by David Carter
‘Look,’ said Walter, turning towards Vairs. ‘A traditional typewriter ribbon is the smudgy kind; you know the sort of thing, the old-fashioned style that produces print that is not greatly defined. The ribbon is placed in the machine, goes round and round and back-and-forth dozens, maybe hundreds of times, and throughout its life the print becomes fainter until it’s too dull to read. The typist has a strop, hoiks it out, throws it away, and inserts another one. And I agree, you wouldn’t get anything off that. Zilch, nada, nix. But a carbon ribbon is different.’
‘How so? I’m still not with you.’
‘For a start, it can only be used once, but it produces a print quality product, like offset litho, or even hot metal press.’
‘Only used once? Why?’
‘Because when the metal letter strikes a carbon ribbon it removes that exact letter imprint from the ribbon and deposits it on the paper or envelope. If you typed the same letter, say an A, in the same place, nothing would appear on the paper a second time, because it’s already gone.’
‘That must make it expensive; I don’t see the point.’
‘It’s not as expensive as you might think. The film ribbons are ultra thin and very long; and the resultant print quality is so much better.’
‘All very interesting, but I don’t see how it helps us.’
Walter couldn’t suppress a grin and said, ‘Because if you retrieved that ribbon from the bin, opened it, and held it to the light, you could read it almost like a telex tape. Where the letters were, light shines through, and you can read what the Banaghan’s have been writing, everything, and to whom.’
Vairs thought about that for a second and said, ‘You sure about that?’
‘Positive.’
‘So why didn’t you grab the damned thing?’
‘I could hardly bend down in front of everyone and start rummaging through their bin, could I?’
Vairs thought for another second and said, ‘Come on, we’re going back in,’ and he stood out of the car, screwed up his hat and rammed it into his grubby raincoat pocket. ‘I’ll say I left my hat behind and I’ve come to retrieve it. While I’m doing that, you grab the ribbon.’
‘You sure about this?’ said Walter, following him back towards the entrance.
‘Certain! I just hope you’re right about this damned ribbon.’
‘I am, sarge.’
Vairs barged his way through the doors. Only one girl was working the counter. She was talking on the phone, looking upset as if she was getting a fearsome reprimand from someone, as she said, ‘Yes, Mr Banaghan, sorry, Mr Banaghan, it won’t happen again, Mr Banaghan, no, Mr Banaghan, that’s right, sir.’
Vairs ignored her plight and didn’t hesitate. He swooped round the end of the counter and started up the stairs, Walter in close pursuit. Through the double doors in quick time, where they made their way across the general office, Vairs saying to anyone in earshot, ‘Sorry about this, left my hat here before, just come back to collect it, that’s all,’ as he made his way towards the private offices, the fancy typist... and the bin.
Someone in the under-manager’s office saw them arriving. Walter heard one man say, ‘I don’t believe it, those buggers are back!’
Cormac and Eoin shot out looking for trouble. Vairs looked apologetic and said, ‘Sorry about this, chaps, but I left my hat here before, Christmas present from the wife, you know how it is, sentimental attachment.’
Walter bent down to tie his shoe.
‘Is that it there?’ said Vairs, pointing away, and everyone, including the baffled typist, looked that way. Walter’s hand zipped into the bin, grabbed the ribbon, and slipped it in his pocket, and as he stood up, the girl glanced back at him.
He smiled at her, the kind of smile he might save for a girl in the pub. Blondie recognised the look and gawped back, hard-eyed and puzzled. What was he up to? Surely he didn’t think he had any chance, and she shook her head, looked away, and began loading another fancy letterhead into her golf ball.
There was no hat where Vairs was looking. Everyone stared back at him.
Cormac said, ‘What the hell are you up to?’
Vairs sniffed and rammed his hands in his pocket, perplexed, and a moment later, pulled out the hat, did a weird movement with his shoulders, rolled his eyes and said, ‘Look at me? What am I like? I must be going doodle alley in my old age. Sorry about that. We’ll be off, apologies again,’ and he turned away and headed back towards the double doors, Walter running behind, Cormac’s voice chasing them away: ‘I never want to see you two characters in this office again!’
