by Owen Mullen
Vale gingerly fingered the tramlines on his skin: he was used to this kind of confrontation and knew the best thing was to admit to it. That wasn’t the problem.
‘You phoned at the wrong time. I’m sorry.’ He hauled himself into the chair; when he breathed it hurt. ‘Yvonne came after me.’
Nina felt a fresh wave of anger rise in her and had to hold herself back from going for him again. ‘And – don’t tell me, let me guess – you couldn’t stop yourself.’
‘It was only a bit of fun. Just a shag.’
Considering he’d put their lives in danger, the excuse was pitiful. Nina thought about the brothers she’d grown up with: Luke was ten times the man Eugene Vale would ever be. Even Danny, who she detested, was better than him.
She strode across the room and spat in his face. It landed on his chin and stayed there.
Nina said, ‘I couldn’t care less who you fuck. My interest in you is zero. Always was. Thanks to you, your shag has us where she wants us.’
‘I’m sorry, Nina.’
‘Too late for sorry. We need to figure out what we’re going to do about it. What exactly does she know?’
‘Everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘All of it.’
‘And she’s demanding… what?’
‘She wants half or she’ll tell Danny.’
25
It was raining when George Ritchie left the flat in Moscow Road – thin rain, not hard enough for an umbrella. Ritchie stopped to look in the windows of shops on Queensway, checking in the glass to see if he was being followed. The Daniel Gooch had closed down. He set about re-establishing a new routine in a new pub. None of the boozers he came across appealed, too bloody noisy for a start. Eventually, he couldn’t have cared less and decided to go into the next one, whatever it was like.
Things changed.
The first pint lasted the best part of an hour while he read a newspaper someone had left on the seat next to him. Then he ordered again and pretended to watch the TV screen. No one paid any attention to him, that would come later, and with it the nickname ‘Two Pints’ or something like it.
Halfway through his second drink, just as he was getting ready to leave, he got the call. Immediately, he realised it meant trouble. Rollie was excited, his voice thick with whatever he’d been smoking. ‘You have to see this, George, you won’t believe it.’
‘See what?’
Rollie’s answer was a giggle. ‘Get yourself down here. We’ve got a game-changer.’
Ritchie was outside in seconds. The rain was heavier than it had been; he didn’t notice. Getting wet wasn’t important. Yet, even now, he kept to the elaborate system designed to protect him and walked to the top of Queensway before hailing a taxi. By the time he reached the Bayswater Road, he was soaked. The cab headed towards the city centre and took a right turn at Marble Arch to join the traffic on Park Lane. In the back seat, the cryptic conversation replayed in Ritchie’s brain and with it a growing feeling of unease settled round him. He was acutely aware of rain on his scalp and on his skin and his heart beating beneath his coat. He was afraid.
The cab reached Hyde Park Corner and the Wellington Arch, passed the Hard Rock Cafe and kept going while he grimly contemplated how it had come to this.
In those far-off days, London had been a huge adventure. The capital awash with possibilities for a man with his reputation and skills.
Albert Anderson had been his first mistake. Back then Anderson controlled most of the city south of the river and not because he’d been smart. In fact, he had been anything but, though Ritchie didn’t know that in those days. Albert had needed what the northerner had been selling and offered him a job. He’d accepted and had been with the firm ever since. The second mistake had been not crushing the Glass brothers when the chance had presented itself. When they were still boys and no more than a nuisance, he’d told Albert he’d take care of them but Albert wouldn’t sanction it – their audacity had amused him. They were ‘just kids’, he’d said. What they were doing was ‘petty’. George Ritchie had been with him the day those same ‘kids’ beat an Indian shopkeeper to death for a few packets of cigarettes.
Albert had laughed softly and shaken his head at the impetuousness of youth, admiration sparkling in his eyes, and Ritchie had realised he was working for an idiot.
The fat bastard wasn’t laughing now.
Ritchie had come close to quitting and going home to Newcastle many times, especially after the bomb he’d known nothing about killed the woman and the child. By then, thanks to Glass’s brother, suddenly Albert was dead and Ritchie had allowed his nineteen-year-old son to persuade him to stay: mistake number three.
