by Ted Tayler
“It’s done,” he said, when he returned, “we’re very patriotic when we take our revenge on these criminals.”
“Sorry?” asked Rusty.
“The balcony floor was a sea of red. Add the blue and white from Scotland, and there you have it. Now that’s done,” he said, “our next call is on young Jack Ferris. We’ll pick him up when he leaves home, and you can have a chat. By the time we reach the school gates, we need the message to have registered.”
“Understood,” said Rusty.
Phoenix lowered the glass partition.
“This worked well. I think we’ll hang on to it. I might find a use for it on another job.”
“Remember to re-stock the drug dispenser though,” said Rusty, “or things might not go as smoothly.”
“Time for a nap, and then we’ll get off to Shipley,” said Phoenix.
Rusty nodded off, with an image of the Union Jack floating in front of him. Phoenix was right. That was what they fought to preserve. The country they had known in their childhood when the flag had meant something. The limp-wristed liberals and the PC brigade had almost demolished that proud nation inside a generation.
Thursday, 17th July 2014
Jack Ferris strolled along the pavement. His mother had been in a strop this morning. Dad hadn’t come home last night. That wasn’t his fault. She knew he was with his brothers. She had moaned that they had probably got too drunk to find their way home. If he ended up at another woman’s place, then she’d have his guts for garters. Jack was fed up with the aggravation. He didn’t notice the vehicle alongside him until a voice called his name.
“Jack? Jack Ferris? Get in, we’ve got news of your Dad.”
Jack didn’t recognise the man sat in the dark interior of the people carrier. The door was open, and Jack leaned in to see what this bloke knew about his father. Next thing he knew a bag was shoved over his head, and he was dragged inside and face down on the floor. The vehicle sped away from the pavement, out of the estate towards the city centre.
“Where are you taking me,” yelled Jack.
“To school,” said Phoenix, “but first, you’ve got to pay someone a visit.”
“We know what you did,” said Rusty, “and you have two choices. You can apologise to the ladies you offended, and respect people from different cultures and creeds, or suffer the consequences like your father.”
“What do you mean?” said Jack.
“We’ve got bad news. It’s you and your Mum, Michelle, from now on, your Dad and his brothers are dead,” said Rusty. “The police will learn where to find the bodies later.”
Jack Ferris went very quiet.
“How long?” Rusty asked Phoenix.
“Two minutes, and we’ll be at Nilima Thakur’s house,” he replied.
“Did you hear that, Jack? Two minutes to decide whether you live or die. Your choice.”
Phoenix pulled up on a stretch of waste ground one hundred yards from Nilima’s house. He phoned the number Artemis had provided for Parveen Chowdhury.
“Mrs Chowdhury? I believe you were contacted by a female colleague of mine regarding Jack Ferris. That’s correct, he’s upset that he caused you so much distress. We’re hopeful he will meet with you and your daughter, face to face, to apologise. Could you get to your daughter’s house in fifteen minutes? That’s terrific. A gentleman from the authority concerned with victim support will drop Jack at the door. Could we impose upon you further, to take him to the school gates afterwards? I hope everything goes well. Many thanks. Goodbye.”
“It’s time to make up your mind,” said Phoenix, turning to Jack, “what happened last week can’t define you. You have a chance to change the way your life’s going. Grab it.”
Jack was still coming to terms with the news of his father’s death. Uncle Terry, and Uncle Duncan too? He didn’t want to die. He wanted his Mum. Jack nodded his head as hard as he could.
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” he cried. “I never meant it, not really. I flipped after a lousy day at school. I only said things my Dad said all the time. My grandfather was the same. It wasn’t nice, but even though I learned better at school, at home there was nothing but anger and resentment.”
“That’s good, Jack,” said Rusty, “let everything out in that way when you meet Mrs Thakur and Mrs Chowdhury. Remember what I said. We know where you live. One word to the police concerning this morning, or one word out of line towards your Muslim neighbours and we’ll be back. It won’t end so pleasantly, I can promise.”
