by Owen Mullen
‘We’ve been over this plenty of times but I’m going to say it again. Everything depends on what we do in the next few minutes and how well we do it. When the body’s discovered, this has to look like an accidental overdose.’
Vale’s mouth opened and closed. No words came out.
Nina gave him his instructions. ‘Wash and dry her glass and the bottle and bring them here. Clean the other glass and put it back exactly where you found it.’
He nodded. She heard the tap running in the kitchen and a terrifying thought came into her head: in his frightened state was this guy capable of not fucking up?
She was about to find out.
Nina pressed the unconscious woman’s fingertips against the packet and the silver foil inside, so her prints were all over them, went to the bedroom and put them on the bedside table. Next, the bottle and glass got the fingerprint treatment. When it was done, she sighed. All right so far.
Since the phone call, Vale had contributed nothing. Nina turned to him. ‘Time to get into the game, Eugene. Take the rest of her clothes off and carry her to the bathroom. Be careful, we don’t want bruising. What did you touch?’
‘Just the bottle and the glasses.’
‘You’re sure?’
Vale didn’t sound sure. ‘Yes…’
‘Where’s the cork?’
‘Cheap wine. No cork.’
‘Get the top.’
Nina cleaned the metal and pressed Yvonne’s finger to it. ‘Leave it in the kitchen.’
She ran the bath and he lowered Yvonne’s naked body into the water.
‘It’s not deep enough. It won’t come over her head. Christ!’
Nina shot him a contemptuous glance. ‘You’re bloody useless, you really are. Get hold of her legs and pull her towards you. Bend her knees. Use the towel so you don’t mark her.’ He hesitated and she hissed at him through her teeth. ‘Do it.’
Yvonne’s head disappeared under the surface. Immediately, the instinct to survive kicked in, her arms thrashing and splashing as she fought a losing battle for her life. Fear brought her strength in her final moments and Vale had to tighten his grip to hold onto her. The struggle didn’t last: her hair floated like seaweed on a tide, bubbles trailed from her mouth and her dead eyes stared up at him.
Unable to look, he turned away.
Nina wiped the taps and every surface Vale might have handled, covering their tracks, then carefully poured more wine into Yvonne’s tumbler, and placed it and the bottle on the floor beside the bath. She stood, hands on hips, studying her work. ‘We’ve done what we came to do, let’s go.’
Outside, the light from a street lamp shadowed Nina’s face, etching the sensual mouth and the hard line of her jaw in charcoal and chalk. Vale caught something he hadn’t noticed before, even as she’d ploughed deep red lines on his back with her nails: the resemblance to her brother. They’d just murdered a woman yet there was no pity or regret in her eyes. Nina was a Glass. Getting what she wanted was all she knew.
They paused on the step with rain falling in silent gossamer sheets. Eugene was closing the front door when she grabbed his wrist, her eyes feral and untamed.
‘Stop. For Christ’s sake, stop.’
‘What’s wrong?’
She leaned against the frame, breathing in the cool night air, steadying herself before she replied. ‘The money. We forgot the fucking money.’
28
The redhead and the blonde walked confidently through the lunchtime crowds towards Norrie and Fergie waiting for them at the Costa Coffee stand. The girls were young and pretty – or they would’ve been if they’d smiled – and stylishly dressed. People stopped what they were doing to watch them pass. On closer inspection, their faces betrayed the road they’d been on since their early teens: a hard road. Until they met in Cornton Vale prison and decided to be partners.
Norrie’s phone call had come in the early hours of the morning – the job required a particular kind of female to pull it off. Sharon and Lexie were his first and only choice. And the paymaster was generous – they wouldn’t have to work again for the rest of the year, although they would because this wasn’t a career, it was a lifestyle.
High above Central Station, the giant electronic board showed the London train would leave in minutes. Norrie had been awake half the night and it showed; he was tired and tetchy, unsure whether saying yes to this job had been the best idea he’d ever had. He dropped his empty cup on the concourse, looked at his watch and took his anxiety out on the women, rasping his displeasure. ‘Cut it a bit tight, haven’t you?’
