by Ted Tayler
A Frequent Peal Of Bells
(The eleventh novel in ‘The Phoenix’ series)
By
Ted Tayler
Copyright © 2018 by Ted Tayler
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please buy an additional copy for each recipient.
All rights are reserved. You may not reproduce this work, in part or in its entirety, without the express written permission of the author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design: - www.thecovercollection.com
A Harmsworth House publication 2019
Other books by Ted Tayler
We’d Like To Do A Number Now (2011)
The Final Straw (2013)
A Sting In The Tale (2013)
Unfinished Business (2014)
The Olympus Project (2014)
Gold, Silver, and Bombs (2015)
Conception (2015)
Nothing Is Ever Forever (2015)
In The Lap of The Gods (2016)
The Price of Treachery (2016)
A New Dawn (2017)
Something Wicked Draws Near (2017)
Evil Always Finds A Way (2017)
Revenge Comes in Many Colours (2017)
Three Weeks in September (2018)
Larcombe Manor (2018)
Where to find him
Website & Blog: – http://tedtayler.co.uk
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Table Of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
About The Author
CHAPTER 1
Monday 29th September 2014
Henry Case left the Olympus car with the transport section, collected his bag from the boot, and walked to his quarters in the stable block. He was tired but happy. The weekend in Surrey with the Reverend Sarah Gough had flown by.
Henry couldn’t believe twelve weeks had passed since his first visit. That crazy weekend in mid-July, when Sarah invited him to the annual flower show and fete that was a high spot of the summer for her parishioners.
Sarah had booked him into the Hurtwood Hotel on that occasion, three miles away in Walking Bottom, Peaslake. Decorum was the order of the day. Her neighbours mustn’t catch a whiff of scandal in the air, she had told him.
Last Friday evening, Henry had arrived at the vicarage and parked in front of the main house. As he stood on the doorstep with his dozen red roses, he checked his jacket pocket. Yes, the surprise was still there. Where he had put it before leaving Larcombe Manor.
“Hello, darling,” cried Sarah, as she threw open the door, “come inside.”
Henry followed her indoors. Sarah took his bunch of flowers and went to the kitchen. She found a vase in one of the lower cupboards, arranged them to her satisfaction, and then topped up the glass container with water.
“There,” she said, “that’s done. Now for a proper welcome.”
Sarah took Henry by the hand and led him to the bottom of the stairs.
Henry stopped.
“Before we go any further, there’s something I need to do,” he said.
Sarah gave him a quizzical look.
“Not more revelations, surely?”
Henry smiled. His mother had always told him the truth will out, and it did two weeks ago. Sarah now knew most of his duties at Larcombe for the Olympus Project. She had come to terms with them. His concerns over whether they could ever have a lasting relationship were over. He was ready to move forward to a bright future.
“Nothing sinister, I promise,” said Henry, taking the small box from his pocket.
“Will you marry me, Sarah?” He opened the box, revealing the elegant diamond solitaire he bought in Bath. Sarah’s only response had been to extend her left hand, so Henry could slide the ring onto her finger.
“It’s perfect, Henry,” she said, “yes, I’ll marry you.”
“Excellent,” said Henry, “now let’s carry on what we had started.”
The vase of red roses remained on the work surface in the kitchen for several hours as the happy couple made love upstairs. There was no question of Henry needing to drive to Walking Bottom tonight. The car could stay in the driveway.
“Oh, Henry,” sighed Sarah, “that exercise has made me hungry. Let’s walk up to the Royal Oak for a bite to eat, and a few drinks. I’ll keep flicking my hair out of my eyes until someone notices the ring. That should start the tongue’s wagging.”
“The sooner the locals see us together the better,” said Henry. “I expect they’ve wondered why I haven’t been back.”
They dressed and returned downstairs.
“Did you bring a bag?” asked Sarah.
“It’s still in the car,” Henry replied. “I was waiting until you accepted my proposal before moving my gear indoors. Regardless of your answer, I wasn’t driving to a damn hotel.”
“That would never happen, darling,” said Sarah.
The couple had strolled up the street to the pub, had a meal and shared a bottle of wine. When the Royal Oak landlord called time, Sarah and Henry were threading their way through a crowded bar. Several customers spotted the new adornment their vicar had acquired. Drinking-up time was ended before the well-wishers let them leave.
Henry and Sarah had returned to the vicarage arm in arm. There were no furtive glances, no snatched goodnight kisses behind the greenery this time. Henry stopped to collect his bag from the car. Sarah let them into the house, and although the downstairs lights went on to pacify the neighbours, the newly engaged couple had headed upstairs.
On Saturday and Sunday, Sarah had parish duties to fulfil. She disappeared on her bicycle to spend an hour or two fulfilling her commitments, and when she returned. the couple discussed their plans.
“Where shall we marry?” asked Sarah.
“I thought you wanted the service here,” said Henry.
