by David Carter
‘Jeez!’ said Fellday, staring out into dark space, involuntarily moving forward and then overcompensating coming back, as he tried to steady himself to regain his balance, relieved to feel the strong holding hands pinning him there.
‘You sure know how to frighten a man,’ he said, as he peered out through the blackness at the silver winding river far below, the dark shadows of massive broad oaks banking the river, twinkling lights in the distance, as the wind buffeted his pockmarked face, flowing air that reminded him of lavatory cleaner. A ridiculous thought that forced Fellday into grunting a laugh.
Gornall glanced at Greg and beckoned him closer. He nodded at Doug Fisher, too. It was time. Gornall and Fisher let go of Fellday’s arms. They stared at Greg. He stepped forward. His moment to act. He placed his right palm in the small of Fellday’s back, and with the gentlest push, launched him into space.
Shane Fellday screamed all the way down. It lasted three and a half seconds and seemed like an hour. They didn’t hear the body smashing into the rocks far below, but imagined it. A picture they never saw would sear its image into their brains.
Gornall broke the silence.
‘Fellday has fallen.’
Fisher laughed and said, ‘Come on. It’s time to move.’
Gornall agreed. He turned on the exterior lights and restarted the engine. Fifteen seconds later they were underway, moving serenely across one of Thomas Telford’s many beautiful masterpieces, aqueducts, viaducts, bridges, and tunnels that infest the area, thrusting canals and railways into the heart of Wales.
‘Shouldn’t we be going back the other way?’ suggested Greg.
‘Be sensible,’ said Gornall. ‘Wakey-wakey. We can’t turn round in this narrow space. There’s a winding point up ahead. We’ll turn there and hopefully be back over before the idiot is found.’
Ten minutes later, they were crossing back west to east. There were no flashing cop cars or ambulances down below, as the boat cleared the aqueduct, maybe travelling a little faster than usual.
Fifteen minutes after that, they slowed when passing the same three berthed boats on the left bank. The dog barked, the curtains flung open; the man scowled and yelled, and the woman gaped, pitifully. The Pullman style boat was quiet and sleeping, as were the exhausted occupants, and the dark and empty berthed vessel beyond was dead and at peace.
Seconds later, they were by and heading back to where it all began. Gornall cut the engine, stopped the boat, and drifted into the left bank. He directed Greg to secure the craft, Doug Fisher giving him a hand on the towpath with his rope expertise.
All done, they went back inside.
Gornall said, ‘You did well, Greg, well done. You’re now a fully paid-up member of the Brotherhood.’
Greg nodded, taking pleasure in the compliment, as he stared at the bankroll.
Gornall read his mind and said, ‘It all goes into Brotherhood coffers where it will be put to good use for the greater benefit of all Chester’s citizens.’
‘Cool,’ said Greg, echoing something his daughter might have said.
‘And if you’re wondering, I’m taking the white stuff,’ said Doug, smirking, pulling a knowing face.
‘What he means is...’ explained Gornall, ‘is that he’s taking it home to be destroyed. One more dealer off the streets forever, and his stocks too, and perhaps a few lives have been saved.’
‘It seems such a shame,’ said Greg.
‘What does?’ said Gornall and Fisher as one.
‘That we have to wait fifteen long years before we do another.’
‘You know why that is,’ said Gornall. ‘Members’ safety is paramount. If we did one a year or one a month, the coppers would come down on us in days. This way they are too stupid to put two and two together. The system works, it always has, over centuries, and we stick by it.’
‘Sure,’ said Greg, wanting to be seen to be part of the team. But if he had his way, and the power, things would be different.
‘It’s for the long-term greater good,’ continued Gornall. ‘The Brotherhood’s death squad has gone into hibernation for another quindecim. Who knows which of us will still be around by then?’
‘Fair point,’ said Greg.
Gornall nodded and went amidships to turn off the starter batteries. He checked everything in there was right, no fresh leaks, patted the gun in his trousers, and returned to the main cabin. There was nothing to incriminate anyone. It was as if no one had visited; the boat hadn’t moved, and nothing unusual had occurred.
