by Robert White
This killing was an execution in all but name, and a shocking a murder, yet as the morning wore on, it was to become as grisly a day as I’d ever known in my service.
As I and a very pale-looking Candice were about to leave the murder scene, we were informed that a further three bodies had been discovered in a terraced house in Whalley Range, not three miles from our position.
The house later transpired to be Mahmood’s home address, and I then understood how his car had arrived at Ewood Park. The killers had taken both he and his vehicle from his home.
The bodies found inside Mahmood’s home were identified as his girlfriend, Terresa Brownlow, 20 yrs, Mahmood’s brother Iftekhar 25 yrs, and Terresa’s cousin, James 19 yrs. All were bound with the same rope as Mahmood, yet the killers, probably not wanting to make so much noise in the confines of a terraced house, and in the grisliest of twists, had cut their throats, rather than use a gun.
The police surgeon was of the opinion that the three bodies found in the house had been killed some time before Mahmood and their attackers had used a large-bladed knife similar to a machete, to perpetrate each person’s injuries. The doctor went to pains to suggest that such brutality had been used to inflict the victim’s wounds, that two of the corpses were close to being beheaded.
I firmly believed they had been killed one by one, in front of Mohammed, before he was taken to his final destination and executed.
To me, this had all the hallmarks of a gangland killing designed to do one thing and one thing only:
To send a message to the competition.
Call me obsessive, but in my mind, the beating, the ferocious manner in which the victims were murdered, the seemingly casual attitude toward forensic evidence all pointed to Frankie Verdi, Eddie Williams and Tony Thompson as our perpetrators.
Detective Chief Superintendent Crocker wasn’t so sure. Well, not until a near-perfect thumbprint belonging to Eddie Williams was found on a glass coffee table in Mahmood’s living room.
The team were ecstatic a day later, when Lancashire HQ fingerprint department confirmed the presence of a second clear print inside the Sierra Cosworth car parked conveniently next to Mahmood’s body.
Convenient? Handy? Easy?
Yes, very handy. My gut churned with acid bile as I heard that the two prints were so clear, that the number of matches found identifying Williams as being present at both crime scenes were almost double the legally required sixteen.
A more than perfect match?
Imagine my horror when it also transpired that both lifts had been of Williams’ right thumb. There is no such thing as that level of coincidence. But, with the chief constable on his back and the press howling for a result, Det Ch Supt Crocker grabbed at his only real lead with both hands and arrested Williams.
I cast my mind back to June 1978 and the murder of Prison Officer Morris from Kirklevington. Williams had dropped his own name in the frame that time too. On that occasion using Fat Les Thomas, a known informant, as the delivery method. As a result of that debacle, The Three Dogs had lived off the infamy for the last five years.
I tried to warn Crocker, but it fell on deaf ears.
When you hold a suspect, and the only evidence you have is forensic in nature, it is the last subject you want to mention during the interview process. It is the only card you have. Play it too soon, and the interview will fail. The interrogator needs to establish the whereabouts of the suspect at the time of the incident, but most of all, to get him to deny that he, or she, has ever visited the scene in question, in this case, Mahmood’s house in Whalley Range and the inside of his car.
As I suspected Williams gave a “no comment” interview, ensuring this was a lengthy process, involving three senior detective interviewers.
After twenty-four hours, Crocker was forced to apply for an extension of Williams’ custody to continue the process. The chief hoped that the relentless questioning of the suspect would bear fruit. The press smelled blood.
At the end of the second day, Williams’ solicitor stood alongside his client on the steps of Lawson Street Police Station. The team had failed to get their man. Eddie had been released without charge.
The grisly murders had captured the imagination of the nation’s newspapermen, and they gathered like carrion crows to hear what the solicitor at law and, more importantly, his client had to say.
I watched from my office, live on Granada Reports.
The brief began:
“My client would like to read a prepared statement to you all, but first, I wish to make comment about the dreadful treatment he has received at the hands of Lancashire Constabulary, and, in particular, Detective Chief Superintendent Crocker.
