Wrecking Crew

ELEVEN

Before Stone and Linda left, Megan used her digital camera to take their pictures. Ten minutes later, she gave them two very creditable Inland Revenue identification cards. They spent a few minutes rubbing, scratching, and bending the laminate, to make the cards look suitably worn and scruffy. As they were so inexperienced at the ‘undercover stuff’, as Carter put it, he had insisted that they stick with their real identities. To avoid the amateurish mistake of turning up in the same clothes that they were wearing in their photographs, he told them to buy some business suits, before they headed to Ipswich later that evening.

Linda drove them north on the M11 and then east on the A14 towards Ipswich. All the time Stone kept a lookout for a tail, but he saw nothing. A few miles to the east, the roadside trees gave way to fields. Soon they were passing huge flat expanses of well-cut grass, ringed with miles of white picket fencing. They were approaching Newmarket, an area renowned for racehorse training, and top quality stud farms. Shortly after parking in the town center, they found a Red Cross charity store that sold second-hand clothes.

For the princely sum of £45, Stone bought a smart, but slightly worn business suit, black shoes, a blue shirt, and a clip-on tie. Linda opted for a black woolen dress with sensible shoes. With the addition of a briefcase, her spend was just £60. They changed into their ‘disguises’ in the cramped changing room at the rear of the store, and packed their regular clothes into a shopping bag which they left in the trunk of Linda’s car, while they went in search of somewhere to eat.

Linda and Stone wondered hand-in-hand for twenty minutes, taking several random turns, before the delicious smell of garlic and fresh pasta led them to a small Italian restaurant, with an impressively comprehensive vegetarian menu. After some deliberation and several false starts, they ordered a stone baked pizza-to-share, with a couple of side salads and some water. As they waited, they admired each other’s disguises. Stone’s suit had a slightly musty smell, and the shoes were a little too large, but Linda thought that he looked just like a tax inspector. The woolen dress fitted Linda like a snakeskin, further accentuating her athletic figure. Stone thought that she look spectacular, and he told her so, although he also admitted that she would have looked every bit as desirable in a potato sack.

Over coffee, they refined their strategy for meeting with the bar’s landlord. The plan was to suggest that ‘Second Chance’ was being investigated to confirm if it truly qualified for its charitable status, and deserved the tax breaks that such a designation brought. They decided that Linda should do the talking on the basis that she would be less intimidating, and therefore more likely to get some information. Stone would remain visible but silent in the background — the implied threat of the ‘bad cop’ waiting to be called in, if answers were not forthcoming.

Their target was Stanley “Scud” Fletcher. He was the landlord of a bar in one of the seedier parts of Ipswich. As they turned off the main road and entered the rundown housing project that led towards the bar, it became apparent that Megan’s description of ‘seedy’ was her attempt at an amusing understatement.

Almost every house they passed had an unwanted couch, or some faulty white goods, on the front lawn. They saw the remains of several derelict cars sitting on bricks, and two that were just burned out shells. Most of the stores they saw had been boarded up for many years and regularly defaced with multi-coloured swathes of unintelligible graffiti. It seemed to Stone that every available vertical surface was marked with gang tags. Every wall and every bus shelter that they saw carried Cyrillic style swirls and indelible loops of black felt pen. Like some secret alien language, these territorial warnings were meaningless to all but the gang members.

Along the way, they passed several small groups of apparently feckless youths, who made no effort to hide their contempt for the suited professionals who were invading their turf.

“My God, this is so sad. It’s just so depressing. How can people live like this?” Linda asked as she looked around.

“No chance of sneaking in here unseen,” Stone commented. “Perhaps they think we’re with the police.”

He gave a friendly wave to one group of lads as they drove slowly by, and were rewarded with an immediate chorus of middle fingers.

Linda returned the gesture.

“No — they definitely think we’re from the Inland Revenue!”

