by Alan Cooke
Bill wound down his window to check that this was the person he was expecting.
‘Are you waiting for a delivery?’ He was tall, thin and had a droopy moustache which was collecting rain drops as he tried to lean away from the torrential downpour.
‘And who would that be from,’ said Bill, in an aggressive response. He wanted to make sure this wasn’t some idiot wasting his time.
‘The Organisation gave me a description of your van, and where to meet you, so now I’m here.’ He didn’t like the tone of the driver, his mate looked far more agreeable. Perhaps he should have gone to the other door. At first sight, Ben might have looked affable, but a closer look might have warned him off. ‘Well do you want the packages or not?’ He growled to match Bill’s manner. He wasn’t keen on London types at the best of times, but this one he did not like at all. He had worked hard to put together a masterpiece of his art. It was enjoyable work, the most difficult part had been getting hold of two empty metal beer kegs without anyone knowing about it. He was not a trained thief and it had taken time to find a pub expecting a delivery and having kegs awaiting uplift. Parking beside the kegs he gave a display of ham acting that would not have deceived a baby in a pram. His every movement was suspicious and he was indeed fortunate that no-one saw what he was doing. Driving from the scene he had been covered in perspiration, a state he didn’t suffer when dealing with gelignite or plastic explosives. It had taken him less than an hour to assemble the bombs. He had stepped back to admire them, as an artist would view a completed painting. Now everything was ready and sitting in his van. Once he had passed them over, he would brief the driver on how to use them, and finally give him the handset.
‘Sorry mate,’ Bill spoke softly to the anorak, ‘Can’t be too careful in our line of work. Let me get my gloves and I’ll give you a hand.’ Jumping out of the van, he joined the anorak at the rear of the blue van. He noticed that the man was also wearing gloves. Together they carefully carried the two kegs to the already open rear doors of their van.
‘You know where to put them don’t you?’ Anorak looked at both of them, expecting them to say, ‘No.’ But he was mistaken. The job had once again been planned down to the last detail. The water was now streaming down his face and all he wanted to do was get back into his van and be on his way, but he must be sure that his work was not going to be wasted. His instructions were brief but crystal clear to Bill. There were going to be no mistakes.
Once the back doors were secure, Bill headed back towards the motorway. There had been no good luck wishes from Anorak, and he was glad to see the back of him. Now he had to be very careful, a wrong move with the handset and they would never reach Manchester, or anywhere else in one piece.
They had time to spare, the kegs would stay in the van until 9.30 p.m. and they mustn’t let the van out of their sight. Bill had been told to use a transport café near Macclesfield, and stay there until 8.00 p.m. The parking area was well organised and they were able to leave the van where it could be seen from the café windows. Bill placed the handset carefully under his seat, then locking the van doors, together they headed for the biggest fry up on the menu.
‘There we are then Ben, how’s that for an all day breakfast.’ The plates were laden with bacon, eggs, sausages, black pudding, kidneys and fried bread. As they sat down a cheerful waitress brought them large mugs of tea.
‘Give me a shout if there’s anything else love,’ she said as she returned to help her husband behind the counter. She hadn’t seen this pair before, but with luck they would become good customers and keep the money rolling in.
‘Did you enjoy that my son?’ Bill softly patted Bens shoulder. ‘That’ll put hairs on your chest. That’s the best meal I’ve had for years. We’ll be back if there’s any more work up here don’t you think?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Just keep an eye on the van while I go to the bog, if anyone goes near it, get out there pronto. O.K?’
Ben was still finishing off a crust of bread so just grunted and nodded his head in Bill’s direction. He turned towards the window, and didn’t take his eyes off the van until Bill returned.
‘Your turn now. I’ll pay for this and see you in the van. Don’t be long, we’ll have to be on our way soon.’ He would feel better when he had complete control over the van and the contents. It was a dangerous cargo but if handled properly it would only harm those it was intended to harm.
They followed the route they had been given and avoided most of the CCTV cameras. If they had been caught on one or two it might not matter. Once the job was done and they had left the area, the van would acquire a nice logo on each side. It would not be the plain white van seen near the disaster area and they would drive across country for a while before rejoining the motorway en route for London.
