Chapter 17
London, England, August 1999
Graham King alias Wayne Doolan was a happy man. In the twelve months since he had arrived in London he had gained a new identity and accrued one hundred and fifteen thousand pounds in an offshore account, and that was after taking out his living expenses. Of course he couldn't touch it yet as it required three different signatures to release the money, but that was just a precaution the Organisation took to prevent those that couldn't wait, from spending it early and drawing attention to them selves. When his two-year contract was finished he would be free to go with the added bonus of another new identity thrown in. Because as well as being totally amoral he was also undoubtedly attractive to certain women, he had been given the job of recruiting female carriers or mules. Once Graham/Wayne had started to attend his art course he had found an incredible amount of young ladies who would possibly fit the bill. However, he remembered Terry's advice and he took his time until he was sure of his target.
For the first three weeks he got to know the people on his course and as many others as he could through the college social calendar. Without seeming to volunteer the information he allowed the younger students, who were curious anyway of the fact that he was a more mature student, to drag from him the facts of Aunt Grace's legacy. This guaranteed him the immediate close attention of at least twenty five percent of the females of his acquaintance, increasing to some fifty percent when they discovered he was unattached and with no other family other than an older sister. He sized up and rejected various prospects, keen to make a start, but determined not to make a mistake. Then, during his fourth week at college, during the morning coffee break that he happened to sit at a table with one Caroline Grayson and knew instantly that he had found a possibility. He could read her as easily as a gas meter.
At five feet three inches tall, a naturally blonde with a slim figure featuring excellent breasts and pert little bottom, she should have been a knockout. Should have been except that her personality was so dreary as to make her almost invisible. This lack of personality and the air of carrying a permanent chip on her shoulder completely ruined her natural attractiveness. Most nineteen-year-old girls have a zest for life, but Caroline seemed to shuffle through it. In fact when she had sat down opposite him Graham could not remember ever having seen her before, except that she addressed him by his name so he realised he must have. On reflection later, he would decided this was probably a plus point as mules are not supposed to be remembered. He spent twenty minutes listening to her talking about herself without any encouragement from him, he was certain she was a prospect. After she told him about her dead father, lost to her since she was eight, of her brilliant older sister with whom everybody expected her to keep up with and of her Mother, who had remarried to some Yorkshire sheep farmer and deserted her to go off and live in the Yorkshire Dales, he knew he had struck gold.
After two days he had her in bed, her flat of course, and relieved her of the burden of her hymen. After two weeks he had her sniffing Cocaine and in two months she was mainlining on Heroin. A natural Junky. She was completely under his control as long as he kept her supplied with drugs and made love to her occasionally. That had been just under a year ago and he now had six more reliable carriers, all picked up when in the early stages of drug dependence and unlike Caroline, without reason to blame him for their addictions.
With plenty of manpower to make his deliveries he now had time to relax and take stock and on reflection he felt that Caroline was getting a little past her sell by date. She had run her for a year and she had so far been reliable. However, he knew for a fact she was by now injecting at least twice daily and complaining all the time that she never saw him anymore. Her behaviour was becoming erratic and he had begun to doubt her ability to behave rationally in between fixes. More worrying was that she might bollix up a delivery. He had discussed it with Terry Beck and they had agreed that in her case the risk was beginning to outweigh the benefits. Terry as always had the answer. One more run and they would ditch her for good. A little additive in her supply and she would become just one more number on the statistics of addicts who eventually manage to kill themselves. At first Doolan had balked at this suggestion, but eventually Terry Beck convinced him there was no other way and self-preservation won the day. His only worry was to not be connected to her in anyway once she was in the morgue.
He had not returned to his college course once he had established his contacts, becoming just another well off dropout and by changing his address, by now untraceable, so he was not worried that he could be linked to Caroline from there. The police were unlikely take enough trouble over another dead junky enough to dig deep enough to find all her friends and acquaintances. Besides, he had been keeping his distance from her for at least the last three months, so she would be just another tragic victim. Most hardened junkies were almost totally friendless anyway. Yes it all seemed fair enough. Tonight would be Caroline's last delivery. The phone rang, bringing him to his senses. He picked it up and waited. Terry Beck's voice came down the line.
"That you, Graham?" Nobody called him Wayne anymore.
"Yes"
"You know who this is. We've got a problem. I just had a phone call from Ginger McAvister. His supplies have not arrived and he is screaming blue murder."
Graham swore.