‘Come on, brothers,’ said Gornall, yawning, ‘I need my bed,’ and they went outside into the moonlight.
Gornall locked up. They jumped to the towpath and hurried away towards the staircase that would take them down to the coke path, and the comforting nature of the big sleeping Volkswagen beyond.
The car started first time, and ten minutes later they were cruising north on the A483.
Greg said, ‘Will you use that method again?’
‘No. We never use the same idea twice. We don’t like patterns. Patterns can identify perpetrators. Computers are good at that. No, it’ll be something completely different next time. You can be sure of that.’
‘Pity, it worked so well.’
‘It did,’ said Gornall, ‘and with minimum violence and zero blood splash. That’s always best. Falling, drowning, suicide, albeit assisted, burning, poison, they are reliable friends.’
‘There was blood splashed down below,’ said Greg.
Doug Fisher shook his head and muttered, ‘Can’t be helped. Unavoidable collateral damage. So long as no one was close, that’s all that matters.’
Gornall added, ‘To tell you the truth, Greg, we originally planned on hanging the bastard from the bridge. But someone figured at that height, his head would have been ripped off, and that might have been real mucky. No thanks. I reckon we did the right thing.’
Greg nodded again and said, ‘I’m sure we did. What method might you use next time?’
‘No idea. Stick around fifteen years, Mr Morrell, and you will see. Maybe you might even instigate it yourself and come up with something imaginative. Imagination, that’s what we are all about. It’s our speciality, if you like; our trademark.’
Greg scratched his arm and said, ‘What will the cops do when they find him?’
Doug said, ‘Rush around like headless chickens, more than likely, they usually do. But eventually they’ll go with the easy answer that creates as little hassle as possible, and gives an instant boost to their solved cases’ stats.’
‘Which is? The easy answer?’
‘Suicide, of course. It’s a known and often used site for jumpers. It isn’t unusual for the fire brigade and ambulance people to be called out to scrape up the mess. People of all ages use it, angst kids, stressed business executives, broken hearts, the money troubled, mentally deranged, serial failures, the incurably sick, rock stars looking to create a legend, and people who have simply given up and grown tired and want out. No one ever survives. That’s the common denominator. It’s the main reason we chose the place.’
‘I see,’ said Greg, picturing those tormented souls, throwing themselves one after another in some kind of synchronised dive to their doom. ‘You’ve thought of everything.’
‘We try,’ said Gornall, grinning across at Fisher.
They dropped Greg at the Bear’s Claw. He’d been away less than four hours. So much had happened, and so much goodness accomplished in that short time.
Gornall’s parting words included, ‘Get rid of the shoes.’
‘I will.’
‘Goodnight to you, Gregory Morrell. Don’t have nightmares.’
‘I won’t. From now on there will only be happy dreams in the Morrell household.’
Gornall and Fisher pursed their lips and nodded through the glass. The VW schmoozed away, a reliable friend in difficult times.
On the short walk home, a nagging feeling bored its way deep into Greg’s bones. If they could d
o all that in four hours, how much could be achieved if he adopted the philosophy full time? It made interesting thinking, and painted pictures that only Gregory Morrell would ever see, and be inspired by.
Forty-Seven
Most of the Meade family left Cornucopia at ten minutes to ten on the Sunday morning. It was dry but cold, a degree or two below freezing. They travelled in the two new black Mercedes E Class Saloons Howard had personally selected.
It gave him a thrill every time he and his family drove round in them, be it to the Royal Meeting at Ascot, Wimbledon, The Chelsea Flower Show, or wherever. Having two in a convoy made a statement that few things could match. It sure attracted attention, and the Meades loved it when plebs stopped and stared.
Howard sat in the front of the lead car with thirty-year-old Marky driving. He was a big boy, solid and reliable; one of the two trusted soldiers who’d kidnapped and dealt with Eilish Banaghan.
Howard told them he never wanted to know the gruesome details of that, and they obeyed and remained silent. Maybe the big cash bonus Marky and Fitzy, his oppo, had received, had something to do with that. In the back rode Billy and Roger Meade, twenty-seven and nineteen respectively, geared up and ready to go, eager to prove themselves, not least to their father, adrenaline hurtling through their young veins.
