by Ted Tayler
“Let’s go then,” said Phoenix. “You can drive, Rusty.”
“Where am I headed?” he asked, as they got back in the car.
“Eastleigh, a borough to the north of Southampton. We’re visiting Botley, a village on this side of the airport. Don’t worry, we’re not going to the west. That’s where Shirley is.”
Rusty didn’t bite. He had heard of Shirley. All the shops and houses; no character.
Back at St Mary’s, Curwen still waited for Elizi to be called for his scan. The gang boss was getting agitated. Just as he was going to jump up and complain, his name appeared on the screen above the counter. He had to go to Room 11. Curwen watched as Elizi waddled off. He had time to get a coffee from the vending machine.
Frank Bolano was in the van ready for a signal from his agent they were on their way. If a free space closer to the entrance door became available, Frank slipped into it. Twenty minutes later, Curwen said Elizi was walking towards him. The van was now three spaces from the door.
After he had finished his coffee, Curwen had dropped the cup in the waste-bin and visited the toilets. The bag he carried with him contained a blue porter’s top and a lanyard with an official-looking ID. He changed. When he returned to the waiting area, he collected the wheelchair.
Elizi was five yards from the doorway. Curwen hurried to catch up and slid the chair into the back of Elizi’s knees as he paused for the automatic doors to open. A firm hand on his shoulder and a polite request to take a seat did the trick. Elizi sat with a bump.
“Please allow me to take you to your car, sir,” said Curwen. “A gentleman with a heart condition deserves a free ride on the NHS. That’s why you pay your taxes, isn’t it?”
Elizi was confused. Taxes? Who was this fool? A sharp scratch on his neck annoyed him and thinking it was a wasp he tried to swipe the offending insect away. Frank Bolano had already moved the van to the front of the building. The ramp was lowered. Curwen ran up it into the back of the van pushing the now semi-conscious Elizi inside. Frank slammed the doors behind them and they set off for the safe-house.
“Not a bad morning’s work. Three gang members out of the game, and it’s not a quarter past ten,” he called out to Curwen.
“We’ll be in Botley in thirty minutes,” replied Curwen. “I’ll call ahead and ask the lads to get the kettle boiling. Thirsty work this portering.”
On the edge of the village of Botley, Phoenix and Rusty arrived at the safe-house.
“Picturesque,” said Rusty, “a distinct improvement on a lot of the dumps we’ve used.
“It’s a roof over their heads,” shrugged Phoenix, “I doubt they get too attached to it. Look at what happened to the two undercover agents. Our job is to ensure our guests don’t enjoy their brief stay. Let’s make ourselves known to the guys indoors. Frank Bolano will arrive soon.”
“That’s me told,” said Rusty. The double garage was on the left of the detached house. Its doors faced the property. Rusty parked their car by the side of the garage, screening its presence from the main road.
Phoenix had walked across to the side door. He knocked. A face appeared at an upstairs window.
“Okay, it’s them,” called the agent, and his colleague opened the door.
“I’m Gary, and Vince is upstairs,” he said. Rusty followed Phoenix inside.
“Where’s Lumani?” asked Phoenix.
“Still in the van, in the garage. Frank didn’t want to make the place untidy,” said Gary.
“Frank should be along in a few minutes,” said Phoenix.
“They’re on their way. No problems. Frank called to say get the kettle on.”
“Good thinking,” said Rusty. “It's been a long time since breakfast.”
“What’s your plan, once Frank arrives with the two gangsters?” asked Vince.
“How close are your nearest neighbours, and how much passing traffic is there?” asked Phoenix.
“On this side of the road, a hundred and forty yards back the way you came in there’s a farm and a row of terraced houses sixty yards further up the road. On the opposite side, houses and bungalows stretch all the way into the village. The nearest three-bedroomed bungalow is opposite, behind that high hedge. Traffic is brisk in both directions, two cars every minute at least during daylight hours. It tails off in the early evening.”
“Thanks,” said Phoenix. “Rusty and I don’t want to have to spend the night if we can help it. No offence. We need to get back to Larcombe Manor. There will be fallout from this mission, and the ones we’ve completed in London to handle.”
