Blood Sisters

by Julie Shaw

Gurdy pushed the plate further towards her, clearly stuffed full with his burger. ‘I mean it. Keep away from Paddy, obviously. But keep away from Vicky as well. Let her go with it.’

  ‘Go with what?’

  ‘What he’s telling her to go with. Cutting you out—’

  ‘I should bloody say so! Well, we’ll just have to see how well that works out. Mr fucking perfect family – yeah, right. Let’s see how that goes when he doesn’t have muggins here to palm his precious daughter off to, eh?’

  ‘Exactly. But, seriously, you just be there when it all goes tits up. Because I can assure you it will.’

  It was like talking to Jimmy all over again. ‘Gurdy, come on, out with it. What do you know that I don’t?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Well, no more than you, I don’t reckon. Only that he’s different since he came out of jail. Really different.’

  ‘Oh, like he’s a big hard man now he’s been inside?’ Lucy asked, sitting back and rolling her eyes. ‘Typical Paddy! Big-time gangster now, is he, eh?’

  ‘No,’ Gurdy said quietly. He really did look pretty serious. ‘I don’t know how much Jimmy tells you, Lucy, and I know I still earn from Paddy – and, to be honest, I daren’t get out of it now. He’d go fucking ballistic if I tried, but he’s like really fucking scary these days, mate. Mixing all sorts of drugs, always on the ale … honest, he’s like a wild fucking animal most of the time, I swear.’

  ‘I know, but that’s same old same old, isn’t it? This is Paddy big I am Allen we’re talking about, after all.’

  ‘No, seriously, it’s worse than that. None of the other lads in town – the normal ones – will have anything to do with him these days. It’s like he’s a time bomb, waiting to go off.’

  Lucy put down her knife and fork and plucked another serviette from the holder. She felt suddenly markedly more ill at ease. ‘Gurdy, Jimmy tells me all kinds of stuff. Most of the time I’m not interested in what that prick does, as you know, but if you know what’s good for you, you really should knock it off working for him.’

  Gurdy sighed. ‘I wish.’

  ‘Look,’ Lucy went on, ‘I know you’re saving for your future, and I’m glad you’ve kept me out of it, but honestly, Gurdy, the cops aren’t far behind him – you do know that, don’t you? And I’d hate you to get done with him when it all goes down. Christ, mate – you in prison. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’ He opened his mouth and gave her a lop-sided grin. ‘And no jokes about bloody boyfriends, okay?’

  Because it really was no joke. She had no idea how deeply he was into the shit Paddy Allen was – in an ideal world, only very little. And, God, wasn’t life so unfair? He shouldn’t even be doing anything for Paddy – shouldn’t be doing anything illegal, full stop. And look at Vikram – doing so well for himself. The golden boy. Getting on. And all the while, poor Gurdy had led such a shitty life – forced to work in the family business, forced to be the good son … not to mention getting beaten by his dad if he refused to conform. She could so see how the money he made from Paddy mattered to him. It was going to be his ticket to a better legal life. But was it? Might it be his ‘Go to Jail’ card instead? Jimmy’d not said so, but he didn’t know everything, did he? They might be sitting here, discussing what a shit to Vicky Paddy Allen was, when the greater victim might be Gurdy himself, swept along with Mo and Paddy when the police floodgates opened – straight into prison. And she really couldn’t imagine how Gurdy would cope in prison.

  ‘Surely you’ve saved up enough now to sort your life out and get away from him?’ she said. ‘Surely? I mean, how much can you need?’

  ‘A thousand pounds,’ Gurdy came back, in a heartbeat. ‘That’s all. My cousin has a curry shop in Leeds and he said I can buy into his place once I’ve enough. And once I have another grand, I can, and I will.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll be gone like a bat out of hell, mate – just like Meat Loaf. I just need another grand or thereabouts, and I’m gone. I promise.’ He reached across and grabbed her hand. ‘I promise. First curry on me.’

  If he got out before DI Daley and his team closed in. In comparison her and Vicky’s spat mattered little. If she’d had a thousand pounds she would have given it to him there and then.

  Chapter 20

  Jimmy Daley was having a rare Saturday afternoon drinking session with his mates, and was making the most of it. It wasn’t often he had the chance, as he was more often than not working, but with his apprenticeship soon going to be nearing its end, he was keen to do however many hours needed doing – the firm he worked for, Flowstar, were an up-and-coming plumbers, and there could be a good job with his name on at the end of it.

