by Ted Tayler
“It’s true I withdrew my protection from Tommy as soon as he went into Belmarsh. He was damaged goods, and unlikely to come out, but I had no reason to kill him. Why call Colleen and congratulate her on engineering his escape if I planned to have him killed within hours?”
“Because you’re a devious bastard, Hanigan,” said Quinn, “most of us here have done something similar. You would have given the woman a false sense of security. Then got rid of a loose end. The longer Tommy rotted inside, with no prospect of parole, the more chance of him trying to broker a deal in return for details of our organisation.”
“Well, that potential loose end is no more,” said Hugo, “but I had no part in it. The reward offer will throw up a name, in time. As for Colleen O’Riordan, and her status in the gang structure once run by Tommy, and her brother, Sean Walsh, I will confirm in the morning.”
Quinn, McGrath, Klimenko, and the others were silenced for a moment. Hugo had quietened the disagreements for now. He determined to bring matters to a swift conclusion.
“You can enjoy the facilities here for a while longer. My men will keep the bar open until two o’clock. Then you should return to your people, in whichever corner of the country you hail from. Relay the message the Grid is still on course to gain total control of organised crime on these shores. Our strategy is sound. We suffered a few minor setbacks in recent weeks, but the net is closing on those who oppose us. Victory is within our grasp. As senior men in the organisation, you will enjoy the fruits of that victory. Keep the faith.”
With that, Hugo collected up his things and swept out of the room. Thirty seconds later he sat in his Rolls Royce and began the twenty-mile drive back to his penthouse.
Fergus Mallon and his team set to work pouring drinks and handing out cigars. Fergus spotted a few gangsters chatting with colleagues and thought they looked set to squeeze as many free drinks out of Hugo before two o’clock arrived.
The others soon prepared to leave and made their way outside to the car park. In the world in which they made their living, there weren’t many close friendships. Some had arrived with guns because it was second nature to them. Others, because they didn’t trust their near-neighbours around the tables. It wasn’t unknown for business rivals to eliminate the opposition on these occasions. To socialise with gang leaders from the largest cities in the country was not on their agenda.
Fergus ensured his team kept their eyes and ears open. He would report back what they learned to Hugo at lunchtime tomorrow. The small cluster of men, drinking, smoking, and deep in conversation made strange bedfellows. It was imperative his team overheard as much as possible, without drawing attention. He wandered around the room, collecting glasses, straightening chairs, moving closer with each step.
Their voices were hushed. He found it impossible to pick out specific words, and phrases. One thing was certain, this group were yet to be convinced Hugo had given them satisfactory answers to the O’Riordan situation. The explanation offered by McGrath seemed logical; it was a rival gang in London which O’Riordan and Walsh, had clashed with in the past. During Walsh’s search for personnel for the escape bid, someone had talked, and the rival gang seized an opportunity for revenge.
Klimenko and Quinn favoured the idea undercover cops had been behind the killings and the fire-fight at Denham airfield. It was Shabbir Shah, the diminutive Bangladeshi gangster from Cardiff, who neither drank alcohol, nor smoked, who caused the others at the table to burst out laughing.
“I believe we are under attack from a secret government unit,” he began. “A security force not known to exist by the public. They appear from nowhere and then vanish like smoke. They are too well-organised to be a mere rival gang. The deaths of Grid members were too widespread. No individual gang has that reach.”
Fergus approached the table and collected empty glasses.
“Can I get you a refill, gentleman?” he asked. “Perhaps you would appreciate food? I’ll get one of my lads to chase up the management if you’re hungry,”
“Not for me, son,” growled Mighty Quinn, “it’s time we got home. Our friend from Cardiff here is away with the fairies. He’s overtired and coming up with stupid theories. Nothing will get sorted tonight.”
Nobody argued with Quinn. If he was leaving, everyone was leaving.
“I’m away home too,” said McGrath. He stood up and stretched. Klimenko ferreted in his jacket for his mobile phone. The Scotsman shook his head.