For a clever guy, he hadn’t been very clever.
The taxi dropped him four streets away. The rain had stopped and he walked from there. Running a club had been Rollie’s idea – he hadn’t had many – and, in fairness, it worked as a legitimate business to clean the money and a place to sell drugs. Seeing his guys propping up the bar on a Friday night bolstered Rollie’s ego. Ritchie had a different view. Being predictable made them an easy target.
Outside, women were chatting up the bouncer. One girl, who might have been twenty-five but was probably fifteen, was practically naked and it occurred to Ritchie he was old enough to be her father. If he had been, she wouldn’t be leaving the house the way she was dressed, tits hanging out and a skirt up to her arse. The burly steward had cropped hair and a scar on his cheek. He recognised George, nodded and opened the door. Immediately, a wall of noise hit him, so loud he thought his eardrums might burst. His eyes took a minute to adjust to the darkness. When they did, he saw shapes crowding the small dance floor. The club wouldn’t open for another couple of hours. Christ Almighty – Rollie was having a party. What the hell was there to celebrate?
A brunette in a red dress, obviously drunk, fixed glazed eyes on him and smiled. Ritchie ignored her. Too young and too foolish. Not his type. Not his type at all. In the office, Rollie was behind his desk. Across from him, another man sat with his back to the door. He heard Ritchie come in and turned.
The guilty look on Jonjo’s face was all it took for his uncle to know his nephew had fucked the lot of them.
Both men had a whisky and were passing a joint between them, getting on famously, grinning because they’d just pulled the joke of the year. Rollie was flushed with alcohol and excitement, banging his fist on the desk. ‘We’ve got him. We’ve got the bastard.’
The fool was babbling. Ritchie understood and glared at Jonjo, who drew his eyes away.
‘How many copies are there?’
‘This is it.’
‘Your idea of switching the cargo after we got tipped off Glass was going to hit us worked out better than I hoped. Wait ’til you see what Jonjo’s got.’
Jonjo basked in his boss’s pleasure. His uncle wanted to strangle him with his bare hands. Rollie waved Ritchie closer and pulled the PC round.
‘This will blow Glass’s credibility to hell, George. He’s finished.’
On the screen, a white van came towards the camera and was forced off the road by a car. Masked men hauled the driver from behind the wheel and clubbed him to the ground while Rollie mumbled to himself. Danny Glass shouted at the closed rear doors.
‘All right in there! Don’t be heroes! When the door opens throw out whatever you’ve got!’
Rollie swallowed his drink in one go, eyes dancing in his head, anticipating what was about to happen. Beside him, Ritchie watched unsmiling, in silence. Glass spoke to the men with him. ‘They’ve had their chance, let them have it.’
He threw himself to the ground and Rollie giggled.
Jonjo had acted against his uncle and didn’t regret it. This was a young man’s game and Jonjo and Rollie were young men. Time for his uncle to step aside.
The camera panned to Danny Glass clutching a fistful of fruit.
Anderson nudged Ritchie. ‘This is the best bit.’
&nbs
p; ‘Strawberries. We’ve jacked a load of fucking strawberries. Stanford, you cunt!’
Rollie put a hand to his mouth and pounded the table again, so hard the computer jumped.
‘Sensational, or what? When this gets around there won’t be a hole deep enough for Glass to hide in.’
Ritchie spoke softly, repeating the words. ‘“When this gets around.” What do you mean? Tell me Glass hasn’t seen this.’
Rollie smiled a knowing smile and leaned back in his chair, drawing on the joint until his lungs couldn’t take any more, exhaling slowly as the dope did its work. Marijuana smoke drifted on the air. His voice was ragged. ‘Oh, yeah. First on the list. As soon as Jonjo loaded the video on YouTube thirty minutes ago. Fifty thousand hits already. In twenty-four hours, half of London will have seen it.’
A feeling of dread washed through George Ritchie.
What the fuck had these two clowns done?
