Games with the Dead

by James Nally

  He swings into Heston services and drives all the way to the edge of the car park, near a footbridge crossing the M4 motorway. I let him get out first.

  A bear of a man whose wife-beater vest looks painted-on walks over and shakes Bernie’s hand. With his thick black hair tied in a ponytail, leathery skin and blue eyes, he looks Romany, fearless and wild.

  ‘This is Donal.’

  ‘Hello Irishman,’ he says, his blood-stopping clamp of a handshake bringing a tear to more than my eye.

  ‘Hello Ron,’ I wheeze, sounding like an amiable parish priest in a vice.

  ‘I’m told you’re tight with some of the Scousers.’

  I nod.

  ‘Which clan?’

  ‘The Fitzgeralds are relations of mine,’ I state, which is true. It’s just that the Fitzgeralds I’m referring to are second cousins who own a pub in Tullamore.

  ‘I’ve got a man on the other side of that bridge who knows the dance scene in Liverpool inside out,’ he rasps. ‘If you’re a face up there, he’ll know you.’

  He turns, raises his mobile to his mouth and grunts. Every drop of blood in my head crashes south. My ears throb so hard they block out the motorway traffic. I glance at Bernie who’s turned to stone.

  Whoever’s coming across this bridge won’t know me … can’t know me …

  What then?

  … public enough for no one to try anything stupid …

  I take a quick look at Bernie’s wheels. We’ve got to make a run for it. I glance again at Bernie. His eyes are wide, crazed. It’s coming on top.

  The man crossing the bridge wears a beanie hat and a green Peter Storm cagoule. His face is not one I know. Of course, it isn’t. Every fibre of my being screams ‘flight’ but Bernie’s not budging. I see now he’s moved his hand into the pocket of his bomber jacket. What’s he gripping in there? A gun?

  A shoot-out? Here? In broad daylight?

  … anonymous enough for us not to get noticed …

  ‘Beanie Hat’ steps off the bridge and embraces Ron Regan. He takes off his hat and shakes his blonde-highlighted locks.

  ‘Hello Donal,’ he says and my blood freezes. ‘Bet you weren’t expecting to see me here.’

  Chapter 49

  Heston Services, West London

  Saturday, July 2, 1994; 11.20

  ‘Hello stranger,’ I say brightly.

  ‘I hear you had a spot of aggro up there recently?’

  ‘Half a tonne’s worth,’ I smile.

  ‘I’m amazed you got bail,’ says Chris St. John Green, my love rival and now, bizarrely, my lifesaver.

  ‘Well I’ve no form over here, Chris. I think that helped.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ says Ron Regan. ‘We’ll be on our way, Chris. Thanks for coming at short notice.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ says Chris.

  ‘I’d love to catch up, Chris,’ I say. ‘If you’re not in a hurry. When I’m finished here, why don’t I pop over your side, meet you in the Little Chef.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, stalking off like a fleeing assassin, clearly desperate to escape me.

  Bernie insists I follow Chris right now, leave him to pitch our extra-terrestrial E scheme to Ron Regan. It’s all I can do not to sprint.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ I hiss into his ear, as soon as I catch up. ‘Does Zoe know you’re a big shot drug dealer? Because if she doesn’t, she soon will …’

  ‘Steady on, Donal. I wasn’t expecting to see you and I’ve just saved your bacon back there. Do you want me to give Ron a ring and tell him what I really know?’

  That shuts me up for a few seconds. I’m desperately trying to see the angles. What is his game?

  ‘Why did you just “save my bacon”, as you put it?’

  ‘I was bloody tempted to shop you, Donal. But Zoe would never thank me for taking you out of the game. And, like I said before, I want to beat you fair and square.’

  ‘The game? Fair and square?’ I almost scream in outrage. ‘I know where you’ve been Chris. Curacao Islands, Bali, Ibiza. If you make your money importing drugs, then it’s only fair Zoe knows before she marries you. My God, you’ll most likely end up in jail serving life, or dead. Think what that would do to her? To Matt?’

  He stops walking and turns to me.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he snaps, earnest as a Slavic gravedigger. ‘The police aren’t the only agency with an interest in smashing drug dealing. We’re not that different, Donal, okay?’

  I frown in confusion.

