Twenty minutes later, following his return from the bank, Sean entered Jimmy Moran's bedroom to find the crumpled body of Mary Cole engulfed by a crimson pool of her own body fluids. He recoiled in total disbelief. Moran had merely summoned him to his room to discuss a problem. The licensee was certainly unprepared for the sight which confronted him.
“Holy Mother of Jesus? What the fuck have you done?”
“I had no other option,” replied Moran, stepping towards the window to avoid the bloodshed. “I returned to collect some papers and found her snooping in my wardrobe. She had seen stuff not meant to be seen.” He lit a cigarette. “I told you to keep her out.”
“Don't blame me,” said Sean. “It's your mess. What do you intend to do about it? You can't leave her there.”
“I was hoping that you might have a solution. You're the man on the ground. Where do you suggest we dump her?”
Typical, thought Sean. He said ‘we’…I'm now in this up to my neck. He reflected on a recent excursion he had undertaken into an area of heath land not too far distant from Winsford. “As a matter of fact, I do know somewhere suitable, a remote spot out of town. It would have to be a night job, after closing time.”
“Tonight, then?”
Sean nodded. “I'll fetch some bin liners. She'll have to be bagged up. There's also the floor to scrub clean. I'd have asked the cleaner, but you've put paid to that fuckin' notion.” He sighed and turned towards the door. “What a bloody mess,” he muttered under his breath.
*****
It was shortly after midnight when Sean was able to bolt and lock the double doors that led from the bar to the rear car park. Outside, drops of rain spattered against the windows and resounded from some broken plastic chairs. He turned to cross towards the bar.
Jimmy Moran appeared. “Everyone gone?”
“I just need to put tonight's cash in the safe. Is she bagged up?”
“Exactly as you requested…wrapped and taped in bin liners. You'll have to help me down with her. She's a dead weight.”
Sean smiled. He understood. “What have you done with her clothes?”
“Stuffed them in a separate bin liner.”
“There's an incinerator in the yard. I'll burn them in the morning.”
Moran lit a cigarette. “I've sorted the mess on the floor. You'll be needing a new carpet. I've ripped up the old floor covering…it was rotten anyway. You may as well burn it at the same time. There's still a slight stain on the floorboards, but bleach should shift that.”
“Thanks,” said Sean, begrudgingly. “I'll reverse my car into the yard. We can dump her body in the boot…we'll be out of sight there.”
Ten minutes later, Sean slammed down the boot lid over the bundled corpse of Mary Cole. He drove a little way out of the yard, stopped and returned on foot to close the yard gates. Suddenly the car park was flooded with light as a vehicle splashed through the rain-soaked potholes towards them.
“Shit!” exclaimed Sean as he glimpsed the reflective flash from the side of the speeding car. It stopped in front of his Mondeo and a uniformed police officer emerged, leaving his colleague in the driving seat.
“Evenin’ to you, Sean. Off on a late night trip?”
“Just giving my friend a lift home,” he replied, thinking quickly.
The officer leaned forwards towards the open door of the estate car and looked across at Jimmy Moran. “And where might that be?”
“Tarporley,” replied Sean before his companion could speak. “He's over from Ireland to visit his son. The lad's an apprentice at the racing stables there.”
“Ah, a connoisseur of the turf.” The officer addressed Moran. “Got any good tips?”
Moran shook his head. “My boy's the expert. I'm not a gambling man.”
“Don't blame you. There are too many rich bookies around for my liking.” He turned back to Sean. “Well, mind how you go. The roads are greasy with this downpour. We'll keep an eye on the pub while you're away.”
He returned to the police car and they left the car park. Sean climbed into the driving seat and closed the door. His hands trembled as he attempted to grip the steering wheel.
“Smart thinking there, Sean,” said Moran, smiling.
“It's left us with a slight problem. If I'm supposed to be taking you back to Tarporley, I'll have to be seen to be returning alone. Those coppers who work the night shift get lonely…they'll stop anyone, even it it's only for a chat. You'll have to hide in the boot on the way back, just in case they stop me. At least it'll be empty after we've dumped her.”
