to all the thugs in the Plymouth area,” replied Eddy. “Evil monster with a shaven head: that's how he got the nickname. He literally got away with murder some years back, but I’ve a personal score to settle with him and Vance.”

  “Be careful in case they’re armed,” warned Greg, “It wouldn’t surprise me if Skuce put paid to Nigel and Jacky from what I hear."

  “I don’t doubt that - I know what I’d like to do to the evil bastards!” Eddy paused. "I'll have to go shortly mate, I'll need to ask Elaine to stand in for me tomorrow night."

  "Okay, glad you mentioned Elaine: would you mind passing on a message for me? The matter concerned isn't exactly foremost on my mind at the moment, but if you're speaking to her anyway..." Greg went on to relay the registration number he'd taken in Bridgnorth before adding a final reminder. "Remember, if you spot a boat send for the police. Don’t get involved!”

  "Granny's eggs again, eh?"

  The instant he put the phone down, Greg rang Sarah. She was a bundle of nerves, having already been interviewed by police about the deaths, and she too warned Greg to lie low.

  “Vance has really taken advantage,” she sobbed, “he’s practically moved in already - I’ve seen his car on the estate several times today. I need the sale but I'm inclined to call in someone to get him off the grounds. The police don't want to know.”

  “I'm not surprised to hear that, but give Vance all the rope he needs. He's good reason for hanging about, and it isn’t for curtain measurements. With luck things might be sorted tomorrow night, but please don’t discourage Vance: let him hang himself!”

  Greg pushed his last coin into the slot and continued, “I'm hoping to have good news regarding Lawson’s estate, Sarah. All being well I should be on my way back soon – but I'll say no more. Just remember to give Vance all the rope he needs!”

  Greg put the phone down and made his way back to the caravan, his first plan being to conceal the Ulster again. Then the following day, while he awaited developments, he planned taking a bus to Hereford along with Wyndham, to spend some time in a few charity shops.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After attending some urgent business, Eddy hurried back to the pub to sort the cellar and enjoy a roll-up with a beer before opening. That night he'd see most of the locals, and tomorrow, his day off, he'd be left with plenty of time to do what was needed.

  Since he'd left the marines, Eddy had yearned for some action like that promised. He firmly believed that, with preparation, he could resolve the situation and settle some scores into the bargain. Whilst Eddy had every respect for Greg’s advice, he felt that if he could sort the problem without involving the law prematurely, he could ensure certain people got exactly what was coming to them.

  A few years previously, whilst still in the marines, Eddy had been in a card game with Vance at a club owned by the so-called holiday king. With a face designed for poker and a guile cultivated on the streets of Toxteth, he'd cleaned Vance out and left the club elated. His euphoria was short-lived, however: Vance had arranged for a shaven-headed thug and two accomplices to retrieve the money - with more than a little force. In a one to one tussle - even three to one, had he been aware - Eddy would have had a fighting chance - by legging it as a final resort even. The surprise element, however, coupled with street-gang tactics, had ensured Eddy had come off worst - though not before giving a good account of himself.

  He'd waited a long time - biting his tongue on occasions - for the right opportunity to take revenge. He recalled his disbelief when his older brother had bided his time following a similar incident. "He'll be alive for a long time yet, Eddy lad," his sibling had said. Eddy was convinced there'd never be a better opportunity than that which presented itself now.

  Bart was Eddy’s first customer of the evening, having called in for “a quick livener” before going home for a long soak.

  “Greg’s been in touch,” said Eddy as he served him, “the boat we spoke of should be in tomorrow night. Can you let the lads know?"

  By nine that
evening the bar was packed. All the estate workers were present, along with Fergal Haye, the Mendez twins, and a few selected worthies from the country club. A few beers were all it needed to provide the desired atmosphere, though Eddy took care to maintain control by monitoring intake.

  By ten the formidable band had pulled together a plan. A plan which even Eddy, with all his enthusiasm and experience, found daunting. He realised the group would need to be carefully controlled if the operation wasn’t to turn into a free for all and wreck everything.

