Breaking Bones_A Dark and Disturbing Crime Thriller

by Robert White

  British soldiers, were as popular as a fart in a spacesuit in Coalisland.

  An hour’s drive found the lads sitting a couple of hundred yards away from an address that had been identified by today’s suit, as a PIRA safe house.

  Recent intelligence had suggested that one Sean Calloway, an escapee from the Maze, and known terrorist, was on his way to this very terrace. It was Jamie and Dickie’s job to sit on it, wait for the said Irishman to show up, and give the nod to the awaiting team, made up of army and RUC, parked out of town, before fucking off, quick sharp.

  It was never in the interest of members of the Det to be identified as security service personnel.

  These jobs were political hot potatoes. The fallout from the Maze breakout had been massive and ministerial heads were about to roll.

  To make matters worse, the allegation that the two players slotted in Coalisland by the SAS, weren’t given a verbal warning before the undercover unit opened fire, only added to the dogma that there was a “shoot to kill” policy prevailing in the elite units of the British Army serving in the Province.

  Not for the first time in recent days, the suit had reminded the boys of their responsibilities, and their terms of engagement whilst operating undercover. All very well, but he of course, would be at home with his missus when the lads were at the sharp end.

  Bird sat in the passenger seat of their Cavalier, struggling with a packet of custard creams, and complained bitterly about the Irish deluge that made it almost impossible to see out of the car windows.

  “Do you think it always pisses down here Strange Brew?”

  “I reckon, Bird yeah.”

  “Well I think that if the weather was better, they’d not be so keen on slotting each other all the fuckin’ time… I mean, give ’em a dose of good old Aussie sunshine and the fuckers would be a lot happier eh? What d’you say blue?”

  Jamie shook his head, snatched the packet of biscuits from his partner and sliced the pack open with his nail.

  He stuffed two in his mouth before Bird retrieved them.

  “I think,” spluttered Jamie through a mouthful of biscuit, “if you love Australia so much, you should fuck off back there with the rest of the jailbirds and kangaroos.”

  Bird pointed a half-eaten custard cream.

  “Jailbirds we may well be my English and inferior friend, but because our country has seasons, as an Australian citizen, you know what you are going to get, as in, during summer the fuckin’ sun shines… we Aussies, even the most bad tempered of us, are more chilled out.”

  Jamie just shook his head, stole another two biscuits and waited for the inevitable rant.

  “I mean, look, us Aussies don’t worry if you are a Catholic or a Prod eh? We don’t give a monkey’s if you have potatoes to eat, salute King Bill, or dance the fuckin jig, diddly-hi-doe… because…”

  “Because you have sunshine,” added Jamie.

  “Exactly.”

  Bird zipped his bomber jacket and pulled on a black woollen hat. The lads couldn’t have the engine running as it would identify the car as being occupied. This ensured the pair were cold, damp and struggling with the misted windows of their chosen vehicle.

  “This guy ain’t going to turn up here blue,” shivered Bird.

  “Why’s that?”

  The Aussie pulled his Browning from his shoulder holster, checked the safety and stuffed it in the door pocket to his left.

  “Because my old mate, if you had just pulled off a miraculous escape, from one of the most secure prisons in the world, after spending four years inside, getting your little botty banged by big hairy paddies, you would want some better fucking weather than this!”

  Jamie couldn’t help but laugh.

  “You’re a fuckin’ case, I’ll give you that pal.”

  Bird peered through the windscreen that ran with rivers of rainwater.

  “This boy’s a case here Strange Brew… The lad with the Parka… two o’clock.”

  Indeed, striding purposely down the narrow street toward the undercover Cavalier car, was a skinny youth, dressed in jeans and a three-quarter Parka. The coat itself was only wet at the shoulders, suggesting that the boy had just slipped out of a parked car or a house further up the street.

  “Off to the bookies?” suggested Jamie, pulling his own BAP from its holster.

