Falling (Inspector Walter Darriteau cases Book 10)

by David Carter

  ‘Mmm... makes sense, I suppose. Could be. As in?’

  ‘Cleanse our town... maybe.’

  ‘But you’ve come up with nothing else?’

  ‘Not yet, but I will.’

  ‘You do that, Walter, stick at it. There is something dark and rotten here. Some crazy group that goes round killing people willy-nilly on the pretext of carrying out law and order, and that is our job, Walter, and no one else’s!’

  ‘Quite, ma’am. I’ll be honest, at first I thought this business was nothing more than a few old buffers playing games. But the more I’ve looked at it, the more sinister and bloodthirsty it seems to be. There are some unsavoury characters running this gang and they need to be stopped.’

  ‘They do, and they are operating in our town, our city, and maybe within a mile from where we are sitting, and that’s an unsettling thought.’

  Walter nodded and looked suitably grave.

  ‘Keep at it, man! And keep me informed.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, standing up and heading out of there.

  Forty

  That night, Greg Morrell arrived outside the Bear’s Claw at a quarter to eleven. It was a pleasant evening with plenty of people still about. But there was no one loitering outside the Claw, or hanging round the main doorway talking on phones, or enjoying a quiet late night fag.

  A heavy aroma of fried fish and chips floated down the road. Pubs were emptying out, stomachs were empty too, and fried potatoes tempt drinkers like moths to pheromones. He hunched into his light jacket and walked past the pub, crossed the road, and came to an empty shop boasting a deep centre doorway, with a red and white To Let sign in the window. He stepped into the doorway and waited, peering out, glancing at his watch every few seconds.

  More people left the pub. A mixed clientele, a young couple looking happy, linking arms and smirking under the streetlight, before he tugged her away. A couple of old guys, one in a tweed cap, the other with a big head of grey hair. They stood about outside talking loudly about horses, before one said, ‘Gotta go, Bill, thanks for the drink,’ and he turned and sauntered away, his mate, looking lonely, disappearing in the opposite direction. A single guy came out carrying what looked like a pool cue, pausing to light a cigarette, before he too departed the scene. Two young male drinkers, worse for wear, supporting each other as they staggered away, talking loud nonsense neither of them would ever remember.

  Another single guy, tall and slim, could even be described as athletic under the poor light, dark tight-fitting jeans and T-shirt, obligatory new and expensive trainers, skinhead haircut, sunken face, looking unhappy about what the world had to offer. He paused and waited twenty yards from the door, took out a box of cigs, slipped one into his mouth and lit up. Shane Fellday, Greg would never forget or forgive that apology of a man.

  Greg glanced down the road, hoping to see a vehicle cruising closer with George Gornall and Doug Fisher upfront. But nothing appeared, other than four mismatched guys on the far pavement. Customers, by the look of things, as they took turns to approach Fellday, where money changed hands; and tiny professional polythene packets went back the other way. Sought after products Shane had assembled the night before, neatly sealed by his new heat sealing machine for his captive audience.

  Satisfied customers nodded and grunted their thanks before fleeing the scene. One saying, ‘See ya at the weekend.’

  Another man came out of the pub, yelled at Shane to come over, which he did, and more blatant last minute trading was done without a care in the world, oblivious to prying eyes.

  The spurt of late night commerce ended. Fellday glanced up and down the road as if waiting for final buyers. Greg peered left and right too. A big VW SUV cruised towards him, coming from the left, dark and menacing under the flickering streetlight, George and Doug wide-eyed and interested inside. Gornall driving, as Doug stared across at Greg and widened his hands as if to say: Where the hell is he?

  Greg pointed at Fellday and crossed the road and closed on his man as the VW slowed to a crawl.

  ‘Shane!’ Greg said, as Fellday turned to see who was calling.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Mr Morrell. I’m surprised to see you here at this hour. What do you want?’

  ‘I need to score, not for me, it’s for a mate,’ said Greg, making it up as he went along.

  ‘That’s what they all say. You surprise me after that bad business with that slapper of a daughter of yours. Thirty quid and be quick about it.’

