The Black Rose Conspiracy

by James McKenna

  “All that sitting on four MPs?” Sean shook his head. “The DJP may get some power after the next election but with pro-military policies which back America, they would soon lose it again.”

  “It only takes one parliament to start a war. All Baxter has to do is manoeuvre our widows into power and keep them there for one, maybe two elections. She already has them on the road and gathering support. All she needs now is Aguzzi’s money or better, Silverman's billions.”

  “So why bring in Krata?”

  “To remove him as a favour for Aguzzi. According to the Witch, they are pretending to include him in the deal. Krata is also looking for Silverman's billions. If Aguzzi gets there first a lot of the Mafia will be bought. He will give some to the widows for influence in the British market. However, I suspect the widows want it all for their own operation. There will be conflict.”

  “Then our widows play a very precarious game,” Sean said, wondering if Cobbart had knowledge of just how precarious before involving Sean. He bet the Witch did. “I can see Laura Manning getting herself involved, and maybe Lisa Norton, but not Judith Holmes or Margo Portland,” he said.

  “Greed, hatred or bitterness, whatever first motivated them has now left no choice. If they aided and abetted the murder of their husbands, then they are trapped.” Cobbart pushed half-frame glasses up on his nose. “I wanted this little talk so you would be aware of what you face. Our widows are sitting on a viper’s nest with possible control over them by the American and European Mafia. And you are stepping in without cover or officialdom.”

  “No worry. I have Victoria and Denise to look after me.” Sean let go his breath. Life had been much easier as a policeman.

  “I do believe we have support from two other men, Pug and Joe Carver. Carver could be very useful. He’s ex-CAT.”

  “But who is Pug?”

  “I’m told he’s capable, ex 9 Para.”

  “Who are they?”

  Cobbart shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll find out. Enjoy your trip and stay careful.” He extended his hand as if it was a final goodbye.

  “Thanks, boss.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Goodbye, my little sweetheart, I'll miss you.” Sarah went on her knees to cuddle Grace. "But it's only for a few days and Libby and Micky will be here to look after you."

  "It's OK, Muma, and I’ve got Scamp." Grace hugged her back.

  "We can go to the park, take Micky and Scamp for walks," Libby said. On hearing his name Micky, the black Labrador, walked over and sniffed at Scamp.

  "And if Paxos is as nice as I'm told, we can go there for our holidays," Sarah said.

  "Yeah, I'd love that." Grace clasped her hand. "And if Auntie Libby goes, can we look after Micky?"

  "Of course, my sweet." Sarah hugged her again. "Have a good day at school."

  "Taxi's here," Libby said, looking out the window.

  Sarah climbed to her feet, trying not to cry, for then Grace would also cry and she would be unable to leave her.

  "Don't worry," Libby rubbed her shoulder. "Grace will be fine."

  All walked to the front door where Sarah collected her case and sun hat. Remembering her mother's warning to safeguard the silver photo brooch, she had stowed it carefully in her pocket. Something about it intrigued her. From her mother's words, a secret in the photo or frame lay hidden. What, she did not know, but maybe close examination would reveal a clue.

  "I'll phone every day," she said, bending to give Grace one last hug. She kissed Libby's cheek. "Take care of her."

  "Don't worry, she'll be fine." Libby opened the door and Sarah threw kisses as she walked to the taxi.

  "Luton Airport," she said to the driver while he put her case in the boot. Tears started as the taxi moved away. She waved to Grace and Libby who waved back from the doorway. Then they were gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  Darkness crushed the night and closed the grip of terror. The door opened and the silhouette of shadow moved inside. Once more the beast had come for him, its scream the sound of a motorbike engine impacting through metal, flesh and bone, cutting the back of his car, killing his wife and kids, one shouting "Mummy", before silence.

  Joe half woke with the sound of his own scream and the burrowing guilt in believing his carelessness had taken three innocent lives. He struggled to shout himself awake but dread wrapped its arms around him, holding him prisoner while the predators clutched his soul. Thrashing as he fought the beast, he shouted into its high-pitched scream.

  "Take my life instead, take my life not theirs." Then finally he awoke.

  The sheet entwined his arms and legs. Sweat soaked his body while the aftermath of nightmare shivered on his skin. Through the open window, moon glow caste its silver presence and in moments the soft, velvet night returned to soothe him. Across the hall the refrigerator clicked on its motor, vibrating in a tremor against the terracotta floor, an earthly sound, a sound of sanctuary against the shadows of his night. He was safe. At least for now.

  Sarah teamed up with other Harpenden DJP members in the airport departure lounge, all chatting with the excitement of schoolgirls starting an adventure. Many would have children, but most had that pleasure to come. As term time continued, dozens held the expression of guilt over abandoning their offspring to the care of husbands, grandparents or childminders. Sarah had been allotted a window seat, there she snoozed till late morning, then joined others in the flow of wine. Might as well get into the spirit, she thought, everyone else seemed to.

