by Ted Tayler
“When her relatives asked where she went, how did James respond?” asked Phoenix.
“James swore blind she didn’t return to the house that night,” said Athena, “he said they argued, Fiona stormed out after he refused to give her a handout. He said he told her the bank of James was closed.”
“I’m at a loss to understand how he kept this under wraps,” said Phoenix. “Minos and Alastor dug up so much detail, and yet this escaped them.”
“Zeus discovered that James used his wealth and celebrity to take out injunctions in the High Court based on his right to privacy. After seven years, with Fiona not surfacing, and a body never being discovered, he could have Fiona legally declared dead. In fact, it was in March of this year he returned to court to make that application, ten years after her disappearance. The marriage was dissolved at that court hearing.”
“So, James is free to marry Elizabeth today,” said Phoenix, “but the question remains. What happened to Fiona Grant-Nicholls?”
“What are you suggesting?” asked Athena, “that James murdered her and disposed of the body? Fiona was a mess. It’s more likely she would commit suicide, drink herself to death, or overdose.”
“Then why has her body never been discovered?” asked Phoenix.
They had talked so long their drinks were cold. Phoenix stood.
“Let’s get back to the house and make lunch for Hope and Geoffrey. I suggest you talk to Zeus before the next meeting on the eighth of October. Unless we can uncover the truth that party at the Dorchester in the evening might be awkward.”
“That promised to be a great night,” Athena sighed. “We planned to stay overnight with Mummy and Daddy. They were babysitting Hope. Those plans are dust now.”
“We can still make that trip. Unless Geoffrey is tearing his hair out in exasperation when we get back, I reckon he’ll cope with tucking her into bed and reading her a story for one night. Didn’t he do that with you in that house when you were tiny?”
Athena could count those nights on the fingers of one hand. Her father flew backwards and forwards across the world with his businesses. As soon as she was old enough, she had been off to boarding school in Surrey. Her mother read those stories to her over and over.
Athena took Phoenix’s hand when it was offered, and while they walked to the main house in silence, she fought the tears that threatened. As they reached the door that led to the stairs to their apartment, Phoenix paused.
“That is a job suited to Orion,” he said. “He starts here on the twenty-second, doesn’t he? Find out what Zeus knows, and if a follow-up is needed, set the old police dog on the scent.”
“I’ll agree, on the condition we don’t discuss Olympus related matters for the rest of the weekend,” Athena replied.
“Fair enough,” said Phoenix, “what does Geoffrey enjoy in his sandwiches? Ouch.”
Athena’s elbow caught him in the midriff as she breezed past him.
“Daddy will eat what he’s given, the same as you and Hope,” she teased.
*****
For the new head of the Grid, the fact it was a Saturday morning made little difference. Colleen O’Riordan pored over documents and reports in her penthouse apartment in London. The fact she worked all the hours God sent these days softened by the luxurious trappings in which she could now afford to surround herself.
It was a far cry from the daily grind in Kilburn when she was at Tommy’s beck and call. Colleen had come a long way in a short time. One reason for her success was that she never forgot her roots. Knowing how rotten that early life had been only strengthened her resolve never to go back.
After Tommy was killed, Colleen moved swiftly to take control of the criminal gang he led. Angry voices spoke out against her at first. They were soon quietened by the ruthless way she disposed of those foot soldiers that kept a percentage of the profits from their criminal activities for themselves. Those who suffered may have been young men from the lowest branches of the gang structure, but the message was clear. Every penny of profits must be handed over to the Grid.
As Colleen paused in her work for a moment, she reflected on how much had changed. Less than a month ago her brother Sean had been laid to rest. Hugo Hanigan had sent his lackey to make sure he never returned alive from the Dominican Republic. Colleen could never understand how the madman came to that decision. She had known him since they were young children in Belfast. Sean had been reluctant to replace Tommy as a gang leader, but the police sniffed around trying to discover who helped Tommy O’Riordan escape from Belmarsh prison. An escape that only lasted hours; until he got shot by an unknown assassin.
