Bonded in blood, p.1
Bonded in Blood, page 1
The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles
Volume 2
Bonded in Blood
By Mike Bennett
Smashwords Edition
Copyright Mike Bennett 2008 – 2013
All rights reserved by the author.
Cover art by M.J. Hahn.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
I would like to thank the following friends and cohorts: Pauline McGrath, Jason Andrews, M.J. Hahn, Kerry Heron, Rachel Sinnamon, the podcast listeners of Planet U&F, and especially ...
The Patrons of Underwood and Flinch
This book was made possible by the generous contributions of the following wonderful people to the 2012 Underwood and Flinch fundraising campaign at Indiegogo.com.
This book is dedicated to them with my deepest thanks.
The Black Circle
Pons and Melissa Matal, Joel Palmer, Daniel Price, Dale Bennett, Brandon Foster,
Benjamin Tovar, Mitchel Bynum, Matthew Bushong, John R. Orr,
Steve Bown, Michael Bowers, Florence Wall, Paco Marquez.
The Sect Members
Alan Lee, Robert Pinter, Jeffrey C. Claytor, Dan Shaurette, David Rogers
Laura Faichney, Chess Griffin, David Goodwin, Seth Wolfson, Keith Hunt
Rocheen Maclean, Martin Heron, Kate Matthews, Monday Matlock, Lord Revell,
Ben Wright, Terry Bailey, Michael Graham, Elizabeth Mast, Dave A. Alcock,
Chris, John Mcleish, Rick L . Abbott, Craig Large, Ieva Klava, Steve, Nick Robinson,
Mark "Woof" Brown, Luke Race, Marcella Tapp, Jason Vion, Cathi Iuliano.
The Fang-Tastic!
Ann Smith, Jon Cape, Stephanie Price, Jeffrey Crane, Mark Bailey, John Noonan,
Steve Hyland, Darren Ledgerwood, Tara and David Haroon, Linda Mendes, Kym Durham
David Heyes, Scott Thompson, Martin Reindl, William Campsey
Jake Kozak, Stephanie Crosskey, Thomas Reed, Maryanne Torgerson
Mandy Lancaster, Jude Cuddy, Stefan Moody, Michael Micklethwaite, Justin Elsdon,
Nanna Bjerre Larsen, Magnus Lonberg Carlsen, Maia Olsen, Richard Wodehouse,
Nima Aleagha, Michael Metz, Suzanne Holt, Gonzalo Gonzalez, Tom Lytle
Larry Horne, John & Mindy Milfelt, Kameron Dodson, Dawn Wancura,
Elliot Gould, Nancy Stevenson.
The Stake Holders
Alison Benowitz, Heather Brady, Keith Burnage, David Fisk, Dave Wangrow, Dr Jon Durrant,
Andrew Rothman, Mick Everett, Karl Jones, Mark Wiard, Brendon King, David Dean,
Dave Mallon, John Lingard, Shane Alonso, Gavin Armit, Craig Bristol, Nelline Henning,
Daryl Miller, Patrick Jones, Kerry Heron, Paul Bull, Adam and Jo Roxby,
Dillard Hayes, Mr S.R.Hart, Eric Neff, Tracy Smith, Karen Lind, David Campbell,
Paul Warren, Sandra Allan, Shaun Curry, Mark Dales, Roy Murphy,
Stephen Ormsby, Stephanie Gagnon, Amanda B. Larssen,
Tony Robinson, Denise Romero, Garry Ogle, Mika Eloranta, Angela Sorrey,
Katharine Parke, Richard Hart, Natasha Webb, Nick Nilsen,
Rebecca Stacey & Darren Jarvis, Tracey Storer,
Adam Carter, Paul Hurst, M Domanko, Sophie Barwick, Jason Andrews,
Uli Scheuss, Alexander Dietrich, Colin Lawton, Steve Loxdale,
Alan Smith, Lisa Burke, Jeremy Opsahl, Yuhri Miller, Eric Husen, Tena Kolakowski
Rich Girardi, Mike Dunham, Melissa Mosier, Joseph Carson, Ryan Caesar-Brown,
Gerard Griesbaum III, Mike Sandidge, Wan Park, Andrew Hunter,
Pamela Culpepper, Nancy Paris.
