Dangerous Lady

by Martina Cole

  The girl saw him crumple and fall, a bewildered expression on his face. The man with the gun then got out of his car and shot the victim three more times. Even in her shock and fear, Fiona Dalgleesh knew that those shots were unnecessary. The big, good-looking man was already dead.

  As the car drove away, the road became once more quiet and residential. Only Michael’s blood, running along the pavement in crimson rivulets, showed that anything was wrong.

  When Maura and Garry heard the shots they both rushed from the house. Sarah followed them. Geoffrey stayed in the kitchen alone.

  Suddenly the street was full of people, emerging from all the houses like ghouls. Maura ran down the steps to the pavement. She raised Michael’s head and cradled it in her arms, too shocked even to cry.

  Geoffrey, her mother, her brothers . . . everything was wiped from her mind. When the police and ambulance arrived they had forcibly to pull Maura from her brother’s body. Her white cashmere jumper was stained with blood and particles of brain and skull. Garry stood beside her, silent and shocked. Sarah had taken one look at her eldest son lying sprawled across her daughter’s lap and walked back into her house. She felt nothing.

  Maura and Garry were taken to hospital suffering from shock. Maura had to be sedated. The next morning she left the hospital with William Templeton. The newspapers were in attendance. All the nationals had pictures of Maura with Templeton’s arms around her. She was aware, even in her grief, that he had burnt his boats for her and she was grateful to him. He took her to her house and kept the world away from her.

  She refused to speak to anyone, not even Carla or Marge or her brothers. Roy took over the reins of the business and though nothing was ever said, all the brothers wondered what had happened with Geoffrey and why, as the eldest after Michael, he had not taken over the businesses himself.

  Maura had three separate interviews with the police. She told each of them the same thing. She had no idea who had been behind her brother’s murder.

  But she did know and she concentrated all her energy into that fact. After two weeks of seclusion Maura felt ready to face the world again. She emerged from her grief, tougher and harder than ever before. She had hatred inside her now, a great big sour-smelling hatred. And she was going to use it to her advantage. Michael was dead, but the Ryans would go on. She owed him that much.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Maura walked into the club at nine-thirty, exactly fourteen days after Michael was murdered. Gerry Jackson went to her and put his hand on her shoulder gently.

  ‘If you need me, Maura, just call.’

  She nodded at him and walked up the stairs into the offices. The music in the club was loud and harsh. She could hear the chatter of the customers and the clink of glasses above the din.

  Roy was obviously shocked to see her.

  ‘Maws?’

  ‘I had to get back into the world, mate. Thanks for taking over everything. I promise you won’t lose by it.’

  He got up from the desk, embarrassed to be caught sitting in what had been Michael’s seat.

  Maura waved him back. ‘You don’t have to move, Roy.’

  He sat down again. He was shocked at the change in her. She looked old. The years had piled on her in the short time since Mickey’s death. She also had a steely glint in her eyes that had not been there before. If he did not know better he would think it was Michael come back in female form.

  ‘I’ve kept everything going here as best I can, like. I know that’s what Mickey would have wanted.’

  Maura could hear the sadness and loss in his voice. Going to where he sat, she slipped her arms around his neck.

  ‘I miss him, Roy. It’s like a physical pain at times. As if a crucial part of me is missing.’

  ‘I know, Maws. I know.’ He held her hands in his own, surprised at the gentleness in her. ‘We’ll find out who set him up, Maws. Don’t you worry, girl.’

  She sighed. She knew exactly who had set him up. She straightened up, running her hands through her hair.

  ‘What’s been happening here?’

  ‘Oh, nothing for you to worry about, Maws.’ Although she could not see Roy’s face, she knew that something was up by the sound of his voice. She walked around to face him and sat opposite him on the chair by the desk.

  ‘What’s up?’ Her voice was hard.

  ‘Look, I’ll tell you about it another time. You’re in no fit state . . .’

  ‘Cut the crap, Roy. I’m a big girl now, in case you haven’t noticed. I also run this firm. I have done for nearly twenty years.’ Her voice softened at the look on his face. ‘You have no need to try to protect me, Roy. I can do that myself.’

