Tangled Webs

By Peter Harrison

Late fifties. North-East hoodlum, Greg Tully, recently chased from of Middlesbrough by a rival mob, heads north where he raids a local businessman. Realising the true wealth of the family, the roly-poly criminal kidnaps the son and demands a ransom. Through fate and good fortune a tenacious youngster, Joe Keaton, discovers the captive boy and foils the plot. Young Joe is instrumental in jailing Greg Tully and his accomplice, Nathan Scott.
Years later Joe starts work at the local colliery. After witnessing a horrific accident he resigns his job at the mine and finds work on a building-site. Meanwhile Greg Tully secures an early release from prison and, persuaded to join old rivals, kick-starts his life of crime. A robbery is planned. A huge building site is targeted. Fate sees Joe Keaton and his friends in the wrong place at the wrong time. They are captured by the crooks. When the conscious-stricken Tully recognises young Joe he releases the youth, contacts Middlesbrough police and runs for cover.
When the Boro constabulary fail to appear, Tully discovers corruption at the highest level. He contacts the Durham Force. His garbled telephone-call, cut short when he is shot, causes mayhem amongst police force and the criminal fraternity.
Pandemonium ensues when cops and crooks start their own investigations. A can of worms is unearthed that changes lives forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barny Books
• Release date: Oct 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310865275

Book preview

Prologue

The car swung effortlessly from the main thoroughfare and into the side street. The couple inside the vehicle continued squabbling.

You’ve still got time to change your mind! said the man.

No!

Hell, woman! he said grudgingly. Let nature take its course. We’ve been married eight years. There’s still time!

I’m almost thirty, replied the woman, her tone morose. You wouldn’t understand.

All those years together it’s never bothered you, he continued, until now!

That’s not true, I’ve always wanted children! she protested loudly. She gestured at the semi-detached, There’s Charlotte’s house!

The vehicle slowed and stopped outside the drab semi, in a long untidy street of decrepit, festering houses in the wrong part of Middlesbrough. The couple glanced at one another. He winced unconsciously and she gnawed at her inner lip.

Jesus, he groaned, staring at the council house that boasted bare windows, a boarded-up front door and a virtual jungle of a garden. Sighed long and loud before muttering, You sure Charlotte is your sister?

Try and hold your tongue, adding awkwardly, Charlotte might be the worse for wear.

You’ve told me she’s a drunk and a drug addict! he said resignedly. What could be better?

Please! Be quiet for my sake! The female opened the passenger-door, Charlotte’s only fault was picking the wrong man. Her heart always ruled her head. You know that!

We can all make a mistake, he replied sardonically. Followed her out of the car, But two kids to two different blokes and now she’s pregnant again, come on!

She’s back with Herbert, interrupted the woman.

Herbert?

Husband number two, said the wife, Herbert Brown’s his name. She shook her head, adding, There’s been a few!

And he’s the father to be?

The woman elucidated, Charlotte’s almost certain it’s Herbert’s, she answered. It’s definitely not Noël’s.

Number one! uttered the man sourly. So why is she adamant it’s not his?

Noel left, she replied, shrugging her shoulders. He couldn’t take any more. They were getting back, then they weren’t, and when he found out Charlotte was seeing Herbert again, Noel walked away.

The man had sense, he muttered under his breath.

The female ignored him and continued with the tale. If you’ll let me finish! She took a deep breath and continued, Charlotte told me she had a few nights out with the girls and had too much to drink. Do you understand? There was a long meaningful pause, That’s why she agreed to my proposition.

Plus a little back-hander to sweeten the pill?

She’s using the money to start again, said the woman. Herbert has relations down south. She snorted with indignation, adding, It’ll pay for removals, nothing more.

"That kind of money could buy Pickfords!"

Spoil it why don’t you! Sprinkle poison on the soup like you always do! Took a lungful of air, added, It’s nothing to do with Charlotte!

Is there no other way?

I want a baby! she spat venomously. I’ve waited six years! It’s not going to happen!

That’s not what the hospital said!

Stop it!

