Games with the Dead

by James Nally

  ‘Twenty-four-hour covert protection for Zoe and Matt, starting right now, do you understand? And, unless you supply me with guns by tomorrow, this E deal is over.’

  ‘Tell them you can definitely get hold of guns,’ says Gary, for once sounding alarmed. ‘But you need to shift your E first.’

  ‘I’ve got no leverage, Gary. If you don’t get me guns, you’re placing my family and me in danger, because these people are nuts.’

  ‘We’ll take care of Zoe and Matt, Donal. You have my word on that. But you’ve got to hang in there. Tell them you need to make the E deal happen to finance the guns, you know, oil the wheels.’

  ‘They won’t budge.’

  ‘I can’t sanction guns, Donal. Surely you understand that?’

  I understand only too well. ‘Then we’re fucked,’ I say and hang up.

  Chapter 57

  Highbury, North London

  Monday, July 4, 1994; 15.00

  Riven with suspicion, the Prince of Darkness insists on meeting Fintan and me in a public place.

  ‘His antennae were twitching right away,’ says Fintan. ‘I swear the fucker has a sixth sense.’

  Ever the comedian, Fintan nominated the Bank of Friendship pub halfway up Highbury Hill, where we now slouch expectantly, waiting for Machiavelli himself to waft in. I tell Fintan about Pat Regan’s ‘guns for E’ proposition and crude threats if I don’t go along with it.

  ‘How the hell did they find out about Zoe and Matt?’

  I’d been thinking about little else. ‘All I keep coming back to is that chat between John Delaney and Phil Ware in the Harp Bar, you know, the one picked up by Dusko, where they agreed to get the Prince to check me out. I think I’ve been checked out by the Prince, who fed Delaney who then passed my personal info onto Pat Regan because they’re all in this together.’

  ‘Jesus,’ gasps Fintan, for once trailing the action. ‘This is getting way too heavy. If it wasn’t for Tania knowing me, I’d hand you a blank cheque and say go on holiday somewhere very far away, for a very long time.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for Tania knowing you, I’d already be gone. But if I vanish, they’ll come after you, Fintan. They’re that mental.’

  Fintan adopts that pained, brain-burners-to-the-max expression. ‘How the hell can we extract you from this? At least we’ve got history with Bernie.’

  I nod.

  ‘He’s the only one you can trust, Donal. I don’t understand why they’re cutting Bernie out. You need to keep him involved because he’s the only one looking out for you.’

  ‘Gary says he doesn’t want Bernie knowing about the heroin deal because he’ll smell a reward and forget about the E.’

  Fintan looks at me in disbelief. ‘Where was Gary Saturday night? You need to tell Bernie everything and insist he’s involved. We know we can trust him. Otherwise whose got your back?’

  He stares at me defiantly.

  ‘Okay, okay, I’ll tell Bernie everything,’ I say.

  Fintan drops his elbows on the table and rubs his face. ‘Your only way out of this mess is to make sure Regan and his mob get arrested with a massive quantity of E. Somehow, we’ve got to convince them you have guns stashed somewhere …’

  Alex Pavlovic ghosts in, spooking us into silence. As soon as he sits, Fintan turns the laptop his way and presses the space bar. The Prince squints in confusion, then stares in wide-eyed realisation. Within seconds, his face turns soft, almost mournful.

  ‘How did you persuade Gerry Woods to stitch me up like this?’ he asks quietly, ashen-faced.

  ‘He didn’t know I was targeting you,’ says Fintan, pushing the laptop lid down respectfully.

  ‘And why were you targeting me?’

  ‘We know Nathan Barry and/or Duncan McCall came to you with a story in 1987 or 1988.’

  ‘That’s ancient history.’

  ‘Tell us everything, and I mean everything, Alex, and I’ll personally destroy all evidence of this misdemeanour.’

  He sighs resignedly. ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘You will,’ smiles Fintan. ‘Otherwise how will you finance your myriad addictions and ex-wives?’

  ‘Are you recording this?’

  ‘No. And you can search us if you want.’

  He takes a deep, confessional inhalation, then blows us away.

