by David Carter
In the car, Howard Meade said, ‘The man did what he said he would do, and that’s a decent start. Let’s see what the arrogant bastard has to say for himself,’ and he prepared to slide out of the Merc with one final comment. ‘Don’t forget to search him, Marky. Search them all!’
Forty-Eight
The armed response unit assembled in good time at a former RAF site eight miles away. The police had usurped it seven years before and found they were using it more and more.
Chief Superintendent Barry Wilkins had let ego get the better of him. He assumed overall control, receiving the go-ahead from the Commander. Barry wanted Noel Grimsdale as his number two, and what Barry wanted he usually got.
They sat together to the left of the driver, on the front seat of the Mercedes Sprinter mini bus. Behind them were eight armed men, dressed head to foot in black. Big helmets, the works, looking like some kind of sci-fi unit from a space saga, their main strike weapon cuddled close, the impressive Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. Only two of the men had used the weapon in anger.
The Chief Super had gone a little crazy in his choice of clothes. Full battle fatigues with matching dark brown boots and gaiters, which he imagined made him stand out as the commander-in-chief. Over the previous hour, he and Grimsdale had briefed the men. They were confronting two warring criminal families, men and maybe women too, who all could be armed. The families had been at loggerheads for more than a decade, and things were coming to a head.
Both parties were reported to have lost people in recent weeks, murdered by the opposition, and feelings were running high. No chances would be taken. The preferred option was to arrest everyone, take them into custody, and worry about what charges they might face later.
The Chief Super said, ‘Be aware we have two men inside the building located on the mezzanine floor, Vairs and Darriteau,’ and large recent photographs were passed round.
Further police vans were standing by less than a mile from the Chelsea Fields Estate, hoping to be filled with criminals before Sunday lunch was served. The Ambulance Service was on stand-by, advised there might be gunshot and other violence casualties.
The Mercedes Sprinter left in good time, planning to be on site at around a quarter to eleven. The atmosphere in the van was electric. But there was a good deal of nervousness and even fear bottled up in that vehicle too. It was a great day for it, cold, but bright and dry, a perfect one to bully serious crime gangs into an early submission.
But that morning it wasn’t the only show in town.
A coalition of churches had arranged a big parade of youth groups of every conceivable kind, many of whom possessed their own bands, and were happy to show off their dubious musical ability on that cold and sunny Sunday.
Sea Cadets, Girl Guides, Scouts, Cubs, Brownies, Boy’s Brigade, some school CCF Units, Air Cadets, and many others too, had arrived from all directions, mingling and merging into one impressive parade. Though the roads weren’t officially closed, sheer numbers were bringing the traffic to a crawl. One band alone possessed more than eighty members.
Competition between them was intense but friendly, as the old marching band favourites were blared out. Heart of Oak, Colonel Bogey, Men of Harlech, not forgetting Onward Christian Soldiers, plus several pop tunes specially adapted to keep the kids interested.
The parade crawled along, banging drums, out of tune bugles, the occasional dropped drumstick, drum majors and majorettes out front, flinging their maces ever higher, showing off, struggling to keep a straight face, the trumpet and cornet section not quite together, as they belted out their tunes across London, with varying degrees of expertise.
It was an annual junket. Every year a different group took a turn to lead the parade, and each year it grew longer. The Sea Cadets were intent on making a name for themselves, literally leading from the front.
Corky Caddick had form as a joyrider. That morning he hadn’t followed the rule to give it twelve hours from bottle to throttle. There was still too much Southern Comfort swilling through his body, and other substances too.
His mate had souped up his RS Ford Escort and Corky was keen to see what it could do. He was heading out of town, happy to do 40 or even 50 in a 30 mph area, when he came across the parade. He heard them before he saw them, the bass drum banging out the beat. But no kids band was going to interfere with Corky’s weekend enjoyment.
He pulled out onto the oncoming lane and roared past the entire parade, much to their charge’s disgust. As he closed on the Sea Cadets, the road twisted to the left. If Corky noticed the bend, he didn’t show it or react to it, barrelling round the corner, thinking of his mate’s sister. She was sending Corky messages through her eyes he couldn’t miss.