In the second car, Johnny was the boss. Fitzy was driving, though he was never one of the family, slapped down and reminded of his place at every opportunity. The girls were in the back, Suzanne and Caroline, close together, arms entwined, whispering about their love lives, real and imaginary, with Suzanne keen to see Eamonn again, hoping he’d be there, as Caroline thought of her amazing form mistress at Queen’s High School.
Miss Cardoman, a swarthy dark-eyed individual who revelled in her job, when every September there would be a new intake of fresh flesh for her to assess, groom, and sometimes proposition. Caroline Meade was an interesting girl, and in more ways than one. The rumour mill said her father was a gangster, but he and his glamorous family featured regularly in the upmarket society magazines.
Johnny turned round and said, ‘Pay attention, you two! Switch on, right now. We’re going into the lion’s den, the opposition’s fortress, and this could be dangerous. Carelessness or a lack of attention could cost you your life.’
Johnny always had a way of overstating things; Suzanne knew that, though the way he spoke told her he was serious.
‘I take it we are armed?’ she said.
‘Not personally,’ said Johnny, ‘they will search us, just as Fitzy and Marky will search their people. We’ve agreed to go unarmed, but we have the necessary on standby if need be. That right, Fitz?’
‘Correct, Mr Meade. Four Browning BDA semi-automatic pistols are sleeping in the boot, lots of ammo just in case. The boot will remain unlocked. If anyone needs a weapon, you know where to find them.’
That was good to know. All the family took regular shooting practise in the basement range, from Cynthia down to sixteen-year-old Caroline, some more enthusiastically than others. Howard insisted on it. What was the point of having the facility if it wasn’t used to the max?
In the lead car, Howard advised his crew of the same backup armaments sleeping behind them, beneath the tartan travelling rug.
‘Make sure you search them well, Marky,’ said Howard.
‘I will, sir, you can depend on that.’
The convoy of shiny black Mercs cruised on towards the Chelsea Fields Industrial Estate, impressing the lighter Sunday morning traffic. Here and there, small numbers of people dressed in their Sunday best were making their way to their church of choice. Quite a few people still did that, though the Meade family hadn’t attended church for several years, outside of weddings and funerals and christenings, that were always treated as major events, attracting big crowds. Howard glanced at the dashboard clock. Twenty minutes past ten. They were spot on time and that was how he liked it.
At the Banaghan warehouse complex, Liam was studying his watch too. He fastened his navy Crombie overcoat and glanced round at his family and foot-soldiers.
‘Switch on, everyone. You know where the guns are if you need them. But don’t fire without my say so. I want this meeting to go without a hitch. I’m serious about this plan. An amalgamation is the best way forward. In the longer term it will bring great benefits.’
Not all the boys agreed, but they weren’t about to spoil their father’s play on that cold and bright Sunday morning.
‘Here we go,’ said Liam, ‘game on,’ and he thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets and sauntered away through the open roller-shutter doors, heading for the centre of the forecourt, as promised.
‘Good luck, dad,’ called Dermot from the rear.
‘Yes,’ added Cormac. ‘Stay safe,’ but his father had already ambled away.
Liam stopped in the centre of the vast expanse of tarmac. There was no one about, no people, no wagons, no vans, nothing. Sunday still meant no working on the Chelsea Fields in the mid-eighties. Away to the right, their two Jaguars, pink and grey, sat faithfully waiting, the bonnets occasionally creaking, as they cooled in the January air.
The Banaghan clan stared at Liam’s back, at his wide shoulders and thick grey flared trousers, flapping in the breeze.
‘Look at those pants!’ said Eamonn. ‘What do they look like? Doesn’t he know flares have long since been dumped?’
‘I’ve told him that enough times,’ said Oonagh, ‘but he doesn’t seem to care.’
Aileen added, ‘He told me he’d enjoyed so many happy times wearing flares he’d always wear them to remind him of that.’
Cormac said, ‘Do any of you guys and gals think these pricks will come?’