"Bloody Caroline! That's a whole kilo of Cocaine missing." He felt the sweat start. "I think we may have given her one run too many."
"Yes, so it would seem." There was a pause and then. "Look, Graham, if she is going off the rails we can't have her running about shouting the odds. You had better get round there and sort her out, sharp like. She's your bloody mule, sunshine and when and if you recover the stuff you had better arrange for one of your other girls to get it to McAvister, rapido. Savvy?"
Doolan knew an order when he heard one.
"Sure, Terry, sure. I'll get right on it. Ring you when it’s sorted, OK?"
"OK", and he was holding a dead phone.
He picked up the Brown leather jacket that had been his only concession to real luxury in the last eighteen months and putting it on zipped it up. He looked at his watch. Nine o'clock and the light was fading early for the time of year, due to the typically British, overcast evening sky. He ran down the stairs and out into the street where his three-month-old Rover 45 was parked. New enough and smart enough to be the car of a man who was comfortably off, but not flash enough to draw a lot of attention. Aiming the car towards the Knightsbridge flat that Caroline's new stepfather was paying for; he drove very carefully and within the speed limit. A year of living an assumed identity had made it second nature. When he reached her flat he spent a long ten minutes finding somewhere he could park legally before locking the car and walking to her front door. The place reminded him of Mother's Guest House except here the conversion to flats and bedsits had been carried through and he wondered briefly how that sweet old lady was. He had liked Mother.
Caroline lived at the front on the second floor and as he approached he could hear her stereo system going full blast and he quickened his step. The noise was just as loud in the hall, meaning that the door to her flat was probably wide open. Looking around, he made sure he was not observed and forced himself to climb the stairs to her flat at a normal pace. Never draw unnecessary attention to yourself by rushing about. The door was wide open. He looked around to make sure the corridor and landing were empty and then stepping quickly through the doorway and crossing to the stereo, turned it down. He didn't turn it right off, as he wanted any conversation they had to be masked by it, but he didn't want to have to shout to make himself heard either. As he turned away from the stereo Caroline entered the room from the bedroom. She stopped just inside the doorway and raised towards him in mock salute the glass she held in her right hand. The expression on her face and the slight slur in her speech, told him she was well on the way to being drunk or stoned. Probably both.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't little Graham come t
o see me. What brings you here, sweetheart? As if I didn't know."
The sarcasm dripping from her voice was spoilt by the fact that she was having trouble focussing on him.
"How long has it been since you were last here, lover? Three months? Have you come to entertain little Caroline in her modest little flat?"
She lifted the glass and took a big gulp, the action causing her to sway from side to side.
She was a mess. Her tights were laddered on both legs and her skirt was badly in need of cleaning, although not so badly as the grey silk blouse she wore. That showed traces of everything she had eaten or drunk for the last three days by the look of it. Her face was white and puffy with the texture of dough. He felt that if you pressed a finger to her skin the impression would remain for some time. Her eyes were bloodshot, brimmed with tears and unfocussed, while her shoulder length blonde hair was tangled and unwashed. It looked like an old woman's face wearing a young girls clothes and body. She waved the glass towards the bedroom; spilling some of the clear liquid it contained down her clothes and over the carpet and beckoned to him by crooking the forefinger of her other hand. He could smell the gin on her breath.
"Come on, handsome. Come and tell me now what a very beautiful young lady I am." She gave a crooked smile. "You know, lover. Like you used to when we first met."
He didn't answer her, but went and gently closed the front door. Then he came back and stood directly in front of her.
"Where's the package Caroline?"
He kept his voice deliberately calm and reasonable. She shook her head, the action causing her to sway a little. He tried again.
"Where's the package Caroline?" again the calm and level voice. "I know it wasn't delivered, so where is it Kiddo?"
The voice had increased in volume a little at the end of the last sentence, but her only response was to slowly raise the middle finger of her right hand until it was directly in front of his face. She gave it a small upward jerk.
"Up yours, pretty boy." He nodded and stroked his chin with the fingers of his right hand, a small rueful smile playing around his mouth as if he saw the humour of the situation.
With the speed of a mongoose killing a snake he unleashed a backhander that crashed against the side of her face, sending her flying through the bedroom door to go sprawling across the bed and off the other side. His expression had not changed. He followed her through the door and walked quickly around the bed to where she lay face down amid the spilled duvet and pillows. Entwining his fingers in her hair he twisted her head savagely upwards and backwards while pressing one knee between her shoulder blades, stretching her throat so tight that she had some difficulty breathing. She whimpered with pain. He put his other hand on her throat and gently pressed inwards on the windpipe, just enough to restrict her air intake even further. Her breath started to whistle in her throat as she struggled for air.
