The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 6

I can certainly see the appeal of this particular spot of Manchester, if covert international business and quick getaways are your sort of thing.

  ‘So, Felix has a warehouse down there by the Lowry, and a residence up there just by the main waterside properties. It’s that one with the tall windows, just away from all the others.’ Jack points, and I follow his finger from a medium-sized blue warehouse, nothing more than a big corrugated iron box with a jetty, and a beautiful looking piece of property that could only really be described as palatial. Floor to ceiling windows are correct, but they are from the very floor of the property to the very ceiling of the second floor, a wooden clad waterside retreat of the highest order. A joke about crime paying threatens to be cracked, but I choose against it.

  ‘It’s perfect’, I say. ‘You can see everything from there.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jack says. ‘Including us.’ And with that, Jack waves at Tricky’s house, in a rather jovial manner. He follows it up by standing for a couple of seconds with outstretched arms, his features imploring recognition. ‘Like you say - we get his attention’, he adds.

  I’m growing increasingly wary. If this group, the Berg, really are apex predators in Manchester’s grimy criminal ecosystem, prodding a wounded animal at this time when they have just lost one of their own is perhaps not the best thing to do. But Jack seems to think he’s a little untouchable as far as Felix is concerned. I hope he is right, and in fairness to him, he’s not been too wrong so far.

  In situations where friction is imminent, planning and control are the two elements that prevent haphazard escalation and things getting out of hand. The events of the morning have spiraled, but only in terms of information. I feel an urge to expand on intel, and start at least formulating a line of inquiry. The prospect of action is looming ever closer, but it resembles more of a distant heady fog than an ordered staccato timeframe. I know I’m good at thinking on my feet, but there is no substitute for information. If this is the way for Jack to get it, then that’s fine. But there are a shitload of variables to this one. And waving at a crime-lord’s house does not sit atop the pile as the shrewdest thing to do.

  I sit on the bonnet of the Lexus, and wait. Jack lowers his arms and sits next to me, our eyes fixed on the house across the water, our ears filled with the soft hush of breeze and the shriek of gulls.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, but I stop him from answering. ‘That’s not really for you to answer, more that I just want you to take your feelings into account. Don’t get carried away. Front and centre, you want a name. If Felix has one, take it. Then let’s plan the next move accordingly. I am no good to you if you fizz off on your own, flying off the handle. If you get a name, we get our heads together, and we build something with a beginning, middle and end, with multiple entrances, exits and contingencies. If we need to act with urgency, then we’ll take that as it comes. Do you understand that?’

  ‘OK’ Jack replies.

  But something else is bothering me. Even though I feel as if I want to help Jack, that somehow our journeys are interconnected, I’m still not sure why he asked me. I feel that my concern is worth attacking straight on, because while I am here and will happily attend to some garbage-removal on behalf of this poor city, Jack seems like he’s got enough bottle to step out on his own here.

  ‘Jack, your... ability, if that’s what you want to call it, or your... tenacity, should you prefer that, has seen an attempt to recruit you by a hefty organized crime syndicate. You appear to me, that you can handle yourself, and that this situation is one you will settle with or without my help. I want to know why you asked for it.’

  Jack doesn’t shift his gaze at all, still burning a hole through those perfect floor to ceiling windows. He takes a minute to think about it, kneading his answer over.

  ‘I realize that what I want is an eye for an eye. And I don’t want any mistakes. This situation is one that I never expected to be a part of, nor one that I ever thought I’d see. The way you took care of those men a couple of years back, that no nonsense display of problem-solving, is something I need right now. And I’m not sure on my own I can deliver it. Yes, I’ve spilt blood -’

  ‘But you’ve realized there is a big difference between the ways it gets done,’ I interrupt. Just like for Her Majesty, only much less thinly veiled, I’m here for the dirty work.

  ‘You know that there is a certain detachment to pulling a trigger, a certain distance to running someone off the road in a car. And you imagine it will be lot different if you have to pull someone close, and slide a knife between their ribs, back and forth a couple of times, watch his eyes explode then glaze as you pierce something vital, then hold them while they die at your side. You need me to make sure, if that’s what’s needed for retribution, that’s what’s going to get done. And I’m the best way to make sure it will happen.’

