by Anna Smith
Kerry motioned them to sit down and poured tea into mugs for them. Jake sat, his hands clasped on the table, an air of quiet calm about him.
‘We now know all the names,’ Danny said. ‘We know how they do business, their phone numbers and where they go on a daily basis. Jake’s been on it twenty-four seven. So we’re ready to go. He has a plan.’
Kerry glanced at Jake who gave the slightest nod, and for a second looked her squarely in the eye.
‘Just say when, Kerry. I’m ready.’
‘Thanks, Jake. Where are they? Are they all here? Or back down the road in Manchester? How many?’
He sipped from the mug and placed it back on the table, then looked beyond her.
‘Four. Three of them from Manchester. One for Mickey and three for the funeral. Mickey’s killer was living here for three weeks before the killing, and he’s still here, lying low. Two travelled up after Mickey’s hit, but are still holed up here – separately. And one is from Belfast. I know who he is. That’ll be easy. But if it’s okay with you, I’ll do that one last. Once the others are done. It’ll be on the same day though. Needs to be clean and quick. Don’t worry.’
Instinctively, Kerry wanted to ask names, and other details about them. Even in the midst of her determination for revenge, part of her still saw them as people, not just hitmen. She wondered how old they were, did they have families, children, a mother who would weep for them, the way her mother wept for Mickey? Stupid irrational thoughts that she knew she had to push away if she was going to make any of this work. She glanced at Danny and had a feeling that he was reading her mind. He managed to convey with his eyes that in this kind of matter, it was best to know as little as possible. Leave it to the professional. It was as good as done.
‘Okay,’ Kerry said, taking a breath and letting it out slowly. ‘The funeral is the day after tomorrow. I’d like it done then.’
The words didn’t choke her, but they rang in her ears, and she knew that for the rest of her life she would never be able to escape this moment. She knew that Jake and Danny were studying her face for a flicker of emotion, but she made sure there was none.
Jake nodded but said nothing. Danny looked at his watch.
‘Kerry, if that’s all you need right now, we’re going to head off. I’ve got a few things to do and so has Jake. So will we see you tonight? Come over for dinner. Pat would love that.’
‘I will,’ Kerry said.
In the middle of all this, she craved the normality of a dinner with two of her most favourite people in the world. Jake was first to stand up, and Kerry followed, walking them to the door.
Jake leaned in and hugged her again.
‘You look after yourself now, Kerry. I’m there for you, any time. I always will be. You understand that?’
Kerry nodded, but again felt the catch in her throat. They left, and she closed the door, standing for a moment with her back to it, gazing out at the steady drizzle weighing down the leaves on the sycamore tree.
*
Across the city, Cal Ahern stood outside the school gates, a cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger. He took a long puff and inhaled deeply. His thin bomber jacket did nothing to keep out the icy November wind, and he shivered. He watched as the last line of cars and school buses left, taking the noise and buzz of pupils with them. Now it was silent, and in the grey afternoon he felt more dismal by the minute. He glanced around and listened to the stillness, suddenly feeling alone and isolated. He wished they would hurry up and come so he could pick up the stuff and make the drop. His stomach was rumbling. If he made good time, then he could be home and buy a takeaway for him and his mum as a surprise for tea. Cal didn’t hate what he did, he didn’t despise the drug dealers or the hard men around them who’d taken him on to do some running. It wasn’t that he was comfortable with it, because he always dreaded that his mum would find out, or worse, that he’d make a mistake and maybe get picked up by drug squad cops or some bastard would rob him of the gear he was delivering. He was smart enough and cool enough to know that when an opportunity presented itself, even if it was on the wrong side of everything his mother had brought him up to be, then you had to grasp that chance. Living where he lived, being brought up in the scheme, many of his mates were already into drugs, lots of them smoking heroin. Two of the older guys in his block of flats were already hooked and living rough. He shook his head, and thought of his sister, Jen. The last time he’d seen her she was in a doorway up the drag with some pimp bastard in the background. When he’d stopped to talk to her after searching for her, she’d more or less pushed him away, telling him she was working. Then her pimp came out of the car nearby and told him to fuck off. Cal had stood his ground, and told him it was his sister and he was talking to her and he wouldn’t stop him. Then he got a slap, and that’s when he made his first move. He punched the guy flat out and he landed on the ground. He almost couldn’t believe what he’d done, looked at Jen, as startled as him, then he did a runner. That was months ago. But it got him noticed, and within a week, while he was working at his job in the car wash, he was approached by two men. He could see the pimp with a plaster on his nose in the driving seat. The other men had got out and Cal had braced himself for a hiding. But the older man, well dressed, had simply asked him if he wanted to make some money. Cal had stood, arms folded, told him he already had a job. Call this a job? You want to double your money from time to time, earn more in an hour than you do in a week? Not all the time, just now and again? Cal knew what it would be, but he agreed nonetheless. And that was it. Since then, every two or three weeks, he got the call, meet outside the school gates and make a drop. Usually somewhere in the city, or near the train station someone was waiting. They’d hand over the holdall, and a wedge of cash for himself. Or it seemed a wedge – but it was only two hundred quid a time. A fortune when you earned a fiver an hour among the immigrants and illegals freezing your tits off in the car wash. He looked up as he saw the car come over the brow of the hill and pull into the side of the road. They beckoned him over, and the back door was pushed open. He’d never been in the back of the car before and he was wary, watchful.
