Peter - Chapter 24

Peter - Chapter 24
The many conger eel demon hybrids that tend to stay within a few miles at most from land are scattered as far as the Gower Peninsula. Odd sightings deep into the Bristol Channel show they can survive that far from the core mass. The hive mind being the key demonic trait seperates the serpents from fish. Her focal position tends not to stray far from the north west wales coastline. Aberystwyth about central. Twelve miles off shore the nucleus of jig a thrashing mass off eels numbering some 2000. The density lessening dramatically till twenty miles south only forty per square mile live independently scouting their allocated area. As the Red sword of Liberty as Lipton named the stolen vessel skirted off the coast of port talbot sensors in the outlining eels picked up the scent of aristocratic blood. Many eels living in no different a way to normal conger eels for several years in some cases lit up in to consciousness. Jigs fingers could idly stroke the seabed for years before electrical connectivity saw her system alive. Awareness spread from eel to eel as stragglers several miles off began swimming towards the boat. No one on board had any way of knowing that beneath the waters, conger aspects of the Jig whole were awakening from their animal slumber, each abandoning their hunting and scavenging as their focus changed. All drawn towards the stolen yacht that skirted the Welsh coast, building in number with each mile. The demon mind no longer slept. Jig was rising.


Peter kept himself quiet and out of the way, working on his van, checking over all service points. He would be taking the crew up to the coast in the morning and he must be certain not to break down. The Coven needed space together working on incantations and other witchcraft ready for Charlotte to summon up Jig from the gathered eels, supplemented by the many, if Liptons boat theft team had been successful. He'd have heard if his freind had any problems. He'd no interest in intruding in on the Covens rituals. Charlotte assured him they'd have everything concluded by late that evening. Best to leave after midnight, be up there ready for sunrise. The mention of the possible requirement of Peters as session into Archangel concerned him a little. Lipton was barely in flight. Peter himself had barely explored his angelic all self. He knew he could ascend, leave the body to travel above but he had no experience on Poseidon. No experiences with common mermaids never mind these two archmermaids. Though, as he understood it, though the six licences had been favouring the sea God for many years. Such a constituency he could argue for more, if surface area counted for out. It had been one of those peculiarities of politics. Two archangels were long ago tied into this three way split. Two to the three ascendant gods. On land, Christian old man had been in decline. A god or goddess depended for their depth of existence on the number of humans who had genuine belief in their existence. Only two licences for land God, two for sea God and two for hades. Allah had been in charge up top for some time. His were assured and snatched insolently by the Muslim deity. Poseidon had no serious rivals and collected a week following their allocation. Hades now was barely a myth. Jesse Presley had found himself the most existent God of the underworld. They were a fair acknowledgment for his achievements but they weren't much use down there. The gratitude Jesse had shown the shamans following their murder of the mad son Abel was immense. The licences would be of more use to them. So Lipton and Skree were archangels. But they'd not had time to developed themselves. Poseidon had elected two new mermaids so, with some luck they'd be as inept as him. As he worked on the van Peter ran through his mind the lysergamide he'd be using home transmigrated, the various herbs, songs, drum beats he'd be using. Once aloft he'd be playing it by ear. Nervous but very excited.
Old pastures had changed beyond recognition since they'd met. Nevertheless, his offer to deliver a boat to take their team out to meet with Lipton and the rest, felt a weak link. Rachel gave the guy so much support but she'd not been on these type of ventures. Thieving takes learning. Unless Mike had access to a boat. He'd just have to trust. The thought of the drulads, Jimmy and Benn being onside was reassuring. They'd be able to pinch one if the musical genius failed. Sound lads, they were.

