Larcombe Manor

by Ted Tayler

  “Bloody well looks like it. I told you not to trust these Russian bastards. Who’s the naked tart, anyway? She doesn’t look old enough to have left school. I thought you knew better than that, Tyrone. Tommy cheated on me more than once, but they were always legal.”

  Tyrone’s headache returned with a vengeance. Earache from his mother was something he could have done without. His breathing had slowed though, and the cold sweat on his brow stopped dripping into his eyes. Tyrone slumped onto the settee.

  “Vasiliev tried to blackmail me,” he said, as his mother stepped over the gangster’s body to sit opposite him.

  “With the girl?” asked Colleen. Tyrone nodded.

  “Vasiliev gave me a lift home this morning. He spiked my drinks and then brought in the girl and a cameraman. She was older than she looked, but if the film got onto the internet, I’d be finished. He wanted a hundred grand. I played for time until I found my knives.”

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve needed to have this place cleaned by professionals,” said Colleen looking at the bloody mess, “people will talk. Why couldn’t this Vasiliev stick to the tidying-up work we put his way? Didn’t that pay well enough?”

  “Vasiliev dealt with the helicopter pilot and the ex-copper,” said Tyrone, “but things got harder when he followed one of the newer arrivals at Larcombe Manor. The bloke was too good not to spot the cars tailing him, so Vasiliev backed out. He worried they might have spooked the people at Larcombe enough to have someone ride shotgun when he drove south.”

  “Leave the foreigners out of it. I told you they were trouble.”

  “Vasiliev reckoned he had the car under surveillance in Leeds. We could check his phone?”

  “OK, find out where the car’s parked. Put a bounty on this bloke’s head. He’s not to get back to Larcombe,” said Colleen. “No matter how many people we lose. You wanted to send a message. This will let them know we mean business.”

  Tyrone called for a crew to remove the dead bodies. Two more long-term visitors for Hackney Marshes.

  Colleen checked Vasiliev’s jacket for his mobile phone. She found the SMS message notifying him where the car had been parked.

  “I’ll put the money back in the safe, along with this phone,” she told Tyrone. “You ought not to have so much cash lying around, son. It’s too tempting for these petty criminals. I’ll let you fetch your knives. I don’t want to get blood over these Louboutin shoes. They cost me a bundle.”

  “Someone’s on the way for the removals, Mum,” Tyrone replied. “I’ll get the cleaners here first thing in the morning for the rest. I’ll sleep at yours tonight if that’s okay?”

  “I suppose it will have to be,” shrugged Colleen. “Make sure you make the price on that agent’s head attractive, won’t you?”

  “Yes, mother, don’t worry,” said Tyrone.

  “I always worry, just as I did with your father. I had to clean up his mess too.”

  Sunday, 11th January 2018

  Hugh Fraser showered and dressed by eight o’clock.

  “Are you sure you have to drive back so soon,” said Ambrosia.

  “Better safe, than sorry,” replied Hugh.

  He had read Giles’s text message late last night. The news from Larcombe Manor was grim. The deaths of Orion and the other agent came as a great shock. He had been sleeping when that news broke and left before anyone in the stable block could speak to him. Hugh realised the seriousness of the situation.

  “We must protect your identity,” he said to Ambrosia. “I’ll slip away over the back wall and follow a zig-zag route through the streets until I reach my car. The team is in position because they wanted to check the car hadn’t been booby-trapped. If the coast is clear, my escort will drive back with me. Three cars, using the tactical pursuit and containment principle will shepherd me along the motorway.”

  “Please, take care,” pleaded Ambrosia.

  “Don’t worry, they know what they’re doing.”

  They kissed and Hugh headed for the wall at the end of the garden. Ambrosia saw him clamber over the wall and drop from sight on the other side. He was in the field that backed onto the property. It would be five minutes before he reached the road. A further fifteen minutes before he set eyes on his car. Ambrosia sat in her kitchen and waited for the news he reached home without incident. Nothing could have persuaded her to do otherwise.

