by Ted Tayler
“Concentrate man,” he chided himself, as he leafed through the reams of intelligence that Rusty had gathered.
The background of the rents crisis in London was clear for anyone to see. The city had built new homes at around half the pace needed to satisfy the intensifying demand. Its population set to surge past nine million before the end of the decade. Average rents had risen by over fifteen per cent in the past two years. The poor devils forced to rent the roof over their heads to live in the vast, sprawling metropolis parted with an average of over twelve hundred pounds per month.
Phoenix looked at his surroundings. The elegant, refined orangery he and Erebus used for their private meetings for over two years. He knew just how much he owed the old gentleman. How different his life might have been if Erebus hadn’t marked him out as a potential recruit for Olympus.
After Sue Owens died Phoenix had been left a wealthy man, but money was no substitute for family. Larcombe was now his family home. Erebus had been the father figure he never knew as a child. Athena was his partner for life, and she carried their child. Phoenix felt at one with his surroundings for the first time in his life.
Phoenix knew the direct actions he planned were challenging. The capital held many thousands of families and individuals who wanted nothing more than to experience the sense of calm and ‘belonging’ he experienced. Whenever an opportunity arose to make a profit out of ambitions such as those, unscrupulous people always stood waiting to take advantage.
Rusty identified two targets as meriting special attention.
Hounslow, a West London Borough had its share of rogue landlords. Oscar Friedman, a grocery shop owner, started to expand his property portfolio twenty years ago. To the customers that visited his shop every day Oscar was a quiet, attentive grocer in his mid-sixties who charged over the odds for his fresh produce.
As far as anyone knew, Friedman merely rented out the rooms above the shop. Oscar and his wife lived in the more sophisticated climes just over the borders of the Borough in Richmond. Retirement beckoned and they were certain to have put enough by to see them live out their days in moderate comfort.
The truth behind the public face of Oscar Friedman proved to be far more sinister. He employed an agent to look after the properties that provided his main income. Sylvester Read, a former estate agent, was single and in his late thirties. He spent his leisure time watching or participating in his favourite sport. Sylvester was a cage fighter. Violence his answer to most problems. If the problem needed extra muscle, he called Frank DeAngelo.
DeAngelo was a thug for hire. He had spent more than half his adult life in prison. Frank wasn’t the brightest senior citizen on the planet, but he came from an Italian family that arrived in London in the 1920s. There had been a DeAngelo family member filling the role of ‘enforcer’ in nearly every organised crime gang in the capital since that time.
Rusty had gathered evidence on the Borough and the impact of uncontrolled immigration. He identified the long list of properties Friedman owned and the methods Read employed to constantly improve the returns on his employer’s investments.
Hounslow had been a rural area in the not too distant past. Now, many areas resemble shantytowns. There were twenty thousand gardens with ramshackle sheds or outbuildings of different sizes. Many rented out illegally. Two years ago the census showed the official population at a quarter of a million. That number, only two years later, stood closer to three hundred thousand.
Shed-renting had reached crisis point. The council set up a special squad to tackle the problem. The squad now carries out dawn raids; properties that break planning rules are sometimes destroyed. Too often though the landlord only receives a warning.
The knock-on effects of the housing crisis are easy to see. Local schools have to accommodate hundreds of extra pupils. Many are the children of newly-arrived migrants; while others are from families moved out of Central London to cut housing benefit costs. Doctors’ surgeries, dental practices, rubbish collection and the sanitation system are stretched beyond capacity.
Criminal landlords, such as Oscar Friedman, made huge profits from the most vulnerable people in society. Families trapped into living in squalor in little more than shacks, yet paying hundreds of pounds a month in rent.
Sylvester Read’s response to questions from inspectors from the council squad was as flimsy as the fabrications that Friedman’s tenants occupied. Yet it was tough to prove that many of the buildings were definitely places where people lived. The council squad needed to give the landlord notice of an inspection visit.
Oscar merely phoned Read and when the inspectors arrived the next day the families were at work; the children at school. If a wife stayed at home with an infant, she moved up the street to another house. The grocer owned more than a dozen properties on one street alone. The council might have their suspicions, but obtaining the proof turned out to be as elusive as a winning lottery ticket.
Phoenix read page after page of escalating harassment and intimidation. Sylvester Read and Frank DeAngelo dished out racist and homophobic abuse on a regular basis. The pair made frequent late-night visits to properties with no prior warning. Tenants complained locks were being changed while they worked. Services such as hot water and heating often got disconnected.
Repairs and maintenance on properties were withdrawn to the level where they became uninhabitable. This happened most often with single-occupancy apartments. Once the tenant had been forced to move out Friedman had a ready supply of families prepared to pay more rent. Overcrowding wasn’t a word in his dictionary.
Rusty talked to a disabled lady in her fifties, who had lived in one of Friedman’s flats for eight years. She kept herself to herself, and always paid her rent on time. Despite her physical limitations, she kept the place clean and tidy. Read paid her a visit.