Eoin said, ‘Laurel and Hardy have got nothing on those two.’
Cormac laughed and headed back to his office.
A moment later, back in the car, Vairs said, ‘You get it?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Woo hoo. Don’t open it here. Drive well out of sight, park up, and show me what you mean.’
‘Be my pleasure,’ said Walter, starting the car and driving for half a mile, but never once leaving the estate.
Vairs glanced round their new location. Plenty of people and vehicles about, but no Banaghan trucks or vans, and no one who didn’t look busy going about their lawful business on a bitter afternoon.
‘This’ll do,’ he said. ‘Show me.’
Walter retrieved the ribbon from his pocket. It was sealed in black plastic, the whole thing about a centimetre thick and maybe eight centimetres wide.
‘We need to remove the casing,’ said Walter, easing it apart with a ball pen.
‘Don’t bugger it up, man.’
Sometimes they were tricky to open. But the top snapped, and came off in Walter’s hand, revealing the long film ribbon inside, all spooled neatly on one side of the case. He pulled the empty end away and held it up to the light for Vairs to see. There were lots of letters on there, but they looked like gobbledegook to him.
rotceriDgniganaM,CLPnoitcurtsnoCnahganaB,nahganaBmaiL,yllufhtiafsruoy
‘That’s no freaking use!’ he said. ‘How the hell do we make any sense of that? You’ve put me on a bum steer here. We’d need the Bletchley Park mob to make sense of that!’
‘Don’t panic, sarge. It’s because it’s backwards. All we have to do is rewind it to the beginning and read it from that end. Trust me, it’ll be perfect.’
‘But there’s no bloody spaces!’
‘The machine is programmed to not shift the ribbon on space and line feeds to save money. It’s real clever.’
‘If you say so,’ said Vairs, losing interest.
‘Look,’ said Walter, taking out his notepad and hoping to convince the man. ‘Here’s what that gobbledegook would look like the other way round,’ and he wrote it out for Vairs to see:
Yoursfaithfully,LiamBanaghan,BanaghanConstruction PLC,ManagingDirector.
‘Yours faithfully,’ said Vairs, nodding and grinning, ‘Liam Banaghan - it’s dead easy to read! It really works!’
‘It is, I told you that,’ said Walter, ‘and it will be invaluable to see what Banaghan has been writing.’
‘It will! We’ve stumbled on something precious here, Darriteau,’ said Vairs, going into thinking mode.
Walter was too savvy to point out that “we” hadn’t done anything; he had, but no matter.
Vairs was talking again.
‘When we get back to the station find out who takes away all the office based rubbish, all the paper and discarded ribbons and used carbon paper, and God knows what else.’
‘Sure, sarge. Good idea.’
‘I don’t care who it is, or how much it costs in time or money, but from now on, all Banaghan office refuse is to be intercepted and brought back to the station. You got that?’
‘Sure, sarge. Consider it done.’
‘Now get us back there in one piece. I want to read what other hidden gems are on that tape thing.’
Walter nodded and started the Ford.
Two minutes later Walter said, ‘Did your wife really buy you th
at hat?’
Vairs scoffed and said, ‘Course not! What do you think? It’s a knackered old thing, and I haven’t seen or spoken to the bitch for eight years.’
Walter wasn’t surprised and nodded and pressed on.
Thirteen
George Gornall was forty-eight and in his prime. He’d started a Chester city publishing company, Gornall Brothers PLC, with his brother Henry, fifteen years before, and it had proved to be a good decision.
Right from the start the business prospered. They specialised in text books, ploughing something of a lone furrow, majoring on aeronautics and the space industry, whilst forging close links with Chester University and the Cheshire West and Chester Council education departments.
But Henry Gornall died two years later in an accident. He was a crazy mad skier and went to the Alps at least twice a year. After fresh snow in the Swiss resort he took a bet that he couldn’t free-ski off piste. It was a dangerous run, but as heavy snow returned, cloaking his visibility, Henry skied off the side of a mountain, never to be seen alive again. Two weeks later, Mother Nature coughed up his bent and broken body.
