by Ted Tayler
“I’ll come with you,” said Athena, “to represent the charity. That would make sense to his widow and the police. Your presence is easily accounted for, which enables us to avoid the need to reveal that you work here at Olympus.”
“Good thinking,” said Phoenix. He paused as he thought of the other bodies that required burial.
“Our agent’s body may not get released for days. Giles, can you cobble together a plausible history for him? Good enough to satisfy the authorities?”
“I’ll try, Phoenix,” replied Giles.
“What about Les Biggar,” asked Henry.
“Can we trace his family?” asked Athena.
“Les Biggar was a loner,” said Phoenix, “it might take too long. Our time-frame is narrow.”
“Agreed, I suggest we retrieve the helicopter from Old Sarum today,” said Henry. “If it’s left unattended, the people there will become suspicious. They would have expected Biggar to fly straight back. Once it’s in the hangar at Kemble, we can plan how to dispose of the helicopter and the body.”
“The Irish Sea is plenty big enough to lose a chopper,” said Rusty. “With the stormy winds, we’ve been experiencing it wouldn’t be so difficult to believe he could have suffered a tragic accident.”
“That would need a lot of planning,” said Phoenix, “but it could work. It sounds right up Hugh Fraser’s street. Did you contact him, Giles?”
“I didn’t talk to him, but GPS puts his mobile phone in the Leeds area. We can assume he arrived safely. When I get back to the ice-house, I’ll try him again. I’ll persuade him to have an escort on his return journey.”
“That covers everything until Monday morning,” said Athena, “the missions will be underway before dawn. The events of the past twenty-four hours have been tragic, but they cannot prevent us from continuing to attack the Grid wherever possible.”
“I cannot believe Sarah is a target,” said Henry, “but I shall stick close by her during her good works on the parish today and tomorrow. Don’t worry. I’ll remember to wear loose-fitting clothing to hide my shoulder-holster. I don’t want to frighten the parishioners.”
“Let’s get back to the orangery then, Rusty,” said Phoenix. “The sooner we finish these plans, the sooner we can get back to our loved ones.”
Athena brought the emergency meeting to a close. Time to get back to Hope and her father.
“You understand I can’t stay here indefinitely, Annabelle?” said her father. “I have made arrangements for next weekend.”
Athena sighed. Why were parents so tricky sometimes?
“Alright, we’ll get you home on Friday if nothing major has happened, but I reserve the right to come to stay if I think you need company.”
“Agreed,” said Geoffrey.
*****
Callum Wood was hours away from getting back to his loved ones. He had spent several hours working through the boxes in Phil’s garage. He found dozens of criminals Phil helped put away during the time he served at Portishead. Whether any of them were violent enough to kill him was another matter.
Those that threatened a revenge attack, or yelled abuse from the dock, were often career criminals whose offences were minor. Burglars, car thieves, criminals who were nuisances that kept re-offending. No matter how many times they got caught. None had the bottle required to kill the workman in that fashion. None seemed the type to strangle a man either.
The more he thought, Callum reckoned delving into decades of Phil’s police history would be a waste of his time. He could get one of his young DC’s out here tomorrow. Better for them to be doing something futile than getting under his feet in the office.
Callum drove across Bath to Wayne Sangster’s last known address. He remembered Wayne as a PC, he was amiable enough, didn’t push himself to get promoted, but never let anyone down. Callum tried to recall whether Wayne ever married. When he reached the house, it looked respectable and smart. The garden looked tidy, and the bins weren’t overflowing. The house stood out like a white swan in a pond full of grubby ducks.
“Hello, my lovely,” said the old lady as she opened the door, “and what might you be after?”
“Are you Mrs Sangster, Wayne’s mother?” asked Callum. He showed her his warrant card.
“That’s right, Inspector Wood,” she sighed, “but he died.”
“Everyone was sorry to hear the news,” said Callum. “Wayne was popular at the station. I understand he worked at Hounsell Security Services after he left the police, is that right?”
