by Ted Tayler
At the end of the third week in August, as Phil Hounsell and family were stepping off the plane from Marbella, news broke the Met had discovered the bodies of the ram-raid gang. At long last, their families learnt what had happened to them.
The press portrayed them as ‘victims’ which their criminal shenanigans suggested they certainly were not. But they were British rogues, slaughtered by foreign killers that should never have been allowed to enter the UK The headlines caught the mood of the country.
Phil had read the newspapers the next morning and wondered at the mentality of people these days. His leaving-do and the finalising of his exit from Portishead took place on Friday, August 30th. The DC was there both in the office and in the pub later. The ACC and others were otherwise engaged. Phil arrived home in a taxi, at about two in the morning three sheets in the wind; Erica saw that he was tucked up in bed safely but also made sure he got up by eight o’clock so he could get used to going shopping with her.
Phil had given hours of thought to what he might do now that his police career had ended. What were his strengths? Detecting was his expertise, but he didn’t fancy starting up as a private investigator. He thought he would try his hand as a security consultant. Erica came up with the name; she suggested Hounsell Security Services or HSS for short.
“What nature of security work do you think you might get offered?” she asked.
“I’ll circulate my details around the companies in the region and offer my services to help them avoid being robbed or defrauded for a start. We’ll see what that generates.”
It’s odd how the supermarket run can sometimes find one bumping into old faces. Erica had Phil on trolley duty and piled stuff into the basket while he coped with his hangover. He knew better than to expect any sympathy from his wife, so he looked at the other poor souls passing him.
“Morning Sir,” said a voice “don’t see you in here very often.”
It was Wayne Sangster, his companion from the Glastonbury weekend.
“Not ‘Sir’ any longer Wayne, I’m retired,” he replied.
“Got out at last then? Good for you. What are you doing with yourself?
“I’m starting a security consultancy, offering advice to firms, that sort of thing,” said Phil.
“You don’t want to be pissing around with that caper mate,” laughed Wayne, “the big money is in personal security. Looking after celebrities and Russian and Arab oligarchs.”
“How do you know so much about it Wayne,” asked Phil. Erica looked eager to move into the next aisle. Wayne manoeuvred his small trolley around to follow the couple.
“I did a bit of security before I joined; I told you I’d done quite a few jobs didn’t I?”
“You did Wayne. Are you still enjoying life?”
“There haven’t been many laughs since the weekend we worked together it has to be said. I thought of looking around for something else. I’ve got a couple of mates in the security business that I might give a call.”
Phil decided to make an executive decision; Erica was shelf-surfing a few yards in front, hunting for a specific brand of whatever that they had probably withdrawn from production. This could take a while.
“How do you fancy coming to work for me Wayne?” he asked.
“Do you have a uniform?”
Phil thought quickly.
“Of course; it will be a navy-blue shirt with epaulettes, and the HSS logo on the sleeve, black trousers, and boots. That sound okay?”
“You can count me in,” said Wayne.
Erica returned from a fruitless conversation with a spotty member of staff to find her husband and a strange man shaking hands vigorously.
“Good to have you on board Wayne,” said Phil, “would these mates of yours be interested in joining us, what do you reckon?”
Wayne agreed to check and start the ball rolling on getting himself out of the police service. Phil breathed a sigh of relief; the shopping run was finally completed. Erica still seemed miffed about the item she could no longer find. For his part, Phil was staggered that two adults and two children could demolish the loaded trolley he struggled to push towards the car in one week.
Monday, September 9th, 2013
Phil had rented office space above a dry-cleaning firm, far enough away from Bath city centre that the amount didn’t make his eyes water. Wayne arrived at two o’clock on the dot as he had agreed when he rang Phil earlier in the day. He was off-duty until Wednesday and counting the days. With holiday entitlement, he would be changing uniform for the umpteenth time after Friday. His two mates Dusty and Leggo had definitely been interested. The newcomers just wanted to know when Phil secured a decent-paying contract that made it worthwhile packing in their current jobs.