  ‘Okay, so we know the Brink’s-Mat robbery in 1983 was the crime story of the decade? Laundering twenty-six million pounds in gold basically set up every criminal outfit in London. In late 1987, Nathan Barry and Duncan McCall approached me claiming that one hundred million pounds worth of cocaine had come in from Florida, bought with Brink’s-Mat money. The main mover behind it was Mickey Sheeran who, as you know, made his fortune laundering Brink’s-Mat money and is handled by Commander Neil ‘Croissant’ Crossley.

  ‘They said they had proof that Crossley and two other top-ranking cops helped babysit the load to ensure it got through. The coke reached somewhere in the Midlands, where it was carved up and distributed. It all sounded a bit far-fetched to me.’

  Fintan is bucking in his seat. ‘Far-fetched? That’s the crime story of the century.’

  ‘Yeah but how could I even begin to stand it up? Nathan and McCall were demanding forty grand up front for the evidence. I knew the editor would never agree to that, not without knowing what this evidence was and whether it actually qualified as proof. I wasn’t convinced they had evidence at all, certainly not enough to run a story of that magnitude.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ interjects Fintan. ‘Don’t tell me you approached Crossley.’

  The Prince shrugs resignedly. ‘Nathan Barry wouldn’t budge. I didn’t see any option. Crossley admitted that Sheeran was now handling him. They’re in the same Freemason’s lodge, and Sheeran holds the more senior position. So he controls Crossley, just like his accomplices in this racket controlled their handlers. They’d amassed so much dirt on Crossley and co. that not only were these cops powerless to stop their criminal ventures, they had to actively ensure the load got through.’

  ‘Crossley told you this?’

  ‘Off the record. He made me strip before he talked.’

  Fintan leans forward. ‘So, Crossley and these other top cops were being bribed by Sheeran and his associates?’

  ‘It’s not that simple. If Sheeran and his accomplices got caught, the first thing they’d do is dish the dirt on Crossley and the other two senior officers. We’re talking about three of the highest-ranking cops in London. Think about it, every prisoner they’d put away over the previous twenty years would have grounds for appeal. Because of their seniority, they’re connected to thousands of prosecutions. The consequences would be catastrophic.’

  Fintan’s eyes almost pop out. ‘My God, it could’ve brought down the entire criminal justice system.’

  Alex nods slowly as Fintan resumes. ‘So, Crossley and Sheeran got their grunts to approach Nathan to try and force him to hand over the evidence?’

  Alex looks pained. ‘I told them he probably didn’t have any, but they wouldn’t listen.’

  Fintan’s face creases in horror. ‘But they couldn’t take that chance, could they, Alex? So, they whacked him. Nathan was probably killed for no reason, but he’s still dead.

  ‘Then they approached McCall, in case he was holding the smoking gun. McCall knew something, that’s why he’d been summoned to appear at that inquiry into Commander Crossley, so they whacked him too. My God, Alex, by going to Crossley, you effectively signed their death warrants. You might as well have killed them yourself.’

  Alex shudders. ‘Nonsense. I was naïve, Fintan, okay? I’d just landed the job and, to start with, I genuinely believed Nathan and McCall were trying to shake me down. When I didn’t cough up the money, they went to Crossley and tried to shake him down.’

  Fintan’s in full Rottweiler mode. ‘What do you mean “to start with” you believed they were trying to shake you down? What did you find out subsequently?’

  Alex hesitates; he’s ab
out to yank the pin out of this pulsing grenade. ‘Seven months after Nathan got killed, the drugs squad busted a cocaine racket at West Norwood cemetery. They found twelve million pounds worth, a massive haul, but they only caught the small-fry delivery boys. The thing is, Nathan had told me that some of the cocaine load was being held there, but I hadn’t believed him. I realised then that Nathan and McCall hadn’t been bluffing, McCall hadn’t committed suicide and John Delaney didn’t kill Nathan Barry.’

  My brain hurts: ‘Why then are the police so hell-bent on nailing Delaney, Phil Ware and the Warner brothers for Nathan’s murder?’

  Alex shrugs as if it should be patently obvious. ‘Delaney was told by the Warner brothers to get Nathan Barry to the pub that night, leave at nine and then keep his mouth shut. The Warners told Phil Ware to bodge the investigation and keep his mouth shut. When they saw what happened to Nathan, they didn’t need any more persuading to do what they were told, otherwise they’d get the same. Delaney and Ware kept their side of the bargain by deliberately misleading and undermining the cops all these years, so that the conspiracies have now pretty much buried any chance they’ll ever get to the bottom of it all.’

