by David Carter
‘Go on, Jen,’ said Walter. ‘The floor’s yours.’
She grinned and said, ‘There’s a whole raft of people who have grievances against bankers. Along with estate agents and traffic wardens I’d guess they are one of the most reviled occupations around these days.’
‘That’s my point,’ said Martin. ‘We are not talking about “these days”. We’re talking thirty years ago, and I doubt that animosity existed towards city bankers back then.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Walter. ‘It’s true they will have been held in higher regard, pre credit crash and all that. But there would still have been countless people about with beefs against their banker. It might not fit exactly with the cleaning the streets of vermin thinking, but there are any number of reasons why a senior banker might attract enemies. Maybe he failed to offer a big loan to someone, or called a loan in, forcing the other party into bankruptcy, and maybe homelessness, too. Any recipient on the end of that could get real angry. Or maybe he was involved in some kind of business takeover, and pushed something through against the wishes of either party, or the workforce. Or perhaps it was simpler than that. He grabbed a big promotion, putting someone else’s nose out of joint. There’s not such a jump from any of those scenarios to ridding the streets of undesirables if you happened to be on the wrong end of a big decision made by this Peter Craig. The world of top line banking can be a murky one, I know that much. I think it could fit.’
‘We haven’t discussed cause of death,’ said Karen.
‘And it was?’
‘Drowning.’
‘Drowning? That’s different. Where was this?’
‘Off the Wirral. Body washed up on Hilbre Island. It was discovered by the permanent warden who was living there at the time. The body was found fully clothed, surrounded by half a dozen inquisitive grey seals, who must have eyed it with some trepidation, or saw it as an opportunity for an easy meal. Wirral Council have since done away with keeping a permanent warden on the island.’
‘So what’s there, exactly?’
Karen glanced at her notes.
‘Not much; is the answer. An old abandoned dilapidated lifeboat station and a watchtower. No one wanted to live there because there was no mains water or electricity.’
‘Softies,’ grinned Martin Kane, recalling some of the privations he endured when serving in the army.
Walter imagined the scene on the windswept island. Old broken-down buildings, howling gales, crashing seas, puzzled basking seals, and one dead person, discovered by a startled warden.
‘Do you need a boat to get to the island?’
‘No,’ said Karen. ‘You can walk to it at low tide, but it’s a long way out and you have to be quick, and you have to be real careful. The sea comes in fast and you must leave for the mainland at precisely the right time. If you don’t, the tide will catch you. I’ve done it and it can be quite scary. Bit of soft sand about too in places, and you wouldn’t want to get stuck in that. Hoylake and West Kirby lifeboat stations keep a close eye on things, so far as I recall. There’s never a summer goes by when some group or other doesn’t get caught out and has to be rescued.’
‘Do we know any more about the warden who found the body?’
‘Nope, not yet,’ said Martin, ‘all be in the file, I guess.’
‘Did Peter Craig have any history of taking to the waves? Was he a sailor or boater?’
‘Don’t think so. But again, I’d like to see the files.’
‘Agreed,’ said Walter. ‘Get onto records again. Tell them this is vitally important. We’re trying to stop another weird unsolved murder case popping up on our watch. Speed is of the essence, the clock is ticking fast. Kick bottom - get results!’
‘Sure, Guv, I’m on it.’
Jenny and Martin shared a grin, and considered it might be worth a walk out across the sand on a sunny day.
The old files arrived late at ten minutes to six. A fair mountain of paperwork, too. Walter sent Martin and Jenny home for they had started their shift early. He glanced at his watch. His stomach rumbled. He looked at Karen and didn’t think she was up for late night working either.
He was right too, for she was relieved when he said, ‘Not sure I’ve got the energy to tackle this tonight, and I’m hungry too. Fancy splitting the paperwork and taking a chunk home for a little late night reading, and compare notes in the morning?’
It wasn’t how she’d planned her evening, but it sure beat slogging away under the neon. A glass of wine, a little music, spagbol, loose clothing, and happy banter with David, while scanning thirty-year-old reports at home was far more appealing.
