by Ray Smithies
‘Ferret’s funeral is on Friday and that’s going to be a tough day. His family has asked me to be a pallbearer, so of course I’ve agreed. Will the police be there, do you think?’ Hassan asked.
‘I daresay Forbes will arrange to have a few men there to keep an eye on things,’ Burke replied.
Seeing the young man’s emotions begin to surface, Marsh thought it wise to put a stop to the interview. After all, they had the information they were seeking so why prolong the matter unnecessarily.
‘That should be enough for now, Hassan. Remember, were only a phone call away if you need to talk or have concerns about anything. Thanks for your help today.’
~ * ~
A room of notable size at the Pedley Town Hall had been selected to address the national press. Forbes would conduct his briefing and questionnaire from the speaker’s platform, using a stand for notes and a microphone. Forty loose chairs had been strategically placed in front of the rostrum, with as many backsides now in position to receive Forbes’ address. A television camera and operator was slightly elevated to the rear of the room, with a few people choosing instead to stand against the sidewall. All was in readiness for the arrival of the detective.
The plumpish figure of Alan Forbes stepped onto the podium. Dressed in a rarely worn pinstriped navy blue suit, complete with a contrasting handkerchief stuffed into his breast pocket, the pompous policeman looked a trifle overdone in his Sunday best. This was his one opportunity to look the part, for the nation’s eyes were focused on him. He looked down on the mass of journalists and television representatives that had assembled in the room. It was possibly the largest gathering of the fraternity he had ever addressed.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attendance. My objective today is to give an overview of the case and separate fact from fiction with respect to some of the journalism I’ve read. On the completion of my briefing I will address your questions.’
Forbes gave a detailed account of the Molly Bloom incident and the infamous Pedley Hill atrocity. He drew attention to Scorpio and their respective leaders in the Keeper and Piedpiper, including the pursuit of their elusive headquarters and those directly responsible for carrying out the terrible murders. He didn’t overlook Brigit O’Neill’s kidnapping, and he stressed that Traffik and its drug supremo Indigo had the potential to create bloodshed by way of retaliation. His summary was clear and precise, but unnecessarily overdone at times when describing the brutal acts of torture. He now waited for the anticipated onslaught of questions.
‘Geoffrey Hunter, representing the Kingston Herald. Detective Forbes, are you certain there is a direct link between the Molly Bloom and Pedley Hill atrocities?’
‘Totally and unequivocally.’
‘What assurance can you give the Pedley community that all these arrests are imminent?’ asked a young-gun reporter.
‘I give you my one hundred percent commitment there will be full arrests given time,’ acknowledged Forbes, not addressing the underlying reason behind the question.
‘Jessica Thompson, reporting for the Princely Gazette. Has anyone come forth claiming to know the identity of the Keeper or Piedpiper?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you propose to capture these two villains?’ came a voice from the back of the room.
‘We have identified their subordinates and this will ultimately lead us to their hierarchy.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ called another.
‘By having good contacts, whose identities cannot be revealed for obvious reasons,’ Forbes declared.
A flamboyant-looking dude dressed in a light-cream, double-breasted suit called from the front row of chairs. ‘In light of this further atrocity, should we expect to see a larger contingent of the law?’
‘I’ve already spoken to the assistant commissioner on this very matter. A sizeable backup unit is about to be sent from the city.’
‘Well, I hope it’s a bloody army to flush out this lot,’ said the reporter, expressing his view clearly.
‘Why call yourself the Piedpiper? Is there any significance attached to this?’ questioned a female reporter from the far corner who chose to remain seated.
‘We assume it has some relationship to the children’s story, whereby the Piedpiper was noted for his ability to attract a trail of followers. In this tale he lured all the rats and in doing so marched all the vermin out of town. The parallels are similar with our present-day Piedpiper, except the end result works in reverse. His trails of followers have become drug dealers or pushers, all of which have been lured to this southern region over time. Unlike the children’s story, where the objective was to eradicate the rats, our modern-day counterpart chooses to accumulate the rats. Similarly, the Keeper’s name derives from the very meaning of the word, for this individual keeps control over the financial, logistical, recruitment and elimination processes of the organisation,’ Forbes explained.
‘Rachael McGrath from TLN Television. My question regards Brigit O’Neill. Are the police of the opinion she may be held captive in the immediate area, and for that matter, still alive?’
‘Evidence to date suggests her whereabouts to be in the local vicinity. We are confident of resolving this issue in the short term. And yes, we believe her to be still alive.’
‘Detective Forbes, are we talking about a location in Pedley?’ the television reporter persisted.
‘That’s classified information, ma’am. Next question?’
