Animal Instinct (21 page)

Having removed the top layer of bin bags, he heaved the body onto the rim of the bin, pushed it over the side and covered it with the remaining bags of rubbish. He returned to the pub with her clothing and the shoulder bag. As a member of bar staff arrived before he had time to dispose of these items, he secreted them upstairs in the privacy of his flat. Sighing with some relief, he attempted to conduct the remainder of the day as normal as possible.

The lunchtime session was brisk until mid afternoon, at which point his curiosity drew him to retire to the flat to check the contents of the shoulder bag. Besides the usual assortment of cosmetics and hair-care paraphernalia, there was a pair of jeans, a tee shirt, fresh underwear, a small purse containing almost twelve pounds in cash and a bulky envelope. On opening the latter, he discovered a letter from a private clinic in Northway. It was attached to several hundred pounds in fifties and twenties The contents of the letter together with the large sum of money needed no further explanation. He sank back in his armchair and callously smiled. Well, at least I've done her a favour, he thought, and I've saved her the expense. Pity she's no longer here to reap the benefit.

Placing the wad of notes to one side, he burned the envelope and the letter in an ashtray. He stuffed the clothes from the bag together with her original clothes into another empty bin liner, tying the loose ends together and took it to the yard where he threw it into the almost full ‘wheelie bin’. Back inside the building, he placed the the shoulder bag and its remaining contents, including the stolen cash, in his office safe. Returning to the flat, he reflected on how and when he was going to cover his tracks and dispose of all the incriminating evidence.

The undulating emotions, which had tormented his mind, gradually subsided. He had bought some time to assess his predicament and was now in a position to think logically about concealing his transgression. A game plan began to evolve, but first he needed to carry out some research whilst it was still daylight. Leaving a member of staff in charge, he drove towards the car park exit, a large gap in the crumbling brick wall at the rear of the pub. Heavy double gates were in the open position, lodged solid into the tarmac by their sheer weight and age, allowing access day and night.

He turned towards the town by-pass. Calm down, act normal, he told himself. Usually the cassette player would be resonating with the hits of Bruce Springsteen, but that day he drove in silence. This was certainly not a normal day. In his mind, he relived the events of the morning as if, by so doing, he could erase the memory or convince himself that it had all been just a dream. What had started as a beautiful April dawn had mutated into a desperate nightmare.

Reaching the by-pass, he headed towards Chester and a secluded scrubland area with which he was acquainted, a favourite haunt over the years for courting couples or illicit liaisons, especially late at night. He reckoned it an ideal location to dispose of an unwanted corpse and the other incriminating evidence under cover of darkness. Firstly, however, he needed this daytime visit to reconnoitre a well-concealed spot. At Little Budworth, he turned into Park Road which continued towards the racing circuit at Oulton Park. Spread over several acres, the venue was surrounded by high perimeter walls.

Close-by, dissected by the Coach Road, were large tracts of heath-land covered by trees and bushes. The whole area was crisscrossed by narrow sandy lanes interspersed with the odd clearing that lay hidden amongst the undergrowth. Some of these tracks disappeared from view into cavernous clumps of overgrown shrubbery and woodland where unwitting explorers could lose themselves within the maze which nature had innocently created.

Throwing up a screen of sandy dust particles in his wake, he drove deeper into the heart of this dense wasteland until he discovered a suitable spot for his planned activity. Amid some giant gorse bushes, a track disappeared into the dark recesses of the undergrowth. He switched off the car engine. Nothing stirred.

The silence was shattered only by the screech of a lone magpie flapping high into the trees as he stepped from the vehicle. How does the saying go, he thought…one for sorrow…two for joy? An immediate cold sensation shuddered down his spine.

He threaded his way along the narrow path until more gorse and brambles prevented further progress. The ground was soft and sandy. Dead leaves and rotted vegetation covered any space left amongst the gigantic ferns that erupted on all sides like a mass of undulating fans. He kicked out at the earth to ensure it would be not too difficult to dig. Satisfied with his choice he returned to the car where he looked skywards as shafts of sunlight filtered down through the enveloping canopy.

