Chapter 55

The morning was bright and fresh and Dan couldn't help but smile. Everything was going smoothly, more smoothly than he could have imagined. Saim's drugs income was shot, Bridget was doing a great job, and now the added bonus of the cars were about to be dealt with. With the three main profitable businesses out of action, all Saim would have is a meagre income from his other less profitable ventures. The protection rackets were old hat these days and would not be worth hassle or the bother. The money loaning game was getting too difficult now due to banks' lending more freely than ever. He could see the end in sight and it felt great.

By the end of the week, if Chief Taylor plays ball, the cars would have disappeared, Bridget would be out of the game to start a new life and he could finally join the living world again with Bern somewhere nice. He may not be able to get the money back that Saim had stolen from him but he didn't care anymore. To see Saim ruined, losing all respect, and not even know where it came from or how would be enough.

The time was just after nine in the morning. Dan would wait for another half an hour before making the call and putting in motion the final plan to end Saim's reign.

"Come" Chief Taylor responded to the knock on his office door

"Hello Boss, a motorbike courier dropped this off a couple of hours ago for you," the officer said politely

"Thank you Scott, put it on the desk"

The padded envelope was plain with just the name Chief Taylor and the words by hand written in pen on the front. Examining the back offered no return address or any details who the sender could be. That's odd he thought. Normally packages by courier would have a full address. Sipping the last of his now cold coffee John rips open the top of the packet, reaches in, and pulls out the contents.

Looking at the first page his body convulses, showering his desk with the mouthful of coffee, as his brain instantly processes the images. The ten pictures were of a man. The first five showed the man walking up to a house and entering. The next five showed the same man leaving the house. They were not of just any man they were of him. His face shone up perfectly in the pictures, illuminated by the light from the camera he was holding. The expressions on his face, at that moment, of sheer delight had been captured for all time and for all to see.

The emotions that overtook his body were like nothing he had ever felt before. A mixture of anger and rage, pity and sorrow, ebbed and flowed through every follicle of his skin. The realisation of what this implied if it got out would ruin him. Not only would it kill his career but his family too. Everything he had worked for, most importantly, the respect and status he had built up over the years would be gone. No way could he, would he, let that happen.

Smashing his fist into the intercom, he shouts to his secretary

"Get PC Scott in here now"

Entering the office, the sight that sat in front of him was nothing that Scott had seen before. Gone was the proud man with immaculate features who demanded respect. Instead replaced by a man slumped in his chair, a face so red it looked as if he had been a heavy drinker for decades. His usual perfectly styled grey hair now looked like a hedge and his eyes had become wide and red like a man that had not slept in days.

"Sir, what is it?" Scott reluctantly asked.

"The motorcycle courier from earlier, what did he look like and was he seen on the CCTV cameras?"

"Er I'm not sure Sir, he was wearing a helmet and probably yes he would be on the cameras but he never took his helmet off so would be pointless probably"

"You mean you let someone walk into the station and let them keep their helmet on?"

Scott knew it was not a question, more of a statement but felt inclined to answer

"Sorry Sir, most couriers don't remove their helmet as they are only here for a couple of seconds, I didn't think..." he was interrupted before he could finish.

"No you didn't think. You are bloody useless boy now get out" Chief screamed.

Scott didn't have to be told twice, he turned on his heels and fast paced out of the office.

Throwing the pictures onto the desk, John noticed that there was something written on the back of the last picture.

THE PHONE WILL RING AT 9.30AM. PICK UP

Spinning in his chair, he looks at the old Victorian clock on the wall behind him. The time was nine twenty. Ten minutes to wait, ten agonising minutes, until he can find out what this bastard wants he thought. Trying to compose himself, he pours another coffee.