  ‘My God,’ gasps Fintan, his gymnastic brain devouring scenarios. ‘It’s like JFK, Jimmy Hoffa, Marilyn Monroe. They just sit back and let the conspiracies grow. I bet, like Lee Harvey Oswald, whoever swung the axe that killed Nathan is dead. Delaney is the Jack Ruby fall guy. Crossley is J Edgar Hoover, the shape-shifting puppeteer behind the whole conspiracy.

  ‘We’ve got two perfect murders here. First McCall, because they managed to get it recorded as suicide, then Nathan Barry, because they managed to fudge it and muddy the waters so thoroughly that the truth now can never be found. Who were the other two senior cops?’

  ‘I’ve only ever discovered the identity of one. DCI Frank Vaughan.’

  My brain thrashes about like a netted fish and I struggle to breathe: ‘The same Frank Vaughan who was the senior investigating officer in the original Nathan Barry murder enquiry?’

  Alex nods without meeting my eyes.

  Fintan sits back, brain still whirring. ‘So, Alex, let me get this straight, you were handed the scoop of the century, but you never wrote a line about it?’

  ‘Without evidence, what could I do?’

  ‘And you never took your information to other contacts you have in the police?’

  ‘What, and end up dead like Nathan and McCall? No thanks.’

  ‘I know you, Alex, you must’ve figured out some way of turning this to your advantage.’

  He smiles. ‘Have you honestly never considered why the cops turn a blind eye to our, shall we say, less palatable activities? Those senior cops had no idea I could never run this story. They thought I’d spiked it as a favour, in return for future favours. That’s why they ignore our excesses.’

  Fintan shakes his head. ‘Alex Pavlovic, saviour of Fleet Street. I often wondered how you always got the inside track on major crimes. Like Julie Draper, for example. You were the first to report a connection with Suzy Fairclough’s abductor, Mr Kipper.’

  For the first time in this exchange, Alex looks guilty.

  Fintan goes in for the kill. ‘But you know as well as I do that Julie wasn’t abducted by Mr Kipper, was she? I think your pals Commander Crossley and Mickey Sheeran kidnapped and killed her. Crossley had the inside track on the Kipper case and used that knowledge to derail this investigation. He set Donal here up to hand over the ransom money, knowing she was already dead, and knowing they could take advantage of his lack of experience, throw him under the bus later. But someone made a mistake dumping her body and it all started to unravel …’

  My skin prickles with indignant rage. My God, Crossley set me up to fail! I was their Fall Guy. Village idiot indeed.

  Fintan slams the table hard. ‘Why did they kill her, Alex?’

  Pavlovic’s eyes seem to lose all life now, as if he’s unplugged himself. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘As soon as they kidnapped Julie, you agreed to help Crossley make it look like Kipper had struck again, didn’t you? To cover his and Sheeran’s tracks. You helped them fool the police and, with your expert help, they then fooled the media into falling for the Kipper connection, hook, line and sinker. My God, Alex, you’re their PR man! How can you live with yourself?’

  Alex gets to his feet. ‘You can’t prove any of that and it wasn’t part of our deal. You asked me to tell you what scoop Nathan and McCall had tried to sell me. Now I’ve told you. Deal done. If that video ever sees the light of day, I will personally call in an outstanding favour from my old pals Sheeran and Crossley. Do you understand?’

  Chapter 58

  North London

  Monday, July 4, 1994; 13.30

  ‘Donal, what are you doing right now?’ teases Edwina down the phone, and I nearly crash the car out of erotic terror.

  ‘Nothing too pressing,’ I wheeze.

  ‘Good. I want to see your gift.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I have to sign Julie Draper out to the undertakers in a matter of minutes. I suddenly realise this is our last chance to get you close to her. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m utterly intrigued by what’s been happening to you. I’d rather like to see it first-hand.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  I follow Edwina into what looks like a chilled locker room. She grabs a drawer handle, pulls out a light-blue Julie. I lean down and make my silent promise; help me help you, so we can catch the bastard who did this.

  I’m struck suddenly by an eerie sense of déjà vu; I shiver and spin around. But I’ve never set foot in this place before. Why do I suddenly recognise those walls of chilled drawers? The metal tables? The trolleys and the blue and white floor tiles?

  ‘Are you alright?’ asks Edwina, but her voice sounds muffled, disconnected, external.