The possibility of a moon that night crossed his mind. Momentarily, he weighed the advantages of a clear night against the disadvantages, reversed his car into the narrow gap, turned and drove back through the more open scrubland towards the main road. Mission accomplished.

As it was the last day before the Easter weekend, the pub was busy when he returned. Secure in the knowledge that his plan was infallible, he immersed himself in his role as mine host. The bar closed at eleven o'clock, but, by the time the tables had been cleared, the glasses washed and the last customer had departed, it was past midnight. After bidding farewell to the staff, he set about removing the evidence of his crime.

A high brick wall on three sides enclosed the yard that contained the waste bins. It was secure and hidden from public view. Access from the car park was through double wooden gates set in the end wall. He reversed his Mondeo estate towards the doors to enable him to load the illicit cargo before transporting it to its designated destination in the scrubland.

The creaking of the doors as he stepped back into the yard broke the silence of the night. The misty orange glow of the adjacent street lamps illuminated the area like a damp Victorian fog. He looked across the car park. Some late night drinkers were passing the open gate on the far side as they headed home laden with fish or curry suppers from the local takeaway. They quickly passed from view.

He had decided that to extract the girl's corpse, he would have to pull the huge bin onto its side, allowing the bundles of plastic sacks to topple out, including hers. The bins were heavy, especially when full. Placing his leg against the wall as leverage, he wrenched the front handle towards himself, expecting the bin to slowly fall away from the wall. The container flew over and past him, thundering and resonating onto the concrete surface with a hollow sound.

The deafening noise echoed in the stillness. He leaped to one side, partly to avoid being crushed and partly in dread of the awful consequences from the terrible din that he had created. His first thoughts were to check the car park and close the gates to the yard. In his panic, however, he lifted the lid of the container. His fears were compounded by the realisation that it was empty.
Fuckin' hell! Where were the contents? Where was the girl's body?

*****

Sean leaned back against the pile of rope by the cellar drop, anguished not merely by the vivid memory of that fateful day, but more so by the revelation in the cemetary. He was inconsolable. Repeatedly, he asked himself the same question through his tears. Why? Oh why?

Grief-stricken, he stood up and dragged the rope into the centre of the cellar. In that instant, his life became a blur. Nothing mattered any longer.

*****

At precisely ten o'clock in the evening, the armed response units arrived at police headquarters in Winsford. At eleven o'clock, team leaders were asked to convene in the canteen. The commanders of the operation spelled out the roles of each individual team and explained how they would combine towards the overall strategy. Massey was fortunate to engineer his team to enter the premises with the second wave.

There were four entrances to the Barleycorn, two at the rear of the building and two at the front. One rear door opened into the bottle yard from both the catering kitchen and the stairs leading to the manager's private flat. The other provided an exit from the main lounge bar to the car park. At the front of the pub, there was the main entrance to the bars and the door to the residents’ accommodation. Between the front wall of the building and the main road, there was a three metre wide cobbled area. A heavy wooden trap door was set into the ground giving access to the beer cellar. There was no plan to breach this, but merely to guard it as a precaution against any suspects who may attempt to use it as an escape route.

Once they had gained access to the premises, Massey and his team were to station themselves in the main lounge area. Their role would be to process the arrested suspects before police vans transported them away for interrogation. Two helicopters would be on standby, hovering outside the boundaries of the town as a further precaution against ‘escapees’.

The plan was to commence the operation at three o'clock in the morning. In Massey's judgement, the local police force had been subjected to an unnecessary long wait for the sake of maintaining secrecy over a surprise raid, the preparation of which had commenced far too early. Food and drink was available for all participants but some officers had spent a long day with their normal routines and sustenance alone was inadequate compensation. Consequently, tiredness and irritability were prevalent particularly amongst some of the older team members. Tempers were wearing thin; it was to be a long, hard night.

