by Ted Tayler
Four men arriving in the street where Abigail Gordon’s house was situated would provoke interest. Even on a matchday at Selhurst Park. Someone would spot what Rusty was carrying, in as unobtrusive a way as possible, by his side.
The teams split into two. A few minutes later Phoenix and Rusty entered Pembroke Road. The terraced house lay fifty yards in front of them. Their colleagues were on the other side of the road, hanging back twenty yards, waiting for a gap in the lunchtime traffic.”
Rusty reached the door first. There was no polite press of the bell as in Westborough. He hoisted the big red key and smashed the door off its hinges. Lay-Z by name, he might have been, but the big Jamaican Yardie flew down the stairs in his underpants with a gun in his hand, screaming obscenities.
Rusty stepped aside.
Phoenix was ready with his PSS pistol raised, and before Lay-Z Gordon reached the bottom step, he had fired, twice. Gordon was hit twice in the chest and died before he clattered to the floor. The silent killer had done its job. A car backfiring would have made far more noise. Rusty and Phoenix looked around the house. They found a small stash of drugs for personal use in Gordon’s bedroom, plus over a grand in cash.
“Nothing incriminating in Abigail’s room,” asked Phoenix.
“Eye-watering, but not incriminating,” replied Rusty.
After pulling the door to, as best they could, the two friends left the house and joined up with the other team.
“Sorry you didn’t get to join the party guys,” said Phoenix, “we were lucky. Gordon was still in bed and had none of his friends staying with him. The two illegals still on the run must keep for another day. With luck, the police will arrest them for us.”
The men walked back to the vans in Auckland Road. As the team leader promised, they both remained intact.
The London-based team set off towards their base, to await the next call of duty. Rusty threaded his way around the M25 until he found the right exit to take them home to Bath. It was three hours later, at half-past four when he swung the van through the stone pillars of the Larcombe Manor gateway. The rattle of the cattle-grid stirred Phoenix, and he stretched his aching limbs.
“A good day’s work, Rusty,” he said, “I’m hungry, though. First, let Athena and Artemis know we’re back safe, and I’ll call in on the lads in the armoury. Once we stow the gear away, I vote we get over to the cafeteria for a meal.”
“That sounds a plan,” said Rusty. “I can’t wait to put my feet up for a rest this evening.”
There was a slight pause.
“Ah, I thought we could have something to eat, then we’d spend the evening in the orangery. I want to plan our next hit. We can’t allow Hanigan any breathing space.”
Rusty groaned.
“Whatever you say, Phoenix, but you’re paying for the grub.”
CHAPTER 13
In Kilburn, Sean Walsh had come to his decision. He had only two names on his shortlist of candidates for a second-in-command, but he didn’t want to let the boss know. There was nothing between the two men. So, he flipped a coin and made the call.
Hanigan answered.
“Sean, you have a name for me?”
“Seamus McConnell,” replied Sean.
“Not a Dublin lad then Sean? Portmarnock family are they not? I hope you can trust him. The cream of my Irish gang leaders come from the same few streets in Dublin where we met as children. Ah well, on your head be it. I’m flying out to Dublin tonight. I’ll call you on Monday, first thing. There’s work to be done.”
With the phone call he’d been dreading ended, Sean allowed himself to breathe again. Seamus was one of the best men he and Tommy had recruited. That reaction to his choice of lieutenant was typical of the boss. For matters relating to The Grid, he thought of everything as being on a national scale. Here in the capital, when it only concerned the Irish gangs, he was parochial. The power base was confined to the seven streets that had been their breeding ground.
Sean rang his sister, to invite her round to his place for Sunday lunch. He didn’t want Colleen sitting alone in her house, festering over Tommy’s fate. Their kids were back in Marbella too, now the trial had ended. They were always happy to profit from their old man’s criminal activities but never wanted to get their hands dirty.
They worked for a living, sure, but when Tommy’s money started to disappear, as it was bound to do, they’d struggle to afford to live in the lavish style they did now. Sean thought it sensible to tell Colleen to give them a wake-up call.
