by Ted Tayler
“Most of what we need is here, boss,” he replied. “I reckon I could drive up to Reading, spend a few hours watching Amy Grant and Dean Laker’s movements. Then we can add a few dozen photographs of our own to the evidence and give your contact the green light. I wouldn’t want to be in Dean Laker’s shoes, that’s for sure.”
“You had better get moving then, Wayne,” said Phil, “heaven knows what state their relationship is in today. Amy is still dating the swine, despite the black marks against him. What’s that old saying?”
“There’s none so blind as them that cannot see, boss?” Wayne offered.
“That’s better than mine, mate; I was thinking of love is blind,” smiled Phil, “but that’s perfect.”
Wayne collected the keys to the company car, took note of the details of where Amy and Dean lived and worked, then headed for the door.
“Camera, Wayne?” Phil called after him.
“Ah, better take a proper one, instead of relying on my phone, I guess,” said Wayne, walking over to one of the filing cabinets. “I was distracted. I wondered whether you might pop to the cake shop on the corner for that large, iced bun before I undertake a tiring drive, or not?”
“Not,” said Phil, “your snacking has already cost HSS enough money in expanding uniforms. Erica keeps making barbed comments about my waistline. You’re a bad influence, Wayne Sangster.”
“Ah well, I’ll call into Reading Services, for a comfort break. Then I can manage my stint of surveillance without needing a pee. I’ll pick up a snack while I’m there.”
With that his colleague left, camera bag slung over his shoulder. Phil smiled to himself. Wayne was a character. The day he bumped into him at Glastonbury a year ago had been a lucky break. They developed a good understanding that weekend and worked well together ever since he set up HSS.
Phil spent the rest of the morning collating the paperwork relating to the Grant/Laker investigation. He attached the newspaper accounts, and various items Wayne had discovered during his online search. Then he got a new folder from the stationery cupboard, ready for the incriminating photographs and written evidence that he hoped Wayne’s surveillance yielded.
As he poured himself another cup of coffee, he offered a prayer. Phil prayed that his daughter Tracey never had to go through the nightmare Tina Fowler, and Amy Grant suffered. She was only six years old, but if time sped past as fast as it had done of late, she’d be a young woman before he knew what happened. The thought of how much older that would make him, spurred him into action.
“When I dug out this new folder, that cupboard looked a mess. Time for a tidy-up, I reckon. I need to keep busy, or I’ll get depressed again.”
While Phil was housekeeping, Wayne drove up the M4 towards Reading. He was listening to a presenter interviewing a celebrity chef on the radio. He knew he ought to change channels. Any minute now they’d discuss recipes for cakes, or something else equally unhealthy for him. Wayne was feeling peckish and dreaming of iced buns.
Wayne looked at the clock on the dashboard and then switched to a music channel. That’s what was needed he thought – willpower. The sign to Membury services appeared one hundred yards in front of him. The draw of the sticky bun became too great. He’d buy something here, and have a coffee, then drive on to Reading, and call in or a comfort break as planned. That was okay; both Dean Laker and Amy Grant would still be at work.
For Amy, the first day of the new working week had been uneventful. She left to walk to the office before the postman pushed his trolley into her street. This had been the norm since the previous weekend. Matters had moved on in the ten days since the latest ‘sitrep’ Phil and Wayne received.
Amy made another attempt to finish things with Dean for good. He had become even more possessive and demanding. So much so that Amy feared for her safety. Her office colleagues had commented after two or three early mornings in a row last week. They asked why she was in so bright and early. Amy shrugged and said it was just the warm early summer weather.
The fact was it avoided having to face unwanted contact from Dean. She knew he would write to her. Another long-winded letter, begging her to give him another chance. By leaving home early, switching off her phone, and avoiding checking her social media accounts, at least until she got home in the evening, it gave her breathing space.
The letter, and sometimes flowers, or other gifts could then go into the bin together. It saved time. Amy tried finding a colleague to eat with at lunchtimes, experimented with eating alone in a different bar, or café after work. There were dozens to choose from on her way home. She varied the route she took each time to avoid bumping into Dean.
