The news from Carol had not been good. Danny’s health had become extremely acute. Even with the use of supplementary oxygen, his lungs had found it difficult to cope with even the most rudimentary of physical activities – even sitting still for prolonged periods had exhausted him. Even so, he had wanted to see me.
I had arranged to stay overnight at ‘Cheyne Mews’, the London house, with Tina and her sister. The following morning, in a de-commissioned black London cab – we use de-commissioned cabs as a convenient innocuous form of transport around the Capital – Tina had driven me north of Barnet, and Danny’s ten bed roomed mansion. Set in eight acres of parkland, behind huge elaborate wrought iron gates at the end of a long twisting drive, Danny had created his dream home, complete with games room, gymnasium, squash court, swimming pool complex and cinema. As a security precaution, fearing assassination attempts from car bombs and such, Danny had long since denied access to the mansion by all vehicles – other than his own. Instead, outside the secure gates, he had a visitor’s car park created. All visitors, including deliveries, could only gain access via the intercom and Reg and Johnny. Then, dependant on the nature of the visitor’s business, Reg and Johnny would collect them from the gate in electric golf carts, for visitors; and a fork lift truck, for large deliveries. And that morning had been no different.
With baying howls, the four Great Dane-Bull Mastiff crosses had reached the gates first, leaping and jumping up at the iron work – Reg and Johnny, in a blue canvas top golf cart, close behind. On the arrival of the ‘Brothers’, the hounds had quickly lost interest, and had lopped off back into the parkland.
“Morning, Mr Martin, sir,” Reg had greeted me as he had gotten out of the cart, leaving Johnny at its wheel. “Nice to see you again, sir,” he had added, as he had approached the gate.
Dressed in a navy blue double breasted blazer and grey slacks, at five foot four, Reg was short in stature, but wide in chest. His face, with its broken nose and his puffed up cauliflower ears, bore witness to his days as a boxer. His appearance as a ‘bruiser’ had been further established when he had smiled…the left hand bottom row of teeth and the right hand top row of teeth had gone, long since knocked out during his ‘bare-knuckle’ fighting days.
And those fights he had used to win – so I would hate to think what the losers had looked like.
“Good morning, Reg. I am very well – how are you?” I had responded, noting the outline of a cut down pump action shotgun, nestled neatly under his blazer.
“I’m very well, Mr Martin, sir,” he had replied as he had open the gate. “Fraid gonna ave to check you for weapons.”
As Reg had patted me down, Johnny had got out from behind the steering wheel of the golf buggy. “Morning, Mr Martin,” he had addressed me.
Dressed in similar blue blazer and grey slacks, as Reg had been short and wide, Johnny had been the exact opposite. Tall and slender, his ruddy face topped off by a crest of thin grey whispery hair. Reg, on the other hand, had his thick hair cropped short and close.
“Morning, Johnny,” I had replied, lowering my arms to my sides as Reg had finished his vigorous pat down of me.
With Johnny behind the wheel of the golf cart, we had sped off along the long twisting drive, past tennis courts to our right, and a large ornamental lake to the left. Carol, Danny’s wife, had greeted me at the grand columned entrance of the mansion. The greeting had been convivial and warm, but short. I had made enquiries as to her husband’s health – to be told that it had been deteriorating, fast. Then, Reg and Johnny, with the Great Dane-Bull Mastiff hounds now on leads, had led the way to the boat house, set by the ornamental lake. Sitting in a wheelchair on the large wooden veranda, overlooking the lake, wrapped up in blankets against the cold had been Danny Boy. Reg and Johnny had stayed at the entrance to the veranda, allowing me to carry on.
“Danny – you look like shit,” I had greeted him.
It had been only six months since we had last met, but his physical deterioration had been very marked…he had looked like an old man in his eighties – not a comparatively young guy in his mid thirties. But despite his gaunt frail look and the tubes attached to his nose, he still had that wicked smile and mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
“Martin – you old fucking bugger,” he had croaked, wheezing badly as he had drawn a breath. “You got a fag you can lend us? Her indoors won’t let us ‘ave em – and I’m fucking gasping for one.”