At the last second, as he took the corner, he spotted the large supermarket delivery wagon heading directly for his precious RS. He had three choices, veer across to the right and end up in some shop window, carry on and smash into the truck, or veer left and hope the bloody kids would hear him coming and jump out of the way. In his mind, that wasn’t a choice at all. The damned kids would have to take their chance. They shouldn’t be on the bloody road!
He veered hard left. The big wagon slipped by, missing the Escort by less than an inch, the lorry driver yelling at Corky through the polished glass. Most of the kids instinctively knew something wasn’t right and swayed away towards the pavement, some breaking into a trot to get clear. All except one.
Colin Dance, front rank, right-hand member, trainee bugler, not very good, and a little self-conscious, took a heavy blow on his right shoulder, knocking the instrument from his mouth, taking a tooth with it, upending the thirteen-year-old, who went down face first, smashing his perfect nose, dazing the boy, before he recovered sufficiently to burst into wailing tears.
Drivers and passengers in two cars following the wagon witnessed the accident. They tried to block Corky’s escape. But he was not for stopping and zipped by as if chicaning at Monza. The car was great, super-quick, as he wound down the driver’s window and yelled abuse at anyone in earshot. In one of the oncoming cars, a girl scribbled Corky’s registration number on the cover of her teen mag. In the coming hours it would lead to Corky’s arrest and eventual imprisonment.
A bank of four public phone boxes sat on the pavement close by. The band leader dashed into the first box and rang for an ambulance. The injury to Colin Dance’s shoulder was giving cause for concern.
ON THE BANAGHAN FORECOURT, Liam stared at Howard Meade. For a full minute they stood facing one another like gunfighters in Dodge City, waiting for the other to speak. Banaghan broke the silence, saying through gritted teeth, ‘Nice day for it, glad you came.’
Howard said, ‘I’m not sure why I’m here. I guess I’m curious. Maybe we could come to some kind of accommodation.’
‘We can,’ said Liam, ‘I’m sure of it,’ and he held his Crombie clad arms wide and said, ‘I promised I’d be unarmed and I am. Search me to satisfy yourself.’
Howard nodded Marky on and he fast-frisked the guy before turning back to Howard to utter, ‘He’s clean,’ just as they said in Yankee movies.
The Meade clan stood out of the cars, feeling exposed and vulnerable, staring at the open doors of the warehouse. If anyone inside possessed an automatic weapon, they could wipe most of the Meade family away in a thirty second burst of mayhem and hot death. It would be talked about and remembered for hundreds of years.
Liam read their minds and said, ‘Come inside, the coffee’s bubbling,’ and he beckoned that way. ‘Our men can search your crew, and yours ours, and then maybe we’ll all relax and get down to serious business.’
Howard scratched his chin and nodded and said, ‘Sounds like a plan,’ and everyone ambled into the warehouse where the usual smells of building and garden materials, and oil and sweat, were being overwhelmed by fresh ground coffee.
The Meade’s two soldiers, dressed in wide-lapelled black raincoats, searched Banaghan’s two, dressed in short navy donkey jackets
with some kind of plastic covering on the upper back and shoulders. And then vice versa, and after that, the four of them searched everyone present.
The Banaghan soldiers were Caz and Benny, and it was Caz who nodded Suzanne to him. He frisked her, and she made to turn away.
‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Your bag,’ nodding at the flash Hermes handbag.
She glanced at her father. He nodded her on and she reluctantly handed it over. Caz flipped it open. It was divided into two compartments. The right side contained make-up, lippy, perfume, nail varnish, the works. He closed that and opened the left. Small plastic bottle of aspirins, strips of birth control pills, the naughty girl, and at her tender age too, and beneath those, condoms, maybe a dozen of the buggers, some connected together, others loose and shiny and new. Maybe it wasn’t surprising, knowing how that family made the bulk of their money. And below them still, something circular, long and hard, cold too, like metal.