This past weekend had been the worst. The phone calls kept coming and e-mails too. Amy left home early on Saturday morning and driven to her parent’s place to find peace and quiet. They were surprised to see her turning up with no prior notice; but happy to have her stay for the night. They fussed over her on Sunday, and her father took her to one side when her mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Are things okay, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Fine, Dad,” she replied, “just boyfriend trouble. Time to move on again. Every time I think I’ve found Mr Right he turns out to be Mr Wrong.”
“Don’t settle for less than Mr Perfect,” her Dad said, giving his daughter a rare squeeze.
When Amy reached home late on Sunday, it was obvious Dean had been trying to contact her throughout the weekend. The tone of the messages he left on her phone, had become angrier and more threatening. Amy couldn’t sleep, as the slightest sound she heard, scared her into believing Dean was trying to break into her home.
Amy’s working day was finished. Her colleagues made their separate ways home. Nobody wanted to visit the pub up the road for a drink tonight. She had to face making her way through the streets, alone. Amy looked out of the window, and searched the street in either direction, to catch a glimpse of her tormentor.
Wayne Sangster arrived outside Amy’s office building, fifteen minutes earlier. It had taken him five minutes to find a parking spot that gave a clear view of the building and the surrounding street. His camera was at the ready, the zoom lens giving perfect images for him to capture, should this toe-rag Laker arrive to carry on pestering Amy Grant.
The ex-policeman wasn’t aware of the further deterioration in the couple’s relationship, but he was well-placed to record what took place. He waited and watched.
Dean Laker had been lying in wait, in a café across the street from Amy’s place of work. He had spent a wasted weekend calling her, knocking on her door, searching the streets. Who did she think she was? No way was he going to let her end it with him. He convinced himself her absence only meant one thing.
She must have found someone else. Another poor sod fooled by her looks, and her lies. Dean wouldn’t let them continue seeing the Amy Grant he knew if she was hell-bent on leaving him.
With a twisted mind such as Laker’s, that didn’t mean he would tackle any potential new boyfriend face-to-face. Oh no, he didn’t have the guts for that. He was ready to do whatever it took to make Amy Grant as unattractive to other men as possible. As he sat in the café, waiting for her to emerge from her office, he had a bottle in his coat pocket. The acid it contained was to be her reward for messing with him.
Across the street, the door opened. Amy stepped onto the pavement, looking around her. She tucked her head into the collar of her coat and keeping near the buildings made her way towards the zebra-crossing.
Wayne spotted her straight away. He snapped a picture of Amy for the record. It was evidence of someone frightened of her own shadow. A sudden movement on the pavement on his left-hand side startled him. The door to a café had burst open. A man was running. It was Dean Laker.
Wayne opened the door of the car and climbed out. He tried to snap a quick shot of Dean chasing along the street after Amy, but a moving target on a crowded pavement made things tricky.
Wayne wasn’t built
for sprinting, but his copper’s nose anticipated that whatever Dean’s intentions were, they signalled trouble for the young girl. He set off in the direction the two of them headed.
Amy crossed the street and hurried through an alleyway leading to the park. This was one of her favourite routes home. Open spaces and young children playing, people walking their dogs. Normal things she hadn’t been able to do for ages.
She heard Dean shouting at her; she glanced over her shoulder. He was getting closer. Amy ran. Wayne was puffing and blowing but kept an eye on Dean. He was wearing a lightweight hoodie with long sleeves, and gloves on his hands. He held something in his right hand. Wayne couldn’t make out what.
Amy emerged from the alleyway and ran along the path through the park. Dean was ten yards behind her and closing fast.
“Stop trying to get away, bitch,” he yelled.
Wayne saw Amy falter and tumble onto the grass. She looked to have twisted an ankle. He cursed. Laker was right on top of her now. Wayne saw him twist the top of whatever he held and drew back his arm to throw it at Amy. A shiver ran up his spine.
