by Owen Mullen
‘My bloody stupidity caused all this.’
I put my arms around her and held her close. ‘We’ve been over this. You’re not responsible for what somebody else does. Danny’s to blame. And me. For letting him treat you like that.’
Through tears she said, ‘I hope you haven’t got yourself into trouble. Don’t you have to be careful?’
I kept it light. ‘No. I served my time. “Repaid my debt to society” as they say. There are no conditions on my release.’
The swelling at her eye and the side of her face hadn’t gone down. If anything, it looked worse. I got ice from the kitchen. She took it from me and stroked my knuckles with the tips of her fingers. ‘I appreciate what you did, but I really wish you’d left it alone. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘Except, I feel a lot better.’
‘Did he say anything about me?’
The anxiety on her face made me wish I’d hit him a few more times for luck.
‘I didn’t give him a chance.’
This wasn’t going anywhere good.
‘How did you get on with Amy?’
Hearing her daughter’s name made her break down again. She buried her face in her hands. ‘Luke, I’m a mess. I don’t know where to turn. My ex is right. I’m not fit to be a mother.’
And it all came tumbling out, every demeaning day, every sadness and disappointment and scintilla of self-loathing. I did the only thing I could do and held her until she got it all out. Then tried to move her on to something better.
‘When’s Amy getting here?’
‘She’s coming down next week. She’s excited about it.’ Mandy touched her cheek. ‘God, I can’t look like this.’
‘You won’t. Amy will see her mother at her most glamorous.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I do. Especially if she gets her beauty sleep. It’s late. Time you were asleep.’
She kissed me and did as she was told, secretly pleased somebody cared enough to listen.
When she’d gone to bed, I took off my jacket and poured a whisky, drank most of it in two gulps and topped it up again. It tasted harsh and burned the back of my throat on the way down. Mandy was beating herself up about things in the past. Things I could sort. What happened in the alley wasn’t pretty; the details from tonight’s little adventure wouldn’t help her state of mind.
Keith had been one of those guys who was in his element with people who weren’t able to defend themselves. He’d no chance against me and knew it from the beginning. His heart wasn’t in it. The barman telling him my name was Glass had understandably affected his confidence. Albert Anderson’s legendary swan dive would be in his mind. Somewhere between the pub and the alley, he’d planned to give up and depended on me giving him a break. As plans went, it was a dog. This was personal. My first punch doubled him over. He went down on one knee, signalling with his hand he was throwing the towel in. No chance. I wasn’t letting him off so lightly.
‘Get up. Get up or I’ll come after you anyway.’
He lifted himself to his feet and I noticed we were about the same height and weight. The difference was, I had an incentive. Then, he made a big mistake – he opened his mouth.
‘Whatever she told you isn’t true.’
I’d used my incarceration wisely. I’d been the boxing champion of D Wing in Wandsworth. This wasn’t the time to tell him.
‘She didn’t have to say anything, I could see.’
Two punches landed in quick succession on his nose; he staggered further into the darkness, blood dripping onto his nice shirt. A third punch to his jaw convinced him he was getting the shit kicked out of him so he’d better start defending himself. He threw a couple of fresh-air shots, which probably made him feel better.
I circled, more to drag out the inevitable and make him suffer than any tactical advantage. I didn’t need one.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a heart problem.’
I hit him some more for being a wimp. He fell to the ground and crawled towards a line of bins overflowing with rubbish and lay in the filth until he got his breath back. The bottle was in his hand before I knew it – his heart problem had miraculously disappeared, along with his loser’s attitude, and he grinned like the predatory beast he was.
I tried to warn him. ‘That isn’t your best idea.’
He didn’t believe me and spoke through his teeth, sending a spray of bloodied spittle into the night. The bottle crashed against the edge of the bin. Something glinted dully in his hand. The change in him was remarkable.
‘Fuck you. Want some of this? Come and get it.’
He deserved an extra slap just for his hokey chat.
That could be arranged.
He wiped blood and snot from his lip and took a step towards me. ‘She was asking for it from the minute she waltzed in the door. Any of the boys will tell you. All I did was take her up on her offer.’
The first thing I broke was the arm with the ragged bottle on the end, then I mashed his nose into his face and heard his jaw crack. Before he passed out, I slammed him on the mouth and kept hitting. His teeth dropped onto the cobbles like pearls from a broken necklace.
I brought the whisky over to the couch and treated myself to a refill, not tired enough to go to bed. My knuckles were bruised and raw; I hardly noticed. Mandy was asleep. In the morning, she’d have questions. Questions better not answered, at least, not with the truth. When they came, I’d lie.
did he say anything about me?
Yeah, baby. He said he was sorry.
46
The lesbians were in Norrie’s head. He could still see Lexie taking the dildo, her naked body writhing in pleasure. What a waste. But on balance, it had turned out okay. He yawned. It had been a long night and it wasn’t over.
Danny Glass’s instruction was clear and non-negotiable: no witnesses.