The bar, known locally as ‘The Tavern’, was every bit as shabby as the area it served. Obviously little effort had been made to clean or maintain the exterior in the thirty years since the property was constructed. As they pulled into the parking lot, Stone wondered aloud how such a place could conceivably remain in business. Linda pointed to a row of motorcycles lined up at the side of the bar, and offered an answer.

“Drugs and bikers.”

“Well we knew the first, and can see the second, so I presume you are right.”

“Do you think they are above lynching tax inspectors?” Linda asked ironically.

“Gallows humor?” Stone received a punch for the pun. “Anyway — we’d best remain vigilant.”

As they sat silently listening to the soft tick of the exhaust pipe cooling, Stone looked at Linda for any sign of reluctance for what was to follow. She looked stern but determined.

“You ok?” he asked.

She nodded.

He checked again.

“You sure?”

She nodded silently.

“Right — let’s do this!”

After carefully locking the car, they took a moment to study the front of the bar. Four large floodlights harshly illuminated the featureless façade. Stone could see three doors. Two doors were close together near the center; the third was off to the left. Other than the inevitable gang tags, there was nothing to guide new visitors to the correct entrance. The door on the left bore a hefty security bar and several padlocks, whereas the two center doors were protected with roll down shutters, sturdy enough to deter a determined tank attack. Luckily, both shutters were up.

Linda nodded towards the two center doors. “I’m betting the left will be the lounge bar and the right will house a pool table. We should go to the left.”

“Ok,” Stone said, “I’ll go in first and stay by the door while you do the business. Any sign of trouble, let me handle it — just try and stay out of the way.”

She gave him a slightly nervous smile.

“Don’t worry, I will!”

Stone opened the left hand door and walked in. As Linda had predicted, it was the lounge bar. He stopped just inside and took in his surroundings. The room was thirty feet long and twenty wide, with basic wooden seating and tables on the left, and a bar to the right. At the far end, there was an aging gaming machine, and high on the wall a television flickered silently as a rock band played to its adoring fans. There were just four customers. Nearest to the front was an elderly couple. They had probably been coming to the bar since it had opened, back when the housing development was a desirable place to live. Stone had to admire their tenacity — desperately out of place in a biker bar, but stubbornly refusing to drink elsewhere. Near the back were two lads who glared openly at Eric for daring to enter their territory. Stone stared back, stern faced and unblinking, until they looked away. Satisfied that there was no immediate threat, he moved aside and allowed Linda to enter the bar.

She paused for a moment, to assess the situation. Then she marched confidently to the bar and tapped loudly on the countertop with her car keys. A gruff voice shouted impatiently from the doorway that connected to the other bar.

“Keep yer fucking hair on!”

Linda waited twenty seconds and tapped again a little louder.

“I said fucking wait!”

A few seconds later, the barman stomped through the doorway and planted both palms firmly onto the bar with a meaty slap. He was a tall, hulking man, aged around fifty. Probably weighing a little over 250 pounds, barrel-chested and solid, he had that equal mixture of muscle and fat, seemingly characteristic of British racists and soccer hooligans. Like a badge of honor, he kept his head shaved to display a Union Jack tattoo above his right ear. His greasy jeans and tight white t-shirt did little to improve the ambiance of the bar, or hide his prison tattoos. Instantly recognizing her outfit as a symbol of bureaucracy, he firmly crossed his arms and stared at Linda with open hostility.

“What?”

Undaunted, Linda gave him a bright professional smile.

“Stanley Fletcher?”

“Who wants him?”

Linda flashed her ID badge.

“Linda Smart, Inland Revenue.”

Fletcher didn’t move a muscle.

“Go see my accountant.”

“Actually, it’s you we need to speak to.” She flicked her eyes towards Stone to reinforce the implied threat. “Is there somewhere more private we can speak?”

Fletcher turned his head slowly and stared at Stone for a few seconds, as if assessing his chances in a fight. Stone stared back. Apparently unimpressed, Fletcher turned his attention back to Linda.