  Greg fumbled for money.

  Fellday sighed aloud.

  The SUV stopped beside them.

  Fellday glared at the two men inside, imagining they were coppers. Or could they be buyers too?

  ‘What the hell do they want?’

  ‘They’re mates of mine,’ said Greg, ‘they’re looking for fun times, and they could become good customers.’

  A suspicious look always sat on Fellday’s face. It came with the territory, but the odd encounter magnified it. Gornall and Fisher stepped out of the car, Gornall dragging big banknotes from his pocket as if to make a purchase, and for a second that placated Shane.

  Fisher opened the near rear door. At some unseen signal, Gornall grabbed Fellday’s right arm and dragged him hard into the vehicle.

  ‘Shit!’ screamed Fellday.

  ‘Get in!’ yelled Gornall to Greg, who jumped in after Shane, pushing him in and yanking the door closed.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ shouted Fellday, though he fell silent when Gornall produced a Beretta pistol and poked it into Fellday’s ribs, saying, ‘If you want to go on living, boy, you keep your fat gob shut!’

  Doug Fisher jumped in the front, started the car, and the powerful vehicle cruised away.

  No one said a word for a few minutes, and Fellday wasn’t going to break the silence. He glanced through the window to see where they were heading. They’d cleared the light late night city traffic and were heading south.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he said, curiosity getting the better of him.

  Gornall replied. ‘A little late night trip into the countryside. We need to have a long chat with you about your filthy business. Our mutual friend, Greg here, has been telling us long and complicated stories.’

  ‘Are you coppers?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘We could stop and talk here if you like.’

  ‘Nah! Somewhere quieter, somewhere you can reflect on the harm you’ve done to countless Cestrian families.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I don’t force anyone to do anything or buy anything. It’s their choice, and last time I looked this is still a free country.’

  ‘You’re wasting your breath,’ said Doug Fisher from the driver’s seat. ‘We know you give stuff away at school gates, trying to hook a new generation of customers. Once they’re in, the only way they get out is via the morgue. We all know that. There’s no freedom of choice there.’

  Greg said, ‘My daughter almost died. Don’t you ever think about that?’

  ‘Your daughter was easy meat, in more ways than one, and she was one sad and weak person. But you know that. If it hadn’t been from me, she would have found another way to self-implode.’

  Greg felt the blood rising through his body, and so wanted to smash his left fist across into Fellday’s narrow face. But the sight of the Beretta pistol had intrigued and frightened him as much as it had Fellday. Greg wondered if Gornall expected him to execute the guy in cold blood. Maybe they were heading for a quiet forest where the deed could be done, somewhere dark and dank where the canopy would muffle gunfire, somewhere muddy that would leave ample footprints, hence the instruction to burn footwear.

  They were still heading south on the A483, Greg knew the road networks well, dual carriageway, fast road and light traffic. Between the front seats he saw the digital speedometer. The numbers rarely moved out of a 65-68 mph range, fast enough, but within the legal limit so as not to attract late night speed cops looking for an easy arrest, and a big customer fi
ne to boost hard-pressed coffers.

  They sped past Wrexham to the east and Ruabon to the west, past the A5 interchange that swept traffic way west, all the way down past Llangollen, and far beyond via Corwen and Bala, to the sandy happy coast at Barmouth.

  The SUV cruised past Chirk, but at the next roundabout they left the main road, going right, onto a quieter narrower B road, and a moment later, floodlit Chirk Castle came into view, built in 1295 to keep the Celts in check. Greg wasn’t alone in wondering who footed the electricity bill for the late night light show.

  Fellday had never been that way before. His brain was skittering from one crazy thought to another. What the hell did these people want? And who were Greg’s two weirdo colleagues? They didn’t come across as friends. More like magistrates or solicitors or accountants, professional guys for sure. In casual gear, and well dressed, but shitty shoes, good haircuts, neatly shaved faces even at that hour, all Cologned up as if their late dinner with fancy wives had been disturbed.

