by David Carter
‘That’s correct,’ said Howard Meade, ‘and it was only fair for us to...’.
‘Fair, my backside!’ interrupted Cormac. ‘We didn’t murder your Grahame! You can’t prove that. From what we know, he was involved in some kind of fair fight. What you did to Eilish was hideous and unforgiveable.’
Howard Meade held up his hand and said, ‘Grahame was not killed in a fair fight, we all know that, and to suggest it was, is treating us as fools.’
‘And fools you are!’ insisted Aileen.
Suzanne glanced at Eamonn, a look that implored him to enter the fray, to take things in a more meaningful and constructive direction. He saw those eyes and understood them, but was struggling to find the right words, or any sensible comment.
Liam Banaghan sighed across the desks so hard it took everyone’s attention.
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere. We all need to be grown up about this and get on with it. If we don’t, more people on both sides are going to get hurt.’
Johnny Meade, heir apparent, most people thought, had been quiet till then, began talking, and everyone listened.
‘You brought us here for a meeting, but as far as I can see, you have nothing concrete to offer. Where are your proposals and concessions? Where’s the apology for Grahame? And where’s the incentive for us to give away our independence? Talk about being ill-thought through. I’m so disappointed in you. It’s hopeless like this.’
The next person to speak was Dermot, the oldest of the newer generation at thirty-two. He had never wanted any kind of discussion with the Meades, and didn’t want to be associated with them because he hated them. He’d canvassed opinion among his siblings, and the majority felt the same. Dermot would only be satisfied when the thugs who had butchered and trussed up Eilish, and then served her as some kind of sick and filthy Sunday luncheon, were dead and in their graves.
He glanced up and down the bank of desks and did an unthinkable thing. He stared at his father and contradicted him in public.
‘This isn’t right, dah!’ he said. ‘We don’t want these people in our house. I could never work with such scum. It’s them or us, always has been and always will be!’
Liam was so amazed he didn’t reply.
Across the table, Howard shook his head in annoyance.
‘Your trouble, Dermot, is you speak before you think. You wouldn’t recognise a good compromise if it reared up and bit you on the arse!’
Dermot’s hands were fidgeting under the desk. He wanted to lean across the furniture and land old man Meade a decent right hook. That would wipe the supercilious, entitled look off his face and knock him on his backside.
‘Come on, guys, this is getting us nowhere,’ implored Eamonn, finding words at last, weak though they were.
Out of sight, Dermot detached a Glock 17 taped to the underside of his desk. Two places along, another weapon was secreted before Cormac. In the next couple of minutes, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
Dermot produced the fearsome weapon, waving it across the desk. Johnny swore aloud. Mouths fell open. Young Caroline shrieked, ‘Don’t you dare fire that, you loon!’
Liam Banaghan said, ‘No, Dermot, don’t!’ and he tried to push the gun away to one side. But too late. Dermot’s finger depressed the trigger. There was a fantastic flash. The bang in the enclosed space was immense. Despite Liam’s interference, the bullet travelled straight and true, smashing Johnny Meade between the eyes, knocking him backwards, blood everywhere, the bullet exiting from the back of his skull, winging Marky on its way out into the bright day.
Against his better judgement, Cormac went for his Glock. He didn’t want to be involved in a firefight, but if there was to be one, he damn well wanted to be on the winning side.
Billy Meade was a sturdy if emotional boy. Gym fanatic, weightlifter, reckoned rippling muscles impressed the women, and he’d guessed what Cormac was about. He jumped up and jerked the desk up from his side, and hurled it with all his strength at his opposite numbers, Cormac and Eamonn, knocking the gun from Cormac’s hand, injuring his arm.
Dermot Banaghan ignored the fracas and pointed the gun at Howard, for it was him he wanted to eradicate.
‘This is for Eilish, ya bastard!’ though he didn’t fire, distracted for a second by Roger Meade, standing and dashing outside to the Mercedes to introduce Meade weaponry. The injured Marky and Fitzy were cowering outside behind the wall.
Roger said, ‘Grab a gun, cowards!’
Inside, Liam yelled, ‘No more gunfire! Behave!’