  But today wasn’t just about time with the lads – it was also an afternoon of celebration. Bradford City had scored a hat-trick in their first match of the season, and, as the previous season they’d only just escaped relegation by a whisper, the whole town were naturally elated.

  And Lucy, bless her, hadn’t minded at all. ‘Go on,’ she’d said. ‘Go and celebrate, love, and have a drink for me too. I’m happy enough stopping in with Mum and Dad tonight, really. And you deserve it, love.’

  She was a top bird, no question.

  Even so, after the first two or three (or was it four?) pints, he’d begun to waver. However brave a face she put on things, Lucy was in a sad place, he knew that. Specially since Vicky – fucking shame on her – had completely cut her out, and she wasn’t even getting the chance to mind the baby.

  He wished she’d get it. Understand that he really didn’t care about the baby stuff. That when the time came, they’d find a way round it together. And it wasn’t like the doctor had even said ‘never, ever’. Just ‘unlikely’, which wasn’t the same thing at all, as his mam had kept saying. So he’d rung her again – it was an emotional kind of day, after all. And she’d called him a wet and told him to piss off and have a drink for her, and, since he could hear her dad in the background, laughing, he decided to do as he was told and stop worrying. Just celebrate and get pissed with his mates.

  He was just emerging from the little corridor where the payphone was when he heard his friend Kenny calling. ‘C’mon, lightweight!’ he shouted through the din at the Belle Vue. ‘Jimmy! Down that pint, mate – we’re making a move.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ came the response from another mate of his, Jackie. ‘I paid twenty fucking pence to get in here, if you don’t mind. At least wait till I get my fucking money’s worth!’

  Which he was, and pretty much had been since they’d first tumbled into the place, particularly now, when the nearest barmaid – topless, just like they all were – was busy emptying and cleaning ashtrays on the adjacent tables.

  It was another ritual in Bradford, post-match. You watched the footy, had a bit of agro with any daring opposing fans down Manningham Lane, and then you started off your Saturday afternoon session at the Belle Vue, where topless barmaids served your beer and a topless DJ played the records.

  Not that Jimmy had any qualms about leaving. Better that than still be in when ‘The Ointment’ lads came in. Win or lose, they were the sort of die-hard footie fans (or more accurately, football hooligans) who didn’t think they’d had a good day until they’d spilled blood in some form. Jimmy’s dad would go mental if he got caught up in any of that shit. Once a copper’s son, always a copper’s son.

  ‘Where we off next?’ Jimmy had to yell over the swell of cheers and whistles. The strippers – another part of the attraction of the place – had just started climbing up on the filthy stage.

  ‘Haigy’s,’ Kenny told him as they made their way to the exit doors – another pub, on Lumb Lane, which would be filled with the claret and amber of Bradford City fans, though the landlady who ran it wouldn’t stand for any shit, so it was a safe bet that there wouldn’t be any trouble. Which suited Jimmy just fine.

  But by the time they’d done in there – there was only so much of the landlady-friendly sobriety a young lad could stomach – the night was still young and the
party, which had grown with every pub they’d stopped in, moved inexorably towards town and the Boy and Barrel – this not least because they always put free pie and peas on on match days. Good for soaking up the pints of post-match beer.

  The only bugbear was that the Boy and Barrel was one of Paddy Allen’s usual haunts, and even with the beer on board (in fact, perhaps because of it) a run-in with him was the last thing he was looking for. In fact, the further away he stayed from Allen right now, the better.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to Kenny as they approached the noisy pub. ‘I think I’ll pass on going in there. You know how things are.’

  ‘Paddy Allen?’ Kenny said. ‘You’ve no need to worry on that score. Didn’t Jackie tell you back in Haigy’s? He’s banged up again, you silly twat.’

  ‘Banged up?’ Jimmy looked at him, shocked. Then shook his head. His dad hadn’t said anything, and he definitely would have. ‘Nah, mate,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. He got out just over a month ago.’

  Kenny scratched his head. ‘No, I’m sure he is. Ask Jackie. Was him who told me. Banged up again. I’m sure of it. Yesterday. Even this morning perhaps, come to think of it. Honest, mate – go and ask him. Sure I’m right. Get you a pint?’