“Do we have the uniforms yet boss?” asked Wayne, always eager to start dressing up.
“All in good time. Let’s find work first,” said Phil.
“I might have an idea boss,” said Wayne, “while we worked together at Glastonbury I picked up loads of contacts. Dozens of people handed out cards and fliers and that. You never know when one of them might come in handy, so whenever someone stuck a hand out with an offer, I grabbed it. You’ve heard of that Honey B, the singer?”
Phil shook his head.
“She’s older than you, boss, she’s been around ages; upset a lot of people too. A bit of a diva. She’s starting a UK tour next Monday. I’ve just read in the Sun that she’s fired her security people. A car never turned up where and when it should have. Honey B got left standing on the pavement in Chelsea for ten minutes with the grubby public. She got recognised and people started grabbing hold of her and wanting photographs with her and all that stuff. Now advising her on security would be a nice little earner.”
“We don’t have the experience for that Wayne,” said Phil, “she’d hardly employ a brand new outfit like us.”
“Her first concert is in Bristol boss. She doesn’t have much time to get something in place, does she? I’ll get hold of her management people and tell her we’ll sort Monday night out and if she’s happy, we’ll take it from there. What have we got to lose?”
“What, just the two of us?” said Phil.
“I’ll get Dusty and Leggo to phone in sick if they’re working. We’ll be fine. It’s personal security boss, it’s only her we have to look after; the venue will have their own guys. We just need to liaise with them, collect her from the hotel, get her to the gig and away again afterwards, without her breaking a nail.”
Wayne’s confidence started to grow on Phil. He asked him for the number of Honey B’s management company and made the call himself.
“Good afternoon, I am ex-Detective Superintendent Hounsell; we have staff available with decades of experience in personal security. I understand you have a pressing problem regarding the security of your client at next Monday night’s concert in Bristol. We are based in Bath and are prepared to step into the breach. We will waive our fee for the night. If your client is happy with our work, we can negotiate a figure for the other dates on her UK tour. What do you say?”
Wayne looked impressed. Not with the waiving the fee bit. But how Phil covered all the bases and didn’t give the bloke on the other end a chance to breathe. Let alone pass comment.
Phil was listening to a voice on the other end of the line and making notes. Wayne watched intently. Phil ended the conversation.
“Well, boss?” asked Wayne.
“HSS have their first client; Honey B’s people will be in touch later in the week with the arrangements we need to make on Monday,” said Phil with a smile.
“What’s next then boss?” asked Wayne.
“What size collar are you? What waist and leg measurement? What logo should we have? Big boots at a guess?”
“Seventeen. Forty-two, thirty-three. A white horse. Size twelve boss.”
“Forty-two?” asked Phil.
“At a push boss, honest,” replied Wayne, “shall I ring Dusty and Leggo to get their measurement
s too?”
Uniforms for the three lads were sorted out and Phil agreed to a logo that looked remarkably like the Ferrari prancing horse, but in white with HSS below it. He decided to stick to a suit and tie.
The instructions for the Bristol concert arrived from the London office of the management company. Miss Honey B wanted plenty for her money, which in this case was literally something for nothing. Phil sat in the office and went through the items and set out a timetabled procedure. If Wayne and the others followed this to the minute, they should be fine.
It was like planning a raid and getting the resources to arrive on cue at exactly the right time. Phil found he enjoyed the exercise; this time, they had an end result. Even if raids he organised went off without a hitch, someone screwed up further along the line and the criminals only received a caution or got off altogether.
He sent the schedule he’d prepared off to London. He got back a reply within minutes, saying his plan had been accepted. Honey B had given HSS the task of keeping her safe on Monday night.
Phil asked Wayne on Thursday evening if he could track down a good limousine firm. Naturally, Wayne had half a dozen cards in his possession. A car was secured. The flowers and champagne ordered. The exact blend of aromas on standby to be introduced via the air-conditioning to the interior of the vehicle while Honey B was on board.