The blonde wasn’t intimidated. ‘We’d the wigs to pick up but we’re here, aren’t we? Chill out, for fuck’s sake.’
He unenthusiastically agreed. ‘Oh, yeah, you’re here all right. Now remember, heads down. Don’t get caught on CCTV.’
Fergie recognised the tension and tried to defuse it. ‘Okay, we’re all pleased to see each other and the wigs look great.’
‘Hope Norrie thinks so when he gets the bill.’
Fergie doubted Norrie would care. At the end of the day it was somebody else’s money. Norrie said, ‘Let’s get on the fuckin’ train before the bastard goes without us.’
At the gate to Platform Two a guard gave their tickets a cursory glance and let them through. The guys hurried ahead, the women followed, heels clacking on the concrete. When they were settled in First Class, Norrie stared out of the window at the old station’s walls, blackened by a century of coal dust. Even the most hardened criminal who’d seen and done just about everything – and this city wasn’t short of those – would’ve passed on this job. Getting caught was only part of it.
The Glasgow gangster saw it differently. Success would open the door to a league beyond the one he was playing in. He’d leave Scotland and move to London.
He turned to the girls. ‘You understand what we’re about?’
Lexie replied with a bored sigh. ‘Yes.’
‘And you’re cool with it?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’d better watch your fuckin’ lip.’ His eyes held her and she backed down. A wise move. ‘Before we get there, we’ll go over the details until we can do it in our sleep. No room for mistakes on this one.’
She yawned. ‘Worry about your end, we’ll be fine.’
‘You better be. This isn’t an ordinary job. This one’s special.’
‘That’s what you said the last time. According to you, they’re all special.’
Norrie made a mental note to sort this bitch.
He said, ‘Forget everything except doing this right. We won’t get a second chance. The client isn’t somebody we’d want to disappoint.’
Sharon said, ‘Who is it?’
The reply was dismissive. ‘You know better than that.’
Lexie ran a finger down his cheek. ‘Relax, will you? We won’t let you down.’
Norrie caught her hand and squeezed it white. ‘If you do, you can say goodbye to your pretty faces. Fuck it up and the next contract will be on you.’
Her lips pouted. She blew him a kiss. ‘I’m shaking in my Jimmy Choo’s.’
The train juddered and pulled away. He moved closer, so close she could smell cigarette smoke on his breath. ‘Shall I tell you whose money hit your bank account two hours ago? Do you really want to know? It’ll concentrate your mind. Guaranteed.’ Fear flickered in Lexie’s eyes. ‘Jack the tough-girl routine. Nobody’s impressed.’
The speech hit home. Norrie headed to the bar for more coffee and left it to Fergie to repair the situation.
Fergie said, ‘We’re all a bit uptight, and no wonder. We’re on our way onto tomorrow’s front pages. With luck, we’ll be back in Glasgow to read them.’
The girls ignored him as if he’d never spoken and he got why Norrie was pissed off. They’d do well not to push it too far with him.
Blondie had given the assurance so easily.
relax, will you? We won’t let you down
He hop
ed to Christ she was right.
The journey passed, mostly in silence, the women reading magazines and whispering to each other, giggling occasionally at a secret they didn’t share. Norrie wanted to beat their arrogant faces to a pulp. The hit required a couple of glamorous women to pull it off – they were certainly that. Offering it to these two had made sense but he’d forgotten how just having them around got under his skin. Soon, it would be over and he wouldn’t need them any more. Then he’d give them something to giggle about, the blonde especially.
North of Rugby, they came to a stop for twenty minutes. Norrie anxiously checked his watch, fearing the unforeseen – the freak circumstance it was impossible to legislate for. When the train started moving again, he breathed a sigh of relief. Tomorrow wouldn’t do – it had to be tonight. He took four sheets of paper from his inside pocket and gave one to each of them. On the paper was the rough layout and a sketch of the plan he’d put together in the wee hours after the phone conversation with Danny Glass. The reverse side of each sheet had a timetable of the sequence of events.
