The Phoenix Series Box Set 2

  The Phoenix Series

  Boxed Set #4 - 6

  By

  Ted Tayler

  Table of Contents

  Book Four. In The Lap Of The Gods

  Book Five. The Price Of Treachery

  Book Six. A New Dawn

  Copyright © 2019 by Ted Tayler

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each person.

  All rights are reserved. You may not reproduce this work, in part or in its entirety, without the express written permission of the author.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: - www.thecovercollection.com

  A Harmsworth House publication 2019

  Other books by Ted Tayler

  We’d Like To Do A Number Now (2011)

  The Final Straw (2013)

  A Sting In The Tale (2013)

  Unfinished Business (2014)

  The Olympus Project (2014)

  Gold, Silver, and bombs (2015)

  Nothing Is Ever Forever (2015)

  Conception (2015)

  In The Lap Of The Gods (2016)

  The Price of Treachery (2016)

  A New Dawn (2017)

  Something Wicked Draws Near (2017)

  Evil Always Finds A Way (2017)

  Revenge Comes in Many Colours (2017)

  Three Weeks in September (2018)

  A Frequent Peal of Bells (2018)

  Larcombe Manor (2018)

  Where to find him

  Website & Blog: - http://tedtayler.co.uk

  Facebook Author Page: - https://facebook.com/EdwardCTayler

  Twitter: - https://twitter.com/ted_tayler

  Instagram: - https://instagram.com/tedtayler1775

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  Book Four

  In The Lap of The Gods

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER 1

  Saturday, June 29th, 2013

  “This is modern policing, is it?” thought DS Phil Hounsell as he watched two police officers walking through the crowds with giant sunflowers attached to their helmets. Day Three of Glastonbury 2013 and he was visiting the police command centre at Worthy Farm.

  The police had been present on the Festival site since 1989; these days the Festival became a large town in its own right for the few days in June that it occupied this normally quiet part of Somerset.

  As a senior detective in the Avon and Somerset service, Phil found himself assigned to a myriad of duties in these austere times. Just his luck; this year his name came out of the hat for a Worthy weekend.

  He would rather endure a few hours’ root canal work or a shopping trip with Erica and the children than this duty. Anything, other than being at Festival HQ. Despite the well-documented history of mud in years gone by, this year the weather gods smiled on Worthy Farm.

  A brief shower last evening did nothing to change the conditions underfoot. Nor had it dampened the spirits of the great throng of revellers, hell-bent on enjoying what had become one of the highlights of an English summer.

  Phil perused the reports from the opening days and glanced too at the events of Saturday so far. Everything was ‘par for the course’. The expected number of searches at the entrances to uncover items that might be ‘used in an illegal or offensive way’. Somewhere in the command centre, or back at Portishead, there would be a collection of laser pens, fireworks, plus questionable knives, and sharp instruments. With the penchant of festival-goers for a chemically enhanced glow to accompany the music, you could also guarantee stumbling across a stash of confiscated drugs.

  The CCTV coverage was extensive and throughout the weekend, officers monitored those images for public safety, crowd management, and crime prevention. Phil tore his eyes away from the mind-numbing reports and switched back to the screens.

  He spotted the two giant sunflowers again. It appeared as if the local lads from the neighbourhood patrol were having their photograph taken with a couple of scantily clad females. They looked young; the girls did too.

  “Nice work if you can get it.” thought Phil.

  This ‘touchy-feely’ policing was fine and dandy but jibed with Phil’s ‘old school’ approach. Phil wanted criminals off the streets and ‘banged-up’, for a long time too, if possible. Those views had frequently been expressed and his superiors knew where he was coming from. Those superiors understood too, exactly where he was going - nowhere.

  Ever so gently; perhaps thinking he wouldn’t notice, he felt himself being nudged into the long grass. Phil glanced at the young girls as they wandered on from their brief encounter with the Flowerpot Men and felt every one of his forty-seven years.

  “Only three more summers,” he thought, “and I can get the hell out of this charade. I’d prefer to be out there in jeans and a t-shirt doing something useful.”

  Phil was aware they had plain-clothes officers on the ground plus the uniforms the CCTV images now showed. Their main targets were thieves and drug dealers. So far, it had been quiet. Fingers crossed it stayed that way. Phil sighed. He was bored to tears. The stuffy atmosphere in the room was causing his eyelids to droop. He needed to get up and stretch his legs before he nodded off to sleep.

  He searched for a chaperone. No way would you persuade him to go out there alone. Walking alone around a site populated by well over one hundred thousand people was his idea of hell. A door opened, and a constable poked his head inside.

  “I’m on the ice-cream run; what can I get you, Sir?”

  Phil jumped out of his chair and headed for the door.