Rollie Anderson threw his arms around Ritchie, slurring his words in his ear and breathing whisky fumes over him. ‘This is the best day of my life, and I’ve got Jonjo to thank for it. Not in my dreams, not in my wildest bloody fantasies, did I imagine Danny Glass humiliated like that.’ He punched his lieutenant’s arm playfully. ‘Tomorrow Glass’s men will be leaving in droves. Can’t blame them, can you? Nobody wants to work for the village idiot. By the end of the week, might just be him and that bastard brother of his left. It’s sweet.’
For years – first with Albert, then with Rollie – George Ritchie had been the adult in the room, steering the father and the son away from actions that would harm them. Now he’d had enough of the Anderson family. More than enough.
Rollie ran a drunken hand through Jonjo’s hair, letting the fingers rest longer than they needed to.
‘Should be proud of him, George. We’ve got Glass by the balls because of him. How many hits have we got now?’
Jonjo dragged the PC over and checked the left-hand corner of the screen.
‘Seventy-one thousand.’
‘In how long?’
‘Forty-five minutes.’
‘And that’s good, right?’
‘Very good.’
‘How many do you think it’ll get?’
‘Hard to say. Five hundred. If it goes viral, a couple of million.’
Ritchie understood. His nephew had gone against him. Ignored what he’d told him in the cafe and Rollie, bent on revenge, was on fire at the thought of his enemy humbled and blind to the consequences of what Jonjo had done. He noticed Ritchie wasn’t celebrating.
‘What’s wrong, George? You don’t look happy.’
‘Take it down.’
‘What?’
‘Take it down now and destroy every trace of it.’
Rollie’s good humour disappeared.
‘Are you mad?’
‘Do it or you’ll be dead in days. Both of you.’
Rollie sneered. ‘Who would’ve thought it, eh? The great George Ritchie’s scared.’
Ritchie lost it. He grabbed Anderson by the lapels and threw him against the table.
‘Don’t you get it, you fucking idiot? Don’t you get what you’ve done? Glass will kick over every stone in the city until he finds you. Albert’s stupidity got him killed. You’re going out the same way. Take the video down.’
Jonjo hadn’t moved – he couldn’t. What his uncle had said in the cafe suddenly made sense. You couldn’t disgrace a psycho like Danny Glass and expect to live.
Ritchie let go of Rollie and screamed at him.
‘What’re you waiting for? Do it!’
A voice that wasn’t Jonjo’s said, ‘Ninety-five thousand,’ as the number on the bottom of the screen flickered and changed. ‘One hundred and one. One hundred and ten.’
‘Reverse whatever you did! Make it stop!’
Rollie’s hand dug into Jonjo’s shoulder, pinching the skin, his glazed eyes locked on Ritchie. ‘Leave it. Leave it exactly how it is. Danny Glass has got it coming.’
Admitting the truth was like hearing it for the first time.
she wants half or she’ll tell Danny
Eugene Vale dropped into a chair and put his head in his hands, devastated. Nina thought he was going to cry but wasn’t tempted to reassure him; the horny bastard had landed them in an impossible position. Eugene wasn’t the only one who’d made a mistake: her partner, her lover – the thought made her want to vomit – was a gutless waste of space. When it came to doing what needed to be done, he’d break, and she’d be on her own.
He sat up, wiping his eyes. ‘She’ll see reason. We split it three ways. If we take a bit more, Danny won’t even notice. That could work, couldn’t it? All we have to…’
The look on Nina’s face warned him another attack was coming.
She screamed. ‘Nothing! N.O.T.H.I.N.G! Do you get it? Who the fuck is that bitch to be demanding anything? Doesn’t she realise who she’s dealing with?’
‘But she’ll tell.’
Nina waited for her breathing to steady before she answered, her voice cold and flat.
‘She can’t talk if she’s dead, Eugene.’
Vale jumped to his feet. ‘Murder her? Are you insane? Look, I got us into this. I can get us out of it. It’s simple. She wants half, we give her half. We give her my share.’
The solution was something only a moron would suggest.
She turned the words over and came back with a question. ‘Give her your share. You think that’ll work?’