“You sure you should still be smoking?” I had subtly enquired, but Danny had ignored me.
“How’s tricks?” he had asked, greedily taking a Dunhill International from the pack that I had offered him. Without waiting for a reply, he had ripped the filter tip from the cigarette and thrust the other end in between his pale thin lips. “Got a light, Martin?”
I had to wait several moments for the violent bout of retching and coughing to subside, before Danny had been in a fit state to talk to. “You wanted to see me?” I had asked.
“Fucking hell – I was gasping for that,” he at last replied, using the back of his hand to wipe the spittle from his lips. “Yea, I need you to do me a favour.”
“Sure – is it Carol and the girls?”
“Nah, Carol and the galls are well taken care of. She’s got this place and a few mill in the bank – and I placed a few mill in trust, for the galls.” Pausing, he had taken another pull on the cigarette, prompting another severe bout of coughing. “Nah, I need you to do me another favour.”
“And what’s that?”
“How far do we go back - seems like a complete fucking lifetime, to me,” he had reminisced. “Mind you – I feel as if I’ve lived a life of a few fucking lifetimes, the way I feel now.”
“Its twenty years since you came to the Manor, as a spotty kid.”
“Is that all.” Then Danny had grinned. “A fucking lot has happened in those twenty years.”
“Yes,” I had agreed – a lot had happened over those twenty years. “You got rid of your spots, for one thing – pity about the nose.”
“Cheeky fucking bastard – took years of good hard drinking for me to grow this.” As if to emphasise his statement, he had tapped the side of his nose once, with his index finger. “You older than me?” he had asked.
“Yes.”
“Fucking bastard – how come you still look so fucking good and fit.”
“I work at it,” I had replied and then had asked, “What’s the favour?”
Danny had grinned and nodded his head back to where Reg and Johnny had been standing patiently with the Mastiff-Dane crosses. “I need to find a good home for them,” he had whispered, coughing slightly as he did so.
I had looked over to where the four hounds had been. Lolloping lazily on their bellies, two of them had actually been sleeping; judging by the snoring. “Sorry, Danny – I don’t have time to take them in and look after them,” I had made the excuse. “But I’ll see if I can find a good home for them,” I had then offered.
Danny had looked directly at me, his eyes widening, then he had collapsed back into his wheel chair – coughing and laughing, simultaneously. “Nah, it ain’t the dogs I want taken care of, you dozy bugger!” he had managed to gasp. “It’s those two fucking reprobates on the other end of the fucking leads!”
This time I had looked intently at Reg and Johnny, the ‘Butcher’ brothers. “Won’t your cousins take care of them?” I had asked.
“Nah, them fucking idle wankers would have them both done in!” Danny had half murmured and then had requested. “Give us another ciggy, will yer.” Accompanied by yet another coughing bout, with the cigarette lit, Danny had continued: “Sometime back, those two fucking cousins of mine ‘ad been getting far too big for their fucking boots – so I sent Reg and Johnny round to give them a bit of a slap.”
“Ah – I see.”
“Yeah. The wankers really hate me – but they hate Reg and Johnny a fucking lot more.”
“Snag is Danny – I don’t have a need for ‘
minders’,” I had replied.
“Ah,” Danny had exclaimed, winking and grinning broadly, and tapping his nose as if he had known something. “You don’t need minders – but in your line of work you could do with some proper good cleaners – and them’s two are the fucking best ‘cleaners’ in the business.”
I had been slightly taken aback at that last remark of his, but I hadn’t shown it.
How did Danny know what my line of ‘work’ had been…or was it just an innocent, coincidental turn of phrase? Even today, I don’t know if Danny had any real inkling of what I did, or if it had just been speculation, on his part.