Rachel sat playing with Mikes hair, his shoulders between her legs as he studied a map of the coast. She'd felt pride in having returned a mad minded genius back to sanity. Natural concerns affected her from time to time. Would he crumble back under stress? Would he become dependent on her? Fresh love covered most of these shadow thoughts. Others shed just put away for later days. Yet the night before Jesus and Lipton left they'd talked. As the architects set out their scheme, Mike had pulled away from her to sit attentively. Not in rejection of her but a step into personal focus. Having been physically entwined since the party it felt good to se her man as out on his own. Not half of their arrange unity but the man he had been, the man he was. She could see his eyes focused. His mind now assertive. When he'd spoken to the group, his stammer had left. This had given him a focus. Rachel returned his love to be alive. The Ruoert Bunsen plan had given him purpose. We're it another way Mike would have enjoyed to meet him alone, perhaps in a field. First to question the creep. Then to batter the man. Perhaps, if he felt the need, to unzip, flip out his cock, and piss all over the bastard. Yet that wasn't on the cards. Here he'd found something even better. Together, with these witches, shamans, Angels and fuck knew what pagan creations they had, together they could destroy all the man has worked towards. The excitement had spread to Rachel. She had her politics. Camping in London during the Occupy campaign she had committed herself to the cause. To stop the greed. Here they could take out the most poisonous tumour. Reservations came and went. Most off this group had scared her shitless at first. In time shed grown comfortable. But a few of them were real nutters. Peter diving into the afterlife. Lipton was just as bad. These lads didn't care if they had to die. None wanted to. The Druids had a similar feel. They were part of something greater. Druidry came first, their safety next. As for the witches, phew! Peter had stopped her outside the bender last night. He'd asked her if she was certain. He explained, first he couldn't see her hurt if she was just tagging along, she must believe or leave. Second, any weak link could see them all dead.mhed been firm but fair. Shed decided. Mike would need her. They might need Mike. She was in. What the fuck had she got herself into.?


The three witches of the Clun Coven sat back and let their hands fall apart . Four hours of incantation and offerings had built up through the trio. As intensity grew first Stella burst into demonic trance, her body rippled awkwardly as its new occupant found themselves plucked from the turgid mud of slurry. As their chanting grew the energy circled the girls. Building in speed, building in restrained power. Dianne was next to lose consciousness, her flesh still channeling the crab like demon now spouting a torrent of filth at the circle it was trapped within.mcharlotte lent back as steoclex, a sea demon she had summoned before took her body. The controlled possession plucked the demonic life forms from some filth dimension, locked these putrid essences in circuit, using their access to dimensions only their repugnant kind could survive in. Jig slept there. Charlotte had been outside herself watching the energy form. The angered demons now must be subdued, cast back in to the rotting flesh pit where they lived. Ripping back her body Charlotte yelled at Dianne to return. Screamed at Stella to reject the maggot best. Gripping their hands she felt pulses, flashes of the eye, then her sisters were back. Together the energy circle between them had reached high potency.
The rushes began. These orgasmic ripples that shimmered through their bodies gave such satisfaction, such a sense of power, all three screamed in a fiery feminine circuit. Calling for Jig. The accelerator levelled to stasis, then all witches closed their eyes to allow its power to come to climax. In their minds, picture of ocean bed, eels wrenched from their animal business into conscious elements of a greater whole. They could see the boat Lipton captained from above and below. Thousands of congers now around and following, a comet of Jig heading up north toward the conger mass twelve miles out from Aberystwyth. Charlotte felt Jig, her warmth, maternal comfort. She felt her anger, her pain. As the goddess ressurected, a re coalescence of the particles, the eels now aspects of Jigs emergent hive mind.
Jig knew her kin. The coil offered her a channel to speak with her mortal drulasses. No ligual aspect. Just a rising together of the goddess and witch trio group mind. Jig knew what her flesh wanted. And she hungered. How she hungered. A furious hunger. A writhing conger mass of fury at the over class of humans. She smelt the aristocrat who drew the many stray eels of her being to get her.mshe smelt a deeper need. Scanning out she could sense a body mass at her command. Further group of conger demon hybrids. Sargasso seawards. Half her children. Half of her being. She smelt the target. Her goddess mind had global sensitivity. Bunsen Island lit up her rage to a shrieking disdain. All the beast serpent goddess now needed was to eat.