“Amy!” he shouted, at the top of his voice “cover your face. Turn away. For God’s sake turn away.”
Dean hesitated.
Amy looked at the crazed look in his eyes and knew at once he meant her harm. She rolled away, shielding her head and face with her arms. Her screams echoed around the park.
Wayne had stopped running. He tried to steady his breathing. Click! He gave it his best shot. The image he captured was the evidence Olympus needed. It showed an apoplectic Dean Laker, holding an opened bottle of acid in his right hand. On the grass in front of him lay Amy Grant. She escaped unharmed.
Passers-by crowded around. Dean looked back towards Wayne. He saw the figures approaching him from every side. He was soon running in the opposite direction. Amy was soon being comforted. Fingers pointed back towards the large breathless man twenty yards away. Amy Grant wanted to know who had saved her from a vicious attack; and how he knew her name.
But explanations weren’t part of Wayne’s brief. He hurried away from the park, back to his car. Time to head home to Bath. He would report to Phil Hounsell in the morning. His boss would then pass the damning photographs to his contact at Larcombe Manor.
Dean Laker could then receive the appropriate punishment.
CHAPTER 12
Thursday, 1st May 2014
Another morning meeting at Larcombe Manor was getting underway. The events of yesterday in Reading hadn’t been received by Hayden Vincent from Orion. So, Athena began by apologising that Phoenix and Rusty were absent once again.
“This is the second day of planning the strikes ordered by Zeus against members of The Grid. They will continue their preparations in the orangery. They must make sure the necessary steps are in place to achieve the maximum effect with the least impact on Olympus, both in financial, and physical terms. I expect you to give them your full support and give whatever data they need.”
“I’ve not had much input in these plans so far,” said Henry. “I look forward to having guests delivered to the ice-house. My methods might persuade them to tell us where this Hanigan devil lives?”
“Phoenix will let you know when we require your services, Henry,” said Athena. “For the time being, you must concentrate on keeping Larcombe secure. Advise Giles on how to block anyone from The Grid linking our impending strikes to the Olympus Project. You must protect our anonymity. We must not get careless.”
“Understood, Athena,” said Henry. “I’ll man the barricades.”
“Artemis and I are still coordinating the search for Hanigan’s home address,” said Giles Burke. “Phoenix was right. Hanigan is a slippery customer. He’s been successful in covering his tracks. There’s no record online of anywhere he might have laid his head since he sold that flat in Cricklewood.”
“Any photographs available are useless too,” added Artemis, “but an agent is watching the Glencairn Bank. He’s not staying there the whole day. Gresham Street isn’t long. A pedestrian loitering for any length of time would soon be spotted. He’s had to be inventive with his disguises, and he is varying the time he visits each day. We hope to gather enough footage from his secret camera to build up a gallery of regular visitors. Hanigan may not attend the bank daily, but he will not be an absentee owner, that’s for sure. In time, we hope to narrow the choice to two, or three faces. We can then follow these men home, and continue the search online using those images.”
“That’s an approach with potential, Giles,” said Athena.
“Has Phoenix given any sign when he might carry out the first strike?” asked Alastor.
“He won’t say before the event. Rusty will know, but Zeus is the only contact necessary. Phoenix will identify his target. Zeus will then decide whether to authorise the strike. If the mood he was in on Tuesday persists, then the strikes will come thick and fast. We will be informed of the outcome as soon as the mission is completed.”
“Phoenix and Rusty are putting their heads in the lion’s mouth,” said Minos, “isn’t that going to be a dangerous ploy?”
“Without danger, Phoenix doesn’t feel alive,” said Athena. “He’s concerned for Hope and me when he leaves on a mission. He feels the best way to keep us safe is to face danger headfirst. He won’t sit back and let others run the risks for him.”
“Rusty holds the same beliefs,” said Artemis, “and if he’s fighting side by side with Phoenix, he’s certain they’ll come through unscathed. They’re a formidable pair.”
