The Phoenix Series Box Set 2

by Ted Tayler

  Phoenix smiled. “There will be lifting involved tonight, but we’ll do it together. You can spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing. I’ll run through things for tomorrow and finalise our plans for dealing with the two landlords.”

  In Hounslow, Sylvester Read finished work for the day at half-past five. Oscar Friedman didn’t need his services this evening. Read was off to a gym in Staines Road for a training session. He needed to keep sharp for the cage fighting and he owed it to the females of the city to keep his body in shape. Sylvester had a high opinion of his appearance; most of the women he abused held a very different view.

  He changed into shorts and a cutaway vest that showed off his over-developed upper body. He looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror he had installed on the door of his personal locker. He liked what he saw; except for his legs. They needed work. Compared to his torso they lacked muscle and definition. He went into the gym and began a series of sets and reps; he did standing and seated calf raises. Then he moved on to barbell squats and dumbbell lunges. After several items of equipment, he needed to take a breather.

  Sylvester Read towelled down and took a swig of his energy drink. He scanned the gym searching out the female talent. There were several young women here tonight. Most of them were regulars and he had either discounted them or they had knocked him back. He wasn’t worried; there was always plenty of choices. Anyway, if he went short for a while, he could always find a willing tenant, after a bit of persuasion.

  Sylvester started to think about Frank DeAngelo. Odd that he hadn’t turned up for work today. He didn’t ring in to say he was ill. He thought he’d finish up his workout with a few bench presses and drop in on the old bugger on his way home. The bench presses should impress that young blonde over on the rowing machine. He could see the reflection of her breasts fighting to escape from her top in the mirrored wall she was facing. She was a new face. Maybe Frank could wait until the morning.

  He began adding weights to the bar on the guillotine press. He wanted to give the newcomer a show. He loaded one-hundred and forty kilos onto the bar and laid back on the bench.

  The blonde had finished her routine and moved away to the opposite corner of the room. Sylvester didn’t notice her leave, nor did he realise that he was out of sight of most of the other gym users at this time of the evening. Using a medium width grip, he lifted the bar from the rack and held it over his neck with his arms locked to achieve his starting position.

  As he breathed in, he lowered the bar slowly until it was an inch from his neck. After a second pause, he brought the bar back to the starting position, breathing out and pushing the bar using his chest muscles. He locked his arms and squeezed his chest in the contracted position, held it for a second and then started coming down half as slowly as he had risen. Sylvester Read knew how important it was to be in full control of the barbell at all times.

  He had seen the safety notices on many occasions, but he rarely read them. They were for pussies. He was ready to repeat the movement for a further eleven repetitions. As he breathed in, he sensed movement. Two shadows hovered over him in shorts and t-shirts.

  “I don’t need any spotters guys; thanks for the offer,” he said.

  “We just wanted to help you out,” said Rusty.

  Sylvester carried on his repetitions; on the seventh when he locked his arms out, he felt something had changed. This was wrong, very wrong. The bar had drifted too far forward. He couldn’t control the weight. Why had he been so ambitious and put too much weight on the bar to impress that bloody girl?

  All these thoughts flashed through Sylvester Read’s mind as the bar fell onto his upper chest. His two tormentors stood and watched as his life ebbed away. It looked painful, but neither of the Olympus agents was overly concerned. They kept an eye on the other gym users to see whether anyone had heard anything amiss.

  They needn’t have worried. Anyone who used the Staines Road gym and knew Read kept out of his way. He was a nasty piece of work. Well, he had been. When they were satisfied he was dead, Phoenix and Rusty slipped quickly and quietly away. They changed and went outside to retrieve the van. It was time for a bite to eat and a good night’s sleep. They still had two more names on their list for tomorrow.

  Thursday, August 22nd, 2013

  In the morning, the news was encouraging from Giles in his eight o’clock update. The death of an overweight senior citizen after a strenuous session in a local swimming pool had raised no suspicions.

