by Robert White
He pointed his little finger at a substance smeared on the sight on the top of the barrel.
“See that?” he said.
Jamie peered. This was not going well.
“I can’t see anything,” he mumbled.
“Well let me help you Corporal Strange… It’s cement powder.”
Jamie shrugged.
“It’s the same cement, that was underneath the mixer at the end of the alley some fifteen feet from the bottom of the stairwell. Now how’d you reckon that got on there?”
Jamie thought his heart may burst. His palms were sweating, his stomach lurched.
“I don’t know.”
Kierney slammed the tabletop with his fist. Jamie jumped in surprise at the detective’s sudden change of mood. His tone was vicious.
“Well I fucking do, Corporal. I know exactly how. It’s there because when Barry McGuire surrendered to you, he threw down his pistol from the top of the stairs and it slid under the mixer, leaving traces of cement on the barrel and inside one empty chamber. He then walked down that fire escape, hands on head until he was close to the bottom, at which point, Corporal Richard Valance turned and shot him twice in the heart at point-blank range. Valance then recovered the pistol from under the mixer and placed it near the body to make it look like McGuire was armed at the time.”
The DCI’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I am right, aren’t I Strange? Come on, what are you? A man? Or a murderer?”
Jamie stared straight into Kierney’s face but didn’t answer.
The DCI made a show of putting the gun back in his case, before once again lighting up. His tone had levelled again.
“You know when I said I’d come back to the point about young McGuire being a terrorist… well he was… no doubt. He believed he was fighting a war and he went by the rules of that war. See the enemy, shoot them dead… simple. Now we… we are different. We tell the PIRA that this is not a war… these are Troubles, and that they are criminals. Indeed, we catch them and put them in jail, just as any robber or rapist. My point is, Corporal Strange, that we cannot shoot on sight, we have a responsibility to the Crown to play by the rules, even if our opponents do not.
“Now on the evening of 28th September 1983, in the town of Coalisland, County Tyrone, Corporal Richard Valance murdered Barry McGuire in cold blood.
“He knows it, you know it, I know it.
“Most of all, Katie Harrison knows it. A nine-year-old girl who was running home from the corner shop, across the waste ground that overlooks the fire escape. She saw McGuire throw down and she saw him murdered.
“We have an independent witness, we have the forensics to back that witness up. All you have to do now Strange, is decide… whose side are you on?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
5th October 1983. Toast Nightclub, Preston
Toast was filling nicely. It was Student Night. One way to pack the club’s bars with bodies midweek. Cheap entrance, cheap booze and Indie music. It had been one of Laurie Holland’s many business ideas that had ensured the business remained firmly in profit.
Laurie had nothing to do with the darker side of The Three Dog’s dealings. She had drawn up the business plans for Frankie’s two successful Italian eateries, and designed the signage for Eddie’s car showroom. She even had a hand in promoting the upcoming sale of Tony’s five detached properties in Fulwood, but drugs and violence held no interest for her. Indeed, she had pleaded with Frankie to ditch the evil trade and go straight.
Her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Frankie yearned for the danger of criminality more than the money. The risk-taking, the constant desire to outwit the cops, the need to persecute anyone who stood in his way.
Most of all, he craved to be feared. He lived for it, and he would die for it.
To the casual observer, Laurie Holland had found her niche in life. She understood business, had a fabulous eye for detail and the customers loved her.
Yet, she desperately needed Frankie to ditch the gangster lifestyle, settle down, marry her and give her the child she so craved.
That seemed further away than ever, and she spent many sleepless hours dreaming of Jamie, and what might have been.
Since the incident on the opening night of the club, Frankie had become more and more obsessed with her ex-boyfriend. After the police had put an end to the 3D Ice scam, he’d become convinced that there was a connection between the detective leading the operation and Jamie Strange. He prowled about the house like a caged lion, accusing her of keeping information from him, information that somehow prevented him discovering the link between the cops and her first love. He’d never gone as far as to hit her since that fateful night, but sex was, at best rushed, and often deliberately violently painful.
Laurie had taken to drinking a little too much and sleeping a little too long, but her beauty was as evident as ever. One girl, who waited tables at the club, even dared to suggest she could do much better, yet Laurie knew that Frankie would never allow that. There would be no escape from his grasp. No place to hide.
As she worked the floor, checking all the staff were doing their jobs, she drew admiring glances from the young male students queueing at the bars. Not that any man, of any age, dare approach her.
Even though Frankie hardly acknowledged her presence, God preserve anyone who did.
Three weeks earlier, a middle-aged man, who was slightly the worse for wear, attempted to chat her up as she stood at the bar. Frankie had seen the man’s pathetic efforts on the CCTV system, had followed him out of the venue and beaten him so badly, he still remained in hospital.
Despite four witnesses to the vicious assault, no one had come forward, and Frankie had never been questioned.
Laurie opened the door to the office, poured herself a large Jack and Coke, and flopped into her chair. She flicked through the CCTV cameras, until she settled on the front entrance. A steady flow of customers came in and out of shot.