  He looks at me in exasperated boredom, as you might a dog failing to obey a repeated order, and sighs. ‘There’s a Chinese proverb that goes; “when the finger points at the moon, the idiot looks at the finger.” Don’t be an idiot, Donal.’

  ‘What, so you work for Customs?’

  ‘Oh yeah, we always had Customs recruiters sniffing around Eton and Cambridge, in their hi-vis bibs.’

  Eton … Cambridge … of course, he’s a proper spook. He’s James fucking Bond while, in the words of Commander Crossley, I’m the village idiot! Why did I ever delude myself into thinking I could compete with him?

  He lowers his chin and gives me both sparklers. ‘Listen, Donal, Zoe mustn’t know anything about this because all it will do is put her and Matthew in danger. I trust you’re an honourable man and would never stoop to such pettiness.’

  ‘Well I do owe you one, I suppose, for what you just did back there. And I’m all for “may the best man win”.’ I grab his fancy cagoule and twist it until our noses meet. ‘I just hope you’re not lying to me, Chris, or stringing Zoe and Matt along. Because all your breeding and connections count for fuck all where I come from.’

  Chapter 50

  Fleet Street, Central London

  Saturday, July 2, 1994; 20.00

  I catch up with Fintan at the Cheshire Cheese pub on Fleet Street, his ‘office’ on Saturday nights where he waits for the first editions of rival newspapers to ‘drop’. Bernie’s picking me up here at 10pm and whisking me to Windsor for a ‘sit down’ with the Three Racketeers, Shaw, Walsh and Pat Regan. Earlier, Ron Regan dialled in our Dambusters concept and they loved it. I’m drinking fast, but the terror of what lies ahead keeps overtaking me. Thank God Bernie will be there, otherwise I couldn’t face it.

  Fintan produces a bail of printed paper and plants it between our pints. ‘Julie Draper’s sales records for the past four years. I’ve been through it and written down all the names and addresses. Maybe you could run them through the police computer, see if any have form.’

  ‘Yeah if I take next week off. There’s hundreds.’

  ‘Just as well I’ve already done all the legwork then,’ he says. ‘I spoke to Tom Reynolds, Julie’s colleague and the man you stunt-doubled for. He tells me Julie had been buying up property for an outfit based in the Cayman Islands. He’d mentioned it to Crossley and co. but they weren’t interested.

  ‘I couldn’t find these purchases in her records, so I guessed she must have been using some sort of code to disguise them. I was struggling to crack it. Then, in her 1991 sales, two purchasers caught my eye; Edith Ashcroft and David Lean. Remember when I got busted down to obits a few years ago?’

  ‘After you punched someone at the Christmas party.’

  ‘After I was forced to defend myself at the Christmas party. Anyway, I remembered that Edith Ashcroft is the real name of Dame Peggy Ashcroft, who died in 1991. So did the film director David Lean. Both had connections with Croydon. Then, in March of this year, I noticed a purchase by one William Travers. Bill Travers, the TV presenter, died that month and came from Croydon. Bingo!

  ‘I went back through each Friday’s Croydon Advertiser over the past four years, wrote down all the names featured in obituaries, cross-referenced them with Julie’s sales records and came up with nineteen fictional transactions.’

  ‘Wow, very Day of the Jackal.’

  ‘She then gave them fictional addresses that would be hard to spot. For exam
ple, Travers is listed at 76 Eldon Avenue, Shirley. The even numbers on that road only go up to 74. It all points to a money-laundering racket and, with the amount of properties involved, we’re talking a major criminal organisation.’

  Now I get his excitement about the ‘Have What We Hold’ Ireland-Norway snore draw. ‘She made sure she never won salesperson of the quarter in case someone took a closer look at her work.’

  Fintan nods. ‘The question now is, did she conspire in the money-laundering scam or was she a stooge who got wise and threatened to blow the whistle? Either way, let’s assume she confronted the brains behind it all. What would he do?’

  ‘He’d have to kill her to shut her up,’ I say. ‘But he wouldn’t want police snooping into her sales records so, to hoodwink them, he makes sure they connect her kidnapping to a previous case, which had been carried out purely to extort money.’

  ‘And it worked, until now,’ says Fintan. ‘Though it’s a little baffling to me just how easily police have been fooled.’

  I’m desperate to knot these loose ends together, make sense of it all.