“Wayne loved that job,” she replied, “come on inside, my lovely, it’s too cold for me stood on the doorstep.”
Mrs Sangster wandered into her front room; Callum followed. The inside was as pristine as the outside. Lots of little ornaments that must take her hours to dust each week sat on every spare shelf or window sill.
“What a lovely home,” said Callum. “Did Wayne have a place of his own, or did he still live with you?
“My boy came and went, Inspector. Wayne joined the RAF straight from school, came back here for a while until he found another job. He moved to Bristol while he worked out at Cribb’s Causeway. He rented a flat in Filton. Then, after his Dad passed, he came back to stay, so I wasn’t alone.”
“Wayne never married then?”
“I always thought him a confirmed bachelor until he came home from working in London last April. He met a lady up there and never stopped talking about her. Then, when Mr Hounsell closed the business, our Wayne went into security on his own. He moved in with this Bridie Carragher soon after. I had high hopes of buying a hat for the wedding. In the end, I needed a new black coat for the funeral. It was so sad. The police said the fire was deliberate, can you credit it?”
Callum could see the old lady was on the verge of tears.
“Shall I make us a cup of tea?” he asked, moving to the door to the kitchen. If he had a pound for the number of houses with this layout in the city, he could have retired by now. Hundreds got built when the Admiralty had a significant presence in Bath, but those days had gone, and the estates were on a downward spiral.
Callum found everything he needed within minutes. As she heard the kettle boil, Mrs Sangster called out to him.
“There are Hobnobs in a tin in the cupboard, my lovely.”
“Already found them,” said Callum, “I am a detective, remember.”
The old lady looked more composed when Callum came back with the loaded tray.
“You’ve done this before,” she said, with her first smile. “I suppose you’re married? Do you have kids?”
“Just the one, we have a boy of two,” replied Callum. “I found my soul mate when I was forty years old, similar to Wayne. When he worked for himself, I don’t suppose he left any of his business correspondence here?”
“Oh no, dear,” said Wayne’s mother, shaking her head, “I didn’t want the place cluttered up with his rubbish. I told him if he moved to London, he should clear everything out. It would save time when I was dead and gone. Now there’s nobody to have this when I go. What do you think, my lovely? Should I leave everything to the rescue centre at Claverton Down?”
Callum looked again at the ornaments. Figurines of cats and dogs. Fair enough, her house contents wouldn’t fetch more than a few hundred pounds, but the money would go to a deserving home.
Time to leave; apart from a decent cuppa and three biscuits, he hadn’t learned much from this visit. Any records that might have helped may have perished in the fire along with Wayne and Bridie.
Mrs Sangster saw him to the door. As he pulled away from the kerb, he saw her waving goodbye. He waved back. Few members of the public did that when a policeman came to call. Callum wondered how many people ever called on Mrs Sangster nowadays. He thought he might ask Debbie whether she fancied a trip up here next Sunday afternoon with Ronnie. They could pop into a shop on the way over to buy a packet of Hobnobs.
*****
In his penthouse apartment, Tyrone O’R
iordan opened one eye. He wondered if he should risk the other eye yet. What a night last night. He had no idea what time he returned home. He had a vague recollection of winning an awful lot of money in the casino. Thirty thousand? Or forty thousand?
Tyrone remembered he had attracted the attention of two blonde escorts, who did everything they could to convince him to quit while he was ahead. They promised him he’d get better value for money by inviting them back to his place.
Tyrone wavered between a night of debauchery and pursuing that winning streak. The gambler in him won. Not for the first time in recent months. As he lay there with a thumping headache, he wondered if he had a problem? Not a chance. He’d continued to win, hadn’t he? He doubted they were blondes, anyway.
There was a noise from the bathroom. Tyrone opened both eyes and sat up in bed. God, that hurt. The bathroom door opened, and a young girl staggered out. She was still drunk. When did that happen? Tyrone couldn’t remember her name. What was her name? He couldn’t even remember ever laying eyes on her.
“What time is it?” she asked.