Colleen answered.
“I’ll drive over on Sunday to pick you up,” he said. “We want you to have dinner with us. Is one o’clock OK with you, Colleen?”
“I’m fine on my own Sean,” she said, “you don’t have to worry. Yes, I’ll come to you on Sunday. We need to talk about launching the appeal. We can’t leave Tommy to rot in jail. That judge was unfair to punish him because of the attack on his life. That’s not right.”
Sean closed his eyes. He’d been expecting this. The lawyer had told him any appeal would be pointless. They could scratch around to find grounds for challenging the whole- life sentence, but neither of Tommy’s parents lived to old age. Cutting the sentence to twenty years meant him being inside until he was over seventy-five. Tommy would still be lucky to get out alive. Any hope of less than a minimum sentence of twenty years was out of the question for torture and cold-blooded murder, even with today’s judiciary.
The pleasant Sunday lunch he had in mind was likely to be off the menu. Sean poured himself a glass of Jameson’s and wished Tommy was still a free man.
*****
While Sean Walsh bemoaned the responsibilities that came with management, at Larcombe Manor a replenished Rusty and Phoenix were hard at work in the orangery.
“How did the girls take the news we planned on working late tonight?” asked Phoenix.
“Artemis finishes at eight, so she’s miffed at me not being there,” said Rusty. “Athena reckoned you were too scared to tell her yourself, so you got me to do it.”
“You got off light, mate,” said Phoenix. “I had to run the gauntlet of comical comments from Laurel and Hardy in the armoury.”
“What was it this time?” asked Rusty.
“You know their level,” said Phoenix, “when I handed in the road signs, they reckoned we could get done for false pretences. I said we weren’t pretending to be working for the council, or a firm of sub-contractors. They said the ‘Men At Work’ sign stretched credibility. We arrived home in daylight, having completed two missions. They said we couldn’t call that a day’s work.”
“OK, next time, I’ll go to the ice-house, and you can make the calls.”
Phoenix gave Rusty a stare and tapped his left shoulder.
“Seniority, mate.”
“Right, what’s on the agenda?” asked Rusty, eager to get on. He wanted to in bed before midnight tonight.
Phoenix placed three folders on the table.
“Take your pick, Rusty,” he said, “these crimes are the work of gangs in the Birmingham area. That’s the next city on our list. We’ll complete our provisional plans tonight and fine-tune them tomorrow. On Sunday, we’ll be driving up the M5 to strike a significant blow in The Grid’s midriff.”
Rusty picked up the middle folder and read the first tragic story.
Awusi Debrah was born and grew up in Ghana’s capital, Accra. Her family was poor, and she wanted to emigrate to Europe. Awusi hoped she could earn enough money to send a little home to help her mother feed her younger brother and sisters. She met a man, who called himself Adam. He told her he had found her a good job in England. Adam helped her pay for her plane ticket and travelled with her to Birmingham Airport.
Hours after she landed, in October 2013, Awusi was taken to a house. She soon realised it was a brothel. Awusi was forced to have sex with up to ten men each day. She received meagre amounts of food and drink and slept in a locked room with seven other girls. Every pound of the money
the men handed over went to Adam. Awusi had been deceived, and she was trapped.
Awusi discovered she was pregnant. Adam beat her so badly when he found out, she lost the baby. Because she was of no further use to him, Adam kicked her out. Awusi was found wandering the streets, bleeding, and taken to the hospital by a Salvation Army Envoy. Awusi had lost too much blood. She only lived long enough to tell the Envoy her story. Awusi Debrah died, aged nineteen, in December 2013.
“This guy Adam, do we know what nationality he is?” asked Rusty.
“He was born in Nigeria and has been living in the West Midlands since 2010,” said Phoenix. “He works within the network of gangs based in the area and takes regular flights to West African countries. Adam travels out alone and returns with a companion. Her passport and other documents show she is a family member; a cousin, or a sister. The forgeries are excellent. Border Control officials would see no reason to query things. On the face of it, the girl is genuine, and what’s more natural than a brother travelling with his younger sister?”
