by Mac Fletcher
“Greg found Nigel,” Eddy’s voice betrayed a rare tremor of emotion, "though fortunately he never saw Jacky. Whatever the outcome is, tomorrow you must report what you heard.”
“If I haven’t murdered the bastard myself by then,” said Bart.
Eddy shook his head doubtfully. “We’re going to be treading on dangerous ground.”
“You haven’t heard the good news yet!” Bart grinned, almost tumbling over his words.
"There's good news?"
“Yes - Vance has got the wind up. We could hear him when he got out of the car to leave. He made it abundantly clear he’d exterminate all three personally if they were found with firearms again.”
"That is good news.” Eddy brightened visibly. "Nothing to stop 'em carrying knives, mind, but with the surprise element on our side we've a good chance.”
“Don’t you think we'd be safer calling the law now?” asked Simon with an uncharacteristic show of nerves.
“No!” Eddy was emphatic. “Vance will draw his horns in and stop the boat. They'll never be caught… besides which, I want a crack at Vance and Skuce myself.”
Throughout all the discussion, Fergal Haye had stood quietly giving, without effort, the impression most of it had gone over his head. No one noticed the fire in his eyes when he’d heard that Nigel and Jacky had been killed, probably by Skuce. Fergal liked Nigel, but had formed an obsession with Jacky, and although he didn’t even blink, anguish began festering in his head.
A lull fell on the proceedings as Gorby’s Lada pulled onto the car park, and he entered the bar with Wheeler.
“Never this many in on a Sunday lunchtime,” sniggered Gorby as he pushed his way to the bar, “is it bank holiday?”
“Country club,” said Eddy, anxious that the gathering shouldn’t arouse suspicion, “change to see you on a weekday. Day off, is it?”
“Been to collect some gear,” he mocked, “about time you found a hobby.”
“What gear’s that then, Cyril?” Eddy chose to ignore the sneer.
Gorby hoisted a black leatherette bag onto the counter for all to see, while his grey little friend rotated his head jerkily around at the inmates. “What’s think of that lot, eh?” asked Cyril as he produced a brand new thirty-five millimeter camera, along with lenses, filters and so on.
“Very nice.” Eddy’s approval took Gorby aback - as was intended. “Interesting hobby, that."
“Well, with the light nights coming, while I’m patrolling the estate – I'm sure you’ll have heard I’ll be working for Mister Vance – there'll be lots of opportunities to use it.”
Eddy avoided asking why the estate should suddenly need security in case it set the pair thinking. “I thought you were doing the books?” he pumped, though the pair just smirked.
“I’ve already got a centre-fold girl lined up,” gloated Cyril, his puffy face shiny with conceit as he showed Eddy the camera’s functions.
"Do you run your own pic’s off?" enquired Bart. "Never knew you was into stuff like that."
"I will be doing… once I can afford a printer. Meanwhile a friend will process them: knows all about trimming and enhancement, so he's going to teach me on his computer. Now," he said as he left for the toilet, “you must excuse me, I need a wee.”
“Your missis says you already have one,” retorted the barman. Wheeler smiled as he trailed after his partner like the lapdog he was, Gorby turning to call as he left the bar.
“Keep an eye on my camera.”
“No problem there,” replied Eddy. I intend doing just that.
“Smile!” he called: The instant the door closed he pointed the camera at Fergal, who willingly went through his repertoire with the professionalism of a male centre-fold… in wellingtons.
“Great. Beautiful. Superb...” mimicked Eddy as the camera flashed away, Fergal having dropped his trousers to give various displays. The instant the door creaked open the camera was back on the counter, Fergal, despite his size, resuming his position with the speed of a quick-change artist.
Eddy then signaled to the hapless pair to close in and listen, glaring in Fergal’s direction as if in disapproval. “Keep an eye on him,” he whispered as they glanced nervously at the giant. “Cracking up altogether, I reckon.”
“Never liked the bastard,” quaked Cyril, “typical navvy I reckon. Any bloke as eats onions to freshen his breath wants watchin'!”
“It’s not just his normal stupidity,” continued the barman, “he’s taken to dressing up... at night, and roaming round. Just warning you in case he wanders onto the estate that’s all. Wicked bleeder when he’s had a few.”