Danny had gained the ‘disposal’ side of the business when he had taken over the North London scrap yard, from the Sicilian. By pre-arrangement, cars would be driven up to the crusher at the scrap yard, with a brown envelope containing a grand in ten Pound notes on the front passenger seat…and a body in the boot! Again, as he had done when he had first started his scrap business, back in the Midlands, all those years ago, Danny had been quick to see a gap and an opportunity in the market place. So, in addition to his ‘disposal’ facilities – he had also offered ‘collection’ and ‘cleaning’ services, as well. Reg and Johnny, who Danny had considered to have the right aptitude for this type of work, had been dispatched off to a Forensic Cleaning Academy, in Jacksonville, Florida, to learn the associated skills required to carry out: ‘Forensic Crime and Death Scene Cleaning’ – both graduating with distinctions, and diplomas to match.
“Okidoki,” I had agreed.
Danny had been quite right; I could definitely make use of two of the best ‘fucking cleaners’ in the business. Cleaners of their calibre could be of distinct advantage to my own operations – enabling members of the Family to concentrate solely on work, leaving the tidying up to others.
“Nice one,” Danny had grinned.
“But, I want the rendering plant thrown in, as well,” I had added.
It had been Danny’s turn to be taken by surprise. “How the fuck did you know about that?” he had half choked, coughing and spluttering.
I didn’t reply, I had just grinned and, mimicking him, had given a knowing wink and had tapped the side of my nose with my finger.
At first, Danny, or rather the Butcher Brothers, had used the large crusher at the yard to dispose of the deceased; the baling press compactor reducing the vehicle into symmetrical cubes of scrap, with the body of the deceased mangled and neatly incorporated into the compressed distorted block of metals and materials – which had then gone off to be recycled.
An excellent means of disposal – for you can’t carry out forensic examination on a new washing machine, or fridge – can you!
And, for a number of years, the vehicle crusher has been an ideal method of disposal – that is, until a local government enforcement officer had made a random visit to the yard. Reg and Johnny had just consigned another ‘disposal’ to the crusher, the body secured in the boot of a Jaguar XJ Saloon, when Danny had taken the council officer on a tour of the yard. As the crusher had commenced its final cycle, the enforcement officer had pointed out to Danny the crimson looking liquid, which had been seeping out from the base of the large powerful machine. Danny had been horrified until the council officer had remonstrated with him, for not ensuring that the vehicle had been properly drained of all its oils and fluids – pointing out the ‘transmission’ fluid, which had been leaking out on to the floor of the yard. And it had been with some relief that Danny had gratefully accepted the Enforcement Notice, which had been issued to him by the council officer for non-compliance to local council byelaws, relating to the disposal of toxic and inflammatory liquids. But, even so, the incident had put the wind up Danny, and he had looked for an alternative means of ‘disposal’.
Danny had read somewhere about the Mafia, in Sicily, feeding the corpses of their victims to pigs. The Mafia had favoured the use of pigs, for disposal, as they had left little behind apart from a few bones and dentures. The bones could be ground up and added to pig food, and fed back to the pigs, again – any other left over bits could be easily burnt. So, Danny had gone out and acquired a local pig farm, and Reg and Johnny had become ‘Pig Men’ – amongst other things. All had been well until one of Danny’s barbeques, when one of his guests had complimented him on the fantastic flavour of his sausages and ham burgers, asking if the meat had come from his ’special’ pigs. In all probability, a totally innocent remark, but a remark that had sent Danny out looking for a new means of ‘disposal’, again. Danny had built himself an animal carcass rendering plant, up in the Midlands. Built solely for the disposal of Category One and Category Two materials; animal carcasses and animal by-products, which had been required to be absolutely and completely disposed of by total incineration – it had been perfect for what Danny had needed.
It had also been perfect for my needs, too!
“I’ll pay you a fair market value for the plant,” I had offered – in point of fact, during the outbreak of Foot and Mouth, in 2001, the rendering plant paid for itself ten times over!
“Nah – you take care of them two fucking reprobates for us, and wee’s got a deal.”
“Deal – but I’ll still pay you for the plant,” I had replied, holding out my hand towards him.
Spitting into the palm of his right hand, he had then extended it out to me, and we had secured the deal with a traditional Romany handshake.
