The Phoenix Series Box Set 3

by Ted Tayler

  “I reckon so,” said Phoenix. “Let’s hope so. We’d better move this heap of metal further up the road. He’s had a bad enough day, without us killing the grass on the verge outside his home.”

  “We’re not leaking oil, are we?” asked Rusty, looking underneath the van.

  “No, but in ten minutes, when the lads from Chiswick deliver our replacement, they’ll need peace and quiet to alter a few things on this one. When that’s completed, they can torch it. Plan B involved confusion tactics. If an attack took place at Denham and we were forced into the open, I wanted to fool the police into believing two rival gangs arrived to claim the bounty for wiping out the Finkelman family. Inter-gang rivalry isn’t such a difficult pill to swallow. We need to deflect their investigation away from following the trail to our door. We’ll leave the Met to work out why the surviving gang didn’t follow through and finish the job.”

  “Fingers crossed it will work, mate,” said Rusty. “Right, let's shift this van.”

  *****

  Phoenix and Rusty pushed the van up the road, to await the replacement vehicle. Meanwhile, Giles Burke returned to the surface at Larcombe after a very rewarding afternoon’s work in the ice-house.

  After hours of fruitless effort trying to hack into the various systems that contained the whereabouts of the Crown’s vital witness, all of a sudden he had found the key. Minutes later, at a quarter past four, he and Artemis were staring at an address in Russell Street, Jarrow,

  “A terraced house, not far from the centre,” said Giles. “Modest accommodation compared to what Maurice Kelly was used to I imagine?”

  “I doubt he’s too happy with being shut away up there, with little opportunity to get out to enjoy the sights,” said Artemis.

  “It’s all rather bleak up north, isn’t it?” said Giles. “Dark, and satanic, covered in industrial grime.”

  Artemis wasn’t sure whether Giles was being facetious or not, but as a Durham lass, she sprang to the North East’s defence.

  “There are twenty places of interest I could name within ten miles of where they’re living,” she said. “Monasteries, museums, galleries, and countryside walks by the side of the Tyne. There are lots of beautiful spots up there.”

  “Easy tiger,” laughed Giles. “I haven’t forgotten where you were born. I still think it will be alien to the Kelly’s.”

  “I’ll call Athena,” said Artemis, “tell her the good news. She can order teams to remove the Kelly family to a safe house. There are people on the outskirts of Newcastle, only fifteen minutes away.”

  “The sooner the better,” agreed Giles. “I’ll make my way out of this system now, closing every door behind me. We don’t want anyone to know we’ve been here. Then I’ll get back to hunting Hanigan, to see if I can’t unearth an address for him.”

  Artemis called Athena, who assigned agents at once to rescue Maurice and Deirdre Kelly before they came to any harm. The two teams of agents reached Russell Street, Jarrow at twenty minutes to five.

  Although nobody answered the knock by the agent stood at the front door, the agent who slipped unnoticed along the passageway further up the terrace found the back door unlocked. Maurice and Deirdre Kelly dozed on a battered sofa in front of the small TV. They were missing the end of another repeated property show on BBC1. The agent let his colleague inside the house.

  The former scrapyard owner and his wife were soon awake, to find themselves secured and bundled into a waiting van. They would thank their rescuers later, but for now, Maurice thought this was it, his past had caught up with him. Both he and Deirdre would pay for testifying against Tommy O’Riordan.

  The agents and their passengers drove away from Russell Street at fourteen minutes to five. By ten past the hour, they sat in a safe house in Newcastle. Everything was being explained to them, except who their saviours worked for, and Maurice and Deirdre Kelly could breathe once more.

  At six o’clock in Jarrow, a car pulled up outside the terraced house in Russell Street. The timing was impeccable. It had been designed to coincide with the elimination of the Judge and his family in the south. The door to the house was smashed off its hinges, and two masked men dashed inside, with their guns at the ready.

  They stood in an empty house. The television now showed the latest news programme. On the top of the set, the would-be assassins found a note.