  I’m beneath that monster electricity pylon again. The centre of my eyes blur and buzz in time to that nails-on-a-chalkboard white noise soundtrack. Faces flash on and off; the bony, emaciated, decaying faces of Nathan Barry, Duncan McCall, Julie Draper and me; our distracted, demented eyes, alive and dead. I see no love in this Edvard Munch vision, just the four of us trapped inside a merciless eternal thud, Dante’s second circle of hell. I know I’m on the threshold, peering into limbo, purgatory or hell, maybe death itself. Good God, I think, now this is hardcore.

  All spins. Flashes score my sight; the deafening squeals of braking trains shatter my skull. My feet flap like tassels in a breeze. A burst of noise, light and air flushes out my tormentors. I’m on the street, Edwina’s got my left arm, a porter my right.

  ‘Donal, what happened in there?’ she demands.

  ‘Don’t know,’ I croak, hoping to God it hadn’t been some sort of premonition. Because if it had, I’ll be joining those tormented souls very soon.

  Chapter 59

  Clerkenwell, North London

  Monday, July 4, 1994; 16.00

  At 5pm, Ireland kick off against Holland for a place in the World Cup quarter finals. Not long later, Bernie Moss will kick off at me for not telling him about the Tate gang’s monster and very imminent 100 kilo heroin haul.

  He’s agreed to meet me here at O’Hanlon’s on Rosebery Avenue where, once again, I’m forced to watch Irish players wilt under midday Orlando sun like microwaved lettuce leaves. I haven’t even got Fintan here, the world’s most obscene cheerleader, to whip me into a conspiratorial frenzy.

  By the time Bernie turns up, Ireland are two goals down, I’m five pints bolder and ready to ’fess up. I tell him about my secret rendezvous in Windsor, Pat Regan’s demand for guns, the threats against Zoe and Matt and, my biggest scoop, Ron Regan’s revelation yesterday that they’re bringing in 100 kilos of brown.

  ‘During the pub meeting today, Walsh said something like “lead to protect the lead”, so I’m guessing that they’re bringing the heroin in with a load of lead.’

  ‘And when d
o they want these guns by?’

  ‘Thursday morning, latest.’

  Bernie looks grave, murderous. ‘If there’s a major wagon of brown coming in, we need to focus on that.’

  ‘Gary insists we make this E deal happen. He’s got the Home Secretary on his case.’

  Bernie scowls. ‘E doesn’t kill anyone. That’s all political bullshit so Gary can get his OBE and Michael Howard can look like the nation’s sheriff. If we bust these pricks bringing in a major load of brown, we’ll save lives and put them away for a lot longer.’

  ‘I can’t go against Gary’s orders,’ I protest.

  He senses my discomfort.

  ‘Yes but 100 kilos of heroin at a street value of eighty thousand per kilo … you’re looking at an eight million quid load. You do know we can claim ten per cent of that as a reward? We could both retire.’

  I give him my best ‘get real’ stare. ‘They won’t trade a football card with me until I deliver guns, let alone divulge the details of their bumper heroin deal. I don’t have access to guns, Bernie. Gary won’t sanction them, for obvious reasons. Right now, I can’t even make this E deal happen and that’s the only reason I’m doing this shit at all.’

  Bernie plants his meaty hands on the table and tilts forward, a proposition to sell. ‘What if I get hold of two or three shooters? You offer them up as goodwill, you know, there’s plenty more where they came from.’

  My expression lets him know I’m open to ideas; anything to end this horror.

  He sniffs defiantly. ‘But I’ll only risk it for the load of brown.’

  Beer-bold, I bait him: ‘Gary warned me you’d do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘See the pound signs and forget about what we’re supposed to be trying to achieve here.’

  Bernie baulks in disgust. ‘You don’t know anything about why I’m here, dealing with these fuckwits. No idea at all.’

  His homicidal glare makes me cower in conciliatory resignation. ‘You told me yourself, Bernie: you missed the mischief.’

  ‘Did I fuck,’ he spits. ‘That shit killed my eldest boy, Vince, last year. Now my third lad, Darren, is dealing it for the bastard that killed Vince. That’s why I came back. I want to crush every fucker that imports and peddles that shit. Heroin’s evil, truly fucking evil. I don’t give a fuck about E, Gary or Michael fucking Howard, just as they don’t give a flying fuck about us.’