Two members of the security team had been despatched to pose as customers at the Barleycorn and linger until the venue shut down for the night, all customers were off the premises and the immediate area was clear. Their call would verify that the adjacent roads were ready for roadblocks and some of the peripheral units could move into position.

Massey and his team spent some time in the canteen discussing football, which team was most likely to win the Premiership, the state of the England team, the demise of the other Home Nations and other mundane issues. A man dressed in navy blue fatigues, a bullet-proof vest and armed with a Heckler and Koch MP7 personal defence weapon crossed towards their table.

“Inspector Massey?” he enquired.

Massey turned to face the stranger.

“Dan Shabailly, Special Forces,” he announced. “Pleased to meet you. I'm looking for D.C. Turner. Is he here with your team?”

Massey pointed across the table. Shabailly walked around, shook Turner's hand and asked if it were possible to speak with him in private. Turner nodded and rose from his chair, somewhat bewildered, as were the rest of the team.

“What's that all about?” asked Roker.

Massey grinned. “Your colleague has been doing some undercover work for the security forces. I can't say any more than that.”

There was a short silence. “The sly dog,” exclaimed Roker. “We have a mole in the team!”

The conversation changed dramatically from football gossip to speculate on Turner's secret mission. A few minutes later, the two men returned.

“Look after our man here, Inspector,” said Shabailly. “Tonight's operation would not have taken place without his quick thinking. Good luck for later.” He addressed Turner. “You can fill in your colleagues now. Forget the official secrets crap…it's no longer relevant…everything is now out in the open. Once again, thanks for your diligence.” The agent walked away.

“Well, go on then…tell us what it's like to be a spy,” said Roker.

Turner seemed somewhat embarrassed and looked across at Massey.

“It's okay,” said the inspector. “Give them the full works.” He looked at his watch. “At least it will keep us entertained for the next hour or so!”

At fifteen minutes before three, all teams reported in to central control that they were in place and ready to commence their designated duties. At three o'clock precisely, armed squads breached the four main doors of the building simultaneously. The main task force mounted the stairs to the residents’ rooms. A smaller group entered the manager's flat. Other squads secured the remaining areas of the building. Minutes later, Massey and his team were ordered to their pre-determined station in the main lounge bar.

Despite tremendous noise and the appearance of total confusion, the operation was a resounding success, although there was no sign of Sean O’Malley. The forensic team commenced their investigation of the bedrooms as the occupants were forced to vacate each one in turn. The ‘students’ were escorted individually downstairs to be processed. Moran was apprehended and handcuffed to a uniformed officer. He was brought before Massey's team.

“Mr. Callaghan, I presume,” said the inspector. “As a horse racing expert, what d'you reckon the odds are on doing a life term?” He turned to Dan Shabailly. “Don't lose this one. When you've thrown the book at him, cast him back in my direction. I reckon that we shall find sufficient evidence to charge him with the murder of Mary Cole and possibly Lara Crawford.”

For once, Moran had nothing to say. He was taken away towards the waiting police vans. D.C.I. Wainwright appeared and approached Massey and Shabailly.

“You had better follow me down to the beer cellar. We've found O’Malley.”

*****

Massey sat on a beer keg adjacent to several cylinders of carbon dioxide gas. O’Malley's corpse swayed gently back and forth, suspended by a stout rope from a reinforced steel joist. Wainwright looked across at Shabailly and raised his eyes towards the cellar ceiling and the floors above.

“How do you see this, then…retribution by Moran and his terror squad up there for services rendered?”

“It's possible,” replied Shabailly. “O’Malley was ex-I.R.A. but in return for information, received a second chance from us. He must have been under pressure from Moran to keep quiet, because we would not have had any inside knowledge of this little scenario, but for your man, Turner, and the tip-off from the cleaner. You will need help from forensics before you can draw the right conclusions. I reckon that it could be suicide, given that his ‘old man’ went the same way when O’Malley was just a teenager. Perhaps guilt and the process of dealing with guilt run in the family.”