“Here’s fine. What do you want?”

“My partner and I… ” she looked towards Stone again, “are looking into the tax status of a charity called Second Chance — to ensure that they are worthy of their charitable status, and the tax benefits therein.”

Fletcher looked down his nose and flicked his head in a sharp nod. The move reminded Stone of a snake preparing to strike at a mouse.

“What’s it got to do with me?”

Either Linda failed to notice his threatening posture, or she chose to ignore it. “Your tax records show that last May you made two payments to Second Chance.”

“What of it?”

“What was the nature of those payments?”

“Charitable contributions… ” Fletcher smiled wickedly, revealing a gold incisor. “I gave money to help people less fortunate than me.”

“You gave money twice. Exactly the same amount in two payments, just three weeks apart.”

“So? It’s not a crime is it?”

Linda ignored his question and politely ploughed on. “Why two payments?”

“It felt so good the first time that I wanted to do it again.” He licked his lips lustfully as he made a big play of undressing Linda with his eyes. “I’m sure you know what that feels like.”

She ignored his provocative jibe.

“How did you get in contact with Second Chance?”

“Someone gave me their phone number. I don’t recall who it was.” He uncrossed his arms and, as if to indicate that the interview was about to end, he began wiping the bar with a beer stained cloth.

“Their office doesn’t have a phone.” She nodded towards Stone. “We checked.”

Fletcher slowly held up a finger and tapped the side of his head.

“I remember now. It wasn’t a landline I called, it was a cell phone.”

“I would like that telephone number.”

“Would you now?”

“Yes… we would.” She glanced at Stone again.

The barman stared at her with undisguised contempt as he dealt with some internal conflict. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

He gave a harsh sigh and dropped the cloth onto the bar.

“Wait here — I’ll get it.”

He stomped away into the other bar. After a couple of minutes Linda turned to Stone and gave a questioning shrug, he raised a palm and gestured for her to wait. Fully five minutes later, Fletcher returned, he was smiling.

“I can’t find it right now, I looked, but I can’t find it. Come back tomorrow, or give me your number and I’ll call you when I find it.”

Linda glowered at Fletcher. He glared back with dead eyes, challenging her to push the issue. She turned to look at Stone for some guidance. He shrugged and put his hand on the door handle, suggesting they should leave. Linda looked back and forth between the two men, her anger building along with her obvious frustration.

“We’ll be back,” she hissed through tight lips.

Fletcher smiled wickedly at her retreating back.

“No you won’t.”

As Linda reached the door, Stone indicated that she should allow him to go through first. The barman had been gone a long time and Eric suspected that Fletcher hadn’t been looking for the phone number. Outside, his suspicions were instantly proven correct. Their path to the car was blocked by three bikers. Two were wielding pool cues and the third carried a baseball bat.

“Stay here by the door,” Stone whispered to Linda, “I’ve got this.”

“Have you?” she replied a little shakily.

“I hope so. But if it turns out that I haven’t, I want you to run, and keep running until you get somewhere safe.”

She crossed her arms defiantly.

“I’ll wait here. I think you can take them.”

Stone gave Linda a nod of acknowledgement. He walked slowly forward to address his would-be attackers.

“Lads… you don’t need to do this.”

“Yes they do!” Fletcher said loudly from the doorway behind Linda. “And when they’ve finished with you, we’re gonna have some fun with her.”

Stone quickly glanced over his shoulder at Fletcher, but carefully kept a watchful eye on the three men.

“This is between you and me — Scud,” Stone drew out the nickname with contempt. “If you touch her, I will kill you.”

“Big words… from a guy about to lose his kneecaps and elbows,” Scud Fletcher sneered, “and I count three against one.”

“I count two, the last one always runs. After that you’re going to give us that phone number.”

He turned back to face his attackers.

“Last chance lads, whatever he’s paying you — I guarantee it isn’t enough.”