He forced her to sign an agreement that reduced her rights. Two Somali men moved into the attic space above her flat. They tried to break into her flat to rob her on several occasions. The poor woman was terrified they might do far worse than rob her. She quit the flat and within a week a family of seven migrants occupied the place she had called home.
Phoenix spotted another familiar story in the file. A young bank worker in her twenties moved into Hounslow from Brighton. Read told her initially he had nothing available for someone wishing to live alone. He suggested she shared accommodation with a group of fellow professionals. The young girl was away from home for the first time. He persuaded her to at least meet her potential housemates.
Read picked her up after work and drove her to the property; a five bedroomed Victorian house converted into flats. When they pulled up in the driveway outside he explained to her that each flat already contained three tenants. As they climbed the stairs to the top floor, Sylvester Read pointed to a newly installed set of stairs leading to the loft.
“We’re installing an apartment up there. Will you feel more comfortable being on your own? If so, this could be just what you need. You can still enjoy the company of the others in the communal areas.”
The young girl was ecstatic; even though the rent was high she grabbed at the chance and arranged to move in as soon as the flat became ready. Within six weeks, Oscar Friedman had decided rents needed to be increased across his property portfolio. The young bank worker was distraught. The true costs of living away from home had started to hit home. She called Sylvester Read to ask if he knew of anywhere cheaper on his employer’s books? Was it possible for her to move into one of the other flats in the house to help her new friends with the extra burden they had to stand?
Read called around in person. Well, of course, he did, thought Phoenix. The slimy agent turned up at the loft apartment, late at night. The young girl told Rusty ‘his breath reeked of alcohol. He apologised, of course, he said he appreciated the financial impact of a rent rise was unfortunate. It was difficult to see a way forward. The landlord insisted on three occupants as a maximum, and a minimum. He believed it resulted in
less unwanted interference between the sexes with that arrangement.’
Read then suggested a solution to her problem. What if he waived the rent increase in exchange for sex? The young girl had been horrified and ordered the agent out of her flat. Read merely shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll pop round tomorrow night sweetheart, to see if you’ve come to your senses. If not, the extra money will be due in full, for this month and next. If you can’t pay, then you’ll be in breach of our agreement. I will tell my boss you’re a flight risk and might disappear without paying what you owe. He’ll want you out of here in days. It’s up to you.”
Rusty had detailed the sorry tale. The girl had opened the door to Read the following night. For the next eight months, while she hunted high and low for a flat outside the Borough, Sylvester Read visited her on a regular basis. The violence that typified his lifestyle continued in the bedroom. She was depressed and withdrawn. Her haunted look when being interviewed shocked even Rusty, a hardened soldier. She was still battling to mend her broken life in a woman’s shelter in Chiswick.
“This direct action is going to be a pleasure,” said Phoenix as he moved deeper into the file. Friedman bought property after property in the same style as the semi-detached Victorian house he had just studied. Most had been converted for multi-occupancy letting and the tenants were white, middle-aged to elderly business people. As the years passed, Read and DeAngelo carried out Friedman’s orders. They were ordered to move these people out so that large migrant families could be moved in to replace them.
Not everyone wanted to leave. DeAngelo called around late at night and used his fists to mete out a mild beating. If the message hadn’t been received loud and clear by one visit Read and DeAngelo called back together. The beatings became more severe.
The violence continued to escalate as the numbers of immigrants flowing into the country increased. Many of these new arrivals arrived here illegally; others had outstayed student visas and evaded deportation orders. It’s not difficult to find a hiding place in a city of over eight million souls. As soon as there was any sign of trouble from one of these tenant families Friedman reacted. Complaints on the state of the ramshackle properties they were housed in resulted in Friedman getting his lackeys to pay a visit.
Warnings were given that their illegal status could be made known to the authorities if they didn’t pay up and keep quiet. If the message wasn’t heeded, then Read forced himself on the wives while DeAngelo subdued the husbands and made them watch.
Fewer and fewer of Friedman’s properties still remained in the hands of the tenants living there at the outset. Indeed, the turnover was rapid. There was evidence in Rusty’s file of dozens of tenants living in fear; too frightened to seek protection from the police. The thugs targeted anyone that didn’t fit their twisted idea of normality.
Two men in a civil partnership were terrorised by Read and DeAngelo. They suffered verbal abuse for months. When the thugs wanted to persuade them to leave the flat they shared, they arrived on a Sunday afternoon and tried to force the pair to agree to leave. The older man tried to argue with Read. He insisted they had rights. He had arranged to see a lawyer in the morning to put an end to this harassment.
DeAngelo grabbed the younger man by the wrist and forced the palm of his right-hand flat on the tabletop in front of his partner.
“Rights?” he bellowed. “You ain’t got no rights.”
With that, he pulled out a knife and stabbed it into the man’s hand. It pinned his hand to the table. The screams echoed around their apartment and the other flats in the house for days. There was no visit to the lawyer. The whole property became available for new tenants within days.