  The local radio station reported the death of a former estate agent, Sylvester Read in a tragic accident. Mr Read, who was in his late thirties had died from crush injuries while lifting heavy weights. It was believed he was alone at the time of the accident. A female member, Hanti Cronje, a twenty-six-year-old financial analyst from South Africa said she saw Mr Read working out aggressively earlier. She had been on the other side of the gym when the accident occurred. The police have questioned the owners of the gym and are satisfied there was no safety issue that contributed to Mr Read’s death.

  The bodies of the two men killed in an explosion in a car park in Wembley had been identified. They were described as ‘working in the security business for a local landlord’. Their employer, Patrick Flynn, forty-eight, had offices in Perivale. He was unavailable for comment last evening.

  Police enquiries were ongoing. They appealed for witnesses. Detective Inspector Adebiyi Cisse said that at this stage the police were keeping an open mind. “It bears the hallmarks of a terrorist attack, but the victims had no links to terrorism, nor is there any apparent reason for them to be targeted. We are looking into the possibility the business they were involved in might be significant. Anyone with any information should contact Crimestoppers.”

  “It looks as if we’ve created enough of a smoke-screen there then Phoenix?” said Rusty, after Giles had completed his report.

  “Yeah, Giles will keep tabs on the situation, though, he’s ready to sprinkle disinformation here and there if it’s needed. Of course, we can nudge the police further into the murky world of slum landlords later when we remove the ‘unavailable for comment’ Mr Flynn.”

  “Has that altered your plans?” asked Rusty.

  “It won’t be an accident, that goes without saying,” Phoenix replied.

  “Who do we pay a visit to first, Oscar Friedman or Patrick Flynn?”

  “Oscar will be working in the grocery shop this morning. He takes the afternoon off on Thursdays to take his wife to the hairdressers. She has a two-thirty p.m. appointment every week at a salon in Hounslow. He fetches her over from their home in Richmond. Evidently, she’s been going to the same place for over forty years. While she’s getting her blue rinse tidied up for the weekend, Oscar goes to a local park to sit on a bench and people-watches.”

  Later that day, the two agents sat side by side on a bench in a park in Hounslow. On the other side of the walkway sat an elderly Jewish gentleman. He was ‘people-watching’. The two men were each studying him over the top of a daily newspaper.

  “Off you go then Phoenix,” said Rusty, “time to collect the equipment from the van.”

  “I’ll leave you to get Friedman to the rendezvous point,” said Phoenix, getting up and walking to where they had parked the van. This was going to be the most audacious part of their mission but in many ways the most satisfying.

  Phoenix collected the heavy fire extinguisher. Rusty walked Mr Friedman to his car. Phoenix checked nobody walking or sitting in the park was taking any notice of what was happening here, under the trees, where the grocer’s car was parked. Rusty had identified himself as a council official. He informed Oscar Friedman it had come to their attention that a safety inspection had raised issues at one of his nearby properties.

  The elderly grocer protested his innocence, but Rusty was adamant that a quick ten minutes of his time could save him hassle. Friedman got in and Rusty sat in the front passenger seat.

  Phoenix put the fire extinguisher in the boot.
r />   “My colleague will be joining us,” said Rusty.

  Oscar Friedman looked even more nervous as he saw Phoenix appear in his rear-view mirror.

  “Reverse out and turn left then second right, please Mr Friedman. This won’t take long.”

  Oscar did as he was told. He didn’t want any trouble with the council. He was racking his brains trying to think of what could be causing any ‘issues’. He would have had a serious word with poor Sylvester Read if he hadn’t killed himself last evening trying to blow his muscles up like balloons. His death was very inconvenient. Who was going to do the dirty work now?

  “This is it, No. 148, Manor Road,” said Rusty. Friedman parked in the driveway.

  Phoenix got out of the car and opened the driver’s door.

  “Come with me Mr Friedman,” he said, taking a firm grip on the old man’s arm.