Charlotte could feel her sister goddess in torment. Returned to a hunger beyond reason. In a unity of direction the coven pointed jig toward the mass of herself. They would be there soon. Once the witches let go, Jig erupted outwards, boiling into being, straight towards the eel mass. Her physical aspect. Jig savoured the physical.meeks churned over and under. One writhing mass, building in number by the hour. Relishing her being jig. Waited. The desire to go for her prey only held back by the covens loops of thought. They could bind her till Lipton got there. Till they arrived. But it would take all their skill.
Stella smiled, sweat dripping from her. Dianne through back her hair and felt power within her shared coven. Charlotte began laughing. Soon they cackled together. Their goddess was alive once more. She held the feminine unity. Something so strong. Tonight they would be together. Soon they would feist.
Charlotte: "Thank you, my sisters! Jig fills me, does she you?"
All three felt it deep in their crotch. A tingling power. A collusion no man could ever understand.
Charlotte: "Best go assemble the boys. She feels far stronger than I've ever known. I fear for Harry, Rachel. In feeding frenzy Jig can lose herself an an orgy of greed meat. If a trickle of that is left in Harry, if Rachel harbours wealthy dreams, Mike has money but cares not for it. The others I can see would taste like shite to her!"
Stepping from their seated circle. Walking to stretch limbs, the witches felt alive. They felt aroused. Hungry. Ruthless. They felt fucking powerful.


The motor ran smooth. Peter had cleared the van for all to find a comfortable spot. He'd driven down to collect Mike Oldpastures and his youthful girl. They stood waiting like soldiers. He hoped they knew this was no game. They through bags in and sat behind him after slamming shut his doors. Within minutes the van was winding its way toward the aquarium. The witches place. Looking at the clock Peter saw midnight was five or so minutes away. He'd timed it right.
Headlights spun an arc of light that picked out the witch trio. Charlotte looked more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. They'd all taken on some kind of glow. Fucking hell these girls had some power. Charlotte sat up front, Dianne shared a few words with Stella about the aquarium. Crunching steps from the shadows brought Ben and Jimmy into the gang. Helping them in with various small luggage, bedding and supplies. Peter looked at the crew that now sat in his van. Fucking hard bunch of Druid witch bastards, he thought. Nodding he asked wordlessly if all were comfortable, they nodded back.
Peter: "Right then! Let's fucking do this!"
Slamming them in he joined Charlotte up front. Revved the right pedal, plunged clutch, shift forward and the vehicle moved into line then off down the track towards the main road to Craven Arms. These roads were dead at night, turning off towards Wales Peter looked across at his new girl. Her eyes gleamed ahead but didn't return his look. In some trance, that was obvious, he wasn't being ignored. Hard not to feel a little rejected, though, when your bird is in congress with some eel goddess. Peter drove on towards Aberystwyth.



Briggs couldn't hide the fact, even from himself, that he had very little to go on. Communication with officers in other areas, specifically higher ranked colleagues seemed to make them grow cold, impartial, unhelpful. Every call he made to each new angle of approach to Rupert Bunsen shrivelled backwards. Senior officers made increasingly less subtle points to consider that made the pursuit of the entrepreneur a poor career move. Driven by annoyance to attempt calling to higher rungs of the ladder came back a silence even heavier. The chain of command mattered more than catching crooks. No one liked such systemic disrespect. Briggs was loathe to suspect conspiracy. Police, in his experience, were generally honourable. Suspicion coagulated as higher ranking men he only knew by name invited Briggs to play golf. A group were having a meal at a top restaurant in Birmingham. Someone had cancelled, would he like to come instead? Perhaps unofficial channels could be more helpful. Who could tell? Perhaps someone in the craft had seen him as a candidate worthy of invitation for a selection vote of induction to the Birmingham Lodge. Smiling despite himself, Briggs pushed out his chest. Free masons would never be so unsubtle as to ask directly. This meal could be a first test.
