The profits had been good, but not as substantial as they could have been in a more peaceful, cooperative regime.
Conroy had realised this, but his pleas to Rider and Munrow to make peace with other gangs fell on deaf ears. They were both highly feared individuals who got pleasure from inflicting pain, intimidating others and ruling — literally — with iron rods, unless they were using pick-axe handles instead.
Their heavy tactics simply fuelled fires. Then halfway through the 1980s, there was an explosion of blood as gang fought gang for supremacy.
When the North-West police forces formed a dedicated squad to combat this menace, Conroy had been one of the first to see the light
… and things fell very neatly into place for him just at the right time.
Rider seemed to lose his nerve. He ran and never returned.
Munrow was an awkward bastard. He wouldn’t run from anyone. For safety’s sake, he had to be sacrificed one way or another — and Conroy was just the man to do it.
Without ever knowing the real truth — that Conroy had informed the cops — Munrow was arrested halfway through a robbery in Accrington. He and a gang of three armed men were surrounded by a heavily armed police contingent who had been briefed that the gang were ruthless and dangerous and should not be given any quarter. One of the four tried running. He was gunned down with a complete lack of mercy.
Munrow surrendered quickly, suspecting, but never being able to prove, that Rider — who should have been the fifth member of the gang — had grassed on him. Subsequently he was jailed for nineteen years. This was the longest sentence even a judge who had been bribed could realistically run to. Even that had been a push to justify, but in his summing up he damned Munrow as a ‘menace to society’, ‘evil’, and other epithets. The promise of a villa on the Costa del Sol can work wonders, even to the judiciary.
From that point on, with Rider and Munrow out of the picture, Conroy flourished.
And so did his colleagues within the police force and local politics.
He pushed a new culture of cooperation, which was fairly easy to achieve because, using information provided by him, the police in the form of the newly established North-West Organised Crime Squad were able to round up, prosecute and jail most of his rivals. The ones who escaped the legal net were killed in a series of shootings for which no one was ever captured.
Within eighteen months of Munrow’s convictions, Conroy controlled a string of council estates throughout East Lancashire, over a dozen clubs, fifty pubs and a few schools.
But, after eleven years of peace and prosperity, Conroy found himself facing the biggest threat to his empire ever.
Munrow was back on the streets after serving a little more than half his sentence. He had come out of Strangeways like a bad-tempered bear who wanted his porridge back.
He and Conroy had met to discuss things in an acrimonious encounter which achieved zilch. Conroy was not about to give him anything. Furiously Munrow had left, stating, ‘Well, if that’s your attitude, I’ll take everything.’
He began to keep that promise.
That was problem one.
Then Dundaven had been arrested and there was the distant, but real possibility that police enquiries could end up on his doorstep. Problem two.
‘ Fucking aggravation,’ he said out loud as he dived under the water. It was getting like old times.
Action needed to be taken.
He surfaced with a gasp, did the crawl to the edge of the pool and dragged himself out, showered, stripped and stepped into the sauna where things were very, very hot.
Twenty-two minutes after Conroy had arrived, the second member of the trio drove up to the country club in a less conspicuous motor. Had the registered number been checked on the Police National Computer it would have revealed that the registered keeper was of ‘blocked’ status. This meant that information about the owner could only be passed over landline, not by radio, and only to police officers. This was often the case with vehicles used by the police for undercover work, particularly on specialist units. The computer screen would have also told the operator that this particular car belonged to the North-West Organised Crime Squad, based in Blackburn. It did not go on to say that the car was allocated to Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton for his exclusive use.
Morton parked up and went into the club by a side entrance, ensuring he didn’t have to pass through Reception.
He went towards the pool where at the door he was faced by Conroy’s two guards. He submitted bad-naturedly to their body search with a sneer on his face. Then he changed, showered and went directly to the sauna.
Conroy sat there naked and unashamed, sweat streaking down his body, his limp penis resting on his thigh like a pet.
Morton nodded to him, threw a ladle of water on the coals and hopped onto the top bench and laid out full-length.
Although Karl Donaldson had been offered FBI-owned accommodation in London, he had declined, choosing instead to live in the small town of Hartley Wintney, about half an hour’s train journey from the capital. It was also within minutes of Karen’s workplace — the Police College at Bramshill — where she was seconded to the teaching staff.
Living in Hartley Wintney meant early starts and late finishes for Donaldson, but the unhurried lifestyle and surrounding countryside made it worth the effort. One of the great pleasures in his life had come to be getting off the train at Winchfield, the nearest station to home, at the end of a long day to be greeted by Karen and driven home to their little rented cottage. It was like living in some sort of Noel Coward time warp. He loved it to bits. A stereotypical American’s view of the English way of life, spoiled perhaps by the Jeep Cherokee he had bought so he could keep just a faint grip on America.
He allowed himself a late start that Wednesday morning, sleeping for almost twelve hours. It was after ten when he arrived at the FBI office in the American Embassy.
His chain-beaten appearance and black eye caused much interest, as did his story about Sam and her death. After a short conference with his colleagues he went to his desk with the intention of writing up a very detailed report and a strong recommendation that the matter should not rest there: a full investigation should be set up with the cooperation of the Portuguese authorities.
After that he intended to contact New York and set about finding out everything he could about Scott Hamilton.
Those were his good intentions.
What he hadn’t bargained for was the multi-storey building of paper work which had accumulated on his desk during his absence. It looked like he’d been away for six months, not a few days. He experienced a vague tinge of annoyance that someone else hadn’t taken it on.
He shrugged. That was life in any office, he guessed.
His first instinct was to sweep all the papers off into a bin. Very, very tempting. He sighed and screwed his professional head on. He eased himself stiffly into his chair. His bones and body were still feeling bruised and battered. He took the top item from the pile and perused it.
Within minutes he felt as if he’d never been away from the place.
Half an hour later, the final member of the trio arrived. His car was the biggest, flashiest of all three — a Bentley Brooklands which had set one of his companies back just short of a hundred grand.
He wasn’t too concerned about walking in through Reception and who might possibly spot him. He was a regular there, well-known to be a part owner and believed he could be seen with whom he damn well liked.
The other two were sitting in opposite corners of the sauna.
Conroy was still naked, but Morton had a towel neatly folded across his lap, covering his dignity.
The third man burst in. He was completely naked, his large loose stomach hanging down over his pubes. He sat somewhere midway between the others.