by Paul Kirby
“What the hell’s a rule four? asked Ice Cold Richards.
Burt and Dell looked at each other. Richards wasn’t much into horse racing and certainly didn’t know the terminology of the game. “Tell him, Joe,” instructed Burt.
“When Burt calls a rule four, this is what it means. A rule four is when money is deducted from your winnings when a horse is withdrawn from the race at the starting line. The amount of money deducted depends on the price of the withdrawn horse. In this case, Burt is suggesting we take a very large percentage from Bill because he has pulled a right dirty stroke, or we remove him from the race altogether.”
“What race?” asked Richards.
“The human race,” replied Dell, his irritation showing.
“You mean kill him?”
“Yeah,” said Big Burt as he raised his eyebrows and looked around the room to see what the lads’ reactions were. They were all nodding in agreement, which pleased Dell the most because that was what he had wanted to do all along.
“Right, then. How are we going to do this?” asked Dell.
“Well, what about the old motorbike, passenger, gun job?” suggested Terry.
“No, no, we can’t shoot him. The Old Bill will be all over us like a rash. It would be too obvious. ‘Big winner at Big Burt’s gets mysteriously gunned down by a passenger on a motorbike.’ No way. We need to make it look like an accident,” said Burt with an air of authority in his voice.
Then a smile came to Mickey’s face, “Aha! I think I’ve got it!” He told them how he had listened to Bart Durley the night before bragging to one of the girls behind the bar about the boat he had down on the coast and that had given him an idea. Big Burt was right. They couldn’t use a shooter on Bill; it would be far too obvious, and as he felt responsible for the mess Bill had caused, Mickey thought it only fair that he should make a contribution to the solution. After all, it was going to be the outcome that really mattered he.
“So I said to your brother, Tel,” Mickey turned to Terry. “Have you ever heard him saying anything about a boat before Gerry? Gerry said he had. Well, there may be some truth in it or there may not, but if he can get access to a boat and we can get him to drive it, well, we might have the perfect scene for an accident,” said Mickey, looking around the room at the very serious faces that now stared back at him.
“How does this help us out then, Mick?” asked a rather puzzled-looking Terry Funnel.
“Well, I happen to know that Bill loves a bit of sea fishing. I’ve never seen him turn down an opportunity,” explained Mickey.
“So, what are you suggesting? That we kill him on a boat in front of Bart Durley, then lose his body in the sea?” asked Dell.
“No. I happen to know the Irish twat can’t swim, can he?” said Mickey, looking very pleased with himself. “And I’m sure you boys can arrange for him to accidentally go overboard, can’t you?”
“Too right we can,” chipped in Richards.
“I tell you what, Mickey, my ol’ son, I think you might well be on to something here,” said a rather impressed-looking Dell.
“Yeah, but you lot seem to forget that prick Bart and his dad are full of it and that he probably doesn’t own a boat any more than I do,” said Burt.
“Yeah, but I bet he knows someone who does, and just to save a bit of face, he’d probably hire one anyway,” replied Mickey.
“Hmm. Well, sod it. Let’s give it a go. Sounds like as good a plan as any, and if it doesn’t come off, we’ll just have to think of something else,” announced a very impatient Dell.
Bill Winters was now a condemned man, but it was made clear that everyone should carry on as normal around him and get the fishing trip arranged. When the job was complete, Big Burt would pay Dell the money Bill had stolen, plus a few grand on top. This way, they could all stay out of jail and carry on as if nothing had happened.
But could they really? Dell had only been out of jail for two days, and already he was planning a hit. Not bad for a man who only a couple of days ago was talking about going straight! Not that anyone had taken that bit of news too seriously. When he said it, he probably hadn’t taken himself too seriously either. One thing they were all taking seriously was killing Bill Winters at sea with Bart Durley as an unwilling accomplice. It was to be Terry Funnel’s job to get the boat trip sorted with Bart given his twin’s relationship with Bart. With everyone in agreement, the meeting ended. Bill had been convicted and sentenced to death in absentia, and he still hadn’t even been paid out for his bet, and it certainly didn’t look like he ever would now. So it was going to be “nice to Bill” time until the big day. The death knell had sounded and the lure was put out for Bill. The aim was to get it taken care of as quickly as possible. The main concern was whether Bart would live up to all that bragging he’d been doing in the pub of late.