“If we were to live here as husband and wife, and I continued to work in the parishes this ministry covers then yes, it makes sense. However, I’m not sure that’s practical.”
“What do you propose then?” asked Henry.
“I wasn’t born here in the village, so I have no strong ties to the place. My parents lived in Hungerford, and that was where I was raised. Father died when I was in my early twenties. I haven’t been back to the place since my mother’s funeral three years ago. There are happy memories there, but nothing that makes me yearn to marry in the church where I was christened and confirmed.”
“Where do you wish to marry?” Henry asked.
“If Annabelle will agree, I should love it to be at Larcombe Manor. Neither of us has a large family to invite, and your friends and colleagues live there. I can ask a friend to officiate. She shares duties with me in the four parishes we cover.”
�
��What are your plans following the wedding?” asked Henry.
“I’ll call the Bishop first thing on Monday and ask him to look for a move further west. If he asks; how soon will the wedding be?”
“There’s no cause for concern, is there?” asked Henry. “We haven’t taken precautions this weekend.”
Sarah dug him in the ribs with an elbow.
“My first job when I get back is to explore the possibilities of moving into the main house,” said Henry, rubbing his side. “Rusty moved from the stable block with his good lady, and they aren’t married yet. My quarters are no place for a married couple to live. Your new position may come with a vicarage, but it’s not practical for me to be living off-site while I’m working for Olympus.”
“Right,” said Sarah, “that’s settled. As soon as I secure a new parish near Bath, we set a date. If Annabelle agrees, we’ll get married in that delightful church on the estate and live in one of the apartments. I know from my visits how comfortable they are. We can make a home there. If we’re blessed with a child in time, it will be an idyllic setting to raise a baby. Hope thrives on it.”
In between the wedding plans and Sarah’s parish duties, they visited the Royal Oak for refreshments. Henry felt the effects of the superb food on his waistline. It had been a special weekend. Now, it was Monday lunchtime. Henry had missed the morning meeting, and he had a long list of jobs that need his attention. As he reached the door to his quarters, all he planned to do was drop the bag and sleep.
*****
Hugh Fraser heard Henry’s door close. He checked his watch. Someone had a good weekend, he thought. Hugh was leaving the estate to drive to Manchester later. Tomorrow at three fifteen, he was attending the funeral of Monty Jacks. The disabled ex-serviceman who was murdered at New Street station, Birmingham. Monty was the first casualty suffered by the Irregulars.
The logistics officer had been working with Phoenix in the orangery over the weekend. Phoenix was keen to keep the pressure on organised crime gangs across the country. It didn’t matter where you looked, even the most unlikely towns were being dragged into the statistics.
Hugh Fraser knew only too well areas in Glasgow where crime was rife. That was nothing new in Drumchapel and Govan. They had been in the Top 10 for decades. Even in Scotland, he had raised an eyebrow when violence or burglary became a hot topic in the smaller towns in the countryside. Phoenix and Rusty kept turning over stones in affluent areas of the South, or the Midlands and the worst low-life criminal crawled out.
Despite the authorities claims of an improving picture, crime was no longer under control. It was spreading further than ever before, and faster than a forest fire. Olympus did what it could, given its resources, but unless they reversed cuts to services, the battle would be lost.
The ringing phone interrupted his thoughts. Ambrosia was calling him.
“I wanted to catch you before you left,” she said. “I’ve just learned from Zeus that the funeral for the other agent murdered in Winson Green is on Friday.”
“Finn’s family came from Rugeley, in Staffordshire,” said Hugh, “I had better attend.”
“We’ll go there together,” said Ambrosia. “I told Zeus I thought a senior Olympian should be present and offered my services. When will you arrive in Leeds?”
“I’m leaving Larcombe within the hour. Olympus has booked me into a budget hotel tonight. The funeral in South Manchester tomorrow is mid-afternoon. I should be with you by seven in the evening.”
“I can’t wait for you to taste my food,” said Ambrosia, “it will be a pleasure to cook for someone. When you live alone, it’s easier to eat out, or get a takeaway.”
Hugh thought of the lonely nights after his wife had moved out. He had the local pizza parlour, chippy, and Chinese restaurant on speed-dial on his phone. Things had moved fast with Ambrosia. She was ambitious and knew what she wanted. Who was he to complain?
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy everything,” he said.
Hugh heard Ambrosia’s trademark giggle.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure of that,” she replied.
“I must drive back to Larcombe on Wednesday morning,” he said. “Unless I can persuade Phoenix I’m owed two days leave.”
“Stay with me,” begged Ambrosia, “we need to discuss future roles for the Irregulars. I’ll clear it with Zeus if there’s a problem. We’ll make our own way to Rugeley on Friday. You can head home after the service, and I’ll return here. Can I convince you to spend time with me?”
“Do you have an extensive range of dishes to tempt me with?” asked Hugh.
