by Peter Bates
*
“How are you feeling, pal?”
Chief Inspector Norman Pendleton leaned closely over the hospital bed, and gently touched the left shoulder of the silent, prone figure that lay under its white sheets as he whispered the few words into his ear. After fluttering his bruised eyelids for a few seconds, Steve focussed his eyes on the C.I. and managed a brief smile.
“I’m good, thank you, sir,” he croaked.
“Well, lad,” said Pendleton quietly, “you certainly look a lot better than you did a couple of days ago.”
“I’m getting there. I’ll be up and about in no time, just you see. How’s Paul, do you know?”
Chief Inspector Pendleton took a deep breath, and looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes. Only seconds ago, the young lad lying prone in a bed before him had been unconscious, yet the boy’s first waking thoughts concerned the well-being of his young colleague.
Pendleton smiled. “I’m glad to say that he’s doing OK. He’s a bit knocked about like you Steve, but he’ll fully recover, and also like you, he’ll be back on the job again within a few weeks or so. Both of you took a bit of a hiding, but you’re both strong lads and you’ll be right as rain very soon.”
“That’s good, sir. I’m really pleased he’s OK.”
Pendleton smiled again. “I’ll come back tomorrow, Steve, and show you some photographs. They may include the faces of those that attacked you. If you can identify any of them as the men that did the robbery, it could help us track them down, and get them off the streets.”
Steve nodded. “We can try, but to be honest, the gang were all covered up, especially around their faces, and would be almost impossible to pick out from any photographs. I really do wish that I could spot them for you, but I have to tell you honestly that it’s going to be very unlikely. It wasn’t as if I had much time to take in any details — it all happened very quickly.”
“What you did, Steve, was remarkable and very brave. As it happens, we do have a very good idea of who the gang was, but proving it could well be difficult, although we are pursuing several lines of enquiry, and still looking for forensic evidence.”
“I hope that you get ’em,” muttered Steve. “Next time they might kill somebody.”
“You’re right, lad. I promise you we’ll do our best to put them away. In the meantime, I really hope that you keep improving day by day, and that you’ll soon be out and about again.”
The chief inspector hesitated for a moment, before adding. “There would certainly be a career for you in the police force, Steve, and by the way, we have made a point of telling your employers how well you did whilst outnumbered and under severe circumstances. They should be extremely proud of you.”
“Thanks, Inspector Pendleton. I really appreciate that.”
CHAPTER 37
The old fishing town of Fleetwood was built on the Fylde peninsula, a few miles north of Blackpool. It was ideally situated for the industry, having immediate access to the Irish Sea and Atlantic Ocean, whilst offering shelter from the ocean currents and tides to the many ships anchored in its deep-water harbour. In the nineteen twenties, it provided regular work for more than nine thousand people, and the small town thrived on its sales of fish, both locally and countrywide. The ‘Cod Wars’ in the late 1960s and early 1970s brought a sharp end to the town’s main industry, and Fleetwood’s last trawler left the port in 1982. Today, the port offers the same haven, but only to inshore boats and to the irregular flow of larger passenger ships to and from the Isle of Man, a popular and reasonably local holiday destination.
Alf Kennedy, now sixty-two years of age, could still remember the time as though it were yesterday. He could recall his father’s face when his fishing boat was sold to Danish fishermen. His mother weeping for weeks on end, as despair spread throughout the local fishing community. Their lifestyle had been ripped away, and the family’s income reduced dramatically. The big house on the edge of town that he had been brought up in was sold, and the family moved to a small terraced property in a narrow, cobbled street. Dad eked out a living in a small boat, catching what he could in the shallower in-shore waters; Mum selling his catch on in an indoor market from a tiny wooden framed stall. As Alf grew older, his respect for authority disappeared. The so-called authorities had caused this, and he would never conform to their rules. He would make his own way in life, regardless of them. Very quickly, he discovered that it was relatively easy to take things that didn’t belong to him. It started at the market where his mother kept her small stall. It was also very easy. He could lean across a stall, and whilst staring intently at objects for sale at the back of it, he would slip an item of clothing from the front of the display into his plastic shopping bag. After that, he would simply sell the items on — no questions asked — and at half the usual price. He’d done borstal, and a couple of months in jail, but it was still well worth it. Whilst he was inside, he learned even more, and eventually could target more expensive items on his travels around town. By the time he was in his mid-twenties, his severely stressed father had passed away, but Alf was able to buy his very own inshore boat and do what he had always dreamed of.
Fishing was OK and Alf could make a decent living, but he quickly realised that it would never make him a rich man. He’d made far more money stealing than he was now making from his catches, and stealing was a whole load easier than fishing would ever be. Even so, he was reluctant to sell the boat. Somehow it just seemed to be a major part of his life, as it had been for his own father. His new wife, Gabrielle, was not demanding. They had enough to live on — and even took the occasional overseas holiday. She was more than comfortable with their lifestyle. Most importantly, she was never really interested in where the money came from, so long as there was enough to get by, and to fill her wardrobe.
