by Martina Cole
When they finally pulled away, Old Billy saw Alan sitting in the doorway of the Portakabin with his head in his hands and shouted out, ‘You are fucking dead, you filthy grassing bastard!’
Alan couldn’t hear him but it made the old man feel better anyway. If it was the last thing he did on this earth he would pay Jarvis back for this act of utter cuntishness. That would be his mantra as he sat and rotted in jail.
‘He is dead. On my daughters’ heads that ponce will breathe his last before I ever sleep easy again.’
Even the policeman in the meat wagon was amazed by the sheer hatred in the old man’s voice. The men listening were all glad not to be Alan Jarvis. This day’s work would bring down the wrath of every villain in the country on his head. He was a marked man and from now on would have to live with that. And with himself, of course, there was that to be considered as well.
All Alan could do was stare at the body of Mikey Devlin and know that he was responsible for what had happened. But would Mikey have wanted to do the time he was guaranteed if they had brought him to trial? He thought that maybe Mikey had done what he did so he would be shot because he couldn’t face the long years inside.
Already Alan regretted his decision to grass. At the time it had seemed like the answer – now he wasn’t so sure. He had just wanted out, that was all. And Mikey would never have allowed him to walk away. Until he was finished with you, you danced to whatever tune he requested.
DI Stanton came over to him.
‘Bad business this, Alan. The main protagonist dead – doesn’t leave us with much, does it?’
He shrugged.
‘Who gives a fuck, really?’
And he went back to smoking his cigarette and watching the police ponce around his yard, going over and over in his mind exactly what he had let himself in for. He finally decided he must have been stark staring mad. He had grassed everyone up and now would have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his natural life.
Maisie was amazed by Patrick’s so-called workforce. Without him they obviously could not arrange a prayer meeting in a convent. She listened to them talking, all bragging about what they would do when they found Pat, and how the person who had kidnapped him was going to suffer. Only no one seemed to have the least inclination to go out and look for their boss. It was true, she thought as she looked at the assembled men. If you paid peanuts you got monkeys.
‘His car is outside so what does that tell us?’
Her loud voice commanded everyone’s attention.
Chrissie Jordan, a young mixed-race lad with a handsome face and a natty way of dressing, answered her.
‘That he must have been here at some point?’
‘Exactly. So someone took him off the street – I think it’s safe to assume that much, don’t you?’
They all nodded as they listened to her. They knew Pat rated her and would give her a level of respect because of that. Especially if he was still alive somewhere, though secretly they all doubted that. Like a rudderless ship they needed guidance and she seemed to be the only one offering any at the moment.
‘Then we should also assume that he’s dead.’
No one answered and Maisie carried on talking.
‘And whoever killed him is now in possession of whatever he had, aren’t they? Which includes us lot as well.’
‘She’s right.’ Chrissie’s voice was subdued.
‘So what do we do?’ This from Winston Halliday, a quarter-caste from Whitechapel.
They all automatically looked at Maisie and she noted this with satisfaction.
‘We wait, of course. Leave everything to me and I’ll see what occurs. I have to do a drop later, still have to pick up the money from the girls. I’ll need a couple of you to come with me in case we’re going to be had over. Business must be seen to carry on as usual, agreed?’
They all nodded meekly and as she looked around the room at these so-called hard men of Patrick’s she felt the urge to laugh. Men were so easy to manipulate. But only if you knew the magic buttons to press. Maisie had the edge here because she actually knew what had happened to him.
She also knew that he was dead.
As she made them all more coffee and tea she contemplated how much easier her life was going to be from now on, and sighed happily, secure in the knowledge that unlike most people she had got what she wanted and it felt good.
In a couple of weeks when the furore died down she would just take over and no one would question her doing so because by then they’d be used to her giving the orders. She would gradually assume control of paying them each week and they would start to work for her without even really thinking about it. They would soon forget all about Patrick Connor. Already he was old news.
Maisie was a clever little bunny when the fancy took her.
Ossie had woken up on the sofa in the study, as Verbena insisted on calling the small room at the back of the house. His neck was sore and he was not in the best of moods when he walked out to the kitchen.
Verbena was still sitting where he had left her the night before, at the kitchen table nursing a cup of tea. She wore the ravaged expression of a hunted animal and it annoyed him more than ever. He was damned if he was going to be the one to make things up this time. It had become a pattern early on in their relationship that he was the peacemaker. He was always the one who bought her flowers or perfume and made the first move to get their relationship back to the happy state it was in before they had rowed.
But not this time. He was determined to make her take responsibility for her own actions and petty jealousy.
How could she be jealous of Marie Carter? The woman had led a terrible life even though she looked good on it, and he was the first to admit she looked a bit too good for the likes of Verbena. But that had nothing to do with the basic fact that she was Jason’s natural mother and he wanted her to be in his life.
