Shadows

by Conrad Jones

  “Calm down, calm down. I’ll get help for you,” George said, approaching the table. They became more frantic as he neared. “I said calm down!” he shouted this time. The injured men became quieter, their muffled cries replaced by sobbing. “I’m going to get you help,” he said, looking at each one in turn. “But you have to be patient. I can’t get those nails out without hurting you. If I try and release you, you will bleed to death. You need the fire brigade here and paramedics on standby. Do you understand?”

  Some of the sobbing became more intense. They tried to talk but their pleas were garbled noises. A mobile phone bleeped and his attention was drawn to a handset, which had been placed in the centre of the table. The screen illuminated and flashed. George looked around nervously.

  “Does that phone belong to any of you?”

  The men shook their heads, their eyes terrified.

  “Does it belong to whoever did this to you?”

  They all nodded.

  “Are the men who did this still here?”

  They shook their heads, eyes still pleading for help.

  George picked up the mobile. It showed an MMS notification. He opened the file and stared at the image. The photograph of a man, battered and bleeding appeared. There was no message and the face wasn’t familiar. The sender’s number had been withheld. Whoever had sent it was making a point although he didn’t know what it was. He made up his mind what to do. George scrolled back and opened the phone app. He dialled nine-nine-nine and explained the situation as best he could. The operators and police switchboard were very sceptical about what he told them. When they asked for his name, he hung up but he knew they would be on their way. His story may sound farfetched but they had to respond. George looked at the handset and decided to hang onto the mobile for a while. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t but things were far from normal. “Help is coming. They are on their way. Keep calm and you’ll be out of here soon.”

  He walked over to the kitchen area, which had been stripped bare of the equipment that once serviced hundreds of employees every day. The first responders would be fifteen minutes at his best estimate. He had told them that there could be armed men in the building. That would add another twenty minutes minimum while they summoned Armed Response Units to declare it safe for the emergency services to enter. He looked around the bare walls until he saw what he was looking for. The outline of a tub sink system was etched into the brick, the stainless sinks removed decades ago. A single pipe protruded from the wall, its end capped off with a brass plug. He searched around until he found a discarded fast food cup. George unfolded his penknife and popped the plug from the pipe. Brown water gushed from the end and he allowed it to spray onto the floor until it was clearer before filling the cup. The pressure dropped dramatically and the water was no more than a drip before he had it three quarters full. He slipped the knife back into his pocket and went back to the hapless men.

  “The police are on the way and I can’t be here when they arrive,” he said, peeling the tape from the face of the nearest man. “This will hurt,” he warned. The man cried out as he ripped the tape from his mouth. Tears of pain, frustration and joy ran down his cheeks. George put the dusty paper cup to his lips. “Just a sip, no more. Too much will make you ill. It will taste rusty but it’s better than nothing, eh?”

  “Thank you,” the man said. He sipped the water and closed his swollen eyes. “God bless you,” he croaked. George noted the Irish lilt.

  “Irish?” George asked.

  “Dublin.”

  “All of you?”

  “Aye.”

  George looked at the men closest to him. Beneath the table he saw their rubber boots. Five men, all Irish, all wearing rubber boots. He couldn’t work out what had happened. What had he stumbled into? Was it a coincidence that these men were there?

  “What are you doing here?” George asked, removing the tape from a second man. He gave him a sip of water and moved onto the third and fourth. They exchanged furtive glances, their eyes filled with fear and pain. No one wanted to speak. “Don’t all answer at once,” he said sarcastically, giving the fifth man water. “Was the question too difficult?” No one replied. “Shall I ask a simpler one?”

  Silence.

  “I could call nine-nine-nine and tell them it was a hoax?”

  “No, no, don’t do that, mister. We’re just scared and in pain.”

  “I get that. What are you doing here, though?” George asked sternly. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that this could not be a coincidence.

  “We are fishermen. Our skipper lied to us. We were tricked into sailing on a smuggling trip that went wrong,” the first man muttered. George heard the first siren approaching. The five injured men looked towards the window instinctively. “Oh, thank the Lord,” the fisherman muttered.

  “Where did it happen, here in Liverpool?”

  “No. We sailed from Dublin to Holyhead. That’s where they jumped us.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were jumped on the dock by Russians. At least we think they were Russians. They had machineguns. There was nothing we could do.”

  “Russians?” George asked, reaching for the mobile phone that they had left behind. “Why would they bring you all the way here?”

  “Fuck knows why,” the fisherman answered hoarsely.

  “Russians with machineguns?”

  “Aye, they killed our skipper.” The man was at the edge of breaking. “They strung us up like pigs in a slaughterhouse. Asking what we knew…” he began to sob, biting his swollen lips. “We didn’t know nothing. Only our skipper knew…”

  “Sounds like you had a lucky escape,” George said. He saw the shock and contempt in their eyes.

  “Lucky?” One of them gasped. “They nailed us to a fucking table, mister!”

  “If they thought you knew anything, you would be where your skipper is, believe me. It might not feel like it right now but you had a lucky escape.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t feel that lucky,” the man replied sourly. “I don’t feel a little bit fucking lucky.”

