Ciara hid the coldness spreading within her and nodded. She agreed but with the caveat—sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.
Raymond Van Der Saar walked with his chief chemist through one of his MDMA factories.
His lanky frame hung a grey, woollen jumper over a white collar, dark jeans finished with black, polished shoes. The grey in his hair and lined face contrasted with the fifty-nine-year old’s spritely movement.
He made these random, unannounced trips to his factories to ensure the smooth running of his operation. When it came to MDMA production, he was the King.
Van Der Saar, although one of the most powerful drug lords in Europe, never saw himself as a ‘boss’. The Dutch criminal underworld—the ‘Penose’—were more about working together towards a common objective. He had noticed a long time ago that the British criminals differed in that most wanted to climb the ladder and would ruthlessly exploit any opportunity to do so.
Production of high-quality Ecstasy was something Van Der Saar was very passionate about. He and his brother Hans had visited their father in New York City for a summer in his early twenties. His father Denis had been an architect doing work out there.
Their tours of the city’s nightlife had led them to The Paradise Garage. It was his first experience of pure dancing in a nightclub. The thumping sound system had resonated through Van Der Saar and the hot, sweaty, happy, weird and wonderful collective.
It had also been his first experience with MDMA. It had been subtle at first, a gentle relaxation throughout his person. He felt more of an affinity for the music, for the other people in the club. A sense of togetherness for perfect strangers and Van Der Saar had just floated on a cloud for the rest of the night.
Now of course, he knew the dangers of abusing Ecstasy. He’d seen first-hand how people irreparably damage their serotonin receptors. They fell into depression and their memories were compromised.
Van Der Saar’s thoughts were that anything can harm you if you abuse it—water could kill a person if they drink too much of it. Ecstasy opened his young mind and had given him experiences and friends that he wouldn’t have had otherwise.
It saddened him that the market was now saturated with E’s laced with PMA, Penalone and ketamine, amongst other things. His UK contact had told him that street dealers could now synthesise their own versions or buy it over the ‘dark web’. Then they’d cut it with all kinds of substances.
All this at best cheapened the experience for the user, and at worst, kill them.
Still, the discerning taker knew quality, and that’s why he was a millionaire many times over.
The chief chemist walked him through the rows of masked chemists. They were mostly hunched over the peri dishes with microscopes. It all seemed to be running smoothly.
In a couple of days, he was due to meet one of his British contacts. Van Der Saar liked the young Englishman; he seemed intelligent, respectful, and had a sharp sense of humour. He could fight too, as some of Van Der Saar’s contacts in the Amsterdam kickboxing and MMA attested; Reed always visited their gyms on his travels over here.
Connor had formed a link with a respected potential distributor in the UK. He was set to meet Van Der Saar in Amsterdam to discuss the details.
Ciara stood with the rest of the class in a semi-circle around the instructor. Connor had told her he was going to go down to an MMA class and she had tagged along. It was the same club he had attended the first night she had met him.
In a few hours, they’d be boarding a plane to Amsterdam. She would tell him her findings from the David Wright interview later.
Earlier, she had heard him in the other room talking to what sounded like a younger female relation. She thought the way he spoke to whoever Rayella was had been cute.
He seemed distracted throughout the class but he stayed on for the last twenty minutes of sparring. She watched him, as she stretched, climb into the cage with a larger, bearded guy in a vest.
Even though the instructor reiterated to take ‘the power out’ Connor’s opponent attacked him furiously from the start. At first, Connor seemed to control him without too much effort. After a few of the zealous antagonist’s strikes came close, Ciara could see Connor’s face change.
A quick spinning back kick thumped into the vest’s solar plexus, and he fell to his knees. She saw Connor say something to him.
The man got up with a cross between a grimace, and a sneer splashed on his face. He ran towards Connor punching. Her partner swayed from the waist to avoid the onslaught. The vest’s kick was checked, and his features scrunched up with pain.
A fusillade of Connor’s punches crashed through the defences. The bearded man fell back into the cage.
The instructor’s voice echoed in the training hall, “Here, calm it down the pair of ya.”
As Connor backed off at the words, the larger man launched himself at him.
A whipping left hook span the vest around before Connor’s right shin smashed off into the man’s temple. The vest’s limp body crashed to the floor. The instructor and another member scrambled into the cage as Connor left it.
He walked to her and said, “Let’s hope he’s not dead or brain damaged.”
There was no sarcasm in his voice. There was no concern either. Ciara observed that they managed to revive him.
Connor looked over and said, “He seems to be alright,” before looking back at her. “He shouldn’t have been playing with adults.”
“The adult thing to do is to go over and apologise.”
“Why?”
“A gesture.”
He shook his head, frowning.
“Connor. I realise he started it. But he has been humiliated now,” she said echoing what he had said over the phone.
Connor opened his mouth but shut it again. He went over.
Bruce walked with Janet Quigley.
Her Red Setters were bounding off the leash through the evening’s low mist. The air was fresh and crisp. The trees were preparing to bloom their leaves, and dew covered the grass.