The worst part of it was that Ossie knew if a fat ugly woman with no dress sense and a grateful demeanour had turned up at the door, Verbena would have been over the moon. Even taken her under her wing, because she loved to be in control of everyone. But Marie Carter, although grateful, had no need of the help his wife would have loved to bestow. In fact, she could probably help Verbena. At least Marie Carter lived in the real world and not the one of tree-lined avenues and dinner parties that his wife inhabited.
Ossie was angry with himself for his thoughts as he felt they were mean. But Verbena had pushed it too far this time and he had had enough. As he put the kettle on she spoke, her tone aggrieved and her voice soft as if she was still on the verge of tears.
‘There’s fresh coffee in the percolator.’
‘Instant will do for me. You know I prefer Nescafe.’
She did know and it annoyed her. Even when they went to dinner at people’s houses he requested it, and every time he did so he angered her that little bit more. He didn’t even drink decaf like everyone else. He enjoyed saying he needed the jolt of the caffeine to wake him up. And him a doctor!
As he spooned two heaped teaspoons of coffee into his cup she stopped herself from saying another word about it. For the first time ever she was worried, really worried, because he had slept in the study and he had never done that before. She had expected him to come out to the kitchen and cajole her into going to bed as he normally would. Instead she had heard him go into the study and that had been that. She had even had a shower and put on perfume in case he wanted to make love to her to seal their making up. That was what usually happened. In fact, if she was honest, that was usually the best bit.
But since Marie Carter had come on the scene he had changed. Her son had changed too and she felt strangely alienated by it all. They wanted her to capitulate and at least pretend she liked that woman but she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.
She watched as he poured water on to the coffee granules. As she looked at him in profile she was reminded of what a handsome man he was. Many women gave him a second look, she h
ad always been aware of that. Even some of her friends gave him the glad eye now and again. As he was now, in his boxers, barefoot, he reminded her of an African prince. She could see him in her fantasies coming to save her and then taking her roughly on a dirt floor somewhere.
She blushed as she thought of it but it had always turned her on. He was everything to her, he and her son. If they would only realise that fact, and maybe appreciate her for it, how much happier they would all be.
He padded past her without another word and she heard the door to the study close. A few moments later the TV came on and she felt lonelier than she had ever felt in her life. He was watching the news, completely uncaring about the fact that he had broken her heart.
But she would not give in, she was determined on that much. She decided that if he liked sleeping in the study so much then that was where he could stay. See if she cared.
Jason came into the room, still looking sleepy. He kissed her automatically and she hugged him to her.
‘Are you OK, sweetie?’ Her voice was tender as she spoke to him.
He nodded.
‘I just feel a bit funny, Mum. I woke up and felt as if Tiffany was near me. I really felt that she was close by. It was eerie.’ He paused and she could see him frown as he tried to find the words to explain what had happened. ‘I sort of felt like she was trying to tell me that everything was going to be all right now.’
They both turned to the doorway as Ossie appeared there and said gently, ‘She loved you, Jason. She was trying to let you know that.’
‘Do you think so, Dad?’
His voice was hopeful. He was desperate to believe what he was being told.
‘I know so. So be glad you had the chance to say goodbye properly. Come and have some breakfast, son. Shall I do us all some ham and eggs?’
He was trying to bring normality into a house that had been anything but normal for days. And twenty minutes later, as he watched his son eat enough for a platoon of soldiers, Oswald was grateful to whatever God there was for bringing this child into his life.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘I know you’re in there, Marie.’
Sally Potter’s voice was a harsh whisper.
Marie opened the door slowly and Sally walked into the room before she could be refused admission.
‘Look, Sal, I’m really tired . . .’
‘I’m not surprised! I heard you pacing the floor half the night. What the fuck is up, Marie?’
The two women stared at each other for long moments; it was Marie who looked away first.
‘What have you done, love?’
Sally’s voice was gentle but elicited no response from her friend.
‘You look dreadful and you look guilty. You look like I did after I wasted my old man. Now your business is your business, I accept that. But you don’t need any more trouble in your life. None of us does. So tell me what’s wrong.’
Sally’s earnest plea broke through Marie’s reserve and she said in a frightened voice, ‘I did it again, Sal.’
‘What are you talking about, Marie? You did what again?’
‘I killed someone.’
Now she had said it out loud she felt easier inside. It was as if by saying it she had made it true.
Sally’s face paled.
‘What the hell you talking about, girl? Who the fuck you supposed to have killed?’ The prison jargon was back without a second’s thought.
‘Patrick Connor.’
‘What – the black pimp?’
Sally’s voice held admiration now.
‘That is one bad bastard.’
‘Was. He was a bad bastard and that’s why I did it. He was my son’s father – I think I told you about that? Well, he duffed my daughter, put her on crack and then he killed her. Had her killed in the worst way possible. I had to do it.’
‘I heard about your girl. I didn’t come in because I know that, like me, you need to deal with your grief in private. One of the legacies of a life spent in prison. It was only last night I started to worry about you because you were pacing the room.’