Chapter 7
Bartholomew Nicholas Durley—the name said it all, really—was a bit of an odd character and very much one of society’s misfits. Small in stature like his father, he was a former choirboy in the Catholic Church, where he had been sexually abused by more than one priest. He had then gone on to join the armed forces in his late teens, where he also had had sexual encounters with other males and had failed miserably to become the man his father wanted him to be.
He was confused and didn’t know if he was coming or going half the time, and he found the best way to overcome his hang-ups was to hide behind a smokescreen of made-up stories about himself, always trying to impress his dad or anyone else who would bother to listen. Bart’s dad always believed his stories as he was a compulsive liar himself and wouldn’t know the truth if it hit him straight in the face. Hereditary bullshitters, the pair of them. God knows what Bart’s granddad had been like. What made this pair tick? Why did they feel the need to lie about themselves, and about other people for that matter? Who knows? But the boys were about to put them to the test, well, the younger one anyway.
After the meeting in Burt’s office, Burt joined Sharon in the shop and eagerly awaited Bill’s appearance. The boys went to the pub for a coffee and a chat to discuss a few other business matters. As the four of them entered the pub, Bill Winters’ was the first face they all saw. They had to act normal and friendly to Bill, and if the subject of his good fortune came up, they were to pretend they knew nothing about it and look surprised and happy for him. This was going to be hard, but act normal they would and did.
“Alright, Bill?” inquired Mickey.
“Yes, thank you, my ol’ son. Morning, boys, and how are you all on this beautiful morning?” replied Bill, with the biggest possible smile on his face.
“Yeah, good, thank you, Bill.”
“Morning, Bill, how are you?”
“Yeah, it is a nice day, mate.”
“You’re looking very happy today, Bill.”
“You’re in early today, lads. Can I get you a drink?” asked Bill.
“Well, actually, Bill, we’ve come in for a quiet chat amongst ourselves before the punters start turning up, if you know what I mean,” replied Mickey with a wink and a nod of the head. Bill didn’t need to be told twice. He got the message and stopped pottering about behind the bar, put his jacket on, left the pub, and headed straight up the High Street to Big Burt’s to claim his winnings. Bill knew an independent shop like Burt’s wouldn’t be holding that sort of cash, and he also knew in his heart of hearts he should have placed his bet with one of the big boys. But it was too late now. He’d done it and he couldn’t undo it.
Bill entered Burt’s shop feeling a little nervous, to say the least, and was greeted by two stone-cold faces. “Morning, Bill,” said Burt, lifting his head up from behind the counter before continuing to turn the pages of the Racing Post.
“Morning, Albert, Sharon,” stammered Bill as he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the betting slip. He handed it shakily to Sharon, trying hi
s very best to look as calm and composed as he possibly could under the circumstances. Sharon took the slip and stared at it for what Bill felt was a lifetime and then handed it over to Burt, who did exactly the same. Burt got up and put the ticket into the till. A total of over £750,000 flashed up on the screen right in front of the pair behind the till. Sharon gasped and put her hands to her face as if in total shock. Burt looked at Bill and Bill looked at Burt. There was a moment’s silence as a sort of stand-off situation emerged.
“Well done, Bill. Looks like you’ve just had a right touch, me old mate,” said Burt.
“Oh, I did get lucky, Burt, didn’t I?” replied Bill.
“Yeah, you did, Bill, and it doesn’t look like you were the only one who got lucky on those horses. Very strange,” said Burt sarcastically.
“Oh, really? Why? Who else backed them, then? I just picked them out myself and hoped for the best, so I did,” replied Bill, his mouth now very dry as his nerves got the better of him.