“He’ll be treading on dangerous ground if he disturbs those dogs Vance has hired,” said Wheeler with a conceited grin, “He’ll really have something on his plate with that pair.”
“Dunno." Eddy stared hard at the pair. "Last time Fergal got bit, the dog ended up having treatment - for alcoholic poisoning. Then there was the time he fell off his bike, pissed as ever,” he continued. “Passer by who stopped to help finished up in hospital... an' police are still lookin' for a hit and run driver!”
Eddy could see by that stage that the pair were spooked, so he chose to change the subject. “Has Vance moved in? ‘Cos I didn’t think the sale had gone thorough yet?”
“It will do soon,” said Cyril glibly, his guard dropping by the second, “he’s getting things in order first. That’s why Ivor and me will be doing night patrols – to keep an eye on things for him, eh Sid?”
“Nice to be doing a bit again.” The ex-undertaker forced a smile as he revolved his head, lizard-style. “Not as I need the money, mind.”
“No, course not,” agreed Eddy with an ambiguous wink “What will you be looking out for anyway? Vance isn’t expecting Oliver Cromwell back is he?”
“I don’t suppose he is,” said Gorby with a smarmy grin. “We’re looking after the top part of the estate, for your information - to ensure no unwelcome visitors enter from the road.” Eddy had heard all he wanted, and remained tight-lipped until the pair drank up and left.
‘OK you lot,” he called to the gathering, “now that Burke and Hare are out of the way, we'll run through tactics again."
Chapter Seventeen
It was seven thirty on the foulest evening Gorby and Wheeler had ever known. The pair sat huddled uncomfortably in Cyril’s Cossack-red Lada while a storm raged outside, no moon to afford even the vaguest view through the rain-lashed windows.
“They reckon it’ll be nice when this lot’s blown over,” said Wheeler with a protracted yawn, “be a good job when it does.”
Gorby nodded: he was bored with boring Wheeler to death, and even more bored with Wheeler’s boring small talk - in fact he was bored with the whole boring set up. He wished he’d never volunteered for the stupid night-watch business, and longed desperately to be back home in the comfort of his bed. The sight of his wife’s huge, adipose rear was preferable to that of rain coursing down the windscreen - though only marginally.
“I’ve been trying to do too much lately,” he whined, “Haven’t even had chance to renew the car insurance - lapsed yesterday.”
“It isn’t insured?” squeaked Wheeler. “We’ve been riding round in a car that isn’t insured? - Stubbs will have you off the road if he gets wind.”
“Stubbs always gets wind, and we’re not on the road, Ivor. And it only expired yesterday; so we’re covered - legally at least - for another fortnight.” Gorby’s tedium lifted slightly: he was relieved he’d found fresh, if suspect, fodder to tire his companion with. “It's a legal requirement that motor insurance companies allow third party cover for fourteen days after expiry date. And I don’t intend having an accident...” Gorby hadn’t finished when he heard a noise from near the main entrance. He stopped speaking and gawped at a loud, growling noise, audible even over the squally rain. Wheeler had obviously heard it too, noted Cyril: his complexion was suddenly translucent. Gorby turned off the interior light and lowered the window
, though by only a quarter inch, in a sham display of bravado.
“Probably one of the dogs,” said Wheeler… almost hopefully in the circumstances.
“Can’t be,” replied his trembling friend, “Skuce has got them, and he’s down along the bay.”
“Think we’d better take a look?” suggested Wheeler unenthusiastically, “just in case.”
After a lot of deliberation, and only because neither was prepared to admit his terror, the pair climbed out and waved their torches half-heartedly around the undergrowth - almost afraid of disturbing something. The wind had dropped briefly, and both men became braver on finding nothing amiss.
“Best take a look around, now we’re out,” suggested Gorby dutifully, “no harm in a stroll down the lane, here.” Wheeler nodded nervously and trailed his companion through the gates and along the lane.
“What was that?” asked Wheeler after a few minutes “sounded like a car starting to me.”
“Definitely a car!” agreed Gorby sarcastically. "Definitely being started."
Gorby’s companion stared down the lane towards the illuminated gateway. A cloud of exhaust fumes lingered temporarily outside the entrance before being whipped away by the resurging wind.