A door slammed outside. The sound of the garage door being opened announced the arrival of Frank and the second van.
Curwen appeared at the side door. He walked into the kitchen.
“Where’s the coffee mugs, Gary? And the choccy biscuits?”
Frank came in from the garage and the six Olympus agents gathered in the large country-style kitchen. Gary and Curwen fixed the coffees. Vince unearthed the chocolate digestives. The two gangsters could wait. Elevenses was an important ritual.
“Who’s going to do the honours, Phoenix?” asked Frank Bolano, blowing on his hot coffee.
“They were your agents, Frank,” Phoenix replied. “Lumani was lucky, his death was quick. We won’t stand in your way if you want payback with these two.”
“Thanks,” said Frank, “we’ll set up something.”
When the packet of biscuits was finished, and the coffee mugs piled in the dishwasher, Frank took his guys out to the garage.
“How long before we head back?” asked Rusty.
Phoenix led him through to the lounge.
“We may as well have a comfortable seat for an hour or two,” he said, “as soon as they’re ready to finish the job, we’ll drive home.”
Outside, there was a burst of activity. Gary drove one of the vans out of the garage and parked it near the gateway. This prevented a vehicle from getting onto the property and gave passers-by something to see. Then he closed the garage doors behind him with Frank and the others still inside.
From the back of the van, Gary removed a power tool. He ran an extension lead from the kitchen to the drive and plugged it in. Both the rear doors of the van were opened wide. With his ear defenders, hard hat and safety goggles he looked the business. If anyone saw him from the road, it would look for all the world he was using the angle grinder to carry out repairs to the van’s bodywork.
Phoenix and Rusty heard the angle grinder when it screamed into action.
“That tool has the second-highest noise level going; only bettered by a jet engine at take-off,” said Phoenix.
“I know, and just below the threshold of pain. Nice touch,” said Rusty.
Outside, Gary had finished playing with the angle grinder for a while. He walked to the gateway and looked in both directions. He saw the odd car on the road, but nobody on foot within a hundred yards. Gary banged on the garage door and got back to work.
Frank Bolano emerged from the garage two minutes later, with his fingers in his ears. Gary caught a glimpse of his team leader and turned off his kit. The safety equipment and the grinder were returned to the store cupboard in the garage.
“All done?” he asked Frank.
Frank Bolano nodded.
“I’ll go inside and see Phoenix, bring him up to speed, then we’ll get ready to drive into Portsmouth.”
Frank found the two agents in the lounge watching daytime TV.
“If you want to get back to HQ, then everything’s tidied up here,” said Frank. “I left it to Curwen and Vince to decide how they wanted to avenge their friends’ deaths. Elizi and Januzaj got the triple capping. Knees, elbows and ankles; low-velocity gunshots to the bone joints to maximise the pain.”
“Did you tell them why they needed to suffer?” asked Phoenix.
“I did,” said Frank, “I told them the two lads they killed were working for me, not the cops. That came as a shock. Then we showed them Lumani’s body an
d told them the gang would never operate in the same way again. Elizi yelled a lot of threats, but he knew the game was up. I gave them time to think about the error of their ways before I finished the job. The three bodies are in the back of my van. It’s twenty minutes from here to the police station on Winston Churchill Avenue. We’ll drop them off right next to where they dumped our two lads. The police can make of it what they will.”
“They’ll be at a loss as to what’s going on, won’t they?” said Rusty. “Two bodies out of nowhere, now three that should at least be familiar. They must know the gang structure in the city, even if they’ve never had the evidence to arrest them.”
“Giles will be busy,” said Phoenix. “I asked him to boost your lads’ fake bank accounts and plant cash in their houses only the other day. My first thought was we might convince the police they were running a scam and got caught. When three prominent gang members turn up dead so soon after, the police will automatically think ‘gang war’. Maybe, one piece of good can come out of this mess.”
“What are you thinking?” asked Frank.