  Rusty went to the boot. He waited until the pavement was clear and a car had passed. He removed the fire extinguisher from the boot, slammed it shut, and followed Phoenix into the house. The ground floor flats were occupied and name tags on the wall outside identified the occupants.

  “You might remember this place, Mr Friedman,” said Phoenix. “The first floor will be ready for use in a week or two, but the top floor won’t be in a fit state to be let out for ages.”

  Oscar Friedman felt a chill run down his spine; even though it was a very warm afternoon in August.

  Phoenix had chosen this property for a purpose. Friedman had crammed ten people into this house. The unscrupulous landlord put his tenants' lives at risk by neglecting to ensure an adequate fire safety system was in place. It was a typical example of the properties in his empire where he put greed before his tenants’ welfare.

  Following an investigation by the council last year, Friedman had been required to limit the maximum number of people at the property to six. He was ordered to install a fire warning and protection system. A later visit had revealed the same number of tenants, inadequate fire doors, a lack of smoke and heat detectors. There were no emergency illuminated exit signs on the stairs or to the fire escape at the rear.

  Phoenix knew the courts had imposed a heavy fine when the case went to court, reflecting the seriousness of the offences. However, the landlord and his employees were not persuaded to change their ways.

  A young family of illegal immigrants was given the key to a box-room designed for single occupancy. The husband was at work during the day; his wife and young child were at home. Sylvester Read and Frank DeAngelo made regular visits to No. 148, Manor Road, intimidating tenants on all three floors.

  They found the wife trying to dry washing over a radiator that didn’t work on their last visit. Frank DeAngelo had gone outside and retrieved an ancient tumble dryer that someone had thrown into a skip.

  The consequences were fatal a week later when the tumble dryer burst into flames in the tiny flat. The mother couldn’t speak English and was scared to call for help in case their illegal status was exposed. She got the child away from the flames and covered him with her clothing. Both died from smoke inhalation. There was serious damage to the apartments on the top floor and debris fell through into the flats below.

  Read had been on the ground floor hassling another couple when this occurred. People upstairs who were at home, ran downstairs to raise the alarm. Read rang for the fire brigade. DeAngelo was sent upstairs.

  By the time the brigade arrived to put out the fire, any evidence of human fatalities had disappeared. Frank DeAngelo had wrapped the bodies in a carpet from the landing and taken them out by the rear fire escape. Read had waited until the husband returned from work, told him his wife had started the fire deliberately and run away. He threatened to hand him over to the authorities if he didn’t salvage any belongings that hadn’t been destroyed and make himself scarce.

  “You see, we do our research, Mr Friedman,” said Phoenix. “My colleague here talked to the husband at a hostel. He was waiting to hear if he was going to be deported. He now knows what happened to his family, because my colleague also heard from people who lived in flats on the first floor. They told him the noise the dryer made and that they heard the child running around on the wooden floors above them that afternoon. They noticed the missing carpet from the landing. The debris the firemen removed was loaded into the skip still standing outside in the street at the time. The debris was piled on top of an old carpet.”

  “I didn’t know, they never told me. You can’t blame me for their deaths,” whined Friedman.

  “But we do, Mr Friedman,” said Rusty. “If you had limited the multi-occupancy building to six as ordered and carried out the safety instructions to the letter, this would never have happened.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” asked the landlord.

  Phoenix looked at the fire extinguisher.

  “I think the punishment should fit the crime,” he replied.

  CHAPTER 8

  As they drove towards Perivale for their final appointment, Rusty wondered how Mrs Friedman would get home to Richmond this afternoon. Her husband should have turned up to collect her by now. She would be getting worried. If she wanted to continue her regular Thursday afternoon trips to chat with her old friends she needed to book a taxi in future.

  Oscar Friedman lay dead on the floor at the very top of No. 148, Manor Road. A heavy fire extinguisher lay beside him. It would be the next day before workmen discovered him as they continued to refurbish the flats. They recognised his car in the drive and thought he had called around to complain how long they were taking.

