by KERRY BARNES
Unexpectedly, as Dez stood in the doorway, a colossal fist cracked him on the side of the head and knocked him clean off his feet. There was no wobble or unsteadiness, Dez lay on the deck, out cold.
Mike shook his head. ‘I forgot me toothbrush. Lucky I did, eh?’ He then looked at his son’s expression. ‘What happened, Ricky? For fuck’s sake, you weren’t gonna fight him, were ya?’
Ricky was still standing in a fighting stance, his face tight and angry.
‘Ricky?’
‘Yeah, Dad. I was gonna have it out with him. I ain’t scared anymore, like I said.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Ex-Detective Superintendent Magnus Stoneham sat back on the modern, low-backed armchair with his fingers rhythmically tapping the end of the armrests. For a man in his early seventies, his demeanour mirrored that of Conrad, his youngest son, who sat opposite. Although Magnus was now grey, and he had thinner features and tighter lips than Conrad, the men were easily identifiable in many other ways as father and son.
‘So, how did the meeting go? I suspect if Mike Regan is anything like his father, then it began like pulling teeth.’
Leaning against a window in the oak-panelled study of the eighteenth-century country manor, Conrad smirked. ‘Yes, that’s exactly how it was. However, Father, you were right. He does have a sense of morals.’ He tutted. ‘It’s madness when you actually think about it. Mike Regan, a bank robber, an arms dealer, and someone serving time for torturing and murdering another man. Regan’s a piece of scum, isn’t he?’
Magnus laughed. ‘Yes, well, no doubt you are right. This idea of using a sense of morals among the immoral—’
‘Hold on,’ interrupted Conrad. ‘I wouldn’t say Regan is immoral. Lawbreaking, yes, but immoral, I’m not so convinced about that.’
‘No, quite, but the point is, we need to ensure this idea of yours and your sister’s doesn’t have serious repercussions.’
Pushing himself away from the window, Conrad walked over to his father’s drinks cabinet and poured two glasses of Redbreast Irish Whiskey.
Magnus tutted once more. ‘Not too much. That’s saved for special occasions.’
Yes, when you invite the Gentlemen’s Club over, thought Conrad. ‘How are the bridge nights going?’
Magnus raised his brow, knowingly. ‘Yes, fine. Anyway, what plans do you have in place for this clean-up operation, and, more to the point, have you had a chance to speak to your sister?’
Conrad handed his father the glass and sat opposite, settling himself in the luxurious Chesterfield leather armchair. ‘Well, that’s the issue. I have asked Regan if he would consider the idea, but, in all honesty, I feel like I will end up in a situation where I will probably have egg on my face. I can’t instil any rules in the man and his firm when their moral compass is so different from the average man in the street. Take retribution, for example. They believe in an eye for an eye. Well, that might be any person’s natural reaction, but would we resolve our problems in that way? No, of course not. We would expect our law enforcement and justice agencies to deal with those.’
Magnus slowly nodded and pursed his lips. ‘I see, um . . . Yes, well, the fact is, if Regan felt he was being controlled, then the actual project would fail. He has access to every known crook in South-East London and Kent. The man is very well respected within his fraternity. He will have these gangs pulled out from their hiding holes and either they will be brutalized, or, if he is amenable, he will hand over the garbage to the law. However, with regard to the latter, I very much doubt that will happen. And about your sister. You haven’t told me if you have spoken with her. Have you?’
After taking a generous gulp of his whiskey, Conrad shook his head. ‘No, I feel sick to my stomach. That poor girl, Brooke, having gone through such a despicable assault, I just don’t know what to say to her. Me, Rebecca’s brother – the bloody commissioner – can’t even keep the streets clean.’
‘You are not God, Conrad. Besides, Brooke has a soft spot for you. Don’t delay the visit. Also, you need to discuss everything with Rebecca, to keep her in the loop. She cannot afford to lose the next election, and I won’t have her looking weak. We have got her this far. With a little more support, she will be on the front bench before we know it. She could be a good contender for the next prime minister.’