  As the boy drew closer, Jamie’s question was answered. The player ripped open his coat, pulled a long-barrelled pistol from his jeans, and instantly opened fire on the stationary Cavalier.

  “Jesus fuckin’ wept,” bawled Bird, grabbing his radio. “Contact, contact, contact!”

  Jamie stamped on the clutch and fired up the car. Small calibre rounds began to slam into the bonnet and grill of the Cavalier.

  Thankfully, although Det cars looked like old sheds, there was at least some modicum of protection offered to the occupants. This took the form of a reinforced windscreen and some Kevlar stuffed in the two front door panels, enough to stop a .38 or 9mm round.

  They were also tuned to the maximum of their capabilities.

  Jamie floored the accelerator and the car lurched backwards. He was driving blind, but he didn’t care. They clipped another parked car, as the Cavalier gained pace, slewing first left then right in an attempt to avoid further small arms fire.

  “Shit,” spat Jamie as he corrected the car back to the centre of the road, putting further distance between them and the shooter.

  Bird was back on the blower. “Romeo Alpha six-nine, we have contact, contact, contact. Anderson Road, junction Smithfield. White male, early twenties, six feet, wearing green Parka coat, jeans, armed with handgun, weapon discharged, repeat contact, contact, contact.”

  Once Jamie had the Cavalier out of range, he screeched to a halt. The boy simply stood in the centre of the road, gun in hand, being drenched by the rain, and seemingly unsure what to do next.

  Jamie and Bird made his mind up for him, rolled from the Cavalier and set off running toward their target.

  The boy turned on his heels and was off like a scalded cat.

  Now there was always a chance, that in these circumstances, the skinny kid with the little gun, was not the main issue. The Provo’s had a nasty habit of leading undercover personnel into ambushes, where bigger guys, with bigger guns lay in wait.

  There was no time to worry about that.

  Jamie and Bird were big lads but had only recently completed a selection process close to the equivalent of the SAS regime.

  They were gaining on the boy with each stride.

  “Security Services,” bawled Jamie, over the deluge of rain and wind. “Stop or we’ll shoot.”

  If the boy heard, he wasn’t going to stop, that was for sure, and did a sharp right down a narrow ginnel.

  “Shit,” shouted Bird. “I’m gonna have this little bastard.”

  The pair reached the junction and had a quick look-see before following their target. They were getting so close, Bird could hear the lad blowing hard just up ahead.

  At the end of the ginnel, was what appeared to be some roadworks; a cement mixer and a hole in the ground cordoned off with bright orange tape.

  If the lad kept on his course, in twenty yards, he would be in open ground, and a sitting duck. Bird knew it, and so did the kid. As he reached the mixer, he did a sharp left, and the boys heard the telltale sound of a pair of tired legs climbing a metal fire escape that ran up the gable of the end property.

  Bird stopped at the corner, back to the wall, Jamie at his side. They were soaked to the skin and steam rose from their clothing as their body heat dissipated into the Irish cold.

  The kid on the fire escape was desperately trying to open the door at the top, that would lead him into the upstairs flat of whatever shop this was.

  The boy was out of luck.

  Bird tried again. �
�Security Services,” he shouted. “British Army… throw down your weapon and come down with your hands on your head.”

  Silence.

  Jamie tried the same script and got nothing.

  Finally, the lads heard the first of the sirens in the distance.

  “Hear that?” shouted Bird. “That’s the RUC boy… them and a couple of pigs full of pissed off Para’s who will shoot you down like a dog if you’re still holding that peashooter of yours… Come on mate, throw down your gun.”

  The boy coughed “I will not,” he said, a definite tremble to his voice, part fear, part cold. “You’ll fuckin’ shoot me anyways.” Jamie was surprised to hear he had a Southern Irish accent.

  “Don’t be stupid lad,” countered Bird. “Don’t believe what you hear in the papers. Come on lad. Throw it down… you’ll be fine.”