  The police would attend the scene. It appeared to be a bizarre accident. In the past, the landlord had been fined for issues with fire regulations. How ironic then that when visiting one of his many buildings he dislodged a fire extinguisher from scaffolding. It had been left by the builders in the high-vaulted ceilings of the upper floor. The elderly grocer had died from a crushed skull.

  The builders denied any knowledge of the fire extinguisher. The police assumed that Sylvester Read or Frank DeAngelo must have been responsible. Sadly, neither was available for questioning. A male and female officer were sent to Richmond to inform the grocer’s widow of his demise.

  As the first officer on the scene left to return to the station he reflected on the recent deaths of three men associated with the building he had attended. All very sudden, nothing suspicious about either of them. It only went to show; you never knew when death came calling.

  At least he could draw a line under it now. As his old Mum used to say ‘these things come in three’s’. So that was that.

  Patrick Flynn was a worried man. The police had kept him at the station for hours asking about Eamonn and Terry. They wanted to know if they had links to the IRA or another terror organisation. They kept probing into the work they did for him around the properties he rented out. Could there be any other landlords trying to take over the business? Had he been threatened?

  “Leave it out.” he had told them, “I’m an honest businessman, trying to earn a crust. We have difficult tenants and old buildings that need loads of maintenance. Those two helped me keep my head above water. The red tape I have to battle with every day from the council makes it hardly worth the effort.”

  Flynn wasn’t convinced they believed him. When they let him go they told him they might need to talk to him again. He had returned to the office and jumped every time the phone rang, or his receptionist slammed a filing cabinet drawer shut. Was someone trying to do him over? Who could it be? He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and helped himself to a mugful of whisky.

  In the outer office Chantelle, his receptionist was filing her nails. Two men walked in through the door.

  “Do you enjoy working here?” asked the tall ginger one. He looked cute, Chantelle thought.

  “Not really,” she replied, with a smile, “he can be an awkward sod at times. I’d prefer to have my own mobile nails business, but I ain’t got the start-up cash. I’ve got the designs and
that. I studied at college didn’t I?”

  The dark, quiet one threw an envelope on the desk. Chantelle could see fifty-pound notes; lots of them. She’d seen them on the telly but never held one in her hand.

  “Good luck with the business,” the ginger one said.

  Chantelle didn’t need telling twice. She gathered up her things, the envelope first, and tottered out of the office on her four-inch heels. Mr Flynn must have upset serious people. She knew enough about London criminals to know that if she wanted to keep breathing she would forget everything. It was best to have a complete blank about ever working for the stroppy Irishman and who had come to call on him this afternoon.

  Patrick Flynn never got to finish the whisky. It wasn’t mixing well with the dregs of the coffee in the mug anyway. He knew there was someone outside chatting to Chantelle. It was probably someone asking for a list of flats available. He suddenly remembered he needed to find two new assistants. Get them to start asking around to find out who was out to get him.

  The door opened. A tall dark stranger entered. He was holding a gun. Patrick Flynn took two bullets in the chest and slumped back in his chair. The coffee mug fell to the floor. Phoenix closed the door behind him with a gloved hand and joined Rusty outside in Fraser Road. The late afternoon sun was warm on their backs. Their London trip was at an end.

  “Time to get home to Larcombe Manor, Rusty. First, we contact the transport section. Then we can tidy up the safe-house ready for its next occupants. The transport guys will send a car to collect us and someone to take the van to the scrap yard. It’s served its purpose.”

  “I can’t think of anything we’ve forgotten, can you?” asked Rusty.

  “We’ll debrief the mission with Athena in the morning. Olympus will need to find a way to handle the fall-out from two landlords’ businesses being unable to continue trading. Their properties and tenants need to be absorbed by reputable operators. So they don’t suffer the same intimidation and abuse as they did from these two. We will do what we can to facilitate the transfer without revealing our hand. It will be a challenge, but not one we haven’t faced many times.”