Norrie kept his voice low, going over the roles each of them would play, checking to make sure no one was paying more attention to them than they should before he continued.
‘Stick exactly to the plan and we’re sound. The only weakness is right before you drop the match.’ He looked at Fergie, then the girls. ‘Can’t stress this enough. If anybody outside sees you – and I mean anybody – no hesitation, take them out. Immediately. Lexie, you watch the street. Sharon, you cover inside the door. I’ll be waiting at the end of the road. Move fast, but don’t draw attention to yourself. All clear?’
For once, the females dropped the attitude and behaved like the professionals they were supposed to be, asking question after question, clarifying how it would go down. The redhead – Sharon – was as sharp as her reputation had led him to believe and the Glasgow gangster was impressed.
This was the first time the women had had the details explained to them, the first time the hellish consequences of their actions would be clear. Fergie kept his eyes on their faces, searching for a flicker of unease, a trace of disgust, as the reality dawned and saw none.
Slowly he realised that behind the lipstick and the girly laughter lay killers as callous as he’d ever come across. They’d need to be. His head filled with sickening images of the aftermath: there were better ways to die.
He’d done more than his fair share of terrible things and slept like a baby afterwards.
This was something else.
Thirty miles from Watford Junction they went over it again. When the last query had been answered, Norrie said, ‘Everybody sound?’
The others nodded. He gave them five minutes to memorise the sheets, then returned them to his pocket just as the announcement came over the speaker system.
‘We are now approaching London Euston!’
They were there.
Out on the street they went into their act. Norrie took Lexie’s hand and Fergie put his arm around Sharon. The women leaned into them, for all the world just two couples enjoying Friday evening in the capital. What could be less conspicuous? Tomorrow, when the police launched a manhunt, nobody would remember two guys and two girls on Euston Road.
They strolled, chatting and smiling, to the Greene Man on Euston Road. Fergie went to the bar and came back with drinks and crisps. They sat close together, playing the games men and women play in public, the girls giving their partners a playful slap when their fingers strayed too far. Only the keenest observer would notice the off-note – they hardly touched the alcohol. What they were about demanded clear heads and cold hearts.
Norrie checked outside: the car was there. Back in the pub, a barely noticeable nod of his head told his partners-in-crime everything was going as planned.
Further down the street, Marcus saw them coming towards him and drew a hand over his brow. The strangers got into the car; he didn’t look at their faces – his interest in them was nil. After tonight, they’d never meet again. His eyes went to the rear-view mirror. When the road was clear, he tapped the accelerator, edged out, and headed towards the river.
29
The King Pot was busier than usual, the crowd swollen by punters who barely knew Danny Glass but were keen to wish him a happy birthday anyway, especially if the drinks were on the house. All of them had seen the video. Most hadn’t heard the rumour – put out by Glass himself – that Anderson intended to hit the King Pot again, otherwise they would’ve remembered a previous engagement and given the party a miss.
To make sure there would be no repeat of the bloodbath Luke Glass’s homecoming had turned into, four men guarded the door, their jackets bulging from the shoulder holsters underneath. Felix was at a table drinking orange juice and lemonade, glancing at the clock, nervously fingering the gun in the waistband of his trousers.
Marcus leaned against the end of the bar with his back to the wall, sipping an espresso, eating nuts from a bowl and chatting to a woman with an afro hairdo and huge breasts. He’d connected with the Glasgow crew in Great Portland Street and driven past the Picasso Club so they could see the place for themselves. Where exactly they fitted in, he couldn’t say.
Fair enough. Danny was the boss. If he’d wanted him to know, he’d know.
The day before he’d gathered the troops together and given them their orders: be at the pub by eight-thirty and be sober. Nobody asked why, because, unlike the witless liggers, they’d heard the rumour. They were supposed to hear it – it was meant for them.