The door staff were always under strict instructions to monitor the ages of the clientele. After all, it was Laurie’s name over the door, and she had no desire to give the authorities any reason to refuse the application to renew her licence. This was a particular issue on Student Night, as the attraction of a flock young, single men, was too much to resist for younger girls who considered they may pass for eighteen.
Laurie zoomed in on one such young girl. She was tall, fabulous figure, long blonde hair and one hundred per cent jailbait.
Laurie picked up the internal phone and called the doorman who had just let the girl pass without even checking for ID.
“She’s on Frankie’s guest list Miss Laurie,” said the burly doorman.
Laurie put down the phone and followed the girl through the club with the camera system. She was indeed a beauty. Long tanned legs, big boobs. Just Frankie’s type.
Laurie felt the first pangs of jealousy flip her stomach.
“On Frankie’s list, eh?” she muttered to herself.
The girl went directly to the ladies and out of shot. No cameras allowed. After all, Frankie, Eddie and Tony wouldn’t want pictures of the activities in that area being available to the cops. With the demise of the 3D Ice vans, more and more cocaine was being sold in the club, and that often meant that the ladies and gents washrooms were used for other reasons than your standard ablutions.
She sipped her drink and scanned the rest of the club until she found Frankie. Unusually, he wasn’t in the VIP lounge, rather he was at the main bar, in deep conversation with Eddie Williams. Eddie had just returned from another mysterious trip abroad. Tony had let it slip that something big was on the horizon, but other than that tiny lapse of confidentiality, Laurie was in the dark.
She kept the camera on her man, and sure enough, within minutes, along came the young blonde. Frankie instantly stopped his chat with Eddie, slipped his arm around the waist of the girl
and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“More than I’ve had in a month,” commented Laurie to the screen.
The girl looked longingly into Frankie’s face and rubbed his chest with her free hand. Frankie passed the girl a glass of champagne, then rummaged in his pocket. He pulled out something small, hard to see with all the flashing lights, but to Laurie, it looked suspiciously like a wrap of cocaine.
The girl jumped up and down like the schoolchild she was and skipped off back to the ladies to powder her nose.
Laurie stood. She wanted a word.
Striding inside the washroom, Laurie found every cubicle occupied and half a dozen other girls applying make-up or doing their hair at the vanity units. She occupied herself by reapplying her lipstick. As she dabbed her lips with tissue, the mystery girl appeared from a cubicle, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand and sniffing loudly. Laurie considered she may as well have had a sign on her head. The blonde sidled up against Laurie to get a look at herself in the mirror.
She was indeed striking, lovely eyes, full mouth, great hair. Even though Laurie was barely in her twenties, the girl made her feel suddenly old.
Undeterred, she gave the child her best beaming smile.
“Hello, I’m Laurie Holland, this is my club. I haven’t seen you here before.”
The girl looked momentarily shocked. Whatever tissue of lies and deception Frankie had fed her, Laurie was about to find out.
“Oh… hi,” she gushed. “I’m Maisy, I’m Les Thomas’ niece.”
Laurie looked confused.
“Les Thomas?”
The girl was flying, full of cocaine-fuelled confidence. She giggled. “Oh, sorry, I mean Fat Les, as in, you probably know him as Fat Les… he does the ice cream vans.”
Laurie managed a smile. “Ah yes, I do know Les, he works for my boyfriend, Frankie Verdi. Do you know him too?”
If Maisy hadn’t just put a line of cocaine up her nose, she would probably have folded there and then. But she had, and she didn’t.
“Yeah, I know Frankie,” she looked Laurie up and down. “I didn’t know he had a girlfriend… and this is his club, isn’t it?”
“We live together,” hissed Laurie. “And yes, he owns it, but it’s my name over the door, so my rules… as in, who is allowed in and how old they are.”
“Right,” managed Maisy, collecting her handbag and turning. “Well, I’m old enough, and I’m on Frankie’s guest list, so I suppose that makes me a VIP.”
And with that, Maisy was gone. All flowing locks and swaying hips.
Laurie turned back and spoke to her reflection.
“We’ll see about that young lady.”
* * *
By midnight, every bar was packed with revellers taking advantage of the discounted drinks. The dance floors heaved with bodies as the DJ faded out This Charming Man, and Burning Down The House boomed from the PA. The odd drunken scuffle had been promptly snuffed out by the door staff as one or two of the younger crowd had just that one too many. Yet it was worth the limited hassle. The tills were full once again.
Laurie sat in her office chair and brooded over Maisy. She scanned the club for her image, but she was nowhere to be found. Just like Frankie Verdi.
She imagined them holed up in the VIP area, snorting coke and snogging each other like a couple of stoned school kids.
Laurie knew all about infidelity. After all, she hadn’t been such an angel herself when she’d been dating Jamie. But then it had been her playing away from home, and the excitement of an illicit affair had given her butterflies; now the thought of her man with another woman simply made her sick to her stomach.
How could you have been so cold? How could you have been so stupid?