“Despite his pleas of innocence, and repeated denials of any involvement in the brutal slayings of Mr Mahmood, his brother Iftekhar, and Terresa and James Brownlow, Edward Williams has been treated like a common criminal, rather than the successful businessman, and law-abiding member of the community he so obviously is. I would like to take this opportunity to demand a full and frank apology from the chief constable for his inherently poor treatment and give notice that we shall be seeking redress through the courts.”
The press babble instantly covered the brief’s next line, but they fell silent to a man the moment Eddie picked up his sheet of paper and began to speak.
It was the first time I’d laid eyes on him for almost five years. I’d seen odd pictures, but not like this. Eddie was dressed in a suit that would have cost more than my monthly wage. He stood, immaculately turned out, with the confident swagger of a man who had just won a bitter battle. Yet his eyes glowed with pure hatred.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he began. “I had known Mohammed Mahmood for over three years. In that time, he had not only become a valued customer, but I would go as far to say, a respected friend.
“The sum total of the police evidence against me in this case was two fingerprints. One found at Mohammed’s home, the other in his car. Had the senior detective in this case explored the history of Mr Mahmood’s vehicle, something I am told would be commonplace in such a major investigation, he would have discovered that his treasured Sierra Cosworth was sold to him from my own car dealership. Indeed, Mr Mahmood was such a valued customer at Williams Performance Cars, that I delivered the vehicle personally to his home, just three weeks ago.
“A simple check of the vehicle’s paperwork, including the receipt for the car could have prevented my embarrassing incarceration over the last two days. Thank you.”
Out of shot, the hoard of press instantly erupted into a cacophony of questions. One rose above all the rest.
“James Dunn, Daily Mirror,” shouted the voice. “Is it true Mr Williams, that you are a member of a vicious and violent gang known as The Three Dogs?”
There was silence again. Eddie’s eyes flashed at the man. The veins in his neck bulged.
“I think you’re talking about a newspaper article that appeared back in 1976, when we were kids Mr Dunn, when me and two schoolfriends were still juveniles. We did get in trouble back then, but that was a long time ago and we paid for our crime. We are all respected businessmen these days. Everyone is allowed one mistake, Mr Dunn.” Eddie pointed at the unseen questioner. “Even you.”
I turned off the television and prepared myself for some sleepless nights.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Christmas Day 1983
Frankie Verdi strode proudly into his lavish dining room carrying a roasted turkey easily twice the size needed to feed his guests.
Laurie had spent most of Christmas Eve preparing the meal, the intricate place settings, the towering tree, and ensuring each of their guests had the perfect gift underneath it.
The work kept her busy, kept her out of the club for an evening, and best still, kept her away from Frankie.
“Wow Frank,” blurted Tony.
“That’s the biggest turkey I ever saw.”
Laurie managed a smile. “It only just squeezed in the oven, Tony. Frank nearly went out and bought a new model just to cook it.”
Frankie started to carve. “Nothing’s too good for my friends, eh girl? Nothing. No expense spared these days. Remember when we all lived on Moor Nook? Scraping a few quid together? Well not now eh boys?”
Eddie was quietly examining Cheryl Greenwood’s boy William, who sat astride a plastic motorbike, courtesy of Father Christmas Frankie.
Cheryl, who Tony surprisingly announced was his girl, and was considering moving in with him in his new house in Fulwood, had initially seemed uncomfortable to be in Eddie’s presence, sticking close to Tony, grabbing his hand whenever she felt the need.
Tony played the perfect protector and managed to keep his massive frame between her and Eddie throughout the meal’s preliminaries.
Eddie didn’t give a fuck.
Williams looked at the kid again, his white-blonde hair curling down the back of his neck, just as Eddie’s would, should he ever let it grow longer that his regulation number-one crew.