There was far more money and never any taxes on illegal trade, and as long as a bloke involved in it made sure that he would never be caught, it would surely be the best way to go. Alf spent most of his time at sea, and standing alone at the helm, his mind constantly drifted over all the available options, and dreamed of being rich. Where was the really big money made? Where was the least risk?
Today, he was on his way back to dock from a brief two-day sail that had been particularly poor from a catch point of view. Alf spun the big wheel, turning the relatively small boat very slowly into the mouth of Fleetwood harbour, and seeing no moving boats or activity on his intended line, casually gazed at the passing grassy headland. Between two grassy mounds, and almost out of sight, two cars, one a Mercedes, the other a Jaguar, were parked side by side. A couple of men were standing in the gap between them, facing each other. Alf snatched up his field glasses and quickly focussed them on the two men. Both men were tall and well built, and each one wore blue jeans with matching denim jackets. A light beard covered one of the men’s faces, but Alf recognised him instantly. It was Tom Felder, a captain from a competing company’s fishing boat, a man that Alf had known well for many years. A large white plastic bag was loosely slung across his back, a muscular right arm raised to his shoulder, gripping it tightly by its knotted top. The man facing him appeared to speak briefly, reached into one of his jacket’s inner pockets, pulled out what appeared to be a wad of paper, and handed it to Felder. Alf gasped as he sharply re-focussed the field glasses — the paper was a thick pile of twenty-pound notes.
Felder lowered the large bag to the floor, and then quickly flicked through the pile, clearly counting the number of notes in his hand. Alf continued to watch until the check was completed, then saw Felder nod his head, grin broadly, and firmly shake the hand of the man facing him. The man smiled, picked up and slung the large plastic bag over his shoulder and without any further words being exchanged, carried it to the Mercedes’ boot, and threw it inside.
“Bloody hell.” Alf gasped to himself, and after pocketing his binoculars, quickly turned his full attention back to the docking area, which was now fast approaching. He’d be glad to get unloade
d safely and quickly, suddenly there were now things to do and people to see. Maybe he had inadvertently come across an answer to his many problems. Felder was now certainly on the top of his list of priorities, and he might even come across him in or near to the harbour today, after he had secured the ship and disembarked. Knowing Tom Felder as he did, though, it was odds on that the guy would have already placed his own ship in the handlers’ control, which was why he had been on the headland and well away from the dock with his dodgy cash bag, well away also from prying eyes. Alf knew that very quickly; Felder would almost certainly now head straight for his local, and celebrate the deal in style. The man certainly liked a drink. The Seagull’s Nest would be the most likely place, and if his Jaguar was parked nearby, that would be the clincher.
*
After anchoring, fixing the tie ropes, and quickly shifting the catch to a refrigerated truck, Alf Felder collected his car and rapidly drove the mile and a half to reach the Seagull’s Nest car park. Initially, and to his great disappointment, he could see no sign of the Jaguar. About to drive away and try two other pubs in the near vicinity, he finally got lucky. The car he was seeking was almost impossible to spot, sandwiched between two container trucks at the very back of the car park, and virtually out of sight. Alf grinned, and for a second wondered whether the cash was still inside.
“No chance.” he said aloud to himself. “There’s no way that bastard would leave that amount of money in his car, especially when the car is parked as it is now, out of general view. He might look a bit weird in the pub though, with a big bag in his hands, but I can’t imagine him letting go of all that dosh for even a minute.”
Alf locked and then stepped from his car, at the same time doing his customary check of the car park. Apart from the new Jaguar, the few other cars in sight were all aged, mostly small, and unoccupied. Later in the evening that would change, but for the moment these vehicles would probably belong to a few young kids doing an early doors session.
Alf Kennedy breezed in through the pub entrance door, turning right as he entered, and casually headed directly to the bar, stopping behind Tom Felder. The big man was ordering his first drink of the night, and busy telling the landlord his latest joke. In the small gap between his feet and the bar, a large zipped up plastic bag lay on the floor. Alf did no more than glance at it, and then from behind, gently tapped Tom Felder’s shoulder with one hand.
Felder turned sharply, his fists already coming up as he turned. At the last moment the clenched hands checked, and slowly lowered to his side, a big grin slowly spreading across his face.
“Alfie, mate. How’re you doing?”
“I’m good, pal. How are you?”
“Never been better.” smiled Felder. “Do you fancy a drink?”
“I wouldn’t mind. I’ll have a pint of bitter, please.”
Alf gulped as Felder turned back to the bar. Face to face, the man was colossal — even bigger than he remembered from all those years ago — and was even larger than he had appeared to be from a distance. If he hadn’t known already, Alf now realised for certain that he’d have to tread carefully. He’d had an outline plan, but now he wasn’t so sure. He certainly wouldn’t be doing anything until he’d given it a lot more thought. Maybe something would help him along that came up in general conversation, but he certainly wouldn’t be mentioning what he had seen on the headland. If Felder knew what he had witnessed, Alf would be living under a permanent threat. He threw a quick sideways glance at the plastic bag, collected his beer from Felder, and moved to a nearby empty table.
“How are things with you then?” asked Felder as he moved from the bar, dragging his bag with one hand along the floor, and finally settling himself opposite Alf.
