The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (26 page)

“True. What about the dogs, though?” enquired Simon, “cheeky sod’s hired two rotties. They're something to reckon with
and
they're likely to raise the alarm.”

"Rottweilers are a serious business," agreed Eddy. "If one of those sets in I doubt that there's a man here who'd survive the attack."

"This might sound cocky, but I really think
we
can handle that side of things," said Duane confidently. "We've had some good info, though we need to double-check first." The Mendez brothers, who'd already agreed to mark Gorby and Wheeler, hit on a scheme to eliminate the dogs at the same time, though their solution seemed rather too nebulous for Eddy.

"Make absolutely
sure
of what you're doing, and get that side of things under control early on. Meanwhile, we'll need to think up a good ‘Plan B’.
As for the rest of the gang, from the size of this crowd we can mark each one individually with men to spare. No fuss or noise though: we don’t want the boat crew alerted."

Romantic as the challenge seemed while the beer was talking, beneath enthusiasm hovered reality. They were to encounter a real and dangerous situation, and the crowd fell silent as Eddy called for order.

“Skuce…" he said slowly, “is the lowlife equivalent of a malignant growth - the sort that costs money to have removed. You’re more likely to have heard him referred to as ‘Skull’ - moved from London to Plymouth some years ago. He couldn’t make it on his own territory, but he and the two nutters he wheels around are dangerous – they’re the only gang members likely to be armed. Myself, Bart and Simon will mark those three, though if there's any indication that they
are
armed, we alert police and leave 'em to it.”

As high as spirits had risen, all agreed on avoiding involvement if firearms were suspected.

“But we’ll give ‘em bloody some stick if they ain't!" roared Bart.

Outside it was a mild, still night, only a muted breeze drifting gently up from the bay. A severe storm had been forecast on the late news, however, and as often happens, Cornwall was to be hit first.  "It will most likely arrive," predicted the forecaster, "tomorrow evening."

"Hope there isn't a queue at the Balti." Bart and Si jigged to the music of the practicing band as they made for the village. "Sign the season's approaching as they're gettin' extra rehearsals in."

After a bellyful of curry and chips, they made their way home - singing the tune adapted for the occasion. The band had packed up and all was quiet as they gave their rendition of Bright Eyes... with slightly altered words.

“Sma-art arse, burrrrnin’ like fi-er…" Merry as they were, on spotting a distant figure, the pair fell suddenly silent… Made for cover.

*

Well before dawn the following morning, a one-man dinghy glided as silently as a cloud across the bay. The oarsman rowed out until he located a buoy some distance from the bay. Anchored to a lug on the buoy was a large snap-hook – a huge version of the type used on dog leads – as opposed to a conventional shackle. Trailing from the hook and running back to land was a lightweight steel cable. A number of lengths of fraying nylon ropes - no heavier than clothes-lines - trailed from the lug on the buoy also. The steel cable, he guessed, would be attached to a dinghy loaded with the consignment and towed in from the shore.

“So
that’s
how they get the haul in!”

He'd pondered for hours as to how anyone could convey a cargo - however light - back to land in darkness. Apart from the shallow sandy area used by bathers, the rest of the bay was strewn with submerged rocks, some only inches beneath the surface. He could now
see that a boat wouldn't need to approach the shore, less still hang about. The dinghy and its cargo could be lowered from a boat and secured to the buoy with flimsy line, which would retain the dinghy only until it was winched in via the cable. The temporary line would then snap, as had the other frayed pieces still hanging from the buoy!

The boat wouldn’t need to hang around, just flash a signal to the shore… and away…

The silhouetted figure detached the shore-line clip from the lug on the buoy and attached it instead to a heavy grapnel-anchor which he lowered to the sea-bed. He was satisfied that when the winch was operated from the shore, the anchor would gouge into the sea bed and snap the cable - or at least give hindrance to the winch operator. He then clipped a substitute snap-hook to the lug on the buoy, and slowly let out a stout cord as he rowed slowly back across the bay. The cord trailed in his wake as the oarsman paddled the
borrowed
summer-hire boat to the cover of a craggy outcrop.