  “I’ll come with you; this sunshine might not last for much longer. This is England after all.”

  As they emerged into the sunlit site, close by the farmhouse, Phil checked out his companion; the same age as himself and yet still a constable. That seemed curious.

  “Been in long?” he asked.

  “Since eight o’clock this morning, Sir.”

  “No, sorry; I meant been on the job long.”

  “Eight years, Sir; a paramedic before that. I joined the RAF straight from school but didn’t enjoy it much, so I got out and tried a variety of jobs until I found something I enjoyed. I worked as a traffic warden, a zookeeper, and a security guard out at Cribb’s Causeway.”

  All fairly uniform then thought Phil. He had his answer. If his mother had let him have a dressing-up box as a nipper, he would have got it out of his system by the time he reached sixteen. He might have made something of his life. The further they walked, the bigger the crowd became. It proved difficult to stay together.

  “Over here, Sir,” called his companion as they neare
d an ice-cream stall, “what do you prefer?”

  Phil made his way back through a sea of people and elected for a choc-ice; not that he particularly liked them, but with its wrapper, he hoped it gave him half a chance of polishing it off without getting his suit plastered.

  “Cheers,” said Phil as his guide handed over the ice-cream, “what’s your name, by the way?”

  “Wayne, Sir.”

  “OK, then Wayne, how many orders have we got to carry back to HQ?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Terrific,” Phil could foresee problems.

  Wayne had obviously done this trip before; he had a system. Phil spotted the man-bag strapped across Wayne’s chest but didn’t pass comment. Phil had met several gay officers during his career and he always resisted saying things that might be misconstrued. Wayne fished out plastic vending cup holders from his bag. Each triangle designed to hold six cups. The resourceful Wayne had modified the openings to accept a cornet and even a lollipop.

  “Hey Presto,” said Phil, impressed at the ingenuity.

  “E-bay,” said Wayne, not getting the reference.

  Phil finished his choc-ice before they reached the command centre. He held the door open for Wayne and ten, very grateful people inside soon got a measure of chilled relief from the warm conditions. Wayne started to devour his Magnum. He eyed Phil.

  “Do you want to carry on having a walk around, Sir?” he said, with a shiny chin.

  Phil looked at the constable. He sensed his desperation to get back outside, mingle with the crowds and listen to the music. Well, it was marginally better than being stuck in this place.

  “After you, Wayne; you know your way.”

  As they walked back to the site, Wayne gave Phil a running commentary on what had happened so far and what lay in store for the fans today.

  “Glastonbury isn’t just the music, it’s the people too. I got here early yesterday, and things were grim. Long queues for the showers and the toilets as usual. By lunchtime, as last night’s hangovers had disappeared, and today’s cider started taking hold, the mood lifted and you saw a few smiles breaking out on faces. Then the music starts up, and it’s smiles all the way, no matter what the weather’s doing.”

  “How many times have you been here, Wayne?” asked Phil.

  “This is my twelfth Festival. I’ve done three as a copper, three as a paramedic and six as a punter.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Phil, “I’m a virgin. You’re never going to catch me in a tent; I don’t queue for showers or toilets, and I’m not a great music fan. I enjoy a few songs I hear, now and then, but I couldn’t tell you who sang them for the life of me.”

  “You could always go ‘glamping’, over the far side, if you didn’t want to rough it with the great unwashed,” said Wayne, with a laugh.

  Phil eased past a swaying teenager who looked as if his day could only get worse and thought of his wife. Erica would probably enjoy the Festival experience, but it wasn’t something he wanted to bring up at the breakfast table. He shuddered as the contents of the teenager’s stomach hit the grass behind him.

  “No fear. Give me a warm bed, with a shower and a loo five yards away thanks,” said Phil.

  Wayne ploughed on regardless. He adopted his tour guide persona, for which a uniform was available, and pointed out various attractions. Based on the crowds they negotiated as they passed; they were living up to their name. This information was interspersed with brief reviews of the performances he witnessed. Occasionally, Wayne shouted these observations over the heads of people as the two policemen zigzagged their way through the vast site.

  “Over there you’ve got Arcadia the giant spider. After midnight, it belches fireballs into the night sky and they hold a rave. See that marquee? It’s where you can queue up to complain that Glasto isn’t what it used to be. The place is quiet though, isn’t it? Who’s going to hang around here when you can be having a good time? Dizzee Rascal smashed it yesterday; he did a crazy set. The Arctic Monkeys sounded great too–lots of lights, smoke and lasers. Bill Wyman played somewhere too, but you can’t be in two places at once can you?”

  “Bill Wyman? Wasn’t he with the Stones? Now that’s a band I have heard before. What happened to them I wonder?” shouted Phil.

  Wayne gave him a sympathetic look.