Bill parked near the place advised by the Organisation, and had seen the targets leave the house and head for the pub. Grimshaw was instantly recognisable. He was as wide as he was tall, with hair cropped short showing most of his scalp, while the flesh at the back of his neck lay in folds. When he walked, his legs were spread apart and his arms stood away from his body. He was the nearest thing to a gorilla Bill had ever seen. The others were a mixed bunch, eager to be the ones walking next to their boss, jostling for position as they walked.
‘Christ Ben, did you get an eyeful of that. I wouldn’t like to get in a tangle with him.’ Bill was pleased the job did not require his physical skills this time. He would give them ten minutes to settle down with their drinks, say hello to their acquaintances and then he would act. The instructions he had been given allowed him on this occasion to decide on timing.
Inside the pub, Grimshaw accepted the homage that was paid to him by many of the customers. The barmaid brought a tray of drinks to his table which would not be paid for. He was home, this was his fiefdom, these were his people and he reigned supreme. Stretching himself to take up the space of three people in his reserved area, he looked about him to make sure everyone was aware of his presence. The acolyte nearest to him apologised for no apparent reason other than being too close as he sat down. Things were going to change for Grimshaw and his friends. Two men were going to earn five grand and another man’s daughter was going to be spared violation. It was going to be a good night all round for some.
Switching on the engine, he checked his mirrors and saw that the street was now deserted. ‘Time to go Ben, you jump in the back and I’ll drive the van to that spot over there.’ He pointed to the side wall of the pub where their target was drinking. ‘Once I stop I’ll join you and we’ll get rid of the kegs. O.K.?’ He turned to look at Ben and make sure that he understood. Ben had. He repeated Bill’s instructions word for word. Once he heard the back door close, Bill moved towards the space at the side of the pub. Leaving the engine running, he joined Ben, and together they lifted the kegs and placed them side by side hard up against the pub wall. In seconds they were driving carefully down the street. It was not until he was turning the first corner that he pressed the handset. He heard the explosion, but was out of view when it happened. He felt the whole of Manchester must have heard it as he continued on the allotted route. No one took any notice of the white van driving normally towards the main road and away from the devastated pub.
He had driven thirty miles before he stopped on a deserted country road to fit the logos. Two boards, four wing nuts and it was done. Now for the motorway and home. Time for Ben to go to the Parlour. The money was good and would more than pay for Lily for some time to come. He left the motorway to make the call, and then headed home a happy man. ‘Mission accomplished old son,’ he said. ‘Mission bloody accomplished. Over and out.’
‘During the war Ben, the R.A.F. used to go on missions, just like we‘ve just done, only they were dropping bombs over Germany. I bet they got briefings just like ours and felt good once they were on their way home. Just like us.’ He liked to give Ben the benefit of his knowledge but suspected that a lot of the things he told him would be deposit
ed on rather stony ground.
Ben sat up straight in the front seat of the van, Bill had got through to him. ‘I bet they weren’t going back to somewhere like the Parlour.’ His head shook from side to side thinking of the fun the airmen had missed. He sat back in the seat thinking of the pleasures yet to come with Lily.
Glancing at his brother, Bill enjoyed seeing him relaxed and by the faraway look in his eyes, he knew he was thinking of the Parlour.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Mr. P talked to his wife about the day’s events at the factory they were shaken by the loud explosion. He lived some miles away from the city, but the sound had travelled and he immediately thought it might be a terrorist attack. Some years ago he had heard something similar when the I.R.A. had placed bombs in the Arndale Centre. The sound had been the same and the damage horrendous. The thought of the good that could have been done if the amount of money spent to put right the terrorist atrocity had been available for hospitals or schools often crossed his mind. Terrorists of any type were anathema to him and when one met his due desserts he was a happy man. When a terrorist had a bomb go off before he planted it, the Army called it ‘an own goal.’ He just loved own goals. When the Ten o’clock news started, the first item was the explosion in Manchester. The cameras had scanned the scene of devastation and he could hardly breathe when he saw his factory on the screen. He couldn’t take it in. Things like this didn’t happen so close, they always happened elsewhere, wherever that was. Then the announcer mentioned ‘The Green Man’ public house and a number of deaths. It was all going over his head. He was up from his chair, standing close to the television set. Did this mean that some action had been taken against Grimshaw, and was he involved? He couldn’t be, he knew that but it was all too close to home. Was Grimshaw one of those killed in the explosion? Had any innocent people been hurt? The questions were coming into his mind thick and fast. Worry was quickly overcome by a surge of excitement, could this be a result of his phone calls? ‘I must go and see if the factory is alright. Some of the people hurt could work for us, I must check and see if there is anything I can do.’ Frantically searching for his car keys, he suddenly realised he always put them in the same place. He must calm down and wait and see for himself just what had happened and how it might affect their lives in the future. ‘I’ll ring you from the factory and let you know what’s going on’ he shouted. Before his wife could answer, he was out of the door and running to his car in the drive. He couldn’t get near to the factory as the Police diverted traffic away from the area. Smoke was rising above a block of flats, spreading a long trail across the night sky. Explosion and fire, it must be bad he thought.