  Dawn came with the singing of birds and the territorial crowing of cockerels scratching in the olive grove behind. Joe Carver stayed in the twilight of half sleep, holding it as a fragile shield, safe in the knowledge no one would come knocking on the door accusing him of killing his own family, no telephone would bring curt messages from the bank. Behind closed eyes he thought of other times, of two bright eyed children, a happy marriage, a good job and salary and the joy of being loved. What was life without the love of wife and children? Death held the only escape.

  In the village square below a bus honked its horn, the warm morning air gradually punctured by voices and the angry drone of two-stroke mopeds racing up the hill. People were off to work, making their living, paying their way. He had gone to sleep not hearing the gentle rhythm of cicadas but the whispering of his own voice begging forgiveness under the influence of too much wine.

  The alcohol road had been a long and torturous one, but now he made serious efforts to end it. When he first arrived in Paxos two years ago, a bottle of whisky plus would not have lasted the day. If his kids saw him drunk all the time they would have cried, his wife nagging him to stop. He had lived where they had died so for their memory and because he realised he had lost himself in self-pity, he cut from a bottle of whisky a day to six bottles of wine, then four, then two. The road had been long and hard and the beast still haunted his dreams, but Paxos, with its peace, beauty and friendly people, had given the tranquility to re-find himself.

  Dressed in knee-length swim shorts, tee shirt and flip-flops, Joe walked out to the terrace and looked down upon Lakka's harbour. In late May, the Greek night had brought rain and filled the hills of Paxos with the sweet blossom of flowers and pine. This was his favourite month, the air warm, the sea bracing, the people full of expectation for the coming season. The first tourists were already here, people without the drain of children and the restriction of school holidays. It was a good place to be, Paxos in May.

  Sailboats stood on marbled water amidst seagoing yachts from all of Southern Europe. Smaller flotilla craft lined the quay. Sun-browned girls posed on deck in skimpy outfits, some cooking, some reading, their men checking equipment and craft, ready for the day's adventure.

  Last night he had wandered Lakka's small streets. The bars and restaurants aglow, their bright lights reflecting off the tranquil water. Millionaires, students, housewives and fathers, the thin, the fat, the pretentious, all shoulder-to-shoulder, filling the tavernas and the pavements. On P
axos no one cared if you were rich or poor, old or young. On Paxos just to be was enough.

  He had arrived on the island seeking sanctuary, somewhere to fill the tormented emptiness which had engulfed his life, he felt fortunate to be granted an early pension and gratuity to see him through. The beauty of the landscape, the trees, the sun, the sea, the friendly vibrancy of the population, had effect but the road ahead still lay long and torturous.

  Standing on the terrace he checked his wallet and considered his day. No need for the hole in the wall; least not yet. In the small basic kitchen of his two-roomed house he poured bottled water and swallowed his daily fix of pills. Pills for blood pressure, pills to relax, none to be taken with alcohol. Grief and creeping age gave no mercy but he did his best. He stayed lean and only looked in the mirror when shaving. His hair remained strong, a thick grey crop, kept short for swimming. A sun-hued skin made lines of age look rugged. It was a face weathered by life and grief.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sean left the flat early morning and sat half sleeping as a train carried him to Gatwick Airport.

  In the departure terminal he switched off his mind and suffered the regimented procedures enforced by modern air travel. Three hours later he peered from the aircraft window as it lifted through fragmented cloud to the bright world of high altitude sunshine.

  In the outer seats, two rigid-faced women with drab clothes and drab bodies occasionally spoke in clipped tones and generally pretended he did not exist. He guessed around eighty percent of the passengers were female, most between thirty and fifty. The rest were elderly or younger couples with pre-school children on holiday deals before the start of the peak season. An hour into the flight an unsmiling air stewardess handed him a plastic tray of processed food and sold him a beer. The beer was the highlight of his trip.

  In Corfu, little plump holiday reps with clipboards and red faces split the passengers into their allocated groups and ushered them onto coaches. Sean was pleased to see most of those who arrived at the ferry terminal for Paxos looked relatively civilised. Eighty percent were still women, ordinary women of all shapes and sizes. None of them responded to his smile. Lone men were clearly intruders. The other guys were either old or juggling children on their knees.

  He spent the ferry journey to Paxos staring out to sea or strolling on deck checking his fellow passengers. The majority of women he classified as middle-aged and middle-class trying to portray an element of serious intent over what was clearly an infectious holiday spirit. Others were younger, chirpier, more prone to gather near the bar. Some were attractive, some not so. Some held hands or touched their partners as if to demonstrate universal dismissal of the male gender. Being a lone male, Sean assumed they displayed for his benefit, so in silent retaliation he sat up at the bar observing the more attractive female gays with licentious eyes.

  On his second beer, four young women in identical crop tops and tight shorts gathered at the bar. They were groomed and well-mannered, their accents American, the crop tops identifying them as members of the DJP. Two were slim of hip and strutted like long legged fillies, two were thicker at the waist, but all had the toned physic which came with physical training. When the prettiest turned in his direction, Sean's gaze rose from her breasts to her smile. Her little white teeth gleamed between soft pink lips and Sean smiled back, before realising he'd been drawn in like an adolescent. As she turned away, Sean looked over the curves beneath her shorts and felt his age. Paxos was looking better and he hadn't even arrived.