Tyrone thought her slurred speech was from the effects of drink or drugs; or both. She wasn’t English either. Tyrone looked at the clock on the wall above the girl’s head. It was a few minutes after five o’clock in the evening. He groaned. The girl looked behind her.
“My father will kill me,” she said and flopped on the bed beside him.
Tyrone could smell the vomit on his shirt. That explained the noise from the bathroom. How she came to be wearing the shirt he wore last night was something else altogether.
“I need the bathroom,” he said, scrabbling on the floor for his Calvin Klein boxers.
The girl didn’t move. Tyrone made it to the bathroom and locked the door. His brain wasn’t in the mood to fathom out what he’d done. The top of the low-level cistern showed the tell-tale signs of where she’d snorted a line of cocaine. He lifted the toilet seat. The cow hadn’t flushed away the contents of her stomach. Terrific. As he urinated, he tried to unscramble the events of the past twelve hours. Maybe a shower would help?
Tyrone stood under the ice-cold water for as long as he could stand. He was positive he’d left the casino before four o’clock. Where did he go next? Did an Uber cab take him to another club? He could check his phone. Tyrone had a dim memory of getting into the back of a car. Did someone he knew offer him a lift home? Why couldn’t he remember?
He heard a knock on the bathroom door. Tyrone didn’t want that girl puking on his bedroom carpet. He unlocked the door.
“Good afternoon,” said Leonid Vasiliev.
The young girl lay on the bed naked. She no longer appeared wasted. She looked quite well.
Tyrone had a sinking feeling. What the hell was Vasiliev doing here? How did he get in? Was it the Russian’s face that had been a dim memory from this morning?
“Don’t worry, my friend,” said Vasiliev, making himself at home, lounging on one of Tyrone’s leather settees. “Your memory will return in time. Meet Tara by the way.”
“I never touched your daughter,” said Tyrone. “I don’t remember a thing after I left the casino.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snorted Vasiliev, “Tara is not my daughter. We ‘thieves in law’ do not marry. We do not form relationships that would hinder our sole purpose in life - to separate people from their money. Tara is an actress. I waited outside the casino until you finished playing your silly games. You were very drunk. It was easy to get you to join me in my car. We drank vodka during the short trip back here. Well, I drank vodka. You drank vodka with a kick. You slept like a baby while we filmed Tara on top of you on the bed.”
Tyrone searched the room for signs of a camera but found nothing. Tara retrieved a tablet from under a pillow, switched it on and showed Tyrone the video.
Tyrone wanted to wipe the smirk off the little cow’s face.
“Do you see why Tara is in such demand?” asked Vasiliev, “she is nineteen years old next month, but she has a gift. She looks so much younger. Her fans believe Tara is fourteen, maybe fifteen years old which excites them. The co-stars in the films she features in are wide awake, of course, and more energetic than you, but our cameraman is clever. He left no clue that this was anything but genuine, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I thought we had an arrangement,” snapped Tyrone, “you followed people and killed them when I asked. You got paid well for your work. Blackmailing me is not a good career move.”
“My people followed the third man yesterday morning on a long journey. He was not like the others. They were easy targets. This one was a professional. He fooled our drivers and escaped. We don’t know where he stayed last night, but we have found the car. I decided it was too risky. It was a quick way to earn one hundred thousand pounds. If we follow him and kill him before he reaches Bath, we only get twenty thousand. If he knows we followed him, we could be trapped. My men might get killed. No, this way is better.”
Tyrone racked his brain, thinking of how to extricate himself from this mess. Did he have enough money in the safe?
Was Vasiliev armed? He hadn’t seen a weapon yet.
“Tara found the money you won at the casino,” smiled Vasiliev. “I can see the wheels of your brain turning. You need to find another sixty thousand to make this go away. It’s only business, nothing personal. I thought if I joined your war, it would be fun, but it’s boring for me now.”
Vasiliev stood and pulled out a snub-nosed automatic. He waved it at Tyrone.