  Between them, the crowd agreed that Stubbs would have to be immobilised first if he wasn't to blow the whistle and “spoil things.” Bart and Simon were pleased to agree a simple strategy to keep Stubbs out of action and repay him for the way he’d treated Greg. Next on the agenda were Gorby and Wheeler, Vance’s watchmen, though their elimination was deemed to be little more than a pleasurable exercise.

  "Can't think why Vance would want a pair of shitheads like that working for him," said Bart.

  “Simple really," volunteered Eddy. "They're tokens - decoys if you like. They make him look interested enough in local folk to employ a couple, while they're dumb enough never to twig anything. Vance is an ignoramus at best, so he isn't going to surround himself with smart Alecs, is he?"

  “True. What about the dogs, though?” enquired Simon, “cheeky sod’s hired two rotties. They're something to reckon with and they're likely to raise the alarm.”

  "Rottweilers are a serious business," agreed Eddy. "If one of those sets in I doubt that there's a man here who'd survive the attack."

  "This might sound cocky, but I really think we can handle that side of things," said Duane confidently. "We've had some good info, though we need to double-check first." The Mendez brothers, who'd already agreed to mark Gorby and Wheeler, hit on a scheme to eliminate the dogs at the same time, though their solution seemed rather too nebulous for Eddy.

  "Make absolutely sure of what you're doing, and get that side of things under control early on. Meanwhile, we'll need to think up a good ‘Plan B’. As for the rest of the gang, from the size of this crowd we can mark each one individually with men to spare. No fuss or noise though: we don’t want the boat crew alerted."

  Romantic as the challenge seemed while the beer was talking, beneath enthusiasm hovered reality. They were to encounter a real and dangerous situation, and the crowd fell silent as Eddy called for order.

  “Skuce…" he said slowly, “is the lowlife equivalent of a malignant growth - the sort that costs money to have removed. You’re more likely to have heard him referred to as ‘Skull’ - moved from London to Plymouth some years ago. He couldn’t make it on his own territory, but he and the two nutters he wheels around are dangerous – they’re the only gang members likely to be armed. Myself, Bart and Simon will mark those three, though if there's any indication that they are armed, we alert police and leave 'em to it.”

  As high as spirits had risen, all agreed on avoiding involvement if firearms were suspected.

  “But we’ll give ‘em bloody some stick if they ain't!" roared Bart.

  Outside it was a mild, still night, only a muted breeze drifting gently up from the bay. A severe storm had been forecast on the late news, however, and as often happens, Cornwall was to be hit first. "It will most likely arrive," predicted the forecaster, "tomorrow evening."

  "Hope there isn't a queue at the Balti." Bart and Si jigged to the music of the practicing band as they made for the village. "Sign the season's approaching as they're gettin' extra rehearsals in."

  After a bellyful of curry and chips, they made their way home - singing the tune adapted for the occasion. The band had packed up and all was quiet as they gave their rendition of Bright Eyes... with slightly altered words.

  “Sma-art arse, burrrrnin’ like fi-er…" Merry as they were, on spotting a distant figure, the pair fell suddenly silent… Made for cover.

  *

  Well before dawn the following morning, a one-man dinghy glided as silently as a cloud across the bay. The oarsman rowed out until he located a buoy some distance from the bay. Anchored to a lug on the buoy was a large snap-hook – a huge version of the type used on dog leads – as opposed to a conventional shackle. Trailing from the hook and running back to land was a lightweight steel cable. A number of lengths of fraying nylon ropes - no heavier than clothes-lines - trailed from the lug on the buoy also. The steel cable, he guessed, would be attached to a dinghy loaded with the consignment and towed in from the shore.

  “So that’s how they get the haul in!”

  He'd pondered for hours as to how anyone could convey a cargo - however light - back to land in darkness. Apart from the shallow sandy area used by bathers, the rest of the bay was strewn with submerged rocks, some only inches beneath the surface. He could now see that a boat wouldn't need to approach the shore, less still hang about. The dinghy and its cargo could be lowered from a boat and secured to the buoy with flimsy line, which would retain the dinghy only until it was winched in via the cable. The temporary line would then snap, as had the other frayed pieces still hanging from the buoy!