Burt closed up the morning’s Racing Post and showed Bill the headline on the front page.
“You and half the scammers in Ireland by the looks of it.”
“Bloody hell, would you believe it? Us paddies think alike, you know, Albert,” said a worried Bill.
“Yeah, I bet you do. You never picked these yourself, Bill. You were in on the scam, weren’t you?” said Burt sternly.
“No, no, Albert. I swear to God I picked those horses myself. I promise you so I do.”
“Well, you’d better come upstairs to my office, then. We’ll discuss this in private,” said Burt as he motioned with his head for Bill to follow him. Burt, with a rolled-up Racing Post under his arm, opened the door and Bill followed him upstairs to the office. He told Bill to sit down as the two men stared at each other across the desk.
“You’ve had me over, Bill, haven’t you?” said Burt. His tone now had a more sinister ring to it.
“Albert, I would never do such a thing to you, honestly, I wouldn’t. Please believe me.”
“I’d love to, Bill, but that’s difficult after having read this. You lot have taken the bookies for millions between ya and you want me to believe you picked them horses yourself? Don’t take me for a c**t, Bill, but I know the rules. My shop took the bet, so I have to honour it. Now, a man of your intelligence must know a small independent outfit like mine doesn’t hold that sort of money and you’re gonna have to bear with me while I raise the funds to pay you out. As I’m sure you understand, I need time to get the dough together,” Burt said, looking straight into Bill’s eyes.
“Ah, so you’re going to pay me then, Albert?” asked Bill.
“Big Burt always pays up. But, like I said, I need time to get it sorted, Bill,” replied Burt.
“God bless you, Albert. You’re a good man, thank you so much. I know you have your reputation to think of and I respect that. Take your time and I fully understand that. Thank you once again, Albert, my friend,” said Bill, shaking Burt’s hand vigorously.
“That’s alright. Now fuck off and let me get my head around this, will ya?” said Albert, bringing their meeting to a close.
A very relieved Bill Winters left the office and almost did an Irish jig as he bounded down the stairs. Bill didn’t want to go back to the Country Life just yet as he wanted to leave the boys to get on with their bit of business. So he headed back to his park bench and rang Fergus to let him know the good news. Bill was delighted. In fact, he felt every happy emotion there is. Now it was up to Dell’s mob to get their wheels in motion so that they too could feel the euphoria Bill was feeling right now.
Bart Durley was the first of their targets and they weren’t going to take no for an answer. Bart was in this whether he liked it or not—all that bragging was about to backfire on him. They had just finished discussing who should say what in their bid to get Bart to take them out on the fishing trip and at the same time not let on to Bill that they knew he had stolen the money from the safe when Bill walked in to discover all four men sat around the bar still drinking coffee.
“Do ya fancy something a little stronger, lads?” asked Bill.
“No thanks, Bill, we’re just about to go, but thanks anyway,” replied Dell.
“Ah, come on now, boys, I’ve had a little touch on the gee gee’s and I’d like to treat you all to a few drinks,” Bill said, trying to be a little more persuasive.
“We’ll catch up with you later, Bill, but thanks again, mate,” Dell continued, trying to be as polite as possible under the circumstances. Richards, a man of very few words at the best of times, just stared at Bill with ice-cold eyes. He couldn’t wait to give Bill the burial at sea he thought Bill justly deserved. As the three of them got up to leave Mickey behind the bar, they made their way toward the door. Bill called over to Dell and asked if he could have a quick word with him.
“Yes, Bill, ‘course you can,” said Dell, raising his eyebrows to the other two as he turned back to face Bill.
“Err, Joey, mate, I don’t know if you are aware of this, but I borrowed a few quid out of the safe just before your release from jail and I think it may have belonged to you,” began Bill.
“No, Bill, I wasn’t aware of that,” lied Dell, trying his utmost to stay as calm as possible.
“Well, I’ll be able to pay it back shortly as soon as I get weighed in for the bet I just landed, and let me tell you, it’s a pretty penny so it is. Oh and I’ll give you a nice drink on top for your trouble,” Bill said, fiddling around with his hands.