‘Sure,’ she said, and she set about dividing the intel into two roughly equal piles. ‘I divide, you choose.’
‘I’ll have the big piece,’ he said, grinning and bending down and doing up his shoes.
They left the station at ten past six, each with a bulging case of documents, half of which related to a time before Karen was born.
At a quarter past six, across town in Weaver Street, Greg Morrell bounded up the stairs into the building where Gornall Brothers Publishing offices were located. He was desperate to hear what George Gornall and his close friends were proposing to do about the revolting Shane Fellday, and hoped it would be suitably repugnant.
Twenty-Three
George Gornall hurried across to greet Greg, shaking his hand hard, saying ‘There’s just you and me and Senior Warden, Douglas Fisher here this evening. Thought it best to keep numbers low and security high. Come through, we’re in the boardroom.’
‘Sorry I’m a few minutes late,’ said Greg, ‘the traffic was horrendous.’
‘Not a problem, you’re here, that’s all that matters.’
Doug Fisher was sitting in his usual place almost at the apex of the horseshoe. He stood up and smiled and shook Greg’s hand, as George invited Greg to sit next to him.
‘First things first,’ said George. ‘In the hustle and bustle and excitement of the probationer meeting I completely forgot to tell you the initial rank you have been awarded.’
‘Oh?’ said Greg, looking pleased. ‘I rather imagined I wouldn’t have a rank, as yet.’
‘You’ve been appointed Junior Deacon, also known as a JD. Here’s your collar pin,’ and a small solid gold pin was passed over.
‘Cool! Thanks,’ said Greg.
Doug Fisher said, ‘Only wear it when you are attending Brotherhood meetings or functions. Wear it anywhere else and people will ask about it, and that can compromise the secretiveness of our group.’
‘Sure,’ said Greg, ‘understood.’
‘Now, to business,’ said Gornall. ‘We’re here to discuss our plans for the piece of street-shit known as Shane Fellday.’
‘I hope so,’ said Greg, ‘that man’s a menace.’
Gornall glanced at Fisher and he took up the thread.
‘You do understand, Greg, what we are proposing to do?’
‘I’m hoping you are planning to kill the bastard, for that is the fate he surely deserves.’
Fisher nodded and said, ‘Correct, Mr Morrell, we are making plans to execute Mr Fellday.’
Gornall said, ‘I take it you have no qualms about that?’
Greg looked stern, nodded and said, ‘None whatsoever. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’ve joined you.’
‘Excellent,’ said Gornall, ‘but more than that, it has become a time-honoured and treasured tradition of the Brotherhood that new Junior Deacons, such as yourself, carry out the work. A rite of passage, if you will.’
Gornall and Fisher glanced at Morrell’s face. He hadn’t held up his hands and yelled “no way”, but neither had he indicated he was up to the task.
‘I see,’ Greg said eventually. ‘I hadn’t thought about it quite that way. Not sure I am up to plunging a knife into someone’s guts, or shooting them in the face.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ said Gornall. ‘We are most particular and creative in the methods we u
se. The least blood the better. Blood splashes, blood’s traceable, blood’s a bloody nuisance, if you want to put it that way. No, there will be no bloodshed, not anywhere near us, and you can be assured we will be at your side at all times. You will not be alone for one second.’
Greg thought about that and said, ‘Well, I can hardly expect you to do my dirty work. I’m up for it so long as it doesn’t involve stabbing or shooting, and especially if you’re with me.’
‘You can rely on that,’ said Fisher.
‘Good,’ said Gornall. ‘Excellent. We’ll crack on and perfect our plans as to how Fellday is to meet his end. The first thing we have to do is isolate the man. We need to catch him alone, off guard, and ideally, after eleven o’clock at night.’
‘That can be done,’ said Greg. ‘I know exactly where he will be.’
‘Go on,’ said Gornall.
‘He drinks in the Bear’s Claw. He does business in there too. Usually stays until closing time because that is when people weaken and are on the lookout to buy something to take away for later use.’