The Jolly Rogers
Teri Humphries, William Hill, Amy Olshever, Jeremy Avery, Robbie Keene, Brent Boyd
The Blood Donors
Steve Bickle, Daniel Perdue, Emma Hastings, Chris Pragman, Joshua Arnold Durham,
William Berry, Dan Johnson, Karen Walters, Ryan Waldon, Andrew Richardson,
KT Smith, Dean Baratta, Matthew Lunde, Mark L Berry, Mark Horrocks,
Veronii Giguere, Shevaun O'Neill, Stephen Pountney, Leonardo, Schlongasaurus,
Stephanie Newland, Andrea Dixon, Jerry DeMario, Jamie Bennett,
Simon Rishton, Elizabeth Johnson, Steve, Christina Nelson, Alison Kilgour,
Hilary Jones, Gerard McCann, Nathaniel Kajumba, Neil Hutchings,
Erica Turner, C2012, John Pitchford, Paul Anderson, Si UrenSibongo,
Joe Schweinzger, Rudy Toledo, Brad Bucholtz, J. Alexander Greenwood,
Jennifer Marzetta, David Haupt, Kelly Stouffer, Jeff Turro.
The Candle Bearers
Ken Wieland, Damien Smith, Debbie Neff, Simon, Dennis C. Nolasco, Simon Cowlard,
Nicole McGarrigle, Quinn Kurenda
My profound thanks to you all. This book is for you.
Mike Bennett, Sussex. July 2013.
1
Sergei Alexandrov stood on the dance floor of his Malaga nightclub, La Fantasía, listening with barely concealed incomprehension to a bearded hippy called Stefano. It wasn’t Stefano’s Spanish Sergei was having difficulty understanding, it was his topic: he was talking about stage lighting. Sergei waved a hand, cutting the hippy off in the middle of a stream of unintelligible babble, and said in Spanish, ‘Why don’t you just show me?’
Stefano agreed and hurried off to the rear of the dance floor where he ascended to his control booth. Sergei turned to Max, his German club manager, and said in Russian, ‘Did you understand any of that?’
Max snorted and scratched his blonde-grey goatee beard. ‘More or less. But I cannot say it any more clearly. It is all technical bullshit, Sergei. You were right to ask for a demonstration.’ Max was forty-three years-old, overweight, and wore his thinning hair tied back in a pony tail. Originally from Berlin in what had once been Soviet East Germany, Max spoke Russian fluently, and in his youth had done his national service in the Soviet army. He’d spent the intervening years between leaving the military and the fall of the Berlin Wall working in bars and clubs in East Berlin. But he’d really made his money at that time providing club punters with drugs. In 1989, when the Wall came down, he’d been the owner of a small but highly successful bar. It was trendy inasfar as an East Garman bar could be at that time, but after the reunification of Germany, overnight it became shoddy in comparison with what was now available to customers in the Western part of the city. Within six months Max had followed his former customers into the West. He’d tried his hand in West Germany for two years before coming to Spain’s Costa del Sol. The process of working his way up in a new territory – and in a new language – had been daunting, but with his knowledge of business, legitimate and illegitimate, it had only been a matter of time before he’d become the owner of his own bar, which he had turned into a fashionable and highly profitable concern on which he had grown fat and been able to indulge his appetite for prostitutes, cocaine and Brazil nuts for many years. Then one day, seven years ago, Sergei had approached him with an offer for the place. Unlike most people who found themselves the object of Sergei’s expanding business interests, Max understood his situation and was quick to adapt. His time in the Soviet military had taught him all about the Russian mindset, and had also taught him how to recognise an officer when he met one. Consequently, negotiations between the two men had gone well, with Sergei improving his offer to include a job for Max as manager of La Fantasía, which he had then been in the process of acquiring. Max had accepted, and the two had become both associates and friends.
Sergei looked up at the bristling black forest of wire and metal that stretched out above him. Although La Fantasía was the jewel in the crown of his business empire, Sergei didn’t actually like the place, especially the dreadful music they played here, and he left the running of it as much as possible to Max. However, he liked to know what was going on at every level of the business – legitimate and illegitimate – and so when new fixtures and fittings were required, Sergei liked to know what they were and why they were needed. This included improvements to the sound and lighting systems – things about which Sergei knew nothing and cared less – but it was all part of his overall investment and so when the curious entanglement of metal and wire over his head began to click and move, he paid genuine and close attention.