“More likely, they don’t want to face accusations of racial prejudice,” said Rusty
“It’s not the first occasion I’ve avenged a victim of this despicable crime,” admitted Phoenix. “Although it was before I worked for Olympus.”
Phoenix told Rusty the story of Khalima Darbo, the seventeen-year-old Gambian teenager whose body had been discovered in a skip in Catford in 2010. Phoenix helped her relatives find and kill her trafficker back in Banjul. Meanwhile, in Lewisham, Usman Kamara Khan who held Khalima captive from the age of fifteen, had been shot in his Mercedes. This was while Phoenix cleaned the streets in his old persona, Colin Bailey.
“Erebus must have spotted you that summer, Phoenix,” said Rusty. “You thought you were operating under the radar. Giles and the others picked up little clues, building a picture of what you did, and why. I can see the reasons he ‘headhunted’ you. Your motives and methods were a good fit for the Olympus Project.”
“Four years on, and although we’ve made progress, we’ve still got a long way to go,” sighed Phoenix. “Human trafficking is the second most profitable crime in the world. In the UK, victims are exploited through forced labour, sexual exploitation, domestic slavery and benefit fraud. Traffickers use force, coercion, fraudulent payments and promises of non-existent legitimate employment to entrap victims. It’s a hidden crime. Unless the authorities identify more victims, secure more convictions and take long-term action to dismantle the organised crime groups, then the situation will continue to deteriorate.”
“Awusi Debrah’s death has gifted Olympus the opportunity to highlight the need for the strengthening of that process,” said Rusty. “How do we make that happen?”
“We must get Giles Burke’s help,” said Phoenix. “His team can leak information to the media, so they spread the message for us. It can be a powerful tool when used for good. The sooner celebrity-obsessed journalism is shown the door, the better.”
Phoenix picked up one of the remaining folders.
“This details several instances of forced labour cases centred on the Midlands. The Polish Roma gangs are mainly responsible. Why don’t you take this home with you for your bedtime reading? I’ll study the other one.”
“Terrific,” said Rusty. “What time shall we get together in the morning?”
“Ten o’clock good for you?” asked Phoenix.
“It will have to be I guess,” said Rusty. “These cases won’t go away.”
Saturday, 3rd May 2014
After a night of broken sleep, and unpleasant dreams, Rusty breakfasted with Artemis.
“My day off today looks to be a major disappointment,” said Artemis, when Rusty informed her he was meeting Phoenix in an hour.
“Our weekend,” Rusty corrected her, “we’re off on the second mission in the morning.”
“I might as well get the washing and ironing up together, then take a trip into Bath to go shopping,” said Artemis.
“Hang on,” said Rusty, catching sight of a familiar house on the television behind her. He turned up the volume. The reporter stood outside number 33, Ash Drive, where he and Phoenix had been yesterday: -
‘A police spokesperson said four men were found bound and gagged inside this house. They haven’t made official identification of them as yet. They are believed to be members of a gang that entered the country from Jamaica illegally a year ago. Homeowners in Ash Drive were unaware their quiet street, harboured such a dark secret. The owner of number 35 told me, “I knew she rented it out, but I had no idea what went on in there. We never had any trouble from them or saw anything suspicious. They liked their music on during the daytime, but at night times they were always out.” Police discovered a drug factory here, in Westborough, after a tip-off from an anonymous member of the public. DCI Nick Yardley of Surrey police said they found thousands of ecstasy tablets, packaged for sale. They seized equipment and raw materials that could have produced a further three thousand pills. Over one hundred grammes of pure cocaine was taken away. They discovered over twenty thousand pounds in cash under the floorboards of a first-floor bedroom, and several dozen cannabis plants in the attic. The street value of the recovered drugs exceeded forty thousand pounds.’