Janet had invited him to meet her in Richmond Park. She had said on the phone that she had some information for him.
“So, Janet. Are you handing me the information now so we can enjoy our walk or are you going to keep me in suspense?”
“Oh I am sorry, where we supposed to drop our suitcases and then pick the other ones up.”
“I wouldn’t know. I am a civil servant.”
“Of course you are Mr McQuillan,” she said smiling. “I have a list of all the surgeons who have been struck off for malpractice in the last fifteen years.”
“As much as I appreciate that Janet, I already have that information.”
“Quite, but do you a list of all the struck off surgeons from all the Commonwealth nations.”
Bruce smiled. Jamie had been working on obtaining that very information. He was struggling as some of the records in some of these less developed countries were not placed on the computer systems as they ought to have been.
“That’s one way of getting into my good books,” he said.
“Oh really? And what are the perks of being in your good books?”
“That I pretend to like dogs and come on walks with you.”
Bruce flinched at his own words—this was flirting. He then realised this reaction was an old cognition rearing its head; he was no longer as deeply enmeshed in that dangerous world—he had an official role now. Maybe a statuesque blonde surgeon was what he needed at this time in his life. Still, he barely knew her.
She gave him a playful elbow. “What’s not to like about a pair of red-headed bitches?“
Bruce replied straight-faced, “I have a preference for brunettes.”
“Well that is a shame.”
“You’re very forward for lady with a voice so cultured,’” he said.
“Why? Does one find one crass?” she said, exaggerating her accent.
“Not at all,” he smiled.
He threw a
stick and the dogs hared off after it.
Ryan was trying to fight for mental clarity through the haziness. He could make out he was in some type of hospital. He began to stir.
A pleasant female voice sounded, “Mr Matthews, relax. You’ve been brought in because you’ve sustained a nasty head injury.”
He turned his head and focused on the nurse. She had red hair cut into a bob, slim figure, around her early thirties. He thought her especially pretty.
Ryan nodded numbly. His mind licked at the memory fragments—the canal, then police.
“Where…where are they”
“Who?”
“The police? They arrested me?”
“You were found in a car park next to a canal by a member of the public. An ambulance was called.”
The haze cloaked the nagging in the back of his head. “Oh OK.”
“We carried out some tests Mr Matthews. It seems you’ve irreparably damaged a kidney. Were you aware of this?”
“Errr. No, I mean. Someone kicked me?”
“There’s no evidence of that Mr Matthews. Are you a heavy drinker?”
Ryan mumbled, “Yes, I have been.”
“Well, not to worry Mr Matthews. You’re in good hands. You need your rest now.”
With that, she reached down and began turning a valve.
He wanted to say more but unconsciousness snatched him away.
Within a minute his heart stopped beating.
17
Connor and Ciara walked between the four storey buildings and canals of Amsterdam. He had been here several times and always liked it.
It was a city for adults, a certain freedom to it that the UK hadn’t. A cultural melting pot. He also liked that half the city rode around on bicycles.
Ciara did not turn heads so much here. Her unusual but confident dress sense that stood out in Birmingham was less uncommon in Amsterdam.
Today she wore a beige jacket lined at the neck with fur, a grey knitted beanie hat, blue jeans and brown knee-high boots.
He wore a blue and white patterned cardigan over an oatmeal t-shirt, stone jeans and brown boots. He was bringing Ciara up-to-date on his time in the city and the contacts he had made.
“Van Der Saar isn’t your stereotypical crime lord. He’s very gentlemanly, the best way to describe him is like…do you know anything about football?” asked Connor.
“Enough to get by.”
“So he’s like the Dutch version of Arsene Wenger in his manner and a bit of his appearance. He’s all about the customer’s experience on the drugs he supplies. That said, he’s utterly pitiless when pushed. Had the eyes taken out of distributor who continually took the piss by cutting Van Der Saar’s product.”
“Blind Marcus Bakker?”
“That’s him, bless him. Funny thing is. Van Der Saar set up a long-term money transfer to his mum for 1500 euros a month. I only know about that through Bruce’s tech guy.”
“Jamie?”
It surprised Connor that she knew him by name.
“Yeah, you know him? The Latin Spock.”
She laughed, “I haven’t met him personally. Why do you call him ‘Spock?’”
“Because he’s so intelligent and logical, it’s like his brain can’t process banter.”
“I see. So Van Der Saar; we’re meeting him tonight?”
“Yeah. That’s why our ‘relationship’, yours and mine, is one of business partners who may or may not fuck. If you were simply my girlfriend, I’d have had to attend the meeting alone.”
“OK. So we’re going to negotiate a deal as we have a new distributor lined up?”
“That’s one of the aims. The other is to feel him out about human trafficking for organs.”
“Because you know the Moroccans here may have had a hand in it?”
Connor smiled. “How do you know that?”
“Because I have my sources as well,” she said. “More to the point, why didn’t you tell me? We are supposed to be a team are we not?”
He felt the accusatory edge to her voice. “The information was tenuous at best, so I didn’t want to be making a fool of myself.”
