Larcombe Manor

by Ted Tayler

  Traffic was lighter near the school, but it took Erica fifteen minutes to get out of the city centre. It was four o’clock by the time they arrived home. With Phil’s car, plus the van on the driveway, she had to waste more time hunting for a parking space near their house.

  Her mood did not improve as she reached the house to find it in darkness. Surely, these security issues didn’t need them to be without lighting? How long was this going to take?

  The kids crowded onto the doorstep as she slid her key into the lock.

  “Hurry, Mummy,” said Tracey, “I need a wee.”

  Erica opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The silence was deafening. She should hear power tools, conversation, the television? The place felt deserted. Something wasn’t right. She found the light switch for the hall and landing and strode towards the kitchen door.

  The children’s screams chilled her to the bone. She rushed back to the foot of the stairs.

  Tracey had wet herself. She and Shaun stared at their father’s body hanging by the neck from the rafters inside the loft space. Erica dragged the shivering and shaking youngsters into the lounge and closed the door. She somehow kept hold of her phone to dial 999.

  The paramedics arrived eight minutes later. There was no rush, thought Erica, as she heard the sirens approach.

  She had known her husband was dead the second she set eyes on him.

  The first police officers arrived twelve minutes later. Erica and the children clung to one another on a settee. She could hear the paramedics whispering in the hallway. Erica thought they were discussing whether they should have cut down the body. Was it a crime scene? The senior paramedic tapped on the door and beckoned Erica to join them.

  “We’re very sorry, Mrs Hounsell,” he said, “there was nothing we could do. Your husband is dead.”

  Erica nodded that she understood.

  The front door opened, and a young female police officer entered.

  “I’m the family liaison officer. My name’s Charmaigne. I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, “are your children through here? My colleague, James is outside. A detective is right behind us.”

  Erica opened the door to the lounge. The young PC held her hands out to encourage Shaun and Tracey to join her in the dining room at the far end of the house.

  Erica helped them on their way. They were in a daze. She knew how they felt. Nothing seemed real.

  “It’s okay, kids, Mummy needs to talk to the policeman,” she told them as they shuffled towards the young woman.

  A familiar shape had followed the liaison officer through the lounge door.

  It was Callum Wood.

  Callum had been one of Phil’s best friends when he worked at Manvers Street Police Station. He had been best man at their wedding and he was the children’s godfather.

  “Oh, Callum,” cried Erica, “I can’t believe this. There’s no way it was suicide.”

  “Tell me what happened here today, Erica,” said Callum.

  “Phil drove to work this morning. I waited until the workman arrived, and then I took the kids to school. I was doing a shift at the building society today, so Phil was picking them up for me. He finishes at lunchtime on a Friday and he was due to come home, get himself a sandwich, and then drive to the school. Only he didn’t.”

  “Where’s the workman?” asked Callum.

  “I’ve no idea,” shrugged Erica, realising the implication. The workman wouldn’t have attacked Phil, so who did?

  “His van’s still on the driveway,” said Callum, “what were you having done? Did the boiler pack up, or something?”

  Erica saw this would be difficult to explain.

  “It was nothing to do with the boiler. He was installing extra security. Phil thought he was being followed. I thought I saw the same car parked in the street every day this week. Somebody was watching the house. I know it sounds far-fetched, but that’s why the man was here.”

  Callum ignored the discrepancy between the van’s signage and the work being carried out for the time being.

  “Phil’s the last bloke I can imagine taking his own life,” said Callum, “and this was no freak accident. Even if this workman and Phil had a violent altercation that resulted in Phil being killed why go to the trouble of staging a suicide? Why not just jump in the van and drive?”

  Callum got up and walked to the door.

  “James,” he shouted, and the young PC entered the hallway, “check the van outside for me, see if we can identify the driver.”

  Four minutes later Callum rejoined Erica.

  “I’ve called a forensic team out,” said Callum. “I have no idea what Phil was mixed up in, but there’s another dead body in the back of the van.”

  Erica let that news sink in for a moment and then she said: -

  “The killer disposed of the workman before Phil got home and then surprised him while he was in the kitchen.”

  “What makes you think that?” asked Callum.

  “My kettle is on the kitchen floor,” said Erica. “It was the only thing I saw when I stepped inside before the kids screamed.”

  “That’s something I wish they hadn’t seen,” said Callum, “it will be nigh on impossible to forget. For any of you.”

  “Have you examined the body yet?” asked Erica.

  Callum could tell that living with a copper for so many years had left its mark. He wouldn’t get any peace to fathom this puzzle out until Erica and the family were off the premises.

  “Look, while I was outside with James, I called Debbie,” he said, “she’s driving here. I think the best thing for you is to go back to ours tonight. I’ll have people working here for hours. Debbie can go upstairs to fetch everything you and the kids need. I’ll talk to you again tomorrow.”

  Debbie Wood was a PC who worked with Phil in Bath. She was Debbie Turner back then, and her and Callum Wood were mad about one another. Not that either of them wanted to admit it. The evening Debbie was shot by Colin Bailey changed everything. Their son Ronnie was two and a half now, and Debbie had hung up her handcuffs to become a stay-at-home Mum. She loved every second.

