A Frequent Peal of Bells Read online

  “Who can say what he learned from those Marbella villains?” asked Giles. “Despite Tommy wanting his kids to stay away from a life of crime, perhaps it’s a case of like father, like son.”

  “How does Colleen fit into this?” asked Athena.

  “Her brother, Sean Walsh died in the Dominican Republic,” said Giles. “His funeral was in Kilburn in the middle of last month. The local police report reported it as a professional hit.”

  “What was he doing in South America? Was he on holiday?” asked Alastor.

  “An extended holiday?” asked Giles. “Or it could be related to his brother’s escape. If he was behind it, supported by Colleen’s cash, they may have told him to make himself scarce, until the heat died.”

  “Who wanted Walsh dead?” asked Henry Case.

  “Hanigan,” said Phoenix, “the O’Riordan family didn’t order a hit. If Walsh had got jittery, his family would have persuaded him to disappear for a while. But Hanigan wanted to ensure the prison escape and its aftermath wasn’t linked to the Grid. Because we stopped Tommy reaching Harwich, it’s possible the blame for his death was directed at Hanigan. Tyrone or one of the Kilburn gang killed Hanigan in retaliation for Tommy’s and his brother-in-law’s killings.”

  “So, who’s head of the Kilburn gang, and who succeeded Hanigan at the head of the Grid?” asked Rusty.

  “There aren’t too many candidates for the first,” said Artemis, she counted names off on her fingers: -

  “Colleen, Tyrone, and whoever acted as second-in-command to Sean Walsh. It’s hard to imagine them considering anyone from outside the families there from the start.”

  Phoenix looked at his wife. It wasn’t unheard of for a woman to control an unruly mob. Athena did it every day.

  “Tyrone’s the money man for the Grid, we can discount him for the local leadership. We don’t have a name for Walsh’s deputy which tells me he was a nonentity. No, Colleen O’Riordan is my bet for having taken control in the borough. Giles said she was a hard as nails. She would have learned the business from Tommy in thirty years.”

  “Are we overlooking someone senior from the other gangs in the network that may have replaced Hanigan?” asked Minos.

  “If Colleen ordered the hit on Hanigan, she’s unlikely to let a bloke from another gang waltz in and take the top spot,” said Phoenix. “She would get the deed done, and then bring the others into line with a show of force.”

  “Michael Terence Quinn, of course,” said Artemis, “the pieces of the jigsaw are fitting together nicely.”

  “I doubt Quinn was alone,” said Rusty, “if we dig, we’ll uncover more bodies. Colleen O’Riordan has convinced the Grid to accept her as a leader, by showing what happens if they disagree. Tyrone’s work at the Glencairn is another method of showing the Grid members they’re better off with the O’Riordan family at the helm.”

  “What’s next for the Grid?” asked Henry Case.

  “We don’t have the firepower to annihilate them, which is what they deserve,” said Phoenix. “We’ll continue to hit them as often as we can and avoid being compromised. As for the Glencairn, if there’s a way to reduce that improving trend in performance we should explore it.”

  “Understood,” said Henry, “but what do you think they will do next?”

  “They’ve got fingers in so many pies, I don’t have a clue what they might do,” said Phoenix. “I’d try something spectacular. The crime of the century. Hanigan was an arrogant swine and dreamed of controlling everything criminal from Land’s End to John O’Groats. You know what they say about power corrupting. Colleen O’Riordan could plan something to bring the country to its knees.”

  *****

  Long after his mother left for the hairdressers, Tyrone was hard at work. He ignored Colleen’s suggestion that a hidden hand in many of the recent Grid setbacks was far from genuine. Everything he heard of the Malik story convinced him he was on the right track.

  Tyrone studied a map of the UK on his computer. Hugo Hanigan had kept a file that highlighted every gang headquarters. Few corners of the country remained where a number didn’t appear. Each number linked to that gang’s leader, its strength, and whether it represented a general duties outfit or a group of specialists.