Having brought civilian clothing for the evening so he could use the stations showers. He'd go straight from work. Cleaned and shave Briggs was giving himself the final touches, a dash of the after shave his mother in law bought each Christmas, he heard the young desk sergeant call from outside.
Days: "Sir! I wanted to catch you before you left. The secondary DNA matching has come up with something."
Briggs heart beat. Today was turning out to be something of a special day. Gathering his towel and folded uniform he made his way straight to see what this could offer
DA: "There's the pages, sir. First two tally to the deceased parties. But there's a match on the finer traces. Links to a Tyrone Black. Sadly he's no longer with us. I hope that's not a disappointment."
Tyrone Black, he had known the man. There had been a group of men when he'd first come to work here that regularly caused some trouble. Mostly farm workers from Clun and surrounding area. For two years or more, these rural bumpkins would come into town on a Saturday night. Local rivalries existed between certain groups and families stretching back years. Gypsies he'd taken them for. The Craven Arms men that were their foe were, but this lot were rumoured to be pagan, or something. Bare knuckle contests became a weekly occurance that took sensitive policing to bring to a halt. Black particularly took a considered approach, he'd not fancy his chances against this Druid boxer in combat. Between them an unspoken truce came about. Briggs would get a call from some concerned member of the public. He would give the men forty five minutes, enough space for scores to be settled before driving to the fracas and close down proceedings. This allowed the main fights to conclude before younger elements, emboldened by beer, took the stage. Only once had he arrived too early. The contest in full flow, Briggs stepped slowly toward the circle of shouting spectators. Few noticed him push his way in to the circle, so engrossed in the fight they were. Despite himself he recognised this was no mere pub brawl. Though crude and animal, this was an athletic competition of high quality. From blood spatters on the car park Tarmac floor where the contestants stood, the contest had clearly been going for sometime already, though both men retained posture and a sharpness of eye. Svenny Johnson was a regular visitor to Briggs place of work. The eldest of six brothers of the dominant family living, no, ruling might be more accurate, the permanent traveller site Shropshire council had finally built. Moving this tribe from place to place in an endless cycle cost the police time and money. At least now they knew where to find them. Svenny was an amiable petty criminal that shared the working life with coppers. He accepted periodical arrest as part of the job. An amateur boxer of some repute in his youth, a skill he never brought to bare in his dealings with the police. Watching the gypsy now, stripped to the waist Briggs felt a fondness for the man he not known he had. Yet the bout looked to be slipping away from him. Tyrone Black was also on the police radar. His was a far murkier world, operations with a criminal class stretching into Wales and southern England. Briggs was aware the nefarious activities Black was involved in though generally conducted out of county. He'd get the odd call to either go rattle him. Pester his home on some pretext. Other times, though looking suspicious, there'd been officers working on bigger cases who'd rung specifically to let the man flow. Warnings not to hinder CID operations half way to conclusion. Within the jeering circle of drunk spectators, Black had his man tired. Working the jab, dictating the pace of the fight, watching his opponents eyes and feet for that point when energy drops, focus slips. Jab, jab, black looked into Johnson, shifting his head from side to side, studying till, bang. Johnson caught the straight right a micro second after Tyrone saw a glaze in the gypsy soul eyes. Johnson shook his head, smiled in pretence of being untroubled by the punch and refocused. Further jabs and again the slip of mind. Bang. Bang. These shots had got through. For a further minute Briggs watched the brutal deconstruction and unnecessary battering as Johnson though bloody and blinded, unable to protect himself, stubbornly remained conscious. Thus ran their boxing code. A man deserved the right to continue until submission or falling unconscious confirmed the bouts conclusion. Big money often swung on these contests so any hope of resurgence must be extinguished if the losers were to accept without trouble.

Back at the station Tyrone Black had none of the civil courtesy of Johnson. The man said nothing at all. Black Just looked at the arresting officer with disdain. As though laws were some scam. A racket imposed on to his kind without consent. After a few hours in the cell Briggs released the Druid. Now things were no longer on record he opened up.