‘How do you know this?’ asked Fisher.
‘Because I followed him for weeks while I was weighing up what could be done about him. I got to know his every move. He goes to lots of pubs and clubs, when he can get in, but the Bear’s Claw is his favourite.’
‘Ideally, we wouldn’t want him falling down drunk,’ said Gornall.
‘He won’t be,’ said Greg. ‘Strangely enough, he’s not a big drinker. Gets his kicks through other substances. He quite often drinks alcohol free lager, or sometimes shandy, even been known to drink lemonade. I know that sounds weird for a hardened drug user, but it’s a fact.’
Gornall and Fisher shared an impressed look, before Gornall said, ‘That does sound promising.’
‘When?’ said Greg, eager to get on with it. ‘When do we...’
‘Execute the man?’ said Fisher, finishing the sentence.
‘Yes,’ said Greg.
Gornall said, ‘Ideally, a week tonight.’
‘That suits me,’ said Greg, ‘I can do that. He’ll be in the Claw, I’m sure of it.’
‘That’ll do us,’ said Fisher. ‘When he comes out at closing time, we’ll accost him and bundle him into an SUV.’
‘You might need to wait a few minutes,’ said Greg.
‘Why?’ said Fisher.
‘Because usually, three or four late night customers will appear out of nowhere, they’ll hustle up to Fellday, and money will change hands. Once done, they’ll scarper, and Shane will be relaxed and happy at making late sales. That’s the time to nab him.’
Gornall and Fisher shared another look that told Greg they were happy with progress, and Greg said, ‘And what happens after we get him in the SUV?’
Gornall took up the thread.
‘You don’t need to know that right now. Everything remains secret until the last moment. It’s a failsafe system, and it works for us.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Greg. ‘Where shall I meet you on the night?’
‘Can you be somewhere close by in the vicinity of the Bear’s Claw, but out of sight, at coming up to eleven?’
‘Easy, not a problem.’
‘Good,’ said Gornall. ‘Then that’s a firm arrangement.’
‘Do I need to bring anything?’
‘What? You mean like a weapon?’ said Fisher.
Greg nodded.
‘Nothing,’ said Gornall. ‘Just bring yourself, be sober, no Dutch courage required. Put on some old shoes that you are not attached to, and make sure you burn them the following day. Understand?’
‘Sure. Old shoes that must be destroyed.’
‘That’s the ticket,’ said Fisher.
‘I can tell you one thing, though,’ said Gornall.
Greg paused and Gornall began again.
‘The Brotherhood has a strict rule that is never broken. Only one execution may be carried out every fifteen years.’
‘And the reason for that is?’ asked Greg.
‘There are several reasons, some of which go back into the mists of time. But the main one is that our friends in the police, who we all believe should be doing a far more comprehensive job, tend not to link unexplained deaths that occur so far apart. Officers change and leave the force. Some move on and drift away. Others die. Their combined inquisitive human brainpower and collective intelligence is lost forever. A good detective might get a feeling for things, linking titbits of evidence. But computers have no feelings whatsoever. They are dead to the world when it comes to hunches, intuition, and human understanding. We love computers.’
Fisher grinned and nodded.
‘Just as well they don’t connect things,’ said Greg.
Gornall hadn’t finished.
‘I’ll tell you another thing, Greg.’
‘Please do.’
‘This will be the Brotherhood’s seventeenth visit to the justice field.’
‘You mean the Brotherhood has executed sixteen people before?’
Gornall grinned, revelling in the moment.
‘Correct, and not one of those deaths has been solved or explained, and no one has ever been charged with any offence.’
‘That’s an impressive record, and I make no bones about it, an encouraging one, too. And they’ve all taken place at fifteen year intervals?’
‘They have.’
Greg’s businesslike mind went into overdrive, his brain an active calculator, one killing every fifteen years, times sixteen.
‘That’s going back 240 years! I had no idea the Brotherhood was as old as that.’
‘Yes,’ said Gornall, ‘back to the time of the American revolution, pre Napoleon, pre Trafalgar, pre Waterloo, though the Brotherhood itself goes back hundreds of years before that. It’s just the recording of the executions can only be traced back to then.’