‘Okay,’ shouted Stefano from above and behind them. A spot in the darkness over their heads suddenly lit up and a series of coloured beams began to swirl and move about the cavernous room. Stefano shouted out the name of the light and how its companion on the other side of the rig didn’t work anymore.
‘So we need new light?’ Sergei asked Max.
‘Ja.’ Max pointed to an inert shape on the other side of the rig, the deceased partner to the whirling light above them. ‘He says it is kaput.’
‘It can’t be repaired? A new bulb, perhaps?’
Max shook his head. ‘It is old, Sergei. These things are like anything else: they get old and they die.’
More lights came on, one after the other, whirring and clicking as they flashed, spun and pulsed across the ceiling, all the while Stefano shouting out what the light was called and what he needed to make the effect better. Sergei th
‘About fifty-fifty. Stefano has a passion for the lights. He’s like a big kid.’
Sergei glanced at his watch: it was just after eight-thirty pm. Staff were beginning to arrive, walking around behind the shuttered bars at the far end of the room. Someone turned on a CD player and the rhythmic thud of reggaeton music began to echo across the dance floor. The sound swelled as a door opened, and Sergei turned to see Anton Marashov and Ivan Trushko entering. He turned back to Max. ‘Okay, buy the lights we need and maybe a few extras for our passionate friend. I trust you to make sensible choices, as always.’ He clapped Max on the shoulder. ‘But now, I need your office for a while to discuss some other business, okay?’
‘Of course.’ Max gave a wave to Anton and Ivan. ‘Hola, comrades.’
The two unsmiling men each nodded in reply.
Max’s smile clung to his face with a crumbling grip. He didn’t like these two. He got on well with Sergei’s usual minders, but Ivan – the big guy with the flat-top hair do, and Anton, the small, ratty-looking guy with the ugly-looking scar across his nose and left cheek – scared him. Sergei walked over to them and motioned for them to follow him. Once the Russians had exited through the door marked “Private”, Max relaxed, just as a sudden whirring and clicking from above caused him to look up. Two sets of rainbow beams sprang out from the shadows overhead and began to swirl about him.
‘Hey, Max,’ shouted Stefano from far away. ‘You are the Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only forty-eight. We have the music and you have the floor to yourself, dance for me.’
Max smiled and raised a finger to the control booth, ‘Dance on this, cabrón.’
Sergei led Anton and Ivan into Max’s office. He crossed the white-tiled floor to the desk and drew out Max’s chair. He closed the open laptop computer and noticed just behind it a copy of the Spanish newspaper, El Pais. A feature caught his eye and he picked it up, a light dust of Brazil nut shells falling away as he did so. ‘Have you been reading the Spanish newspapers?’ he asked in Russian, waving Anton and Ivan to sit in the chairs opposite.
Anton looked confused. ‘Me? No, Captain.’
Ivan shook his big head. ‘Me neither, Captain. My Spanish is shit.’
‘This is precisely why you should try to read them, Ivan Trushko. A little every day –poco y poco, as they say here – and you will see big improvement. If you had better Spanish,’ he held up the newspaper and showed them the picture of Mark Coleman, ‘you would be able to read about your exploits.’
Sergei tossed the newspaper to Ivan and sat forward. ‘It is yesterday’s edition. I have read it. Police are now focusing their investigation on rival drug dealers on Ibiza. You did good job.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Anton.
Sergei smiled. ‘And so, tell me, Anton. What do you have for me on the other English, Keith Mullins and his friends?’
Anton picked up his briefcase, ‘We spoke to many people on Ibiza who knew Coleman, but they didn’t seem to know anything about the other men. We went through online phone directories for both Portugal and Spain looking for names Mullins, Hodgekiss and Sullivan. Not so many entries for Mullins and Hodgekiss, but many for Sullivan. Too many. So – ’
Ivan interrupted. ‘So I had brilliant idea. I looked for them on MySpace.’
‘Yes,’ Anton interjected. ‘But Mullins and his friends didn’t have pages. So I had brilliant idea of looking for page for Coleman, and bingo! We found him. He had changed his profile name but original email cannot be changed.’
Sergei frowned, confused. ‘What does this all mean? What is MySpace? Is children’s thing, no?’