He glanced into Suzanne’s eyes and back into the bag. For a second he thought he’d uncovered a gun, and that would please Liam. But the long thin metallic tube was not a gun at all, but an aerosol containing spermicidal foam. Jeez, someone was leading an exciting life, and he wondered if her father knew about that.
Suzanne said, ‘You finished yet? You get off on searching in girls’ bags?’
‘Just doing my job,’ he said, staring into the back of her amazing hazel eyes. Beneath the can were several men’s linen handkerchiefs. He’d seen enough, closed the bag, and handed it back with a knowing look that said, your secret is safe with me. But I’d like to know you, especially with all that gear.
Truth was, she had no need for any of it, and never had.
Sixteen people were thoroughly searched within the following quarter hour, eight on each side, and not a single weapon was discovered, not even a penknife or letter opener. Inside the warehouse, three modern desks sat in a line, two chairs on either side of each desk, twelve in all.
Liam pointed at another desk on the left wall where a coffee machine was burbling to a climax, a roll of white plastic cups standing tall close by, with sachets of sugar, and a large plastic container of semi-skimmed milk.
All the Banaghan’s took coffee, perhaps to prove it wasn’t poisoned, but none of the Meade’s ventured that way, except Suzanne, who at the last minute went over to the table where Eamonn was busy making a drink. She stood beside him, close enough to smell his aftershave. They’d all made an effort to look good, no doubt the heads of the families had insisted on it.
‘How do you take it?’ he said.
‘You know damn well,’ she whispered.
‘I’m glad you came.’
‘Let’s hope you still think that when we all break up later.’
From over by the desks, Liam clapped his hands and said, ‘Come on, let’s sit down,’ and he pointed to the desks and chairs to get things moving.
The Banaghans chose to sit with their backs to the inside of the warehouse, in line from the left, Dermot, Liam, Cormac, Eamonn, sipping coffee, Oonagh and Aileen, Eamonn trying hard not to stare at Suzanne. Caz and Bennie, the minders, stood behind, staring across at the opposition, hands clasped together down in front of them.
The Meades sat opposite, Johnny, Howard, Billy, Roger, Suzanne, blowing on her hot drink, and the diminutive Caroline, gazing at their opposite numbers. Their backs were to the cold and draughty open doors, but they were closer to the Mercedes, and those powerful, enticing and protective Browning BDA semi-automatic pistols, all loaded and ready, should events turn ugly.
Liam said, ‘You’re all welcome here, at least for one day. Though I hope we can improve on that for the longer term. Anyone like to kick things off?’
A short silence followed, the only sound the burbling coffee machine, before Howard sighed hard, and growled, ‘Your letter, your invitation, your territory, your idea. It must be down to you to tell us what’s on your mind. I can promise you one thing, whatever you say here today, we will give it our careful thought and consideration.’
‘That’s clear enough,’ said Liam, bobbing his head. ‘In that case, this is what’s on my mind, on all our minds,’ as he extended his arms wide, beckoning to his family members. ‘We as a family have talked about this, and I think it’s fair to say the younger generation had lots of input. I appreciate and value that, and I imagine that could be said of your youngsters too.’
Suzanne took a sly look at Eamonn. Gee whiz, he was a handsome bastard; just looking at him brought feelings into her body that no one else had ever engendered. He caught her peeking at him and fought himself not to smile across the timber. She looked sharply away to the right, sipped coffee, and exchanged a curious glance with Caroline.
In the darkness above, Walter and Vairs could hear their hearts pounding. They heard most of the talking too, shared a look, lay flat on the cold metal, and listened.
Forty-Nine
The armed response unit, headed by the Chief Super, arrived at the end of the church youth parade. Traffic had come to a standstill both ways and was gridlocked. The road was closed because the injuries to the bugler were more serious than first thought.
The Chief Super sniffed bad-temperedly and stepped from the vehicle, glancing at his watch, intent on discovering the cause of the delay.
‘Who’s in charge?’ he yelled.
A skinny bald bespectacled Scoutmaster came over and said, ‘Hester Montgomery’s the overall head sherang. There’s bound to be a delay. Some poor kid at the front got run over by a maniac in an Escort.’
