by Conrad Jones
“So you burned it down without a thought to tell me and then you summon me here to give me a bollocking?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I didn’t burn it down,” Boris said slowly. His eyes narrowed to slits as he studied John suspiciously. “Do you think that I would bring any more attention to that address?”
“Do you think that I would?”
“Are you telling me that you didn’t arrange it?”
“I thought you had.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Boris sighed. “What the fuck is going on?”
“How much do you know?”
“I know that your stepson has brought every detective in Liverpool to our door,” Boris said quietly. “What I want to know is why and how you intend to fix it. We should have used dynamite on that shithole the first time around.”
“You’re as much to blame as I am for that. We should have tidied that mess up properly when we had the chance.”
“How do you lay any of this at my feet?”
“Dazik Kraznic,” John raised his index finger and wagged it at Boris. “He’s yours. He took the police to Breck Road, not Brendon.”
“He was told not to take women there.”
“He didn’t listen.”
“What is he being charged with?”
“Kidnapping and wounding with intent,” John leaned forward as he spoke. “And false imprisonment. He’s looking at fifteen years. Do you think he’s going to keep his mouth shut?”
“He’ll be persuaded.”
“I can’t believe that you let him recruit from that address.”
“Recruit? Are you mad?” the Russian snapped. “You know me better than that, John.” Boris emptied his glass and waved it to be refilled. “I have acquisition teams all over the world. Do you think that I would use a lowlife like Dazik Kraznic to capture girls?”
“Are you telling me that he isn’t on your payroll anymore?”
“Yes. Not since we closed the place down.”
“Then he’s making acquisitions for someone else and using that address, or he’s entertaining himself.”
“What about Weston?” Boris frowned. “The rent is still in his name?”
“Yes but he disappeared when we closed the place. We had called the letting agents in to measure up and put it on the market so that it looked legitimate. Then the next thing is Dazik Kraznic gets busted. The police suspected that he might be connected to the murders at Crosby Beach, so they began a forensic search of the place. The next thing is it exploded.”
“There’s more to it than that. There must be.”
“It’s complicated enough.”
“Something is missing.”
“Dazik Kraznic is your man, yet you say you didn’t torch the place.”
“Brendon is your stepson, yet you deny that he did it too.”
“Touché.”
“How is this connected to Keegan and the woman? What was her name?”
“Lacey Taylor.”
“Explain it to me.” The barmaid dropped a wooden tray onto the table and unloaded their drinks. John wiped his empty glass and placed it onto the tray. “Keep the change,” Boris said handing over a ten Euro note.
“It’s eleven Euros,” she laughed.
“I’m sorry, forgive me,” Boris sounded genuinely embarrassed. “You can tell how often we buy our own drinks, eh?” he gave her a twenty and waved her away. “I’m sorry. Get yourself a drink with the change.”
“Keegan was giving us the heads-up on some of the sealed tenders for the properties we’ve been buying and he was signing off on some grants for us. He was visiting a youth centre in Allerton, a three acre site when something happened between him and Lacey Taylor. She knew that he was being investigated for corruption.” John held his whisky glass in both hands and turned it slowly, holding it with the green napkin. He stared into the amber liquid as he spoke. “She had been investigating the sell-offs and talking to local kids and their families. I don’t know where she got her information from, but Taylor threatened to report Brendon to the drug squad for dealing crack though some of the teenagers there. Keegan told Brendon that he was under surveillance and he took the situation into his own hands.”
“What a mess, John.” Boris looked out of the window and watched a bouncer snatching a phone from a tourist stupid enough to take a photograph of one of the prostitutes through a window. He wasn’t sure if he would just delete the image or smash the device. The tourist stood with his mouth gaping open as the bouncer tossed his phone into the canal. “How did the police connect Brendon to Keegan’s body?”
“They don’t have any evidence.”
“They don’t?”
“No.” John shook his head. What evidence there is will be used to our advantage. I’ve seen to it.”
“I’m confused.” Boris shrugged. “I heard that the police paid you a visit. They questioned him about Keegan in public?”
“They were fishing. They have a witness who saw Brendon’s partner dumping a dog collar into a litter bin near the dumpsite. Their witness has no credibility.”
“This sounds like amateur hour.”
“Brendon’s partner has been dealt with.” John finished his whisky and signalled to the barmaid. “He won’t make any more mistakes. We put eyes onto the witness but he was smarter than we thought. He slipped us but the last thing we heard, he’d been picked up by detectives himself, which has given us a perfect opportunity to lay the blame at his door. You see, his being at the scene places him there too. After all, he found the dog collar and took it to the police. I’ll clean this up and make sure that we’re not implicated in anything except making money out of a failing economy.”
“You can contaminate him enough?”
“Yes.”
“You know what the alternative is, John?”
John looked hard at Boris. He bit his bottom lip and shook his head. “I can’t let anything happen to Brendon, Boris.” John grimaced as the drink arrived. He wiped his empty glass and took the new one. “He’s my brother’s son and my wife’s child. She worships the kid, couldn’t live without him. If I thought for one minute that he could be removed from the equation, then I would have done it myself years ago. It would kill her if anything happened to him. I can’t let that happen.”