  ‘Gone on a long holiday. Sorry, we missed you.’

  “Bastards,” shouted one of the gunmen, “how did they know we were coming? We only knew the address for thirty minutes. We need to tell the people in London.”

  The other gunman dialled a number.

  “They’ve gone. They must have left in a rush. The TV’s on, and their stuff is still here. What do you want us to do?”

  On the other end of the phone, Colleen O’Riordan wished she didn’t have to make the next call. Hannon, or whatever he called himself these days, frightened her. She remembered him as a snotty-nosed weakling when they were children. He was a different kettle of fish these days. He had been crazy ever since his mother had died. Colleen told the Geordie guy to stand by in the house until she called back.

  Colleen walked to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a drink. She delayed facing up to what she needed to do for as long as she dared. Her Tommy was going to jail for a long stretch in the morning unless these killings changed matters. She understood only too well who had ordered the deaths of the jurors. Hannon had phoned her earlier for her brother’s Tyneside contacts. He needed the address for Maurice Kelly. With Sean in custody, he had persuaded her to ring up the Geordie mob. The slimy sod didn’t want to talk to the hired help.

  After a long swig from her second vodka and tonic, Colleen took a deep breath and made the call. It was now twenty-five past six.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m sorry, but they found nobody there when they got to Russell Street. They want to know what to do.”

  Hugo Hanigan was spitting feathers.

  “Have you seen the television?” he screamed.

  Colleen looked over her shoulder. She had muted the sound. A news helicopter was sending aerial pictures of an airfield. A helicopter stood on the ground. It was surrounded by police cars and other vehicles from the emergency services. Colleen switched on the sound.

  In Jarrow, the small TV in what had been Maurice Kelly’s front room was also being watched. The masked gunmen sat side by side on the sofa and listened to the reporter: -

  At around six o’clock, the helicopter below me landed at Denham Aerodrome having flown in from Jersey. It was carrying a local family returning from a weekend trip to the island. Two sets of gunmen clashed here on the tarmac. Fifty yards away, surrounded by police incident tape, forensic officers are piecing together what happened. Three dead bodies, covered by white sheets, are still on the ground beside a transit van. The other gunmen are thought to have driven off towards the M40. In the gunfight, a stray bullet hit the helicopter pilot, who has been named locally, as Keith Stott, who ran a popular air charter company from Denham. Mr Stott died at the scene from his injuries.

  As the news helicopter continued to circle the airfield, the fire engine turned around and drove out of the gateway with its flashing blue lights visible.

  Another emergency call for the fire brigade it appears, the reporter continued. We hope to speak with the police officers attending the scene in due course. There are several questions to answer. Was this a dispute between two local gangs, that resulted in an innocent bystander being caught in the crossfire? Or was it something more sinister? The car belonging to the helicopter’s passengers is said to have left at high speed. The family escaped the mayhem. Mr Stott made regular trips to Jersey with Beaconsfield resident, Judge Reuben Finkelman. Was this yet another attempted murder relating to the O’Riordan case? Mr Finkelman was the judge in the now infamous trial at the Old Bailey. He’s due in court tomorrow morning for the sentencing hearing. Has a bounty been placed on the High Court Judge’s head? Was this why the
rival gangs arrived just as the helicopter landed? I’ll hand you back to the studio for more news and the weather. Ah, just before you go. I can see a pall of black smoke in the distance. It looks to be near the M40 approach road, a few miles outside of Beaconsfield. For now, back to the studio.

  In Jarrow, the gunmen looked at one another.

  “We might as well get off home, lad,” said one, “for definite, it’s gone tits up tonight.”

  Colleen O’Riordan held the phone in her lap. She took another long drink.

  Hugo Hanigan stared at his wide-screen plasma TV. The ceramic bowl he had launched at the screen at the end of the news report stuck in the smouldering remains of the top-of-range model that had cost him fifteen hundred pounds.