The evening before, as soon as he’d put down the phone after speaking to Greg, Eddy had hurried down to the bay in the fading light - carrying only lightweight binoculars. He'd noted the strategically anchored buoy, inconspicuous among several others, but had remained silent until he’d inspected it more closely. He was now confident that he and the agile twins could board the boat when it arrived and take the crew by surprise -
after
allowing a crew member to unwittingly attach the cargo to the substitute line. The consignment could then be towed out of harm's way from the rocks where Eddy was about to tie up.

*

Eddy volunteered to give up his
half of his day off to open for Vi that morning - leaving the old lady free to visit her sister. The minute he opened the door, the bar was flooded with estate workers and country club members - all anxious to join in that night’s action.

Just hope I can control 'em all
.

Even Fergal Haye had taken a rare day off so as not to miss the excitement, though for his own sake, it was decided the less he knew the better: it was considered much easier to keep him in ignorance than explain the situation.

Bart and Si were anxious to pass on information they’d gleaned the night before, so they drew Eddy aside for a moment.

“When we came back from the curry-house last night, we spotted Vance,” explained Bart anxiously, “waitin; outside the main gates to Penmaric House. We hung about in bushes to see what he was up to.” So keen were the pair to recount their experience they began speaking simultaneously, at which Eddy elected Bart as spokesman to avoid confusion.

“Well,” continued Bart, “we saw Skuce and his cronies pull up in an old Jag. Vance got in and they sat talking. Luckily we managed to get close enough to hear snatches through the open rear window.” Bart paused for breath as though the incident was still taking place.

"Go on,” urged Eddy. “What was said?”

“Vance was threatening Skuce with his life,” continued Bart, “said it was only the incompetence of local police that had prevented the whole operation being blown. I know he's a psycho, but Skuce never argued.”

“He wouldn't,” remarked Eddy. “Vance has enough clout to exterminate him at the drop of a hat. What happened then?”

“Vance accused Skuce of killing Nigel!” said Simon, unable to contain the information any longer, “
and
his girlfriend.”

“I'm sure he's right,” said Eddy with a deep sigh, “and?"

“Apparently Skuce had been sent to put the frighteners on for some reason, but Nigel took the piss after he made some sort of pass at Jacky. Skuce left the flat seething, but swore he never went back. Well, if he didn't, we all know
someone
did: blasted the pair of 'em. With Nigel’s own silenced pistol evidently: he'd kept it fully loaded on the table beside him for defence. Skuce admitted seeing the pistol but flatly denied using it."

“A few things don’t add up, though," commented Eddy. "Surely some of the comings and goings must be recorded on CCTV - and I can't see Skuce being smart enough to set up Jacky's body well enough to convince the law it was suicide. I also fail to see what motive CID believe Jacky might have had for killing Nigel before turning the gun on herself."

"Word is Jacky's brother died as a result of cocaine abuse," put in Si. "Apparently she was being treated for a bi-polar disorder and was quite paranoid at times. The fact that Nigel had been grilled on suspicion of running drugs could have flipped her lid: they'd been questioned by police again the day before."

Eddy nodded thoughtfully. "I hear the flat’s in Baxter Street; isn't that where they re-housed that perv quite recently?"

"Smout, you mean? The one the press made all the hoo-ha about: state's paying for him to live in a luxury apartment in a classy area. I think it
was
Baxter, but what's that got to do with anything?"

“Nothing really; just trying to place the area. Go on."

“Not much more to tell. We didn't hear much for some time after that, other than that Vance was relieved it hadn’t drawn attention to his
operation.
"

“They were left in a state from what I hear,” said Bart, “coldblooded bastard.” 

“Greg found Nigel,” Eddy’s voice betrayed a rare tremor of emotion, "though fortunately he never saw Jacky. Whatever the outcome is, tomorrow you must report what you heard.”