George missed him like mad, but there was the compensation of owning Gornall Brothers outright, and secretly he delighted in that. The company was based in central Chester in a smart suite of refurbished offices on the fifth floor in a red brick building in Weaver Street. Two thousand square feet, three thousand pounds per month, and that included two car parking spaces in the basement.
The offices were open plan, except for George’s vast corner window room, plus rest rooms and kitchen, and an expansive and expensive boardroom that received a lot of business.
Office hours were 9am to 5.30pm when all the staff made their way home the moment the clock showed 5.30. That suited George for he organised out-of-hours meets in the boardroom with friends and colleagues.
The boardroom table was vast and custom made in the shape of a horseshoe. Set around the table were fifteen antique oak chairs, blue padded seats, carved timber arms, with the one at the head of the table, larger and throne-like, with seven smaller ones placed all the way round each side of the shoe.
Set beyond the open end was a large polished timber box, placed on the floor, upside down. It had once been used by local choirmasters and band conductors to give them the height to monitor and cajole their charges. George had spotted it in a local auction house, and knew what he wanted it for, and snapped it up for next to nothing.
His evening colleagues began drifting in at just after six. The meeting was scheduled to start at 6.30 and when the clock showed that number, all thirteen visitors were present and eager to begin. George seized the throne, sat down, banged his gavel, and said, ‘Silence! The monthly meeting of the Quindecim Society, in association with the Devantic Brotherhood, is now in session, Worshipful Master, George Gornall presiding, Senior Warden, Douglas Fisher in support,’ and he glanced at the man to his right. ‘Be seated.’
Fourteen men in total sat down, all white and Christian, financially solvent, aged between thirty-eight and eighty-three, be-suited, sporting approved ties and shiny shoes, wearing, where appropriate, neat Brotherhood medals they liked to call jewels. The only empty seat was to the Worshipful Master’s left.
George asked in his deep and steady voice that echoed through the room, ‘Is the probationer in attendance?’
The Senior Warden said, ‘He is, WM.’
‘Tell the IG’s to bring him in.’
The two guys seated opposite one another at the far end of the horseshoe stood up, nodded to their superiors, and left the room. A minute later they returned, bringing the probationer with them, each IG holding one arm above the elbow.
The stranger looked a prosperous and personable fellow, slim build, aged maybe forty, smart grey suit, crisp white shirt, and shiny shoes. He’d made an effort, and that was important. They took him to the polished wooden dais, where he was told to mount the box, and face the Worshipful Master. The guy stood up high, linked his hands behind his back, and waited.
George Gornall glanced at his colleagues. His look alone brought the meet back to order, before he peered down at his printed notes.
‘What is your name?’
‘Greg Morrell, err... sorry, Gregory Morrell, Worshipful Master.’
‘And you wish to become a member of our esteemed Brotherhood?’
‘I do, sir, yes.’
‘And you have been made aware of the duties and tasks you will be expected to partake in, and carry out?’
‘Yes, sir, that is correct.’
‘And furthermore, you have identified a suitable candidate?’
‘I have sir, yes. The perfect candidate.’
‘That will be for us to decide. But you may tell us about him.’
‘His name is Shane Fellday. He’s in his mid twenties, crew cut hair, skinny build, and he’s been selling hard drugs across Chester for almost five years.’
‘And what resulted from this drug distribution?’
‘I have identified fourteen people who have lost their lives through taking his products, though there may well be others.’
‘That’s almost three a year!’
‘Correct, Worshipful Master, a disgrace, I grant you.’
‘And you deduce that the world in general; and our wonderful city in particular, would be a better, safer place if this man, this Shane Fellday, was removed from it?’
‘I do, sir, yes. Let’s be honest, who wants and needs reprobates like him walking amongst us, distributing filth to our children and fellow citizens? As long as he operates in this county more people will meet an early death.’