  ‘So, we think Nathan Barry and Duncan McCall had uncovered some sort of racket involving bent cops that they were trying to flog to Fleet Street, you think via the Prince of Darkness.’

  ‘I’m convinced. It had to be him.’

  ‘And now we think Julie Draper died because she’d uncovered some sort of racket concerning the same people. If the rumours back in 1987 were true, those people are Commander Neil Crossley and the criminal he handled as an informant, Mickey Sheeran.’

  ‘Now all we have to do is prove it,’ he sighs. ‘Hopefully the lair where Julie was held in Pease Pottage will throw up something. Forensics are still there.’

  ‘Zoe can get us the inside track on that then. What about the Prince? Any joy gaining leverage on him yet?’

  ‘I’ll know in about two hours’ time,’ he smiles.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ says Fintan.

  Chapter 51

  Windsor, Berkshire

  Saturday, July 2, 1994; 23.45

  When Bernie pulls up outside the Oasis nightclub in Windsor, a couple of security lackeys scamper over; one to park the Range Rover, the second to usher us in ahead of the kvetching queue.

  We’re corralled through a raving throng speeding off their tits on runaway breakbeats and bad drugs. It’s hardcore hell; bony, emaciated, gurning faces flashing live and dead. Distracted, demented eyes set to explode. I see no love in this screaming Munchesque vision of hell, just restless souls trapped inside a merciless, eternal thud.

  We’re led up a spiral staircase to a mezzanine overlooking the dance floor; all very Carlito’s Way.

  Ron Regan leaps to his feet and makes the introductions. Pat Regan, Shaw and Walsh look swollen, sweaty and wired.

  ‘It’s Bernie and Biggles!’ roars Pat, and they all fall about laughing.

  At the next table, a gaggle of orange skeletons in hot pants and war paint cackle like hens. I find myself double-taking one of the brunettes.

  Shit, I know her from somewhere …

  Ron Regan presents a flute of champagne and a seat at the captain’s table.

  ‘How long did it take you to learn how to fly?’ Pat asks me.

  ‘I don’t fly, Pat. Why have a dog and bark yourself?’

  He seems to like that.

  A mirror lands on the table before me. I peer into a Rothko-style triptych of my red, drunken face, split into three by two fat lines of coke.

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ I say. Then, borrowing a line from Woody Allen: ‘Or I’ll spend the rest of the night trying to take my trousers off over my head.’

  This cracks Pat up, so the others duly follow suit, except Shaw.

  ‘You’re one funny fucker,’ says Pat and Shaw’s eyes burn into me like a red-hot tuning fork. I remember Bernie’s words from earlier.

  Shaw and Walsh are like star-struck teen girls with a major crush on Pat Regan. Shaw shifts irritably in his seat, patently unhappy that I’m bonding with his hero. He’s by far the shortest of the trio – minus the elevator shoes and gelled hair, about 5 foot 4 – with the short-man syndrome to match.

  ‘So, we’re told you’re some crazy Provo?’ he sneers.

  ‘As you may have heard, peace is breaking out,’ I say, my face toasting. ‘I’m seeking fresh business opportunities.’

  ‘You look like a copper to me.’

  My face is steaming now. I summon Bernie’s words; don’t look shocked … don’t ever back down.

  ‘Well we know you’re not one anyway,’ I smile and every face pivots my way. ‘You need to be at least 5 foot 7.’

  Cue gales of laughter. Shaw is apoplectic. Now comes the post-hysterics awkward silence; Shaw’s invitation to test my mettle.

  ‘Tell me how you’d go about whacking me then, Mr IRA man,’ he says.

  I remember Gary Warner’s chilling description that day in the Harp Bar and parrot every detail. Even Bernie looks impressed.

  Ron Regan pipes up: ‘Now if we can get down to business. Bernie, show Pat and the lads your satellite device. You’re gonna love this.’

  Bernie produces his hi-tech ace card, giving it the whole ‘smile and a shoeshine’ sales demo as my eyes drift back to the party girls on the other table. I suddenly remember how I know that brunette. A bead of cold sweat trickles down my raging hot back; she could blow my cover right here, right now. I’ve got to get away from her.

  Ron Regan stands and announces the pizza delivery boy is on his way up.

  He opens the door to a skinny, acne-ridden teenager holding six large pizza boxes.

  ‘Do you need to have a pizza face to work there?’ shouts Shaw and they all have a good laugh at that.