  Erica knew the kids loved Auntie Debbie, and they needed all the tender, loving care available over the coming days and weeks. Debbie would be the perfect person to help Erica with that. In fact, Debbie would be her number one choice as a shoulder to cry on herself when the shock wore off, and the grief hit her later tonight or tomorrow.

  Erica walked to the dining room to tell the kids what was happening.

  The liaison officer followed Erica to the doorway when they heard Debbie’s distinctive voice in the hallway.

  “They haven’t spoken a word since I arrived,” whispered Charmaigne.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not your fault,” said Erica, “Debbie and I will look after them.”

  Debbie threw her arms around her friend as soon as they met in the hallway.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, darling,” said Debbie, on the verge of tears, “let’s get you out of here. Give me a list of what we need to take. Ronnie’s in the car seat. Asleep at the minute. If this nice PC will help get your two tucked in the back with him, and keep them occupied for two minutes, I can grab your things.”

  Police forensic vehicles pulled up outside the house and screens were erected around the van as Debbie joined them in the car.

  “What the heck’s going on, Erica?” whispered Debbie, as she drove off towards the other side of Bath.

  “I wish I knew,” sighed Erica.

  *****

  Later that evening in London, Tyrone O’Riordan was itching to get out of his apartment. He was looking forward to a night on the town. All he needed was a phone call.

  His mother hadn’t surprised him with her reaction to his working with the Russians. He knew she disapproved. It was a risk worth taking. Vasiliev had a reputation to uphold. Failure wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.

  The man was in his late fifties now and had served time in the brutal Russian pris
on system. The men who worked with him here in the UK had gone through the same experience. That brotherhood resulted in them becoming known as ‘thieves in law’. These were men who adhered to a strict code of conduct.

  Such criminals abandoned their families, and they never married. They shunned the establishment and everything it stood for and never co-operated with the authorities. Any money they earned, came from crime.

  Vasiliev explained to Tyrone that the UK police assumed if they were Russians, then they were Russian mafia and every UK institution was threatened by their presence. In fact, his fellow countrymen had been coming here since the break-up of the Soviet Union and many don’t have documents. They congregate together, work in minimum wage jobs, and are soft targets.

  Since he and his colleagues arrived in the past decade, they were involved in low-level racketeering. They ran protection rackets and extorted money from those whose position rendered them vulnerable. Over the last five years, they had added more strings to their bow. They produced copies of Visa and Mastercard to sell on for a few hundred pounds. They used their fraudulent copies to go on extravagant spending sprees on luxury items.

  “We cannot stop,” Vasiliev told Tyrone, “we have to make a living solely through crime. We lose face, and our power, if we don’t keep going.”

  Tyrone had promised Vasiliev to offer him plenty of work in the future if he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty.

  “How dirty?” Vasiliev asked him.

  “I need people killed,” said Tyrone.

  “No problem,” replied Vasiliev.

  The ringtone on his mobile phone told Tyrone his caller was on the line.

  “What news?” he asked.

  “A three-for-two offer this week. The bonus one won’t cost you a thing. If you get any more work needed to be done, call me.”

  “That’s great. Thanks,” said Tyrone.

  Time for fast-living and fast women. He knew just the place.

  CHAPTER 5

  Saturday, 10th January 2015

  “I’m sure you understand why I called this meeting,” said Athena.

  Her senior team surrounded her in the meeting room. They were still coming to terms with the shock of three deaths connected to Olympus in the past eighteen hours.

  “We witnessed Les Biggar’s death early yesterday afternoon on the lawn outside these windows. The task of explaining the circumstances of his death to his family and the authorities is ongoing. When our agent didn’t return from Orion’s home we became suspicious. News broke in the evening of two unexplained deaths at a house in the city. The police have cordoned off the area around the property. They haven’t released more than a basic statement at present. We’re awaiting news on how both men died to be released later today.”

  Artemis sat with her head bowed. When she and Rusty learned that her old boss had died she had burst into tears. She recalled their last conversation.

  Phil had been surprised to see her as he had no clue where she’d gone after leaving Portishead. He asked what she was doing.

  “I can’t tell you,” she told him, “but if we meet again, call me Artemis.”

  “The Huntress, that’s good for an ex-copper,”

  “Well, you’re Orion. We’re well-matched.”

  “We were, weren’t we?” said Phil.

  “That was a long time ago, Orion,” said Artemis, “I’ve moved on since then. Things are different now.”

  Now he was dead. The Grid targeted him because he agreed to work at Larcombe Manor. If he had continued to work in that office in the city this would never have happened. All the other memories came flooding back.

  You can leave the past behind in a physical sense, and claim things were different, but the memories you shared are never truly buried.

  That initial memory opened the floodgates, and she remembered the first day they met in Durham, the crazy drive south to Bath when they received news of Erica’s kidnapping. That night of passion with Phil she’d always dreamed of in a Bristol hotel after the Kelly family trial ended in disaster.

  Rusty had held her close last night as she sobbed her heart out. This morning they hadn’t spoken. They were her memories. Since she’d been at Larcombe there had been other deaths that had been hard to bear. The life she had chosen meant they both had more pain to endure.