Parking his car as near to the site as possible, he walked the rest of the way. The smell of burning was getting stronger as he hurried along the streets now filling with people, some showing fear, others eager to speculate on the cause of the explosion. Once he was within a short distance of the factory he was stopped by a Policeman guarding a tape fastened across the street. Mr. P was thinking hard, he had to get to the scene, he had to know. His future depended upon it.
‘Officer, my factory is opposite the Green Man pub, I heard on the news that’s where it happened. I really must check and see if any of my people are hurt. I’m a key holder for the building and I’m sure the Fire Brigade will want to check it if there’s fire around. We have some very flammable substances there, it could be quite dangerous. I really must let them in to check.’ There were no highly flammable substances, but he had to convince this young man that he had to pass the barrier.
‘Just a second Sir, I’ll just check it out. ‘Oscar one this is Bravo 23, I have the key holder for the factory opposite the pub, is it O.K. to let him through?’ There was a pause, and then a voice delivered the verdict.
‘23, affirmative you can let the key holder through. He should report to the Chief Fire Officer at the scene.’
‘Thanks Oscar 1.’
‘O.K. Sir, did you hear that?’ But Mr. P was on his way, calling thanks over his shoulder to the young Policeman as he ducked under the tape watched by the growing crowds of sightseers. Apart from broken windows, his factory looked intact. They were covered with metal grills to keep out thieves, so the damage could be repaired tomorrow. He looked over to where the ‘Green Man’ had been, it was difficult to recognise. One side had gone and the roof had collapsed onto the remains of the ground floor. Hoses from the fire hydrants littered the street, while firemen continued to douse the still smouldering remains. There were fire engines and police cars everywhere he looked, while ambulances queued up to take victims away to hospitals or to the morgue. He wondered how anyone could survive the tangle of concrete and brick. Smouldering timbers and the effect of water from the fire hoses kept the air filled with smoke and fumes. There must be someone he could ask, he didn’t want to interfere with the men trying their best to perform miracles getting survivors out, but he did need to know about Grimshaw. He spotted a Fireman talking to a Senior Police Officer and approached them.
‘Excuse me gentlemen, I am the owner of the building opposite and I was asked to report to someone senior here.’ He waited expectantly for a response, but did not have any idea how he could get information about Grimshaw. Only locals could help there.
‘I am the Chief Fire Officer Sir, one of your people has keys and let us in to check the building. Everything is O.K. there, I’m sure he’s still inside. You could check.’
‘Thank you, you have been very helpful. Is there anything I can do to help? You have a terrible job here tonight.’ Mr. P waited, he knew the answer. These people were professionals, they would have their plans for disasters such as this. But he had to offer.
‘Kind of you Sir, but we just about have things under control. The fire’s out and we are now concentrating on finding survivors.’ Leaving them to continue with their plans, he set off to find one of his key staff in the factory. It did not take long, once he hammered on the door his production Manager appeared covered in dust and sweating profusely.
‘Am I glad to see you Mr. P.? I rang your house and your wife told me you were on your way. There’s a lot of smoke and dust damage I’m afraid, but no water thank God. I’ve started to board up where I can, but we haven’t much material available. I rang the emergency joiner, but he’s out boarding up windows in the city following a mini riot.’