‘Yes, I know, but, as it stands at present, the crime rate is increasing so fast, and there is no money in the pot for more police officers on the streets. Three detectives who are trying to get the head honcho of these drug-fuelled gangs are due to retire shortly, and the way they look, I think they will be victims of a heart attack before they do retire. The work is sloppy and slow, and I am beginning to feel as though the gangs are making a mockery of us.’
‘Well, Son, you have answered your own doubt. You need the likes of Mike Regan on board because without the budget and with the lack of staff, this hideous gang situation will soon turn Kent into the Bronx. Rebecca will lose her career and that, Son, we cannot let happen. I came from nothing, but I’ve worked damned hard to have you in your position and Rebecca in hers. Don’t let me down.’
***
Zara was sitting in the Regans’ large and well-appointed lounge, flipping through the pages of a wedding gown brochure. A tear trickled down her nose. The long-sleeved gowns were beautiful and the women modelling them looked stunning, but how would she look with only one hand?
Gloria, Mike’s mother, watched her future daughter-in-law’s sad expression and guessed the reason. Hurrying over to put Zara’s mind at rest, Gloria put the brochure away.
‘Listen to me. Stop torturing yourself. You, my babe, will look stunning in anything you choose to wear. The only less than perfect thing about you at the moment is your downtrodden smile. Now then, there’s nothing we can do about your hand, but we can concentrate on everything else. The first thing you need to do is get your confidence back. There’s no point in hiding away from the world. Didn’t Davey Lanigan want to meet up with you?’
Zara smiled up at Gloria with admiration, and for a moment, she felt like a kid. Gloria was so much in control of herself and those within her orbit. With her hair fashionably styled and her clothes sharp and tasteful, Zara had never seen her without make-up or a piece of jewellery around her neck. Then, she looked down at her own attire and wondered why she was still dressed like she had been for most of her time in that basement cell. There was no need to do so now.
‘Ya know what, Gloria, you’re right. I’m going to get my hair styled. And it’s been so long since I wore anything new and fashionable. Fancy shopping?’
Gloria was ecstatic. Firstly, she’d hoped that Zara would get herself together, and secondly, she never needed an excuse to shop. ‘Arthur, where are the credit cards?’ she shouted, with a hint of excitement.
Everything seemed daunting at first, and Zara couldn’t explain how she felt. Having spent five years kept as a prisoner with no daylight and only a television for company, the world seemed almost alien to her now. Yet, she also knew that come what may, she would have to pull herself together. She was Izzy Ezra’s daughter and now the head of his estate and the business. Although the Lanigans had taken over, thinking she was dead, the proceeds of all profits had still been split fifty-fifty and her half placed in an offshore bank account, in the unlikely event she was found alive.
Mentally, she had to retrain her mind: she wasn’t a captive anymore, she was a businesswoman, with one fuck-off firm behind her. She only hoped that she still had the balls to take back control.
***
Wandering around the department store, Gloria held up a pretty blue Ted Baker dress with long sleeves and a gold trim. ‘Zara, this would look stunning on you.’
Zara laughed. ‘But who would take me seriously?’ She held up a black blazer and dark jeans. ‘Now then, look at these! These are what I need to fit the part.’
Gloria jovially rolled her eyes. ‘Aah well, let’s see if they have this gorgeous blue number in my
size then.’
As Zara headed for the changing rooms, Gloria watched the slim, graceful woman and wondered if Zara was really ready to carry on with her firm. She was older, damaged, and probably not geared up just yet. Most women Gloria’s age would never have understood why Zara would want to go back to her business when she was already worth a small fortune and could comfortably retire. With properties here, there, and everywhere, she could live the high life and never lift a finger. However, Gloria understood entirely why Zara was committed in this way because her own husband and his pals used to run South-East London many moons ago. Then Arthur’s two sons took over. While they too became very wealthy, it wasn’t all about the money. A life of crime was in their blood – it never went away.