He piled roast potatoes on his plate alongside a mountain of turkey, then looked across the table at Cheryl, who he had to admit, had blossomed from the tarty teenager he remembered, into a beautiful young mother.
Cheryl met his gaze. He nodded toward William who was content, making vroom-vroom noises on the carpet.
“How old is the kid?”
Cheryl had been expecting the question. She and Tony had talked about what they would say, and although Tony had been reluctant to lie to his lifelong friend, he’d also fallen for Cheryl and doted on William.
“He’s two Eddie,” she said calmly. William was nearer two and a half, but her answer wasn’t an untruth, it just put a possible few months between the night Eddie forced himself on her and William’s arrival.
Eddie stuffed a huge piece of meat into his mouth. He wasn’t stupid. The resemblance was uncanny, but he really didn’t give a shit about the kid, above all, one born from a little slapper from Avenham. If Tony was stupid enough to take on someone else’s brat, that was up to him.
“Good-looking boy,” he managed through a half-full mouth.
“Thanks,” said Cheryl, instantly turning to Laurie, desperate to move the conversation in another direction. “How’s the club doing Laurie? Tony tells me you run things over there.”
Laurie wanted to say that she hated setting foot in Toast since she’d witnessed Frankie fucking a schoolgirl inside the club’s toilets. That, and the fact he still insisted on inviting the little slut to the club, and disappeared with her at the end of most nights.
She wanted to say she really didn’t give a fuck about Toast anymore, and that she knew Frankie had rented an apartment in town, where he had his little girl hidden away.
She wanted to say that she dreamt of being back in the arms of Jamie Strange, and she now squirreled away £500 a week from the club’s takings, right under the nose of her darling Frankie. And finally, she wanted to say that when she’d acquired enough cash, she hoped that Jamie Strange would forgive her, would take her back, and that they could run far away from The Three Dogs and their sick, violent ways.
Of course, she emptied her mouth of food, set down her knife and fork, and offered. “I help out when I can Cheryl. Frankie and the boys own the place, it’s their business.” She turned to Frankie and gave him a contemptuous look. “You’re there most nights aren’t you Frank? Hand on the tiller.”
Frankie hardly noticed Laurie’s derision. He draped an arm around her shoulders and drew her to him.
Laurie visibly stiffened.
“This girl is a rock Cheryl. I’ll tell you this, Toast would not be the success it is today, if it wasn’t for our Laurie here. If you look after our Tony, half as good as this little darlin’ looks after me, you’ll do okay.”
Tony puffed out his chest. “She looks after me good Frank, she’s a good girl is our Chez.”
Frank gave Cheryl a lecherous look.
“Oh, I remember our Cheryl from the Red Lion days, don’t I Chez?”
Cheryl knew what Frank was hinting at. She had been a bit promiscuous in her youth. But she’d learned fast, grown up faster. Where she’d lived, you swam. Or sank, without trace.
“That was a long time ago Frank. Things have changed now… now I’ve got William and Tony.”
Frankie poured more gravy over his meal and managed a thin smile, yet his eyes, like two jet coals, bore into Cheryl. Frankie was sending his own very particular message. “Just be good to our Tony, that’s all. He’s very important to us.”
Cheryl swallowed hard. “Course Frank, course I will.”
* * *
The two women moved into the kitchen with the pile of dishes, whilst Frankie, Eddie and Tony found comfortable seats in Frank’s new conservatory. They all smoked Cuban cigars, just like Frankie’s hero, Al Pacino had in his favourite movie, Scarface.
Eddie admired the new build Tony’s firm had erected.
“Your boys did a good job on this Tony. Reckon you could sort one for me at my gaff?” Tony looked puzzled. “But you live in a penthouse flat Ed. You’re on the tenth floor.”
Eddie ruffled Tony’s hair the way he had when they were kids. “I’m teasin’ you pal, just teasin’.”
Tony didn’t laugh. Tony didn’t even smile. “Well, don’t tease me Eddie. I don’t like it.”