“Your car, Cyril!” he whimpered.
Cyril gasped in amazement and waddled awkwardly back to the gates, Wheeler as ever in his slip-stream.
“Bastards!” yelled Gorby, “come on - let’s get after 'em.”
The pair scurried as quickly as their capabilities allowed along an unmade track, and through a thickly wooded area leading to the sea, emerging eventually to see the car parked only feet from a shallow cliff at the edge of the bay.
“Some bloody joy-rider’s idea of a trick,” groaned Gorby, relieved to see his beloved car in one piece, “likely to give someone a heart attack playing tricks like that!” Still breathless, they shuffled towards the vehicle.
“You’ll need to be careful,” advised Wheeler on noting the spongy turf underfoot, “or the car'll end up in the bay.”
The pair were about thirty feet away when a huge, shadowy figure emerged from behind bushes and plodded slowly towards them. Despite attempts to keep him in ignorance, and unbeknown to anyone, Fergal Haye had made it his business to be there.
“What the bloody hell’s that?” whined Wheeler, “seven foot if it's an inch!” Both men shone their torches on the spectacle lumbering towards them.
“It’s that bastard Fergal!” wailed Gorby, “pissed as a rat as usual!” He immediately panicked and made a desperate effort to reach his car. As he slithered about his companion, floundering also, clung to his jacket. Gorby, by now thrashing his way frantically towards the car, turned briefly to Wheeler.
“Let go of me, you lizard-faced little bastard!” he screamed. Miraculously both made it to the car, and Cyril started the engine. “Thank God the keys are still in!”
Fergal’s menacing outline was only yards away as Cyril rammed the car into gear and let the clutch out. The engine screamed at full throttle. But nothing happened.
“It’s skidding in the sludge,” bleated Wheeler, “let the revs die down.”
"I'll let you die down in a fucking minute!" Gorby was in no mood for reasoning as he jerked the car into one gear after another in a vain effort to make it move. Too terrified to look behind, neither saw two willowy figures - clad in wet suits - emerge from the shadows and run to the car. Both put all their weight behind the vehicle and gave it an immense heave forwards. Two wedge-like divots shot from beneath as the wheels bit and the vehicle shot forward over the low cliff and into the bay.
Cyril's Lada sprawled like a cartoon cat, its wheels splayed paw-like beneath the icy waves. The men stared at each other as they sat - up to their behinds in icy sea water - though shock gave way to fear as two black faces, one either side, grinned in at them like Cheshire cats.
Duane and Nathaniel helped the hapless duo from the wreckage and sat them on the nearby bank. “Get your clothes off,” insisted Nathaniel, “and we’ll get you dry.” Gorby and his partner put on a feeble show of modesty as the twins stripped them off - both too numb with fear, shock and cold to argue. Nathaniel swiftly took two coarse blankets from a polythene wrapper and covered their dithering bodies.
Neither of the wretches noticed a third figure emerge from cover. Dogs could suddenly be heard barking distantly as the newcomer waved fresh ox liver in the air and gave a long, low whistle. Almost half a mile away, round in the next cove, two rotties suddenly cocked their ears before snatching themselves free from a thickset man patrolling the beach.
“I should get home quick, you two, I can hear the dogs already,” said Duane - both he and his companion suddenly eager to leave. “Must get going,” they chorused, white palms fluttering as two of dazzling sets teeth vanished into the darkness.
The duo felt they were in the throes of a nightmare as they squelched with mud-laden feet towards the village. “Never again!” whimpered Gorby, shattered by the humiliation of it all. "Fuck Vance – an' his kids!"
“I can hear the dogs,” panted Wheeler as he pulled the bristly blanket closer. “Getting nearer by the sounds - hope Skuce 'as got 'old of 'em.”
The twins, observing from the cover of shadows, were joined by their companion, and two unbelievably affable rottweilers.
"Cheers, Win," said Nat. "Pair of softies aren’t they?"
"They are when you know 'em as well as I do: I'll get 'em back to the kennels before the Neanderthals get here. When I see him tomorrow, I'll tell the gaffer they got free and must have returned of their own accord."
"Pity they can't spend more time with Cyril and Ivor," said Nat. "They seemed to take to 'em."