Jack Ferris was scared shitless. He was prepared to say anything to get out of this vehicle. He prayed they wouldn’t remove the bag and let him catch even a glimpse of their faces. If he did, he knew they would kill him in a heartbeat. He needed his Mum. She had him to look after her if it was true his Dad had died. He had to grow up, and quick. He vowed never to get mixed up in any trouble, racial or otherwise if these men let him apologise.
Phoenix watched the Thakur house. An old Nissan Micra spluttered its way into the driveway, and an elderly lady got out. She rang the doorbell, and when it opened, she walked in.
“We’re good to go,” said Phoenix.
Rusty opened the rear door. He pushed Jack out onto the pavement, holding him by the wrist.
“I’m taking off the hood, Jack,” he said, “don’t think of looking back, not for one second. The house you want is number one hundred and eighty-six, on the left-hand side. We’ll wait until you’ve gone inside, to make your apologies. In three minutes we’ll call to check. If the ladies give you the all-clear, then when you come out, we’ll have gone. Keep your nose clean, and you’ll never see us again. Understood?”
Jack Ferris nodded. Rusty removed the hood. Jack hurried away from the people carrier and along the street. He never looked back. He checked the numbers as he walked. It was the one with the net curtains, and the Micra parked behind the Volvo.
Jack took a deep breath and rang the bell.
Phoenix and Rusty watched him from a distance. They saw the door open., and the young man entered. Phoenix started the engine.
“Aren’t we going to wait?” asked Rusty.
“After the talking-to you gave him, I reckon he’ll grow up to be a model citizen. You frightened the life out of me.”
CHAPTER 9
Thursday, 17th July 2014
“Time to move on to our next appointment,” said Phoenix.
He handed Rusty the keys to the people carrier. A phone call to Parveen Chowdhury confirmed Jack Ferris had been the epitome of contrite. They had tea and biscuits with her daughter and grandchild before driving him to the school gates.
“I sat and watched him go in,” she told Phoenix. “He even turned and waved to us when he reached the entrance.”
“That’s good to hear,” Phoenix said to Rusty, after ending the call. “He’ll need all the support he can get in the coming weeks, and his mother will need him to grow up fast.”
Phoenix called Giles in the ice-house.
“We’re off to Newcastle, Giles. Can you take care of two things for me, please? Send a clean-up crew to the old cinema in Shipley. Remove any evidence that could be traced back to Olympus. Then, can you arrange for an anonymous tip-off to the Bradford police? It would be a shame to cause further damage to the interior of what was such a classic piece of architecture by leaving trash piled up inside for longer than necessary.”
“No problem, Phoenix,” said Giles. “Congratulations on a successful mission. One piece of news for you. Athena received confirmation this morning from Hugh Fraser. He’s agreed to come south to work with you. Hugh arrives at Larcombe on Monday, the eighteenth of August.”
“Terrific,” replied Phoenix. “I knew he’d see sense. He was wasted in Scotland.”
Rusty was in charge of the radio this morning. Phoenix found the bland music and inane conversation helped him grab welcome sleep. It was preferable to being awake and having to suffer.
Rusty chose the A19 for the trip north. Tim
e wasn’t pressing. It would take him the best part of three hours to travel one hundred miles. Their first task on arrival was to get to the safe house. Another shrewd purchase by Olympus.
The last time it had been used was in April when Maurice Kelly and his wife Dierdre had stayed there in hiding from Hugo Hanigan and the Grid. The Kelly’s were safe and sound in the Irish Republic now, enjoying their retirement. If Hugo’s gunmen had caught up with them in Jarrow things would have turned ugly.
“How far will we be from Cowgate?” asked Phoenix.
“Ah, you’re awake,” said Rusty. “We’re five minutes away from the safe house. Perfect timing.”
“You turned off the radio,” Phoenix replied.
“It was one o’clock. The news can be depressing,” said Rusty, “and, in answer to your question, five miles, so ten minutes if I get my foot down in this thing.”
“A week ago, the Mullen twins were picked up as persons of interest in Solomon Hussein’s murder.”