Another thought crossed Gloria’s mind – her son Mike and Zara’s relationship. Of course, they both loved each other, but they were at the top of their firms, with equal standing. Would the relationship work? She wasn’t sure: in reality, family, business, and friendships still had a pecking order. She couldn’t see either of them relinquishing their role as leader. Realizing that her musing was getting herself agitated, she sighed and found the floral dress she’d spotted on entering the store. It was in a size 12. Perhaps this would look ideal for the mother of the groom.
***
The shopping trip had exhausted Zara. If she was honest with herself, the outing had been a bit of an eye-opener because it told her that she was still very weak. Her sudden pale complexion and tired eyes sent Gloria into mummy mode. As soon as they returned home, she cooked Zara a chunky meat pie, determined to get her strength up.
The hearty meal was gratefully received, and as they placed their cutlery down and leaned back on their chairs, they could hardly move.
Arthur winked at Zara. ‘It’s such a pleasure to have you with us. At last, I get to have proper home-cooked meals.’
Gloria gave an exaggerated tut and whacked Arthur with her tea towel. ‘You ain’t done too bad by my cooking. You’re still alive, ain’t ya?’
The teasing came to a sudden halt when the phone rang.
Gloria, as always, got there first, hoping it was Mike. ‘Hello?’
‘Good evening, Mrs Regan. Could I speak with Zara? It’s Davey Lanigan.’
Gloria beckoned Zara over. Holding her hand over the receiver, she whispered, ‘It’s Davey Lanigan, Zara. Remember you’re still recovering, babe.’
Zara smiled and answered. ‘Davey?’
‘Zara, I called just to say how delighted I am that you’re . . . ’ He paused. ‘Er, well, that you’re alive.’ He hadn’t thought over his words before he made the call. The news that Zara was found alive was a relief, but on hearing that she’d been brutally disfigured, it had sickened him.
‘Thank you, Davey, thank you for everything. I know you did your best to find me and keep the business running in my absence.’
The silence seemed to linger, and Zara wondered if he was about to make a statement.
‘The business is, er . . . fine. I can carry on, and we can talk about the future once you’re well.’
She could tell he was holding something back. ‘What’s going on, Davey? Please tell me, or I won’t get back on my feet if I’m worrying.’
‘I didn’t call to talk about work.’
‘No, I know you didn’t, but tell me anyway. What’s going on?’
‘Okay’, he replied, ‘but not on the phone. How are you fixed for tomorrow lunchtime? I think it’s better discussed away from the public. Would it be convenient to come over to Mike’s parents’ home?’
Zara looked over at the dining room table where Arthur and Gloria were sipping the last of their wine. ‘Would it be okay if Davey Lanigan comes here tomorrow? Say, lunchtime?’
Arthur smiled and nodded his head. ‘Of course.’
Unexpectedly, Eric appeared. They hadn’t heard him come in through the back door, too intent on trying to listen to Zara’s conversation. It wasn’t for any reason other than to make sure she was okay.
Once she’d completed the call, she turned around, and as she sat down, she was surprised to see Eric seated at the table.
It wasn’t so much that he was there, it was his appearance. His hair was cut short similar to Mike’s, and instead of his T-shirt and jeans, he wore a fresh white button-down shirt and black trousers. She had to blink because for a moment she thought it was Mike.
Even Gloria was surprised and had to remark, ‘So, off out with anyone special, Son?’
‘No! Christ, can’t a man wear a decent shirt without someone suggesting there’s a date involved?’ Instantly, he realized how harsh and childish he sounded.
But the tension wasn’t lost on Gloria. She arched her brow, and then her eyes flicked to Zara. Zara looked equally troubled but for a different reason.
‘Are you okay, love?’ asked Gloria, somewhat concerned.
‘I feel bad. This isn’t right. I should be back at my own home, not have people come to your house to discuss—’
Arthur waved his hand to interrupt her. ‘Now, no talking nonsense. You need our support.’ He looked at Gloria. ‘Besides, Old Mother Hen here would be lost. And it’s what our Mike wants, so, my babe, you treat this place like your own, and when you’re completely better, if you want to go back to . . . that house, then, that’s up to you.’
Gloria almost screeched. ‘What? . . . Go back there after what the poor girl’s just been through? I won’t be surprised if she wants to burn the bloody place down.’