  When Sarah had settled into her holiday flat on Paxos she checked here watch. Grace would be home from school, having her tea before going on her Smartphone. Libby answered and after reporting all well handed the phone to Grace

  “Are you OK my lovely?” Sarah asked, immediately feeling the pain and guilt of not being there with her daughter.

  “I’m fine Muma. Libby and me are taking the dogs for a walk after tea, then Smartphone, television, story and bed.”

  “That’s lovely. I wish I could be there too.”

  “And guess what? I got the teacher’s gold star for being the best reader.”

  “Oh well done. I can’t wait to get back and hug you.”

  “But you’re in Greece so all my hugs are for Libby, Scamp and Micky.”

  “Will you save one for me?” Sarah asked, feeling the start of tears. She couldn’t cry, otherwise Grace would cry.

  “I’ll save lots and lots but you have to come home first.”

  “I will, my sweet, I will. I’ll be there when you wake up on Monday morning. Miss you.”

  “Miss you too. Don’t cry.”

  “I won’t. Phone you tomorrow, bye.”

  “Bye Muma, love you.” The line went dead.

  Sarah switched off the call and left her bedroom. The three friends she shared the flat with stood on the balcony, all dressed ready to party.

  John stood on the balcony of the neighbouring flat and waved as Sarah came out.

  “We’re off for a drink and something to eat,” he called.

  “Same here, see you by the harbour.” She waved back and watched two guys come out behind him. They did not look gay, more like city thugs. John took no notice, just smiled across at her.

  “Come on Sarah, no flirting,” one of her friends called. “It’s time to party.”

  “Party, party,” Sarah answered and followed them out the flat door.

  "OK, your key, sir." The young Greek boy dropped Sean's case to the ground and offered him the key to a stone hut with a lean-to on the back. It had a tiny terrace looking down to the sea and a garden of olive trees that gave total privacy.

  "Thank you, my friend." Sean gave the lad a couple of Euros and accepted the key.

  “You have all mod cons,” the boy said. “Water, electricity, fridge, everything. You have problem, see my father.” He saluted, walked back along the path to the gate, then down the hill to Lakka harbour and the town below.

  The stone hut was one large room with a galley kitchen, a bathroom behind. The bed looked comfortable and the place clean. An ideal bachelor pad, he thought. All he needed was Victoria to share a drink on the terrace. Perhaps in the ambiance of a warm Greek night she might mellow. He had only lesbians as competition and they stood no chance, he hoped.

  A welcome basket sat on the table, bread, eggs and coffee. The fridge contained two beers, a bottle of wine, some cheese and a single, white sheet of paper upon which was carefully written “Lakies bar, 2030 hours, Pug.” That gave Sean an hour. He had planned to rest but with little time he popped a can of beer instead and sat out on the terrace. The view to Lakka harbour was panoramic and in the reclining chair, he felt more a sense of holiday spirit than of duty.

  Some twenty yachts lay on sheet glass water, most of them flotilla vessels, some of them private and seriously expensive. Others clustered round the harbour wall amidst fishing boats and dinghies, their outboards racked up and waiting for tourists. Sean closed his eyes and sipped his beer. From the olive trees came the sound of cicadas. From the houses, terraces and apartments of Lakka floated the gentle chatter of female voices. He was surrounded. He just hoped to hell that Pug wasn’t gay.

  Lakies bar held a cluster of serious drinkers, all large and pot-bellied, their faces weather worn and wrinkled, their beards grey and matted. Not a woman in sight except for a pretty barmaid. Not a woman’s pub. Sean sat up at the bar and ordered a beer. He passed the time by watching strollers along the harbour front, lumpy people, slim people, people of wealth, people with little, all bound by the fraternity of sailing boats, all intermixed with holidaymakers from every EU nation. With his second beer, Sean started to relax,

  Amongst the strollers came a group of eight young women who walked side by side in pairs. Sean recognised those from the ferry. All wore the same tight shorts and tops with the DJP logo and were led by a tall blonde woman of athletic and curvaceous build. A diminutive blonde brought up the rear, not in shorts but a black micro skirt and white tee sh
irt. She looked more a schoolgirl than woman until Sean realised she had both figure and face that were ageless. She might have been a precocious twelve-year-old or she might have been thirty. When she smiled at him, her teeth showed white and sharp. Sean half smiled back. Something about her seemed malevolent and threatening, something both fascinating and evil. She ran a wet tongue over her lips then continued to follow the others. Sean suppressed a shiver.

  By 20.45 the bar began to fill with the yachting fraternity, most as windblown as their sails, solid men and handsome women who drank their beer over every European language. Still no sign of Pug. Sean bought a third beer and received some olives from the barmaid, along with the flash of her warm eyes. Sometimes being single had its advantages.

  At 21.00 a short, muscular man eased through the bustle of people and ordered a beer. The upside of fifty with cropped grey hair and a face so damaged most of his nose had gone, he did not appear the sort to upset.

  “Sean Fagan, I presume,” he said, not looking in Sean’s direction.