  The escort lead driver was Andy Walters, who had been the main man in the team that shadowed the prison transport vehicle when Tommy O’Riordan launched his fatal prison break. This was a dangerous and difficult assignment, so Olympus chose their best operator.

  The first task was complete. Nobody had been near Hugh’s car. It was as he’d left it. Andy was in contact with the drivers of the other two cars. They cruised the local streets hunting for potential pursuit vehicles. Street by street, they informed Andy there were no suspicious signs.

  “Our passenger has arrived,” said Andy, as he spotted Hugh Fraser at the end of the street. Hugh made his way forward, looking around him until he got to the car. Andy Walters edged alongside and gave Hugh the thumbs-up. The agent was soon inside the car and pulled away from the kerb ready to follow Andy.

  Two team members joined them and the convoy headed for the motorway.

  The nervous wait for news in Leeds and at Larcombe had begun.

  CHAPTER 7

  In the orangery, Phoenix and Rusty discussed the first of the week’s missions. Their target was the chop shop operating out of Ilford that had employed Miguel Fernando. The proximity of the North Circular Road had proved a great benefit in delivering their vehicles to the garage and transporting the parts to their clients.

  Chop shops operated in the criminal underground all over the world. They made lots of money through the suffering of others. They stole any vehicle that could be disassembled and resold. This included cars, trucks, SUVs, and motorcycles. In a city the size of London where commuting by bicycle was common, even bicycle chop shops had appeared. The gang in Ilford favoured the higher end of the market. They did dismantle them, but occasionally, they rushed the whole package along the North Circular Road to a waiting container park. From there, they disappeared within days to Africa and the Far East.

  “These thieves go after parts that have a high resale value and are easy to remove,” said Phoenix, “wheels, entertainment systems, catalytic converters and airbags. To avoid detection, they disassemble a car within hours of stealing it. That way, the owner and the police never stand a hope of finding it. Since they are running an illegal business, the people operating chop shops try to be as inconspicuous as possible. They hide them away in residential garages and small commercial spaces that do not draw attention. Chop shops rarely work independently. They are part of large criminal organisations.”

  “It makes sense,” said Rusty, “a dismantled vehicle is much harder to identify than one still intact. Selling individual parts brings a much higher profit. That makes it a win-win for criminals who want to steal your car and make as much money from it as possible. Did you ever watch that film ‘Gone in Sixty Seconds’?”

  Phoenix stared at his friend.

  “I can’t remember the last time I visited the cinema,” he said.

  “You don’t need to go to the cinema. What about on TV?”

  “If a programme lasts over thirty minutes, I fall asleep,” said Phoenix, “I get bored. That’s why I was never interested in sports. It took too long. What’s this film got to do with this, anyway?”

  “I’m reading this report from Alastor,” said Rusty, sliding the folder across the table for Phoenix to study. “There’s been a spate of thefts in London in which criminals have driven cars away from homes without taking the owners’ keys. Gangs exploit weaknesses in technology that allow a car to be opened without touching a key and started by a simple push of a button. They source gadgets online which amplify signals between the car and new-generation key fobs to trick the vehicle into thinking the owner is
nearby. When the car receives the signal, it unlocks, even though the key fob may be a distance away inside the owner’s home.”

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” said Phoenix. “These bits of kit cost thousands, according to Alastor, which suggests they’re bought by organised criminals who quickly recoup the cost. Your average car thief couldn’t afford it.”

  “The technology for keyless entry used to be confined to high-end vehicles,” said Rusty. “But it will become more common as it spreads across different ranges and makes of vehicle.”

  “I wondered why they had a proportion shipped abroad,” said Phoenix, “when they can make so much on the parts. The top-of-the-range models are difficult to restart once they’re out of range of the owner’s key fob. I don’t know what they do with them once they arrive at their destination. I don’t care that much. It’s just another example of the way criminals adapt their methods to every technological advance. As soon as the banks, the computer people, or the car manufacturers tell us they’ve designed a security system that can’t be cracked, the criminals find a way to beat it.”

  “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” said Rusty. “Why don’t they advertise for the criminals who can bypass the new levels of security to work for them? They could command a high enough salary to avoid choosing a life of crime then.”