Dermot ignored him and glanced back at Howard Meade and fired, hitting him in the chest, killing him instantly.
In the distance, they heard sirens, though no one cared.
Vairs, lying next to Walter, both unarmed and prone upstairs, watching and listening, whispered, ‘Here comes the cavalry and not before time!’
Roger Meade stormed back inside, gunning for the killer, Dermot. He fired two shots at him in quick succession. One struck Dermot on the upper arm. The guy squealed. The second dismantled his Adam’s apple, and that would be more than enough.
Liam Banaghan knew things weren’t going well. He turned round and ran away, past the coffee machine, heading for the internal door. Roger raised the Browning again, steadied himself and fired, hitting Liam in the small of the back. He’d be dead within the hour.
Billy Meade dismantled his chair with his bare hands and jumped across the upturned desk, attacking Cormac and Eamonn, flailing away with one of the timber legs as if his life depended on it. A standing Oonagh couldn’t stop herself jumping into the fray, throwing herself at Roger, knocking the Browning pistol from his hand, skittling the kid over. Oonagh wailed like a banshee and fell on her foe. For a second, Roger’s right ear presented itself through his thick brown mullet. It was too good an opportunity to miss. She grabbed him, stooped closer, opened her mouth, and bit it off.
With adrenaline coursing through her body, the ear came away in one piece. She stood up and grinned and chewed as if she were starving. Then stared down at Roger, still on the floor, screaming like a toddler after its worst nightmare, the guy grimacing and touching the side of his bloodied head where his ear once sat. There was blood on his hands and head and jacket sleeve, and pain in his brain the likes of which he’d never felt before, as the red stuff dripped to the concrete floor. Roger rolled over in agony, still screaming, facing up. Oonagh stared down at the injured clown, chewed one last time, and spat what remained of the snack onto Roger’s face, yelling, ‘That’s for Eilish! You proddy scum! Even ya meat’s poisonous!’
Chief Superintendent Barry Wilkins jumped from the Sprinter and swaggered towards the open doors like General Patton searching Hannibal’s ruins at Carthage, leading his men towards the gunfire, yelling, ‘Don’t forget, men, smoke bombs first!’
Three of his black clad police troops moved ahead and tossed smoke grenades into the building. Acrid black and grey smoke billowed across the warehouse. Suzanne used the cover to go to her bag. Beneath the birth control attire and fresh linen, she retrieved the derringer. She figured the two goons, Benny and Caz, were responsible for Grahame’s murder. They had been standing behind the Banaghans, but were now looking lost and panicky and loitering to one side. She shot at both of them, missing Benny but hitting Caz in the stomach. He went down screaming before the smoke curtain obliterated her view. She’d enjoyed it, firing the gun and hearing him scream, and was busy reloading.
From his vantage point on the mezzanine, Walter surveyed the scene. Lots of yelling and screaming, some in pain, some intimidatory. He’d seen nothing like it before. Black clad armed officers edged into the building, peering through the smoke, perhaps frightened and trigger happy, especially the new Jacks, and that could make them dangerous. Vairs crawled back to his side.
Walter said, ‘Shall we go down?’
‘What? Walk into a firefight. Don’t be absurd. Are you mad? Stay here where we are safe. Our brief is to monitor, glean information
, and report, not to get shot and killed.’
For a moment the smoke cleared, revealing Eamonn on his back, looking up, obviously wounded. He’d taken a bullet in the arm, though no one knew who’d fired it. Suzanne was kneeling beside him, perhaps comforting him. She raised her derringer, took aim, and shot him in the face. Smoke returned like a black curtain, the fleeting images obliterated as if from a crazy dream or movie.
Away to his left, clear of the thick smoke, Walter saw Caroline standing, panicking, her arms clasping her shoulders, her skinny legs jammed together, giving the impression she was standing on one leg like an injured stork. She swayed forward and back. Her head turning left to right, her high pitched voice screaming above the melee, ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’
Someone hidden in the smoke fired at her to shut her up, but missed.
‘I’ve seen enough!’ said Walter, and he jumped up and dashed down the metallic stairs that pinged as he descended. He couldn’t see the girl for the smoke, but dashed that way, banging into her, almost knocking her over, as he grabbed her and carried her off. She squealed as he carried her out into the Sunday sunshine and the fresh cold air, and on to the safety of the Mercedes. He threw open the back door and pushed her inside.