  Tyrone made a few adjustments. Some gangs were parochial. Their reach extended to the boundaries of a borough, and no further. The next-door neighbours wouldn’t appreciate them meddling in their affairs. Other gangs controlled large areas that crossed county barriers even if much of it was countryside.

  Two hours later, Tyrone could pinpoint the Grid’s blind-spots. Hugo had done him the favour of noting the few pockets of resistance. Those gangs that had refused to join the network. Tyrone grasped the nettle. If they won’t join us, then they must be put out of business.

  Tyrone needed every inch of the UK covered. Any specialist outfit was exempt, but hundreds of street criminals available would suffice. He could switch them from committing petty crime to hunting for clues about this organisation. That meant minimal losses, compared to the gains of removing the threat.

  They would watch for the transport linked to the attacks. Tyrone was willing to pay a large bonus for photographs of either of the two men most often seen during these attacks. If this organisation wanted to remain secret, they had to stay at home. Wherever that home might be. Their days of interfering in Grid business must end.

  Tyrone took one last look at the amended map. Time for action. He called the heads of the gangs that surrounded these rogue enclaves. One by one, they received the same message: -

  “Remove the top tier. Tell the others to fall in line or suffer the same fate.”

  Eight messages; eight areas that gave the Grid total control. Extra foot soldiers to add to the band of watchers. Tyrone was content with his morning’s work. Now, he must visit the Glencairn Bank. He expected more good news on the financial front to greet him when he arrived. Within an hour he could stroll up Gresham Street to a French restaurant he loved. All work and no play never did anyone any good.

  Tyrone returned to his penthouse at four in the afternoon. He phoned Frank Rooney.

  “You might hear of activity in a few trouble-spots over the next day or two, Frank,” he said, “don’t worry, it won’t affect you.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” said Frank. He breathed a sigh of relief. His run-in with Colleen O’Riordan must have slipped her son’s mind. He got on better with the son and hoped that they could build a solid relationship. It seemed possible.

  “I’m keen to build on the successes I expect before the week’s out, Frank,” Tyrone continued. “I’m implementing a country-wide search for these busybodies that keep hampering our activities. What I need from our gang leaders is eyes and ears on the street. Photographs too, if it’s possible. Pick people you can afford to lose for a period, but make sure you can rely on them. I’ll send the details to everyone this evening.”

  “Always glad to help,” said Frank.

  “The reason I called you direct is we need to firm up our plan for this Trojan Horse.”

  “What’s that when it’s at home?” asked Frank.

  He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the box.

  “It’s from Greek myth, Frank. The story doesn’t matter. What you need to know is it represents a person we get inside this organisation. His role will be to help us undermine it and destroy it from the inside.”

  “Ah, the expendable scrote I thought of when you asked last week. Got it, we get him picked up for questioning, and if they take him back to their headquarters, we’ve got them.”

  “Only if they take him back, Frank. Then, we need him to be useful enough for them to keep him alive. Otherwise, they’ll interrogate him for information on us, and we’ll become the target. What guarantee do we have they won’t kill him? We need a strategy that works to our advantage, whichever way they play it.”

  “Tricky,” said Frank, totally lost.

  Tyrone expected nothing useful to come fr
om the other end of the line.

  “Leave the thinking to me, Frank. Make sure you’ve got the right guy available when I call him.”

  “Got it, boss,” said Frank.

  Tyrone worked on methods of getting their man on the inside and sending them details of the secret base’s location. Whether that man came out alive afterwards wasn’t important.

  *****

  Wednesday, 1st October 2014

  Phoenix and Rusty were on the road early; their destination North London. Day One of their missions against gangs of youths in the city had begun.

  “We may miss an update on the O’Riordan’s this morning,” said Rusty, as he eased into the flow of traffic on the M4.

  “We can’t help that,” said Phoenix, searching through the glove- box for his CDs.

  “Those changes at the top of the Grid came as a shock, didn’t they?” asked Rusty.