"Now listen to me, Caroline. That packet contains a kilogram of high grade Cocaine rightfully belonging to one Jerry McAvister and naturally, he's a little upset that it didn't arrive when we said it would."
He gave the small smile again and shrugged his shoulders.
"Now you tell me where it is or I shall hit you across the throat just hard enough to stop you screaming for a couple of hours. Then I shall take you to see McAvister and let him ask you, in his own way, the same questions." He twisted just a little harder. "From what I know of him he will take several hours and enjoy it quiet a lot. Would you like that?"
She rolled her eyes at him frantically and he eased the pressure enough to allow her to speak, her voice sounding like some one with severe laryngitis.
"Its in the fridge. Please don't hurt me any more, I haven't taken any."
He released her and she got slowly to her knees, putting both hands to her throat and then starting to cry. It was a truly pathetic sight and would have moved a kinder human being. It didn't move him and she knew it.
"I only wanted you to come and see me again. I know I shoot too much Heroin, but I wouldn't need as much if I still had you." She used her last little bit of defiance. "It was you that first gave it to me, anyway."
Her nose had started to run in sympathy with her eyes and he turned away in disgust. She was further gone than he had thought. He supplied her with enough to inject two or three times a day and it was evidently no longer enough. That meant she would start looking elsewhere for a further supply and that was a clear problem area. If she chose prostitution the police could pick her up. If that happened he knew she would tell everything she knew after twenty four hours of withdrawal, just on the promise of one shot. It had been a month since she made her last delivery and at the rate she was deteriorating she would not last another month without falling apart. He made a decision and then spoke to her gently, deliberately injecting some warmth into his voice.
"Come on, Carrie. It’s not that bad. Look, here's a little present for you."
He held out a small plastic packet of the type used by stamp collectors. In one corner were a few grains of white powder. She eyed it greedily.
"Go on into the bathroom, take this, and then soak your face in cold water After that, shower, wash your hair, put on your makeup and find something pretty and clean to wear and I will take you out for a drink so we can talk it over." He paused as if thinking. "What about that new wine bar you mentioned last time I saw you?"
He helped her up and kissed her gently on the forehead.
"Come on baby. Just you and me, like old times, eh?"
He hated the wine bar. He hated any public place where he might be remembered, but although this one would be crowded and noisy it did have some secluded nooks and crannies. Perhaps they could find one. He cupped her chin and kissed her forehead again.
"Come on, baby. Go and have that shower and make yourself look pretty for me."
She looked at him tearfully.
"You do mean it, Graham, don't you? Your not just doing this because you lost your temper and hit me."
He wanted to tell her that he hadn't needed to lose his temper to want to hit her, that one look at her stupid snivelling face was enough to make him want to hit her, but he resisted and the lie came out glibly enough.
"Of course not, sweetheart. You know I've always had a soft spot for you. Its those big blue eyes of yours." He went on. "I'm sorry I lost my temper, but if that package had been lost I would have been ruined."
It was, he thought, a measure of the poor cows desperation that she chose to believe it. Believe that a man who less than two minutes before had knocked her across the room, and then threatened to give her to one of the nastiest little sadists in London, could possibly still find her remotely fanciable. She did though because she was a junky and he was all she had. Giving him a small watery smile and clinging desperately to her little plastic packet of comfort she turned and headed for the bathroom.
The minute the bathroom door closed behind her he went directly to the kitchen and opened the fridge. The Cocaine was there. With a sigh of relief he picked it up and stuffed it down the front of his jacket and going back into the lounge picked up the phone. From the bathroom came the sound of running water. He dialled. On the fourth ring it was picked up and a soft and husky female voice answered. He sighed with relief.
"Hello, Angel. Glad I caught you in, Its Graham here. Look sweetness, I know you usually only do one delivery a month, but I have this little problem. Somebody has gone sick and I have an urgent delivery. You couldn't do it for me, tonight, could you?"
He listened for a moment and then gave a small laugh.
"Yes OK. An extra two hundred you mercenary witch. Now listen. It goes to a man named McAvister at a pub in Brixton called the Silver Goddess. Its in Brambles road."
He listened again with half his attention on the sounds from the bathroom.