  The boat wouldn’t need to hang around, just flash a signal to the shore… and away…

  The silhouetted figure detached the shore-line clip from the lug on the buoy and attached it instead to a heavy grapnel-anchor which he lowered to the sea-bed. He was satisfied that when the winch was operated from the shore, the anchor would gouge into the sea bed and snap the cable - or at least give hindrance to the winch operator. He then clipped a substitute snap-hook to the lug on the buoy, and slowly let out a stout cord as he rowed slowly back across the bay. The cord trailed in his wake as the oarsman paddled the borrowed summer-hire boat to the cover of a craggy outcrop.

  The evening before, as soon as he’d put down the phone after speaking to Greg, Eddy had hurried down to the bay in the fading light - carrying only lightweight binoculars. He'd noted the strategically anchored buoy, inconspicuous among several others, but had remained silent until he’d inspected it more closely. He was now confident that he and the agile twins could board the boat when it arrived and take the crew by surprise - after allowing a crew member to unwittingly attach the cargo to the substitute line. The consignment could then be towed out of harm's way from the rocks where Eddy was about to tie up.

  *

  Eddy volunteered to give up his half of his day off to open for Vi that morning - leaving the old lady free to visit her sister. The minute he opened the door, the bar was flooded with estate workers and country club members - all anxious to join in that night’s action.

  Just hope I can control 'em all.

  Even Fergal Haye had taken a rare day off so as not to miss the excitement, though for his own sake, it was decided the less he knew the better: it was considered much easier to keep him in ignorance than explain the situation.

  Bart and Si were anxious to pass on information they’d gleaned the night before, so they drew Eddy aside for a moment.

  “When we came back from the curry-house last night, we spotted Vance,” explained Bart anxiously, “waitin; outside the main gates to Penmaric House. We hung about in bushes to see what he was up to.” So keen were the pair to recount their experience they began speaking simultaneously, at which Eddy elected Bart as spokesman to avoid confusion.

  “Well,” continued Bart, “we saw Skuce and his cronies pull up in an old Jag. Vance got in and they sat talking. Luckily we managed to get close enough to hear snatches through the open rear window.” Bart paused for breath as though the incident was still taking place.

  "Go on,” urged Eddy. “What was said?”

  “Vance was threatening Skuce with his life,” continued Bart, “said it was only the incompetence of local police that had prevented the whole operation being blown. I know he's a psycho, but Skuce never argued.”

  “He wouldn't,” remarked Eddy. “Vance has enough clout to exterminate him at the drop of a hat. What happened then?”

  “Vance acc
used Skuce of killing Nigel!” said Simon, unable to contain the information any longer, “and his girlfriend.”

  “I'm sure he's right,” said Eddy with a deep sigh, “and?"

  “Apparently Skuce had been sent to put the frighteners on for some reason, but Nigel took the piss after he made some sort of pass at Jacky. Skuce left the flat seething, but swore he never went back. Well, if he didn't, we all know someone did: blasted the pair of 'em. With Nigel’s own silenced pistol evidently: he'd kept it fully loaded on the table beside him for defence. Skuce admitted seeing the pistol but flatly denied using it."

  “A few things don’t add up, though," commented Eddy. "Surely some of the comings and goings must be recorded on CCTV - and I can't see Skuce being smart enough to set up Jacky's body well enough to convince the law it was suicide. I also fail to see what motive CID believe Jacky might have had for killing Nigel before turning the gun on herself."

  "Word is Jacky's brother died as a result of cocaine abuse," put in Si. "Apparently she was being treated for a bi-polar disorder and was quite paranoid at times. The fact that Nigel had been grilled on suspicion of running drugs could have flipped her lid: they'd been questioned by police again the day before."

  Eddy nodded thoughtfully. "I hear the flat’s in Baxter Street; isn't that where they re-housed that perv quite recently?"

  "Smout, you mean? The one the press made all the hoo-ha about: state's paying for him to live in a luxury apartment in a classy area. I think it was Baxter, but what's that got to do with anything?"

  “Nothing really; just trying to place the area. Go on."

  “Not much more to tell. We didn't hear much for some time after that, other than that Vance was relieved it hadn’t drawn attention to his operation."

  “They were left in a state from what I hear,” said Bart, “coldblooded bastard.”