Greg was quiet for a beat. They gave him a moment, as intelligence seeped into his mind.
Finally he said, ‘Do you mind if I ask you gentlemen another question?’
‘Be our guest,’ said Gornall, relaxing in his chair.
‘At the probationer meeting the final voting was twelve to two. Would you mind telling me who the two were who voted me down?’
‘Ah,’ said Gornall, ‘that is confidential information that will never be released.’
‘Correct,’ said Fisher. ‘If you knew, it would only generate bad feeling and ill will. It’s much better you never know.’
‘Fair enough. But it wasn’t you guys, right?’
‘As I said,’ repeated Gornall, ‘that is confidential information that will never be revealed... or discussed again.’
‘I’m with you,’ said Greg. ‘Understood.’
‘If there’s nothing else,’ said Gornall, ‘that’s all we have for you tonight.’
‘Sure,’ said Greg, standing up. ‘Thanks for your time and the confidence you have shown in me.’
‘You are welcome, Mr Morrell,’ said Gornall, ‘you are an impressive chap.’ Gornall and Fisher stood, too. ‘Don’t forget our important appointment next week. Just after eleven, Bear’s Claw. It wouldn’t do to miss it.’
‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.’
‘Cool. Goodnight, Greg,’ and the men nodded agreement and Greg made his way to the door.
Bounding down the stairs a minute later, the same thought wormed through his mind. Which two of the bastards had blackballed him? Could it have been Gornall and Fisher? But no matter, he was in; and looking forward like crazy to next week when that piece of slime, Fellday, would get his comeuppance.
Twenty-Four
People who work on bins and refuse disposal are never paid what they are worth. But they sure as hell are missed when they are not there. That makes them susceptible to tips and gratuities and anything else going that tops up their meagre income.
So it proved when Walter got round to seeing the teams who collected the paper waste from the Banaghan and Meade homes and business premise
s. Everyone accepted the financial arrangement, resulting in mountains of waste piling up in the nick, including half-eaten sandwiches and pasties, fag butts, well-blown paper handkerchiefs, knackered pens, and in one black bag from Banaghan’s warehouse, a used condom.
But it also produced two more spent carbon ribbons; one from Banaghan and another from Meade, and that was an unexpected bonus. Walter opened one and held the ribbon to the light. Readable in every way. It was as if a private telex machine was chattering away, dispatching copies of every letter and document composed in Banaghan’s and Meade’s offices, to be transmitted to Walter’s desk.
Vairs was impressed, though he tried hard to downplay it. Maybe that was related to his recent dressing down. The bosses were impressed too, authorising a regular payment to the waste collectors, for as long as intelligence kept flowing in.
The lead hadn’t yet produced the diamond they all imagined, but it had thrown up various items that gave insight into how the two organisations operated their businesses.
At half-past four, out of the blue, Vairs said, ‘I think it’s time we paid a visit to the Meade family home. Ruffle a few feathers, shake the tree; see what gems come tumbling out. I hope you hadn’t banked on an early night.’
Walter glanced across at the man. He’d planned to stay late anyway. There were bags of discarded correspondence he wanted to trawl through, for no one else appeared interested in it. But no matter, if Vairs needed company, who was Walter to argue?
At half-past six he braked and parked the Ford Sierra in South Street, Mayfair, cut the lights and turned off the engine. He was warming to the vehicle, more manoeuvrable in city traffic than the Granada, and even Vairs seemed to come round to it.
They stood out of the car and glanced up at the impressive Meade residence. Walter wondered how anyone could afford to buy a seven story house in Mayfair, unless they’d inherited pots of money, or ran a super profitable business, or were a pop star, actor, or footballer? But thinking about it, there were plenty of other people who might. Barristers, top accountants, multinational CEO’s, even politicians on the fiddle. The list was endless. The Meade family ran what appeared to be a successful legitimate business, and the Metropolitan Police had failed to prove it was a criminal enterprise.