The three men glanced at each other in silent discussion and then they nodded to each other as they agreed to proceed with their attack. They were clearly all members of the same biker gang. Each wore a red bandana and had identical lightning bolt tattoos on the left side of their necks. Stone thought that they were in their late twenties. They looked quite fit and he guessed they were probably experienced in the unique violence of street fighting. That suited him just fine.

Unless he had no alternative, Stone preferred to let his attacker make the first move. Once they attacked, they were more or less committed to a particular course of action. That lent a kind of predictability to the events that followed, because then Stone would be in control. If Eric attacked first, he would have to look for a response and react accordingly, putting him at a disadvantage.

Unarmed and outnumbered, realistically he should have no chance. First, they should surround him to prevent escape. Then they could use the length and power of their weapons to beat him to a pulp, whilst remaining a safe distance from his feet and fists. However, Stone knew that they would attack one at a time, probably in order of their seniority within the gang. The weapons gave him a clue, one baseball bat, and two pool cues. Stone guessed that the baseball bat was from behind the bar, and it had been lent to the gang leader by the barman, whereas the other two men had to make do with whatever else was handy. That was good news for Stone.

A pool cue can double as a magnificent weapon. It is a precise sporting implement, usually made from fine ash, with an additional weight fitted within the handle. Beautifully balanced, and almost sixty inches long, it gives excellent reach, and tremendous leverage, to the skilled user. On the other hand, the baseball bat was obviously a cheap model. Just twenty-six inches of poorly balanced softwood, with a rubber handle. However, the history of baseball bats being used for violent and brutal attacks had obviously made it the weapon of choice for the gang leader. That was good news for Stone as well.

Stone needed a weapon. The gang leader had a weapon. Stone was going to take it from him and use it to disable the other attackers. The gang leader was going to attack first, when he did, he was going to swing the bat overhead like an axe. Stone knew this, he could tell by how the bat was being held — low and in front. Stone could see that the gang leader was going to start his attack by swinging the bat around and over his right shoulder as he stepped forward. Confronted with such an attack, most people would retreat, unintentionally creating space for the attacker to swing the bat. That would be a fatal mistake. The correct response was to move closer and deflect or seize the bat, before it could be swung with any force. That was what Stone planned to do, so he waited for the attack.

The three men inched towards Stone and jockeyed for position, until the gang leader was at the front with the two other guys slightly behind. Ready to respond instantly to their attack, Stone kept his weight carefully balanced on the balls of his feet. After thirty seconds of shuffling and circling, and mindful that reinforcements could arrive at any time, Stone decided to make things happen. He took a half-step backwards and deliberately faked a miss-step. That was all that was needed to provoke the gang leader to charge.

The baseball bat swung low, around and up, as the gang leader roared and charged forward. He telegraphed the attack so clearly that, from Stone’s viewpoint, the guy might as well have hung up a sign. Stone explosively pushed off from his left foot, meeting the gang leader halfway, and driving his right hip into the attacker’s groin. At the same instant Stone shoved his forearms into the man’s face and grabbed the handle of the bat. Trapped against Stone’s right hip, and unable to stop his momentum, the man started to tip forward. In an instant, Stone swept his left leg to his rear in a wide semicircle and twisted his body sharply as he pulled the baseball bat downward and to his left.

The move, based on the Aikido ‘Heavy Hand’ technique, took the baseball bat — and with it, the man’s hands — from above head height to ground level in just half a second. Helpless against the physics of momentum and gravity, the gang leader dived over Stone’s hip and, with a sickening thud, landed head first on the tarmac. As his attacker slumped into unconsciousness, Stone used the remaining impetus from the move to continue his turn, swinging the baseball bat around and up to meet the second attacker’s head with a dull slap. The man’s face went instantly blank and he took a couple of comical, stiff-legged steps in a half-circle before falling full length on his face. There was a moment of stillness as the third man contemplated the incredible speed and violence of what he had just witnessed, followed by a clatter as he dropped the pool cue, turned on his heels and walked swiftly away. A voice from the bar’s doorway broke the silence.