“Don’t let those things run your life, laddie,” he said. “Mine’s off until morning. I don’t want my beauty sleep interrupted on the long drive north. I need my wits about me. Someone’s been leaking information to the police on my patch too. I can feel the law’s hot breath on my neck. I’m not convinced Hanigan has got the answers to our problems by a long way. For now, I can’t worry what’s going wrong here in London, I’m concentrating on my city, and saving my arse.”
Fergus watched the four men as they headed for the door. A nod from him indicated the two bodyguards behind the bar should follow outside and make sure they left without incident. The other man joined Fergus, and they started the clean-up. Within twenty minutes, every surface was wiped clean, every item the gang masters had touched cleared of any telltale fingerprints. It was as if they had never been here.
When they had finished, the four men had a final drink of their own. At last, they could relax. They had needed to be on constant alert during the previous three hours in case of trouble.
“You know, it’s odd,” said Fergus, “the boss got these rival gangs to put aside their differences to form a countrywide alliance. The Grid is highly profitable and moving forward every day; yet, at the first hint of trouble, they revert to type, and bicker over minor issues that shouldn’t concern them.”
“What’s he like, the boss?” asked one bodyguard.
“He sounded like Churchill, with that rousing final speech,” said another. “I thought we would be fighting them on the beaches next.”
“He’s highly intelligent, a financial genius, and as ruthless as they come,” replied Fergus. “After the meetings I’ve had with him over the past eighteen months, one thing stands out above the rest.”
“What’s that Fergus?”
“He’s as mad as a box of frogs,” replied Fergus.
It was time to leave. Fergus switched off the lights in the drawing-room, and they walked into the reception area. It was deserted.
“If I heard what the Cardiff boss said correctly, I’d better pass this suggestion on to Hanigan tomorrow lunchtime when I’m due to meet up with him. A secret security force might sound fanciful to Michael Quinn, but it makes more sense than the other options they’ve considered.”
The black SUV they had travelled in from London was the only vehicle in the customer car park. Everyone else had long gone.
“Right, let’s get you lot home to bed,” said Fergus, as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Buckle up, gentlemen.”
Fergus switched on the ignition.
The van exploded into flames.
Inside the hotel, guests were rudely awakened from their slumber.
In his own accommodation, the night manager wondered whether the substantial financial gain from the meeting outweighed the negative publicity a bomb blast brought.
As for Fergus Mallon and his colleagues, it was as if they had never been there.
CHAPTER 4
Monday, 7th July 2014
Hugo Hanigan awoke early. He fretted over his meeting with Seamus McConnell all the way back to London last night. Seamus would be here sometime after nine o’clock. The thought kept him awake half the night. He knew the usual Monday morning pattern. The big lummox would shuffle into the penthouse with the same tired list of excuses for being late, and he’d be stinking of the weekend’s Guinness, and worse.
When their limited conversation ended, Hugo would have learned what the Mighty Quinn professed to know last night. The identity of the person running the South Kilburn g
ang now Tommy O’Riordan lay six feet under.
Hugo dreaded confirmation Colleen was in charge, and everything was going smoothly. He looked at the clock, daring it to tell him it was before eight. He groaned. It was a quarter past six. Who gets up at this unearthly hour, thought Hugo?
Hugo showered and dressed. Then made his first coffee of the day and thought about breakfast. Cereals or croissants? He checked what was available. Ah well, it had to be cereals. He sat and ate a bowl of something that tasted of cardboard, but whose packaging screamed super healthy. When he turned on the TV, it was still only a quarter to seven.
The cereal bowl was set aside. His coffee in the mug grew cooler and cooler. The breaking story concerned the massive explosion in the car park of an exclusive country hotel in Stoke D’Abernon. A burnt-out shell of a vehicle gave no clue as to its make or model. The police were guarded in their comments. Hugo sat forward in his seat and listened.