  ‘Just leave ’em over there,’ says Ron, pointing to an empty table in the corner.

  Delivery boy obliges, then hovers at the door, face redder than his uniform.

  ‘What are you hanging around for?’ says Ron.

  He holds out a quivering bill. ‘That’s fifty-three pounds ninety-four pence,’ he squeaks. The room falls silent. Dread yanks at my guts. ‘Please,’ he adds, making a stand that impresses and appals in equal measure.

  ‘Are you serious?’ smiles Ron Regan, shaking his head at what he considers sheer bare-faced gall.

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ says Shaw, getting to his feet and marching over to the kid.

  ‘How much did you say, son?’ Shaw asks, rummaging in his pocket.

  ‘Fifty is fine,’ says the kid, chewing his lip and wishing he’d fled when he had the chance.

  I see the bunch of keys coming out of Shaw’s pocket in slow motion. Gripping them hard between his fingers in a well-rehearsed move, he lashes out in a flash. The lad’s cheek opens like a carp’s mouth. He turns away but Shaw follows up with stabbing blows to his ear, neck and shoulder. The lad yelps and squeals like a pig, pressing himself into the wall. Shaw delivers a sickening kick to his ribs which sends him scrabbling into the foetal position.

  Shaw snorts like a horse. Suddenly he notices blood splashes on his cornflower blue and white Fred Perry polo shirt. ‘You pizza-delivering cunt,’ he screams, then kicks him hard in the face. The sound of crunching bone and helpless gurgling is too much for me. I turn away in disgust. At that very moment, I catch her eye. Tania, the model from Sandra’s photo casebook, half-frowns in recognition. My backbone free-falls through space.

  ‘I think he’s got the message,’ says Bernie, ushering Shaw away.

  Bernie slips three twenty-pound notes into the lad’s pocket. ‘You got paid, then you fell down the stairs, got it?’ he says to the limp ragdoll whimpering in his arms.

  Shaw pants and sniffs in primeval satisfaction, as if he’s just fucked Wonder Woman. Christ, I think, what is it with these guys and free pizza?

  ‘Wow,’ I say, champagne-sharp, ‘you enforce that thirty-minute delivery rule pretty strictly down here.’

  Everyone laughs
, except Shaw.

  Bernie returns. ‘I’ve just deposited him at the bottom of the stairs and called an ambulance, so the cops will turn up soon, asking questions. And all for what?’

  The temperature in the room plummets.

  Bernie’s puce and pumped. ‘We’ve got no fucking gear because you went around bashing people last week. Now I bring someone here who can solve our problem, first you insult him, then you do something stupid and bring cop heat down on top of us.’

  ‘Alright, Bernie,’ says Ron, arms outstretched. ‘We’re very interested in doing business with our new friend here. And we need to make it happen this week. I think we’re all agreed on that?’

  Nods all round.

  ‘Great,’ says Ron, clapping his hands. ‘I’ll order up some more bubbly. Now’s not the time to get into the nitty-gritty. Let’s relax and enjoy ourselves.’

  I can’t do either and want out. But Bernie isn’t budging. The girls decide to hit the dance floor, except Tania. She sits next to Pat Regan. They talk quietly, seriously. She pushes her hair back with her left hand, revealing that green Rolex. It’s definitely her and she’s just glanced over at me. I feel sick, hot and spent. What is she telling him?

  She kisses him on the cheek and leaves without looking at me. I know betrayal when I see it. Christ, I think, this can only play out one way; and may well involve my soft face repeatedly absorbing Shaw’s set of jagged keys.

  As they binge on coke and Moet, I choke on sweaty menace. Pat Regan takes a call on his mobile, responds angrily to news.

  ‘That cunt Pete Twomey told us he’s got no gear. Well he’s at the Limelight as I speak, flogging lots of it.’

  Suddenly we’re all jogging down the spiral stairs.

  ‘Jump in with me,’ demands Pat, getting into his black Range Rover. Bernie takes the front seat, me the back. Ron Regan, Shaw and Walsh roar off ahead of us in another.

  ‘I’m a bit confused,’ says Pat. ‘Tania knows your brother. He works on the same paper as her. He told her you work in TV.’

  ‘Well it’s a good front,’ I say. ‘It’s the only job in the world where you need no qualifications or discernible skills.’