  “You are lucky to be alive and you’re lucky that I came along when I did,” he said. He stopped and thought. “Did they say why they brought you here?” He looked at the image that had been sent to the mobile. Who was that sent by and why? Another siren approached joined quickly by another. The men shook their heads. George took a quick peek out of the doorway. The corridors were empty and dark. “Help is here, good luck to you.” George ran to window and looked through the grimy glass. The first responders had arrived but were keeping a safe distance until the armed units arrived. It would give him enough time to escape without being seen. He couldn’t risk being taken in. It could compromise his status. George turned to leave when something shiny caught his eye. He walked towards the serving hatch that separated the kitchen from the canteen. Fixed to the wall was a Panasonic wireless camera. He frowned and looked into it for a moment. The mobile phone buzzed in his hand and another image appeared. This time the photograph was of George, looking straight into the camera.

  17

  Braddick stepped back as the door burst open. He could hear voices shouting. Gas swept through the air, blinding and choking him. Everything moved in slow motion. The door swung violently towards him. It was only his speed and agility that stopped it wiping him out. More shouting came from inside the house. More breaking glass. Cursing in foreign tongues. Coughing and retching. He lost his balance for a moment and nearly went down. His vision was blurred, the gas stung his eyes. He tried not to breath too deeply.

  “Armed police!”

  “Drop the weapon!”

  A figure crashed through the doorway. He was a big man with cropped blond hair, one hand covered his nose and mouth. He stopped when he saw Braddick and raised a weapon. Their eyes met and froze. Tears streamed down his cheeks as they stared at each other for a long second. Braddick was staring down the barrel of a Glock-17. He heard mo
re shouting and three shots rang out. Someone cried in pain and fell heavily but the man in front of him remained standing. He waved the pistol in his face and shouted words that he didn’t understand. His voice was thick and guttural. The garage doors clicked open fully and Braddick heard more orders shouted. This time in English from the front of the house. Black clad figures moved in his peripheral vision. They entered the garage in formation, their movements well-rehearsed, smooth and silent.

  “Armed police! Drop the weapon!”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw more of the dark clad figures approaching from the driveway, weapons raised, pointing his way. The man hesitated and then turned his weapon at the armed policemen. Braddick saw his chance and raised the hammer instinctively. He brought it down in a vicious arc, the head impacting with the man’s wrist. The dense steel shattered the bones as if they were porcelain. The man screamed and dropped to his knees. The weapon clattered across the concrete and he was swamped in seconds by the ARU. They cuffed him and bundled him away.

  “Are you okay, sir?” one of the officers asked, handing him a breathing mask. “The air will clear in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Braddick said, putting the mask on. His eyes were still streaming. He headed outside into the fresh air to clear his lungs of the stinging gas. “Make sure that he is searched before he gets to the station. We’re looking for anything that holds data, memory stick, MP3, mobile phones, etcetera,” Braddick ordered with a nod. “The other one?” he asked, gesturing towards the house.

  “He tried to break out of the rear, sir.” The officer shrugged. “He wouldn’t relinquish his weapon. He took two in the chest.”

  “We were worried about you,” Jo said, approaching the garage. She waited for the air to clear and studied the building. “Did you see anything useful in there?”

  “I’m fine, don’t worry,” Braddick said dryly. “But thanks for asking.”

  Jo frowned and walked into the garage unaware of Braddick’s sarcasm. She looked around the old MG and then walked over to the quad. “Expensive toys,” she said, looking at the mileage. “This is new.”

  “Probably cost less than the average woman’s shoe collection.”

  “Depends where you shop. Let’s take a look inside,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm once again. “I want to know what they were after.” She stepped through the connecting doorway into the hall. Braddick followed her and glanced at the body of the dead Russian. He didn’t appear to be carrying anything. “Has he been searched?” Jo asked.

  “Nothing on him,” a uniformed officer answered.

  “They ransacked the place downstairs,” Braddick said, looking inside the living room. “What do you think they were looking for?”

  “The identity of the informer,” she shrugged. He didn’t respond. “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” Braddick walked to the bottom of the stairs, his face blank. There were a thousand possibilities to consider. He needed most of them ruled out so that they could concentrate on a much smaller number of scenarios. “Let’s get this place secured and a full search team in here. Put two teams from MIT on it and let CSI do a sweep.”

  “CSI?” she asked, frowning.

  “You never know what they might come up with,” he said, thinking. “A random print, DNA hit, who knows?”

  “Do you think he was bent?”

  “I don’t want to think anything like that yet.” Braddick shrugged. “Pilkington was living way beyond his means.”

  “If Cain and Pilkington do have an informer inside the Karpov operation, the identity of that person would be very valuable,” she said, looking at a pile of his correspondence that had been scattered on the floor.

  “So would the identity of the UC.”

  “Where would they have kept that?”

  “If it was me, I would have it stashed on my phone or laptop where no one would see it and if they did, they wouldn’t know what it meant,” Braddick said. He stared at a sixty inch curved screen. “If there is something here it is not in plain sight, it’s hidden where a couple of Russian thugs wouldn’t find it.”