“The explosion occurred just before one o’clock this morning. Staff from the hotel tried to put out the flames, but nothing could be done to save the occupants. It’s believed that three, or four people were in the car at the time. They were not guests of the hotel but attended a private meeting in a function room on Sunday night. There’s no indication at this stage that this was a terror-related attack. We are continuing with our enquiries.”
The police spokesman walked away with a blank expression on his face. He looked as confused as Hugo felt. The news report wound up with the standard requests for information, and details of whom to call. Hugo was already calling Fergus Mallon. The number was unavailable.
“What the hell’s going on?” he shouted to anyone prepared to listen.
Hugo paced the floor of his apartment, deep in thought.
If this was an attack on the Grid, anyone attending last night’s meeting might have been targeted. Yet, how could news of the meeting have leaked out to give their enemies time to organise such an attack? Hugo was convinced it couldn’t.
So, had this possible car bomb been inspired by last night’s get together? Did one of those men whose voices were raised against him grasp the opportunity to threaten his leadership?
It might be the type of sneaky trick Klimenko might carry out.
McGrath and Quinn would have been more direct. They would target Hugo himself, and wouldn’t be shy in telling him what they thought of him before they killed him.
As for Shabbir Shah, he was one of a new breed of gangster that had moved into the country. Hugo’s impression last evening had been of a quiet, thoughtful man, who despite questions he raised didn’t seem dissatisfied enough with the answer to commit a vicious assassination.
Despite the positives of Grid membership, rivalries still festered. Perhaps it was one of the gang bosses who stayed in the background last night. If they had a long-standing dispute with a neighbour, maybe they took advantage of them sitting around the same table last night.
Who might that point to? Hugo imagined each of them capable, and he unwittingly handed them their opportunity, on a plate. In his darker moments, Hugo wondered whether the wreckage on screen was what remained of the SUV he bought for his own security crew. If so, then he needed to organise a replacement, and four new men to ride in it. Why though would anybody, inside or outside the Grid, target his security team? What did they hope to gain? Their deaths made no lasting impact on either Hugo himself nor the Grid’s hierarchy.
Hugo was perplexed; and in truth, rather scared.
When Seamus dragged his weary body through the lift door at ten past nine, Hugo drained the last drop of a tumbler of Bushmill’s. It was his second large glass since he switched off the television.
“Good morning, boss. I’m running behind today.”
“Forget that, McConnell,” said Hugo. “Get over to Fergus Mallon’s place. Get him out of bed and ask him what the hell happened last night.”
“What’s up, boss? Did I miss something?” asked a bemused Seamus.
“While you were in a drunken stupor, someone blew up a vehicle in a car park I left only an hour earlier. That bomb wasn’t meant for me, but Fergus and his crew should have kept the place safe for everyone in attendance last night. I want to know what went wrong. Get moving and report back. Once we’ve cleared that up, we’ll hear what you’ve got to tell me about what’s happening in South Kilburn.”
“Okay, you’re the boss,” said Seamus, and shuffled off to the lift.
Hugo watched him leave. Oh, for the days when Sean Walsh was his Monday morning guest he thought, and before him Tommy O’Riordan. Things would never have got this bad in their day.
*****
In her own luxury apartment, Colleen O’Riordan finished breakfast. She had adapted quickly to her new surroundings. The daily chore of cooking an Irish breakfast for Tommy a distant memory. As soon as he went to prison, she began a new regime. The bowl of fruit, nuts, and yoghurt was far healthier. A fresh orange drink, its perfect companion. After she read the morning newspaper, she allowed herself a small cup of decaffeinated coffee, serviced from a top-of-the-range machine. Times had changed.
Friday’s funeral had been the ordeal she expected. Tyrone and Rosie rushed off as soon as was decent. Colleen had enough to do, without sorting their lives out too. They knew it was time to stand on their own two feet.