The club in London was a turning point. After that, killing the others on the team wasn’t a big deal. Even without the gangster’s uncompromising order, Sharon was going to be a problem. She was no stranger to violence. She’d been around it all her life, though nothing as bad as the club, and her reaction made her a danger.
Glass could’ve decided to pull the plug on all of them and would have if Norrie hadn’t outsmarted him. From his first job he’d left a sealed envelope with a lawyer he knew. Insurance. If anything happened to him, the envelope would find its way to the police. So far, he’d never needed it. But there was always a first time. That was how insurance worked.
He parked in a side street near Battlefield Road and walked to where he’d dropped her off less than twenty-four hours ago. Sharon, drawn and white from lack of sleep, hadn’t asked when she could expect her share of the money. She hadn’t asked anything. Norrie watched her enter a tenement flat. A light had come on in a ground-floor window. They’d worked together once before though he hadn’t known where she lived. Now, he did.
Handy.
Breaking in was a piece of piss. Norrie pulled on latex gloves and used the same trick again on Sharon’s front door. Inside, the flat was quiet. He stood still until his eyes got used to the darkness, just as he’d done in Lexie’s house. The lounge was typical of tenements: a large room with a high ceiling and a cornice running all the way round. The bedrooms would be almost as big. The place was tidy. No empty wine glasses lying around. and Sharon had straightened the cushions on the couch.
It was possible she wasn’t home. The last time he’d seen her, she’d looked like a girl with a lot more than her social life on her mind. More likely, she was in bed, asleep along with most of the city. He looked at his watch: two-seventeen.
He stepped into the bedroom. Empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in. Next door was the same. Maybe she’d freaked and gone to the police. He put the thought to the back of his mind. And if she wasn’t here, he’d wait until she returned, then do what had to be done.
Norrie gently pushed the bathroom door open. Sharon was in the bath.
Sorry, Sharon. Not happening.
Norrie dipped a finger in the bathwater – pink and lukewarm – and studied her unlined face and her breasts, floating under the surface. Moonlight from the window lent the skin a golden hue. Near death she looked younger than she’d been in life. Shame, really. He wouldn’t have minded seeing her do a double act with Lexie.
Sharon had been a serious mistake. His mistake.
Next problem: was there a suicide note that would bring all of them down? When he didn’t find one, he removed her mobile from her bag, lifted her PC from the dining table, and left.
Back in the car he thought for a while about how close they’d all come to disaster.
Norrie pulled down the empty street, surfing through the static on the radio with one hand until he caught the tail-end of the Rolling Stones, ‘Paint It Black’. His favourite Stones’ track. He tapped the steering wheel and sang along. He felt good.
Three down.
Job done.
47
Stubble covered Danny Glass’s jaw and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Marcus stood in front of him, rocking silently on the balls of his feet, waiting for his boss to speak. When Danny was in a mood, the best thing was to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. From the wall, the Queen looked down on the half-dozen newspapers spread on the desk. Discarded sheets had fallen to the floor, others rolled into balls and angrily fired across the office. Two days on, the fire in the Picasso Club dominated the headlines as the media speculated on who was responsible and where they might strike next. So far, nobody had claimed responsibility and public statements by the prime minister and the lord mayor hadn’t convinced the city they had the situation under control.
Glass ignored his lieutenant and studied the front page of the Mail on Sunday. A member of the royal family was scheduled to visit the scene of the fire – the lord mayor had been the previous day, flanked by senior police officers, picking a path through what was left of the club.
‘The royals always do the right thing. This country’s lucky to have them.’
He turned the pages, mumbling to himself about the suspicion terrorists were responsible for the tragedy.
‘Bastards want to destroy our way of life.’
Marcus did a double take. Danny was behaving as if the reports were real.
There were no terrorists.
They were the fucking terrorists.
Every paper carried a version of the story they’d run with the previous day, wildly speculating in lieu of fresh information. The Times, the Telegraph and The Independent – traditionally more responsible – kept the horror of the attack to a minimum. The less squeamish tabloid press breathlessly reported that bodies had been ‘reduced to piles of black bones, as if the flesh had melted away’.
The question was asked casually but Marcus heard the edge in Danny’s voice and tensed.
‘Have they identified Rollie’s body?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Any of his crew?’
Marcus shook his head.
‘What’re they doing over there?’
The big man hesitated. ‘It’s going to take time, Danny.’
Glass lifted his head, his eyes boring into Marcus. ‘What do I pay you for? Remind me, I forget. Is it to drop clichés like “It’s going to take time, Danny” into the conversation? Because, if it is, can’t complain about not getting my fucking money’s worth, can I?’
‘What do you want me to tell you, boss?’
‘Something I don’t already know would be nice.’
Marcus didn’t have anything.
‘What’s the word on the street?’
‘Nobody’s talking.’
‘Yeah? Somebody telling them not to?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Could be.’
‘Are you saying Anderson’s alive?’
‘All I know is, usually there’s a lot of noise after a big happening. So far, it’s like the whole of the South Side’s in shock.’