  It didn’t take long to pin down the informant in question, and even as he did so, Jimmy wondered what the hell was going on. He’d been with his dad just before the football. Surely he’d have told him?

  ‘Aye, he is,’ Jackie confirmed. ‘Or so your little Paki mate said, anyway. Whatshisname. Ghandeep, or summat?’

  ‘Gurdip Banerjee?’

  ‘That’s the one. Saw him at half-time. In the pie queue.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘That it was an undercover cop that nicked him. Dunno what kind. You’ll know more about that than me, obviously. In the Old Crown, not long after opening, trying to sell some dope or something. To the wrong bloke …’ He laughed. ‘Can you fucking imagine? Wish I’d been there. Anyway, he busted him and had him carted off to the cells. He’ll be there till Monday now, I imagine. You know, for court. So nothing to worry about. Sorry, mate. Assumed you knew. Top result, eh?’

  Kenny arrived with drinks then, but, as the other two were absorbed back into the group and talk returned to the football, Jimmy stood apart, in a quandary. On the face of it, yes, it was a top result. Nice to see the sod behind bars again. But, on the other hand, he knew something the others definitely didn’t know. And couldn’t. And he was more certain than ever that his dad didn’t know about this. Or at least hadn’t when it happened. He might by now, of course. But should he assume that? No, he shouldn’t. He popped his pint on top of the jukebox and slipped away to use the phone box up the street.

  It smelt rank, and he popped the door open with one foot. ‘You are kidding me,’ his dad said. ‘Christ, I hope you’ve got this wrong, son! Are you 100 per cent sure about the facts? Have you checked with anyone else?’

  Jimmy hadn’t. And he said so. Because there was absolutely no need. ‘Dad, I’m telling you, it’s fact. It’s come from Gurdy, and he’d know.’

  ‘Gurdy?’

  ‘Gurdip. You know, Luce’s friend, Gurdy. Does stuff for Allen.’ They almost never called him Paddy; that would imply a measure of respect. ‘Arrested this morning for dealing apparently and currently held down at Bridewell.’

  ‘Shit,’ his dad said. ‘Shit. Okay, Bye.’

  Then he’d rung off – proper banged the phone down – presumably to hot-foot it back to work. To update his own team, whose efforts had now been so compromised. Or most likely, anyway. How had that happened?

  ‘I thought your dad would have been pleased,’ Lucy said, looking confused.

  Jimmy had gone straight back to hers after speaking with his father. He’d only nipped back into the pub briefly to say goodnight, knowing he’d probably be missed. But he needn’t have bothered, he’d decided, as he took a quick sip before abandoning his pint. Everyone, by now, was too pissed to even see straight, let alone notice he’d disappeared.

  ‘You don’t understand, Luce,’ he said, pacing her living room now, still too wired to sit down. He was glad her mam and dad had gone to bed. ‘My dad was proper angry. Proper furious,’ he went on. ‘You don’t realise. That undercover cop – whoever he is – might just have fucked everything up for them.’

  ‘Everything as in what?’ she said, patting the space on the sofa beside her. ‘Jimmy, tell me. I need to know what’s going on!’

  He sat down. Took her hand. Could he trust her? Of course he could. In almost all things. In everything that mattered to the two of them, at any rate. But there was still Vicky to be figured into all this. Vicky, who’d already shown herself to be a far cry from the loyal friend she’d always purported to be. She’d gone running to him, hadn’t she? About Lucy. Had betrayed her confidence. Caused all that trouble. He found it hard to forgive her for that.

  And Lucy understood that. She clearly knew only too well why he felt so reticent about discussing anything to do with that bastard Allen with her.

  ‘Babe, look, I know how much you love Vicky – and I wouldn’t want to change that – but that prick, well, he needs locking up and the key throwing away.’

  ‘Course I know that. And I can’t wait for it to happen, believe me. And now he’s been dealing drugs again, he’ll get put away again, won’t he? He’s on some sort of probation deal, after all, isn’t he? Isn’t that how it works? That he’s got to keep his nose clean for twelve months or they’ll sling him back inside again? I’m sure Vic told me that’s how it usually works.’ She raised her brows at his continued silence. ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, in theory,’ he said. ‘But not in this case. Not if my dad’s doing what I imagine he is.’

  ‘Which is what, exactly?’

