Tales Of Old Buile Hill

CHAPTER ONE: Long Boxes Melia was cold. She was wet. She was very unhappy. It was the middle of the night and she was sitting in a car with a colleague from work. It didn’t help that he seemed happier than normal, but that was Terry. He didn’t usually get out of the office, and this was a treat for him. He called it ‘a Stakeout’. “You’ve been watching too much television,” Melia told him. Terry looked baffled. “I don’t own a TV,” he replied. “I watch Catch-up and Box Sets on my laptop computer. Why would I need a big screen?” That was a very modern thing to say, Melia reflected. But that was Terry. He was younger than her, a computer nerd. With his flyaway ginger hair and thick spectacles, he simply looked the part. He was the ‘go-to’ guy in the office, the one who solved everyone else’s problems with their computers. He didn’t belong here. Here? They were outside the front of the old Manor House, at the top of the hill in Buile Hill park. Well, strictly speaking, it was on their left. They were parked with the back of the car up against a tree. On their right was the Conference Centre - the place for weddings, business get-togethers and dances. Built in the 1930s, it was a squat, low building, that seemed to stretch forever back into the gloomy night. Strangely, there was an extra floor above the dance-floor area and there seemed to be lights on. That was a mystery, Melia was thinking. After all, nobody lived there. Nobody lived in the Manor House either. Now. It had once been a grand house, when the area was privately owned, but what was now the park had been given to the people of Salford in the early years of the 20th century, at a point when the gentry who lived in the building could no longer afford their extravagant lifestyle. The place had been turned into a Museum for a long time, local residents said to Melia, but then the Council had found that it was too expensive to maintain, so they boarded the place up and left it to wait for better times. A shame. It was a sound-looking, stone pile, with an impressive pediment and front door. It had three stories and a cupola on top. There was a wing on the right, but no windows. It would have been really busy in Victorian days, she was thinking, with the servants bustling and the Lords and Ladies arriving in their horse-drawn carriages. Melia, she said to herself, you have been watching too much television too. All your fantasies are coming from that box. This is just a run-down ruin in the middle of Salford, a run-down town in the middle of the North West of England. Stop creating fairy stories, she thought to herself. It’s a city, she corrected herself, grumpily. A city. Not a town. She was sitting in the driving seat. She reached up a hand and looked at herself in the rear view mirror. She was wearing a thick, woollen cap and her long hair had been scrunched up inside it. No make-up, and a scarf around her throat. She had her regular leather jacket, but with two thin sweaters under that, over her shirt, with thick jeans, to keep out the cold. She didn’t look a fraction like her usual glamorous self, which was one depressing thing, but at least she had wrapped up warm for her night in the car. Terry had gone one further, bringing his own home-made sandwiches in a plastic box and a flask of hot coffee. That was fine, until he passed her a cup of his home-brew and knocked it against the steering wheel, spilling the scalding coffee over Melia’s knees. She yelled in protest and pain, wiping it away with her hand. She then demanded they have the car’s heater on to dry her out, but Terry had baulked at that. He said they would draw attention to themselves. Melia looked out the window. It was past midnight, true, and the park was cold and deserted, true, but there were several cars parked along the grassy verge. She couldn’t think why. Maybe people left them there for safety, not trusting their neighbours to let them park outside their own houses in safety. It was that kind of area, up there, north of the park. A little unsavoury, up towards Bolton Road. Mickey had considered living there, for a while, but then bought a mundane, semi-detached house on Bury New Road instead. She had stayed there recently, when she had her ‘trouble’, but she swept the thought aside. No time for romance, she was thinking. This is work. The ‘work’, the assignment she had been given, was to watch the Manor House and report if an illegal drug shipment arrived, to be stored there. That seemed an outlandish proposition on several levels. One, it was a deserted, empty house, but in the middle of a park? Hardly discrete. Second, her job rarely had anything to do with drugs. That would be the regular cops, surely. Captain Gibson smiled at her naiveté. “We’re talking Afghanistan,” he said. “The Americans cleared out recently, in a hurry, and everything ‘normal’ has been suspended. The drug dealers could normally depend on the co-operation of local law enforcement and politicians, but they’ve all been swept away. Suddenly. So they’ve had to improvise. Our information is that every store in the country is being emptied and the contents flown out to any safe haven they can find. England is nearer than the USA. It might only be a stop-over, but high-grade opium is heading our way.” Melia had learned years ago to simply accept whatever the old man said. Her unit was a small fish in British Security, but the jobs it was given were usually vital. If her boss said it needed to be done, he was operating on orders from the highest level. Somebody in government wanted it done, and they turned to their ‘go-to guy’. And he had turned to her. She was his ‘go-to’ gal, she was thinking. She was the operative he could rely on. She did his dirty work, and never asked too many questions. Like now. Whatever was happening with the Manor House, she would find out eventually, of course. With her back-up, Terry. Of course, Terry wasn’t a Field Agent, but he had been there when orders were given and his eyes shone with excitement. He begged to be given the chance to ride along. Melia weighed it up. All they had to do was observe, she was thinking. So why not? Spilling the coffee didn’t help him him build his CV, of course, but a mistake was a mistake. She sighed. It wasn’t helping. Maybe if the pair had been forced to sit there all night, with nothing happening, Melia would have grown increasingly upset, but luckily, there were developments. Quietly, with no