  “If only life was that simple,” said Phoenix. “Although, it’s given me an idea. We never target the low-level thugs who steal the cars or drive the transporters to the container ports. We always cut the head off the snake. In the future, we’ll identify the hacker, forger, or technical wizard these gangs utilise. If we neutralise them, it will have a longer impact on the gang’s operation. We might get a knock-on impact among these smart cookies you mentioned. If people in the same line of business are disappearing for good, they might think it’s time to seek alternative employment.”

  “What time do we leave in the morning?” asked Rusty.

  “Six o’clock,” replied Phoenix. “I’ve added two teams from east London. One at the garage and the other on the North Circular Road.”

  “We had better get over to the meeting room,” said Rusty. “Athena will be waiting. I look forward to a lie-in on Sunday mornings. This Grid nonsense is ruining my beauty sleep.”

  The two friends reached the main building to see the others halfway up the stairs ahead of them.

  “Everything ready for tomorrow?” asked Henry Case.

  “We don’t anticipate any problems,” said Rusty.

  “What he means is, I’ve anticipated any problems we’re likely to face,” said Phoenix.

  The third emergency meeting of the weekend was soon underway.

  “We traced the maroon limousine on the A303 late on Friday afternoon,” said Giles Burke. “it had left Old Sarum and headed east towards London. The registration number has been identified. The vehicle belongs to Leonid Vasiliev, a Russian gangster who arrived in the UK around ten years ago. He’s been associated with low-level racketeering, credit card fraud and extortion since he arrived on our shores. Most of the people he fleeced were fellow countrymen and women. He has a dozen known associates, but none of them has ever served time in jail.”

  “Was this Vasiliev known to be connected to the Grid?” asked Henry, “the name isn’t familiar. If his activities focused on his own people, I suppose he was under our radar?”

  “Our paths hadn’t crossed,” said Phoenix. “I suspect this level of violence is common if we dig deeper into the murky world in which he operates. Many of his victims are here illegally, so the crimes are never reported. Any missing bodies don’t attract attention from the authorities.”

  “Do we have an address for Vasiliev?” asked Athena. “Can we pinpoint the addresses for these twelve colleagues of his?”

  “That’s in hand, Athena,” said Giles, “I’ll pass the details to Phoenix. He can take the appropriate action whenever he’s ready.”

  “Anything else from the ice-house?” asked Athena.

  “Hugh Fraser is on his way back from Leeds with Andy Walters as his escort,” said Giles. “They should have reached the M5 by now.”

  “I didn’t think we should delay formalising a plan to handle the helicopter issue,” said Artemis, “nor Les Biggar’s body. Time is short, and, well, who knows what might happen.”

  “You’re right,” said Athena. “We can’t be sure of anything at present. So, what’s the plan?”

  “The helicopter is being collected from Old Sarum this morning. It will return to the Cotswold Airfield. Fintan O’Sullivan is flying into Bristol later today. I found a qualified pilot among Hugh Fraser’s Irregulars. Sandy Nesbitt was one of the five newbies you planned to make use of on the Northamptonshire mission, Phoenix. We should get her back to you within a day or two, so you can continue to include her in your plans.”

  “I like Fintan,” said Phoenix, “he was great when we worked together in Dublin. Odd-looking bloke, with one brown eye and one green eye. You wouldn’t have said his face was ever his fortune, but women found him devilishly handsome. They fell at his feet.”

  “Perhaps his face wasn’t his most attractive feature,” said Artemis. “Let’s hope this Sandy concentrates on her flying skills. The plan is for Fintan to collect Les Biggar’s body from Larcombe, be driven to Kemble, where he’ll meet up with Sandy Nesbitt. They then fly to Wexford, near Fintan’s cottage. He’s hired a fishing boat out of Kilmore Quay.”

  “Say no more,” said Phoenix, “I’ve no qualms over that as a plan. Fintan used the same people to get me back from Ireland last Spring. I take it Biggles will be buried at sea?”