With her mind back to when she was held against her will, Zara smiled. ‘You’d think it would be the last place I’d ever go, but the truth is, if it wasn’t for Ismail’s pathetic attempt to keep me alive in my father’s basement, then the Segals would probably have finished me off. My dad would turn in his grave if he knew that the suite he built would end up holding me a prisoner. But the rooms were styled and designed by him, so, weirdly, I felt at home. When I do go back, though, I’ll have the metal door removed and keep the basement as guest rooms.’
She looked up to find both Gloria and Arthur with their mouths open.
She chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t ask you to stay there.’
Gloria knew then that Zara was no ordinary woman; she was hard and had taken on more than most people could handle, but she would still face her demons.
Zara, though, miraculously didn’t see these as demons, merely challenges.
Eric placed his hand on her back and gently rubbed it. ‘If you need to go back there for anything, I’ll go with you.’
Gloria clocked the look on her son’s face. She didn’t like it one little bit.
***
Rebecca sat at the kitchen island with her head in her hands, the tea towel covering her sodden cheeks. At forty-three years old, she should have been in her prime, but she wasn’t. The signs were all there: a thickened waist, grey hair, and crow’s feet around her once bright and, some would say, come-to-bed eyes. She wasn’t even sure if her husband knew what she looked like under her elastic-waisted trousers and iron-free blouse. All the intimacy that had once been between them had diminished over the last two years. His business – so he said – was growing, and his excuse for staying away was that he had to strike while the iron was hot. It must be bloody molten lava by now, she thought.
The stress of it all pushed Rebecca to consider resigning, but as soon as she mentioned those words, Alastair and her father went off like a Catherine wheel, spitting, hissing, and spinning in circles. Her eyes looked to the cupboard under the sink, the place where she thought every housewife hid her booze. Her husband certainly wouldn’t look there: he didn’t even know where the kitchen sink was.
Just as she bent down and opened the cupboard, a crashing sound made her jump. Spinning round, she almost lost her balance. There, giving her an unwelcome sneer, stood Kendall. The noise was from her daughter flinging her rucksack onto the worktop. Like her sisters, Kendall had not an ounce of respect for her.
Usually
, she would have offered her daughter a drink or something to eat, but not this evening, though; she was sick to the back teeth of pussyfooting around Kendall. So, instead, she sneered back and tutted.
‘So, tell me, Mother, who exactly is your puppetmaster?’
Rebecca tilted her head to the side with a questioning expression. Silently, she wondered why she’d ever bothered to take Kendall away from her father. She should have left her there. There was not a smidgen of her own genes in the girl – not in looks, attitude, not even in interests. If she didn’t look so much like her real father, Rebecca would have sworn she’d been swapped at birth.
‘Kendall, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and, to be quite frank, I really don’t care!’
She turned away from her daughter and searched for the bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Pulling a tumbler from the top shelf, she poured a generous helping and took two large gulps. So uptight and angry, she didn’t bother to add the tonic; instead, she swallowed more of the bitter, clear liquid and smarted as it ripped the back of her throat. After taking a deep breath, she looked up at her daughter, who appeared to be stunned. Well, she would be; she’d never seen her mother do that before – she’d thought her too straight-laced to knock back neat gin.
‘What’s up, Mother? Did you find Alastair with another woman?’ she scoffed.
Rebecca stared at her daughter’s ridiculing eyes and was hit by overwhelming anger that shot up from her feet to the top of her head. Instantly, she threw the glass tumbler at the wall, and then, with both hands, she wiped the centre island clear, sending the vase, the condiments, and Kendall’s rucksack flying to the floor.
Still incensed, she smashed both her fists on the worktop and glared with fire in her eyes at her daughter. ‘Now, you fucking listen to me. You’re a spiteful, evil bitch, and if you weren’t my daughter, I would give you what-for. So, fuck off, away from me.’ She paused, sucking a deep breath as she stared at the horror-stricken look on Kendall’s face; yet she didn’t feel in the least bit sorry or guilty for those harsh words.