"Yes that's correct, McAvister, the Silver Goddess, Brambles Road, Brixton. Great. One more thing Angel, don't take that car of yours because it’s too distinctive, don't wear any mak
e up or jewellery and if you have any old baggy clothes, wear them. Its a rough area"
He grinned at the obvious protest from the other end about wearing old and shapeless clothes.
"Then you'll only look like half a million dollars." He became more serious. "Take a taxi and make it wait for you. This McAvister is a sadistic bastard who gets his kicks from beating up young girls, and the prettier the better." He continued, quite forgetting his own violence of not ten minutes ago. "You go into the saloon bar, not the other one and ask for him by name. I will let him know you are coming at eleven o'clock sharp. You can't miss him. He's fifty years old, bright red hair, five feet two and has a scar on his forehead. A real poison dwarf."
He listened for a moment and then nodded.
"That's right. Usual procedure. You give him the package and he will give you a sealed envelope. I will collect that tomorrow when I bring your twelve hundred around." He laughed. "OK, and a bottle of Moet for making you lose half a million dollars on your looks."
He got serious again.
"I'm at fifty nine, Waterloo Avenue. I'll be waiting in the lobby for you. Just give a couple of toots and I will come out to the car with the stuff to save you waiting. See you in fifteen minutes."
He hung up. When the dialling tone returned he half turned so that he could watch the bathroom door and dialled another number.
"Hello, Terry? Sorry to disturb you again, but I thought you might like to know that the McAvister drop will be made tonight. That's right, another girl. Can you call the red headed little pervert and tell him it will be there at eleven sharp. I'm like a red rag to a bull to him since he roughed up young Pauline and we had to send Jimmy Ebbs round to give him a little reminder to keep his hands to himself. OK, thanks mate and Terry!" he lowered his voice. "I'll be round in the morning to finalise the details for terminating that other contract we talked about. Yes, I'm sure. See you then."
He put the phone down and turned to see Caroline coming out of the bathroom swathed in a large towel, another wound around her hair.
"Better get busy with the hairdryer darling. Its gone nine thirty and my car will turn into a pumpkin if we are out too late."
He went across to her and kissed her forehead again.
"Mmm! You smell good". He tapped the front of his jacket. "I've got to pop downstairs for a few minutes. Someone is coming for this." He held up his hand. "Don't worry, you will still get paid, but I thought you could do with a night off. Go on. Go and finish the beauty treatment."
She hesitated for a moment and then giving him a wan smile went into the bedroom. He headed for the front door.
Ten minutes later as Caroline had just finished with the hair dryer and was trying to decide what to wear, she heard three toots from outside and out of curiosity looked out of the window. Down below Graham was standing in the street bending down to talk to the driver of a silver Volkswagen Polo. It was too dark by now to make out many features, but she could see the cloud of blonde hair and knew that the driver was female. As she watched he took the package from under his jacket and handed it through the window of the car. Then he bent and kissed the driver full on the lips before standing back and waving her off. As he returned to the house Caroline watched and wondered who his princess really was these days. Now almost sober from the violence and the shower and calmed by the drug coursing through her veins, she picked out a plain black dress and sat down in front of the mirror to do her makeup.
Later in the wine bar Graham was studying Caroline as she sat there lost in her own thoughts. She was a lot quieter than he had expected, but at least that meant any scene he may have feared did not now look likely to happen. He had to admit that she had made something of a transformation. The simple, sleeved, but backless black dress, suited her. Cut low at the front to show plenty of the generous breasts and nipped tight at the waist to accentuate the hips and backside that were her other good features, it transformed her, the long sleeves being a necessity to hide the marks and bruising of the daily injections. Her hair was combed down around her shoulders and along with the large framed, tinted glasses and a generous amount of blusher, hid the marks that his violence and her subsequent tears had left upon her. She was even getting her share of admiring glances from the various males in the crowded and noisy wine bar.
He sighed. It was a shame, but it was essential. She had become too fragile and heavily addicted. She cost him far more to run than any other carrier and she was becoming dangerous. Mr Jensen could understand that controlling addicts was a difficult business and that one might go off the rails at any time, but what he would not understand was an organiser who continued use them when they had obviously become unreliable. Now Angel, who was now making the drop in Caroline's place, was different. He smiled to himself.