  There was another long silence before finally both men heard the clatter of the pistol as it hit the bottom steps and slithered under the nearby concrete mixer.

  “Good lad,” shouted Bird. “Now… come down all nice and steady like, with your hands up, and you’ll be fine.”

  A pair of unsteady boots started their descent.

  “Don’t shoot me now,” said the unseen voice.

  “Just come down, and do as we say,” reassured Jamie. “No one has been shot today, no one is dead… you’ll be fine.”

  As the boy neared the bottom steps, Bird spun to his left and put two rounds in the boy’s chest.

  “Fucker,” he spat.

  The young lad had fallen on his back and slipped down the last metal steps. Jamie knelt next to him. His eyes were open, pupils fixed, no pulse.

  Jamie shook his head, rainwater dripping from his nose onto the face of the dead boy.

  “Fuck me Bird, what you go and do that for?”

  The Aussie pushed his Browning into his shoulder holster, grabbed Jamie by the collar and lifted him to his feet. He was nose to nose with his friend.

  “Listen here Strange Brew. That little fucker just tried to slot us both yeah? Given half the chance, he’d have another go. You know the script, this way, is the only way… this isn’t a fucking game… this is war.”

  Jamie’s temper was up. He pushed Bird away from him.

  “Even in war, you don’t shoot a surrendered man you stupid bastard. He was just a kid! He’d thrown down!”

  Bird rummaged under the cement mixer with his boot and kicked the Irishman’s weapon over toward his corpse. It stopped inches from the body.

  Again, he got in close to Jamie to make his point.

  “The kid came down the stairs with the gun in his hand, ignored our warning and got himself dead.”

  Bird poked Jamie in the chest.

  “Are we clear on that Strange Brew? I mean, you won’t be letting the side down, now will you?”

  Jamie glared at Bird, there was real venom in his tone.

  “I’m a marine. I took the oath. I know the rules.”

  Bird cocked his head to one side, teeth bared, violence in the air.

  “And what does that mean exactly?”

  “It means, I owe you Bird. I owe you from The Galahad. Otherwise…”

  There was a screech of tyres behind the pair and shouts from armed RUC officers. Jamie and Bird held up their hands and declared themselves as Security Services. They were pushed roughly against the wall, disarmed, and held at gunpoint until they were properly identified.

  An RUC detective of indeterminate rank pushed his way through the melee of cops and soldiers who were organising cordons to protect the scene. He was a short squat man for a cop and wore a full-length black raincoat. Kneeling by the body, the detective pulled a photograph from his pocket and held it against the face of the boy.

  Happy he’d identified the corpse, he turned to Jamie and Bird. He seemed tired, either through lack of sleep, or maybe just tired of the Troubles. His quiet Belfast accent was barely audible over the torrential rain.

  “Who’s the shooter?” he asked.

  “That will be me sir,” said Bird, flashing a glance in Jamie’s direction.

  The cop nodded, took a long slow breath and said, “Okay, you know the script boys. Any more weapons in your vehicle?”

  “There’s a Sterling under the driver’s seat sir,” said Jamie.

  “Fired?” asked the detective.

  Both boys shook their heads.

  “Right then,” offered the cop. “The lads here will take you separately back to Palace Barracks for the usual swabs and debrief.”

  Jamie jutted his chin toward the dead player.

  “Who is he sir?”

  The cop pushed his hands in his pockets. “Not yer man Calloway, that’s for sure. Much too young. He’s a new one, recruited in the South… Barry McGuire… he’s seventeen, or was.”

  Jamie and Bird were led away whilst the detective returned to the scene. As they reached the end of the alley, a crowd had begun to gather. Both marines pulled their jackets up over their faces and pushed through the line of squaddies protecting the ginnel.

  As he stepped across the road to the waiting car, Jamie noticed a young girl standing off to his right. She was maybe eight or nine years old. She was totally drenched, her jet hair stuck to her red cheeks. The girl looked directly into his eyes.