  “Or us,” she added, her phone under her chin.

  “Or us,” he agreed.

  “Search team is on the way.” She covered the microphone as she spoke to him. He nodded and walked into the kitchen. It was the only part of the house that hadn’t been ransacked. He thought about his kitchen drawers and his parent’s kitchen drawers. They were full of good stuff. Valuable stuff that they might need one day. Emergency stuff. Secret stuff. He was about to look through them when Jo called his name. She sounded excited. “Braddick, you have to hear this.”

  “What?”

  “ARU, fire and ambulance have been called to a derelict building near Edge Lane,” she said, her eyes wider than usual. Braddick waited for her to explain. “There are five Irishmen nailed to a table on the third floor. They are claiming to be fishermen from Dublin.”

  “Fucking hell!” Braddick said, shaking his head. He took a deep breath and frowned. “Are they going to make it?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “They’re in a bad way but alive.”

  “We need to talk to them, pronto,” he said. “Let’s get to the Royal before it turns into a circus.”

  18

  Patrick Finnen stepped into a phone box on Lord Street and dialled the number again. It rang three times and switched to answering machine, again. This time, he left a different message. A message Henry had told him to leave. The receiver may not be sure what it meant but he had a good idea that they would get the gist of it. It was a ‘get in touch or else’ type of message. Subtle but threatening. Patrick could see that there was more to Henry than first met the eye. Ieuan Jones had called him a hit man, as near as damn it. A hit man or enforcer, there was no difference. They hurt people, frightened people, interrogated and tortured people and ultimately, murdered people. Henry hid it well. Beneath the jovial Irishman was a stone cold killer. Patrick had encountered a few men like Henry along the way. Men who had been sucked into the troubles, joined the paramilitaries as young men and learned how to kill and terrorise. When the troubles faded, the organisations on both sides didn’t disband, they just stepped into the shadows and changed focus. They policed their own areas and moved into the supply chain, squeezing everyone else out by using their well-honed skills to persuade. Men like Henry were dangerous. Patrick was glad that he was on his side but he was very wary too. If they failed in their mission, Patrick was under no illusions that Henry would be the man to kill him. Henry was a killer, full stop.

  They had separated and agreed to meet in Flanagan’s Apple, an Irish pub on Mathew Street. Henry reckoned that he needed to buy some supplies and meet up with some of his old contacts, who drank in that area. The area was rife with tourists on a Beatle quest, easy to con and easy to rob. He had planned to go and check the place out, ask a few questions and get a lead on Gary Mason and his cronies. Patrick hung up the phone and opened the door. A gale was blowing off the river, turning Lord Street into an icy wind tunnel. He pulled up the hood of his parka and jogged across the road past McDonalds, towards Mathew Street. The streets were busy, tourists and shoppers mingling, moving from shop to shop, pub to pub. He heard half a dozen different languages being spoken and he didn’t recognise any of them.

  Patrick could tell that Flanagan’s was busy from the outside. He could hear the racket inside as he approached. He climbed three steps to reach the bar door and stepped into the warmth. Food and ale aromas hit him. The sound of a band drifted up from the cellar downstairs, mingling with the clinking of plates coming from the restaurant upstairs. The low ceilings seemed to amplify the noise. It was noisy, almost uncomfortably loud but laughter and conversation filled the air. The floorboards were stained dark brown like the oak beams on the ceiling. He pushed through the crowd to the bar and ordered a Guinness, surprised by the price compared to home. Beer in Dublin was ridiculously priced. Then he tasted it
. He frowned, disappointed with the comparative flavour. It just wasn’t quite the same. The smell of pastry and garlic reached him, making him realise how hungry he was. He looked at the faces that lined the bar. There was no sign of Henry. Patrick turned around and shouldered his way through the crowd. He scanned the booths looking for him. After making a full circuit of the bar, he headed downstairs to the cellar where the band was playing. The familiar tones of the pennywhistle and a fiddle drifted to him. A singer with a harsh Belfast tone boomed out his version of ‘Dirty Old Town’. The sound of conversation seemed to be louder downstairs as the punters competed with the music. He looked around and spotted Henry in a booth with two men. He saw Patrick and beckoned him over. His face smiled but his eyes drilled into his head, looking for a sign of betrayal. Henry didn’t trust Patrick any more than Patrick trusted him.

  “This is my friend Patrick.” Henry introduced him. Patrick smiled, Ieuan’s words echoed around his mind. This man is not your friend, Henry is nobody’s friend. The men stood and shook hands enthusiastically. “This is Clint and this is Graham. They’re old colleagues of ours,” he explained. “They worked for us many moons ago.”

  “Alright, Patrick!” The men nodded and grinned. “You’re the boxer aren’t you?”

  “I was, yes.” Patrick blushed. They were like bookends, pugilist’s noses and cropped receding hairlines. Their Adidas tracksuits were identical, one blue, the other black. Patrick had the impression that they were in awe of himself and Henry. “It seems like a long time ago now.”