  Jack thinks about this for a long moment. In truth, I’m not surprised, nor hurt by his admission by silence. At least he’s had the guts to say it, in a fashion, unlike my previous superiors who sent me out into the field, knowing what I was going to come up against then gleefully washing their hands of the horror as soon as I was out of earshot. I am, indeed, a grisly problem solver. And a good one too. And I hope that if it comes to that, whatever happens, will be for the greater good.

  I turn to the view again, leaving Jack to his silence. I begin imagining an overhead map in my head, as I take what is laid out in 3D in front of me and transform it into a top-down, flat, contour-free patchwork. I look for nuance in this, anything out of the ordinary, and for extra detail. I’ll bring up a Google map later, but it may be out of date, or featureless. If that happens, I’ll layer my own findings onto the top.

  Regardless of who killed Royston Booker, and what might happen to them, curtailing the Berg’s criminal activities is something I definitely want to factor in - it’s all part of what I stand for. The abuse and endangerment of the innocent in the pursuit of monetary gain by criminal means... That is what I want to deal with. If I can use the Berg, with Jack’s help, to bring justice to Royston’s killer, I can use what I have learned to bring the Berg to account at a later date. Perhaps get some evidence of criminal activity I can drop at the police’s doorstep, something that would see them arrested, and result in their operations being shut down.

  My ulterior motive is taking shape. Jack doesn’t know about my reasons for escaping prion - my new plans and purposes. He must think I’m just happy to be out and doing him a favor. Well, I will - to an extent. And then it’s my turn.

  A soft rattling swoosh heralds the arrival of another car, pulling up next to us, and as soon as it has come to a stop, two men have jumped out. One wears a dark jumper, jeans and work boots, looks about 45, salt and pepper hair in a strange mid-nineties centre parting. The other, presented much more of the present era, is in full Nike sports wear, athletic but with bulk, like a wide receiver, with tension and coil. He looks like he could chase down a Mack truck and stick it in a headlock.

  Salt and pepper speaks. ‘Hey, Jack, you got a minute?’

  He doesn’t even glance at me, absolutely zero acknowledgement that I am there at all.

  ‘You know I do, Michael’, replies Jack. ‘What do you think I’m doing here?’

  Mr. Nike says nothing, merely opening the rear passenger door, then resting his arm against it.

  ‘So... shall we?’ says Michael, running a hand through that abhorrent hair, and it flops straight back into place thanks to what I can only imagine is thanks to years of precisely aligned mistreatment. I opt to let this situation play out - it’s just more intel at this point.

  ‘You got it.’ says Jack, walking towards the car, while turning to me. ‘Would you mind the car for me?’

  I merely nod back, while keeping an eye on the other men. Neither meet my gaze, nor acknowledge my presence. They seem cool, experienced, regimented almost. Well oiled. Well versed.

  It stays that way as they reverse backwards and out into the r
oadway, then accelerate gradually away. As they go, I can almost make out Mr Nike glance in his wing mirror at me, but I can’t be sure. I turn back to the waterside, and let the cool breeze float across me. It smells icy, and dark. Like the rivers I visited in my youth. Gulls shriek through the low whistle, but I can’t see them. My eyes are centered on the house opposite. Felix Davison’s house.

  It’s as grand and beautiful a home I could ever hope for, and I know that, thanks to my actions and choices, I will never live in such luxury. No, I have made my bed, and I must lie in it. I suppose I could take my money, and flee overseas. Find a sunny little country where my English money will go a long way, with a nice little nook I can call my own (with a favorable anti-extradition policy for good measure), and leave Great Britain to her own devices. God knows she deserves it.