‘They’ll come,’ said Eamonn, ‘they’ll lose too much face if they don’t,’ and not for the first time Eamonn was right.
Two big shiny black Mercs appeared on the road, coming from the right, travelling slow like hunting killer whales, taking a dead slow left-hand turn onto the forecourt.
‘Switch on!’ demanded Dermot, ‘they’re here.’
A YEAR BEFORE, ACROSS both warehouses, they introduced a solid metal mezzanine floor to maximise space. The ideal place to store a large consignment of bagged leaf litter and bark, destined for the flowerbeds in London’s gardens and parks, piled high on rough pallets.
They had seized the material from a local garden centre who refused to pay Banaghan’s Special Insurance Premiums. To reinforce the point, the boss’s Golden Retriever was shot dead while playing in the garden on a Saturday afternoon. A note left saying: Dogs are expendable and replaceable, family members are not!
It did the trick. Premiums began again before the week was out. But Liam didn’t return the thousands of pounds’ worth of produce as a reminder to the insolent idiots as to who ruled the manor.
Sergeant Teddy Vairs and DC Walter Darriteau were hiding upstairs behind the front row of pallets, close to the front of the mezzanine. They had a great view of the bank of three desks set out below; ample chairs lined up on either side, the Banaghan family and added muscle standing by, waiting and peering from wide-open doors.
Vairs and Darriteau heard Dermott say, ‘Switch on, they’re here!’
Walter had been thinking of the meeting with the Chief Super and the DCI. Vairs suggested he and Walter could get into the warehouse and monitor things from within. It was the first Walter knew of it. Neither of them were armed except for their Metropolitan Police truncheon.
The DCI said, ‘The Banaghans will have great state-of-the-art security. I wonder who provides the systems?’
‘Black Cross Security,’ said Walter without hesitation.
‘How do you know that?’ asked the DCI.
‘I saw the black and white metal plaque screwed onto the warehouse wall, above and to the left of the main door. It caught my eye. Their logo looks like something borrowed from the side of a WWII German fighter. There was a phone number too.’
‘I know Black Cross Security,�
�� said the Chief Super. ‘It’s owned and run by one of our own, or at least a former member of this team. Harry Jacques, you must remember him.’
DCI Noel Grimsdale said, ‘Didn’t he leave under something of a cloud? Wasn’t he into...’
The Chief Super shut down the DCI when he said, ‘That’s irrelevant! The only thing that matters is that Harry owes me a big favour, and if we deem it appropriate to get people in there, it won’t be a problem,’ and that’s what happened.
The alarms went crazy in Black Cross, but were killed at birth and nothing was reported. The specialist locksmith, who did a great deal of work for the Metro Police, had the doors open in minutes. The volunteers, Vairs and Darriteau, were inserted into the warehouse at seven o’clock that morning. The doors were closed and locked, and no one would know anyone had been there.
Volunteers? considered Walter. That wasn’t quite how he remembered it. The Chief Super and the DCI both said reliable men were needed. Before Walter could say a word, Vairs jumped in, begging for the task, and that was agreed. The last thing the Chief Super said was, ‘Yours is a watching brief. Don’t take any chances. Monitor events. Collect evidence through your ears and eyes. You will be our spies in the sky, expert witnesses who will put these criminals away for good. Be careful and know that we will be right behind you.’
Vairs was hyper-excited to get the job. Afterwards, exchanging ideas with Walter, he said, ‘It’ll be bloody cold in there. Make sure you’re well wrapped up.’
Walter took the hint, imagining how cold a metal floor could be for hours on end. Long Johns, long sleeve vest, thick shirt fastened with a heavy tie, quality jumper, jacket, and the heaviest overcoat in his wardrobe, all employed to good effect. Though maybe they wouldn’t be suitable if he had to break into a sprint.
Hiding behind the pallets, they couldn’t see the two Mercs circling the forecourt, Liam standing proud in the centre, revolving in sync with the cars, until he was staring back at the open warehouse doors. He could see his family and people there, lined up, gawping back. The first Mercedes stopped between him and the store.