Wayne was the designated driver for the evening. Dusty Miller and Jake Legg stationed themselves on the pavement outside the stage door of the venue.
The limousine arrived on the dot, Honey B swept from her Clifton hotel and into the back of her sweet-smelling stretch limousine. The door closed quietly behind her. The drive to the venue was smooth. It left not a smidgen to complain over; even for a diva. Wayne eased to a halt by Dusty and Leggo. Phil tapped on the stage door.
Honey B waited until Dusty opened the door and then she emerged to screams and flashing cameras and phones. Dusty and Leggo closed the gap to surround their charge and she was inside the sanctuary of the theatre in seconds. The stage door slammed shut behind her. Honey B gave Phil Hounsell a head to toe appraisal.
“Mr Hounsell?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am, Chief executive of HSS at your service. Your dressing room is this way.”
“I’ve been here a dozen times before,” she hissed. “I know the way.”
The room had also been given the diva treatment. Phil was glad he wasn’t paying for that lot too; this venue must be charging a fortune for tickets, he thought.
The concert got underway within ten minutes; a warm-up act played a brief set and then it was time for Honey B to take to the stage. The manager was praying nothing would go wrong.
“The audience will expect a two-hour show, but she can be fickle. If she gets it into her head she’s not feeling the love then she’ll walk off after an hour. Another night she’ll do an extra fifteen minutes.”
“What will she do at the end, assuming she does the straight two hours?” asked Phil.
“Your guess is as good as mine. She might run off the stage and collect her things from the dressing-room. She’ll expect you to be ready to whisk her straight back to Clifton. Last time she played here she was hanging around in the room, cooling down and finishing off her champagne, chatting to staff. Quite often she’ll have one glass before she takes to the stage and the rest is wasted.”
Phil raised an eyebrow.
“Well, it would be wasted if the staff didn’t look after it,” the manager replied.
It was time for Honey B to sing to her adoring public, Phil stood in the wings and watched. He had to admit she sounded good. He recognised one or two of the tunes; his mother had several of Honey B’s earliest hits on vinyl. He decided against mentioning it if she deigned to talk to him later.
Almost two hours had passed; Phil texted Wayne and told him to bring the car round to the stage door. Dusty and Leggo lingered backstage, primed for action. Truth be told they were having a coffee and nipping outside now and then for a cigarette. Honey B finished her set with one of her greatest hits. She left the stage to rapturous applause. She smiled.
Phil noticed that the smile didn’t reach her eyes. As she made her way to the dressing room her beady eyes appeared to be darting left and right. As if she was searching to find something to justify a tantrum. A strange woman and no mistake. He needed to tread carefully.
Honey B entered the room and went to close the door. She paused and turned back towards him.
“Will you drink a glass of champagne with me before we leave Mr Hounsell? I hate to drink alone.”
“I’ll keep you company, ma’am,” he said and took the proffered glass.
Honey B threw a wrap around her shoulders and sat in a comfortable chair. She studied Phil over the top of her glass as she sipped her drink. Phil didn’t enjoy the way she looked at him; not a pleasant inspection, more like a surgical dissection. He looked at the photos and cards that festooned the table in front of them. The room was full of roses; dozens of them, all splashes of red and yellow.
Near her handbag lay a photo that didn’t fit. The rest looked like signed pictures of Honey B alone or unsigned shots with a fan at an exotic location somewhere around the world. This one was a hastily framed shot of a man and a woman. They had been snapped leaving a building. Phil’s heart almost jumped out of his chest. It looked like the two people he had met at Glastonbury at the end of June. He was convinced of it. Why on earth did Honey B have a photograph of them?
