UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘I will honestly never forget. Hang on a second. Let me get some peace and quiet.’

  Heather blew on her coffee and had a sip while Sean presumably went outside The Kings.

  ‘Finance deals,’ he resumed.

  ‘So McGuire’s blabbed. Are you interested?’

  ‘I’m interested in meeting up for a drink. I’d be lying if I said I want help with finance.’

  ‘That’s what McGuire told me. Thanks for not lying.’

  ‘No worries. Look, I’m expecting another call . . .’

  ‘Not so fast. What about that drink?’

  Sean hesitated. ‘Fluttering your eyelashes won’t change my mind.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would. I’ve much more devious things planned than that. How does seven o’clock sound?’

  ‘I really can’t be persuaded on this. Not even by womanly wiles.’

  ‘You could at least try my womanly wiles.’

  ‘You’d regret it in the morning.’

  ‘Mr Dwyer,’ Heather said candidly, ‘I never regret anything in the morning, apart from lack of effort and missed opportunities. So are you up for it?’

  ‘I do have a reputation, you know? Completely undeserved, but even so . . .’

  ‘The only reputation I’m interested in is the one Victoria gives you.’

  ‘Victoria?’

  ‘Yes, my very close friend, Victoria. She reckons we simply have to sleep together.’

  ‘Victoria from WYB?’

  ‘That’s her. She says we’re a perfect match.’

  ‘Does she now?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently my wiles and your willy are made for each other.’

  Sean laughed. ‘Well, if you’re putting it like that . . .’

  ‘I am. So I’ll ask again. Are you up for it?’

  ‘Absolutely, but I can’t tonight. What about Friday or Saturday?’

  Heather begrudgingly agreed Saturday then re-entered her first number with the same lack of success.

  ‘Bother,’ she growled.

  ‘Having problems?’ said Joanna, appearing out of nowhere.

  * * *

  At least Harry was in the right place to be left alone. The Noble Comb was a modern, family-friendly boozer, definitely not the sort of place his associates ever went, ideal for a guy wanting to make like Greta Garbo. He put his loose change in the bandit as he drank, following the coins with a crisp Pavarotti . . . getting nothing, not even a nudge.

  Fuck it. He wasted another tenner while demolishing his final pint then shook his head in disbelief. He’d only been here twenty minutes and must have blown forty quid. Was this his lucky day or what?

  Outside once more, he rang for an update.

  ‘Degsy was dead,’ said Barney. ‘I think Joey got him through the heart. We had to leave Adz as well. He'd been hit in the neck and we daren't move him. The other two are at Colly's. Kev's not too bad, but I'm worried about Jonjo's knee. The bottom half of his leg's hanging off.’

  Harry cringed. ‘Might just be dislocated.’

  ‘No, it's worse than that. You can see bones poking through.’

  ‘Well tell Colly not to fanny about. If he can't sort them himself, he wants to get them to A&E. Say they got shot up in Keighley. They'll be used to that. What about the weapons?’

  ‘Bri’s stashed them somewhere safe, until you're ready to collect. And I grabbed that beer mat before I left. It seemed a bit incriminating ’

  ‘More than just slightly. Did you shift the motors?’

  ‘All apart from Driller’s. It wouldn’t start.’

  ‘No worries. It’ll tie in with him still being there.’ Harry grimaced as he spoke. ‘Everyone else okay?’

  ‘There’s a few cuts and bruises. Mainly cuts from all that broken glass.’

  ‘Is everyone as pissed off as I am?’

  ‘Not thirty grand's worth, but close. There’ll be plenty of volunteers when it comes to striking back.’

  Harry reckoned Barney was overdoing the faithful retainer bit. He'd seen looks on faces and felt the strangled wobble in his own voice. Today was going to take a lot of recovering from.

  ‘It’s only money,’ he said as casually as he could. ‘There’s plenty more fish in that sea.’

  ‘The lads all appreciate it, anyway. They won’t forget.’

