by Peter Bates
“I need to borrow your car for half an hour or so, Bob.”
“No problem, mate. Shall I drive it round to your place?”
“No need, Bob. I’ll drive to yours in mine and park up close by.”
“See you soon, Mel.”
Mel Harrison was still uncertain about how it would all go, but slipped the silenced revolver in his jacket pocket. There was also a knife in his own car, but which of the two he would use was not yet a certainty, and it probably wouldn’t be until he had located Eccles. How he did it and which weapon he chose would really depend on where and when.
Bob was standing by his open front door as Harrison parked directly across the road from his home. The keys for the Honda were in his hand, as Harrison approached him.
“Can I ask what you need my car for, Mel?” smiled Bob, looking into Harrison’s badly marked face.
“You can ask, Bob, but you won’t get any bloody answers.”
Bob nodded. In addition to the injuries, Harrison’s facial expression had changed from the jovial one that had appeared several days ago and reverted once more to the previously dour and aggressive one. Bob wouldn’t be pursuing the question any further, and he silently handed over the keys. At the same time, he was still wondering exactly why Harrison would want his own little Honda instead of the man’s BMW. For some reason, he didn’t want to be noticed.
“I hope it goes well,” he finally said with a smile.
“You hope what goes well?” demanded Harrison sharply.
Bob thought quickly. “The car, Mel. I hope it runs OK.”
“It’ll do,” commented Harrison, still staring into Bob’s face. After a few more seconds passed by, he added, “I’ll bring it back later.”
Mel Harrison turned sharply and headed for the Honda’s front door. He climbed in, spent less than a minute adjusting the seat and the internal mirror, started it up, and then accelerated along the street.
Bob shook his head slowly, wondering if his car plates would be showing up sometime in the next few hours on the ANPR cameras. Harrison certainly wasn’t using it to go shopping.
*
Mel Harrison felt a little cramped in the Honda. It was a far cry from the BMW but it was totally anonymous, and suited his current needs. It had been a long time since he had even operated a manual gear box, but by the time he had stopped and started the car in heavy traffic several times, he was soon back into the swing of it. Within ten minutes, he had followed the promenade to the north end of the town and was turning into William Street. The contact had been correct about the identification of the house. All of the houses were red brick, apart from one that had been recently rendered in white from top to bottom. Parked directly across the road from the white building was a parked, red, four by four vehicle. That meant that Jim Eccles was almost certainly at home.
Harrison drove past the house, slowing down a little as he did so, and also staring into its front window. There was nothing to be seen, and no obvious signs of movement. He carried on further along the street, checking for any outdoor activity, and seeing none, turned the car around and slowly drove back towards the house. Fifty yards past the building, he slid the Honda into a small, vacant space, smiling as he turned the wheel. He would never have got the BMW into a space that size in a million years. After sitting there silently for a few minutes, he opened a pale blue plastic bag on the passenger seat and first pulled out a small, grey, stick-on moustache, which he pressed firmly onto his upper lip. The grey wig was next, and he pulled it over his head. He reached into the bag again and extracted a pale brown cloth peaked cap. It was at least two sizes too large, and mostly covered his hair, whilst its extended peak lowered to a point just above his eyes. Black leather gloves were next. He’d cleaned them earlier with antiseptic liquid and they would leave no D.N.A traces behind. Finally, he temporarily took off his right-hand glove, pulled out a small plastic tube from the bag, and squeezed out some of its pale beige liquid onto his fingers. He then rubbed the liquid over his bruised and scarred face until every blemish was covered with a fine layer of skin coloured cream. Checking in his mirror, he added a few dabs here and there until he was satisfied that the marks were now all hidden. By now, he also had an outline plan in mind, but there were still some holes in it. Would Jim Eccles be at home? Probably, as his car was there. What about any other people in the house? Did he have a wife or girlfriend in there with him?
Harrison now realised that this was something that he should have checked first. It was a risk that he would now have to take. He was damned if he was going to go through all this lot again. If Eccles wasn’t alone, he could either abort, which was most unlikely, or he may well have to deal with both of them at the same time. First of all, he had to get into the house. After a final quick look into the mirror to double check his disguise, he opened his door, closed it behind him and moved to the boot of the car.
Inside the now open car boot, sat a very large cardboard box. It had been almost too big to fit inside, but after pushing the car’s rear seats forward, he had just managed it. A white label, stuck to its centre, had the name and address of Jim Eccles typed on it, and another label confirming that the contents were fragile. Harrison tugged at the box, gradually pulling it free of the boot. The box was virtually weightless, but he would be carrying it as though it weighed a ton.
After closing the boot, Harrison quickly checked the pockets of his old well-worn jacket. Gun left, knife right. The knife was preferable — no noise and no shells that he would have to find afterwards before he could leave. The gun was good back-up though, just in case something went seriously wrong.
He looked up and down the street and also at each of the houses. Now was as good a time as any. With a little bit of luck, he would be back in the car and driving away within two or three minutes.