Every fifteen minutes, Marcus went to the front door to check things were as they should be and made a tour on his way back to the girl waiting for him: she was an art student from South Africa, or so she said, who claimed she was a colourist and talked endlessly about Monet and Matisse and dropped other names he’d never heard. He didn’t understand what a colourist was and couldn’t have cared less, so he kept his smile in place and switched off. The female was self-obsessed and didn’t notice, though she was obviously impressed with him, standing closer than was necessary, breathing Southern Comfort over him while unashamedly letting her fingers test the muscles at the tops of his arms. Marcus hadn’t had a woman in a month. If everything went to plan, he confidently expected that was about to change.
His eyes swept the pub, reassuring himself for the umpteenth time his men were in position. When he came to Felix he stared longer, recalling the dereliction that should have earned him a bullet in the brain and would have if Danny’s brother hadn’t stepped in.
Another time. Definitely.
Felix caught the animosity and returned it, tapping his jacket and nodding imperceptibly. Satisfied for the moment, Marcus brought his attention back to the female, still chattering away. By now, the liquor had done its work. Her voice was slurred. Monet and Matisse had become Claude and Henri. That was too much. He didn’t mind how plastered they got so long as they shut their mouths and opened their legs. If she wanted him, she was going the wrong way about it.
Mandy hadn’t wanted to come. Bringing her had been my idea. One of the men at the door said, ‘Good evening, Mr Glass’ like he was outside Claridge’s rather than a South London boozer. We squeezed through the crowd, heading for the stairs. No sign of Nina. Not smart. As we’d both discovered as kids, going against our brother was rarely a good idea.
Danny glared when he saw who was with me. He poured two whiskies from a bottle of Bell’s and offered one to me. I felt anger rise and fought it down: this wasn’t the time or place to have a falling-out with my brother.
‘No, thanks. Not tonight.’
He held out his arms as if I was spoiling the fun. ‘What’s the matter with you? It’s my birthday.’
‘The House of the Rising Sun’ was playing in the background, Eric Burdon crying for his lost innocence above an unforgettable organ. Danny waltzed an invisible partner across to me, mouthing the words, his drink spilling on the carpet. I wondered if he really was drunk, then realised he was
rehearsing for his performance downstairs. He put his arm round my shoulder, drawing me to him. I wasn’t in the mood for another of his pep talks and braced myself. I was wrong.
He whispered in my ear, his breath hot and sour. ‘What the fuck’s that slag doing here? Get rid of her.’
I took his arm away and did my own bit of acting, aching to punch him, smiling instead. Through gritted teeth I gave him his answer. ‘Sorry, Danny, can’t do that.’
His eyes were inches from my face. ‘Yeah, you can. I’m telling you to do it. Get rid.’
He danced away as if nothing had happened and fell into the chair behind the desk.
Mandy looked uncomfortable. She wasn’t a fool and sensed she wasn’t welcome.
She said, ‘Maybe I should go?’
I didn’t want her to go. My brother was out of order.
‘Stay where you are. It’s fine.’
‘No, really. Be better if I left.’
Danny’s voice cut over the music, sober as a judge. ‘You’re right, darlin’, it would.’
There was no stopping her; I didn’t try. When she’d gone, I waited until the song finished before calling him out. ‘Ever speak like that to Mandy again and I’ll forget we’re related. Understand? What the hell’s got into you anyway? She was my alibi.’
He emptied his glass. ‘No, she wasn’t. Your alibi is the copper sitting on your tail. I don’t want her here. And if you don’t like it then you can fuck off too.’
He was on a roll. ‘I mean it. You and your brain-dead sister. What’s the matter with you two? She can’t be arsed to come to my party and you turn up with a tart hanging on your coat-tails.’
I let it slide. It had been a mistake to come back here – but the day was coming when Danny and I would face off. He poured the whisky I’d refused earlier and thrust it at me.
‘Told you already. I don’t want it.’
He came close to losing it completely with me. ‘For once in your life just do as you’re told, will you? Drink the fucking thing.’