Phoenix looked at his watch. Athena should have returned from the funeral. He was sick to his stomach with what he had read so far. The first targets had been identified and confirmed. Time to read stories of the Irish mafia in Ealing later. He needed to get a breath of fresh air.
Phoenix checked there was nobody in the vicinity of the orangery, and the pathways were empty. With a glance over his shoulder towards the old stable block and the ice-house for any signs of Rusty or Artemis, he headed over to the main house.
He found Athena sat by the window looking out over the manicured lawns. She held the silver-framed photograph of Erebus and his wife Elizabeth against her bosom. Phoenix could see her tear-stained cheeks. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head.
“Hard saying goodbye to those you love isn’t it?” he said.
“Even harder when you know that they were taken from you before their time,” said Athena.
“We’ll find out who was responsible and avenge him soon enough, Athena.”
“Have you kept busy while I was gone?” she asked.
“I feel dirty,” he growled. “After reading Rusty’s reports into the vermin that live in the big city; I need a shower.”
“I think I might join you,” Athena smiled and took his hand. “I have a favour I need to ask.”
“Lead on,” said Phoenix, trying not to appear too eager.
“Mummy and Daddy are home soon from the south of France; we need to pay them a visit. I want a united front when we break the news to them they will be grandparents in the New Year.”
“Ah,” said a deflated Phoenix.
“You’re going to be there, so that’s final,” said Athena,
The thought of interrogation by her father inside the Fox family home in Vincent Gardens, Belgravia was terrifying to a simple West Country lad.
“How do you think they’ll react to having a vigilante killer as a prospective son-in-law?”
“One step at a time,” replied Athena, “we’ll tell them our news of the baby first. Then we can let them get used to the idea we’re a permanent item before we mention the ‘M’ word.”
“Oh, they know we’re a permanent item then?” asked Phoenix, surprised.
Athena blushed. “They know we work closely together for the charity; I always catch them looking at one another whenever I mention your name. With them being abroad most of the year, and Mummy’s heart problem always having to be taken into account, I haven’t confirmed their suspicions in so many words.”
“Awkward,” said Phoenix as they reached the shower in their en-suite bathroom.
“Maybe we should discuss what we’re going to say to them?” said Athena, slipping out of her clothes.
“Later,” said Phoenix.
CHAPTER 3
I never imagined myself as a sailor. My parents enjoyed the sea-going life while they lived together. As long as it came with a crew and plenty of bottles of champagne. We could be found on the Isle of Wight in August for Cowes Week with monotonous regularity when I was a teenager. In those days my mother left on a cruise ship for the Mediterranean or the Caribbean not long after we returned home.
My stepfather didn’t want me hanging around while they wined and dined with the yachting fraternity. So I got packed off with an old local fisherman every afternoon of our three or four-week stay. He took his boat out to the lobster pots and pootled around the coastal waters teaching me how to steer his little craft. When we were lucky and I wasn’t bored out of my skull, we even caught a few fish with a rod and line. I still recall the occasional flounder or bass I managed to land unaided.
My guardian didn’t worry being that successful with his own fishing expeditions; my stepfather paid him well. As the summers ticked past and I grew older, Michael Woodford passed on more valuable information than I realised at the time. He was a man of few words; for which, I was grateful.
The silences were heaven, as home life had become one screaming match after another. It was only a matter of time before my parents went their separate ways. Michael explained the vagaries of the tides, vectors, and races in the currents around the island. I thought it went in one ear and out the other; but by the time we made our ferry trip from Yarmouth to Lymington, I had subconsciously absorbed enough information to help me throu
gh what lay ahead.
Michael Woodford had retired. My stepfather had been set adrift. Not literally, of course, but he no longer travelled the ferry crossing in August after I turned seventeen. I accompanied my mother to social functions during Cowes Week for the first time.
Although she was at pains to point out I was her companion, not her toy-boy, I spotted a knowing look on several faces we met. Those faces belonged to upper-class clientele in the clubs and harbourside restaurants we visited that summer. They clearly thought once her last husband had gone, that my mother had hunted down his son as her new partner.
Mother had her reasons for denying my existence. I didn’t fully understand them as a child, but at seventeen, I appreciated the logic behind her misdirection.
The links between a mother and son, and vice-versa are stronger than marriage. No matter where she went, or who she lived with, we stayed in close contact. I owed her everything. I could refuse her nothing.
When I moved to London at eighteen to seek my fortune, I did so with a generous allowance. She made a promise that capital was available, should I identify a market opportunity that helped me make my own fortune.
When that opportunity arose, I grabbed it with both hands. A decade later I still reaped the benefits. From time to time, my mother needed a favour in return. How could I refuse? She had made other similar requests to the one she made in January. I flew out to Ibiza for a weekend visit.
I watched from inside a café on the marina as Gavin helped William Hunt carry his small suitcase on board the yacht ‘Elizabeth.’ I followed the old man as he walked along the tree-lined promenade after breakfast. I stood twenty feet to his left, leaning on the black-painted iron railings as we both admired the sandy beach.
