by Paul Kirby
As Butler tried to sidle away from Dell, Dell moved along with him, using him as a human shield. He wasn’t going to let him leave him a sitting duck. But, privately, Butler wanted Dell to prove him right and pull something extraordinary out of the hat. He was secretly in awe of him, which was out of character for a man who’d been in the police force so long.
Wilson on the other hand was the least informed man there and didn’t have a clue what was going on. He was only there to make the numbers up and to give Butler backup, a sort of ventriloquist’s dummy. Dell, now looking around at the situation, judged it was the right moment to exercise his authoritative position and told Butler as he held on to him with a vice-like grip, “Right. I’m in the driving seat now, so get them to lower their weapons while I demonstrate something.”
Butler did as he was told and shouted over to the SWAT team to lower their guns.
“Okay, boys, lower the guns for a moment, please. Let him have his moment if you don’t mind,” said a nervous Butler, worried he was about to be at the business end of a police marksman’s bullet. The team did as they were told. The situation was very tense for everyone, except, it appeared a very confident Dell, who slipped off his shoulder bag and pushed Butler toward the car bonnet of the vehicle provided to his team. Butler moved slowly and Dell kept pushing him. All eyes in the building were on the Swat Team. Dell wasn’t going to take any chances. He wanted to protect himself and his loyal companions. Dell held out the bag for everyone to see.
No one in this company had ever been in a situation like this before, but Dell took control as if it was second nature to him. The foe that surrounded him had been trained for such circumstances, but what training had he had? Only the instinct to survive and lots of time to think out his future while on lockdown in prison and his absolute certainty he would never return.
While holding on to Butler with one hand, he slowly with the other pulled out his iPad.
“Watch this, you fuckin’ maggot,” demanded Dell as his eyes warily scanned the warehouse.
“Don’t worry, Joe, mate, I’m all eyes,” said a very nervous Butler.
“Don’t call me, mate, you fuckin’ toe rag,” said Dell, pressing the play button. Butler stood wide-eyed and watched what unfolded before him. How could he have been so naïve to fall for such a stroke? This was a schoolboy error, but fair play to Dell whose video revealed every meeting he and Butler had ever had. Every conversation and all the details of Operation Desert Storm were on view, as clear as day, right there on Dell’s screen. “Like what you see, Mr. Butler? I’ve made several copies and they’ve been distributed to various people in professional positions in my trust. All sealed on the instructions not to open, UNLESS ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME OR MY PALS. Do I make myself clear? Neither you nor anyone else, would want this exposé revealed, would you?”
Butler was silent as he watched his dream of promotion or early retirement disappear.
“Would you?” repeated Dell as he yanked Butler up to prompt an answer, his eyes blazing. Butler stood grim-faced as he thought for a moment, the SWAT team awaiting his command. Dell sure hoped this was enough to set them free.
After watching the damning footage, Butler knew it was over and Dell had won. Butler looked up at him with a slight hint of a smile and admiration on his face and nodded in Dell’s direction. He then turned toward the team awaiting his command.
“Abort. Abort!” he shouted across the warehouse.
“What?” someone shouted back in disbelief.
“You heard me. It’s over, done. He’s got me hands down. Mission over. Put your weapons away and get out of here,” instructed Butler. This was as much a relief to him as it was to Dell’s mob. Butler had been shown up for his incompetence by a common criminal in front of many colleagues, but you had to hand it to Dell for his forward thinking and his cunning.
“How did you do it?” asked Butler.
“Remember that poppy I used to wear? It was camera’d,” said Dell as a big smile appeared on his face.
“Bloody hell,” replied Butler.
Richards and Funnel, who were both standing by the motor with all the cash in it, watched in semi-amazement as the people carrier and the unmarked car pulled back out of the warehouse and left.
“Thank Christ for that,” said Funnel to Richards.
“You’re not wrong,” he replied. “I thought we were fucked.”
Dell, reinforcing his grip on Butler, looked at him and said, “And I wanna fuckin’ word with you.”
“Look, Joe, it’s not how it looks. Is it, Wilson?” he said, turning to his sidekick for support. Wilson pulled a face and shrugged. He didn’t know anything.
“Don’t give me that old bollocks. Right now, I want you to do me a favour,” said Dell sternly.
“‘Course, whatever you want,” replied Butler.