Ambrosia laughed out loud.
“My skills in the kitchen only stretch to enough dishes to feed you tomorrow evening. After that, we’ll phone for a takeaway. I only want to get out of bed for food, don’t you?”
“That sounds good,” he replied, “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.”
“Drive safe,” said Ambrosia, “and sleep well tonight.”
Hugh listened to her laughter before she ended the call. Then he packed a bag for four nights away from Larcombe. He had known when he moved south from Scotland that this was a tough assignment, but someone had to do it. Hugh puffed out his cheeks, hoisted his bag on his shoulder, and left the stable block. It was time to drive to Manchester.
*****
In the meeting room, Athena was wondering why Henry Case hadn’t been present this morning. She knew he planned to spend the weekend with her friend, Sarah, but had assumed he would return late on Sunday evening. It was unlike Henry to miss a meeting without warning.
Her husband was taking the others through the mission plans agreed for the coming week. Phoenix had disappeared for half a day on both Saturday, and Sunday to work on them with Hugh Fraser in the orangery. It was in a good cause, but it would be nice to spend quality time together. Little more than a week ago Phoenix had started delegating tasks to less senior agents. Stress affects everyone in time, no matter how tough they appear.
“Will these missions cause the Grid any long-term damage, Phoenix,” asked Minos. Athena forgot Henry for now and switched her attention to the matter in hand.
“I think we’ve used this comparison before, Minos,” replied Phoenix, “it’s like that Whack-A-Mole game for kids. Heads pop up all over the place, and we try to hit them. Every head we take out of the game hurts the Grid for a while, there’s no doubt. How long it lasts depends on how soon they select another soldier to fill the gap.”
“My concern is that every time we send agents into the field we take risks. First, that they are killed, as we have on several missions in the past six months. Second, that during those actions their identity is uncovered. That poses a danger to everyone here at Larcombe.”
“We take every precaution against both eventualities,” said Athena. “Our losses are painful, but weighed against the benefits we have secured, they represent a low percentage of our assets.”
“It’s not our job to inflict lasting damage on the Grid,” said Rusty, more animated than Athena had seen him of late.
“Exactly,” agreed Phoenix, “our missions often target the vilest criminals. People who must be eliminated before they can carry out any further crimes. On occasion, we encounter the soldiers, the low-level villains who operate in regions plastered across every media outlet for a few weeks. Then, we hope the nudge we give the police galvanises them into positive action. So far, that element of our strategy has yielded the smallest fruit.”
“The authorities have been slow to respond in every arena,” said Alastor. “One can understand the logic behind not spending money you don’t have. But this extended period of austerity is punishing the wrong people. Whoever said crime doesn’t pay was a fool. The Grid has increased the profits from organised crime in the last month by a percentage that is manna from heaven for any of the world’s leading companies.”
“I have been distracted of late, with good reason,” said Athena, “and I haven’t kept up to date w
ith your reports, Alastor. I apologise. Can you bring us up to speed? It might help everyone here.”
“Please don’t apologise, Athena. No matter what we face at Olympus, the family must always come first. The reason I introduced the Grid into this conversation was that something concerns me with the latest figures from the Glencairn Bank. Things have moved on since the Spring when we were seeking the identity of the elusive ‘H’. The ice-house named him as Ardal James Hannon, an entrepreneur who five years ago lived in Cricklewood. Everything in his background suggested he was the perfect fit for the mastermind behind the Grid’s increasingly cohesive network.”
“Matching locations of a string of deaths to the letter ‘H’ was down to Orion’s work,” said Rusty. “We then discovered Hannon had changed his name, didn’t we?”
“By the end of April, we knew Hannon had gone to ground five years ago. When he opened the Glencairn Bank, he had taken his mother’s maiden name, Hanigan. He ditched his first names. In his new persona, Hugo Hanigan controlled the bank and out-performed the opposition on every level. Hanigan covered his tracks well. Any photographs of him from his youth were useless. There were no current photographs of him online. We stationed an agent on Gresham Street in the summer, to capture images of frequent visitors. His vigil has been intermittent, for security reasons. The images he has sent through to Giles left us with eight possibilities. Progress on nailing the identities of those men has been deferred whenever another crisis has arisen.”
“We’ve had people work on those images, Athena,” said Artemis, “but it’s likely most are seasoned criminals. They are skilled in avoiding being caught on camera. A quick dash from a car to the bank gives us little to work with.”
“However, we named five of the frequent visitors,” said Giles Burke, “and none of them was Hanigan or Hannon. We have three sets of photographs remaining of men who often visit the Glencairn, but we can’t trace them anywhere. They are of a similar age, white, and well-dressed. As Alastor pointed out, getting a face for Hanigan has been a lower priority in the past ten weeks. He may be among those three, or our agent could have missed him altogether. Who knows how often he visits the bank? He could work from home these days.”