‘Well done Ali, you’re a good man. What would I do without you?’ Mr. P’s words came from the heart, he had carefully picked his staff and treated them well, and in return they were very loyal to him.
‘I only live two streets away and news travels fast around here. I got here before the barricades went up. The Fire Brigade has checked us out and we’re O.K.’
‘Have you heard of any casualties Ali?’ He could hardly wait for a reply, his pulse was racing, please let it be Grimshaw.
‘No there’s been nothing yet on who was killed or injured but by the sound of the explosion there is sure to be bad news for some families.’
It would take another twelve hours before he got the answer. Sleep did not come easily. It finally overcame him just minutes before his alarm had gone off at six a.m. Time had never dragged so much. Not waiting to shower, he dressed quickly and dashed from the house and headed for his factory. Many of his staff were already there when he arrived but he was unable to get the news he hoped for. When it eventually came, it had never been so sweet. It was difficult not to scream with joy, but he had to wear a sad expression to avoid standing out in the crowd. The lunch time newspaper listed the names of the dead. He recognized some as Grimshaw’s cronies, but the one which shone like a beacon was ‘Grimshaw’ himself. Mr. P looked to the heavens and quietly thanked God for his deliverance. On this occasion he was pleased an own goal hadn’t been scored. His main problem was over, he just hoped that there weren’t more to come from another direction. There was a difference he told himself, while Grimshaw was the scum of the earth, he had been dealing with a gentleman who re
presented the Organisation. He was a totally different type and was sure he could be trusted. Later he would ring and tell him about the explosion and of Grimshaw’s death. The Organisation would want to know. He didn’t have to worry, when checking his mobile as instructed, he found they had tried to contact him at 9.00 a.m. He immediately returned the call. The educated voice was soft and reassuring.
‘Now you can relax at last Mr. P. All we ask for is the regular supply from the east, you understand that don’t you.’ He waited. He didn’t want anything to happen to his new recruit, but if he reneged on the agreement, the necessary action would be taken to reduce Mr. P’s life span.
‘I understand, it will be done just let me know when and where. You know how grateful I am over last night’s results. I can’t thank you enough.’ Mr. P was almost in tears. The stress he had suffered since Grimshaw first contacted him had turned him into a nervous wreck. His old confidence was now returning.
‘Just keep on packaging it as usual and we will give you instructions on delivery. This may take some time, but don’t worry, we’ll be back.’ He put just a hint of menace into his last sentence, he didn’t want Mr. P to think he was getting off too lightly.
The hint was not lost. While he had been involved with Grimshaw he had started to bite his nails. When he switched off his mobile, his fingers went straight into his mouth. I must be careful he told himself. He was in between the devil and the deep blue sea. Work for the Organisation or suffer the penalties. He owed them, so he had to comply. The other problem was the Police, he could not have the drugs traced back to him or everything he had worked for would be lost. The result would be a life in prison, and who knows what would happen to his family. Once again he was a worried man.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He had collected the mail from the Wimbledon flat and found the application forms which had arrived from the recruitment consultants, together with their recommendations. These he ignored. It was the Henderson form he was interested in. He had attached a note to the recommended list suggesting they add Henderson’s name to those to be interviewed. They sensibly did not argue the point. The date, times and venue had been arranged for the interviews and all those invited had responded positively. Arriving early at the hotel, he sat in the lobby area which gave him a view of anyone entering. He wanted to see the people from the agency when they arrived at the reception desk, from there he could sum them up, preferring to keep any contact to the minimum. They were immediately obvious to him, three men in their thirties, one obviously in charge. After pinning an interview list on the large notice board available for companies using the hotel facilities for this purpose, they headed for the lift which would take them to the allotted room. As the lift doors closed on the trio, he got up and examined the list. Interviews were being held on the sixth floor in the Cumberland Suite of the hotel starting at 10.00 a.m. Henderson’s interview was timed for 11.00 a.m. This was the last recruit. He had reached the limit of his ability to control any more enterprises. Manipulating his time, people, businesses and money profitably, without the intrusion of the law had been an enjoyable challenge and he loved it, but the time had come to concentrate on what he’d got. Any more and it might get out of hand and prove to be dangerous for the Organisation.