Sean was a possible suspect in the police’s eyes, and his drinking made him a weak link in the organisation. Hugo had told him to lie low for a while. Then, on a whim, he ordered his killing. Her son, Tyrone made him pay with his life. Who would have believed it? Tyrone, the well-educated, fast-living young man who she thought took the mickey out in Marbella, the same as his younger sister.
Colleen sold their beach-view apartment out from under them, forcing them to stand on their own two feet. She told them cutbacks had to be made after Tommy died. Tyrone and Rosie returned for their father’s funeral. Instead of her son moaning at how she treated him, he surprised her by telling her of the talents he acquired in Marbella from his father’s gangland friends.
Rosie had returned to her life in the sun, without recriminations. She wasn’t afraid of hard work. Colleen knew her little princess would cope. If things got tough, she would latch onto a rich bloke to help smooth the way. As for Tyrone, he stayed in London to help her enforce the changes Colleen wanted.
The car bomb that eliminated Hugo’s security people had been Tyrone’s first task for her. Next, he executed the Mighty Quinn, the head of the nearest gang. Colleen’s empire grew, but she wasn’t content to stop there. It had been the first move in gaining control of every Grid gang in the capital.
Sean’s murder accelerated her move to the top of the pile. Tyrone had murdered Hugo Hanigan and disposed of the body. From her apartment window, she looked out on the penthouse where Hanigan had lived. Tyrone now occupied that suite. Her son controlled the Grid’s finances. He ran the Glencairn Bank in the City of London.
Colleen had proclaimed herself head of the network of organised criminal gangs that formed the Grid. Once Tyrone called her to confirm Hanigan’s death, she switched her attention from adding one borough at a time to her regime to eliminating opposition wherever it existed across the country.
It was lunchtime. Colleen rang her son.
“Can you join me for something to eat, Tyrone? There’s something I want to show you,”
“I’ve only just got up, Mum,” said Tyrone, yawning. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll pop in for a visit.”
Colleen busied herself in the kitchen, preparing lunch. When Tyrone arrived, they sat on the balcony, enjoying the warm September sun as they ate together.
“While you went up to East Anglia tidying up another loose end, I visited your place,” said Colleen.
“I would never have guessed,” said Tyrone, “what did you want?”
“I thought it time we went through everything Hugo left. You soon cracked his computer codes to get the files he held on scum such as Klimenko. But we never found the combination to the wall safe in his bedroom written anywhere.”
“What did you do? You didn’t blow it open. I would have noticed even if I don’t run a duster around as often as I should.”
Colleen smiled.
“You can afford to pay someone to do that. I asked one of the lads your Dad used from time to time to help me. He had the safe open inside thirty minutes. The ten grand I handed to him in cash means he can fly out to Gran Canaria for a month this morning, taking his girlfriend with him.”
“Did you find something worth ten grand inside?” asked Tyrone.
“A velvet bag containing two million in uncut diamonds rested on top of two old school books. There were othe
r papers I haven’t gone through yet. You can take your time over those. What I found in the old books interested me.”
Colleen went inside the apartment and brought them back.
“They’re the same as the ones I used when I was at school,” said Tyrone, “but these aren’t full of homework. They’re a diary, of names, dates and things that happened.”
“These go back to when your Dad and I were kids,” said Colleen. “Back then, Hugo was still Ardal James Hannon, the odd boy who wanted to mix with the rest of us but always remained an outsider. Hugo kept a record of every event where he felt he had been mistreated. Every boy who hit him on the playground. Every child who didn’t invite him to their birthday party. If he learned a secret, something we didn’t want our parents or our friends to know, he recorded it.”