A tallish man wearing a maroon beret stood up to address the pompous policeman in a thick French accent. ‘My name is Patrick Joniaux from the Paris Les Echos Gazette. Would you please describe to me how Stefan Selembier, the French school teacher, met his death on the Molly Bloom and why it took your authorities so long to extradite his body?’
Forbes gave a sketchy account of this individual’s fatality, pointing out that extradition was not his jurisdiction and he would need to take the matter further with the appropriate authorities.
‘Detective, you refer to Brad Morgan being his killer,’ said Joniaux. ‘This information I’m already aware of and is the reason I’ve been sent here by my superiors. This particular assassin is the most wanted criminal in France today. He has left a trail of unspeakable crimes affecting a great many people. Morgan continues to return to France and without exception recommences his path of torture and murder. French bureaucrats monitor Morgan’s movements throughout the world and collaborate with the local authorities in the attempt to have him captured. At the Gazette we have made it our business to follow the global activities of this criminal and report these developments to the French people. Morgan’s plight generates a lot of media interest in France.’
‘Thanks for your input, Mr Joniaux. I’m fully aware of these atrocities after being briefed by one of our psychologists, who incidentally was previously summoned by the French authorities to assist with his capture. Without exception we will do our utmost to have this man brought to justice,’ Forbes reassured the journalist.
A series of routine and predicable questions followed. Forbes was beginning to grow impatient with this endless nonsense when a voice from the back threw an unexpected query.
‘My name is Ashley Collins from the local Advertiser. Would you please confirm to the fraternity whether the subterranean passageways that lay beneath Pedley are fact or fiction?’
‘Um ... no comment,’ replied a hesitant Alan Forbes.
‘I can’t accept that. Your opening address emphasised the need to separate fact from fiction and now you choose to avoid the issue,’ said the persistent reporter.
Knowing he was cornered by Collins and the audience would be expecting a more indicative response, Forbes decided on the safest option.
‘To answer your question, the subject is one of fiction until proven otherwise.’
‘You should be a politician with an answer like that,’ replied Collins, unimpressed with Forbes’ evasive and gutless response.
‘I seco
nd that. Surely you must have made inroads after all this time,’ said a further disgruntled reporter.
‘I don’t think the press will ever be told the truth,’ yelled a third journalist.
In seeing a few reporters becoming agitated by his sudden evasive manner, Forbes quickly brought the press conference to a close.
~ * ~
C
ontrary to the popular belief that the drug operation was relishing the police’s foiled attempts, Neville Bradbury was starting to crack under pressure in trying to cope with the onslaught at Broadbent. His warehouse had been subjected to a constant barrage of media and police presence since the recent hill atrocities and the strain was beginning to show. No longer projecting his usual calm and controlled exterior, his patience had notably waned amongst his subordinates. Both concerned and aware of these changes, it was time to reassess and take account of his conscience and motives. It was time for confession.
It was late Sunday afternoon when Bradbury arrived at the Pedley diocese of St Patrick’s. Standing beside the font at the rear of the church, he was oblivious to the fact that Brad Morgan had entered via a side door and was obscured from view by a marbled pillar. Taking a short moment to kneel in prayer, the warehouse manager took comfort in the peaceful confines of his surrounds. He didn’t have to be reminded that his attendance was indeed overdue. Bradbury cast an eye around the church and immediately noticed he wasn’t alone in prayer. Four worshipers were positioned in the front pews and a priest was attending to some formalities near the altar. He decided to approach the priest for some assistance.
‘Excuse me, Father, but would it be possible to take confession?’ Bradbury asked the bespectacled priest.
The priest had a kindly face with a stooped posture reflecting a man of around sixty-four years. His eyes were acutely intelligent, but they also reflected a slightly disturbed look in seeing the troubled Bradbury.
‘Father Duffy is taking confession today, my son,’ he responded. Seeing Bradbury’s disappointment he added, ‘But I’m sure I can help you in his absence, if you wish. I’m Father Byrne. If you could make your way toward the first confession box immediately to your right and I’ll be with you shortly.’ Father Byrne pointed in the direction to be taken.
‘Thank you, Father,’ replied Bradbury.
Brad Morgan had observed the proceedings from the far end of the church and was now acutely aware of his accomplice’s intention. In Morgan’s mind this behaviour was totally unacceptable, knowing full well it was Bradbury’s purpose to declare syndicate matters and ask forgiveness. He hadn’t trusted the warehouse manager for some time and now he had the proof to substantiate his suspicions. Unfortunately for all concerned, this demonstration of mistrust was Morgan’s work alone, whereby the Piedpiper, among others, had no knowledge of this surveillance.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been ten years since my last confession and these are my sins.’ Bradbury paused, creating an uneasy silence.
‘Continue, my son,’ encouraged Father Byrne.