“Jesus, Stone!” Linda said, “Remind me never to piss you off!”

Ready for further action, Stone spun quickly towards the voice, but then he relaxed as he saw there were no more threats for him to deal with. Scud Fletcher was rolling on the ground and trying unsuccessfully to clutch his groin, a broken arm, and his bloody nose.

“What happened to him?”

Linda stared at the whimpering man, as if she was seeing him for the first time.

“I honestly don’t know,” she shook her head. “I remember that he grabbed me from behind and I went to hit him in the groin — after that, I don’t remember what happened. I guess he must have fallen badly.”

In obvious confusion, she shook her head again.

“Oh well… ” Stone shrugged, “no time to worry about that now.”

He leaned forward and experimentally poked Fletcher on the nose with the baseball bat. He received a squeal in response.

“Get up Mr. Fletcher — you and I are going to look for that phone number.”

The Fixer opened his office door and leaned out to speak to Bunny. The guard was sitting on his usual chair in the corridor.

“Bunny… Go and get Becka. Ask her to bring her report on Eric Stone.”

Bunny smiled and stood.

“Right, boss.”

“And, Bunny?”

The huge bodyguard stopped and turned.

“Yes, boss?”

“I need her now — so keep your hands off.”

Bunny’s shoulders slumped noticeably.

“Yes, boss,” he mumbled, ambling forward less enthusiastically.

A minute later Becka announced her arrival with a polite knock as she hurried in to the office. The Fixer smiled thinly.

“Sit down, Becka.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly as she juggled with a computer tablet and some papers.

The Fixer realized that Becka was worried. After being summoned unexpectedly, her young face was tight with tension.

“Look, I know you haven’t had long to look at this, so don’t worry — I just wanted to hear what you’d found so far.”

Becka looked up in stunned disbelief. She did well to hide her shock. In her experience, The Fixer demanded immediate results from his employees. He expected perfection, he did not tolerate failure, and he never apologized. She cleared her throat to hide her embarrassment.

“Er… ok… ”

In an effort to ease her tension, he tried a reassuring smile. Becka thought that it made him look about as trustworthy as a Praying Mantis.

“It’s ok Becka, just take your time.”

Reading from her notes, she began her report.

“Ok… here is all I have so far on Eric Stone. Most of it is information that Norris dug up from his data bank. I’ve combined it with the stuff that I’d developed originally for Peter, before he began the surveillance. This is the summary.”

She handed The Fixer a sheet of paper.

“He is thirty-nine, and a successful martial arts instructor. He owns a dojo in Colchester, in Essex, where he employs a staff of twelve. His tax returns and bank accounts show average earnings, nothing spectacular and nothing suspicious. I suspect that he may have developed contacts within the military, through some training he has given to soldiers at Colchester barracks, but there are no specific names. He may also have friends within the police via a private detective agency that has previously employed him as a bodyguard. The agency is run by Edward Carter, a retired police detective. I am looking into his affairs as well.”

She turned over the page.

“Eric Stone is unmarried and judging by the photographs we have, quite good looking for his age. He’s romantically involved with a woman called Linda Smart, a fitness and yoga instructor from Sawbridgeworth. She’s a little ‘new age’ for my tastes. Very pretty, but otherwise boring. I have her preliminary information here.”

She handed over a second sheet of paper.

“As we suspected, Charles Rathbone became friends with Eric Stone after Rathbone went to his dojo for fitness training. You will recall that Rathbone lost a leg to a bomb attack in Afghanistan. It seems that Stone was instrumental in helping Rathbone get back on his feet. Sorry — pardon the pun!”

Becka pulled a face and even The Fixer winced.