"We-ell," the kennel-assistant beamed, "the blankets I gave you had been in the pen with a bitch we've isolated." He whistled the dogs back before making for the coastal path above. "Bitch on heat that is. See you now."
Duane and Nathaniel watched as the dogs followed Win, just as Skuce and two other shaven-headed men came into view from the opposite direction. On spotting them the brothers made quickly for cover.
About half a mile away, alerted by the same text that had signaled the go-ahead for the Mendez twins, Bart and Simon were down at the local lock-up, reporting a break in. The spirited pair were knocking rapidly at the door as Stubbs raced to get his built-up shoes on.
Bart and Simon feigned breathlessness as they stood in the porch, secretly wondering if that part of the plan was altogether necessary - particularly in light of Stubbs reluctance to become involved in anything which might disturb his own peace.
“What the bloody 'ell?” yelled Stubbs as he flung open the door, “sounds like some bastard nailin' a coffin up!”
“You got ‘orse-shit in your shoes?” asked Bart calmly. “Your look taller every time I see you,”
“Bollocks!” screeched the PC, “What’s the game?”
“Sorry to bother you, Stubbs,” said Simon, “we've just seen someone trying to break in through the window round the back here.” Stubbs just stared at them: Greg's incarceration aside, the cell had never housed anything other than brooms and buckets.
“Breaking in?" Stubbs glared in disbelief. “How much beer you 'ad?”
“It’s true!” swore Bart, “big bloke in a funny hat.”
“Oh Jesus Christ!” groaned Stubbs as he recalled stories he’d heard in the village that day. “Some coppers spend their careers scourin' the world for train robbers and the like - and I get a seven foot dick breaking in to my place. Pissed as a rat into the bargain I bet." Stubbs paused and considered the ramifications. "You two had better come with me - bloody handful when he’s had a few.”
They followed Stubbs through to the back of the station, Simon noting that the officer had left his keys and radio on the desk.
“There he is!” yelled Bart, stifling laughter at the absurdity of the situation. How, he asked himself, could a man of Fergal’s size need pointing out? Only Stubbs could have fallen for it
as he stalked warily into the seven by four cell looking for a giant who would, had he been there, filled the room.
“Where?” he shouted - just as the lights went out.
“There!” yelled Bart as he brought the base of his ham-like fist down on the PC’s head. Although they'd achieved their goal, Bart and Simon were peeved they hadn’t avenged Greg more satisfactorily. The severity of the blow ensured that, until he came round much later, Stubbs thought he was still drinking tea with Dawn.
Vance had posted a handful of lookouts at strategic points within the estate – particularly along the shoreline. Although of less significance than Skuce and Co, each man was discreetly eliminated by members of Eddy’s band.
For his part, Eddy had been staring for hours through night-glasses towards what looked like an island. In actual fact it was part of the mainland, the curve of which wrapped around the bay to a point where it emerged from the horizon like a headland. He'd watched the area since afternoon - for so long that the vessel he'd observed dissolved intermittently into a blurred spot before his eyes. He was, nevertheless, certain the boat was the one anticipated.
"That's how they deliver the goods at a critical time," he muttered to Bart and Simon as they joined him. "If they have to cross Biscay they can do it in their own time, then moor in the shelter of Frome Point over there." He passed the powerful infrared binoculars to Bart. "What do you think?"
"Yes, it's moving off all right." Bart felt the tingle of anticipation. "Twenty minutes at the outside, I'd say."
The last thing Eddy wanted was to raise a false alarm: moving too early would be as bad as too late - especially as they had to keep Stubbs interned for an indeterminate period. Only therefore when he was sure the boat was their target had he sent a blanket text to the restless vigils - all eager for action after what had seemed an eternity in the miserable conditions.
The storm itself had been Eddy’s biggest headache. Before he'd spotted the moored boat, he'd had visions of the landing being aborted – or, had the boat approached from the south, of it having to take shelter during its journey. And all hadn't gone just as planned in that he'd not allowed for Skuce and partners disappearing from the scene. It had necessitated dispatching Bart and Simon to search for them while he'd awaited the all important arrival of the boat. He'd hoped the main threat, Skuce and Co, would have been eliminated by that stage.