They were quiet for a few moments and then Sally left. She returned a few minutes later with a half-bottle of brandy. She poured out two glasses and, giving one to Marie, watched her as she downed it in one gulp.
‘That’s it, girl, it will help settle your nerves.’
They both sat on the bed.
‘How did you do it?’
Marie sighed and said gently, ‘I beat him to death. It seems that’s what I do best.’
She held out her glass and it was refilled instantly.
‘I took a torque wrench, which is obviously my weapon of choice, and confronted him over my girl.’
She gulped at the drink before she carried on talking.
‘He laughed at me. That rotten bastard just laughed at me as if it was the funniest thing he had heard in years. He said, “So what you going to do, Marie, kill me? You ain’t no fucking killer, girl, you’re just a stupid whore.” And he kept laughing so I hit him.’
She finished the drink quickly and held out the glass once more to be refilled before she continued.
‘And I hit him and I hit him and I hit him. And then he was on the pavement trying to crawl away from me and so I hit him again. And then I knew he was dead. So I ran.’
‘What did you do with the wrench, Marie?’
‘I slipped it down a drain hole then I went into the toilet at a train station and washed the blood off my hands. My shirt was spattered as well, so I slipped that off and threw it away and just wore my dark jacket pulled tight round me.’
Sally was nodding as if in agreement.
‘Good, so there’s nothing to tie you to it. Where did you get the wrench?’
‘From a builders’ supply merchants round the corner. I went in there and sorted through the tools until I found something smallish but heavy. He is one strong fuck as I have always known, but then so am I. He used to joke about my right hook years ago. Anyway, I binned it, just walked out nonchalantly. I didn’t want to be seen buying it, you know.’
‘Are you sure he killed your girl?’
Marie laughed nastily.
‘I have the fuckers doing it on video. That’s what sent me over the edge. He gave her to three nonces. He not only got shot of her, he made a few quid on the deal – now why am I not surprised about that? One was a judge and one was in the CPS. The other bloke is a barrister or something. Just pieces of shit who took my baby and literally beat and fucked her to death. What kind of way is that to go, screaming, and terrified out of your mind? Who the fuck do these people think they are – and what makes them tick? What made them want to do something like that to someone else? A lovely young girl with her whole life ahead of her.’
Marie was sobbing now, the crying of a woman completely over the edge. One of the other women knocked on the door, alerted by the high-pitched noise coming from the room. As she popped her head around it Sally said softly, ‘Her daughter died, she’s upset. Got any hard?’
The woman came back a few moments later with a bottle of Scotch.
‘Take this. I hope she feels better soon.’
She looked at Marie with compassion. They had all heard about it. She left the room and Sally cradled Marie in her arms until her crying subsided. Then she held up the bottle of Scotch and said craftily, ‘If they knew how much contraband was in the place they’d freak out. Feeling better?’
Marie nodded.
‘A bit.’
‘Listen, Marie, what you done was right. You done a good thing and you should be proud of yourself. Now have another drink and try and get a few hours’ sleep. You’ll feel better if you do.’
‘Will you stay with me?’
Sally nodded.
‘’Course I will, for as long as you need me.’
Alan listened to the policemen talking and wondered what the hell was going to happen to him now. If they put him on remand it had to be in segregation or he’d be de
ad in hours. Because Mikey was dead, he wasn’t that important to them any more. He knew it, and more to the point they did.
‘Why would Mikey Devlin have killed Patrick Connor?’
That name frightened Alan Jarvis so much he was rendered speechless. Connor could bring Marie into the equation. She had had a child by Connor and now she was seeing Mikey. The implications were legion, especially as she was out on licence and should not be near anyone with form.
‘Did Mikey kill him then?’
The policeman frowned.
‘I’m asking the questions here, remember.’
Alan shrugged.
‘I know nothing about that. If I did I’d have said so. I opened me trap about everything else, didn’t I? I’d hazard a guess that if he did kill him – and that’s a big if, mind you – it would be over the old Persian rugs. They were both at it after all, and Mikey, like I said, wanted to become even bigger. Supply the whole of the fucking country. Saw himself as a bit of an Escobar, if you know what I mean.’
The plainclothes policeman rolled his eyes to the ceiling in mock boredom before he answered sarcastically.
‘What – he wanted to score an own goal in the World Cup and get shot? Well, one out of two ain’t bad. At least he realised one of his dreams. I can’t see Mikey in the England squad. A bit old like, don’t you think? Though the way they’ve been playing he could still get a shot at it, I suppose.’
Alan shook his head in disgust.
‘Very fucking funny, I don’t think. He saw himself like the Colombian drug dealer of the same name. You know, the Mr Big of the smoke. Don’t forget that cunt Escobar ended up running his country. He even owned the jail they banged him up in.’
‘Well, bully for fucking Escobar. But none of this answers my fucking question, does it?’
‘Well, that could be because I don’t know the fucking answer. I can only hazard a fucking guess.’
The policeman, DI Teddington, was not a happy man at the best of times. Even his colleagues didn’t like him.