Finally, she clicked the camera closest to the ladies and there they were, pushing their way toward the toilets. Frankie was all over the girl like a rash, hands everywhere, fondling, groping. They were both laughing. Her man, the man she had given everything for, was openly flaunting his indiscretion, rubbing her face in his betrayal, as he pawed at Maisy’s ample breasts.
Laurie downed the last of her Jack, stood and straightened her dress.
She stared at the screen.
“Oh no, you don’t Frankie. Not here. Not in my club.”
She was forced to push her way through the bustle toward the ladies. It seemed to take her an age. Then, as she got near to her goal, a young girl blocked her path and began to complain that the condom machine was empty. Laurie gave the teenager short shrift, shoved past her and strode to the washrooms. This was no time for customer service.
Once inside the ladies, she took a deep breath and scanned the room for her man. Other than two girls giggling in one corner, the room appeared empty. The end cubical, however, was occupied. As Laurie drew closer, she could hear exactly why the girls laughed behind their hands. It was the distinctive sounds of a sexual encounter. Moreover, the unmistakable sound of Frankie Verdi’s rhythmical grunting. A sound she’d heard so many times, as he’d driven himself so painfully inside her, too impatient to satisfy himself.
Laurie thought her head would explode. She burned with anger, took a step back and kicked out at the cubical door with everything she had.
It flew open, the top hinge becoming detached, before the flimsy door twisted and fell to the floor.
There inside was Frankie, bare arsed, trousers around his ankles, thrusting into Maisy from behind, gripping the girl’s naked rump as she bent over the toilet, her hands, grasping the cistern to support herself as Frankie pounded her.
He turned his head to see Laurie standing there, shaking with rage. Frankie didn’t stop. Rather he threw back his head and pursed his lips with satisfaction as he slapped out an ever-increasing tempo against Maisy’s naked bottom. The two giggling girls, joined the show and fell into fits of laughter at the sight of the pair. One made “dirty cow” comments as they ran out of the room desperate to tell their friends what they had just witnessed.
Frankie began to laugh, a deep guttural sound, and with each movement, his hilarity grew. It was almost manic.
Maisy began to moan with ecstasy as she came close to her climax, neither player in this game of betrayal caring who could see or hear.
Laurie felt her tears run. There was nothing she could do to stop them now.
Frankie had deceived and shamed her in one fell swoop. She turned on her heels, unable to bear the sight of her man’s treachery.
As she ran from the room, all she could hear was Frankie’s cackling laughter ringing in her ears.
It would be a sound she would never forget.
And at that moment, she made herself a promise.
* * *
Detective Jim Hacker
Harry Strange never rang me at work.
Throughout our friendship, he had only ever called me at home. Indeed, it was generally me that did the calling.
Harry was a quiet, solitary figure. As measured a man as you may ever meet. Therefore, during our all too infrequent visits to Preston’s many hostelries, if Harry presented a rare unsolicited comment or observation, it always seemed to carry all the more heft.
I’d never heard him so concerned than on 8th October 1983.
Even when Jamie had not been accounted for after the attack on the Sir Galahad, Harry had been calm.
He’d waited four days for the official confirmation that his only son was alive, yet there had been no sense of alarm from him.
I’d witnessed Harry lay his wife to rest, and watched him carry the burden of grief and subsequent loneliness with the strength of ten men. Yet on this day, I heard his voice falter as he pleaded with me to help him.
Jamie Strange had been arrested, charged with murder, and was in military custody. It was all he knew. He didn’t know who had been killed, he didn’t know where Jamie was being held. Harry sus
pected Jamie had been working undercover across the water, but he was in the dark as to exactly where.
He’d scanned the press and TV for any possible incidents. The papers had been full of the Maze escape, but nothing more.
He was desperate.
Despite my massive workload, I dropped everything and set to work on helping a man who had become one of my closest friends.
Back in 1983, information was sent from station to station, division to division, even force to force, by teleprinter. There was no “search box” on a screen where I could start looking for RUC incidents. Everything was done manually. If the teleprinter operator saw a message was flagged for your department, a copy would end up in your in tray… maybe.
Checking the Irish press for anything that might be a clue meant just that, finding hard copies and reading every page.
There was no simple or quick way to find out what had happened to Jamie, yet I had a break within an hour.
* * *
Lancashire Constabulary HQ, was not only the heart of the force’s communication and clerical operation, but the site also boasted a world-renowned training facility.
Whilst I had been on a residential course at the school, I had met one Seamus Connery.
Seamus was a detective sergeant in the RUC, was as mad as a March hare, and we of course, nicknamed him Sean.
We’d spent a rather boozy, two weeks together and had swapped contact details before he’d returned to Belfast, promising to keep in touch, but never had.
I dug out my diary, found his telephone number and dialled.
Seamus was only too happy to help.
He worked in Cookstown, some twenty minutes’ drive from a place called Coalisland. Apparently, about a week earlier, there had been a shooting incident there, where a seventeen-year-old had been killed by the British Security Services. Although there had been an enforced news blackout, the rumour was that the shooting was the work of two members of an army unit known as the Det, and that the young lad had surrendered himself before being killed in cold blood.