“How did their brief get them out so fast?” asked Rusty.
“Years of practice,” replied Phoenix, “the lads have been in trouble since they reached double figures. They’re only nineteen now, and the list of offences they’ve amassed would fill two sheets of A4. He had a list of family members prepared to swear they were at a family celebration.”
“Birthday? Wedding?” asked Rusty.
“Their uncle, Phil Dwyer, came out of jail. He held a big party in a place in Argyle Street. Hundreds of people attended. The venue is only a mile from the kebab shop where Solomon Hussein was murdered. They could have left, taken a cab, or even walked to the kebab shop. We know how scattered and indistinct the CCTV images were. The police were hoping for witnesses to confirm their suspicions or material evidence to turn up at the scene. What they got was a wall of silence and a bullshit alibi for the twins from blood relatives. The police had no choice but to let them loose.”
“So, they’ve gone to ground on the Cowgate estate?” asked Rusty.
Phoenix nodded.
“Why was the uncle in prison?” Rusty asked.
“He battered a Muslim taxi driver back in 2007. Dwyer skipped paying a fare late at night, the driver tried to stop him running away. He waved a baseball bat in Dwyer’s face. Dwyer wrestled it from him and left him bleeding in the gutter.”
“He only served seven years for that?” muttered Rusty. “If we’ve got time, can’t we pay him a visit later?”
“The safe house is just around the corner,” said Phoenix. “Let’s get settled in, then discuss our plans for the Mullen twins. Phil Dwyer will keep for another day.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon moving their gear indoors, checking the level of provisions, and then driving to the nearest supermarket for essentials.
“I’ll order us a pizza for delivery at six,” said Phoenix, “then we can have the evening to ourselves.”
“Is there anything good on TV?” asked Rusty.
“No idea, I meant we can get stuck into finding the Mullens twins and correcting the fault in the system that let them walk.”
“Giles and Artemis are one hundred per cent convinced these two were among the ones responsible?”
“Yes, and to make sure, when we get hold of them, I intend to use that nail gun again to get them to confess.”
Later in the evening after demolishing the pizza Phoenix contacted Giles at Larcombe Manor.
“Do you have an update on the whereabouts of Terry and Dale Mullen?” he asked.
“After they walked free last week, they returned to the Cowgate estate. They haven’t returned to the bright lights since then. Our bet is a family member has warned them to stay low for a while. The Dwyer gang have more than a toehold on organised crime in the region. The word on the street is that the twins got an earful of abuse from Phil and Annie Dwyer for getting involved in the Hussein business.”
“Who’s Annie Dwyer?” asked Phoenix.
“Phil’s younger sister,” said Giles. “He’s forty-eight, never done an honest day’s work in his life. She’s recently turned forty and is reckoned to be the brains of the operation.”
“That makes sense,” said Phoenix, “considering the assault on the taxi driver.”
“Phil was in trouble as a juvenile. Not unusual for teenagers on the Cowgate. Many grow out of it and get the hell out if they can. Phil stayed near his roots and progressed to organised crime. He’s been successful in financial terms, but not in staying out of jail. Since he turned eighteen, he’s split his time fifty-fifty between the inside and the outside.”
“And Annie, how has she fared?” asked Phoenix.
“Kept a clean sheet, so far,” Giles replied. “I’ll forward everything Artemis has gathered on the estate and the Dwyer clan, to give you the background to what you’re facing. The current address we have for Terry and Dale is in the file; although extracting the Mullen twins without a knock-on effect will be tricky. You need to tread with care.”
“Don’t I always, Giles?” said Phoenix, and ended the call.
Rusty had been clearing away the plates, cutlery, and two Heineken cans. Phoenix always kept a tight rein on the drinks when they had work to do. He picked up the laptop from the table.
“You’ve got mail,” he said, “to coin a phrase.”
“Find us a route through this estate, Rusty,” said Phoenix. “We need to get in, lift the twins, and get out in no time flat. We’ll interrogate them here, deal with them, arrange a clean-up of the safe house as a precaution, and then get home before the morning meeting tomorrow.”