‘I told you I never wanted to see you again,’ she said, grabbing a travel rug, covering her head to hide her eyes from another second of hell.
‘I didn’t believe you then, and I don’t believe you now,’ Walter replied, before closing the door and heading back towards the warehouse.
Some fool had tossed in another smoke grenade, obliterating everything. The shouting and yelling and firing stopped. Coughing took over, plus the sound of vomiting, before the moaning of the injured returned.
Upstairs, Vairs stood up and figured it was time to put in an appearance. He scraped his right hand hard against a rough wooden pallet, taking the skin off four knuckle bones. He stood still and watched them bleed. Scarlet rushed down his fingers and splashed his raincoat. He shook his hand to encourage blood flow, smirked, and headed down the steps.
The smoke was clearing.
The first person he bumped into was the Chief.
‘Ah, Vairs, there you are. I wondered what happened to you two.’
He glanced down at the bleeding wound. ‘What happened to your hand?’
‘One of their gunmen, I saw him eyeing you up, trying to get a clear shot through the smoke. Always take out the highest officer first. Isn’t that what they say? That was his evil plan. There was nothing for it but to dash down and clobber the bastard which I did, hence this,’ waving the bleeding hand in the air for effect.
‘Yes, well, thanks Vairs. I owe you one. Where’s Darriteau?’
‘He’s about somewhere. When I last saw him, I think he was taking cover in a car with one of the Meade girls.’
‘Excellent, so long as he’s alive. I don’t want any casualties on my watch. I promised that to the Commander, and as you know, Vairs, I always keep my promises.’
The remaining smoke flowed out of the open doors as if attracted by the sunny day. Coughing continued. The warehouse floor was littered with bodies, some dead, others alive and moaning. Ambulances were summoned and were on site in minutes.
On the Banaghan side, Dermot and Liam lay dead. Cormac had suffered severe head injuries through clubbing. Eamonn Banaghan, dead or alive, was nowhere to be seen. Oonagh boasted a broken nose, but a small price to pay for removing a Meade ear. What remained of it was found later, but in no state to be sowed back on.
Laid back Aileen shrugged her shoulders as they took her away. Maybe she was in shock at losing more family members, or maybe nothing would affect her. Of the two goons, Benny and Caz, Benny was missing, assumed escaped through a rear fire door, while Caz’s bloodied remains were propped up against the wall.
On the Meade side, matching the Banaghan casualties, the boss and oldest boy, Howard and Johnny, were both dead. Billy had taken some overpowering. The man had entered some kind of fighting trance mode, hitting out at all comers, swinging in the smoky darkness, using his chair leg with ever greater menace.
It took four officers to subdue him and drag him away to a fortified van. They helped Roger to an ambulance for immediate transportation to hospital. A wrenched–off missing ear was a severe wound, and one that needed urgent attention. Officers were standing by to question him when he was repaired.
The silent and still Caroline was taken into custody, but they soon realised she was in no state to answer anything. Suzanne Meade was missing and unaccounted for. Of their two goons, Marky had been lucky. He’d taken a bullet, but it had only grazed his left thigh. The wound was slight, and he’d be released from hospital before nightfall. Fitzy had always been quick on his feet, had fled the warehouse, and despite some heckling from Roger, didn’t return. Cowardice, some might say, a wise man to others.
The Battle of Chelsea Fields, as it would become known in crime circles and in the press, was over. It was one of the biggest criminal shoot-outs ever to hit the capital. Walter was dispatched to the Banaghan household, Saint Patrick’s One, to take statements with orders to arrest anyone who might have been involved. Vairs went to Cornucopia, the Meade residence, with the same orders. Another officer was sent to each home to meet them.
Walter didn’t want to go. He thought as an eye witness to the fracas, he could be more use on site. But the Chief Superintendent had rediscovered his appetite for issuing curt orders and was not to be denied.
An hour later, the CS was getting hungry. It had been a thrilling morning. Already he was mulling over the report he must make to the Commander, and he had a few creative thoughts on that.