Neville Bradbury explained with a degree of difficulty his involvement with the accumulation and distribution of drugs, but deliberately chose to exclude any direct reference to the syndicate and its underground network. He went on to enlighten the priest regarding the recent murders and their connection to a drug operation. Bradbury said he knew the identity of the killers but that he personally had made no contribution or held any pre-knowledge of this intended evil act. His guilt lay in knowing those responsible and not understanding how to deal with it in fear of a reprisal.
‘For these and all my sins of my past I am truly sorry,’ he concluded.
The priest took some time before responding. In all his years of confession he had never been privy to such atrocities. He deliberated longer than normal to choose his words wisely.
‘Are you still there, Father?’ Bradbury feared the priest may have deserted him.
‘Yes, my son.’ The priest then gave his confessor a suitable penance and some advice on how to deal with this serious problem. Not surprisingly, he urged Bradbury to have the courage to inform the authorities. ‘God will be your protector and guidance throughout this ordeal,’ he added.
Following Father Byrne’s message of guidance, Bradbury in turn made an act of contrition, which was immediately followed by the priest’s prayer of absolution.
‘Your sins are forgiven, go in peace,’ said Father Byrne.
‘Thank you, Father.’
With confession concluded, both men went their separate ways, with Bradbury choosing a side exit while the priest retired to a nearby room.
From a distance Morgan deliberated and then decided to confront the priest to extract the exchange of information. Bradbury would have to wait until his return. A knock on the door brought the padre forward to greet his unexpected visitor, then he nearly lost his balance with the haste of the stranger’s entry.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asked, gathering himself.
‘Never you mind! Tell me, priest, what did that man say to you?’ demanded Morgan.
‘Which man do you mean?’
‘The one you just spoke to of course!’
Father Byrne looked at the stranger and immediately felt a distinctly evil presence. His acute judgment in humanity and demeanor had served him well through the years. This apparition was no exception, for he could sense an offensive aura about the man. He had not experienced this awareness for some time.
‘But I cannot break the seal of confession. That would be undermining a two thousand year old tradition,’ vowed the priest.
‘Don’t piss me off, priest! Tell me what he bloody said, for Christ’s sake!’ snapped Morgan.
‘Do not speak that way! Show some respect for the church!’ retaliated Father Byrne, who was now upset with this intrusion.
Morgan persisted with his threats. Through either stupidity or ignorance, he didn’t realise the priest would never disclose such information. He was trying to force the Father to break a priest’s most sacred trust, but he didn’t know that a priest will invariably suffer the consequences rather than betray this trust. Revelation of this magnitude would literally shake the trust of the faithful in the sacrament.
Morgan had chosen a formidable opponent who wouldn’t relent to his bullying tactics. He lunged at Father Byrne, inflicting a painful blow. The man of cloth let out a distressed cry. A further strike landed in the priest’s midriff and he doubled up in agony. Morgan continued with his madness. He grabbed and shook the winded man with such force that the priest’s spectacles fell to the floor. Not content with the onslaught, Morgan then increased his aggression against the defenceless man. He was desperate for answers. Grabbing Father Byrne’s arm, he twisted the limb to its extreme limit. The pain etched on the priest’s face indicated he was about to pass out.
‘Tell me!’ called Morgan in a controlled manner so as not to attract attention.
‘Never!’
‘Take your hands off the priest!’
The unexpected reappearance of the Broadbent manager caught Morgan totally off guard. He could see the fury in Neville Bradbury’s eyes. His scrawny frame was no match for Neville’s superior size.
Morgan produced a knife and held it to the priest’s side as Bradbury made his approach.
‘Have you gone mad? This is a house of God! Put that knife away!’ Bradbury saw the terrified look on the priest’s face.
‘Don’t give me any of your religious bullshit!’ snapped Morgan.
Feeling responsible for having placed the priest in this position, Bradbury had to play a cautious game. He knew Morgan’s capabilities and lack of remorse if pushed too far. It was a delicate situation that required careful deliberation in freeing the helpless priest. Bradbury took a step closer. The blade was pressed hard up against Father Byrne’s body. A further step and Morgan became distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Not one step further!’ he ordered.
In the tension and
uncertainty of the moment, Bradbury could see the priest trying to signal with his eyes. His eyes flicked toward the wall to Bradbury’s right. Bradbury couldn’t fathom what the priest was implying. He again focused back to the matter in hand.
‘Why don’t you just scram and leave the padre and me to sort out our little differences,’ insisted Morgan arrogantly.
‘There’s nothing to be gained from this,’ Bradbury said. ‘A priest will never break the seal of confession so you’re wasting your time. It’s me you need to confront, not the church!’
‘I’ll decide what I want. There are ways and means of extracting information,’ responded a defiant Morgan, who seemed to relish the thought of being triumphant over the clergy.
‘Leave the priest, your problem rests with me,’ Bradbury pleaded.