“Are you serious?” Rusty queried, “you heard what Giles said. This mob are well-organised and prone to violence.”
“We manage this gang in the same way as we do any Grid members. They don’t dictate to us. We decide when we’ll attack. They must learn that nowhere is safe. Olympus, their unseen enemy, can strike at will. It’s all in the execution of the plan. The Mullen twins need to pay for their crime. Justice must be swift. We can’t rely on the police or the courts to do the job. The authorities will wait for Terry and Dale Mullen to slip up somewhere along the line. It might be a year or two years, and a dozen offences later, and they will make a big deal out of finally getting their man. That’s a joke. We sort it out tonight, and none of those crimes will ever be committed.”
Rusty opened the files that Giles and Artemis had collated. He found the house number and planned the route they would take. Rusty called his partner at Larcombe. Artemis was now in their apartment. Her shift had ended.
“Hi there,” said Rusty, “I need help. Can you confirm the twins are at the address you’ve given? Now, at this moment?”
“Hang on,” said Artemis, “let me check. We have agents on the scene. They’re running a mobile fish and chip van. They have monitoring equipment in addition to the deep-fat fryers. The images they’re picking up from inside the ground-floor flat show one twin in his bedroom. The other is watching TV in the main room. They’re settled in for the night.”
“Thanks for that. I’ll see you tomorrow, goodbye,” said Rusty.
“Short and sweet,” said Phoenix.
“She is,” said Rusty. “But we didn’t have time for a chat. Not if you and I want to leave here by five in the morning.”
“I suggest we spend until a quarter to nine studying these files,” said Phoenix, “then we start our mission.”
The background data on the Cowgate made grim reading. The bright lights, wine bars and restaurants, on the banks of the Tyne, were three miles away, yet the two areas were worlds apart. Newcastle’s past had been built on heavy industry and shipbuilding. Thirty years ago, the decline had taken hold with a vengeance. The banks of the river now showed signs of recovery; the art gallery, the Millennium bridge. Hordes of party-goers flocked to the streets and nightclubs, while a short drive away there was poverty and despair.
Teenagers roam the estate at night. Families complain at the number of drug addicts making their lives a
misery. Parents can’t afford the bus fare to send their kids to school. If you wanted to know where the ‘forgotten people’ of Britain lived, this estate was the answer. Regeneration projects have taken place over the years to improve the physical fabric of the estate. The three thousand residents continue to live in one of the most deprived areas in the country.
The area has the highest teenage birth rate in the city. Domestic violence is commonplace. Almost half those eligible for work are unemployed or on incapacity benefit. Reported crime is higher than the city average. A third of kids reaching school leaving age go no further; they fall into the abyss that holds those not in education, employment or training. Terry and Dale Mullen were now nineteen. They had spent over two years scraping an existence living off their wits. They were in the vanguard of the lost generation of feral kids who inhabited the Cowgate’s lawless streets.
At nine o’clock the two agents were in the people carrier and heading for Cowgate.
As they drove onto the estate, Rusty noted the properties with gardens full of stinging nettles, the fly-tipped washing machines, the discarded mattresses and sofas. Here and there were well-tended, well-looked after houses, and he shook his head.
“This is the Bent Triangle in Manchester again,” he said. “A few poor beggars swimming against the tide. If only they could harness that community spirit, they might drag themselves out of the mire.”
“Maybe,” said Phoenix, “but the damage runs deep. Little has been done to replace the manufacturing jobs these people did in the old days. The kids on this estate aren’t destined for the high-tech, computer-based jobs that have sprung up in the new economy. They have many of the same phones, tablets, and plasma TV’s counterparts in the affluent parts of the city have, but their parents have had to borrow to pay for them.”
“Which is where the Dwyer family come in,” said Rusty, “a bunch of bloody loan sharks.”
“We’ll switch our attention to them later,” said Phoenix, “this is where we need to be, isn’t it?”