  “I remember Athena telling me it was vital to know your enemy. We had distractions this last month, but it’s unacceptable to fall one or two steps behind. Whether that’s the Grid, the terrorists, or any opposition we face. The whole point of the ice-house is to keep us right on the money with intelligence.”

  “I’ll have a word with Artemis,” said Rusty, “tell her to pull her finger out.”

  “I don’t blame Artemis or Giles. The system was state-of-the-art when Erebus had it installed. Things have moved so fast in that world. Your kit can be out-of-date inside two years. We may need to consider forking out for an upgrade. Perhaps that’s the best way to approach the matter with Artemis?”

  “Try to blind her with the promise of something shiny and new? Rather than tell her she’s coming up short with the piece of kit she uses now? If that’s your plan, I’ll leave you to tell her.”

  Phoenix pretended he hadn’t heard. He wondered what state the safe house had been left in they were staying in tonight. They were used to the place in Chiswick. It was easy to access from the M4, and in general, it was one of the better safe houses. Properties that Olympus used in the north of the city were unfamiliar to him.

  “We turn off at the Hogarth roundabout,” said Rusty. “We should be in St John’s Wood a half-hour later.”

  “What class of an area is it?” asked Phoenix.

  “I’m not sure you’ll be interested, but the safe house is a two-minute walk from Lord’s cricket ground. The boundaries of St. John's Wood are the Regent's Canal to the south, Maida Vale to the west, Boundary Road to the north and Primrose Hill Park to the east. Little Venice, and London Zoo are on our doorstep. It’s a posh neighbourhood. If you own a property in NW8 you live in the fifth most expensive postcode in London. The rents for residents are the highest average in the whole of London.”

  “That’s good to know,” said Phoenix, “we should enjoy it while we can though. If we need that computer upgrade, I’ll suggest to Athena we sell this place. We’ll stick out around here.”

  “We’re staying there for a reason. It’s a hot-spot for this spate of attacks by kids on scooters.”

  “How did these things become such a menace?” asked Phoenix, “I can remember kids at school on mopeds, and scooters. A few progressed to proper motorbikes, but as soon as the weather turned cold they booked in for driving lessons.”

  “Minos and Alastor analysed reports from last year of the sharp increase in offences committed in the capital. Minos reckoned the first six months of this year has seen a further steep rise in reported incidents. We’re tasked with nipping this problem in the bud.”

  “Yeah, I read their analysis,” said Phoenix, “well, I skimmed through it.”

  Rusty smiled. They had passed Reading. Another hour and they would arrive at the safe house. It wasn’t difficult to understand the attraction for the feral teenagers of today. Easy enough to steal a scooter, and the second-hand market in the new iPhone was strong.

  They stole a bike, covered their heads with helmets or balaclavas and rode away. The driver cruised the leafy streets around the affluent boroughs, and the pillion passenger grabbed handbags and phones. Easy pickings. The national pastime in the UK had become walking with a phone in your hand, not concentrating on what went on around you. Even when crossing the road.

  When the lads moved into an urban environment, they added delivery drivers to their shopping list. Vans and motorcycles stopped every few hundred yards in the city for at least sixteen hours a day. Mobiles were still a target, but the van drivers carried cash too, so the older boys stopped and mugged them.

  It was small-scale at present, but as Minos stressed, the police should do more to stop its spread. The public was as much to blame. They needed to be more aware of their surroundings. Rusty wondered why the scooter manufacturers and the phone companies didn’t toughen up their security.

  Rusty remembered the last sentence in the report. Calling on his years of experience in the High Court, Minos had warned that crime can shift up a gear. What starts out as a rash of petty crimes escalates to a stage where serious offences are more common. Minos highlighted an occasional acid attack among the more serious incidents.

  While Phoenix rested beside him, not offering to start a conversation, or make him suffer a musical interlude, the traffic continued to build. They crawled through the streets from Chiswick to their destination, arriving at the safe house at eleven fifteen.

  “This looks terrific,” said Phoenix, “it’s a shame it’s only for one night.”