  Phoenix regretted the deaths of each of the three men. Biggles had been a great pilot and although never on the payroll, whenever Olympus called him he did whatever was needed, no questions asked. Phoenix never met the murdered agent, but he wore the uniform, therefore whoever was responsible must pay.

  As for Phil Hounsell, or Orion, there was so much history between them it was hard to imagine life without him. Their stories had been intertwined for twenty-five years.

  Hounsell was the only copper to get close to catching him. How they both survived that struggle in the River Avon he’d never know. The cosmetic surgery he’d had before leaving the Gambia and returning to the UK five years ago changed his features. Yet, his nemesis had realised who killed Neil Cartwright and so had no doubts who he chased along the towpath that evening.

  Weeks later, Phoenix had changed his features again, thanks to the surgeon here at Larcombe. When he saw the policeman at Glastonbury three years later, he thought his time had come. Surely, he would recognise him? Somehow, Phoenix coped with the arrival of Hounsell’s colleague, Zara, and the partnership forged with the security services firm Hounsell ran after leaving the police. They even came up with a plan to absorb him into the set-up here at Olympus HQ. That move had cost him his life.

  Were the three deaths his fault? Could he have handled things differently?

  “As hard as we may find it to put the events of yesterday aside,” said Henry Case, “we must agree on a course of action. We know the helicopter had to land at a nearby airfield. Can we uncover the logged flight plan? How did the killers plan to make their onward journey from the destination point? Did they travel by plane or car? Which section of the Grid did they represent?”

  “I can work on that, Henry,” said Giles Burke.

  “We’ll know more of the other incident once we listen to the police announcement,” said Minos, “leave that to Alastor and myself.”

  “Yesterday morning we talked of keeping a watch on our people who live off-site,” said Rusty. “Things have accelerated. What do we do about your father, Athena?”

  “My father will protest, but he’s being brought back to Larcombe within the hour. Phoenix and I agreed it’s the only way we can keep him safe. Until we can remove the threat, or confirm that he’s not a target, he stays here.”

  “Nothing will prevent us from completing the two missions we have planned for next week,” said Phoenix. “As soon as we identify those responsible for yesterday’s attacks we will deal with them.”

  “Of course,” said Artemis, “we mustn’t allow the deaths of these three men to deflect us from our missions. Nor should we delay tracking their killers and taking revenge. However, we’re forgetting one important thing. How do we prevent the investigations into these deaths uncovering the true purpose of the Olympus Project? Les Biggar was thrown out of his helicopter from over five hundred feet; trussed like a mummy in a sarcophagus. How do we stop the police from learning of his death? Is that even possible? We can’t bury him in the pet cemetery and hope nobody asks where he’s gone.”

  “The deaths of Orion and the electrician from our engineering section will be even more difficult,” agreed Henry Case, “a police investigation is already underway. We can’t control how that will proceed. We can only respond to situations as they arise.”

  “How will Orion’s wife, Erica, react?” asked Phoenix.

  “She’ll be devastated,” replied Artemis, “and so will the children. Her parents are both dead. I’m not sure about Phil’s parents. Orion, I mean, sorry, it’s too close to home. I lodged with Mary Trueman, Erica’s mum when I moved to Bath and took her place over for a while after she died.
The kids called me Auntie.”

  “I think Phoenix meant, will she point the finger our way when the police ask why her husband was murdered?” asked Henry.

  “Could you get near to her again?” asked Athena. “It would be normal for someone who was a friend of the family to get in touch to pass on their condolences. You could discover how much she’s told them so far and encourage her to be economical with the truth in future conversations with the police. Anything that got them to switch their attention elsewhere.”

  “It’s a lot to ask,” said Rusty.

  Artemis looked at her husband. She would do whatever it took to protect him and the others in this room who had become her friends.

  “I’ll call her,” she said.

  “Is there anything more we can do this morning?” asked Athena.

  “Sarah will go to and from Larcombe, to carry out duties in her parish,” said Henry, “I could travel with her, without revealing why, perhaps? Oh, and Hugh Fraser drove somewhere early this morning.”

  “No, your time is best spent here,” said Athena, “but put someone on surveillance. My guess though is that the Grid is targeting people with a more active role in our organisation. That’s why my father’s staying here will only be temporary.”

  “Hugh Fraser is a vital asset,” said Phoenix, “we should contact him en route to wherever he’s gone and warn him. I hope he’s armed.”

  “We both know where he’s headed,” said Athena, “he could be in the Leeds area if he left early. Hugh may have inadvertently exposed Ambrosia to scrutiny by the Grid. They might wonder how these two came into contact. The implications are too terrible to contemplate.”

  “Let’s not jump too far ahead,” said Phoenix. “Hugh Fraser is too experienced as an agent not to take precautions.”

  Rusty stifled a chuckle.

  “Hugh Fraser will spot a tail a mile off, is what I meant,” said Phoenix, “and will vary his route as much as he can. If he’s arrived, safe and sound, he needs to accept his weekend retreat will be under surveillance and he will have an escort on his trip south.”