Behind the public mask of Honey B, Demeter spotted the security consultant’s sudden reaction; her mind raced. How could this ex-policeman know Athena and Phoenix? Her colleague had taken these pictures in Curzon Street as they left the Olympus meeting. Shortly before he travelled to Ibiza to carry out a small task for her and her friends. She hoped to unmask the true identity of her male opponent. Could this man hold the key?
Honey B soon switched back to her day-to-day persona. She drained her glass and told Phil she was ready to leave. As he moved to the door to summon Dusty and Leggo, Honey B caught hold of his sleeve.
“Thank you for tonight. Call my office tomorrow; name your price and you can be my personal security people for the rest of the tour.”
Phil Hounsell thanked Honey B, trying not to sound too grateful. He didn’t want to overdo it. She could be fickle and the chill that ran through his arm as she touched his wrist unsettled him.
As she swept away from the stage door in Wayne’s stretch limousine he thought they must be doing something right. HSS was up and running.
In the back of the car, Demeter was purring gently. What a stroke of luck to stumble across someone who clearly recognised Phoenix.
“I believe we are both hunting the same man, Mr Hounsell,” she muttered. “I shall have to keep you close by my side. What fun we might have.”
CHAPTER 2
Monday, August 5th, 2013
While Phil Hounsell wrapped up his police career on one side of the county, matters in August had started on a more sombre note at Larcombe Manor.
Athena and a handful of mourners attended the funeral of William Horatio Hunt. Erebus was laid to rest between the graves of his beloved wife Elizabeth and their daughter Helen. The family vault could now be sealed. The generations of the Hunt family that had occupied Larcombe for five hundred years would see no further coffins arriving to join them.
Athena shed tears for Erebus, her mentor, as she stood in the vault beside Minos. Her cheeks already dampened by the showers that had greeted the small congregation as they followed the coffin onto the hillside cemetery that overlooked the Hunt family estate.
The gods expressed their displeasure at the manner of Erebus’s death; as the mourners left the dark recesses of the vault they emerged to violent claps of thunder. Seconds later sheet lightning illuminated the hillside on the opposite side of the valley.
“I understand,” said Athena quietly, “but you can rely on me. I will discover who was responsible for his death and take our reveng
e.”
Minos placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.
“We owe Erebus a tremendous debt of gratitude. Olympus could never have existed without his vision and drive. This nation has no idea how many lives the missions our agents have carried out saved over the past six years. A simple ceremony such as that was scant reward for his true significance.”
Athena nodded. “We will each of us remember him in our own way, Minos. But, the integrity of the Project had to be maintained. As much as we might wish to proclaim his name from the rooftops and demand the headlines he deserves, that was never going to be possible.”
The party of mourners from the Olympus Project HQ gathered in the car park at the entrance to the cemetery. Athena stood for a moment and gazed across the hillside to the mausoleum. No one spoke.
Athena turned and walked to the cars from the transport section. Time to return to Larcombe. There was to be no wake; no maudlin recollections of a life well-lived. It had to be back to business; battles needed to be fought and debts must be paid.
In the orangery, Phoenix sifted through the reports Rusty prepared following his recce into the ‘beds in sheds’ situation in Outer London. Phoenix had been denied the opportunity to attend his saviour’s funeral along with many others who worked here at headquarters.
His true identity had been closely guarded since his arrival at the beginning of July, three years ago. The day Colin Bailey ceased to exist and the Phoenix was born. The struggle to keep that knowledge hidden had been made doubly difficult now Artemis worked in the ice-house. Zara Wheeler and Colin Bailey had a history.
The young ex-policewoman lived at Larcombe with Rusty Scott, his closest friend. Disillusioned with the modern role of policing she joined forces with Olympus. Phoenix had no idea what she might do with the knowledge of his past life should it ever be uncovered. Until Artemis could be trusted one hundred per cent, Phoenix had to resort to creeping around the estate. He moved between the rooms he shared with Athena and the orangery which became his sanctuary. Trips to the ice-house and the other facilities were strictly controlled. Phoenix felt like a caged animal. Not a feeling he relished.