Angelique, call me "Angel" Parsouel, was a complete knockout. At one time a page three girl, until her father had found out and stopped it, she was also very bright. Angel had made head girl at a Swiss finishing school where all the girls had millionaire fathers. She was the only daughter of Henri Parsouel, a self-made and self acclaimed millionaire who was supposed to have made his original money in the construction business. Henri had half a dozen homes around the world, but as Angel chose to stay in London, his home there was the only one kept fully staffed. According to Angel, Henri was a generous father, but like many rich men was overly protective where his only daughter was concerned. He did have some grounds for concern. So far in her twenty three years of life Angel had undergone two abortions for unwanted pregnancies and a endured a one month stay in a discrete Hampshire clinic to get rid of a fortunately mild strain of venereal disease.
Henri's generosity towards his daughter included charge cards at any store worthy of the name and membership of all the best clubs and discos in all the cities in which he had houses. However, except for a sum of fifty pounds a week pocket money, Angel was not allowed cash. His reason for this behaviour was that he was frightened that some modern day fortune hunter would want his daughter only for her money, so he kept complete control of it until such a time as he approved of a prospective son-in-law. At twenty-three years of age Angel felt that this was unfair, apart from the fact that it gave her another major problem.
While she was only ever seen with the best people she had among these her own small clique, who like many people born wealthy liked to think they were daring and original. This little group of twenty odd called themselves the GTi-Turbo's, a private joke against themselves for as she had told Graham. "We are a very fast set and all the best people are hyphenated." They liked to throw wild parties where the snorting of Cocaine was considered essential to a brilliant evening and this was the crux of the matter. Booze was no problem. You just phoned the Off Licence, gave them your credit card number and they delivered, Cocaine, however, could not yet be obtained with plastic, hard cash was required. For a while she had managed by selling off small trinkets that her father would not miss, but it was getting difficult. Then she ran into Graham, quite literally.
He was just leaving a West End National Car Park, where having just passed over the merchandise to one of his girls, he was walking back to where his car was parked. A brand new, silver Golf GTi had started up and reversed out all in one rapid movement, knocking him flying to the ground. His head had hit the ground with a force that stunned him and an agonising pain had shot up from his ankle to his knee. He'd lay there groaning, dizzy and bloody terrified. If he was seriously injured it would mean hospital and the police. That meant certain discovery and back to prison. He managed to get to his knees and tried to stand, but the pain told him his ankle was at least badly sprained. He realised that some one was holding his elbow and he tried to shake them off.
"I'm all right! I'm all right for Christ's sake. Bloody well let go of me."
The girl, for girl it was, would not let go.
"Keep still you fool. If you have broken that foot you mustn't try to stand on it."
"If I've broken it, you stupid cow."
The “I've” was stressed with the fury of desperation. "It was you that bloody well ran into me, not the other way around."
He tried again to shake her hand off again, but couldn't manage it stood on only one leg. She grabbed his hair and made him look at her. It registered even through the pain and the panic that she was beautiful.
"Listen. Just keep still for a moment and let me see if it’s broken." She shook his head to make him pay attention to what she was saying. "I ski and I sail and I know enough about first aid to tell how bad it is."
The message got through and he nodded. She let go of his hair and knelt down on the tarmac.
"Put your hands on my shoulders and lift your foot up."
He obeyed and she gently rotated it.
"Now gradually put your weight on it".
He obeyed again. It hurt like fire but supported him.
"OK, lift it up again."
More rotation and more pain, but bearable. She stood up.
"Badly sprained, but not broken. Strapped and rested for a week or so it will be as good as new." She looked him straight in the eye. "I'm awfully sorry, are you going to report it?"
He looked at her for a long time, taking in the expensive clothes and the immaculate make up before he shook his head.
"Not if you can get me home and then arrange for my car to be collected. This isn't a long term car park and the bill would be phenomenal."
It was as good a reason as he could think of through the agony of his foot for not leaving his car in a place where some nosy copper might start to look for the owner when it wasn't claimed.
"OK, lets get you into my car. I'll take you home to my place and get a doctor to look at it." She caught his protest before he could make it. "Its all right, Its a private doctor and he won't report it unless he wants to lose a good client."
Later, after the doctor been and gone, they were sat in the expensively furnished salon of the Victorian townhouse in which she obviously lived. Graham was sipping a large whiskey and water to go with the painkiller the doctor had given him when Angel asked him the question he had been waiting for.
"What were you so frightened of back there in the car park?"
He told the lie he'd had ready for the last hour.
"The insurance ran out on the car two days ago and I forgot to renew it. I didn't want the police involved in case they discovered it. I've already got enough speeding tickets to paper a wall."