Moran's grin turned to a grimace. “How far is this bloody ideal spot of yours?”
“About fifteen minutes away. It's a vast heath land area, quite dense in places, near Oulton Park racing circuit. I did a recce a short while ago. I know the perfect place.”
“What was that all about?”
“You don't want to know.”
The car turned onto the by-pass and headed out into open countryside towards Little Budworth where the weather had worsened. Finding the track that he had previously identified was no easy task in the darkness and the incessant rain. The invasive landscape emerged through the downpour like grotesque shadows of perdition. Inside the car, the rain caused a further hindrance; visibility was poor and the demisters barely cleared the condensation from the windscreen. After several runs along the Coach Road, Sean eventually thought that he recognised an opening in the trees. He turned the car into the dripping cavernous undergrowth of scrubland.
When the track became too narrow to progress further, he was forced to slither to a halt. There was little space on each side to open the doors of the vehicle, but somehow, they extricated themselves into the wet foliage engulfing them. Opening the boot in the openness of the track was far easier.
The rain splashed down onto the exposed bin liners. Consequently, the slippery bulk was difficult to grip. By grasping a protruding limb through the plastic, they were finally able to haul the bagged-up body over the metal rim. It thudded down onto the wet, sandy earth where the red taillights of the car cast an eerie glow over their handiwork.
“What now?” asked Moran.
“We'll have to drag her as far as possible into the shrubbery and collect whatever bracken, leaves and branches we can lay our hands on to hide it from view.”
“We should have brought a torch and a bloody spade,” said Moran, not relishing crawling into the gloomy undergrowth.
“There's light from the car's headlights if we can drag her in that direction. Damn this fuckin' weather!”
When it was impossible to lug the body any further, the bin liners were so shredded that various parts of the cleaner's naked torso were exposed and scarred from the prickly plants and bushes along the way. They piled rotted branches, ferns and other foliage over the bundle until it was completely concealed. Stumbling and cursing they returned to the car. Their shoes were muddied and their clothes sodden. Overhanging branches and trailing brambles had scratched their exposed faces and hands. They sat on the rim of the empty car boot and attempted to brush off the debris that had attached itself to their clothing.
“What a bloody way to go,” remarked Sean, looking towards the dense undergrowth.
“She brought it on herself,” replied Moran. “She was spying and, in my book, disloyalty and treachery deserve nothing less. Let's get out of here. I feel trapped.”
The two men returned to Winsford. Sean drove and his accomplice slipped into the car boot on the outskirts of the town. The incinerator worked overtime for several hours the following morning until they considered that they had obliterated all traces of Mary Cole's tragic demise. Nothing more was said about their activity. Sean prepared himself for the inevitable enquiries that would ensue from her disappearance.
*****
Sean hauled himself wearily up the steps from the beer cellar. It was early Thursday morning…his regular beer-line cleaning day. After the gruesome events with Moran during the previous wee
kend, it had been a difficult week handling the annoying visits by the local C.I.D. As he closed the door at the top of the steps, the shadowy figure of Moran appeared.
“You still haven't replaced that carpet in my room,” he snapped, lighting a cigarette.
“I've been busy covering your fuckin’ back all week. I'll sort it tomorrow.” The licensee was never at his best in the morning. He also hated cleaning beer-lines…it was one of those necessary but time-consuming chores. In addition, his guest's contempt for all things normal was beginning to wear thin.
“We'll be gone from here by tomorrow,” replied Moran. “It's a bit bloody late in the day.”
“Look, if the mess on the floorboards is bothering you that much, I'll bring you a rug from my flat. It's okay for you…you're out every day. All week the bloody police have pestered me. They know about the racing stables. That copper last weekend must have blabbed it to C.I.D.”
“So, what did you tell them?”
“I played along with the original story…told them that your name was Callaghan, an old friend who was in the area and had decided to pay me a visit.”
“They accepted that?”