Tyrone: "There are so many activities and aspects of your life that I find wrong it would take a year to explain. Yet I hold back. Let you live as you choose. I never enter your world. Never knock on your door. Never try impose my moral code on you with a list of points that cross my code. Yet you walk into mine. Whilst socialising. Whilst in my home. You will no doubt submit that you are no architect of this scheme. Only a servant carrying out the democratic consensus on acceptable behaviour. Yet we both live to a moral code. Times change. Culture can shift. The young soldiers that implemented the national socialist agenda all said the same in their defence. Though they herded the naked men, women and children of various minority's into the death chambers, speeding things along with bars, swords, clubs. They said they had no choice. They acted, however, with an enthusiasm. A glee in the freedom to hurt and kill with impunity. So too I find men like you imposing some others moral code onto me and mine. Your purpose is not crime prevention but maintaining the status quo. Now, I'll be on my way. I shall not fight in such a public place again, in response can you keep away from me and my family?"
Briggs: "Don't fight in town. What you do privately, that causes no member of the public to ring the station in fear or concern, that is all free meadow for you to enjoy."
Tyrone had sneered before walking off. The man had kept his word. There were occasional rumours, gossip mainly that suggested Black was up to activities outside the law, yet without specific reason to intervene, he'd kept his side. Not out of fear but he had found he had some respect for the chap. This wasn't a bad man. Just an alien to contemporary culture.
But Tyrone Black was now dead. Briggs had been in the south of Spain when it all went down. A rare holiday with his wife. His colleagues instead had attended the crash out on the A49. They'd described being first on the scene. Both Tyrone and his wife were found dead but the children sat in the back were unharmed. Not physically, anyway. Apparently neither child looked upset. Both were quiet. Just staring ahead. Waiting to be taken somewhere. Maybe hoping their parents would soon wake up. Shock maybe. Relatives fortunately had stepped in to adopt them both, to prevent their being taken into care. The Brock family. Part of the same network. These families formed their own private little community. Some said they were witches or Druids but he'd never seen them at any of the resurrected pagan festivals that had grown popular. Arbor Day, green man day, local community events with a pagan theme but no depth. Among certain older locals these people were revered. Respected as though they owned the land, their ancestry being so entrenched in the towns history. As though conventional people were passing through. Treated more like a river or a hill. Something great and permanent, needing no explanation so obvious being its might and scape.
Briggs guessed these kids would be in their early twenties now. Tyrones son most likely had used the saw, cut himself whilst at work. His blood leaving traces in the grip. It may mean nothing. The saw Could easily have been picked up by the killers from a skip, bin or lay by. But it was a lead. He would be calling round to talk to both tomorrow. Tender touch, he thought.

Driving into Birmingham gave Briggs time to consider Tyrone. Whatever they were. Druids, pagans, there was a comparable aspect to the men he was going to dine with. A secret society. Free Masonry had a similar mystery. Briggs didn't see this gentle men's association as sinister. The few he had met, those he knew to be lodgemen, were all pillars of the community. Ensuring things remained in order, under control. Police, lawyers, some doctors even meeting together to form a paternal unity, to make sure there was order in the world. Protective, fatherly. His naive views would soon alter.
Before he reached the restaurant door the head waiter had recognised who he must be. Were police so obvious? Briggs considered. The aroma of food was good. He could smell bacon. His coat was taken by some lackey whilst he was walked to the table where four men in shirt sleeves laughed together. These were the boys. Briggs felt honoured to be invited here. All respectfully stood to welcome him in to their company, shifting chairs, making extra space. He felt special. Soon he was relaxed. The first bottle of wine took him to a shared drunkeness that unified the men. Joking grew more crude as the night wore on. In this company a freedom to tease the habits of the fairer sex, a fond amusement at the peculiarities of immigrant groups, nothing too nasty. Briggs joined in the japes. Reeling off a trio of queer jokes. Safe ground, he knew. These were men like him. Not bigots, yet unbound by political correctness.