“No worries, Bill, that’s very honest of you to let me know. Who did you put the bet on with, anyway?” asked Dell as if he didn’t already know.
“Oh, ah, I put it on at Big Burt’s,” replied Bill a little uneasily, still fiddling with his hands.
“Big Burt always pays, so you’re in safe hands there, mate,” said Dell, patting Bill on the back in reassurance. “Catch ya later, mate.”
“See ya later, Mick,” said Dell as he turned and walked out of the pub to catch up with his two pals who were waiting a little way down the High Street.
“Bloody hell,” Dell exclaimed. “You should have just heard that no good thieving paddy. Reckoned he’d borrowed money from me out of the safe, but it’s alright, he’s gonna pay me back as soon as Burt pays him.”
“Saucy cunt,” Terry and Barry said in unison.
Terry immediately got on the phone to Gerry and asked if he was meeting Bart in the pub later. Gerry said he was as Bart couldn’t go without his cocaine fix and was meeting him around five.
Everything was going to plan so far. By tonight they should have a date sorted for the fishing trip, as long as Bart came up with the boat, of course. Terry told the other two it was all good for later and then said, “Oh, while we were in Burt’s office earlier, I had a missed call from the Swedish mob.”
“Ah, yeah, are they on the want?” asked Dell.
“Probably. My phone was on silent. I’ll ring him right now,” said Terry.
The boys had a drug smuggling arrangement with another mob in Sweden which was a great earner. The way it worked was they would find a driver to take a couple of kilos of cocaine at a time and drive it hidden in the car door panels up to Sweden from England. After expenses, they usually doubled their money. And as it was about thirty grand a kilo, that wasn’t to be sneezed at. Gerry Funnel usually did the driving, but as he had done it several times before, he had recently been replaced by a posh-speaking black fella called David Lightfoot. This replacement hadn’t gone down too well with Gerry as he had been paid very well and actually enjoyed doing it, but the boys didn’t want to get too complacent and thought it was time for a change. As David had legitimate business in Gothenburg, he was looked upon as a perfect replacement. David also liked the money it paid and was a more than willing participant.
Terry rang Sven from Sweden and, yes, they were on the look for
a reload, so arrangements were made for a delivery the following week. Things were looking up again for Dell, only out of nick a few days and the dough was coming in once more. Apart from his little scare involving Bill and the missing money, things were getting quickly back on track.
Chapter 8
Later that afternoon, the boys headed back to the pub to continue making arrangements for the killing of Bill Winters. Each man had his role to play, but they hadn’t bargained for how easy it was to get Bart Durley on board. They didn’t realise Bart and Squeaky were desperate to be friendly with Flowery’s firm. Bragging rights were the main reason. And the Durleys also thought they might be in for an earner as well. They could never have imagined in their wildest dreams that the boys were planning for Bart to be their skipper on a fishing trip.
Gerry turned up just before five and Bart and his dad arrived soon after. They stood chatting and having a drink for ten to fifteen minutes before Terry joined them. Bill Winters was sitting at another part of the bar and both parties could see one another. In the middle of this, also sitting at a table, were Dell and Richards, who could also see both parties. Keeping a crafty eye on the lot of them on the quiet and smack bang on centre stage was Mickey Staines. It was perfect positioning for all, and the scene was now set to arrange an accidental murder.
Just as Terry joined the trio at the bar, he heard Dick Durley telling Gerry that Bart was a right hard case and that he couldn’t half pack a punch to which Gerry replied, “Shut up, Dick, he couldn’t pack a suitcase,” and then laughed at his own joke. Dick was always trying to make his son out to be something he wasn’t, probably because Bart was also always making up stories about himself. What were these two hiding? It was a constant cover-up. Anyway, Terry heard the conversation and laughed along with his twin and then said, “Alright, chaps? Didn’t know you were a bit of a handful, Bart. You should have said, mate.” Bart looked down at his pint, embarrassed, and quickly changed the subject.