A Senior Crime Officer and tons of Forensics people had arrived and were conducting operations. Barry Wilkins had endured enough for one morning. His stomach rumbled.
Which local pub was it that served the great Sunday lunch? Always make sure the troops were well fed. He bundled his people back in the Sprinter, all present and correct, and they hurried away before anyone could say otherwise, heading for the Red Lion. Just so long as that hideous woman, Hester Montgomery, wasn’t in there, stuffing her face.
Fifty
When Walter arrived at Saint Patrick’s One, he found a police car waiting outside. An officer jumped out. Walter hoped it might have been Stella, but it was the annoying sergeant who always wanted papers photocopying.
Short ginger hair and a renowned temper, a bloke named Kimpton. He had a reputation of being a man you’d want by your side in a war, so it wasn’t all bad.
‘Thought you were never coming,’ he moaned.
‘Got here as soon as I could, sarge. Had a hellava hot morning.’
‘Yeah, so I heard, tell me about it.’
They stood together in the cold on the pavement, as Walter gave him the brief version.
‘You’re telling me Liam and Dermot Banaghan, and Howard and Johnny Meade, are all dead?’
‘That’s correct, sarge.’
‘There is a god, after all. Hoo-bloody-ray! Come on, ring the bell, man. Things are looking up.’
Walter jumped up the step and poked the button.
Kimpton shifted from one foot to the other and said, ‘Does Rosanna know?’
Walter grimaced, shook his head, and added, ‘I’ve no idea.’
The front door opened. A maid in full Sunday best uniform, looking smart and cute, busy fixing a nervous smile on her dainty face. She asked them to wait but Kimpton refused, bullying his way into the house, muttering something about his intention to arrest people in connection with multiple murders.
There was a rich, meaty aroma seeping through the building. Walter tested it. Beef! Had to be. But it was Sunday, and everyone knew the family made a big issue of Sunday lunch. The maid was still putting up resistance, unhappy at being harangued; worried that she might lose her well-paid job.
Eoin Banaghan must have heard the commotion, for he came running, demanding to know what they wanted, and did they have a warr
ant?
Walter said, ‘Is Rosanna in?’
‘What business is that of yours?’
‘Have you heard what happened at your warehouse this morning? Does she know?’
‘We’ve received reports. Do you want to tell me what you know?’
Kimpton said, ‘We’re not buggering about like this. Our orders are to take you to the station voluntarily, to tell us what you know about this morning’s events.’
‘And if it’s not voluntary?’
‘I’ll arrest you,’ said Walter.
Rosanna edged into the hallway, her back hard against the wall. Her eyes red, and in her hand a large screwed up handkerchief.
She caught Walter’s eye and said, ‘Is it true that Liam and Dermot are both dead?’
‘It’s a very confused picture, Mrs Banaghan,’ he said. ‘But we need someone to identify bodies. Best to prepare yourself, you should come with us.’
‘I always knew this would end in tears,’ she mumbled, before adding as an afterthought, ‘Did Vairs get it too?’
‘No,’ said Walter. ‘The sergeant’s fine.’
There was a similar scene going on in Cornucopia, except Cynthia Meade was in no fit state to see anyone or travel anywhere. The effete Ricky was there, clapping his hands for no reason, uttering nonsense, demanding answers, and being ignored. Thank goodness the family doctor was there. He told the officers Cynthia Meade was sedated and asleep and would remain so for hours.
Vairs and colleague took his word on that. The bleating Ricky was escorted to the car, leaving the staff to ponder on whether they should take a chance and eat the expensive luncheon, or keep it simmering in case some or all of the Meade family returned, demanding hot food, and fast.
Back at the station, it was mad busy. Weekend or not, everyone had arrived on scene. Senior officers, looking pleased with themselves, spicing their coffee with Bell’s whisky. Junior ranks, seeking tea and gossip as to what happened. Were any of ours hurt? Witnesses were being interviewed. Suspects were about to be charged. Excited solicitors aplenty had appeared out of the woodwork, double time weekends, don’t you know? All desperate to speak to their clients, while keeping a firm eye on their personal time clocks. This monster was going to be huge, they heard one say. It would pay for a month in the Caribbean.