Mel Harrison picked up the box with both his arms outstretched, and with two hands beneath it. He walked the fifty yards to the house very slowly. He probably wouldn’t be seen, but if he was, he would simply be a delivery man doing his job. When he got to the door, he would offer to carry the box inside because of its huge weight. If Eccles argued with that, he would simply say that for health and safety reasons, he had to carry it in on his own. It was one of the rules of the job and had to be done.
Harrison rang the doorbell.
CHAPTER 70
“As far as you lads are concerned, I’ve been with you all day, and we’ve just come from Alan’s house to the pub.”
“Do you think that they’ll connect you to it?” asked Kenny.
“Not at all. My disguise was absolutely brilliant. There’s no way that there were any witnesses and luckily the guy was home alone. My car was nowhere near the scene and I checked for local cameras. Needless to say, there were none at all in that area. Your car, Bob, was at least fifty yards away from the house and the street was pretty much deserted. It could be a while yet before anyone discovers him. He didn’t look all that mobile by the time I’d finished with him.”
“How badly was he injured?” asked Gary.
Harrison laughed. “Well, he won’t be happy that’s for sure. I didn’t kill the bloke, I just cut him up a bit after I’d smacked him in the gob. Killing him would have totally energised the police force. A few cuts here and there won’t do that. The coppers are busy enough as it is, and skirmishes around this town are very common. If they do get involved, they’ll probably just treat it like they would a local dispute, and forget all about it inside a couple of days. He won’t be anyone important, living in a little house like that, so after a couple of days it will all die down, believe me.”
“What’s next on the agenda, Mel?” asked Alan.
“I’d say five more pints for a starter,” grinned Harrison.
“And then?” persisted Alan.
“We need to mop up Jed Thomas’s protection list for a starter. I think that we’re on a roll again now, and for once we’ve got a free hand. The world’s our oyster.”
; *
“Norman has been on the phone again.”
“What did he have to say, Frank?” asked Reg. “Anything useful?”
“I’d say so, Reg. The bodies have now all been identified and have been moved to a special investigation unit that specialises in obtaining forensic evidence from dead victims. He hasn’t arrested either Harrison or his men yet until he gets something concrete that will stand up as definite proof. The last thing he wants to do is to arrest them and then have to let them go, even for a short time. With the money that they’ve got, they could easily disappear. He’s also bothered because he thinks that there may be a mole in central office, and he doesn’t want to alarm Harrison in advance. Don’t forget that although we have evidence linking Harrison and his men close to the scene, that in itself could be insufficient to obtain a definite conviction, or even enough to hold them. Norman wants the case watertight and I really can’t blame him. In the meantime, something else has happened in town which is almost certainly down to Harrison.”
“What’s that?” asked Roy.
“Well, the guy that planted Harrison the other day — I think he was called Jim Eccles — has been found in a bad way. He’s not dead or likely to die, but he’s been beaten up and cut up pretty badly with a knife. It’s odds on that it was Harrison getting some revenge for the beating that he took from him. Harrison certainly wouldn’t let something like that go unanswered. The lad’s not talking though, and I can’t really blame him.”
“Where was it done?” asked Reg.
“At Jim Eccles’ own home. If it was Harrison, how he’s got inside the house without being seen I’ve no idea, but somehow, he must have done. It’s just got to be Harrison, hasn’t it? It would be too much of a coincidence after what had already taken place. Somehow he also must have got hold of Eccles’ private address.”
“Nothing on camera?”
“No, Roy. There are none on the street, and none of the neighbours saw or heard anything unusual.”
“Is Norman chasing it?”
“I don’t think that it’s high priority, mate. With a bit of luck on his side, he’s going to get enough from the bodies in the woods to do put them all away for a long time. I know that the Eccles thing isn’t very nice, but it’ll definitely take a back seat compared to the four dead ’uns. Don’t forget also that Norman’s got shell casings too, and he’ll be able to match them up once he locates the weapons.”
Frank Lloyd couldn’t hide his disappointment. “That’s if he finds the weapons. If that gang have got half a brain those guns will be at the bottom of the ocean. In the meantime, too, that bugger and his crew are all still walking free. Come on guys - where do we go from here?”
“I’d say the Pilgrim’s Arms, Frank. A beer would be good, and we can do some thinking whilst we’re in there. Come on lads, let’s climb into the cars and get moving.”
*
The Pilgrim’s Arms’ car park was far from full, and being early doors it had yet to fill up. Despite that, Reg parked his car at the opposite end to the one that Terry had chosen. It was a small precaution, and also probably totally unnecessary, but a lifetime of taking such precautions was hard to shake off, even after so many years.
He waited for Terry to step out of his car, then turned and nodded to Roy.
“Terry and Frank are out, Roy. Let’s give them a couple of minutes, then we’ll follow them in.”
“Good thinking,” agreed Roy. “If Harrison is already in, it won’t look as obvious if we walk in separately. I don’t think that it would make a huge amount of difference anyway, but better safe than sorry.”
Reg smiled, and remained silent for the first minute, his mind ticking over slowly. “I’m not sure if this is really no more than a waste of time,” he finally said quietly.
“Yes,” agreed Roy. “I know what you mean. In truth, there should really be nothing else to do. We know what they did, but it’s up to Norman Pendleton to just prove it now. I really hope that they left some forensics in the wood, that’s all, because just having a car parked near to it, would not be sufficient to get a conviction. On the other hand, if we learn anything new today, it could tip the balance.”