  “You don’t have much of a clue about music do you, Sir. The Stones are the main attraction tonight on the Pyramid Stage. They’re still belting it out after fifty years on the road. That’s the Pyramid over there. Can you see the big screen? That big voice and an even bigger smile belong to Laura Mvula; she’s superb.”

  Phil Hounsell glanced over towards the stage. At this distance, he couldn’t see or hear much, but she certainly sounded okay. If only there hadn’t been so many people walking and talking around them. He was no longer watching where he was going. The inevitable happened. His shoulder collided with a man moving fast in the opposite direction with his female companion.

  “Sorry,” said Phil, turning to apologise for his clumsiness.

  The man was arm in arm with his attractive partner; they hardly broke stride. The man grunted at Phil but didn’t turn around again and in seconds, the crowds swallowed them.

  Phil massaged his shoulder.

  “You can’t beat meeting the public face-to-face, can you, Sir?” said a grinning Wayne.

  “My own fault for not watching where I was going,” muttered Phil, as his shoulder regained feeling.

  “A smart couple, I thought. My guess is they come from the same neck of the woods as Mick Jagger and his entourage, enjoying the benefits of a more glamorous style of outdoor living. I doubt they put up their own tents as I have had to over the years. How the other half lives, eh?”

  Phil didn’t reply.

  “Everything okay, Sir?” asked Wayne. The two men were now side-by-side and back in step.

  “The woman is definitely out of the top drawer. But there’s something about the bloke. Just seeing how he walked and made his way through the crowd. I don’t know why, but it was a familiar gait. No doubt I’ll remember in time.”

  “I never recognised them; if they’ve been on the telly I’ve missed them,” said Wayne, slowing as they neared one of the many food stalls.

  Phil could smell heaven. He put thoughts of Erica’s caustic comments relating to his growing waistline and the reason his shoulder hurt out of his head.

  “A great idea, Wayne; it’s rude not to check that these people are providing food to an acceptable standard. We’re truly serving the public for the next ten minutes.”

  As Phil and Wayne chose what was very unhealthy but tasty food from a limited menu, the two festival-goers they had been discussing strode further and further away. For now, they were unaware of their identity.

  Annabelle Grace Fox was indeed a lady as the policemen surmised. She liked her creature comforts. Her companion that sunny afternoon was Colin Bailey. His features subtly altered by cosmetic surgery on two occasions in the past decade; no way Phil Hounsell would have recognised him even if he had caught his eye as they bumped into one another.

  What distinguishes a good detective from the run-of-the-mill plodders is the millions of details they have stored away in those little grey cells. Phil Hounsell still behaved like a dog with a squeaky Christmas toy, despite his loss of enthusiasm for the job he used to love. He would search around among those grey cells until he remembered who he remembered walked that way; and where their paths had crossed. In time, the name would come to him.

  Phil and Wayne spent the rest of the afternoon and evening moving across the site, gradually threading their way closer to the main stage. This was more by Wayne’s design than any wish on Phil Hounsell’s part to have his ears battered by the sound system. Wayne loved his music.

  The crowd noise grew louder and louder as the main attraction of the day was due to begin. The Stones were to make their long-awaited appearance.

  The Phoenix raised itself up and belched fire
for the Stones as they took the stage.

  Not a metaphor, nor the vigilante killer in the same corner of the site with Athena. It was the sculpture of a vast bird which perched on top of the emblematic Pyramid stage. The Phoenix with its enormous moving wings announced the festival’s return after a two-year absence.

  Meanwhile, the human Phoenix and his partner Athena stood in the crowd as the Rolling Stones opened with ‘Jumping Jack Flash’. The standout songs for Colin Bailey being ‘Paint It Black’, ‘Gimme Shelter’, and the encore ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’. Athena danced with Phoenix for most of the set. She suddenly caught sight of her and her partner on the big screen as the cameras panned around the crowds between numbers.

  Phoenix turned away and shielded his face by moving Athena in front of him.

  Phil Hounsell watched the show and listened. He saw the crowd scenes on the screen. He prayed he wouldn’t be picked on by the director of those camera shots. Phil didn’t need the hassle of his superiors thinking he was out on a ‘jolly’, enjoying himself when he was supposed to be doing a serious job.

  As the set ended, and the festival wound down until the final day, he reflected on what he had seen; a one hundred thousand crowd, the Stones and lots of fireworks.

  Phil turned to Wayne. “No doubt it will be three times as many in ten years’ time that swears they came here. Good fireworks, though.”

  “Did you clock that bloke that pulled his girlfriend in front of him when the cameras picked him out, Sir?” said Wayne. “That seemed odd.”

  “What did he look like?” asked Phil, who had to admit, the incident never registered.

  “I reckon it was that couple from this afternoon,” Wayne said.