Sean nodded. “They were more concerned with my register and the lack of names and addresses of that lot up there, including you. I'm supposed to be dropping it off, up-to-date, at the police station this morning before they attend that girl's funeral.”
“I suggest that you fill it in yourself with some bogus names and addresses.”
“Oh, great idea! They'll ‘twig’ that straightaway. Can't your so-called students complete it before you take them off for the day?”
“Most of them can hardly read or write, let alone speak the language. They're here to learn practical skills, not bloody academic subjects. Ask some of your regular punters to help you out. If they realise that it's an opportunity to put one over the pigs, they'll be only too willing to oblige. Let's face it, most of the villains in here would take out a copper for the right money. If C.I.D. are at a funeral, take it in at the end of the day. By the time they run any checks, we'll be long gone.”
“It's so bloody easy for you. You cause the problems, I take all the flak and you just walk away.”
“You won't be complaining when the courier arrives next week with a big fat wad for you. Book yourself a holiday and chill.” Moran stubbed his cigarette on the door casing and dropped it on the floor. “Come with me…I've something to show you.”
Sean followed him to his room where he opened the wardrobe door and lifted out a large package. He unwrapped it, spreading it on the bed to reveal a large glistening automatic rifle.
“They gave me this as a gift when they arrived. Look at it…isn't it a beauty? It's a spanking new, top of the range AK-47 assault rifle, courtesy of Mikhail Kalashnikov. It fires six hundred rounds per minute. Did you know that the Soviets produced a coin stamped with its image. Hezbollah and Mozambique have it on their flag and in some countries baby boys are named Kalash after it? They can purchase these by the truckload. They're not short of funds.”
“They're Arab fanatics, aren't they?”
“Moslem radicals, dissidents like ourselves who seek justice against those who persecute us. Whereas we need finance, they have unlimited resources. Mark my words, these people ‘mean business’. If we can profit by offering them support for their cause, our cash flow problems will be solved. The day is approaching when our exploits at Guildford, Brighton and the other major cities will seem like bonfire night celebrations in comparison.”
Moran stroked the Kalashnikov affectionately. “You're a lucky bastard, Sean. By showing your support this past week, you have gained some credit with them. To be sure, you would want to be on the winning team when Armageddon arrives.”
*****
After Moran and his group had left in the minibus to play their ‘war games’ at the activity centre, Sean returned to the cellar to complete his line-cleaning programme. He was on ‘automatic pilot; his mind was focussed on more complex issues. Why had he allowed himself to be drawn into this fanatical world of Jimmy Moran?
I left all that behind when I sailed from Belfast all those years ago, he thought. Okay my life has not been perfect. I've done some bad things in my time, but I'm no extremist. What the hell would I do with a bloody Kalashnikov? Moran worships the fuckin’ object. The man's crazy. Damn his evil mind, I'm now not only complicit in my cleaner's murder, but also lying to the police to protect a complete psycho!
Sean finished in the cellar and returned to his flat to shower and change from his work clothes. He decided to attend the funeral; he had come to terms with his situation. Forget faking the register. It was time for confession, the moment for absolution, the opportunity to rid society of the Morans of this world. Prison would be no worse than the heavy burden of guilt that he now bore.
He had only been an accomplice in Mary's murder, a victim of circumstances, an unwilling participant. Surely, it would be a shorter sentence for him if he told the truth and collaborated with the police. At the same time, it could bring some relief to his overall anguish. On the other hand, living with all this guilt would be similar to a life sentence. He would seek out Inspector Massey at the end of the girl's funeral. The whole experience of being there and ‘coming clean’ would soothe his tormented mind.
Leaving a member of staff in charge, Sean drove through the rain to the twelfth century Norman church that stood in the centre of Moulton. There was nowhere to park; the roads were clogged on each side with vehicles. The rain had ceased and the cortege was leaving the main church entrance for the cemetery as he approached.