“The computer files showed that he continued doing that right up to his death,” said Tyrone. “You always told me he was mad, but this takes it to another level. I revealed the secrets that Klimenko kept hidden when I spoke with him. He couldn’t believe I had so much on him. The same with McGrath last weekend. Hanigan had decades of scraps of information on that guy; where the bodies were buried, and the money hidden away. McGrath knew if any of that came out he would be a dead man. He almost welcomed me putting him out of his misery.”
“You’ve had a busy week, Tyrone,” said Colleen. “We’ve removed the leaders that could get enough of the Grid’s gangs to mount an effective opposition. There’s no stopping us now. The rest will follow like sheep whether a woman’s in charge or not. The figures don’t lie. They’re far better off with the Grid.”
Tyrone handed the books back to his mother.
“These are literally old school, Mum. We’ll hold onto the computer files Hugo amassed on members of the gangs. Whenever we need leverage, we can utilise what he gathered. The Grid’s aim is total control of the UK. The police are an irrelevance. They persecute motorists, investigate ancient history, and try to embrace every minority group out there to show how on-trend they are. The Government are paralysed by fear. Mostly the fear that the public will uncover another scandal. Five years ago, it was expenses, who knows what will be next? The security services are under-funded and overstretched. They issue warnings over the threat of terrorist attacks and then they are way off the pace when one takes place. Look at Canary Wharf on Monday. Nowhere is safe.”
“Which leaves the field open for the Grid to operate without interruptions,” said Colleen, “don’t you love free enterprise?”
CHAPTER 8
Tyrone O’Riordan returned to the penthouse after lunch with his mother. He wanted to spend Saturday night on the town, now he was no longer short of money. His mother paid him well for his extra-curricular activities, and his financial nous was working miracles at the Glencairn Bank. He anticipated a healthy bonus at the end of the year.
Hugo Hanigan prided himself on having the inside track on commodities trading, but Tyrone reckoned he had only scratched the surface of what was possible. With higher risk, came higher rewards. Tyrone was too impatient to sit back and wait for a ‘sure-thing’ to appear.
While he wondered where he might eat tonight, and which casino he should visit, Tyrone browsed through the computer files they discussed earlier. The school books his mother showed him offered little interest. They were old news. She recognised his computer talents gave them an edge in the financial field. But there was a gold mine of information in the material Hugo collected on his so-called allies; as well as his enemies.
Tyrone decided to talk to her next week. They needed another expert on the investigative side. He didn’t have time to delve into the detail, not with his work at the bank, plus the occasional assassination.
The file open in front of him was for Shabbir Shah, the Cardiff gangmaster. He was believed to have gone to ground a month ago, but Tyrone knew better. He had disappeared for good. Tyrone watched for news that a body had been washed up on the coast, either towards Tenby or over the channel on the English side. So far, Shah hadn’t surfaced. The weights Tyrone attached must have remained intact.
Something Shah said when Tyrone questioned him played on his mind. The gangmaster had been at the hotel near Oxshott, in Surrey when Tyrone listened in to Hugo’s last big speech. He sat with Klimenko, Quinn, and McGrath later that night, putting the world to rights. Tyrone bundled Shah into his own car when he left a club late at night and took him to a quiet spot where they talked.
Before he went for his final swim, he told Tyrone of his suspicions over the frequent deaths of Grid members up and down the country. Hugo dismissed them as unimportant and related to petty inter-gang rivalries. The gangmaster was convinced otherwise.
Shabbir Shah was pleading for his life, of course. Perhaps he made this fantastic suggestion to persuade Tyrone to spare him. The more Tyrone listened; the more he wondered. It didn’t save Shabbir Shah, but Tyrone was prepared to have the theory investigated further. What convinced him was another random event in the north of England, only forty-eight hours ago.
Tariq Malik was connected to the Grid. He wasn’t the head man in the criminal organisation covering South Yorkshire. There were one hundred gangs in the area, many of them street-gangs. The more organised outfits were involved in drugs and firearms. Their overlord was Frank Rooney, a man who always offered unswerving support for Hugo.