After the main course Briggs excused himself went to the toilets. One of the gang had already headed that way. This showed a parity of urine retention. His flow down the porcelain brought relief. His relief was interrupted by a shout of his name. .Detective Inspector Reeves, hidden somewhere, called him over as he zipped his fly closed. He'd not noticed as he entered but the fellow officer had been in the cubicle he'd walked past. Sniffing and rubbing his nose the DI asked him to step in. Surely he was no queer? Briggs entered hoping this wasn't some test they had. Lines of white powder arranged neatly on the cistern . Briggs kept a poker face despite his shock at the open drug use. A rolled up twenty came his way. He'd not done cocaine before but he couldn't appear a twat. Pretending a familiar ease Briggs smiled. Why not, eh? It wasn't heroin. Everyone did it now. Millennium champagne. Copying the act he'd seen in numerous films Briggs sniffed the line up the tube where it hit his synus, numbing instantly. In seconds a rush lifted him from drunken distortion into crisp focus. That felt so good. Both men snorted a second. Slapped backs in collusion then reinterred the room as gods. These were big men. Together with other big men. Conversation then accelerated. Briggs found the cocaine let his mouth talking without censorship. Straying onto current work he thought he'd impress these men with his star suspect. Leaning back, a worldly man, a serious copper. Yet as he dropped Bunsens name, expecting to impress the gang, all smiles stopped. His guests now studied him with cold frowns. What had he said? Reeves took over.
Reeves: "Actually, you've hit on the reason we have been asked here to talk to you. This suspect you mention, in a libellous manner, has nothing linking him to your case. People of importance are looking on you, Briggs. Looking down from places so high that even I can not claim acquaintance. Mr Bunsen is highly respected, close Freinds to those at the very zenith of our profession. For no personal gain he regularly makes significant donations to the craft. To the force also. We sympathise with your error. It's never easy having to accept that you had got things wrong. But we all make mistakes."
Briggs began to explain the enquiries leading toward the businessman were conclusively and easily proven but was stopped mid sentence.
Reeves: "Stop! Before you make a fool of yourself. You don't understand. The man who you named will be investigated no further!"
The group that but a few minutes ago felt buoyant, joyous, friendly, now stared cold steel at Briggs. He understood. These weren't freinds. They were here to bully him.
Reeves: "Your early misguided hunches can be swept away. Such an error is easy made. Any further steps down that path, however, could easily see you demoted. Anything could happen to so idiotic a person that made such slanderous claims. Your wife works over in Worcester. Checking her out today. Those lanes she drives can be awkward in poor conditions. Yet she will be safe, I'm sure enough. Given you nip this stupidity in the bud. Funnily enough it was Mr Carter there who reminded me of the roads round your way."
Carter: "Reeves, " the man laughed, like they'd been testing his gullibility. "Briggs, poor chap has gone white, he looks like you've tried to threaten him. The opposite is true. A couple of concerned parties had noticed that you had, inadvertently, taken a wrong turn. Driving blindly towards an open chasm they saw and moved to save you. . We look after each other. We had to help a brother in danger. Today is about stepping in to make sure you're safe. I'm not a copper myself. I work for the IPCC. We look into allegations of police corruption. That's how I met our friends here. They had also been misunderstood by those who watch on from above."