"Liar!"
It was said so mildly that he wasn't sure at first that she had actually said it.
"Pardon?"
"I said, liar," she said again in a very reasonable voice. "You don't think I would have let Watson drive it back here if I thought the thing wasn't insured do you? He's been here longer than I have and daddy would never forgive me if I got his collar felt."
Watson was the general manservant, but from what Doolan had seen of him and his condescending manner, he thought the place was his. The girl turned to the side table and poured some more whiskey into her glass, raising her eyebrows to Graham in query, the large grey eyes looking straight through him. He shook his head, even now regretting the large one he had already drunk. She put the bottle down and turned back to him.
"You were terrified that the police or an ambulance would have to be called and I am very curious as to why. Are you going to tell me."
He sighed and put down his glass.
"Angel, you run with a fast crowd. Do any of them ever sniff coke?"
He put his hand into a jacket pocket and brought out a small plastic packet containing the white powder. Angel started to laugh.
"So that's it. And I thought you might be on the run or something."
He gave a weak smile, but didn't dare answer. The combination of pain, shock, drink and sedative making him refuse to trust his tongue. She came over and sat next to him on the settee, careful not to make contact with his strapped ankle. She put an arm around his neck and gently kissed his ear.
"Graham" They were by now on first name terms. "If I was very nice to you, could you get me some?"
And so they talked. It was an hour later when the pain killers were working and he was looking at her discarded clothes over her shoulder while she straddled his lap with her breath coming in short gasps and her breasts bouncing just level with his nose, that he finally gave in.
Angel was different from his other carriers in that she was not and had no intention of becoming addicted. However, she did need a supply of cash and the one thousand pounds a time she got for making a delivery for Graham meant that she could stop pawning her jewellery and still hold her parties. She would have preferred that he supplied her needs direct, but he wouldn't and couldn't do that. There was no way she could buy a kilo of snow at a time, anyway. Still, it was a good business arrangement that also carried the occasional bout of pleasure. He came rapidly back to the present as a strongly accented and slightly slurred scouse voice penetrated his thoughts.
"Hello, Caroline, where have you been you gorgeous darling? I haven't seen you for ages. When are you going to come out to that new disco with me?"
The man was standing next to her gazing down with myopic eyes into the front of her cleavage with its firm young breasts. The face was vaguely familiar with its several chins and sweating upper lip and Graham felt it was time to move. He went to Caroline's rescue.
"Carrie is with me, friend. Sorry, but I saw her first."
He gave one of his, what a really nice guy I am smiles to the large figure in front of him. The man turned to look at him through the thick lenses of his spectacles, treating Graham to a close up of a badly shaved face complete with several angry looking spots and the smell of several pints of strong lager. He stared down at him for quite some moments, and then,
"Well I'm buggered! As I live and breath it’s bloody Wayne Doolan. What the hells are you doing here, Doolan, I thought you had taken it away on your toes? Everyone up in The Pool thinks you are in South America."
Graham/Wayne couldn't believe it. Nutter Harris! Of all the god forsaken luck. Not just bumping into the most stupid kid ever to leave Cranbourne Comprehensive, but when he was pissed as a fart as well. Then shock wore off and good sense prevailed. He stood up and moved to Caroline's side taking her elbow in his hand and lifting her from her chair.
"I'm sorry friend, but I think you are mistaken. As you can tell by my accent I have never been anywhere near Liverpool, let alone South America."
He had tried ever since leaving school to get rid of his accent and not without some success. He looked around at those nearest, shaking his head with a tolerant smile on his face, including them in his mystification that this thick drunken twit should think he was a scouser.
"Come on Carrie. Lets see if we can get into the Golden Gate before they put up the house full sign."
Carrie however, wasn't moving. She smiled at Frank Harris and put her hand on his shoulder.
"I think you probably have had a little too much Frank, but tell me, who did you think Graham was?"
Harris was in turns looking confused and belligerent.
"I thought he was a bloke I went to school with Caroline. He looks just like him except that bloke was supposed to have done a runner to South America a couple of years ago, like." He turned to Graham/Wayne. "Sorry mate. Still, you are a dead ringer for old Wayne."
He turned back to his companions and to cover his embarrassment asked who's round it was. Graham/Wayne heaved a sigh of relief and gave a silent prayer of thanks to whichever deity had decided Nutter Harris should be born stupid.
"Come on, Caroline, let’s go."