“Hurry, I must get Tara home soon. She will need her beauty sleep before a day’s filming tomorrow. Open your wall safe. Tara found it while you slept off the effects of the drink and the drugs.”
Tyrone approached the safe. He had to act casual. As Tyrone punched in the security code, he heard the lift return to the ground floor. He wondered if it signalled his salvation or the final nail in his coffin.
Vasiliev ordered Tara to run to the monitor by the lift door.
“Who is it?” he yelled.
Tyrone now had the safe door open. He picked up a stack of notes and threw them on the table beside him. “That’s twenty thousand,” he said.
“It’s a woman,” said Tara, “it could be his mother.”
“Quicker,” Vasiliev yelled at Tyrone, “just hand it over.”
The gangster darted forward to grab the extra cash Tyrone dropped onto the table.
The lift door slid open. Colleen, O’Riordan entered.
Tara ran back to the centre of the room in fright.
Colleen had that effect on people when she was angry.
Tyrone had both hands inside the safe now. His hands found what he sought — his trusty throwing knives.
“What the hell’s going on?” shouted Colleen and stood with her hands on her hips.
Vasiliev raised the gun and pointed it at her.
Tyrone’s aim was true; the first knife pierced the gangster’s throat. The second buried itself in the heart of the young porn actress. Their bodies hit the floor within seconds of one another.
“I’m waiting,” shouted Colleen.
“Calm yourself, mother,” said Tyrone, “everything’s under control.”
“Bloody well looks like it. I told you not to trust these Russian bastards. Who’s the naked tart, anyway? She doesn’t look old enough to have left school. I thought you knew better than that, Tyrone. Tommy cheated on me more than once, but they were always legal.”
Tyrone’s headache returned with a vengeance. Earache from his mother was something he wouldn’t miss. His breathing had slowed though, and the cold sweat on his brow stopped dripping into his eyes. Tyrone slumped onto the settee.
“Vasiliev tried to blackmail me,” he said, as his mother stepped over the gangster’s body to sit opposite him.
“With the girl?” asked Colleen. Tyrone nodded.
“Vasiliev gave me a lift home this morning. He spiked my drinks and then brought in the girl and a cameraman. She was older than she l
ooked, but if the film got onto the internet, It would finish me. He wanted a hundred grand. I played for time until I found my knives.”
“This isn’t the first time we’ve needed to have this place cleaned by professionals,” said Colleen looking at the bloody mess, “people will talk. Why couldn’t this Vasiliev stick to the tidying-up work we put his way? Didn’t that pay well enough?”
“Vasiliev dealt with the helicopter pilot and the ex-copper,” said Tyrone, “but things got harder when he followed one of the newer arrivals at Larcombe Manor. The bloke was too good not to spot the cars tailing him, so Vasiliev backed out. He worried they might have spooked the people at Larcombe enough to have someone ride shotgun when he drove south.”
“Leave the foreigners out of it. I told you they were trouble.”
“Vasiliev reckoned he had the car under surveillance in Leeds. We could check his phone?”
“OK, find out where the car’s parked. Put a bounty on this bloke’s head. He’s not to get back to Larcombe,” said Colleen. “No matter how many people we lose. You wanted to send a message. His death will let them know we mean business.”
Tyrone called for a crew to remove the dead bodies. Two more long-term visitors for Hackney Marshes.
Colleen checked Vasiliev’s jacket for his mobile phone. She found the SMS message notifying him where their target parked the car.
“I’ll put the money back in the safe, along with this phone,” she told Tyrone. “You ought not to have so much cash lying around, son. It’s too tempting for these petty criminals. I’ll let you fetch your knives. I don’t want to get blood over these Louboutin shoes. They cost me a bundle.”
“Someone’s on the way for the removals, Mum,” Tyrone replied. “I’ll get the cleaners here first thing in the morning for the rest. I’ll sleep at yours tonight if that’s okay?”
“I suppose it will have to be,” shrugged Colleen. “Make sure you make the price on that agent’s head attractive, won’t you?”
“Yes, mother, don’t worry,” said Tyrone.