As for the rest of the family, especially those at the heart of the gang Tommy controlled for years, she had called them together a week before the funeral. She explained the reasons behind her brother’s absence and that of his family. There were a few disapproving looks between them, but her decision was accepted with no firm opposition.
Colleen sensed this was her moment. With Tommy and Sean out of the picture, it was plain Seamus McConnell would never gain the respect required to assume command. She played her trump card.
“A man from Portmarnock could never become your leader,” she told them. “We’ve known each other since childhood, and our heart lies in the bosom of the seven streets of our home city. Your leader must originate from there. We think alike, we have the same values, and share the same blood. I offer myself as your leader. I have the credentials. Will anyone stand against me?”
Whether it was the common-sense approach the prospect of continuity offered or the steely gaze noted by anyone who dared meet her eye, nobody objected. Colleen was happy she had their full support.
“Well, now that’s settled,” she said, “we can move forward. I won’t disappoint you.”
Only days after the funeral, Colleen exercised her influence over the day-to-day affairs of the gang. The changes were subtle, but even hard-nosed lieutenants on the streets were forced to admit profits rose rapidly. They were then told to ‘separate the wheat from the chaff’.
This necessitated punishment for the worst performing soldiers. Those guilty of lining their own pockets at the expense of the gang were brought before Colleen and her lieutenants at midnight, in the borough’s social club.
Two days before Tommy’s funeral, to underline the fact she was not afraid to take extreme action, Colleen watched as two men had three fingers on each hand removed. Their screams were drowned out by Thin Lizzy on the club’s jukebox.
A young man, Conor Key, a twenty-two-year-old tearaway had been brought before the tribunal. His head bowed; he was a snivelling wreck. He witnessed what had taken place. Conor was also aware his own offences were far more serious.
“Do you have anything to say?” asked Colleen.
“I’m sorry,” yelled Conor, “it won’t happen again, I promise.”
“Oh, I’m certain of that,” whispered Colleen. “Take him away. Leave him where he can be seen by others who work for us. Let this be a warning. Skimming a percentage off the top is one thing but using large quantities of our product without payment as well is unacceptable.”
On Friday evening, as the guests at the wake left the club, they saw Conor’s body hanging from a lamp post. His face was blown away by two bullets delivered to the ba
ck of the skull.
Nobody breathed a word. They made their way home. A message had been delivered. Conor Key’s body disappeared by morning; whereabouts unknown.
Two days later, Colleen finished reading the paper, her coffee cup empty. Conor Key and the other two men didn’t trouble her conscience one bit.
She wasn’t surprised there was nothing of interest to read this morning. The events of the early hours would have been far too late filtering through to make the morning headlines. The news reports covering the capital, and the Home Counties, would be far more revealing. She switched on her television.
Colleen viewed the same bulletin as Hugo. They were presented with the same raw data. Hugo struggled to make sense of it. Colleen turned her head away from the sight of the burned-out vehicle and looked through her window. Below, in that apartment block sat her mortal enemy. She held the high ground. That had been a dominant factor in her hunt for a new place to live in when she sold the family home.
As for the assassination of Hanigan’s security detail, she wanted the man to be pre-occupied. The longer he spent worrying who killed Mallon and the others, and why, the more time she had to cement her place at the head of the Kilburn gang. Hugo was going nowhere. She could torture him a while longer.
*****
One hundred miles away on the outskirts of Bath, Piya Adani drove towards Larcombe Manor. It was a beautiful morning. She felt relaxed and looked forward to meeting Athena again. They had much to discuss.
Life in the old manor house and its surrounding buildings had been hectic in the past four days. Athena was true to her word. Phoenix received a dig in the ribs at seven o’clock on Thursday morning.
“Shower first, then breakfast,” Athena ordered, “when you’ve done that I have a list of things you need to delegate, before the nine o’clock meeting.”
Even the daily meeting was shortened. Athena gave a quick debrief of the Manchester conference and then asked Giles, Henry, and Minos whether there were any urgent matters that needed sorting out before Monday.