He put his hand on Harris's shoulder as they squeezed by in the crowded bar.
"Bye mate and I should slow down on the booze if I were you. You never know what you may see next."
Having achieved his objective of retrieving the package and calming down Caroline he was ready for bed and had no intention of going to the Golden Gate. However, when he stopped at her door to let her out
Caroline had a shock waiting for him.
"Would you like to come up, Wayne?"
Her use of his real name gave him a severe jolt and he covered quickly.
"Caroline, don't piss about, I'm not in the mood."
"What would you say, Wayne, if I told you I was going to go back to the Wine Bar tomorrow and have a long chat about you with Frankie Harris. Is there a reward out?"
He felt the cold sweat start on his brow and in his armpits and decided Mr Nice Guy was his best line of action.
"Listen to me, sweetheart. You stop acting the fool and maybe we can go somewhere nice tomorrow night. Would you like that?”
She pretended to consider it and then smiled at him.
"Pick me up at eight o'clock. If you are not here by then I'll take a taxi to the wine bar and maybe meet you there. Good night, lover."
She swung out of the car and ran up the steps of the house. At the top she turned and waved to him.
"Until tomorrow then." And she was gone.
He sat still for some two minutes before putting the car into gear and driving home. He was blown if he did not act quickly. He thought about it, but could come up with no satisfactory answers. He hoped that Terry Beck could, or it looked as if he would have to take the money and run. When he arrived home he parked and ran up the stairs to his flat. Closing the door behind him he picked up the phone. Only emergencies Beck had said, but this felt like an emergency. He dialled the number.
"Yes, who is this?"
"Terry, Its Graham. Sorry to ring you on this number, but I have an emergency."
"Have you now my old sunshine. Better tell me about it then hadn't you. This phone should be safe, it’s only used about once a year by pillocks like you who have just dropped a bollock."
The displeasure in his voice was clearly audible, but Doolan ignored it and started talking rapidly.
"Its Caroline. I had to rough her up a bit to get the package off her so I thought it would be a good idea to calm her down again and I took her out to a wine bar. Christ Terry, I've only been there once before, but what do you suppose happens? Some thick drunk starts talking to her in the pub, knows her from somewhere. I wanted to get her home again so I told him she was with me and guess what? I only went to school with the Pratt. Bloke called Frank Harris. As thick as two short planks, you still there?"
This last was said with a slight edge of panic.
"I'm still here, sunshine."
Beck's voice was deliberately and uncharacteristically patient.
"Well, he recognised me. Hello, Wayne, he says. Thought you were in bloody South America he says, you know, done a runner like. Right out loud in front of the whole wine bar."
He was breathing heavily now.
"Well, I managed to convince the pillock he'd made a mistake, but I don't think Caroline believed it. Called me Wayne for the rest of the evening and said she might go back and talk to Harris again if I didn't show up at her place at eight o'clock tomorrow. Terry? Bloody well say something."
"I will when you've finished, Graham."
Beck still maintained the deliberate patient manner.
"Well what are we going to do? I can't spike her fix now can I? If the police made enquiries afterwards this bloke could finger me. We've got to find some other way of shutting her up."
The panic was by now becoming more pronounced. When he spoke, Terry Beck's voice was steely.
"Listen, Graham. I want you at the office at eight in the morning on the dot. I hate to spoil your beauty sleep my old son, but this isn't the only problem you've got."
Wayne/Grahams heart sank. They were going to fire him out. A year early and about one hundred thousand short of what he could have made. Beck's voice continued.
"McAvister didn't receive his goods again tonight and won't be taking anymore for some time, I shouldn't wonder."
"Why. What the bloody hell happened? That was a good girl I sent to him."
Concern now, for Angel as well as himself.
"The police raided him at exactly ten forty five. Must have had his phone tapped I reckon. Your girl walked right into it. Asked for him by name and carrying a kilo of Cocaine. They grabbed them both as she was handing it over. I don't think we will be using her again."
He gave a short laugh.
"I hope you took all the proper precautions with her my old son and didn't tell her where you live or let her know your telephone number. You know mate, the little things that lead the filth right to your door."
Doolan was stunned
"Oh shit! The poor little cow! She was only doing me a bloody favour. It wasn't even her turn except that Caroline had screwed up. Still, at least her daddy can afford a decent brief. She can always claim she didn't know what was in the parcel."
Beck's laughter came echoing down the line.