  But I’d only fidget, and frustrate myself. I have reached an uneasy agreement with myself, that the past is the past and it can stay where it is, within reason. No time for guilt anymore. Do good in the name of the memory of what I did, but that’s as far backwards I’ll glance. No paralysis by over-analysis. Progress is now. And my attention lies with that beauteous glass lair across the sloshing murk of the Manchester Ship Canal, and what serpents lie in her belly.

  9

  Behind the wheel once more, my foot gleefully reunited with that Lexus gas pedal, I weave my way back to the city centre, looking for a new base for at least the next few hours. I feel my immediate future features a combination of research and waiting.

  I know of an old haunt that could do with some work, but will be fine for the immediate future. I’m not proud, I’m not picky, and the Campanile on the edge of town doesn’t ask for ID. It’s only a couple of minutes away. I’ll aim for that and ask what they’ve got.

  My mind floats off and around to Jack, and where he went with those blokes. I’m guessing they are something to do with the Berg, and his father. He recognized them, and they appeared non-threatening - well, as non-threatening as you can when you pretty much demand someone come with you.

  In the military world, when you needed some info on a certain subject, directive or tactic, you couldn’t just hit the world wide web and get an answer within seconds. I’m not used to intel on tap, and I’m keen to get started. Google might yield nothing, or it might be fit to spill the beans all over the show. I might be able to get more assistance from an hour on the laptop than 24 hours hours stomping the streets shaking down as much of the city as I can. But in the era of social media and it’s narcissistic lure, I’m willing to bet that something has slipped somewhere, and from what I’ve seen and heard, I think I can at least get things rumbling.

  I remember, as I pull into the hotel car park, that there is something else I could do with finding on the internet, and it is something I’m not sure I will be able to find with a quick search engine foray. I need to find someone that can fake me an identity. Someone trustworthy, reputable and experienced. Someone who will forget me as soon as they create the new me.

  It troubles me that I will need, in reinventing myself in terms of civil identification, to brush shoulders with the very social bacteria that I’m trying to scrub away. But it’s a necessary evil. Nietzsche said that ‘when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you’. To get close to the evils of this world, I must come into irrefutable contact with evil. It will impact me, of that there is no doubt - such is the price of my intended endeavors. My hands are forever dirty, in any case - as long as my conscience is clear, the reasons for rubbing shoulders justified, then I can deal with a little more dirt under my fingernails. As always, as long as the end justifies the means. I hope I manage to keep track of all the excuses and leeway I’m giving myself.

  And there I go again. Maudlin. Self-destructive. Doubtful. What point is there in being afforded a shot at redemption if I’m too wet to take it? Us Brits, we pride ourselves on a stiff upper lip, if nothing else. Stoicism in the face of adversity. If all around me is crumbling, I will keep my head high and accept it with grace, making the best out of the hand I am dealt. If I’m to achieve anything with this second chance, I need to follow the necessities laid out by my instincts. No compromises. Compromises eke the cracks of failure.

  I park up and head for the entrance. The lobby is very small and empty, but I spot the bar through the double doors, looking equally deserted. Within minutes, having paid in cash and signed the register as a Mr Sean Miller, I am ensconced in a booth, laptop open, logging into the complimentary hotel wifi. I place my phone on the table next to it, ready to eye updates.

  Once in the network, I start with Google. Glancing around, making sure I wasn’t followed, in the search box I type ‘the berg manchester’. Within a second, the search results blink up and I’m faced with pages dominated by an ad agency in Manchester called Berg Advertising, and ex-Manchester United defender Henning Berg. Page 2 of the results is about the same. Page 3, same again. By page 7, I’m losing hope, but there is one result slightly amiss. It’s a newspaper report, from the Manchester Evening News website, and the date of the result is 8 years old. I bring up the article. The headline reads:

  POLICE OFFICER WAKES FROM COMA

  I read on, trying to soak in as much as possible.

  ‘A Greater Manchester Police Officer, beaten and left for dead in Salford, has recovered consciousness after an 11 day coma. Officer Jeremiah Salix, 27, was found in the Ordsall area, unconscious with multiple injuries. He was placed in a medically-induced coma, and operated upon by surgeons at St Mary’s Royal Infirmary. He has been in intensive care ever since.