“When we get back, I’ll get Giles to nudge the police towards the addresses in towns where your undercover lads delivered those immigrants. If that can help them expose the racket involving slave labour, and sex-trafficking they will latch on to a ‘win-win’ situation. Taking on two gangs involved in a gang war will be beyond their capabilities, and there would be no guarantee they’d solve it.”
“Cheeky,” said Rusty.
“Pragmatic,” said Phoenix, “there was only one gang, after all.”
Frank Bolano smiled.
“Safe trip home, lads,” he said, “I’ve got a delivery to make. Shut the place up nice and secure when you leave.”
“We’ll be right behind you, Frank,” said Phoenix, “but I want to see the end of this programme first.”
“It’s only a repeat,” said Rusty.
“Oh, you’ve spoiled the ending now, we might as well go,” said Phoenix.
Frank shook his head and left.
CHAPTER 9
Thursday, 5th June 2014
Hugo Hanigan stood in his penthouse suite looking out of his window on the world. His world, the City of London, that square mile famous for the United Kingdom's trading and financial services industries. This was where he made his fortune. This was where the Grid continued to thrive. The beating heart of the network of criminal organisations of which he was the leader.
A month ago, he visited his mother’s grave in Dublin. In the weeks leading up to his annual pilgrimage, he had issued orders to his various gang leaders that a message must be sent. Those in authority in the government, and in the police, should hear and understand that message. Those in opposition to him, who operated gangs too stupid to see the benefits of joining the Grid, should fear his reaction to their ignorance.
People died the length and breadth of the country. The stranglehold the Grid held over the nation was demonstrated. The message crystal clear.
Yet, Hugo was a troubled man. The financial voice on his shoulder told him that the overall business was up and profits higher than ever. An attempt to pervert the course of justice by murdering a High Court Judge had been thwarted, it was true, and Tommy O’Riordan would be in Belmarsh for the rest of his life. Hugo hadn’t prevented that. Yet things hadn’t been disrupted in his gang’s manor to any great extent, nor across the country.
Sean Walsh had slipped into Tommy’s seat while it was still warm. He was doing a grand job, even if his lieutenant Seamus McConnell was useless. No, Tommy wasn’t missed. His appeal was a joke and bound to fail. Colleen, his wife, ran around like a headless chicken, flogging off Tommy’s cars and sorting her kids out. Not before time for those two spongers. It was obvious she had cashed in whatever she could to give herself a chance of seeing out her time without ever needing to work for a living. She’d never had to graft while Tommy was a free man. He’d looked after her ever since she was fourteen. It was time she found out what happened in the real world.
Hugo continued to tick off the list of things that didn’t worry him. Even those that had annoyed him at the time. All the while, a tiny voice on his other shoulder asked him why there were deaths and disappearances of Grid employees around the country he couldn’t explain.
It was fast approaching eleven o’clock. Sean Walsh would arrive soon. They met at least twice a week these days, and Hugo kept the meetings as brief as possible. Sean was never comfortable up here in these surroundings. Hugo couldn’t imagine why; the view was to die for. He laughed out loud at his unintentional joke. Hundreds had died over the years; they needed to so he could afford this place.
The meetings were necessary for him to keep in touch with his roots. Sean helped him do that. He told him what was happening on the ground in Kilburn and the boroughs that bordered it. Hugo understood the big picture. The way the Grid operated across the UK. Sean could never be expected to grasp that degree of complexity, but they had grown up together on the seven streets in Dublin.
Those ties ran deep. It was where the street gang mentality had been ingrained in all of them. He possessed the brains. Tommy O’Riordan and Sean provided the brawn. Now that mentality had been transferred to London, and Hugo ruled the roost. He looked up to see the clouds scudding above the building. Today they were so close he could almost touch them. What was it Cagney had said?
“Top of the world, Ma! Top of the world!”
The lift pinged to announce the arrival of Sean Walsh.
Hugo turned from his glimpse of heaven and greeted his second-in-command.
“Sean, how are you this morning?”
“Which would you want to hear first, the good news or the bad news?”
Hugo sunk into his chair and groaned.
“Now what has Seamus McConnell done? That man is an eejit.”