  ‘Good. Now listen. Ring round for me, will you. Remind everyone to burn their clothes. And say we’re sticking to the deal for now. Striking back can wait. In the meantime it's business as usual, but only on our manor. And nothing special. Anyone in doubt wants to get themselves abroad for a week. That's what I'm doing. Getting my head straight before the funerals. Are you okay to stand in for me?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Cheers for that, Barney. You did well today. Saved some lives.’ Harry paused to collect himself, get a bit of a grip, that sort of thing. ‘Were you bricking it when Joey called you out?’

  ‘Only for a minute. It stopped when I got in front of him, like I was dead already. Can’t hurt a dead man, can you?’ Barney laughed. ‘I thought Joey was the civilized one. What the hell’s Mike like when he gets going?’

  Harry didn't want to guess. He'd talk revenge ‘til the cows came home, but wasn’t in any hurry to actually get on with it.

  ‘We'll find out when the timing’s right. Did you remind them all about alibis?’

  ‘I did. It’s National Screw the Wife Day.’

  ‘Speaking of which, I'm off to see to mine while she's still up for it. Anything you need before I go?’

  ‘Yeah; what's the craic with Sean Dwyer?’

  What indeed? Like fucking what? Harry couldn't understand how things had gone so badly wrong with Joey and Mike McGuire. It was obviously Pisshead Arthur's doing, combined with lots of bad luck. He didn’t think he’d ever know the to-ing and fro-ing. Didn’t particularly want to, come to that. Right now there was only one thing he was sure about: he was in no state to fight a war with anyone, not even Dwyer.

  And Dwyer would be preparing at this very moment. He'd have to nip that in the bud, whatever the cost.

  ‘Leave well alone. I’ll come to an understanding.’

  He rang off before adding, ‘I hope.’

  * * *

  Heather did her best to look virtuous. ‘Problems,’ she echoed, ‘no, not really.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Joanna wasn’t her usual self. She seemed distracted, but not enough to be fooled by so blatant an attempt at innocence. ‘You look uptight.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, Heather . . . you.’

  ‘Oh all right then, I confess. I was ringing WYB’s Number 3 on impulse.’

  ‘That’s very naughty.’

  Heather wasn’t going to admit it, but secretly she had to agree. Yes, she was very naughty. She’d had marathon sex eight days on the trot and, snookered by Vic’s latest trip to London Bridge, here she was, caught red-handed arranging cover for day number nine.

  Or rather, trying to arrange cover. Men! They were so unreliable!

  ‘About the finance, Joanna,’ she said, ‘about the finance.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s all?’

  Heather blinked away the image of Jonjo’s enormous, very eager willy (well, eager again once she’d amended all night to all Sunday and given him regular, hour-long rests). ‘Sure I’m sure. And it makes no difference anyway. His phone’s kaput.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s avoiding you?’

  ‘Perhaps he is, but not by ignoring calls. That signal was terminal. He’s dropped his mobile in the bath or something.’

  She held her phone out, letting her supervisor hear the shrill tone.

  ‘He didn’t give you a duff number, did he? A bloke once gave me the speaking clock. A proper swine, he was.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I rang him on Sunday night, so I know it works . . . or worked.’

  ‘I’ll skip over the reason you rang him on Sunday night.’ It was Joanna’s turn to check for snoops. Finding the corr
idor otherwise deserted, she went on, ‘Listen Heather, I need a word.’

  ‘I’m not in trouble, am I?’

  ‘Not at all. I just followed you out here to get some privacy.’

  ‘Joanna, you’re frightening me.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be. It’s good news, not bad.’

  ‘Go on then,’ said Heather uncertainly.

  ‘I’ve had a call from Victoria, en route to King’s Cross. About you.’

  Oh that! Already! Vic must be back in Miss Efficiency mode.

  It was difficult not to grin when Heather compared Victoria, the ruthless executive in everyday action to Vic the lover, on her back and defenceless in bed. What had she said . . . something to do with bossy cows and ravishers?

  ‘About me?’ she said aloud. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Caught her ladyship’s eye. She wants to offer you a new position.’

  There was an awkward pause before Heather replied.

  ‘I’m not looking for a new position. I’m still on probation with you.’

  ‘That’s what I said. She said she could get round that without breaking sweat. Not that the Ice Queen ever sweats.’