“Their relationship stayed off of our radar because there were no financial records to tie them together. At first glance, the points where their lives touched seemed entirely coincidental. After all, if you religiously follow the paper trail, most of us are just six steps away from everyone else on the planet. In their case, Rathbone belonged to Stones karate club, and Stone was a member of the same shooting club as Rathbone. Both points of contact seemed insignificant and coincidental.

“We now know that they dined together almost every week, but there were no records because they always paid cash. Eric Stone was a regular guest at Rathbone’s house parties, but because they were strictly private affairs, there was nothing in the society press. However, it is apparent that their relationship must have been something more than a casual friendship. I’ve just discovered that Rathbone named Stone in his will as the sole beneficiary of the estate.”

The Fixer bolted upright in surprise.

“He’s the sole beneficiary?”

“Yep. At a rough estimate, an inheritance of something in the region of two million quid. Not bad for a karate instructor.” Becka sat back and crossed her arms. “Perhaps I’m in the wrong business!”

The Fixer ignored her jibe.

“So Stone was secret best buddies with Charles Rathbone. We accidently killed him—”

“And now he wants revenge?” Becka suggested.

The Fixer remained silent while he considered the possibility. Finally, he shook his head.

“I don’t know… It seems a bit unlikely. Anyway, how would he — or indeed anyone — make the connection to us?”

“I’m not sure yet, Boss. Perhaps someone talked. It could be that there’s a link to whoever was doing those internet searches. Maybe Eric Stone is the ghost in the machine.”

The Fixer looked up from the report.

“Well it’s a disturbing coincidence, I’ll give you that. Keep on him — hard! I want to know exactly what he’s doing, before he even does it. Ok?”

“No problem, I’m on it,” she replied.

“Well done, Becka — I really appreciate what you’re doing.”

“Thank you.” Becka smiled at the uncommon compliment.

The Fixers eyes, momentarily alive with interest, suddenly flicked back to their usual dead stare. He flicked a hand, as if discouraging a listless but persistent fly.

“You can go now,” he said dully.

After she had gone, The Fixer turned his chair and stared out of the window, considering what he had learned in the last few days. For fifteen minutes, he went over the facts and coincidences in his head. Each time he came to the same conclusion. With a deep sigh of acknowledgment, he decided that the party was over. It was time to run.

He had an escape plan. It had been in place for a long time — ready for just such an eventuality. He had always known that it would be the hardest decision he would ever have to make. He loved his life, and the power it gave him, too much to give it up lightly. Activating such an escape plan would take time, and he could never be certain of when it was time to go. He could only ever give it his best guess.

Now that the decision was made, there was a lot to do. Naturally, he wanted to liquidate as many of his assets as was possible, ready for the move. He certainly wouldn’t be coming back. Unfortunately, some possessions would just have to stay behind. Suddenly selling his property, cars, and office equipment, would raise too many eyebrows, but most of his more liquid assets could be saved. However, even if he took a substantial loss on some of his investments, at best it was going to take three or four days to complete the transactions.

Ironically, just yesterday he had added another asset to the list of things that he would be taking. Although not particularly large, it would be tricky to transfer, as it required special handling. Nonetheless, it was just far too valuable and beautiful to leave behind.

It was vitally important that his decision to run remained secret until the last moment. It wouldn’t do to have someone spoil the party. Of course, there was some house cleaning to do, but some time ago, Gordon McIntosh had rigged the place with a substantial amount of thermite. When the time came, everything left behind would be comprehensively incinerated — including any bodies. If everything went according to plan, Eric Stone would soon be dead, and The Fixer’s last action before leaving the country, would be to eliminate the Wrecking Crew.

He regarded such killings as an inconvenience, but one no worse than abandoning the computers, or his favourite car. Naturally, he could never leave behind any live witnesses — that would be unacceptable. Originally, he had planned to use Chameleon for the wet work, but that was no longer an option. Slaying the members of the Wrecking Crew was going to be an interesting problem, particularly when it came to killing Bunny and Kitten. In the meantime, there was a lot to do. He picked up the phone and called his broker.