  Fellday imagined they were trying to frighten him, and though he did everything to show he wasn’t, their tactics were working. Maybe they were going to give him a beating in some dark pine forest and leave him there alone to find his way home. No doubt they’d empty his pockets of money and gear, take his trainers, forcing him to limp or hitch home, though it would be hard to cadge a lift. Who was going to stop and pick up a desperate looking shoeless character at that hour of the night?

  An occasional beating was de rigueur for men and women who worked in his trade. He knew it came with the territory, and he’d withstood that pressure several times before. If that was to be his fate, he would steel himself and deal with it. It was the gun that changed the game. He stared down at it, hoping it was a decent-looking replica, praying it wasn’t loaded, banking on these upright guys getting cold feet, should it come to pressing the trigger.

  It looked old, the gun, but well maintained. The barrel, trigger and guard were all greased black metal, the contrasting handle, polished wood, varnished to a high shine like a chestnut colt on Chester Cup day.

  ‘I hope that thing’s not loaded,’ muttered Fellday.

  ‘Shut your trap!’ said Gornall, ‘or you’ll find out.’

  Would the guy fire in the confines of the car? The bullet might go anywhere, even pass straight through him and on into Gregory Morrell. Imagine the blood and chaos, the noise and smoke and smell. No, he would never fire in the vehicle. Fellday was sure of that, which meant for the time being, he was safe.

  Greg was visiting similar scenarios in his mind. Gornall was a cold fish of a man, and dedicated to his craft and the Brotherhood. Greg didn’t doubt he could pull the trigger, but he didn’t see him doing it. And besides, they had agreed it would be him who did the deed, and that worried him.

  He had never fired a gun in his life outside of a rickety air rifle or pistol, and they were ancient apologies for weapons in the fairground. When it came to it, could he stare Fellday in the eye, fire the gun, and end the man’s life in the most bloody and brutal way?

  Maybe they’d arrange for Fellday to be looking away. They would nod Greg on to shoot him in the back of the head, KGB style. Greg had read all John le Carré’s books and knew the procedure. That would be better for all concerned, but blood would splash everywhere. All clothing, not just shoes, should be destroyed, and as soon as possible. Greg summoned his determination and realised what he was getting into.

  But he was okay with it. A picture of Haley’s drug-ridden body swept into his mind, and that was all the encouragement he needed to remind him why he was there. Whatever Gornall and Fisher had planned, he was confident he could step up to the mark.

  Fellday was acting cool and making plans, confident he would step out of the car alive. If they took him into a dark wood, that could work to his advantage. Darkness doesn’t choose which side it favours. If he could slip into the trees and undergrowth when they least expected it, he fancied his chances of losing them. They didn’t have a damned dog, for that would swing the pendulum in their favour.

  He’d go along with what they wanted, plead his innocence, tell them a sob story of how vicious gangs encouraged him, how they bullied and threatened his poor old mother. He’d beg for mercy and forgiveness, even take a beating, but all the while he would seek an opportune moment to streak away when they least expected it, into the darkness and safety that forests provide, and away from the pompous prat with the gun.

  And when that happened, and he’d somehow found his way back to Chester, he’d make it his business to find Gregory Morrell. And that would not be difficult for he knew where he and his ridiculous family lived, and when he did, he’d exact revenge on him and his daughter the likes of which they could barely imagine, and that thought brought cheer and pleasure to his cold soul.

  The big car slowed and almost stopped. But it did not. It turned right onto a narrow lane where startled wild rabbits ran. Yellow flowering weeds, dandelion and ragwort and other less famous characters, unwanted and unloved plants, forced themselves up and through the old skinny crumbling tarmac, picked out by the full beam, and on either side of the lane, two worn tyre tracks pointed the way ahead to their ultimate destination.

  Forty-One

  The content of the passionate love letter was still alive in Walter’s mind. He had never received anything like it and wondered if he ever would. It was hard to leave behind, and maybe the only thing that could jolt him forward was some success, and he’d only attain that by looking.