“It’s unlikely that we would hear anything significant, Roy. Even if they talked about it, we don’t have any speakers set up anywhere in the pub.”
“No, you’re right, but we’ve never in our lives given up on a case, so why would we do that now? Come on, let’s go in.”
Roy pulled on an old grey hat, clicked open the car’s door and stepped out onto the tarmac, closely followed by Reg. Reg walked round the car, put an arm around Roy’s shoulder, and whispered in his ear.
“You’re spot on, Roy. Giving up is something that we’ve never done. You never know what’s around the corner.”
Roy grinned back into Reg’s face, then the two men set off walking until they had reached the pub’s front door.
Roy pulled open the door, stepped inside, and halted. With a casual glance, his eyes immediately scanned the interior. He half turned his head and whispered to his friend.
“Follow me, Reg, to the table that I choose, and don’t speak until we are sat down. Not to anybody,” he added. “Not even Frank and Terry.”
Reg stared at Roy, a puzzled expression on his face, but silently followed him into the bar’s saloon. Several of the tables were occupied. Harrison and his four followers were seated at a table placed ten feet or so from the open fireplace. Frank and Terry sat at a nearby table, seemingly in deep conversation. Roy remained in the doorway and waited several seconds until Frank turned his head and glanced at him. Roy’s index finger was already held to his mouth, indicating silence. Roy watched Frank’s face carefully, pleased to see that he had quickly got the message, already turned away, and was saying something quietly to Terry.
“OK, Reg,” Roy whispered. “Don’t sit at Frank’s table. Sit at the one on the other side of Harrison’s, and don’t even look at Frank or Terry. I’ll get the drinks in for the two of us.”
Reg nodded with a faint smile. Roy was thinking on his feet as he had done many years ago. The split was a sound idea, and he understood why. Separately, they wouldn’t look anything like as obvious, and two sets of ears on each side of Harrison’s table should work a lot better. There would have to be no apparent recognition of Frank or Terry until Harrison had left the premises.
Roy drifted slowly towards the bar, and Reg walked equally casually around the saloon as though choosing a place to sit. Finally, he settled on the one that Roy had pointed out, and sat on one of its chairs, with his back to Harrison, and also to Frank.
At the bar, Roy was served quickly and personally by Bert Stephenson himself. Before carrying the two drinks back to his table, he leaned forward and spoke quietly.
“Bert, you don’t know us, mate. We’re on separate tables for a reason. Just treat us as unknown visitors.”
Bert nodded his head. “No problem, mate. I understand.”
“Have you a newspaper?”
“Here,” offered Bert, reaching a hand under the bar, “have this one, it’s yesterdays.”
“That’ll do nicely, Bert. Thanks.”
Roy moved back to his table, placing the two drinks and newspaper on its centre, before taking the seat opposite to Reg. Reg seemed totally engrossed with the contents of his wallet, having pulled out a couple of small printed pieces of paper, and lined them up in front of him in a neat row.
Roy opened the newspaper, held it up in front of his eyes and stared blankly at the pages.
A few moments later, Frank silently rose to his feet and walked to the bar. Within five minutes he had returned, set up two beers on his table top, and slid one of them in front of Terry.
Mel Harrison was in full flow, and obviously in one of his better moods. The four young men seated at his table produced suitable laughter in response to his words. The initial conversation between them was audible, but not significant in any way.
“We’re ge
tting nowhere, today,” muttered Terry under his breath after ten minutes.
“No, we’re not pal, but we’re not in a hurry, and have nothing to lose. Take your time with the beer. Sometimes these things take a bit of patience. Sometimes it just doesn’t work anyway.”
“Yes, Frank. And we’ve been in a lot of worse places than this as well. Anyway, what else would we do?”
“Not a lot.” agreed Frank, allowing himself a brief smile.
The chat on Harrison’s table was very general, ranging from some of the local sport to headline news.
After a brief break in the discussion, Harrison looked thoughtfully up towards the ceiling for several seconds and then asked. “By the way, Bob. What did you do with the shovels?”
“They’re in my garage, Mel.”
“I told you to get rid of them, didn’t I, you pillock?”
Bob hesitated. “Don’t worry, Mel. They’re out of sight in my garage, and I’m breaking them up tomorrow morning and taking them to the local refuse disposal tip.”
“You better had, lad, or I’ll have your balls for breakfast.”
Alan glanced at Bob’s fearful face. It was a good time to change the subject, give his friend a break.
“What about the shooters, Mel? What have you done with them?”
“No need to ask, you daft bugger. They’re all back and safely locked up in my safe. That’s where they’ll stay, until the next time we need them. If I let you lads keep ’em, they’d be all over the bloody place. Nothing gets in my safe, they don’t make them any stronger than mine.”
“Time to go,” whispered Frank, leaning slowly and across the table towards Terry.
“Give it two minutes,” Terry returned Frank’s whisper. “When we do, we’ll discreetly show three fingers to Reg and Roy. Hopefully they’ll follow us out three minutes later.”