Athena’s mobile phone rang. It was Hayden Vincent.
“Orion has completed his part of the job, Athena,” he told her.
“Gosh, that was quick. Excellent. Have someone pick up the target, please. Henry wants to entertain someone in Hotel California.”
Hayden rang off and sent an agent to collect Dean Laker. His stalking days were over.
At HSS, Phil Hounsell received an email confirming that five thousand pounds had been credited to their account. He decided a celebration was in order. Phil took five pounds out of petty cash and sent Wayne to the cake shop on the corner for large iced buns. Good staff are hard to find.
Only a few miles from Phil’s office, the day to day affairs that comprised the Olympus morning meeting kept the senior agents occupied until lunchtime. Then they carried on their other duties, either in the main building or in the ice-house.
In the orangery, the formidable pair continued to plan their attacks unaware they were being discussed.
“This will be our primary target,” said Phoenix. “Leroy Gordon, and the crew he operates. The dramatic increase in gang warfare is linked to a brutal battle for supremacy in the local drug trade. Much of the violence has come via Gordon’s activities. Born in Kingston, Jamaica forty-four years ago, Gordon spent most of his teenage years in Croydon. He has moved the crack cocaine trade out of the inner cities and into the suburbs, where prices are higher. Gordon works exclusively with indigenous Yardie gang members and has made millions from the drug trade. He’s responsible for the deaths of over a dozen members of rival gangs.”
“Where did he move his operations to after he left Croydon?” asked Rusty.
“They never leave their home turf,” said Phoenix, “not entirely. One town they descended on to open new markets was Guildford. Just an hour’s drive away. Police there reported the town was being targeted by crack gangs after a group of Jamaicans were arrested there during a swoop. Their presence was due to Gordon, who uses the name Lay-Z on the streets. When a Guildford drug dealer Brett Stevens was found dead in a country lane near Godalming, Lay-Z was an immediate suspect. Police arrested and questioned Lay-Z, but they released him without charge. He never stays anywhere long. He moves around between several addresses, one of which is the home of an elder sister, Abigail, in Selhurst, Croydon. Close to a football pitch.”
“Crystal Palace,” said Rusty, thinking the name meant nothing to Phoenix.
“They used to be the Glaziers,” said Phoenix, looking at the glass surrounding them in the orangery, “because of the vast amount of glass in the original Victorian building.”
“Blimey,” said Rusty. “I never expected you to have heard of them.”
“Don’t worry, I haven’t developed a sudden liking for sport, it was in the article I read on Selhurst. I wanted to be familiar with the place, in case we need to pick Lay-Z up from his sister’s place.”
Phoenix returned to his notes and continued outlining the profile of their target. Rusty shook his head. The man never changed. His attention to detail unwavering. Rusty sensed they would both be working here late into the evening. When Phoenix was set, they could call Zeus. If he gave the go-ahead, then he and Phoenix would take part in yet another direct action tomorrow.
*****
In Reading, Dean Laker sat at home in his maisonette. He had been in hiding since he ran away from the park. He phoned in sick for work, drew the curtains to shut out the world, and emptied his drinks cabinet. Dean looked a mess.
He had failed in his attempt to scar Amy Grant for life. People in the park had seen his face. That bloke who shouted the warning even took a photograph of them. He was stuffed. He needed to find another job and put this place on the market. It was time to move.
The door to his home splintered and crashed open. Two men burst inside. The drunken shambles of a man that Dean Laker had become, was in no position to resist. They overpowered him in seconds. He was bound and gagged and dragged out to a waiting van.
An hour’s drive on the M4 later, and he was delivered into the hands of Henry Case. In time, Dean Laker would become another poisonous blight on society to be taught by the Olympus Project crime doesn’t pay.
*****
Later that Thursday evening, Sean Walsh sat in Hugo Hanigan’s penthouse apartment for the first time. He admired the opulence that surrounded him. The artwork on the walls looked genuine, not the series of prints at home. The widescreen television looked brand-new.