Then let’s adopt! he reasoned. Legally!

It takes forever, I’ve read all about it!

He looked at her, glancing subconsciously at her slim midriff, Do you want to explain how you’ll convince anyone about the phantom bulge?

I’ve thought of that! she replied icily, her words almost a whisper. It’s not a problem!

Want to explain?

Camouflage! That’s the easy part. As for pre-natal, I’ll say I forgot, that I’m depressed. And when it’s time, I’ll be conveniently visiting relatives! I know what I have to do!

You really want this, don’t you?

More than anything else in the world!

The woman took a deep breath, walked to the rear and knocked at the door. Moments later it was wrenched open by a short, chunky man. The fellow oozed criminal. The cigarette glued to his thin lips, the raggedy jeans, grubby tee-shirt and arms covered in tattoos were obvious pointers. His demeanour and expression only added to the persona.

Herbert? asked the female. She’d met the fellow once. It had been a fleeting visit years earlier when he possessed hair and a waistline.

Charlotte’s expecting you, he grunted, ignoring the man. He eyed the female up and down. Better come in.

Despite it being midday the living-room light shone brightly, highlighting the squalor. The walls were bare apart from one where a picture of Jesus stared serenely at the heavens. The wooden floor was part-covered with an ancient, threadbare rug. An antiquated television stood in one corner blaring loudly.

There were three people in the room; an overweight child, a teenage girl, and an older woman. The boy, perhaps four years old, sat mesmerised. He wore a scruffy pyjama jacket, mismatched tract-suit bottoms and old slippers. He seemed oblivious to the strangers. Squatting lethargically in an arm-chair was the girl, her age indeterminable because of her dress and demeanour. The skimpy skirt, perched high up her skinny thighs, highlighted gaudy underwear; the gold-coloured tee-shirt was the showpiece for the huge breasts. Despite the garish make-up and the cigarette that drooled from one corner of mouth, the female was pretty in a sluttish kind of way. Finally, and sitting relaxed in the middle of the enormous tatty sofa, sat the mother. She grasped a cigarette packet in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She smiled a toothless smile at her only sister.

Hello Charlotte, said the newcomer. Everything alright?

Will be, she replied glumly. In about seven months!

Charlotte shuffled to one side of the settee and gestured for the couple to join her. Herbert sauntered past them and ruffled the girl’s hair.

Herby! spat the girl. Don’t do that!

Herbert Brown addressed the boy, Move! he said aggressively. Get upstairs, I’ve got business to attend!

No! shouted the boy and wrapped his arms around his sister. I want to watch the television!

Up! bawled the man, lifting a tattooed arm. Or you’ll feel the back of my hand!

The child cowered, his small chunky hands covering his head protectively. Slowly, nervously, the boy stood. He was trembling.

The young girl jumped to her feet and stepped between the warring factions, her pupils dilated, and eyes red-rimmed and wild. Pointing a manicured talon at the adult she growled, Don’t you touch him!

Or what? answered the man.

The girl glowered defiantly. She did not need to speak, the touch-paper was burning, the explosion imminent as she locked horns with the tormentor. Suddenly the boy turned and ran to the stairs. With a grunt of satisfaction, Herbert Brown stormed after him, swearing and threatening too loud … saving face.

The teenage girl stood swaying as if caught in some invisible storm. Sour-faced, hands on hips, she glanced at her mother. The cigarette clung like a limpet to wet, crimson lips.

Take a hike, love, muttered the older woman. I need some peace and quiet.

The young female stuck out an open palm. Give me some cash then, she said assertively.

How can I, replied Charlotte. I don’t have a penny!

You can always find it when it suits you! the girl muttered insolently. She glanced contemptuously at the strangers, Ask them!

Charlotte squirmed and her features clouded as she plucked the hidden purse from beneath a phalanx of festering cushions. The bribe was paid and the teenager left the room. The rear door clashed leaving the adults alone.

The fuming mother sighed like some dyspeptic sow, Sixteen going on twenty-six! she exclaimed despairingly.

The man could not hold his tongue, Is she on drugs?