He turned into a tree-lined road alongside the far wall of the churchyard. The trees were laden with pink cherry blossom. I'll miss all this banged up behind steel bars, he thought as he searched for somewhere to park the car. He was beginning to doubt his own logic. The road led into a cul-de-sac at the rear of the cemetery. There was a space large enough to accommodate the Mondeo. Close by, he spotted a wooden lych-gate that gave access to the graveyard. The mourners were gathering around an open grave as he approached. He could see Massey and other police officers standing some distance away, sheltering beneath a large elm tree.
Sean melted into the background as the vicar prayed and the coffin was lowered into the ground. A well-dressed woman in a dark suit caught his eye. She was also looking at him with an inquiring gaze. Where had he seen her before? As the mourners began to depart, he suddenly remembered and, without hesitating, approached the woman before she turned away. He was correct in his recollection, but her words wounded him deeply. She walked away, leaving him in total distress. He spun round, strode purposefully towards the lych-gate and headed back to Winsford more depressed than ever. All his sound intentions had been undermined in seconds.
He felt nothing but emptiness. How could he face the world again? How could he face himself? Nothing else was real any more. How could he bear this heart-rending agony that he now felt? He was desperately sad…absolutely devastated. For the first time since he had discovered his father hanging in the barn, Sean wept inconsolably.
*****
It was almost midnight. The majority of customers had left as staff cleared empty glasses and cleaned the tables. Moran and his associates were asleep in their rooms in preparation for an early departure the following morning. Two customers, strangers, were lingering over their beers at the bar. Sean politely asked them to drink up and go. He was not in the mood for small talk. He dismissed the staff, ushered the strangers through the doors leading to the car park and locked up. He removed the till drawers and placed them with their contents in the safe. Having routinely checked the windows and toilets, he switched off the lights. Instead of retiring to the warmth and comfort of his flat, he descended into the beer cellar.
One of the staff had switched off the motors and the gas pressure system. Everything seemed to be in order. At the bottom of the cellar drop, close to the steps that led to street level, there was a large bu
ndle of heavy rope used by the draymen to lower barrels into the cellar. He sat on the soft mound of fibres and stared across the room.
Once again, he wept. He buried his head in his hands. How could he live with this? Time could never heal his pain. He reflected back to Easter. He glanced up the steps towards the cellar drop. He closed his eyes and relived the moment. It was like watching someone else, some stranger in a confusing dream.
The weather had been beautiful; life was good. He had been working in the cellar that morning. He had been in a happy mood, unaware that his life was about to be turned upside down by an act of madness.
She was standing there at the top of the steps leading down to the cellar; the girl who had suddenly appeared on that sunny April morning…a vision from heaven. She looked almost transparent in the bright sunlight. The memories flooded back.
“I've never seen a pub cellar before. Are all those barrels full of beer?” She craned her neck to peer further into the dank recesses. “I was waiting for a bus…they're never on time, are they? I'm afraid that my curiosity got the better of me. I'm sorry; I must be interrupting your work.”
“No bother,” said the stranger, leaning forwards on his brush. “Come on down and take a look around.”
Gingerly, the young girl descended towards the wet cellar floor. The man wiped his hand on his shirt and reached out to help her. Her beauty immediately enraptured him. She wore a delicate silky, summer dress. Her long blond tresses wafted gently in the breeze from the open doorway. The backdrop of bright sunlight, which cascaded down into the cellar, highlighted the contours of her shapely body, a stunning vision of beauty. He was totally mesmerised.
As she drew closer, a faint whiff of her Chanel perfume contrasted dramatically with the ambient yeasty aroma of beer. Everything which a man desires in his innermost sexual fantasy stood before him…alone and vulnerable.
The young woman pierced his fragile bubble of illusion. “I often wondered how it ended up in a glass on the bar.” She looked about her at the vast array of equipment, the cooling machine, the ring-main gas system, the line of glass fob detectors and the myriad of beer lines. They hung like strands of spaghetti before disappearing into insulated trunking and spiralling up to the dispensers on the bar.
Animal Instinct Page 17