lights, a large white van approached from the east, coming down the narrow track from the main road. Melia and Terry scrunched down in their seats. They were expecting it to stop at the front door - which was silly, because there were heavy boards across that entrance - and sure enough, the van continued, around the building and down the side. Fortunately, they were parked far enough along that the spies could actually see down that slight slope, between the old Manor House and the newer Conference Centre. The ground dropped away at that point, where the van stopped. “If there’s a side door, then it’s to the cellars,” Terry hissed, unnecessarily. Melia had come to the same conclusion. Terry pulled out a pair of night vision goggles, then a small camera, and began snapping away at everything. There were people in the front of the van, and when they stopped, they came out and moved around the back, opening the back doors. Two of them, wrapped up against the cold, with dark clothing and ski masks. These people, looking shifty, began unloading boxes and taking them in to the building, through a door that they somehow happened to be able to open. Long boxes, that the two men had to carry between them, one at each end. “Coffins,” Terry said, but again, Melia had her own goggles and could see that. Yes, coffins. That was strange, she was thinking, but it made a lot of sense. If the Afghan gangs had been forced to smuggle a large quantity of drugs out of their collapsing country, what better disguise than coffins? Not many people would want to ask questions and open the boxes. Especially in the chaotic state the airport had been in, at the end. It had been an unmitigated disaster. In the dim light on the inside of the van, the spies could see that there were many boxes, and unloading them was a long, slow, laborious process. Melia was thinking about counting them, but realised that Terry would be doing that. He was good with numbers. He was precise about everything. "I'm going out," he said. Melia automatically put a restraining hand on his arm, but then realised he was right. He needed some close-ups and also could catch the van in his sights on the way out. They weren't instructed to stop the villains. Observation, that was their responsibility. That was all. Observe, and report. Terry waiting until the van people were inside the cellar, then carefully clicked the door open and slid out onto the grass. He went around the back of the car and hid behind another car, further along to the right. He would get good pictures there, Melia was thinking, and pushed down lower in her seat. There was nothing for her to do. She relaxed a little and closed her eyes. She snapped awake when there was the roar of an engine. The van had started up. It backed up, turned and started along the track, the way it had come. All over, Melia was thinking. Job done. She let herself out of the car, stood up and stretched. Her knees were still wet, she noticed. "Got the van, got the registration," Terry announced proudly, coming towards her. Melia looked up. There were two of him. She almost jumped out of her skin. "Who is this?" she demanded, fighting to keep her voice low. The second figure was taller than Terry. He was fully covered in ski mask, woolly hat, zipped up jacket. The lot. "This is my pal Bais," Terry announced nonchalantly. "He's a colleague from the office. He brought his own car." The man grunted, but obviously didn't see the necessity of an explanation, since Terry was vouching for him. "A Back-up to your Back-up," Terry chuckled. "Don't worry, He'll be useful when we check the boxes." Terry and the second man turned and started towards the side of the building. Melia bridled, concerned that no one was following her orders. We shouldn't be doing this, she was thinking furiously. No need for further investigations. Just exactly who was in charge here? By the time she caught up with the pair, Terry was working the lock on the side door. Melia looked up and down. Yes, it was an old wooden door, but dusty and rusted. It was let into the side wall at less than the main door level. A side entrance. For the servants, in olden days? It was easy to miss, easy to pass by and not notice when walking down the long hill, following the path from the trees. Terry seemed to have come prepared. He had put down his rucksack beside him and taken out a battery light on an elastic strap, which he put on his head. He had a full set of skeleton keys and was jiggling the lock. Something clicked. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he said, to no one in particular. He opened the door and pushed inside. Melia followed on. She wasn't so hopeless: she had gloves, which she put on, and a torch, which she brought out of her own pocket. She brushed cobwebs aside and entered. It was a long, stone-walled room. The coffins had been stacked on either side, from the floor, on top of each other, to waist height. Terry was running his fingers over the nearest one. It was surprisingly ornate, with brass handles and ridged strips along the top. Surely too good for the mere transit of dangerous drugs? "It isn't locked," Terry said quietly. "None of them are locked." He eased the coffin open. Melia jumped again. The box wasn't simply stacked with drugs. There was a body inside. The old bald inhabitant was dressed in full military uniform and had rows of medals. A General? "Clever," Terry said. "No mere Customs Officer is going to want to interfere with this." The body was laid in plush velvet, padded so that he couldn't move around during travel. "I need a knife," Terry said, talking to himself. "The Swiss Army knife, I think," he went on. "It's got scissors." Before Melia could intervene, Terry had slashed the material and revealed what was underneath. Plastic bags, dozens of them, crammed under the cover of the expensive cloth. "They aren't white," Melia observed, wanting to be in on the discussion. "If it's drugs, it's white, right?" "Clever," Terry said again. "This is unprocessed sludge. If it had been processed, then the total value would be in the millions, handy for any Customs person to help themselves to a bag or two, en route. But, unprocessed? It's worthless to anyone who hasn't got the equipment. You need a factory. Not everyone has that." "Is every box the same?" Melia asked out loud, seeing Bais working his way down the line, checking. Bais said: "You'll want to come and see this one. This one's not dead."