The mother fidgeted before replying awkwardly, Course not! The words were without conviction, She’s clean now.

Herbert entered the living-room and sauntered towards his partner, asked, Missed anything?

Charlotte ignored the man and spoke to her sister, We need a bit of peace and quiet, don’t we? It’s best the kids don’t eavesdrop. She gestured at the filthy settee, Sit down, sis, she continued and sucked at the ciggy like it was her last. Charlotte cackled ominously, We’ve lots to talk about!

It was Herbert who mentioned the increase in the fee. Said it casually like it was no big thing. The newcomers baulked at the change. Charlotte flushed with disbelief, glancing at the smirking Herbert Brown. With arms raised submissively she nervously mentioned about the price being negotiable. When Herbert overruled her the ructions started again.

Chapter One

The Autry family lived in Shotton, a small village situated in the North East of England. They lived in a large detached house with the business section - a fast-food shop - attached to the gable-end of the property. Their home, apart from the shared kitchen, was essentially private. Workaholic Allan Autry had the determination and stamina of two men and worked around the clock, rising before six and toiling until ten at night, six days a week. Sunday mornings were set aside to do the business accounts. His burning ambition, according to his wife, was to become a millionaire. Her husband was obsessed. Blinkered. Despite the family owning numerous fast-food shops in the Durham area, Allan Autry wanted more; his appetite for expansion insatiable. He was a driven man.

Earlier that eventful day, Ted, their only son, discovered the key to his father’s floor-safe. He had not looked for it purposefully but had walked into the small closet under the stairs to retrieve his homework and seen the open vault. His mother, always cleaning and polishing, had placed her son’s files in the closet only minutes earlier. Ted’s father, probably disturbed by the arrival of one of the many trade suppliers, had hurried from the room accidentally leaving the open floor-safe for anyone to see.

The lad had stepped into the closet and viewed the huge Chubb steel safe positioned in the farthest corner. The monstrosity took up most of the floor-space and, although locked, it had the additional security of metal brackets wedged across its roof and bolted either side into the walls. The additional security was not needed. The steel safe weighed a virtual ton. Allan Autry would say it was all about deterrence. Potential thieves would take one look in the room and lose heart. Allan was a conniving man. He kept a few hundred pounds in the safe. If burglars called they would be sorely disappointed at the find because the bulk of his money was hidden directly in front of the Chubb, under the carpet in a floor-safe, undetectable to any stranger. Not today. The carpet had been pulled back exposing the open, encased circular cylinder of the safe, its thick metal cap abandoned in one corner of the cupboard, the long silver key still wedged in the locking device. It was the lad’s first sight of the floor safe. It was brimming with cash. Ted had never seen so much money. Never realised how much was kept at their home. The alarm-box on the side-wall caught his eye, the facia was open and Ted looked at the blinking lights and the multitude of wiring and then noticed the small shelf within the system and the long line of keys. He had inadvertently discovered his father’s secret hiding place. The alarm-box panel was secured with one single screw. Ted grinned. He thought his father was a very astute man.

Grabbing his homework files Ted climbed the stairs. It was Saturday morning. Despite the day being warm and sunny Ted knew he had to complete his school work before he could visit friends. The smallest of the bedrooms had been converted into a fully-fitted study; one wall was entirely covered with shelves filled with textbooks, reference-books, box-files and miscellaneous stationery. On the carpeted floors were piles of novels and paperbacks. On the opposite wall nestled between posters of Rory Calhoun and Cliff Richard stood a mahogany unit on top of which was a portable radio and a television. The place was a schoolboy’s dream. Ted took out the texts and the relevant files and settled down to work and already the noise was agitating. The extractor-fan whined, the staff cackled as they bustled from the kitchen to the shop, the shop-door clashed constantly as customers called at the busy shop and all the while his parents battled like prizefighters, in other words, it was a normal day in the Autry household.