  The two friends moved their gear inside. The five-bedroomed detached house was several steps up the ladder from Chiswick. They found little or no food, as normal. Their first visit had to be at a supermarket. Parking looked a nightmare in the district, so they elected to walk.

  As they left the store with their provisions, Phoenix nudged his mate.

  “Over there,” he said, “where those scooters and bikes are parked in the staff section.”

  Rusty spotted two lads, fourteen or fifteen years old. They were furtive in their movements, looking to see if anyone nearby watched them. Then one lad darted to a scooter in the rack. He grabbed the handlebars and twisted them hard, breaking the steering lock. Rusty watched as the pair then wheeled the scooter away.

  “They didn’t bother to check for a tracker,” he said. “My guess is they’ll whip out the ignition barrel, cross the wires, and be mobile in five minutes time.”

  “Let’s get these bags back to the house,” said Phoenix. “Have a bite to eat, and then look for these little villains.”

  In the distance, they could hear the buzzing sound of a scooter revving its engine. Those kids were in business.

  “What can they expect to earn from these ride-by robberies?” asked Phoenix.

  “Two hundred and fifty quid for five minutes work,” replied Rusty.

  Phoenix shook his head in disbelief. Minos had convinced Athena this caper worthy of their time. He wasn’t sure when it first surfaced. Olympus wouldn’t take any of these kids out of the game permanently, and Henry didn’t want them in the ice-house crying for their mothers. A short, sharp shock was what Athena had ordered.

  If these muggings equated to three grand an hour, then it was well worth him giving these scumbags the shock of their young lives. All they had to do now was catch a few in the act.

  The two agents left the safe house before five in the afternoon. They carried the gear they planned to use inside their zipped jackets.

  Phoenix was the bait. He strolled along the pavement with an iPhone in his right hand. In his ears, earplugs suggested he listened to his beloved Judas Priest. In fact, he was in constant contact with Rusty who followed him, at a distance, in the van.

  Two scooters buzzed past the van like angry hornets. The leading bike slowed as he passed Phoenix. The second mounted the pavement and crawled up behind him.

  “He’s five yards behind you, Phoenix. Three, two, one… go,” said Rusty.

  As the pillion passenger made his move Phoenix removed his left hand from his jacket. He batted away the grabbi
ng hand with his right arm and used the stun gun on the rider. The young lad tried to accelerate away from danger, but three seconds is plenty to cause loss of muscle control and loss of balance and disorientation. The bike was on its side, both boys lay on the floor.

  Rusty had already pulled in front of them and stopped the van. He opened the doors and bundled the bike and the two lads into the back. Phoenix jumped inside the van with them. He covered his face and threw hoods over their heads, securing their hands behind their backs. Rusty drove back to the safe house. Less than ninety seconds had passed since the initial grab for the phone and the van leaving the scene.

  At the safe house, Phoenix and Rusty dragged the boys indoors. Rusty took off the driver’s helmet. He looked seventeen, maybe eighteen and had almost recovered. The stun gun Phoenix had used delivered a lower voltage than a standard Taser and the buzz lasted only two seconds. Henry Case reckoned the likely recovery period at ten minutes maximum.

  When he removed his pillion passenger’s helmet, Phoenix was shocked to find the boy looked about twelve.

  “Time for you to listen, boys,” said Phoenix, “you won’t get a second chance.”

  “You ain’t the police,” said the older boy, “they don’t care.”

  “Why do you do it?” asked Rusty.

  “It’s easy money, how else am I going to earn that much? We stick to our own patch because we know the streets. If we go up West though, we can hit rich tourists with better quality phones.”

  “Do you realise the harm you cause your victims?” asked Phoenix.

  The older boy laughed.

  “Are you for real? People can get a better phone tomorrow on their insurance. That’s why the police don’t bother with it. There are no victims here. They ain’t going to chase us.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Rusty

  “They can’t follow if we aren’t wearing a helmet. Health and safety stuff, so if we pick up a tail, my brother takes his off, and we’re home free.”

  Phoenix took photos of both boys and the helmets they wore.