Frankie sensed the atmosphere between his two friends. There was no doubt, Tony had come on over the years. He had begun to read books, to study, to improve his brain. He wasn’t a fool anymore. Tony would never be Einstein, but he wasn’t the village idiot either.
He was, however, one of the most vicious and dangerous men Frankie Verdi had ever known. Together with Eddie Williams, Frankie knew he had two men who would do anything he asked, no matter how gruesome or dangerous the task.
Tony and Eddie had cut the throats of Mahmood’s three house guests as they begged for their lives. Tony had sawn at his victims with such gusto that Frank’d had to stop him from cutting their fucking heads off.
Mahmood himself had watched in silence as each body dropped to his living room floor, twitching and gurgling their last. He had been one tough fucker that was for sure, and even when he was kneeling on that patch of ground and Frankie held the pistol to his head, he never told where his stash was.
It was no matter. The fact was, now, rather than buying from the Pakistani at inflated prices, The Three Dogs bought directly from Holland. They had no need for Mahmood anymore. Indeed, they wanted his business, and with him gone, they could now move large quantities of cannabis across the county and beyond.
Of course, the stroke of genius had been Frankie’s.
He smiled to himself as he recalled Eddie pulling off his latex gloves and pressing his right thumb on the Pakistani’s coffee table, before sliding a receipt and the log book for the Cosworth car in the man’s drawer. The totally bogus transaction had been completed by Eddie at his garage, yet the cops would be none the wiser.
Frankie had told him to use a different finger when he left his mark in the Sierra, yet when Eddie repeated his action using the same thumb, in truth, it only went to show further contempt for the law, and Frankie liked that.
They were the talk of the town again. There wasn’t a criminal north of Watford Gap that didn’t believe that they had executed Mahmood and his crew.
They had sent out a message… don’t fuck with The Three Dogs.
* * *
Since Eddie completed the deal with the Dutchman, Joe Madden had proved his trustworthiness, and been promoted within the firm. Frankie had even given him a title, “Distribution Manager”.
It was Joe, who took the delivery of large quantities of cannabis, amphetamine and cocaine from the boat in Kent, stored the drug
s in various hiding places around the town and then distributed them to the smaller dealers, at a higher price. Joe had also been given the brief of recruiting more street dealers who would attend large events, concerts, festivals and nightclubs, not only in Lancashire, but Greater Manchester and Merseyside. Frankie had no fear of the big city gangs, confident that The Three Dogs had made their point strongly enough over in Blackburn.
So now Joe was the middleman, the buffer between The Three Dogs and the small-time boys, who might get lifted. If a street dealer gave anyone up, it would be Joe, but they all knew who he fronted for, so would do so at their own risk.
It was a dangerous job being a grass. Especially if you grassed on Frankie Verdi.
* * *
Laurie and Cheryl had loaded the dishwasher and were laying out the dining table for cheese and biscuits.
“I remember the first time I saw you,” said Laurie. “Frankie was pawing at your boobs. You were sat near the pool table in the back of the Red Lion.”
Cheryl looked embarrassed. “Yeah, well, we all do stupid things when we’re young don’t we? I just thought the lads were a good laugh, is all. You know, a few beers and a giggle.”
She eyed Laurie. “I remember you too… that night. Frankie dropped me like a hot coal the second he saw you.”
Laurie found two glasses and filled them with Blue Nun. She clinked hers against Cheryl’s. “You’re right… we all do stupid things when we’re kids.”
Cheryl examined Laurie, taking in her mood. “I seen the way you two are. I take it things are a bit rough between you and Frank at the minute then?”
“You could say that Chez, yeah.”
“It’ll work out eh? Everyone goes through rough patches.”
Laurie took a large gulp of wine. She didn’t have a shoulder to lean on. Frankie was all controlling. She had no friends, and anyone who worked for Frank couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouth shut. Cheryl was turning out to be her only outlet.