  “Who’s trying to stand in my way?” he yelled. “When I find them they’re dead meat. Who sent that rival gang to Denham? Why did they kill my crew and let the targets get away? How did Kelly learn my gang were on their way and where the hell have they gone? When’s Sean Walsh going to be released from custody? Who’s got the brass balls to challenge my leadership of The Grid.”

  Hugo Hanigan had plenty of questions to wrestle with on Sunday night, but no answers.

  *****

  At Larcombe Manor, Athena received the news she needed to hear. Olympus had successes to celebrate, at last.

  The Newcastle lead agent reported that Maurice and Deirdre Kelly were settling into their new surroundings well. The safe house was far better appointed than Russell Street, and Deirdre Kelly for one looked forward to getting new clothes, to replace those she had abandoned.

  The news channels kept Athena up to speed with the progress Phoenix had made. The Finkelmans’ were safe. The helicopter pilots’ death had been unfortunate, but more casualties would be suffered before this fight ended.

  The van fire kept the authorities guessing. It was confirmed as the van seen on the tarmac, near the helicopter. So far, the police couldn’t get to examine its burnt-out shell. They had, however, identified the three gunmen killed in the Denham shoot-out. All three were known criminals, in their country of birth. They had used Britain’s open-door policy to transfer from Europe in the past five years to carry on their criminal activities.

  Kelly Dexter had called earlier to say she and Hayden were home safe. Athena had thanked them for their help at short notice. She promised to avoid sending them on a direct action again. Olympus needed them alive and well to train the new agents they needed.

  Athena decided on an early night. As she turned off the lights in the lounge and walked through to their bedroom, her phone rang. It was Phoenix.

  “I thought I’d ring to say goodnight,” he said.

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, “was it bad?”

  “We’ve been through worse,” Phoenix replied. “Rusty and I are sleeping in the van tonight. We’ll follow the Judge into the city in the morning. I’ll call you as soon as we’re leaving to return to Larcombe.”

  “Take care,” said Athena.

  “I’ll do my best,” said Phoenix. “Oh, can you call Artemis, and tell her Rusty says hi.”

  “The last of the red-hot lovers, isn’t he?” said Athena, “okay, but I’ll embellish it. The poor girl will feel she’s being neglected.”

  Athena called Artemis, who answered at once. She must have been waiting by the phone.

  “They’re both safe and well, and send their love,” said Athena. “We can expect them home by lunchtime.”

  “Thanks for ringing, Athena,” said Artemis. “I’m shattered and wanted to get to bed, but I stayed up, just in case. Today could have gone far worse, but two families are alive tonight, thanks to Olympus’s actions.”

  “Indeed,” said Athena, “success at last. I’ll see you at the morning meeting, Artemis. Goodnight.”

  As she passed the nursery door, on the way to the bedroom, Athena looked inside at Hope. “If Daddy does his best, that should be good enough,” she whispered.

  Athena lay alone in their bed. Sleep didn’t come easy.

  Would tomorrow bring more success? Or did yet more trials lie ahead?

  CHAPTER 10

  Monday, 28th April 2014

  Judge Reuben Finkelman awoke at six o’clock. His wife Miriam lay asleep by his side. Reuben felt every one of his fifty-eight years on this earth today. The trauma of yesterday’s events at Denham returned with each moment his eyes were open. He put on a dressing gown and went downstairs to make his breakfast.

  Reuben drew back the curtains in the kitchen and the lounge. This was his normal routine. The morning looked to promise a dry and settled start to the week. He hoped he survived to see the weekend. Their much-loved garden he saw from the kitchen window was unchanged. The manicured lawns leading to the roadway he viewed from the lounge windows looked calm and serene, as always.

  Those people who saved him and his family last evening were invisible, as promised.

  Keith Stott was still dead.

  His twin daughters, Ruth and Rachel, remained nineteen years old and would carry their memories of yesterday to their graves. He and Miriam had raised them as best they could, trying to protect them from the wickedness of this world. In seconds, that had been shattered.

  His years as a High Court Judge had prepared him for times such as these. He faced the results of the horrific things one human being could do to another regularly. While they had relaxed in St Ouen, in the holiday home they treasured, he had left Miriam and the girls in the kitchen. He wanted to walk to the headland and gaze out over the bay.