“Are you becoming sentimental in your old age, John?”
“I don’t give a toss about him, but I love my wife.”
“I know that you do. Look what you did to your brother to be with her.” Boris grinned and pointed a fat finger at John. “You had your own brother killed, yet you can’t remove his pain in the arse son?”
“Leave it, Boris,” John sat back as he spoke. “Brendon is out of bounds.”
“We’re back to square one, John.” Boris paused as another round arrived. John left a twenty Euro note on the edge of the table and nodded towards it when the barmaid arrived. He used his napkin to pass her his empty glass again. “Do we hope that all this goes away and that Brendon doesn’t mess up again, or do we make sure that he doesn’t?”
“You will have to trust me to solve this.”
“I trust you implicitly,” Boris said. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t. Your stepson is a different issue. He was part responsible for what happened at Breck Road and as for the body of Charlie Keegan, I am simply flabbergasted.”
“Who torched Breck Road, Boris?”
“You tell me.”
“Dazik Kraznic is locked up,” John said. “Brendon hasn’t been out of the house since this happened. I’ve made sure of that.”
“Are you sure, John?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where he is right now?” Boris reached into his inside pocket. John stood up quickly. Boris smiled and took his phone from his jacket. “Jumpy?”
“What are you playing at, Boris?”
“I had a text message from Li
verpool half an hour ago,” Boris held up the screen. The writing was in Russian. “Brendon is following a man called Jim Stirling through the Kensington area. He is a detective sergeant, I believe?”
“For fuck’s sake!” John hissed. “Your men are following him?”
“They are making sure that he doesn’t make any more mistakes,” Boris shook his head as he spoke. His many chins wobbled. “Business is business. What the fuck is he doing following a detective?”
“I don’t know.” John was genuinely flummoxed. “He’s a proud lad and wants to do well. Stirling embarrassed us last week. Brendon will see it as his job to iron things out.”
“Iron things out against a sergeant in the Major Investigation Team?” Boris laughed. “He is more talented than me and you combined, John.”
“He’s impulsive.”
“He’s a fucking liability!” Boris slapped the table with his right hand. “What is he going to do, shoot a police officer? Beat him up? What is he thinking?”
John held up his hand and opened his jacket slowly. “I’m getting my phone.” Boris nodded and let out a long frustrated breath. John dialed and waited for an answer; his face was red with anger. “What are you doing?” he asked in a low growl.
“Two things, Bren,” John hissed. “Number one, go home and don’t let that copper see you following him and number two, Boris is very pissed off with you, so if I were you, then I would go home right now.” There was a gap of ten seconds or so before John said, “just do it Brendon or you had better have your things out of my house by the time I get home.” He ended the call and shook his head. “I’ll deal with him, Boris. He means well.”
“Brendon is the cause of this. Yet he doesn’t seem to have learned anything from his mistakes?”
“What can I say?”
“Nothing.”
“I will fix this.”
“You must.”
“Don’t make things difficult, Boris,” John shuffled down in his seat as he spoke. “I will make this go away.”
“Fine, but if you don’t, I will have to disassociate myself from you and there’s only one way to erase any evidence.”
John picked his next words very carefully. He sipped his malt and sighed. “You have men following my stepson.” John sighed. “Boris, if you threaten my family, then I must make sure that you can’t fulfill your threats. Do you really want us both to be looking over our shoulder for the next decade until one of us dies of old age?” He looked at his old friend and smiled. “Leave this with me, Boris, let me handle it and the equilibrium will be restored quickly. Trust me.”
“The damage is done, John,” Boris raised his voice as the alcohol took effect. “Our business deals are under scrutiny. There are detectives searching the charred remains of one of our buildings and we’re being connected to the murder of a council officer who signed off government grants for development. How can you restore all this, John?” Boris drained his glass again. Before he could order another one, the barmaid was there with charged glasses. His earlier tip had motivated her somewhat. John wiped his glass clean and took his new drink. “We take a scapegoat down and wash our hands of him. That way we’re clean.”
“Our scapegoat is already in custody, Boris,” John whispered. He smiled and raised his glass. “Whoever Richard Tibbs is, he’s about to do us a huge favour. Don’t complicate things, Boris. Let me handle this my way. If it all goes pear-shaped, I’ll look the other way while you step in and Brendon is fair game. I can’t say anything fairer than that.”
There was suspicion in the Russian’s glazed eyes. The vodka was catching up with him. He sat back and mulled over what they had discussed. “Okay, my old friend.” He waved to the bar. “One more for the road, eh? Large ones this time!” They waited until the drinks had been delivered. “I’m sorry that we’re in this position, John. It brings me no pleasure to threaten those people that you love, but we cannot hope that this goes away. Hope is for the weak.”