“If I haven’t murdered the bastard myself by then,” said Bart.

Eddy shook his head doubtfully. “We’re going to be treading on dangerous ground.”

“You haven’t heard the good news yet!” Bart grinned, almost tumbling over his words.

"There's
good
news?"

 “Yes - Vance has got the wind up. We could hear him when he got out of the car to leave. He made it abundantly clear he’d exterminate all three personally if they were found with firearms again.”

"That
is
good news.” Eddy brightened visibly. "Nothing to stop 'em carrying knives, mind, but with the surprise element on our side we've a good chance.”

“Don’t you think we'd be safer calling the law
now
?” asked Simon with an uncharacteristic show of nerves.

“No!” Eddy was emphatic. “Vance will draw his horns in and stop the boat. They'll
never
be caught… besides which, I want a crack at Vance and Skuce myself.”

Throughout all the discussion, Fergal Haye had stood quietly giving, without effort, the impression most of it had gone over his head. No one noticed the fire in his eyes when he’d heard that Nigel and Jacky had been killed, probably by Skuce. Fergal liked Nigel, but had formed an obsession with Jacky, and although he didn’t even blink, anguish began festering in his head.

A lull fell on the proceedings as Gorby’s Lada pulled onto the car park, and he entered the bar with Wheeler.

“Never this many in on a
Sunday
lunchtime,” sniggered Gorby as he pushed his way to the bar, “is it bank holiday?”

“Country club,” said Eddy, anxious that the gathering shouldn’t arouse suspicion, “change to see
you
on a weekday. Day off, is it?”

“Been to collect some gear,” he mocked, “about time
you
found a hobby.”

“What gear’s that then, Cyril?” Eddy chose to ignore the sneer.

Gorby hoisted a black leatherette bag onto the counter for all to see, while his grey little friend rotated his head jerkily around at the inmates. “What’s think of that lot, eh?” asked Cyril as he produced a brand new thirty-five millimeter camera, along with lenses, filters and so on.

“Very nice.” Eddy’s approval took Gorby aback - as was intended. “Interesting hobby, that."

“Well, with the light nights coming, while I’m patrolling the estate – I'm sure you’ll have heard I’ll be working for
Mister
Vance – there'll be lots of opportunities to use it.”

Eddy avoided asking why the estate should suddenly need security in case it set the pair thinking. “I thought you were doing the books?” he pumped, though the pair just smirked.

“I’ve already got a centre-fold girl lined up,” gloated Cyril, his puffy face shiny with conceit as he showed Eddy the camera’s functions.

"Do you run your own pic’s off?" enquired Bart. "Never knew you was into stuff like that."

"I will be doing… once I can afford a printer. Meanwhile a friend will process them: knows all about trimming and enhancement, so he's going to teach me on his computer. Now," he said as he left for the toilet, “you must excuse me, I need a wee.”

“Your missis says you already have one,” retorted the barman. Wheeler smiled as he trailed after his partner like the lapdog he was, Gorby turning to call as he left the bar.

“Keep an eye on my camera.”

“No problem there,” replied Eddy.
I intend doing just that.

“Smile!” he called: The instant the door closed he pointed the camera at Fergal, who willingly went through his repertoire with the professionalism of a male centre-fold… in wellingtons.

“Great. Beautiful. Superb...” mimicked Eddy as the camera flashed away, Fergal having dropped his trousers to give various displays. The instant the door creaked open the camera was back on the counter, Fergal, despite his size, resuming his position with the speed of a quick-change artist.

Eddy then signaled to the hapless pair to close in and listen, glaring in Fergal’s direction as if in disapproval. “Keep an eye on him,” he whispered as they glanced nervously at the giant. “Cracking up altogether, I reckon.”

“Never liked the bastard,” quaked Cyril, “typical navvy I reckon. Any bloke as eats onions to freshen his breath wants watchin'!”