‘Why not? It’s what she wants, isn’t it?’
Nina didn’t reply. The gun Danny had given her was upstairs at the back of a wardrobe. If she’d had it in her hand, she would’ve put Eugene Vale out of his misery – she’d let this imbecile screw her for Danny’s money. What did that make her? At best a whore, at worst an even bigger fool than he was.
‘Listen to yourself. Do you actually believe the nonsense coming out of your mouth?’
‘It isn’t nonsense.’
‘Yes, it is. Unadulterated, bloody garbage.’
‘Why?’
Nina didn’t know where to begin. ‘Right now, she’s asking for half. Yours or mine, Yvonne doesn’t care. When we give it to her how long do you think it’ll be before she’s looking for more – 75, 80 per cent? And if she gets it, why stop there?’
‘She wouldn’t.’
‘Want to bet? What’s to stop her going for the lot? She’s holding all the cards. One phone call to Danny and it’s over for us.’
Fear parched Vale’s lips. His voice became a husky whisper as the reality of their situation dawned. ‘Then… what’re we going to do? What you’re suggesting is…’
Nina had known the answer to Yvonne’s threat the moment he’d blurted out his confession. Vale’s whore had them where she wanted them and wouldn’t hesitate to give them up. They had to act and quickly. Yvonne was a stupid tart, nothing more. The fact that the bitch thought she could take on Nina Glass with any hope of winning enraged her. But it pointed up something she hadn’t considered: she’d take care of Vale when the time was right. But it was Danny who was the real danger. Eliminate him from the equation and…
The sense of power made her smile. She reined her imagination in: Danny was weakened, but still too strong for her to go up against by herself. If Luke was on board, that would be a different proposition. And Nina knew exactly what she could use to make that happen.
Vale said, ‘Tell me, Nina, tell me.’
She turned away so she wouldn’t have to look at his face. ‘Like I said. Kill her.’
26
Oliver Stanford stood at the window overlooking the Embankment. Below him, a tug towed a barge of sealed containers, churning the muddy water of the Thames in its wake. Stanford remembered reading a story about fishermen drawing a shark into their boat, alive, but dying. In its belly they’d found a silver watch. When the details were published, a jeweller in The Strand recalled selling the watch to a Mr Thompson as a present to his son going on his first voyage.
Somewhere off Falmouth, during a squall, the boy had fallen overboard and was never seen again. Mystery solved. And the moral of the tale: there were times the truth refused to be denied. The memory made the detective shudder.
Stanford heard the scrape of chairs on the floor as Mills and Wallace took seats at the table. Usually, at the beginning of a meeting, the DCI exchanged a few casual remarks to set the tone before getting started – there would be none of that today.
Stanford had a reputation as a model policeman and was always immaculately dressed. Today, his tie was undone, his white shirt crushed and stained at the armpits. They sensed the tension rolling off their boss and waited for him to share it. He studied each of them in turn, no attempt at hiding his contempt.
‘You won’t be surprised to hear I’ve been invited upstairs – due there now, as a matter of fact. Given that pressing engagement, what I have to say won’t take long.’
He held up his mobile without asking if they’d seen the video. Of course, they had – along with half the population of London. Danny Glass opened the doors of a white van on a side road. Stanford turned the volume up in time to hear his name before it ended.
The DCI repeated it to them in a monotone heavy with suppressed anger.
‘“Stanford, you cunt.” Just one of a number of things I’m expecting to have to explain. Any ideas how I might do that?’
Silence.
‘Me neither. So, let me say this: I need you to bring me evidence that will put Anderson away. Not tomorrow. Now. And I don’t give a fuck who you lean on, how hard, or what you’ve got to promise to get it. One other thing to help concentrate your minds. Make no mistake. If I go down, you’re going down with me, understood?’
Bob Wallace held up his hand. Stanford bit back an insult. This bastard had screwed them and would get what he deserved.
‘How many Stanfords do you think there are in the country, boss?’
Stanford sighed. ‘I don’t know, Bob, tell me.’
‘I Googled it.’