Reeves: "We hold our hands up! In the eighties there was a problem but Carter and his men have thoroughly rid the force of bad apples. Working together we chose those causing the problems ands helped Cater here bring them to justice. We have some leads for you that you will love. Terry, tell him what you've found to help Mr Briggs investigation"
Nut tall: "Terry Nuttall, the DNA search you asked for has hit the jackpot! At first I thought you'd found another blind alley, just like with Rupert. Given the match was a dead man. Superb work from my staff in homing in on Tyrone Blacks boy no doubt confirms your suspicions. These gypsies are outlaws. The father died in a horrible crash on the same roads your wife travels. But this Ben seems to be your man. It seems Bunsen Entertainments were asked to provide a marquee for a wedding. The call came from the Clun area. As yet we have no proof to tie this call to Black. We can fix that. They hadn't a clue about a rave. They're innocent. Further than that, they are victims! This Black nearly fooled us all. Whoever tricked them into this must be local. I'm sure your investigations will soon confirm the obvious truth. These gypsies organised the event. The blood on the saw ties Black to the murders. You have struck gold, mate! I have no doubt that people in high places once they see how you were able to see beyond the obvious, a red herring lesser coppers could have fallen for, they will see you are rewarded. This is exactly the type of case that makes a career! Some would have succumbed to the deception of Black, yet you had vision. Anything you need to make this stick, let us know. The difficulties you may have found gathering intelligence on Bunsen will be reversed in your digging the dirt on Black. Anything at all. It's yours."
Briggs had been stunned. His face ghostlike, shocked.
Reeves: "Come on, lads! This isn't a funeral. We should be celebrating. Briggsy here is well on the way to nailing his man. Solving a tricky double murder. This will not go unnoticed nor unrewarded. Bunsen himself has promised a six figure sum for anyone catching the brutal killer. Let's drink to good fortune! Life has these points. Forks in the road. One way lies such a rare opportunity to show a mans allegiance to the good guys. To jump three steps of the ladder at once. Secure himself financially for life. The other path, however, leads towards a very deep pit, a pathway that has been prevented by the intervention of new friends who care."
The detective inspector filled each mans glass before offering a toast.
Reeves: "To new Friends!"
Nut all: "To looking out for each other!"
Carter:"To shared fortune. And to transparent and honest policeing."
Briggs tried to smile. He drank along with these men but only because he had no option.
As though this whole episode hadn't taken place the table continued the evening drinking and joking. Briggs played along for half an hour, enough to show he understood. That he was now one of the enlightened. The waiter must have been watching the men as before Briggs was fully stood up his coat was ready. He drew three twenties from his wallet. Shook with each man. Smiling, nodding, joking. Sealing his display of collusion.
Outside he considered the drunk drive home. All his fellow diners would be doing so. Instead he breathed in cold night air. Walked to the rear carpark and noted the number plates of all the cars there. Waving down a taxi Briggs negotiated a price with the Asian driver. A good job, Shropshire and back. Slumping into the rear seats he felt good to be alone. Fuck these bastards! Threatening his wife! Threatening him! The affect they had hoped for was distilled to higher potency and reversed. Briggs would bring down Bunsen. He'd bring down these bastards too if possible. No more could he hope to use the police data base. He was on his own. After driving for half an hour the rural officer was close to sleep. Dreamscapes ripped back to the taxi he was in as his mobile buzzed in his trouser pocket. Probably his wife texting to see that he was ok. Video message from a private number. The back of a mans head filled the screen, tipped upward then his face rose up with a rolled up twenty pound note. He saw himself shake his head, smile, look down at the other lines now visible. Then he spoke, "Can't beat a touch of the old Ching. Thanking you most kindly, sir!." Laughter of an out of shot Reeves, "Thank you, Briggsy! Without you none of us would be here!"
At the time it had seemed an odd reply but his head was enjoying such a rush of chemicals he had not really thought about it. He knew exactly what this said. Evidence of cocaine use. A final threat, just to make certain of their check mate. Briggs mind now had a single purpose. Rupert Bunsen was going down. Ben Black may well have wielded the saw, but he felt sure there'd be a connection. He was going ronin. A leaderless maverick,fighting for truth and righteousness in a corrupt pit of vipers. They said he didn't know who he was messing with. Well, the reverse was just as true. They hadn't a clue what he could do. They'd destroyed has faith. Trounced all he believed in. Mocked the one thing he herald sacred,myth rough all his years. The gloves were off. Briggs smiled and sat back. He'd always wondered why cynical crooks called his occupation the filth. He now understood.





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