  Last night, he spoke. Staff Nurse Mary Robertson describes the moment he came around. “It started with twitching in his right foot, then blinking. He soon became lucid and asked for his girlfriend. We are so happy to see him come back, as we were very concerned.”

  The investigation into what happened to Officer Salix continues, but rumors that it was anything to do with an organized crime gang known as the Berg are unconfirmed.’

  Bingo.

  I feel my once empty info-pantry increasing in stock. I feel more equipped, more confident, more comfortable. I’m not quite so blind now. I still haven’t the faintest idea who killed Royston Brooker, but I now have much more of a handle on what I’m dealing with with these enigmatic characters. Elusive and rare, like UFO’s sightings. Nearly a decade since they featured in the media and popular culture.

  I reroute my thought process to the names I do know, and what details I can garner through their carelessness.

  One of the men who picked up Jack was called Michael. I know his surname to be Davison, so I type in Michael Davison. I was hoping for a Facebook profile, littered with information, but all I see is a solitary photo tag. The owner of the photo is a Leonard Freund. On opening the picture, I make a positive ID straight away. The picture itself is a standard nightclub snap - bright flash, pitch-black background, all the glamour and excitement of the moment itself stripped away leaving the bare facts. Just two men at a table, by a mostly-empty club dance-floor. With champagne. And that’s it. Neither look too pissed, neither look too happy, neither look too bothered. They look bored to tears. I notice the pupils. Saucers. Pills? Possibly. One of the men in it is clearly Michael Davison, the man from before. Michael Davison is clearly a man who is not shy of the odd excess. His name is written at the bottom, along with Leonard’s. Hovering the cursor over the names I see that Leonard’s is clickable, and Michael’s is not. Michael has no Facebook profile. I click on Leonard’s and it quickly becomes obvious that this man is a social media obsessive and a consummate narcissist.

  For starters, his profile picture looks like a homemade modeling shot. Black and white, high contrast, shades. An odd pencil mustache kind of completes the look. I scroll down into this bemusing catalogue. Is this what makes this Leonard man tick, or what he thinks people want to see? Either answer is a strange one. There are meals as photo updates, just pictures of plates of food. And cars - a few nice sports models
. There’s a fancy watch called a Breitling. A flew cliche’s of a stereotypical high-life, like jacuzzis, first class air travel, gadgets. It’s like a ten year old boy in 1985, with a penchant for boasting and telling porky pies, had a Facebook profile. From looking at him, Leonard could well have been ten in 1985, and has just never managed to grow up, now living out his fantasies and making sure everyone unlucky enough to stumble on his internet persona knows it.

  I’m lost in my thoughts, eyes glazed right over, and I realize I have been staring into space for the last few minutes. Something has snapped me out of it, and while I pour my consciousness back into the present, I notice it is my phone, buzzing on the table. Caller ID lets me know it is Jack, and I grab it without delay.

  ‘Yes?’ I answer.

  ‘I’ve got it.’ Jack says hurriedly. He sounds a little out of breath.

  ‘You got...?’

  ‘A name. They gave me a name.’

  Jack’s meeting clearly went well. I am desperate to question Jack further, but I imagine there will be time for that later. Jack won’t want to sit inert for long. ‘Do you recognize it?’

  ‘Kind of. Anyway, I know where we are going.’

  ‘You want to get started right away, I take it?’

  ‘No. We’ll wait till tonight.’

  ‘Can you give me any info?’

  ‘The Floating Far East. That’s where we are headed.’

  I have no idea what that is, or where it might be found. ‘Anything else?’ I enquire.

  ‘Not now. Meet me at 8.30, at the ice rink in Spinningfields. It’s not far from there.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  The line goes dead, and my mind transforms instantly. My senses tighten, my resolve fortifies, and my mind clears. I am back on the frontline, adopting the familiar mental state that immediately precedes a mission. It’s a battening down of the hatches, the calm, the pause, the reflection - before the unavoidable descent into harm’s way.