“Alright, do you think Van Der Saar might be involved in that?”
“No, well, nothing is impossible but I highly doubt it. But he has eyes and ears throughout Europe not just here. We’ll have to be quite delicate in how we approach it. Don’t want him thinking we want to be part of it, or worse, to grass on those who do.”
They walked for a while with Connor leading. He enjoyed taking in the ambience. He also enjoyed Ciara’s company. He felt the same warmth as any man who looked at a pretty girl.
He had the suspicion that she wasn’t far off being as physically capable as him, and this attracted him too—women, will be the death of me.
They reached a coffeeshop. The smell of good coffee and pot hit Connor’s nostrils.
“Is there any coffee shops in Amsterdam that don’t allow marijuana to be smoked?”
“We’re in a coffeeshop—one word—, some of the coffee shops—two words—might. Why? You not having a joint?”
“Err, why are you?” said Ciara, looking surprised.
“Of course, I am in Amsterdam aren’t I. That’s like going to Mecca and not facing east before prostrating yourself on the ground. Although all the old Bingo biddies were looking at me funny last time I did that.”
“How many times have you done that joke?”
“About as many times as you have masturbated over thoughts of being in the middle of a Bruce Forsyth and Jeremy Clarkson sandwich.”
“Surely not that many times.”
It was his turn to laugh. She could be sharp with her wit, not like Grace but Ciara had surprised him once or twice.
“Here, we’ll sit with Keith Richards,” he said, indicating to the table with the mural of the Rockstar above it. There were similar murals of various Musicians including Jimi Hendrix.
“Seriously, aren’t we meant to be working?” she said as he ordered the coffees and asked for a herb menu.
“It’ll be out of our systems in a couple of hours, and it’s a walk back to the hotel. There are different strains, so you’re not monged out of your tits.”
“Quite a way with words you have.”
“Why pardon me. So doth one sharn’t become too inebriated.”
The waiter placed the menu in front of them, and they ordered black coffees.
“Do you want a joint or a spliff?”
“What’s the difference?”
“I thought you went to Uni?”
“I stayed away from all that in University. But I am here in Amsterdam. I don’t do cocaine either but I would in Colombia.”
He smiled approvingly. “A joint is made of tobacco and cannabis, hence term joint. A spliff is pure cannabis or a pure joint as they call it here. But back in the UK, the names are reversed. A spliff is a mix, and a joint is pure cannabis—don’t ask me why. So, do you want it with tobacco or pure cannabis?”
“Who’d have thought getting high was so much effort. No tobacco please unless it’ll help stop me getting ‘monged out of my tits’.”
Connor smiled. “We’ll go for this here,” he said pointing at the menu. “It’s a Sativa that’ll get you high but you’ll be clear headed—kind of.”
They ordered, and he began rolling a pair of taut joints.
“Is this where you laugh at the effect it’s going to have on me.”
“Well, we’ll see what exactly happens but to be honest I am glad to be here for your first experience.”
“So do you do this often?” she asked taking a drag.
“Not since I was a teenager, but I share your philosophy of ‘when in Rome, get high like the Romans do’.”
“How come you don’t do it in the UK? No good stuff out there?”
“Because I don’t want to be doing it with any degree of regularity. I don’t like anything having a hold on me. If I do it here, I can leave it here. Does that make se
nse?”
“Perfect sense,” she said. “I can feel it starting to take effect.”
Over the next couple of hours, they had a great time.
Tom Ryder was sat across from his Uncle Derek.
They were sat in the Mongolian Grill in the Leeds City centre. His Uncle Derek had been a silent partner for years. Not even the staff knew.
And Derek didn’t know that Tom knew.
Of all eight of the Ryder cousins, Tom was the eldest. His dad Ryan, though the youngest of the uncles, fathered him when he was seventeen.
Tom, a talented mechanic, owned several garages from Yeadon, Horsforth and Headingly. He genuinely enjoyed fixing cars and getting people back on the road.
However, he was also the primary enforcer for the family.
A compact man standing five feet eight inches, Tom had overheard himself being compared to Tommy from the film ‘Goodfellas’.
Although a superb fighter, at twelve stone he knew he couldn’t beat every man in Leeds in a fist fight. There were some eighteen stone animals roaming about. However, he also knew what everyone else in the upper echelons of street crime knew—that it was how far one was willing to go that ultimately counted. His Uncle Greg—his cousin Connor’s father—had proved that. Although his uncle apparently could defeat huge men with just his fists.
Tom Ryder had maimed, tortured and killed enough people in his late teens and early twenties, that he hadn’t had to raise his fists in anger for a good few years.
“You heard from our Connor lately?”
“Nah, not for a while.”
“It seems he’s been making waves down south. You know anything about that?”
Tom had heard but decided to downplay it. “Just bits and bats. Rumours.”
“Did you hear that he’s made one of Waseem Hussain’s enforcers a paraplegic?”
Tom replied, “Yeah I heard. I am sure he had his reasons.”
“Well, I’d like to know what they are. Why is he distancing himself away from us? He’s running wild down there and I don’t like it.”
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