And that had been the last time that I had seen Danny. Two weeks later and he was dead. It had been believed that he had died peacefully, in his sleep, after the supplementary oxygen supply feed through his nose had accidentally become detached. Whether it had become accidentally detached, or if Danny had deliberately pulled it free from his nose, no one will ever know – but I have my own thoughts on the matter.
Two weeks later, I stopped smoking.
***
Reg and Johnny have been with me ever since – accepted and valued members of the Family. Although they do not provide direct support, to either our role as assassins or have involvement in our covert military operations, they are always on hand to ‘clean up’ afterwards.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Garry, or Captain Biggles, as Hughie tends to calls him.
Straight from university, Garry – or Garaidh, as his parents had preferred him to be called – had joined the British RAF as a graduate intake. Selected for aircrew, he had progressed through Officer Training, at RAF College Cranwell, graduating from the College some nine months later as a Pilot Officer. After elementary flying training as a student pilot, with 22 Training Group, much to his disappointment, he had been streamed for multi-engine transport aircraft – not the fast jet fighters that he had aspired to. After completing the intensive training required for multi-engine aircraft, Garry had then been posted to 32 Squadron, at RAF Northolt, as a Flight Lieutenant, flying HS125 Business Jets, as part of the Royal Air Force VIP transportation and communication fleet. His role, flying military and government VIPs around the United Kingdom and Europe, may have been considered a peach of a posting to some, but for Garry, it had felt as if he had been no more than a glorified taxi driver. His requests to transfer to combat jet fighters had been denied: ‘He had not been in the upper quartile for simulated reaction time.’ This had left him slightly embittered – so he had requested, and had been extraordinarily accepted into the British Army as an Army Pilot – some strings had been evidently pulled, at high places. On transferring over to the Army Air Corps, he had carried out the conversion training required to fly helicopters, ending up as a Captain, flying Lynx helicopters. However, this new role still did not provide him with the exhilaration that he had craved for, and Garry had applied for a transfer to the Royal Marine Commandos. Again, quite remarkably, his transfer had been rubber stamped. Passing the intensive selection course, he had then undergone rigorous training, not only learning basic skills and field craft, but also building up his own physical strength and endurance. After completing basic traini
ng, Garry had then gone on to the full blown Commando Course, culminating in the seven day series of Commando Tests. He had completed most of these tests, passing all them successfully, up until the rope climb. Half way up the thirty foot rope climb, the fastening securing the rope to the top of the frame had snapped, and he had landed badly – breaking one of his ankles. As is the tendency with such injuries, the fracture, although healed properly, had left his ankle noticeably weak and prone to lameness. And Garry had been returned back to his normal flying duties. But they had not remained ‘normal’ for long. From time to time, Garry had been seconded to carry out ‘special’ ops for Section 9, by Sir Barry K…, its Section Head. I dare say, Sir Barry would have probably offered Garry a permanent role with Section 9, on his leaving the Army Air Corps – but I had got in first!
***
Thursday the 10th of January, a comparatively mild, but wet morning.
I had travelled down to London the day before, by car. I would normally have used the train, but there had been a serious train crash at Cannon Street Station, only the day before; so, to avoid potential delays, I had got Ritchie to drive me down to the London house. The following morning, Tina had driven me to the Embankment Office, and an early morning meeting with Sir Barry K…, Head of Section 9.
Since Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, back in the August of the previous year, we had been doing a considerable amount of work for both Section 9 and the CIA. While the United Nations had been desperately trying to enforce trade embargos and economic sanctions on Iraq; and Western governments had been effectively freezing their financial assets and cutting off their money supply…we had been ‘cutting off’ their money men – literally. The Iraq regime had endeavoured to find ways around the economic and financial sanctions placed on it, by using Ba’ath Party members, living and residing outside of the country, to raise and contribute large substantial sums of hard cash, directly into the coffers of Saddam Hussein. With the exception of Iraqi Ba’ath Party members and sympathisers in Syria, by December, we had all but closed this backdoor supply of hard cash, reducing it down to a mere trickle. I had assumed my meeting at the Embankment Office had been to sanction similar work, but I had been wrong.
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 24