The upstairs phone extension started ringing. It was John Boyce, Ted’s best friend, same age, same school; same wavelength. The two had met years earlier when Ted attended Peterlee Howletch Junior School. They had been friends ever since, even when Ted moved to Shotton when his father bought a third shop. Ted should have transferred schools but managed to persuade his mother to allow him to stay at the Peterlee School. His mother agreed willingly. His dad was infuriated. The daily drive was too much for him. The chauffeur’s job was given to Ted’s mother.

Still going?

Twelve-o-clock, Ted answered.

The boys were visiting Peterlee. It was John’s birthday and he had been given a wad of cash from his doting mother.

Ted Autry went back to his homework.

Chapter Two

As Ted Autry concentrated on his studies, a decrepit transit pulled up close to the fast- food shop. The two occupants eyed the constant queues of customers entering the premises. The driver was short, maybe five six, and chubby. He was in his late teens, balding and baby-faced. His name was Greg Noel Tully. He used to live in Middlesbrough, eight miles south of Shotton. His main occupation was drug-dealing. Until recently most of his business had been conducted in the Boro. Not anymore. Circumstances beyond his control had made it imperative for him to move location and take his business acumen elsewhere. Still smarting from the humiliating exit from Middlesbrough, he kept his emotions under control knowing that whining and moping would not create a favourable impression to his diminishing band of loyal followers. Determined to return to the Boro sometime in the future and take back his crown, the diminutive crook stayed resolute.

Greg Tully had travelled north of his hometown to reconnoiter the business. He had heard the rumours about the fast-food shop and was seeing for himself if the gossip was true. It was. The place was a virtual goldmine and he wanted a piece of it. Knew that success would not only kick-start his faltering career and but would boost his tattered reputation.

Crank was right about the shop, said his accomplice, seventeen year old Nathan Scott, Middlesbrough ruffian and pal of Tully.

Scott was head and shoulders bigger than the diminutive driver and as broad as an ox. Nathan Scott could handle himself. Brawled most weekends for fun. He was frightened of Greg Tully. Frightened of anyone one who would use a gun.

This is one of a dozen shops Autry owns, said Nathan Scott

You don’t say, replied Tully, his eyes focused on the premises.

Twelve shops, according to Crank, muttered Scott. Can you imagine what the business takes in a week?

The driver glanced at his watch. Let’s call on Danny, he said. See what else he can tell us.

Danny Cruishank - Crank - was twenty years old, unemployed, and now a resident of Shotton. Originally from Middlesbrough, he had met local floozy Carol Frist in a nightclub and followed her back to the village. He worked for Tully, supplying pills, potions and anything illegal in the local area. Girlfriend Carol Frist lived only minutes from the shop.

Is Crank with us on the job? asked Nathan Scott.

No. Only us, replied the criminal. A wolfish grin scratched over his jowly features, We split the money two ways, Nate.

It’ll come in handy.

Believe it, said Tully, his eyes fixed on Autry’s shop. Be like old times. Pockets full of money again.

Tully nodded ruefully. Minutes passed as both men reminisced.

Scott muttered, You must hate Golding?

Isaac Golding, late fifties, short and wiry, ran a drug empire that covered most of Middlesbrough, Billingham and Stockton.

Old Isaac, replied a hesitant Tully. Sure I do.

Bobby Coxon and Sherman James too?

Isaac’s money bought the best muscle. That’s a fact, Nate.

There were times when I thought Coxon was worse than the man who paid his wages.

Tully shook his head despondently, memories scratching like a permanent sore. I ever tell you Isaac used to call on us?

What do you mean, Greg?

When I was a kid.

I never knew that! Nathan Scott nodded, added dryly. Sniffing around your big sister?

Joan? Don’t talk stupid! Took a deep breath, adding whimsically, He was seeing Ma.

Your old lady? The tone echoed disbelief.

Hey! She was a looker once! Ma was one smart carrot before …

The sentence fizzled out; the man did not have the heart to ridicule his mother.

Nathan Scott, backing away from a sure-fire row with the little gangster, nodded anxiously, I forgot how old she is, he said.

Tully reminisced, Golding used to call, he muttered.

Your dad okay with the arrangement, Greg?