  ‘Making sure they let him go. Well, if the whole thing isn’t already fucked up, which it might be. Fingers crossed I’m wrong. Fingers crossed he’s already back down the pub.’

  Lucy looked shocked. ‘What? That can’t be right, Jimmy. Why on earth would your dad do that? He bloody hates Paddy!’

  ‘Oh, you have no idea how much.’ Decided, he took her other hand. ‘Okay, so here’s how it goes. And you must tell this to no one. And I mean no one. Seriously, Luce. You mustn’t.’ Then he proceeded to explain to her the extent of the task force who were involved in the operation. All working, as they had been, over many laborious months, to pull the plug on Rasta Mo’s little drugs empire. Which had turned out to be bigger than anyone had imagined, and worth a considerable amount – an eye-watering amount – of money. And, of course, it meant Paddy would be tugged for it too, him being one of the main dealers.

  ‘But that’s not even the half of it,’ Jimmy explained, keeping his voice low. Lucy’s parents slept like babies – on other kinds of Saturday nights, it was one of their greatest virtues – but you never knew. ‘There’s also the prestige car business. Which is a huge operation. They steal them here and in Leeds and take them south to be sold. And Allen’s always been a huge part of that too.’

  He thought of the bastard’s Capri and how much he looked forward to seeing him deprived of it. This time permanently, hopefully, because it would rot before he was out. ‘Oh, I see …’ Lucy was saying. ‘So this is some lone wolf who thought he was doing his good deed for the day but might mess it all up for them. That it?’

  She was bright, was his Lucy, as well as beautiful. ‘Exactly,’ he told her. ‘They’re not quite ready to make the arrests yet. If they pre-empt things, i.e. don’t have all the loose ends tied up, every scrap of evidence in place, the whole lot of them could walk away.’

  ‘Or get off on some more minor charge?’

  Again, Jimmy nodded. His father had told him that most of the evidence had been gathered, and the surveillance, over many months, had paid rich dividends. But this stupid undercover cop – who obviously had nothing to do with the task force and no idea who he’d been collaring – could have now put the whole thin
g in jeopardy.

  ‘So they’ll release him, just like that?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘That’s the hope,’ Jimmy answered. ‘And perhaps they already have.’

  Lucy pondered for a few moments. ‘But won’t Paddy wonder why?’

  Jimmy shook his head. At least on that score he was reasonably confident. ‘Will he fuck!’ he said. ‘Allen? The lad’s that fucking arrogant that he’ll walk out of the nick laughing at them, probably.’

  ‘You think?’ she said. She didn’t sound convinced.

  But Jimmy was. ‘I know. He’ll just assume it was lack of evidence. That’s what they’ll spin him, and he’ll believe them, no question. You know what he’s like. He’ll just think he’s got away with it. Again.’

  Chapter 21

  Paddy still couldn’t quite believe his luck. Not even properly dark yet and here he was sauntering blithely into Arthur’s Bar, like the events of the day hadn’t even happened. Except the other unreal thing – which was truly amazing – was that he’d even talked a fucking copper into dropping him off on Manningham Lane. After everything. Unbe-fucking-lievable.

  He needed a drink. He needed a big snort of coke even more. They’d let him go, but they hadn’t sent him on his way with his gear. That would have been a miracle too far.

  More importantly, feathers would have been ruffled. He’d been pulled and that was bound to have got about. Bloody everywhere by now, probably, specially with everyone being in town for the fucking football. And there’d be serious concern from those in the thick of things about the implications. So his first job was to track down Rasta Mo. Because just as he couldn’t quite understand why the police had let him go, he knew Mo would need to be reassured. Be properly convinced that it was only his own personal gear he’d been caught with, even though it hadn’t been. That Mo’s gear was all hidden away, safe.

  It was busy in the bar – there were few days when it wasn’t. But whereas most of the local pubs were full of regular lads out on the town, Arthur’s Bar had a more select clientele. Prostitutes and their pimps, drug dealers and assorted junkies – these were the regulars in Arthur’s. Yes, you’d get the odd group of young lads wanting to impress each other by buying their first spliffs, but they were fodder as much as anything – specially the hooray-Henry types, who were sport. Mo enjoyed selling spliffs to them containing nothing more sinister than a few herbs for top whack, then would laugh as they pratted about, thinking they were stoned.