The Chisellers Read online

  He re-armed himself with the bottle and headed for the study. What he really needed now was a snort of cocaine. He wheeled his office chair away from the front of the safe and quickly opened the combination lock. Stretching over the money, he removed the tray at the back. On the top of the tray was a foil-wrapped one-kilo package of cocaine. He picked up the package in his left hand and held it up to his nose, taking a sniff. It was then he thought about the document that had brought him back from Dublin so quickly.

  With the cocaine still in his left hand he began to remove the papers in the tray, one by one. Stocks, bonds, a few letters of credit, and then - nothing! The yellowed envelope marked ‘Dublin Papers’ was not there. He quickly bent to the safe and again with his free right arm began to feel around the back, behind the money. He felt nothing. In a panic he pulled the money from the safe, a couple of bundles burst and the crisp notes scattered across the room like butterflies. Slowly Manny Wise stood erect. He clenched his fingers and raising his arms over his head he slammed his fists into the middle of his desk screaming, ’NO!!!‘

  Two things happened simultaneously. First, Manny had forgotten that in his left hand he held a foil pack of cocaine, and as his fists hit the desk the bag burst and a huge white gush of cocaine shot towards the ceiling, spreading out like a nuclear cloud. The second thing was a loud bang as the size thirteen black leather shoe of Detective Constable Pete Wilkinson sent the door of Manny’s apartment flying wide open. This kick had been delivered with great gusto, for Detective Wilkinson had been waiting over two years to kick down this particular door. The look of surprise on Manny’s face as the police poured into his study was matched only by the look of surprise on the officers’ faces at the sight that lay before them. Manny Wise had over sixty thousand pounds spread in a circle about his feet. In his left hand he held the remains of what was once a kilo of cocaine. The front of his body and face were completely covered in white dust, except for one three-inch red stripe which ran from his hairline to the centre of his forehead.

  In a low voice, Manny said, ‘I’ve been robbed.’

  It was Friday. It was five minutes to three o‘clock. Mark Browne sat at his desk in the small office of Senga Soft Furnishings. He was doodling on a workpad. He stopped doodling and rested his head in his left hand and began tapping the pencil on the desk. He stared at the telephone.

  In the Tinsely Wire Co. the barbedwire machine ground slowly to a halt. Dermot Browne went to the canteen where he washed his hands and poured himself a glass of milk. He sat down and looked at the canteen clock. The second hand swept slowly around the face. Dermot began to drum his fingers.

  Dino Doyle checked the timer on his client’s hair-dryer. He reset it by another two minutes. He looked up at the clock. It was three minutes to three. He tossed his comb and scissors into the steriliser unit and made his way to the small room at the back of Wash & Blow hairstylist’s. Rory Browne was sitting there at a table with a mug of coffee in front of him, nervously smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Three minutes,’ Dino anounced.

  ‘Yeh - three minutes,’ Rory replied.

  Dino went over to him and gently squeezed his hand. Rory smiled his appreciation.

  A couple of doctors returning from their lunch break nodded to the likeable young porter as they passed him. Simon Browne simply nodded back. He had his hands dug deep into the pockets of his porter’s coat and he strolled along the corridor at a relaxed pace. When he came to the big brown door he pulled hard on it, for it was quite heavy. He entered, and the door closed slowly behind him. Simon loved the quiet of the hospital chapel. He walked to the nearest pew, knelt and began to pray.

  Agnes paid the taxi driver and stepped onto the pavement to join Cathy. When they went in the door of Senga Soft Furnishings they were met by Betty. The factory was totally quiet.

  ‘What’s goin’ on here, Betty?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘What? Oh the quiet. I don’t know, Mrs B, it’s been like that since a quarter to three.’

  Cathy glanced around the factory. ‘Where’s Mark?’ She asked.

  ‘He’s in the office - waitin’,‘ Betty told her.

  ‘I’ll go into him,’ Agnes began, but Cathy restrained her.

  ‘No, Ma - leave him.’

  There was just one telephone in Senga Soft Furnishings. Because the office was sometimes unmanned, Mark had got the Post and Telegraphs people to rig the phone to a large bell that was mounted outside the office. This way, wherever he was, Mark would know when the phone was ringing and could make his way to the office. At two minutes past three o‘clock the bell clanged. The staff of Senga Soft Furnishings were well used to this bell going virtually non-stop throughout the day, yet on this occasion it seemed to clang louder than it had ever clanged.

  From their vantage point the three women saw Mark standing up as he placed the receiver to his ear. He stood very still. There was little animation. Then they watched as he slowly took the telephone from his ear and replaced it on the receiver. Mark began to walk towards the office door. Agnes glanced over her shoulder and was surprised to see that there were now over forty people standing around her. Wherever they had been just ten seconds before, the phone bell had flushed them out. Mark came out of the office and walked straight across the factory floor to Betty and took her hand. His delivery of the result was very simple.

  ‘It’s ours!’ He smiled broadly and Betty threw her arms around his neck.

  There was a huge cheer from the workforce and a lot of back-slapping and hand-shaking, but eventually everybody drifted back to work.

  Mark walked his mother and sister to the comer of the street where he waved down a taxi for them to send them home. While he was organising transport for the two, Betty was standing in the office. On the desk she noticed the pad where Mark had been doodling. It was upside-down and she turned it around to face her. He had drawn an oblong box, inside which he had written just two lines. The top line read ‘Mark Browne’, the second line ‘formerly Wise & Co.’. Betty smiled. She looked through the glass office door to see Mark already organising things and ploughing into the work as if nothing had changed, but she knew better. She turned back to the pad, picked up the pencil Mark had been using, and on the top line of his new sign, beside the name ‘Mark Browne’ she wrote, ’and Son‘.

  Epilogue

  JUST FIVE DAYS AFTER THE OLD BAILEY sentenced Manny Wise to fourteen years in prison, Joe Fitzgerald died of injuries he had received at the hands of the crazed drug dealer. It had been a long fight for the Metropolitan Police to piece together the evidence that would eventually take down this smug little cockney. During the four months it took the police to put their case together Joe Fitzgerald had remained in a coma. Now for the first time in a long, long time he was finally at peace. His death would result in further charges against Manny Wise, and to the delight of the Metropolitan Police, and for the benefit of the citizens of London, a further twelve years would be added to Manny Wise’s sentence.

  It was a young police constable walking his beat who accidentally discovered the body of Frankie Browne beneath sheets of newspaper in an alley at the edge of Chelsea, on a freezing November night. The young man’s body lay frozen in a foetal position on that minus four-degrees night. An autopsy would later reveal a number of facts. For instance that Frankie had died of hypothermia, that he was a long-time drug abuser, and that he had probably not eaten for at least three days. Modern technology was amazing more and more people with the secrets it could garner from a frozen corpse. On this occasion however, there was one secret science could not extract. For the last eight years of his short and tragic life, Francis Browne had lived under the name of Ben Daly. Before burning the dead man’s ragged clothes, an assistant of the coroner’s office went through the pockets in search of anything that might be valuable. They were empty but for a dirty, crumpled envelope upon which was written ‘Dublin Papers’.

  If you take on one of Agnes Browne’s children, you take on them all, wherever
they are.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  Dedication

  PART I

  Chapter 1 - DUBLIN 1970

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7 - LONDON

  Chapter 8 - DUBLIN

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART 2

  Chapter 11 - LONDON 1975

  Chapter 12 - DUBLIN 1974

  Chapter 13 - LONDON

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15 - LONDON

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18 - LONDON

  Epilogue