“Cheers,” John clinked his glass as he spoke. He sipped his whisky rather than downing it. The Russian had crossed the line for the first time ever. They had come across situations where they disagreed before, but neither had threatened the other. Boris had basically told him that he was going to hit Brendon, regardless of the protestations of his partner. Although he hadn’t said it, he was warning John that it was going to happen, regardless. John had refused to sanction it. He had said that it wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t allow it to happen. That meant that he would be a target too, in fact, he was certain that if Boris interpreted their conversation the same way, he would have him taken out before Brendon. “Are you going to have me hit tonight, Boris?” John stopped laughing and put his glass down. “I haven’t booked a hotel yet because I didn’t know how the meeting would pan out. I didn’t want to waste the deposit if I’m going to end up in the canal with a bullet in my head.”
“John, John, John,” Boris sighed. His bottom lip hung limply like a fat pink slug. “If this Tibbs man wasn’t in custody, then I would have no choice but to silence Brendon. As it stands, I trust that you can make sure that the man stays inside. I’ll take your word as your bond, John. I trust you, my friend.”
They shook hands and then stood and embraced across the table. “I need the toilet,” John said, breaking the hold first. He reached for his glass and emptied the burning whisky from it using the napkin to hold it. “Order more drinks and I’ll be back in five minutes.” Boris grabbed his chin between his finger and thumb and squeezed his face as if he were his favourite nephew. He patted him on the shoulder excitedly. “Get the drinks in, you old piss-head,” John laughed. “I should call you ‘Boris Onemoreski’.”
“Onemoreski?” Boris thought about it. “I see, you’re right.”
“I’ll be back in a tick.”
“One more for the road, old friend!” He waved to the barmaid, who was already on her way over. The bar was thinning out; the stag party gone but their tunes were still blaring from the juke box. John walked down the steps and headed along the bar towards the toilets, which were at the rear of the pub. Boris sat down heavily and looked out of the window. A small man in a black puffer jacket leaned against the railings above the canal, staring into the blackness. His steel rimmed glasses and bobble-hat made him inconspicuous amongst the other tourists. He was slightly built and unremarkable. Boris raised his glass to the man and nodded. He turned away as if he hadn’t seen a thing, before walking down the alleyway at the side of the bar. He didn’t seem interested in the gyrating women nearby, unlike others who paid too much attention to the flesh on sale. His appearance belied his lethal reputation. The Russian had used his services many times before. Boris looked across the inky black water to the opposite bank. An ancient barge, as old as the city itself was half submerged, only the mooring ropes stopped it from slipping beneath the surface. It seemed to hang from the canal wall, clinging on for dear life, desperate to escape its watery grave. Above, a row of crooked buildings stood five storeys high. Three of them had bars at street level with guest houses above, while the others were brothels, every window and cellar light had a scantily clad woman in them. Some of the women were pretty and would be a fine addition to Boris’s own prostitute stables, but others were borderline freaks. He looked at one bloated figure and tried to distinguish which sex it was. Male, female, lady-boy, transvestite or transsexual? They were all out there in the De Wallen; it could have been any, or even a mixture of them all and he wouldn’t have been surprised. Above the window where the overweight ‘thing’ danced, floor to ceiling louvre doors opened onto a crooked balcony. There were plant pots at either end, the vegetation reduced to stick like growth, bare and dead. Movement from the balcony caught his eye; movement and then a quick flash. There wasn’t time for it to register as a muzzle flash before the bullet smashed through the window. There was a second of white hot pain as the bullet flattened and ploughed through his brain, before blowing the back of his skull off. As the barmaid arrived
with her tray of drinks, she was hit by a cloud of pink goo. A lump of grey matter hung from her chin. She looked down and realised that her apron was dripping with blood and brain matter and then she started screaming.
John Ryder heard the glass smashing and then the screaming but he didn’t turn around. His shoes crunched the snow as he walked. He pulled his jacket lapels together to keep out the cold and headed down the alleyway which led to the main canal where he could blend into the tourists in the red light district. The baselines of a dozen songs drifted out of the bars and down the canal, reverberating off the dark bricks. The multi-coloured neon lights flashed and strobed and the sickly sweet smell of cannabis mingled with the aromas of burgers, Bratwurst hotdogs and Argentinian steaks. He smiled as he mingled into the crowds. Relief flooded through his soul. The whisky had soothed his jangling nerves but now it was over, he really needed a drink. He thought about booking into a hotel and making a night of it, but something inside told him to get home as quickly as he could. If he was sharp, then he could get the last flight into Liverpool. He decided to walk to the end of the canal before taking a right turn back to the Heldenstraat. From there he would take a taxi to the airport. There was no need to take public transport any longer; their code was no longer gospel. It hadn’t just been broken, it had been shattered. John felt that he could relax for a while, before he dragged Brendon around Liverpool by the scruff of his neck, cleaning up the mess he had made. Thinking about him made him worry and he felt a pang of concern. He took out his mobile and pressed the redial key.
“What now?” Brendon snapped like a petulant teenager. “I’m nearly at home.”
“Make sure you shut the electric gates and switch all the alarms on and phone your uncle Geoff.” John said as an afterthought. “I want a few of the boys to stay at the house with you and your mum tonight. There could be some trouble coming our way.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Just do it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Brendon moaned. “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. I’m not stupid. I did that thing. Funny. I’d love to be there when they tell him.”