The half-ping hoodlum looked long and hard at his crony, his eyes bulging with anger.

Nathan Scott frowned. What did I say? he asked cautiously.

Dad was long gone! snapped Tully, Stop with the wisecracks!

I meant nothing, man. You know me better!

Tully sucked in a lungful of air and slowly, deliberately exhaled, I was fourteen when I started working for Isaac. That’s how I got started in the firm.

Couple of years and you were top dog, agreed Scotty.

Yeah, and not through any connections, exclaimed the rueful Tully. Isaac put no favours my way. I done it all myself!

My opinion, Greg, said the bigger man. It all went downhill when Coxon came on board. My opinion, for what it’s worth.

Tully nodded approvingly, unable to forget the past. I still can’t get my head around the night we nearly got busted.

Never be as lucky again, that’s for sure!

Cops were digging up the allotment when we pulled up! How the hell we got away I’ll never know! He glanced at his companion, How come they knew we kept our stuff there? You ever wonder, Nathan?

Someone talked, obviously, replied the bigger man, shaking his bull-like head. Wasn’t only the coke that went down the toilet … Look at the money we lost when we couldn’t deliver!

Isaac wasn’t happy, muttered Tully. He was annoyed, spitting blood. I’ve never known him so pissed. Hell, he practically said it was down to me losing the powder! … I never stole off Isaac. He was bang out of order with his accusations!

Maybe you should have kept quiet.

I’m not a thief. The old man shouldn’t have pointed an accusing finger at me! I never, ever, took a penny off Isaac Golding!

Nathan Scott pulled his face. He could still recall the meeting in the house in Northallerton. Tully and Coxon hammer and tongs; Golding, seated, contemplative, non-committal.

You threatened him, Greg. I heard it with my own ears.

Tully grimaced, the memory vivid still. Coxon more or less said I had connections with the coppers! Tully filled his chest and exhaled slowly, Bobby Coxon would have said anything to get my job! he hissed.

Nathan answer was whispered, diplomatic, Coxon wasn’t exactly accusing you, Greg. All he was saying …

Tully interrupted, With the cops rummaging in the right place, and finding Isaac’s dope, people put two and two together! That’s what he was saying!

The reply was half-hearted, I suppose, Nathan said loyally.

Are you blaming me?

I’m here with you, don’t that mean anything?

The men eyeballed one another, neither wishing to yield. It was Tully who spoke first.

Sleeping dogs, eh?

Seems to me Golding listened to the wrong folk. Think about it, Greg. Couple of months later we were kicked into touch and Coxon and James took our seats on the board.

Greg did not reply. He was a million miles away …

Bernie Trent, six four and pencil-thin, hurried to the waiting car. He was drenched and shivering when he climbed into the rear-seat. The trembling had nothing to do with the cold temperatures but more to do with fear at the thought of impending calamity.

"Well?" asked the diminutive thug squatting behind the driving seat.

"They’re all inside, Greg."

"Everyone? asked Nathan Scott. The huge crony of Greg Tully filled the passenger-seat. They all there?"

Bernie Trent rhymed off the list: Bobby Coxon, Sherman James. Isaac Golding too.

"Coxon and James! grunted Tully, his beady eyes feasting on the pub door. Sitting in my boozer like they already own the place!"

"They’re bad people," muttered Nathan Scott.

Tully, fixated on the public-house, nodded grimly, You can take them, Nate, he muttered nervously, no problem.

"One at a time," replied Scotty. More worried about the aftermath than the pending violence.

Bernie Trent squirmed and fidgeted on the seat trying to find excuses to bolt, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Loyal to the end but the end was closing fast and he wanted out. Bernie needed to change allegiances before he was trapped on the losing side. Tully’s time was up, he knew it for a fact. The two seated in front of him knew it too, only he had the sense to see what was coming. The king was dead, long live the king. Bobby Coxon, Golding’s new pet, had stolen Tully’s crown in a series of raids, threats and continuous attrition. Coxon, with power and muscle that only Tully could dream about, became Golding’s number one.