‘Get in.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Get in. Boss wants to talk to you.’
Cal stood.
‘You’re not in any trouble. Get in, for fuck’s sake.’
Cal got into the back, the smell of leather and expensive aftershave hitting him square in the face. He glanced at the boss and nodded.
‘You all right, son?’
‘Aye.’
‘Listen, son. The boys tell me you do a good job.’
Cal didn’t answer.
‘And we already know you can handle yourself.’ The big man gave a wry smile and glanced at the back of the driver’s head. Cal didn’t move a muscle.
‘So we’ve got a good wee job for you. It’ll pay a bit more money. Might be a one-off, might be a bit more. You up for that?’
Cal shrugged. ‘Depends.’
‘What? You getting choosy?’
‘I need to know what it is first.’ Cal shifted a little in his seat. ‘I don’t want to end up in the pokey.’
The big man half smiled.
‘Aye. Neither did any of us, pal. But you have to speculate to accumulate in this business. So you have to take the chance. You scared of that?’
Cal looked him in the eye.
‘I’m already taking a chance every time I do a drop for you.’
The big man took a breath and let it out slowly. He looked impressed.
‘Aye, fine. I like your balls, son. But you might want to watch that cheek or you might get your face wasted some day.’ He watched and waited for Cal to answer, but he didn’t. ‘So here’s the situation. You take the train to Manchester, make a pick-up, and bring it back.’
Cal was silent for a moment. Anything he’d done before was merely dropping off. He had never even opened the holdall. He didn’t know if it was money or drugs or stolen jew
ellery. He suspected it was money for a drug deal, but he didn’t need to know. He just did the job, took the money. This was a bit different.
‘So I’m picking up a package?’
‘Got it in one. You all right with that?’
Cal sat for a moment, looked at the seats and the clothes and the cashmere coat. The plush interior of the car. He wondered where guys like him ate, where they shopped, where they slept at night in their big fancy houses. They wouldn’t be freezing in their beds or hungry, or worried about the loan shark coming up the stairs.
‘Yeah. But why me? I mean, don’t you have other people to do something like that? I mean a bit further up?’
‘Christ, you ask a lot of fucking questions, son.’
‘I’m just wondering.’ Cal wasn’t of a mind to apologise to this guy. He’d been nervous outside, but here, he wasn’t scared at all which surprised him. He didn’t like him but he wasn’t afraid of him, even if he should be.
‘Aye. It’s a package. All right? We’re asking you because you’re a young lad and you’ll be travelling with an older guy. Makes it look like a trip. Now are you clear?’
‘Sure.’
‘You’ll get five hundred for the job. You take down a holdall, bring another one back. All right?’
‘Sure. But I want six hundred.’ Cal couldn’t believe what he’d said, but he kept his face straight.
‘You want a belt on the fucking jaw?’
Cal was silent, stared straight ahead, his stomach knotting. Then the guy shook his head and chortled.
‘Right. Six hundred it is. And a hundred of that is for having the cheek to ask. You could go far in this business, son. Or you could get a knife in your back.’
Cal said nothing for a long moment.
‘When is it?’
‘Saturday morning. Eight o’clock train. Be at the Central Station.’
‘Okay.’
The man went into his pocket and handed him two twenty-pound notes.
‘Go and get yourself some dinner.’
Cal looked at the money briefly and stuck it into his trouser pocket.
‘Off you go.’
He got out of the car and watched as the engine whispered its way down the hill and into the traffic beyond. Cal stuffed his hands in his pockets and felt the crispness of the banknotes. It was a good feeling, having money in your pocket. He ran his fingers over it. His mobile rang. It was his mum.
‘Cal, where are you? I was going to get some dinner cooked.’
‘I’m on my way, Mum. Don’t cook. I’ll get us a takeaway. Chinese okay?’
‘What, you found a purse in the street or something?’
Cal chuckled. ‘No, I got a tip from a guy at the car wash. I’m flush. I’ll be home in twenty minutes.’
He hung up.
Chapter Nine
Sharon lingered at the door of Joe’s office, listening as hard as she could. She knew he was on his mobile to someone called Frankie, and she assumed it was this Frankie Martin character from Glasgow, who was Mickey Casey’s sidekick. She’d met him a couple of times – once in Spain and twice in Manchester. Now that Mickey was dead, and his sister Kerry was running the show, she began to wonder just what role Frankie had played in Mickey’s hit. If your best mate and partner in crime got offed by some mob out of your own turf, surely the last thing you’d be doing was chatting on the phone to the man most likely to be behind it. The only talking you’d be doing would be at the end of a gun. Unless, of course, she mused, you were part of the murder plot. She’d no idea why that would be the scenario and had no evidence about it, but she was suspicious by nature and as far as she was concerned it was all sorts of strange that they were even talking in the first place. She listened, pressing her ear to the door, barely breathing, watchful in case anyone came down the hall.