‘I’m on urgent business!’
‘So is the ambulance,’ said the scouter, and right on cue, from somewhere far behind, the beep-bump beep-bump emergency calling siren floated between the buildings.
A woman materialised before the Chief Super, saying, ‘You wanted me, I think?’
‘Are you in charge?’
‘I am, and as you can see, I am very busy.’
‘We’re on urgent business,’ he said, pointing back at the Mercedes Sprinter, where a forest of helmeted faces glared back through the glass. ‘We need to get through now, immediately, pronto, pronto, you get me?’
‘I don’t care how urgent your business is. I’m responsible for the safety of almost a thousand children and young people, and we’ve already had one idiot charge through there today and seriously injure one young boy,’ and she pointed towards the front of the parade. ‘No one is going through without my say so.’
‘Are you Hester Montgomery?’
‘I certainly am.’
The Chief grimaced and took a second look at her. Two piece black suit, skirt and jacket, white blouse with some kind of broad gauge black lace down the front, and a strange roundish black hat that looked as if she’d pinched it from Martin Luther.
‘If you don’t clear a way through for my troops right now,’ he said, troops being an appropriate word with him in army fatigues. ‘I’ll have you arrested.’
‘Get over yourself, you pompous idiot! If you don’t behave yourself, I’ll...’ she almost finished her sentence with “throw you in the pond”, but caught herself in time. It was a phrase her old dad used when she was naughty as a girl back at the Kentish mansion daddy bought from the Darwin family. If you don’t behave yourself, Hester Montgomery, I’ll throw you in the pond! Not that he ever did. He was never athletic enough to catch her.
‘Or you’ll what?’ snarled the CS.
Hester exhaled hard and said, ‘I don’t have the time to waste on the likes of you, playing soldiers on a Sunday morning!’ as she strode away, waving her short arms about, clearing the route for the crawling ambulance.
‘Stupid woman!’ muttered the CS, figuring they might get through in the ambulance’s slipstream, as he jumped back on the Sprinter and pointed ahead. ‘Go on, give it a go,’ and the driver began edging forward, weaving between youth bands and quasi military units of every conceivable kind.
The scoutmaster returned to his troop. The young teenage bo
ys on the front rank, kitted out in the shortest shorts imaginable, a style borrowed from first division footballers, were shivering hard. One of them had tugged his navy socks up as far as they would go, well over his trembling pink knees.
‘Regulation sock length, Richards,’ ordered the master. ‘You look like an Edwardian whore.’
The boy grinned and sulked and adjusted his dress.
The Sprinter reached the ambulance. Paramedics were examining the prone boy. As they edged through, the armed cops did a fair bit of rubbernecking of their own.
‘Never mind that!’ said the CS. ‘We’re going to be late. Get up and on the pavement and bully your way past!’
THE BANAGHAN-MEADE summit meeting was struggling. The pair of elephants in the room were the recent killings of Grahame Meade and Eilish Banaghan, and they were mighty big elephants too. To listen to Howard Meade speaking, he seemed to think those deaths could be written off as one on each side, let’s call it quits, let’s settle for that, as if it were a football match and didn’t matter.
To the Banaghans, and especially the younger generation, that kind of callous talk summed up everything that was wrong with the arrogant and overbearing Meade clan. They could write off a family member being murdered in cold blood if they wanted, but the Banaghans would not accept that. There had to be full and just retribution, for Eilish had been so precious.
Oonagh snarled across the desks, ‘Not only did you butcher my dear sister, and we’ll find out which one of you bastards is responsible for that, and when we do...’ though she left that thought hanging, and continued. ‘Then you tricked us into freaking eating her! What kind of barbarians are you? And now you want us to kiss and make up. You must have a screw loose! I’d rather make up with the devil than have anything to do with you.’
‘To put things in perspective,’ said nineteen-year-old Roger Meade, who always fancied himself as peacemaker, ‘First, this meeting is your idea. You invited us here, not the other way round, and second, you murdered our Grahame first.’