Glass leaned closer, his finger pointing. ‘Get out and shake the trees. If Anderson got out, he’ll come after us. He’s a mad-arse. Ritchie’s the cool head. He’ll be the one organising it. George Ritchie’s the key.’
Marcus turned to go. Danny wasn’t done. ‘And, Marcus. Don’t come back with ghost stories to spook the troops. They don’t need them. Neither do I. It’s simple: Rollie’s alive or he’s dead. Either way we have to know.’
Oliver Stanford read the caller ID and considered letting it go unanswered. Glass wouldn’t stop. Today, tomorrow, the next day – the bastard would keep on trying, until finally he couldn’t avoid him. Better to get it over with.
Glass’s voice was hard; he sounded rattled. ‘Is he dead?’
The question required no explanation. Stanford knew who he meant but acted as if he didn’t. ‘A lot of people are dead, Danny. Which one of them are you referring to?’
The gangster hissed his anger down the line, on a shorter fuse than usual.
‘A word to the wise, Detective Chief Inspector, don’t fuck me about. I’m not in the mood. Can you confirm he’s among the dead? Yes or no?’
Less than thirty-six hours after the fire started, it was a stupid question. Maybe because the detective was at a low ebb, depressed and dog-tired, he treated it with the scorn it deserved and didn’t attempt to answer it.
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘There are over a hundred bodies still to be identified. A lot of them don’t even look human. If you’ve any suggestions that might speed up the process, we’d be happy to hear them.’
Stanford knew he was baiting the bear. Getting into bed with the gangster had always been problematic. On balance, he’d decided the risks were worth the reward. Friday night had changed that.
There would be months, maybe years of investigation: a public enquiry was a certainty.
Knowing his greed and ambition had put Elise and their daughters in danger ate at the policeman. The house in Hendon and all the rest of it weren’t important any more. He’d no idea how the horror show at the Picasso Club was going to end. Anderson might very well have perished in the blaze and be a pile of bones in a black bag, waiting his turn. Stanford couldn’t have cared less. He’d a lot more than that to think about. One thing he was sure of: when the dust settled Glass had to be dealt with.
The alternative was having a madman running every organised crime operation in South London; an insane fucker who might decide, for fun, to drop him in it at any minute. The arrangement they’d had was over. Danny Glass just didn’t know it yet.
Stanford covered the mobile with his hand so he couldn’t be overheard and spoke quietly. ‘It’s crazy here. Nobody knows what the hell’s happening. As soon as I get confirmation on Anderson, the first call I make will be to you. Depend on it.’
Glass wasn’t mollified. ‘He has to be dead. He has to be.’
The detective smiled a thin smile, enjoying what he was hearing from the man who inspired so much fear in others. He offered the gangster a crumb. ‘I was there, Danny. I saw it. I’m guessing Rollie’s in worse shape than his old man.’
‘What if he isn’t?’
Stanford was about to hang up when Glass caught him off guard.
‘By the by, soldier. Time’s up on your boy.’
‘Who?’
‘The rat. Bring him in. Think I’d forgotten?’
‘Bob Wallace?’ The policeman could hardly speak. ‘You… want me to do… what?’
‘Bring him to me.’
‘Me?’
‘Your very own self, Oliver.’
The detective blanched. ‘I… I can’t… That’s asking too
much.’
He imagined Glass’s mouth drawing back in a feral grin, the uneven teeth.
‘Do what you’re told, copper. Unless you’d rather I sent Marcus round to see Elise again.’
48
Shadows fell across the office above the King of Mesopotamia, surrounding him like enemies. Downstairs, the survivors of the weekend would be propping up the bar, pretending to believe each other’s lies, putting off the inevitable reality of tomorrow and the return to work. Danny Glass envied them.
The day was ending. A hard day anxiously pacing the floor, waiting for news. Until he was certain Anderson had paid for humiliating him, there would be no music. Anderson could be out there with George Ritchie, plotting revenge for the fire, for his father, and every other slight, real or imagined, in his miserable life. At any minute, they could burst through the door and drag him away.
Danny couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. His eyes were gritty and raw from lack of sleep. He rested his head on his arms, overwhelmed by the fever in him.
Luke should be here. And there was no sign of Nina – that would be asking too much. Neither appreciated how difficult it had been for him. He was the one who’d put money in their pockets: the one who’d had to make the tough decisions.
A picture of the kids he’d protected after their old man began the long process of drowning himself in booze, rose in front of him. He’d never been close to Nina, a strange girl, always a pain in the arse. No change there. But Luke was the real disappointment; hearing him tell the detective he didn’t have a brother had hurt more than Danny could bear. The past and the future melded in the present and he cried like a child alone in the dark, howling against the injustice of it. His hand went to the desk’s bottom drawer and the gun he kept there, ready and loaded. The barrel pressed against his temple, cool and heavy, marking the skin, digging into the bone, inches from his brain. Sweat broke on his brow, his breath came in shuddering gasps and he felt the smooth downward sweep of the trigger against his clammy finger.