  “I saw what you did,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  30th September 1983. Amsterdam, Netherlands

  It had been just six weeks since the police had completed their operation on the 3D Ice vans. They’d come away empty-handed of course, and that meddling Detective Jim Hacker, that Frankie hated so much, had been humiliated.

  Despite this, it was a hollow victory for The Three Dogs. No drugs were being sold and income had dropped.

  The day after the operation had ended, Frankie had called Eddie and Tony to his mother’s house on Moor Nook and had challenged the gang to find new ways to sell their narcotics.

  Frankie had dismissed Tony’s earlier idea of taxis and so, as usual, it had been down to Eddie.

  It had always been Williams that had been at the forefront of the gang’s drug trade. From the early days of Wigan Casino’s all-nighters, it had constantly been his contacts, his concepts, his guile, that had kept the Dogs out in front. He sourced the cannabis resin from the Pakistani in Blackburn. He bought the amphetamine from the Mancunians and it was his chemist contact that was so invaluable for the supply of Valium and Temazepam. Even the most recent deal with the Liverpudlians for the cocaine that was sold inside Toast was his doing.

  At the meeting, Eddie had persuaded the gang to think bigger than selling a quarter-ounce of resin to potheads on council estates. It was time to farm out the lower end of the market, to disassociate themselves from the street deals that had once been the backbone of their business, but was now a thorn in their side.

  If you were going to deal drugs, it was time to deal big.

  * * *

  It had been whilst Eddie had been in Liverpool buying the gang’s regular four ounces of cocaine from his contact Arron Tower, that he had been invited to a party. It was at this booze, drugs and sex-filled romp, that he had found the ear of Luuk De Jong.

  The Dutchman had taken a fancy to Eddie, and although, Williams was most definitely of the homosexual persuasion, there could never be any other man in his life than the one he already had, Frankie Verdi. And as Verdi was one of the most homophobic men Eddie had ever met, Williams was destined for a life of frustration, violence and celibacy.

  The Park Plaza Victoria Hotel was located in an historical building just opposite Amsterdam Central Station. Eddie had arrived the previous evening and had taken full advantage of the luxury the Plaza had to offer.

  Today, however, was a different matter. As he walked from Dam Square toward Herengracht and the home of Luuk De Jong, Eddie felt
wire in his blood. If this deal came off, he knew it would mean two things.

  Big money, and big trouble, and Eddie was very fond of both.

  De Jong’s home was situated in the most luxurious part of the inner city. Herengracht means “Gentleman’s Canal” and the homes that rose skyward either side of the arterial route, once owned by wealthy Dutch ship owners, were now valued in their millions.

  Eddie found the door he was looking for and pressed the intercom. To his surprise, it was answered in English, by a very cultured female voice. Williams simply stated his name and he was buzzed inside.

  The Three Dogs had come a long way since their humble beginnings on Moor Nook council estate, but nothing had prepared Eddie for the sheer opulence and statement of wealth that greeted him.

  Polished oak floors gleamed like pure honey under his feet. The ceilings soared to over twice his height, with ornate plaster roses and huge chandeliers announcing affluence and power. Paintings of times when Holland was a great sea power, adorned the delicately painted walls.

  If the surroundings were stunning, the source of the female voice outshone it all. Eddie may well have been gay, but he could appreciate true female beauty when he saw it.

  Standing at the end of the hallway, was a willowy creature with porcelain skin and hair that surpassed the gloss of the oak beneath him.

  “Mr Williams,” said the beauty striding along the hall, hand outstretched. “So nice to meet you. I’m Hanna, Luuk’s sister.”

  Eddie swallowed hard. For the first time in his memory, he was lost for words, his mouth full of cotton.

  He managed a smile and took Hanna’s hand.

  “My brother is taking an international call, Eddie,” purred Hanna. “I can call you Eddie, can’t I?”

  Williams shrugged his massive shoulders. “Why not, it’s my name.”