‘Maybe, yes, but lots of stupid adults use it too. Coleman had many pictures on his page. Mostly irrelevant, but we found some I think you will like.’ Anton opened his briefcase and handed Sergei a file containing prints of various colour photographs.
Sergei looked at the top one, it showed Mark Coleman and Damo Sullivan arm-wrestling in a pub with Hodge refereeing between them. Behind them were several drunk-looking spectators, most of whom had flash-induced red-eye. Under the picture, Anton had transcribed the caption, “Mark, Hodge and Damo, John Bull Tavern ’05”. Sergei smiled.
‘You recognise them?’ asked Ivan. ‘When you bought pub from Mullins?’
Sergei nodded. ‘Yes, I recognise them.’ He looked at the next picture. It showed a smiling Keith and Michelle behind the bar of the John Bull Tavern. ‘And here is our friend Mr Mullins and his good lady wife.’
Anton watched as Sergei browsed through the rest of the pictures. ‘We spent a day following different links to Coleman’s friends and checking through their pictures. The ones you are looking at now come from other people’s pages.’
Sergei examined each of the pictures carefully. He was coming to the end of them when he stopped and took out his reading glasses to look more closely at one picture in particular. He tapped it. ‘Did you make note of whose page you took this from?’
‘Yes, Captain,’ said Anton. ‘We took notes of all people with relevant pictures.’
‘This one,’ said Sergei, laying the picture on the desk so it was facing Anton and Ivan. ‘You recognise the place?’
Anton and Ivan leaned in closer to the picture. It showed Damo and a crowd of rosy-cheeked drinkers cheering in a pub. A string of paper shamrocks was strung over the bar in the background. Ivan looked up at Sergei. ‘It is the Irish, Sullivan and other people drunk in pub, no?’
‘Yes, but I ask if you recognise the place, not the people.’
Anton looked more closely then shrugged. ‘Caption says, “Paddy’s Day at Paddy McGinty’s.” So place must be Paddy McGinty’s, no?’
‘Good,’ said Sergei. ‘But what about the day, Anton Marashov? What is “Paddy’s Day”?’
Anton shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Sergei reached for the bowl of Brazil nuts that was always full on Max’s desk. He took the nutcracker and selected a nut. ‘It is St Patrick’s Day. Very big day in pub trade.’
‘So, this is why everyone is drunk in picture?’
‘Yes.’ Sergei cracked the shell of the nut and dropped the debris into Max’s waste paper basket. He popped the nut into his mouth. ‘You are right, Anton, this pub is called Paddy McGinty’s. It is in Torremolinos. But – ’ he pointed at Anton for emphasis, ‘this time last year, it was called The Red Lion. It was shit-hole English pub. Owner was fat alcoholic. No customers. I bought it, changed it to Irish pub, now it makes lots of money.’
Anton nodded. ‘Ahhh.’
‘You understand my point?’ asked Sergei.
‘Er ... no.’
‘Why is this “Paddy’s Day” important?’ asked Ivan.
Sergei smiled. ‘Because, St Patrick’s Day falls on March 17th. On March 17th last year, this building was shit-hole English pub, Red Lion, but on March 17th this year, it was Paddy McGinty’s, an Irish pub.’ He tapped the photo. ‘This pub in the picture.’
Anton nodded as realization dawned. ‘So this picture was taken this year, not last year?’
‘To be precise,’ said Sergei, ‘it was taken five weeks ago. So either Mr Sullivan travelled all the way from Portugal for a night out, or he lives a lot closer than he wants us to believe.’
‘So, do you think Sullivan knew he was in your pub?’
‘I doubt it. If he did, I don’t think he would be smiling.’
Ivan grinned. ‘So, you think Sullivan could be in Torremolinos?’
‘Maybe,’ said Sergei. ‘Or maybe he just likes to drop by every now and again to see old friends.
‘Take the names of the people whose MySpace pages you got these pictures from, especially the name of the person who took the St Patrick’s Day picture. Then go to pub, Paddy McGinty’s, and speak with manager. I will call him and let him know you are coming. He should be able to put names to faces and vice versa.’ He took another nut from the dish, crushed the shell, and held the nut thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. ‘Then with luck, before too long, we will be able to give the Spanish newspapers some fresh headshots for their front pages.’