"Didn't know what was in it? Don't be bloody stupid, Graham, what do you take CID for?"
A pause.
"Does this girl know your name?"
"Yes. That is she knows me as Graham King."
He told Beck the circumstances under which he had recruited her. The why and how she knew his name and address. Beck was not pleased. The rules said that you only used people you could get a hold on and you never told them your real address or telephone number, as you always contacted them. He threw cold water over Doolan's hopes.
"Look, sunshine. It may be that her old man's money put her above suspicion in the first place, but it can't help her now and if it takes some of the heat off her, she will accept any offer to turn Queens Evidence and nail you to the floor. Savvy?"
"Yes"
"OK, I'll see you in the morning. By the way, just for the record, who is she?"
"Angel, That is Angelique, Angelique Parsouel."
For a moment he thought Beck had gone. Then his voice came in a fierce disbelieving whisper.
"Oh you stupid bloody cretin!"
The phone went dead and Graham King/Wayne Doolan was no longer a happy man.
In the morning he attended the meeting in Terry Beck's office with some trepidation, but to his surprise when Beck answered the door he was all smiles.
"Come in, Wayne mate, Its all fixed."
Doolan looked at him in surprise.
"How do you mean? All fixed?"
"Well not completely fixed, sunshine, I'm not a bloody miracle worker, but its all under control."
He led Doolan to a chair.
"Look Wayne. You and your little ladylove, Caroline that is, are going to take a holiday in the sun for a bit. You are off to sunny Spain in the morning on the six o'clock flight and your going to stay in a nice little flat just outside Alicante. A place called Santa Pola."
"Why Spain and why with Caroline?"
Beck's smile faded.
"Now don't act thick, Graham. The shit is about to hit the fan here, for Christ's sake. You've got one mule threatening to expose you and another in the hands of the filth and you say why Spain? Why anywhere? You should be bloody grateful."
Doolan swallowed and nodded trying desperately to keep himself together. He hadn't slept all night for worrying about his own position and his money, which the Organisation were still holding. He nodded frantically.
"Yes, yes, all right, I am, but what is going to happen after the holiday? If Angel gives them my name it won't take them long to trace the flight ticket will it and don't forget that Caroline's still going to be a problem."
He chewed worriedly at a fingernail.
"Look Wayne, just relax. You are going as Mr & Mrs Gerald Banks. It’s all arranged, even the passports. All we need is a passport photo of Caroline and we're away. You can manage to get her to do that, can't you?"
Doolan nodded unhappily.
"Well then, you see its simple. Mr & Mrs Banks leave England booked one way to Spain at six o'clock in the morning. In three weeks time Mr Graham King comes back on his own."
"You mean...?
"Precisely. Caroline will not be coming back. Won't be ab
le to in fact and will eventually be found all alone and very dead in a rented flat in Spain. Rented in the name of one Gerald Banks, who does not exist, did all his booking by telephone and sent a courier with cash to pick up the keys and tickets. The flat by the way is rented privately. Mother found it in The Lady. She says it’s the only place worth looking if you want anything decent."
If Doolan wondered what Mother had to do with all this he dismissed it in his acute anxiety.
"What about Caroline's supplies. Unless you expect me to bump her off on the first day I'll have to take enough Heroin to keep her quiet for a while."
He looked ill and worried. Beck's face became a cold mask. The last thing he needed was for this careless little bastard to fold on him. Time to stiffen his spine. He pointed his finger Doolan's face.
"Look, friend. Lets get a couple of things straight shall we? At the moment I reckon your nerve is shot to shit so you won't be doing anything, except convincing the girl to come with you and keeping her happy until her demise."
He held up a hand as Doolan went to speak.
"Shut up!"
The words cracked out.
"I also have my doubts that you can actually top her when it comes to it so this is how it’s going to be. Mother will be going along. She will carry the dope and she will make sure that our girl remains in Spain. She will also be there to make sure you do what your supposed to do, so take notice of what she says."
Doolan's mouth had fallen open.
"Mother is going to kill her?"
Beck gave a chilling little smile.
"That's right, sunshine. Just because she looks like an angel doesn't make her one, does it? I told you before she can be nasty." He laughed at the others bemusement. "Go on. Go and persuade your little lady she wants to come to Spain with you."
He sat back in his chair. Doolan turned to the door and then stopped.
"Wait a minute. What about the other thing? What about Angel?"
"Not your problem my old son, but I promise you it will be sorted."
He face said that was all Doolan was going to get.
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