“No, it’s not Seamus. He’s been harmless this week, so far. I heard from Tommy this morning. He queues up to ring me first thing every Wednesday. It’s never the best start to my day. The rumour they might transfer Category A prisoners up to Durham just became a reality. They start moving them in batches of four from next Monday.”
“Does that count as good news or bad? Why do we even worry about Tommy O’Riordan? He’s yesterday’s news.”
Sean looked at his boss. He had better tread warily.
“He’s still my brother-in-law, boss. Colleen has said since the day he went to prison we should try to help him escape.”
“Ah, the faithful Colleen. Sean, I know she’s your sister, but come on. You know full well she’s turning everything she’s got into hard cash. The cars have gone, the Marbella place has been sold off, and Tyrone and Rosie have been scratching around looking for a new place to live. Do you think I’ve taken my finger off the pulse of everything around here, whether it’s important or not, Sean?”
“She’s financing the appeal, boss. I’ve tried to convince her it’s money down the drain. You try telling her, but she insists Tommy expects it of her. As for the breakout, I told her nobody has ever escaped from Belmarsh. The last time I talked to her the transfer rumour got her fired up. She’s ready to pay for me and the boys to whisk him away from his security guards on the trip north. I can’t refuse her, she’s family. Tommy too, he’ll be on the phone again before next week, asking me if I have a plan.”
“Do you, Sean? Have you been scheming behind my back? I laughed when I heard she still believed the appeal had a prayer. It was doomed from the start. If she wants to spring Tommy with his own money, fine. Go ahead. You’ll get no help from me. Good luck getting him out of the country. He’ll never be safe on these shores, nor back in Ireland. Either the police will catch up with him, or enemies he made in the past. I won’t protect him. The Grid is bigger than one man. Tommy O’Riordan used to have our protection. That no longer applies.”
Sean knew where he stood. He expected nothing less from Hugo. He would turn a blind eye to Colleen’s plans to help Tommy get abroad to a
place of safety. Both Tommy and Colleen were an irrelevance now as far as Hugo Hanigan was concerned. Sean resolved to talk to his sister tonight. She was due to visit Tommy this afternoon. She might know more on the move by then, and they could try to come up with a workable plan.
“Let’s forget the good news, bad news stories for a while,” said Hugo. “I need you to help me with something else.”
“Anything you need, boss, you know me,” said Sean. He hoped it wouldn’t take long. The sooner he was in that lift the better. It wasn’t a fear of heights or the expensive artworks on the wall. It was from Hugo. He was coiled so tight, Sean didn’t want to be within a mile of him when he snapped.
“Every unit inside the Grid is doing well, Sean, and every aspect of the businesses we are involved in is growing. There are gangs in parts of the country determined to go it alone, but I remain confident we can persuade them to join us in time. None of them is strong enough to take us on in a fight to control their patch, and yet here and there we have suffered casualties.”
Sean had a puzzled look on his face. They had been over this already.
“I’m not sure where this is going, boss,” he said.
“Take the Midlands,” said Hugo, “in Solihull, where that Polish guy and half a dozen party guests were gunned down. The police have no leads, our men locally pointed the finger at a dozen rival gangs within a fifty-mile radius without proving it was any of them. We could find nothing to link anyone to the killings. Then those fifteen low-level criminals disappeared from the Manchester area. Nobody knows where they’ve gone. No bodies have been found. The police aren’t searching for them. We simply replaced the gaps these deaths and disappearances leave behind. It’s a nuisance, not a crisis. I would just like to understand what happened.”
“The thing is, boss,” said Sean, “what you’ve got to remember is this, gangs are essentially parochial. Remember where we began? Our gang formed from members of families who lived in those seven streets. Our parents and grandparents were at the heart of it. Other families, newcomers, and foreigners, they formed their own gangs. We bumped heads with each of them to see who was the strongest. Over here in London, it was no different. Hundreds of small street gangs existed when we arrived, and those that have survived were the toughest. Members of the ones that fell by the wayside have joined gangs like ours. You have spread the net so that almost all the major gangs are now united.”