“Not bad, Tom. Could be better, but not bad at all.”
“I heard on the grapevine that you’ve got your own boat now.”
“I have, mate, but business is crap, and the costs just keep on increasing. The job’s not what it used to be.”
“No, it’s not good, Alf. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.” laughed Felder.
“Yeah, I guess so, mate. It’s good to have my own boat, but I wish I could make more money out of it.” Alf hesitated a moment before adding, “To be honest, at this rate, I’ll be selling it soon and working at something else. How’s it going with you?”
“Pretty much the same — there’s no money in fishing any more.”
Alf Kennedy felt like grinning at Felder’s response, but somehow managed to keep his face serious. Maybe the chance would come along, maybe it wouldn’t. Patience was not one of his qualities, but today it would certainly have to be. He’d have to pick his conversation very carefully, and then just hope that the right opportunity arose that would take it further.
“No, you’re right, Tom. I keep thinking that something will come along to make it all change, maybe a change of rules or even doing a bit of cargo carrying from Ireland to the mainland. Anything would do, I just need to make more money.”
Alf hesitated, then swallowed before continuing with a big grin on his face. “I’ll tell you what Tom. I’d even carry a bit of contraband if I thought it would help the business along.”
Tom Felder laughed. “You sound desperate, mate.”
“I bloody am, if the truth were told, Tom. Right now, I’d pinch off my own mother if I could.”
Felder laughed again.
“Maybe I could help you out, Alf. I could put you in touch with a couple of people that might just sort something out for you.”
Alf Kennedy’s heart missed a beat. Could this be it? He crossed his fingers behind his back.
“Anything’s better than what I have now, mate. Who are they, and what could they do for me that would improve things?”
“You’d better get another beer in, Alf. This could take a bit of time. How much time have you got?”
Alf forced a laugh. “All the time in the world, pal.”
CHAPTER 38
“How’s Norman doing with the investigation?”
“He’s getting nowhere, Frank. He doesn’t have enough to obtain a warrant, even though he, like us, knows who did it. His lads on the street are all watching, but they’ve spotted nothing untoward yet.”
“He must feel very frustrated.”
“He does, Terry, but I guess he’s got used to it by now. The law does more to protect the crims than it does for the innocent people that get harmed by them.”
“Harrison’s a real bad bugger, and Thomas isn’t exactly a saint. Both them and their two gangs are well overdue for doing time,” added Roy.
“If Norman can’t touch them, maybe we should step in and fix them ourselves.”
Frank laughed loudly at Terry’s suggestion. “Have you been going to the gym lately, Terry? Have you suddenly developed some muscles that we don’t know about? We old buggers have as much a chance of sorting out Harrison and Thomas, as a mouse beating up a tiger.”
“That’s true, Frank, but there are more ways than one to skin a cat.”
“Very clever, Terry,” laughed Reg, “but Frank is dead right. Physically, we’re well out of the game now, and that will never change for any of us. All we can do is to use our brains to try and get them all locked up.”
“How did we get that group of lads from the big smoke out of the picture, Reg? We didn’t set about them ourselves, did we?” asked Terry.
“Hell’s bells, Terry! Now I see what you mean,” grinned Frank.
Roy stared silently at the table top, his mind ticking over. Eventually he slowly raised his head and looked calmly into Terry’s face.
“Do you know what, Terry? You’re probably right. The same thought crossed my own mind last week, and I threw it out as not possible. The other day with those lads we proved that it could be done. It wouldn’t be anything like as easy, but if we put our minds together, I’m damn certain that we could come up with something. Again, it’s one of those things that we couldn’t go anywhere near to in
our working days, but now we’re not shackled, we can virtually do what we want, so long as we don’t break the law, or could be seen to have done. We can certainly bend the law a little.”
“These days,” added Reg, “this is what we’re all about, lads. Useless ancient bodies, but minds that are every bit as good as they were all those years ago. At the moment, there’s no panic, and no rush either.”
*
Alf Kennedy’s long walk home from the Seagull’s Nest was one of the best walks that he could ever recall. He’d been offered a lift home from the pub by an old friend, but he simply wanted to take his time, and absorb the information that he’d received from Tom Felder. His face held a permanent smile as he jauntily strolled along the footpaths and crossed several roads that led him back to his front door. In his pocket, he had a name, and a telephone number written in pencil on the back of a beer mat. The name and number would give him a fresh start in life, and from now on, he would never look back. In twelve months or so he would be a very rich man, and the days of scrimping would finally be over. He might be sixty-two years old, but whatever time he had left now, would be spent in comfort and without the constant worry that he had endured for a very long time.
“Bugger the fish.” he said aloud as he neared his front door, “And bugger the bloody ‘Cod Wars’.”
Gabrielle answered his loud knock on the door, the grim expression on her face turning quickly into an unexpected smile as she saw her husband’s unusually happy expression.
“You look pleased.”
“I am — I am.”
“Why? What’s happened?” asked Gabrielle.
Alf stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. She would never truly know what he had just fixed up, but he’d give her a bit of spiel to keep her quiet.