Rooney could see the benefits gained from establishing a sophisticated network of gangs. The parochial approach was wasteful. Frank favoured ‘together, we are stronger’.
Tyrone learned that Malik had been shot, and a bodyguard killed at a B&B in Sheffield on Friday afternoon. Members of staff saw a body on the ground and Malik staggering out of reception, seriously wounded. Women and children who lived there reported hearing gunfire. Yet, an ambulance wasn’t called, and the police didn’t arrive at the B&B until the evening to make enquiries. There were no bodies, only blood.
Malik had disappeared. The police visited his home. Nobody had seen or heard from him since mid-morning. Malik was involved in every type of petty crime. The police suspected something illegal had gone on at the B&Bs he operated, but they didn’t have enough evidence to act.
Despite the clues staring them in the face, they remained unaware of any connection between Tariq Malik and rumours of the ongoing presence of grooming gangs in the town. Tyrone considered the evidence. He didn’t hold with the activities of these grooming gangs, but Rooney expected Colleen to be ready to offer to help. The question wasn’t where had Malik gone. It should have been, who shot Malik, and why?
Tyrone applied Shabbir Shah’s logic to the mystery. Malik was a Grid criminal who attracted the notice of a secret organisation because of one of his crimes. They tried to grab him, but a shoot-out followed that left the bodyguard dead, and Malik injured. Both men were removed by the attackers.
He couldn’t believe he gave this serious consideration. He needed to talk to Frank Rooney, to find out if there were any other strange occurrences. That could wait until Monday. Tyrone was ready to hit the town.
Sunday, 7th September 2014
Waverley station in Edinburgh receives twenty-five million passengers every year. Princes Street, the premier shopping street, runs close to its north side.
Times had changed.
The magnificent Victorian mosaic tiling that graced the floor of the booking hall had been vandalised under the reign of British Rail. The threat of a terror attack meant Waverley Bridge no longer allowed vehicular access. Only in June, taxis had been banned from entering the concourse. Once a familiar sight, they now parked in ranks outside.
The covered escalators leading to Princes Street were a recent improvement. As was the widened Market Street entrance. Signs of restoration were everywhere. None of this interested two male passengers who arrived on foot via the Calton Road access.
Ahmed Mansouri and Omar Harrack had travelled from London King’s Cross on the East Coast Line yesterday.
Their disguises were discarded
on the long journey north. The burkas had served their purpose. They allowed them to cross the city unchallenged and avoid CCTV whenever possible. If anyone searched for them, they wished to make things as difficult as possible. On arrival in Edinburgh, they studied the station layout once more, and then spent two hours shopping for the items they needed today.
The main station facilities stood in the middle of a large island platform surrounded by platforms on four sides. There were eighteen platforms, which provided connections to the whole of Scotland, and a range of train franchisees ran trains between Edinburgh and every major city in England. If you wanted a target that crippled rail transport and sent a clear message from IS, then this was it.
There was a surprise element to this attack that required the two men to contact a third terrorist. Amina Badour, was a nineteen-year-old university student when she travelled to Syria to join the Islamic State in 2013.
Her parents were distraught. At no time did they suspect their attractive, intelligent daughter of having extreme political views. Amina had been the first member of the family to attend university. She studied psychology at Edinburgh and suddenly disappeared at the end of her first year.
Their daughter joined dozens of other British extremists on the long journey via Europe to Istanbul. Each of the boys and girls with whom Amina travelled had been radicalised online. From Istanbul, they moved to the Syrian border and headed for the IS city of Raqqa.
Why they were susceptible to the online grooming was difficult to comprehend. Perhaps it was a sense of adventure. They got swept up in the emotion raised by the zealot that recruited them.
Amina Badour was soon married to an IS freedom fighter. Her life in Syria was nothing like she imagined, but she admired her husband and what he believed. When he died in an airstrike, she decided to escape from Raqqa and return to the UK.