  No? Heather pictured Vic’s body after a couple of hours of sex. Mmm, nice picture! It was a sweaty one, though, not in the least icy. More warm and welcoming. No, make that hot.

  ‘I must say you don’t seem surprised.’ Joanna continued. ‘Has she already sounded you out?’

  ‘No, I’ve hardly spoken to her.’

  ‘Well it’s fair to say she’s noticed you. When she was signing off our expenses she even called you Snow White.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this Snow White business.’ Heather’s fingers were still crossed behind her back after her bare-faced fib. ‘My hair’s far too long, my eyes are the wrong colour and she never had an every-last-inch tan.’ She waited for the older woman to laugh. When that didn’t happen she blundered on: ‘What’s the position anyway? And why pick on me?’

  ‘It’s Victoria’s PA. She says you made a good impression in that new products meeting.’ Now Joanna did laugh. ‘If it had been Chris Woodhead calling, you know what conclusions I’d have jumped to. But Victoria’s beyond suspicion. At least, I think she is.’

  ‘I don’t know the first thing about being a PA.’

  ‘Don’t worry; Victoria’s going to train you herself. Like I said: if it had been Chris Woodhead proposing this . . .’

  ‘Would I be tarred if I went for it?’

  Joanna hummed a bit. ‘Probably not. You might start a few blokes fantasizing, but I wouldn’t expect any real bitchiness.’

  ‘What do you think? Should I? I won’t if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘Victoria’s the rising star in these parts. You have to go with her.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joanna said without hesitation. ‘Even if she wants to get in your knickers, go for it.’

  ‘Ms Jones!’

  ‘Seriously, Heather, if you’re ever going to grab coattails, hers are the ones. That girl’s going places. If she wants to take you with her . . .’

  ‘What if . . .’

  ‘She does want to get in your knickers? Don’t ask me, I wouldn’t know. You’re the woman of the world. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision if the occasion arises.’

  ‘What would you do if you heard rumours I’d been sleeping with her?’

  ‘I don’t even know if she does that sort of thing.’

  ‘Suppose she does.’

  ‘Okay. Do you find her attractive?’

  ‘I find her very attractive.’

  ‘Then go for it. She’s offering unlimited possibilities, without strings. Anything that happens later is just fate.’

  ‘What about her grade?’

  ‘Forget her blooming grade, Heather. Opportunities like this aren’t ten-a-penny. Go for it!’

  * * *

  Geoff was halfway through a JCT contract when the telephone rang. He scowled. The contract was three inches thick and held together by a fierce plastic spine. It had a habit of snapping itself shut if left alone for as long as a second. But the caller was probably Henry.

  He scanned the desk, hoping to find something he could use to save his place. No such luck. Wedging his right hand between the pages, he grabbed the receiver with his left.

  ‘Is that Geoffrey Rodgers?’

  ‘Speaking,’ he said, mildly surprised by the unfamiliar voice. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Roland Hall. I’m with the News of the World. Can you spare a couple of minutes?’

  ‘It depends,’ Geoff replied warily. ‘I can’t discuss my clients’ cases. Not that there’s anything there you’d want to discuss.’

  ‘I’m not calling about a client, Mr Rodgers. It’s you I want to talk about.’

  ‘Me? I’m even more boring.’

  ‘Not in my opinion.’

  ‘Okay then,’ he said, mystified, ‘I’ll spare you two minutes.’

  ‘What have you got to say about Johnny Green? Can you give me a quote?’

  Geoff sighed. Henry was at a conference in Harrogate, contactable only by text, so he’d had to send a message about his change of career plan. That had been at the crack of dawn and still no response. He’d been on hooks all day and hadn’t spared Johnny Green a thought. Not thinking about him had been good. Hearing his name again now wasn’t.

  ‘I’m not really in the mood,’ he said.

  ‘Something short and sweet will do. I don’t need the Gettysburg Address. Perhaps something like: Justice has been done.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘All right, then. How about something forgiving?’

  ‘How about: I hate the creep and want him locking up again.’

  The caller audibly took in breath. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard?’