  Reuben had needed to be alone to consider the evidence he had heard, and what he had seen in the courtroom over the past weeks. There were various options open to him. As Saturday afternoon passed over him, he had come to his decision. It had been five o’clock when he had returned to the house.

  The smells from the kitchen wrapped him in a warm blanket. Memories of his childhood flooded over him. Images of his mother and father filled his head. Sunny days running on the beach with his brother and sister on the south of the island at St Brelade’s.

  As Reuben stood in the kitchen, a little over thirty-six hours later, the smell of the breakfast he had prepared only stirred images he’d prefer to forget. One image that remained firm, was that of Thomas O’Riordan as he had stood in the dock before him when the guilty verdict was delivered.

  None of the arrogance left him. O’Riordan still behaved like ‘cock-of-the-walk’. His family had shrieked abuse and issued threats. They had vowed revenge on Maurice Kelly. Reuben Finkelman had seen and heard it before. His career had led him to this defining moment.

  Today was his opportunity to stand up for the principles his profession held so dear. It was his chance to deliver a sentence to wipe that supercilious smile from the gangster’s face.

  Reuben hoped it sent a message to whoever ordered the slaughtering of the jurors that justice would prevail no matter what threats it faced. He left the kitchen and walked across to his study. He wanted to read through the notes he had prepared once more.

  Reuben crossed out the introduction but felt the rest of his short speech was satisfactory. It was incumbent upon him to ask O’Riordan if he had anything to say before he passed sentence. Experience told him O’Riordan wouldn’t weaken and beg or apologise for what he had done. His superior air maintained to the end.

  As he raised his eyes from the desk for inspiration, Reuben saw the crest of his old college hanging on the wall. Many years had passed since he studied at Churchill College, Cambridge. Inspiration struck; he would paraphrase a speech from the great man. That should send the message he wanted. He took up his pen and wrote the final paragraph: -

  ‘We shall go on to the end, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall never surrender.’

  “That’s it,” he said, with a satisfied sigh.

  Reuben went upstairs, ready to face the day ahead. Miriam and the girls surfaced at half-pas
t seven. They were quieter than usual as they sat in the kitchen. The front doorbell rang at five to eight. An armed officer faced Reuben when he answered. By his side stood a senior officer, whose epaulette insignia identified him as a Commander.

  “We’re here to escort you to the Central Criminal Court, your Lordship,” the Commander said.

  “I’ll just collect my things, and say goodbye to my family,” said Reuben.

  Two minutes later the limousine containing the Judge pulled out of the driveway. It arrived sandwiched between two vehicles from the armed response unit. They headed to the M40 and travelled into the heart of the city.

  Phoenix and Rusty shadowed them throughout the journey.

  “A pleasant morning for it,” said Rusty.

  “Uneventful,” said Phoenix, “just how we prefer it.”

  One hundred yards in front in his limousine, Reuben Finkelman attempted to relax. Other journeys to work had involved just him, and his driver. There was no cavalcade. There were no armed guards. It must have been his imagination, but he thought every pedestrian, every motorist did a double-take as they passed. Instead of gliding by unnoticed, he was now the centre of attention. It unnerved him.

  As the journey ticked past, Reuben ticked off the landmarks in his head. There was the White City on his left, and soon they approached Little Venice. The group of cars had to stop at traffic lights. Little did the Judge realise that a few hundred yards away, the gun that Tommy O’Riordan had used to murder Michael Devlin lay at the bottom of a canal.

  Soon they turned the corner and passed University College, the British Museum and the London School of Economics. In front of them stood the Central Criminal Court. One hour, door to door from Forty Green, with no sirens or flashing lights, and, no drama, thank goodness. Reuben gathered his things and went to leave the car.

  “Stay inside please, your Lordship,” ordered the Commander, appearing on the pavement in front of him. “We’ll move the crowds out of the way for you. No point taking undue risks at this late stage.”