They were in their massive six-bed house in Manchester from where Knuckles ran his empire, after returning from the Costa del Sol a few days ago, and the two of them had barely spoken a word. Knuckles had been polite, but cold, and she had hardly seen him the two days before they left, as he’d stayed out both nights with his new bird. Sharon felt more frozen out than ever, and she wondered if he was waiting till they came home to drop the bombshell that she was getting the heave-ho. Christ. She’d even wondered how he would do it. He was an evil bastard when it came down to business like that, and he had people who could show the Nazis a thing or two about torture. But with her he might do the kind thing, and just put a bullet in her head. Either way, she sensed the end game was coming. She listened again, and heard a couple of snatches of what he was saying.
‘What do you mean she hasn’t talked to you yet, Frankie? You’re the main fucking man there, are you not?’
She listened, wondering what Frankie was saying, but it wasn’t looking like he was this Kerry Casey’s golden boy.
‘Okay. Well, we’ll just have to wait and see. But somebody has to let her know that what happened the other day was business. There’s no reason why we can’t sit down, get over this, and make a promise not to do it again. No more killings. No more violence. Just the business, as it was. But she has to fucking quit dealing with the Durkins and the Hills. I won’t have that.’
Sharon heard Knuckles slamming down his phone, and she scurried away and into the bedroom. She put on her jacket and boots and went back down the hall. As she was heading for the front door, she heard Joe coming out of his office.
‘Where you off to, Shaz?’
‘I’ve something to pick up from the dry-cleaners. I’ll not be long. You hungry? What you want to eat tonight?’
‘Oh, nothing for me. I’m going out. Got a business meeting up the city, and we’ll probably grab something. Just you sort yourself.’
Sharon stood and looked at him, but he avoided her eyes.
‘Joe, we haven’t even eaten together since we got back from Spain. And we barely spent any time together there either. I . . . I mean . . . You were out every bloody night.’
Knuckles put his hand up.
‘Look, darlin’, don’t give me that grief, will you? Please. Give me a break. You know what’s going on. There’s a lot on the go here. Problems all over the fucking shop with this mob in Glasgow.’
Sharon stood defiant. ‘No, Joe. I don’t know what’s going on because you haven’t sat down and told me anything. How am I supposed to know if we’re still doing business with that crowd if you don’t fill me in? What about the gear that’s to go up there? You’ve told me nothing.’
‘Look, don’t worry. Just go and get your stuff from the cleaners. You don’t need to get involved in all this. Just give me a bit of peace. I’ve a lot on my mind.’
She glared at him, and could see by the way he looked at her that he knew what she wanted to say. That she knew exactly what was on his mind, and that she knew he wasn’t going to any business meeting tonight either. He would be with the slag who had her hooks well and truly into him. She thought of their son, Tony, in school, and how they’d break the news to him, because every single message she was getting here from the man she’d spent the last sixteen years with was that her time was up. She felt her bottom lip trembling and it took her by surprise. She turned away before he could say any more, opened the door and went out, tears of rage and resentment blinding her as she walked to her red Mercedes sport.
Sharon drove towards the town, her mind a blur as she tried to focus on her next move. She tried to tell herself that deep down she’d always known that one day it would come to this. She knew the kind of ruthless character Knuckles was when she met him. In fact, the clinical, decisive way he did things was part of the attraction. He was fearless, confident, striding his way through any deals he made; nothing fazed him even when the cops came calling and took him off in handcuffs because someone had grassed him up. He did his time, coldly, calculating his next move, while keeping tabs on the business, and when he came out, the traitor was dealt with publicly so that everyone in the organisation would know neve
r to betray Knuckles Boyle. She’d become more and more involved since then as he’d had to take a backward step in how money was moved, and he trusted her implicitly. She thought this was her, set for the rest of her life. But she should have known. In the past year she’d realised he was tiring of her. That’s when she decided to make her exit plan. She hoped it would never come to it, but she knew that it would.
She drove into the car park behind the bank and got out of the car, then went to the bank’s reception. They showed her to the vault where the safety deposit boxes were, and once inside, the receptionist left her alone. She had three safety deposit box keys in her hand. She opened the first two boxes, checking the contents. Between the two there was a hundred grand in cash. It wasn’t much, but it was readies, so that she’d have money on her when she left. Then, in the third box, she took out the small external hard drive. She had bought it months ago and didn’t dare keep it in the house in case Knuckles asked what it was – even though it was unlikely that he would know what it could really do. He left all that stuff to her. She stood looking at it, knowing what she was doing. When Knuckles was out tonight, she would work quietly in the office, copying everything, all material, every damning bank account, every dirty money-laundering scheme, names of directors of companies started up and dissolved then restarted under a different name. Every single area of the business was there. She closed the boxes with the money, then went back out and into her car. Now that she had physically done the dry run, she was ready. But first, she had to make a phone call. In the car park, she sat in the driver’s seat and scrolled down on her mobile until she found a number. It answered after two rings.