‘In a moment, I’m going to throw the floor open to all present, for questions. After that, there will be a vote of the fourteen members here this evening as to whether you are deemed a suitable person to join us. Of the fourteen available votes you must receive a minimum of ten endorsements. Should you fail to achieve that number you will be removed from our presence. Do you understand my words?’
‘I do, Worshipful Master.’
‘Furthermore, if you are rejected and ever speak of this meeting, or of our Brotherhood, you are aware of, and understand, the penalty you face?’
‘I do, Worshipful Master.’
‘And you accept this?’
‘I do, with great humility.’
‘It would entail you being left quite alone to live your life normally until your natural death. But your children would be targeted and dealt with. If you are childless, your parents would pay the price. Is that clear to you, Gregory Morrell?’
‘It is, sir, yes.’
George Gornall nodded, looked satisfied, set his gavel down hard, and said, ‘The floor is open! Questions, gentlemen?’
Fourteen
In the Chelsea nick, Walter sat at his desk, delicately rewinding the carbon ribbon back to the beginning to read it forwards. Sergeant Teddy Vairs stood, watching over him, muttering, ‘Come on, Darriteau, come on, we haven’t all day.’
‘More haste, less speed, sarge, I don’t want to muck it up. Why don’t you give me half an hour and I’ll have something concrete to show you?’
Vairs scowled and said, ‘Concrete, eh? I see what you did there. Still in the land of Banaghan Construction, are we?’ and without waiting for a reply he wandered off in search of strong sweet coffee, and the new WPC who’d caught his eye.
Walter shrugged his shoulders and held the ribbon to the light. A mass of letters and numbers and punctuation without spaces; and he figured the best way to transcribe it was to write it out by hand. It would take ages. But he’d have a final product to show Vairs, and it would save the content too, for if Vairs and his superiors started handling the ribbon, chances are they would wreck it in minutes.
Walter grabbed a new lined foolscap pad, sharpened his HB pencil, and began. It wasn’t so much tricky, as fiddly, holding the ribbon to the light took two hands, so there was a great deal of holding up, memorising text, setting the ribbon down, and wri
ting it out. It was going to take ages to complete. But it didn’t matter, so long as there were some juicy titbits hiding in that mass of letters and numbers.
The first part read:
DearJack,Nicetoseeyouintheclublastnight.I’msurewecanputsomebusinessyourwayinthenexttwelvemonths.Keepintouch.Sincerelyyours,LiamBanaghan.
Walter wrote it out to make it easy for his impatient sergeant.
Dear Jack,
Nice to see you in the club last night. I’m sure we can put some business your way in the next twelve months.
Keep in touch.
Sincerely yours,
Liam Banaghan.
Interesting, though hardly earth-shattering. But at least it proved it revealed confidential information, and already Walter’s mind was running into overdrive. Who was Jack? Which club was it? And what kind of business was Banaghan proposing to put his way? With half decent detective work, Walter reckoned they could find out which club, and who the “Jack” character was, and what his business interests entailed. It could be nothing, but the reverse was also true, and that excited him.
The second translation was more mundane, if that were possible. Walter guessed that would be the case with the vast majority of text. He would have to plough through tons of tripe to reveal the gems.
Data General Computing,
11 St Mary Axe,
London.
Dear Sirs,
This letter is to confirm the order of three more DG6B Monitors and we look forward to delivery in the next three weeks.
Yours faithfully,
Cormac Banaghan,
Banaghan Construction PLC.
More computer equipment going in and that pointed to further expansion. Someone was doing well. But just how well, and how much of it was legit? Walter intended to find out. On to the next section, translated for an easy read:
Sheldon Supplies,
King Street,
Southend,
Essex.
Dear Sheldon Supplies,
This letter is to confirm the order of twenty bags of builders’ sand, 10 bags of Portland cement, and 12 pallets of Cabstock Red Facing Cheshire Bricks. These goods to be purchased on the same terms as last month. Please deliver to our premises on the Chelsea Fields Industrial Estate next Tuesday without fail.