“So that’s where you went to yesterday,” said Artemis. “Who tipped off the police, you?”
“Phoenix,” replied Rusty.
The reporter handed back to the studio, and the newsreader read an item that had just landed on her desk: -
‘The local councillor for the Westborough district of Guildford has just issued this statement. Circumstances surrounding this incident have yet to be established, but it has raised serious questions about the safety of our streets. Questions too on the current policing and social strategies. Residents in Westborough are anxious about a growing drug and anti-social problem. They are demanding action, not vague expressions of concern. More thought on the social causes of such cases is urgent. Drug crime devastates lives. And now for the weather.’
Rusty muted the sound.
“Where else did you go yesterday,” asked Artemis, “can you say?”
“We drove up to London from Guildford. It may have made the regional news up there, but we wouldn’t get to hear it in the West Country. You might recognise our handiwork in a piece in a newspaper if you pick up a copy later when you go into Bath.”
“I don’t go into the city often,” said Artemis, “the last time was with Athena before the wedding. I’m always looking over my shoulder for Phil Hounsell, Orion. I want to avoid bumping into him, he’s bound to ask awkward questions.”
“You never know, Phoenix and I might finish the preparation for Sunday early enough I can come with you. That should ward off any unwanted advances.”
Artemis kissed Rusty on the cheek.
“I love you,” she said, “now, get ready for your meeting with Phoenix. I don’t want you under my feet this morning if I’m going to be busy.”
At ten o’clock Rusty joined his friend in the orangery.
“Did you see the news item on Guildford this morning?” he asked.
Phoenix nodded.
“Abigail Gordon found Leroy’s body when she got home yesterday afternoon. The team leader called me this morning. The Met police believe it to be a falling-out between rival drug gang members. They’re not looking for anyone else for the killing. Deaths of that nature occur every few weeks up there. No reason to get excited.”
“The Surrey police haven’t connected the dots yet then?” asked Rusty.
“What, between Abigail owning the house in Ash Drive, and her brother being shot in her home in Selhurst? No, not yet,” said Phoenix.
“Did you sleep well last night?” Rusty asked.
“Hope’s suffering from a cold, so we didn’t get an unbroken night, no,” said Phoenix, stifling a yawn.
“That folder you gave me was the stuff of nightmares, wasn’t it?” said Rusty. “How people can do that to other human beings is
beyond me.”
“Let’s make them see the error of their ways then, Rusty,” said Phoenix.
They reviewed the trafficking case and planned the mission that promised to see them in Handsworth on Sunday.
The four victims had arrived by coach legally from Poland but were encouraged here under false pretences. They were promised well-paid jobs and a good life but lived in cramped, squalid conditions and worked long hours for little pay. The victims soon ended up in a desperate state. They were too scared to seek help. In some Birmingham areas, reports of groups of eastern European men coming and going from a property would be labelled anti-social behaviour. Neighbours were unaware trafficking was the cause; so, they never alerted the authorities.
Properties used by the gang masters are often death-traps. There’s no maintenance carried out, they have dodgy electrics and no smoke alarms. It’s only a matter of time before tragedy strikes.
The four Polish men, in their mid to late twenties, turned up at the soup kitchen in Birmingham city centre with no possessions. They spoke no English. With the aid of an interpreter, the men said they had come to Britain, been housed, and put to work by Polish Roma.
Volunteers working at the street kitchen suspected human trafficking and called a homeless charity. The men told the charity staff the coach trip had taken two whole days to arrive in Birmingham. They were collected by a Roma gang member and taken to a squat in Handsworth. Their documents were taken from them and they were forced to live together, in squalid conditions. Every day, they were driven to Sparkbrook to work in a factory. The gang master who seized their documents forced the men to pay their wages to him. If they questioned the lack of cash, they were beaten. The four men escaped on the journey to work. They were travelling in the back of a van when it stopped for a long time at roadworks traffic lights. They kicked open the doors and scattered. Cold, hungry and homeless they had found the soup kitchen.