“It’s not just his normal stupidity,” continued the barman, “he’s taken to dressing up... at night, and roaming round. Just warning you in case he wanders onto the estate that’s all. Wicked bleeder when he’s had a few.”

“He’ll be treading on dangerous ground if he disturbs those dogs Vance has hired,” said Wheeler with a conceited grin, “He’ll really have something on his plate with that pair.”

“Dunno." Eddy stared hard at the pair. "Last time Fergal got bit, the
dog
ended up having treatment - for alcoholic poisoning. Then there was the time he fell off his bike, pissed as ever,” he continued. “Passer by who stopped to help finished up in hospital... an' police are still lookin' for a hit and run driver!”

Eddy could see by that stage that the pair were spooked, so he chose to change the subject. “Has Vance moved in? ‘Cos I didn’t think the sale had gone thorough yet?”

 “It will do soon,” said Cyril glibly, his guard dropping by the second, “he’s getting things in order first. That’s why Ivor and me will be doing night patrols – to keep an eye on things for him, eh Sid?”

“Nice to be doing a bit again.” The ex-undertaker forced a smile as he revolved his head, lizard-style. “Not as I need the money, mind.”

“No, course not,” agreed Eddy with an ambiguous wink “What will you be looking out for anyway? Vance isn’t expecting Oliver Cromwell back is he?”

“I don’t suppose he is,” said Gorby with a smarmy grin. “We’re looking after the top part of the estate, for your information - to ensure no unwelcome visitors enter from the road.” Eddy had heard all he wanted, and remained tight-lipped until the pair drank up and left.

‘OK you lot,” he called to the gathering, “now that Burke and Hare are out of the way, we'll run through tactics again."

Chapter Seventeen

It was seven thirty on the foulest evening Gorby and Wheeler had ever known. The pair sat huddled uncomfortably in Cyril’s Cossack-red Lada while a storm raged outside, no moon to afford even the vaguest view through the rain-lashed windows.

“They reckon it’ll be nice when this lot’s blown over,” said Wheeler with a protracted yawn, “be a good job when it
does
.”

Gorby nodded: he was bored with boring Wheeler to death, and even more bored with Wheeler’s boring small talk - in fact he was bored with the whole boring set up. He wished he’d never volunteered for the stupid
night-watch
business, and longed desperately to be back home in the comfort of his bed. The sight of his wife’s huge, adipose rear was preferable to that of rain coursing down the windscreen - though only marginally.

“I’ve been trying to do too much lately,” he whined, “Haven’t even had chance to renew the car insurance - lapsed yesterday.”

“It isn’t
insured
?” squeaked Wheeler. “We’ve been riding round in a car that isn’t insured? - Stubbs will have you off the road if he gets wind.”

“Stubbs always gets wind, and we’re not
on
the road, Ivor.
And
it only expired yesterday; so we’re covered - legally at least - for another fortnight.” Gorby’s tedium lifted slightly: he was relieved he’d found fresh, if suspect, fodder to tire his companion with. “It's a legal requirement that motor insurance companies allow third party cover for fourteen days after expiry date. And I don’t intend having an accident...” Gorby hadn’t finished when he heard a noise from near the main entrance. He stopped speaking and gawped at a loud, growling noise, audible even over the squally rain. Wheeler had obviously heard it too, noted Cyril: his complexion was suddenly translucent. Gorby turned off the interior light and lowered the window, though by only a quarter inch, in a sham display of bravado.

“Probably one of the dogs,” said Wheeler… almost hopefully in the circumstances.

“Can’t be,” replied his trembling friend, “Skuce has got them, and he’s down along the bay.”

“Think we’d better take a look?” suggested Wheeler unenthusiastically, “just in case.”

After a lot of deliberation, and only because neither was prepared to admit his terror, the pair climbed out and waved their torches half-heartedly around the undergrowth - almost afraid of disturbing something. The wind had dropped briefly, and both men became braver on finding nothing amiss.