"Right then, said Bernie, making an obvious play for the door-handle. He shot a glance at the driver, I’d better be off." When no one replied, Bernie Trent pushed open the door and made a quick exit.

"Made up your mind, Greg?" asked Nathan Scott. Never lost a fight in his life but knew instinctively this time was different.

"Only one way to go, said Tully determinately. He sighed long and loud, glanced into the rear-view mirror and inwardly winced at the jowly, balding image staring back at him. Tully rummaged through pockets until he found the weapon. Pulling the handgun into view he prodded it in the direction of his companion, This is what I’m talking about, Nate!"

"Christ! stammered the bigger man. Point it away from me!"

Tully aimed at the passenger-window. He pulled the trigger. The glass exploded into a thousand shards. The noise of the blast made the pair yelp in unison. Scott clamped the palms of his hands over his ear. Tully almost dropped the pistol.

"Greg! whined a shocked Nathan Scott. What the hell!"

Tully thought the window had been wound down. The shot was an act of bravado. It was to show he meant business. The evening was not going to plan.

"That is my pub, muttered Tully, regaining his composure. He gestured at the drinking-den. And this is my town. No stranger takes over my patch!"

Tully nudged the car-door open and stood glowering at the boozer, his gun arm swinging from side to side.

"Greg, spluttered his crony, edging into view. There’s got to be another way! Let’s think about this!"

"Get behind the wheel, ordered the diminutive hoodlum, I’ll not be long!"

Greg Tully walked determinedly towards the big doors, the handgun cocked and ready …

Greg, grunted Nathan Scott. You daydreaming or what?

Tully struggled back to the present, his features frozen in an anguished pout. Recovered enough to mutter, Come on, Nate! We’ll see Crank and get the show on the road!

Chapter Three

That same afternoon the Autry’s were arguing.

What do you mean, where am I going? said Martha, clearly annoyed. I’m visiting my mother! Is that a problem?

Allan Autry, five six in his shoes, looked up angrily at his wife. Pouting like a spoilt child he snapped, Again? You saw her yesterday!

The woman’s features clouded. It’s Angela’s birthday, she reminded him icily, Mother and I are visiting the cemetery! Didn’t need to say any more.

Allan Autry visibly slumped. Shamefaced and floundering, he muttered a passive, I forgot, I’m sorry.

Martha chose to change the subject. The pain written over her husband’s was distressing. Allan, she said. You’ll be switching on the frying-range soon, and then the shift starts! You’ll be delivering all evening.

He nodded lamely, You’re right, Martha, he said softly, turned and left the room.

Allan Autry made his way to the outside preparation room. He stood alone in the place and stared. His thoughts were morbid. Filled with self-pity. He sighed, filled his huge chest, and tried to focus on the present. Had a lot to be grateful for; a good wife, a beautiful son, and the best business in the area. He knew he had to leave the past alone.

Allan looked at the steel shelving, choc-a-bloc with wet-fish all waiting preparation. He sighed again as more mundane, everyday thoughts pilloried him. Stooping, he pulled the plug from the huge barrel of chips and watched the water escape.

Moments later he heard employees entering the yard. It was Julie Waites and Patsy Caine. Julie was chief fryer. Patsy served the customers. He thought about their combined wages for that night and moaned out loud. Leaving the preparation-area Allan joined the females as they trooped into the kitchen.

Lovely night, Allan, said Patsy.

Allan glanced at the blue skies and the blazing sun and all he could see were mortgages. The first three shops had been paid off in record time. Another five years and the others would be paid. Only then could he ease off and enjoy his life. He returned a begrudged smile.

Julie asked, Martha out, Allan?

Visiting her mother, he replied. Few hours chat. Keeps the old girl happy.

You should have gone with her, continued Julie. He entered the shop, switched on the frying-range and then the shop-lights. You need a few hours break.

Then I’d have to employ a driver! he said grudgingly. That’ll be three wages to pay! It wouldn’t be worth it!

Of course, laughed Patsy, mocking. We believe you.

Chapter Four

Joe Keaton and Micky Dean lived in North Crescent, Easington