  “Indeed,” said Artemis. “The helicopter will suffer the same fate as the cars you’re dealing with tomorrow. It will be dismantled. Valuable parts that can be salvaged will find their way across the Republic to be used by Olympus agents. The scrap materials will be recycled. Not at the same site, of course. Fintan has plenty of options. He guarantees it will disappear without a trace.”

  “What about the sudden departure of the flying business from the Cotswold Airfield?” asked Henry. “Will Fintan explain that to the people there?”

  “I’ve sent them a letter from Les Biggar,” said Giles, “confirming he had discontinued flights from the airfield due to the economic climate. He apologised for the short notice. It should be enough to keep them from making waves.”

  “Well done,” said Athena, “but it’s such a shame I’m congratulating you on a successful outcome to a tragic event. Biggles died because of the occasional flights he undertook for Olympus.”

  “This Vasiliev and his colleague will pay for their part in his death,” said Phoenix.

  “One final thing I can pass on this morning,” added Artemis. “Erica Hounsell told me last evening that the funeral service will be at noon, on Monday, the nineteenth at Bath Abbey. There will be a significant police presence among the mourners. The family will then move to Haycombe crematorium for a private ceremony.”

  “Thank you, Artemis,” said Athena, “we will travel to the Abbey separately as agreed.”

  “All roads lead to Ilford in the morning,” said Rusty, “wish us luck.”

  “I know I need to take a break from this,” said Athena. “I’m sure you could use a few hours rest. I suggest we call it quits for today.”

  Nobody argued. The past forty-eight hours had taken their toll. The agents left the meeting room. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning would come around soon enough. Another hectic week lay ahead.

  “I’m off to church to meet up with Sarah as soon as I leave here,” said Henry. “I’ll offer a prayer for the success of your mission, Phoenix,”

  “Pray we don’t get bad news from Andy Walters or Hugh Fraser,” said Phoenix, “or we’ll be back here with another headache to sort out.”

  The mood at Larcombe was dark. In the capital, Tyrone and Colleen O’Riordan waited in her penthouse. They too awaited news from Leeds.

  *****

  Furt
her north, Andy Walter’s troubles had begun as soon as they joined the M1 little over ten miles from the pickup point. He knew seventy-five miles of hard road lay ahead of them until they headed for Birmingham on the A42.

  His car was at the head of the TPAC formation. Andy relied on his wingman in the middle lane to spot potential dangers. He and his colleague directly behind Hugh Fraser concentrated solely on maintaining position. It was imperative they didn’t lose contact.

  “Roadworks up ahead, Andy.”

  It was Denzil Cornish, his wingman.

  “I saw the signs,” said Andy. “We’ve got a stretch now where our speeds will be restricted to forty maximum. Congestion will soon bring us to a stop. That’s when we need to keep close tabs on what’s going on around us,”

  Up in front, traffic slowed as if on cue. Andy watched as his speed dropped from fifty to thirty, to fifteen. Traffic came to a halt. Three pairs of eyes watched everything that surrounded the cars. The convoy edged forward as the bottleneck caused by the roadworks eased for a few valuable seconds.

  “Go,”

  The order came from Mitchell ‘Mitch’ Blackstone. A Sheffield man who had spent his life on the wrong side of the law. Now in his mid-forties, he had seen the chance of a good payday. Tyrone’s request for someone to take out an opponent of the Grid was too good an opportunity to resist. Mitch enjoyed driving and at weekends he took out his frustrations by smashing into other cars at the local stock car racing stadium.

  He had called his mates late last night to ask if they fancied a drive. Mitch told them of his plan. First, they had to steal a vehicle. That part was easy. The site was in total darkness and the overnight temperatures had dropped below zero. They didn’t see a soul. It was too big to miss when the employees arrived for work this morning, but that wasn’t his problem.

  Mitch explained to his gang that timing was their major issue. They had to post a lookout on a motorway bridge so they knew when the car they wanted passed through. Mitch had received the call ten minutes ago. He then began joining the motorway and reaching the closest works site to the first stretch of roadworks. He would hide in plain sight.