“Get your slimy little arse down to that Legion we just saved from being destroyed and go and speak to my son’s granddad and tell him about the threat they were under. Then tell him how helpful my two friends and I were in diffusing the whole thing. Alright? And don’t give him none of your old flannel,” said Dell.
“Of course I will, Joe. What’s his name again?” asked Butler.
“John Hathaway. He’s the club chairman or president or something. But make sure he gets the message. You understand?” said Dell, letting go of Butler.
“Consider it done, mate,” said a relieved Butler.
“I told you earlier about calling me mate,” said Dell, pointing his finger at him.
Dell turned to the others. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” They all jumped into the motor. They pulled away, leaving Butler and Wilson standing, watching them go.
“Win some, lose some. But it weren’t that bad. I’m glad they got away. It was a dirty stroke, thinking of killing ‘em off after all they’d done,” said Butler to a completely bewildered Wilson. He’d have some serious explaining to do, but at least Dell had given him a copy of the video as proof of how he was completely outwitted by a very clever criminal indeed. Butler and Wilson watched as they sped out of sight, soon to be swallowed up in the Friday afternoon traffic leaving London en masse.
“Go on boys, go and enjoy yourselves,” said Butler, with a hint of emotion in his voice. “You deserve it.” He turned to Wilson and said, “I hope there’s no hard feelings. I’ve grown to like that mob over the past few weeks. Anyway, there never was any proof of Dell being involved in the killing of that PC all them years ago.”
“Eh?” said Wilson, even more dumfounded than before. This was all Chinese to him. He didn’t have a clue what his superior was talking about.
Richards inevitably hit the traffic and the tension in the car started to ease up a bit and heart rates slowed. Funnel turned from the passenger seat to Dell, who had resumed his position in the back and said, “Fuckin’ hell, Joe, that was a fuckin’ close one.”
“Yeah, it was a bit. But you boys had faith in me, didn’t ya? I told you numerous times that I’d got us some insurance, didn’t I?” said Dell, a huge grin spreading across his face.
“Yeah, you did. ‘Course we had faith in you, mate.” They all started laughing and the tension lifted even more. When the laughter stopped, Dell asked, “We have got the dough, haven’t we, boys?”
“‘Course we fuckin’ have,” said a very serious Richards. “A million quid in cold hard cash.”
“Good! Right, I’m gonna ring Paul the pilot and tell him we’re on our way. We’re going on a well-earned holiday,” said Dell, grinning from ear to ear. He had arranged for them to be smuggled out of the country by a friend of his who flew rich businessmen to Europe on a regular basis. Today, he was going to Spain.
“Ronnie Slaughter, here we come!” announced Dell.
“Yeah, and get them Viagras out!” chipped in Richards, who was actually smiling.
Dell sat back in the comfort of Richards’ motor after he’d spoken to the pilot, feeling quite rightly very pleased with himself.
Chapter 42
The Met Police and the TV cameras were all over the murder scene and it looked very much to be just what it was, a gangland slaying on a rather large scale. Butler was ordered over there as Scotland Yard were about to retake control and create some fake news to cover their tracks. This was going to be made easier by the news of a car exploding on the very edge of London that had been seen leaving the scene at about the time of the massacre. Things started to look up again for Butler as the day’s events unfolded.
“Thank you, God,” said Butler at one point, looking to the sky.
In the Country during the late afternoon–early evening session, Big Burt and Mucky Mickey stood at the bar chatting. Mickey was saying what a strange occurrence the Durley thing had been and how you never know what skeletons people had in their closets. Burt listened and chipped in every now and again, but he was more interested in getting news on his mate Dell, when who should appear on the TV screen but Tommy Butler.
“Quick, turn it up,” said Burt, pointing to the large flat screen TV on the wall by the bar. The pair listened intently as Butler told of a suspected terror cell being wiped out in a West London garage, and then going on to talk about a car bomb going off on the edge of the City and how it appeared they were connected.
Burt knew Dell was involved in all this, but he wasn’t sure if Mickey knew or suspected anything. They both stood in complete silence as they stared at the screen. Mickey said in disbelief, “Bloody hell, a terror cell wiped out and a car bomb going off all on the same day. I don’t fuckin’ believe it.”
Burt turned to him and said in his familiar rough deep voice for all to hear, “WHAT A COUNTRY!”