  Five mundane letters came and went; typical business correspondence that every organisation churns out in their thousand every year. But the sixth one was quite different and caught his eye.

  It was from Liam Banaghan, to Howard Meade. That was unusual. Why would Banaghan write to Meade? Walter couldn’t transcribe the lettering fast enough. The missive was addressed to Mr H. Meade, Cornucopia, South Street, Mayfair, London, with no post code, and was marked Special Delivery.

  It began.

  Dear Howard, - Walter thought that a little familiar considering both men would like to rip the other’s head from their shoulders, but what did he know of gangster’s etiquette?

  I hope you don’t mind me writing to you like this, but at this critical time I thought it important. Our two families have both suffered grievous losses, your Grahame and our precious Eilish, and in an honest and sincere effort to stem bloodshed and stop further violence, I propose a truce, and more importantly, a meeting.

  After much discussion between our family, they all agreed this is the right thing to do. When I first mentioned this idea to my children, they were keen to take it further. The talk and eventual idea of a merger between our firms created much interest and excitement at this end. Can you imagine how powerful we would be if we stopped competing and worked together in all things?

  I know this idea must come as a shock to you, but please give it your full attention. Talk about it with your family. Take their ideas into consideration, and if you think it worth discussing, come and meet me.

  To this end, I shall be outside my warehouses on the Chelsea Fields Industrial Estate at 10.30am this coming Sunday morning. I will be unarmed and standing in the open. Come and see, and search me. My family will wait inside for they are keen to hear your thoughts and ideas on our proposal.

  My great hope is that we can shake hands, put our differences behind us, sit down for coffee, and discuss with an open mind how to proceed. We both know the immigrant gangs are getting ever more powerful, and soon they could become strong enough to seize everything.

  I have dispatched this letter by special hand delivery to avoid any possibility of it being intercepted and read through the mail. Please destroy it afterwards to protect us both. No reply of any kind is necessary or expected.

  I have issued this invitation in the spirit of peace and understanding, with the main thought being for the safety and future prosperity of our two families.

  Be brave, Howard, at least come and meet me a
nd the family and hear what we have to say. Both families will be safer and benefit hugely, and surely that is sacrosanct.

  Yours sincerely,

  Liam Banaghan,

  Banaghan Construction PLC.

  ‘Wow!’ whispered Walter. The golden nugget had arrived. What was that about Eilish Banaghan being dead? Walter was not aware of that. Did the force know, and if they did, why wasn’t he told? And if they didn’t, how and when had it happened?

  What amazed Walter the most was the cavalier and cold way in which Liam Banaghan described losing sons and daughters as if they were mere pawns to be moved round the board, to be sacrificed and written off as if they were useless chess pieces, and nothing more. How could anyone think that way?

  As for the letter, it reeked of setting a trap. But Howard Meade would think the same. He was no fool. So what was Liam Banaghan’s game? And why would he put himself up as a sitting target in some kind of potential turkey shoot, standing alone on his forecourt? If the Meade family considered it the best way to proceed, they could assassinate him and make a major move on the Banaghan Empire.

  Walter sat back in his chair and exhaled. Vairs was nowhere to be seen. How urgent was the new intel? The men down the corridor, the higher ups who wielded the power, would kill for this news. Should Walter grab his transcription, stand up, wander down the corridor, tap on the newly signed door, go in and reveal all he knew? It would reinforce the high opinion they had of him. It might even help propel him towards fast track promotion, something the young Walter dreamt about.

  While he was thinking about that, Vairs came back in, looking meaner and more miserable than ever, if that were possible. He hustled up to his desk, grabbed the hat from his head, slapped it down on the desk, and sat down, still wearing the awful raincoat.

  ‘That Jimmy Askey is a useless prick! A dickhead! I don’t know why I waste my time on him. I’ve finished with him. That’s it! Done and dusted. He’s gone. A total time-waster. The only thing he had was a rumour of a death on our manor that has gone unreported. But he’s no idea who or where or when or how, or any other goddamn thing. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Mark my words... Jimmy Askey’s toast! Finito!’