  Hairs prickled on Geoff’s neck. Roland Hall was suddenly excited. Very excited. And the excitement was catching . . . not to mention unsettling.

  ‘Heard what?’ Geoff ventured.

  ‘Johnny Green was murdered last night. Hacked to death by a person or persons unknown. He was back on his old patch in Bradford.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Can I quote you with that?’

  ‘No you bloody can’t!’

  ‘Can I say you were shocked to hear the news?’

  ‘Did you say “hacked to death”?’

  ‘That’s right, with machetes. The lad who found him used the word “butchered”. That’ll fill tomorrow’s headlines. It’ll be all used up before we’re out on Sunday, though. Are you sure we can’t have “bloody hell” as our exclusive?’

  Geoff was trembling, possibly in shock. He was, however, alert enough not to go ballistic. It would be only too easy to estrange this reporter, giving him an even better headline in the process.

  ‘I need to collect myself,’ he said reasonably. ‘Give me your number. I’ll call you back shortly. Let you have something more measured. Okay?’

  He hung up and rose from his seat, ignoring the contract as it snapped shut . . . and the telephone as it immediately rang again.

  ‘Biblical justice,’ he murmured, ‘bloody hell.’

  He got himself a coffee and stared at it instead of drinking. Had one simple little prayer done that? Surely not.

  It had a certain aptness, though. The butcher butchered. An eye for an eye.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The card game had been abandoned and lager was flowing when Williamson rang, using Pat's mobile number again. Andy had had the TV on for a couple of hours by now, switching between bulletins as they mushroomed from local hearsay to global headlines. The BBC already had a man on the spot. According to him, the latest count was five dead at the scene and another critical. Sky had sent out the helicopters; they were showing continuous aerial footage of an isolated pub . . . one which appeared to be surrounded by every police car and ambulance in England.

  ‘Is it him?’ Sean asked,
his eyes gleaming.

  Pat nodded, turned up the volume and passed his phone across The Meeting Room Table.

  ‘Harry,’ Sean began insincerely, ‘my commiserations. Bad day at the office or what?’

  ‘I've had better days,’ Williamson said, obviously not in the mood for chitchat, ‘but fuck that. I need to cut a deal.’

  ‘To replace the one I've already torn up?’

  ‘I mean we should forget about the past and start fresh.’

  ‘It's easy for you to say that. You're still ahead. It might suit you to start fresh, I still want revenge.’

  ‘You've had your revenge. Burrows for Swanny and Moggs. We're quits.’

  Sean looked at Moggs, who was sitting between Angel and Tinner. Although Moggs had been Band-Aided back together he was a mess. He wasn't ever going to star in any movies, not unless they did a remake of Nightmare on Elm Street. And Swanny was worse. Swanny's wounds went deeper than the holes in his knees.

  ‘We’re not quits,’ Sean said. ‘Burrows cancelled Pongo. Swanny and Moggs still want accounting for. There’s five grand’s worth of resprays to be considered, too.’

  No hesitation from the other end of the line. It was as though Williamson had expected to be fucked off.

  ‘In that case I'll drop everything you agreed the other day. And while we’re at it, we can restore the old pact.’

  ‘Like I said, I've already torn everything up. Sorry if you didn’t realize. I thought Bunny Burrows was enough of a hint.’

  This time Williamson did hesitate before speaking again. ‘Okay, what do you propose?’

  ‘I propose you send me Driller Killer and the Undertaker.’ Sean’s laugh was far more diabolical than anything Williamson had managed last time they’d spoken. ‘Don’t worry, we won't kill them. We'll just balance the books.’

  ‘That's not possible. Driller's dead. And Jonjo's . . . he's probably lost a leg.’

  ‘That’ll knacker his rugby.’ Sean sniggered.

  ‘Never mind Jonjo’s rugby. What do you propose?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Harry. I can’t think of anything that doesn’t involve death, disaster and bloody mayhem.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Dwyer, give me a break.’

  ‘All right,’ Sean said after dragging out a pause, ‘tell me where you buried Pongo.’

  ‘He's part of the bypass,’ Williamson replied promptly, ‘under that big roundabout at Crossflatts. And I mean well under. He'll have five metres of concrete over him.’