  ‘We’ve had aggro out on the streets. Every firm with dreams of the big time has been showing its face.’

  Maura sighed heavily.

  ‘I should have guessed that the tomb robbers would be out in force.’

  ‘Look, Maws, it’s nothing I can’t handle.’

  She picked up the pack of Benson and Hedges from the desk and lit one.

  ‘I want to know what’s been going on, and I want to know NOW!’

  Roy just sat staring at her. Maura knew that he wanted to help her, that he wanted to do what Michael would have done. But he would never be Michael in a million years. She was the nearest thing to Michael Ryan. In fact, she felt as if he had entered her body and was looking out of her eyes, so strongly did she feel his presence at this moment.

  ‘Look, Roy, I need to get back to normal. I know you all loved him, but me and Mickey . . . it was special.’ Her voice was low and charged with emotion.

  Roy felt choked. He looked into her ravaged face, so skilfully made up, and knew that all that she said was true. Maura and Michael had been closer than any two people he had ever known. He spoke and his words had the effect of a bomb blast on her, so great was her rage when she heard them.

  ‘A black crew have been muscling in on the hot dogs. Yardies. They swooped on three prime sites the night Mickey died.’

  Maura’s voice when she finally spoke was dripping with malevolence.

  ‘Yardies? YARDIES? I ain’t trashed at the Scotland Yardies so a bunch of bloody coons won’t give me any grief. I’ll sort the buggers out myself. Get Gerry from downstairs and get on the phone to the other boys. We’re going to have a sort out on the street. Starting with the bloody “macaroons”. Now tell me everything that’s been going on since Mickey died.’

  Roy began to speak, glad in his heart that Maura had come to take over the reins. He had not done a very good job, he knew. He had wanted to but had no idea how everything was run. Maura, Mickey and Geoffrey had always been the thinkers of the family. The rest of the boys had been the heavies. He had been impressed with Maura’s acumen in the past, now he was impressed by her dogged determination to sort out all the trouble that Michael’s passing had created.

  Barrington Dennison was thirty years old. He stood five foot ten and, as a body builder, his shoulders and arms were huge. His biceps measured over twenty-eight inches. Barrington Dennison was proud of his physique and proud to be black. His hair, which was grown into long, fat, spiralling dreadlocks, was tied in a pony tail with a piece of spearmint green leather. The leather was the same shade as his tracksuit.

  He walked with a strutting cockiness away from his BMW car. In Brixton, where he was born, the letters stood for ‘Black Man’s Wheels’. His current girlfriend, an eighteen-year-old blonde, was sitting in the car, smoking a joint. She was waiting for Barrington to conclude his business.

  Barrington was a Yardie. He told everyone who asked that he was one. He loved it. Within hours of the news of Michael Ryan’s death hitting the streets, he had taken over three sites that he had been after for a long time, believing, as many people did, that with Michael’s death the streets were once more open territory. He also dealt in grass and ecstasy. And lately crack.

  He looked at his watch, a brand new Rolex. It was just on eleven-fifteen and time for a
pull. A ‘pull’ was the term used for clearing the tills on the pitches. This was done every few hours. That way, if the pitch was robbed, whoever did it would not get too big a ‘wallet’.

  He was unaware as he walked towards the busy pitch that he was being watched.

  Maura called to him: ‘Are you Barrington Dennison?’ Her voice was friendly and soft.

  Barrington glanced in the direction of the voice and saw a good-looking white woman standing by a Mercedes Sports. He smiled at her and was pleased to see her smiling back. ‘Yo, Momma. You wantin’ me, baby?’

  He walked over to her, his strut even more emphasised as he realised that all the people on the hot dog pitch were watching him. A rich white bitch could only do his street credibility good. He stood in front of her, pleased as punch that he was in full view of the people on his pitch. He watched her lick her lips.

  He grinned at her, showing perfect white teeth.

  I have something for you, Barrington.’ Her voice was caressing.

  She was opening her bag, a large leather shoulderbag.

  ‘Do I know you? You sure look familiar.’ He stopped talking as he saw her take a length of lead piping from the enormous white leather bag. He heard her laugh.

  ‘I’m Maura Ryan, you big, fat, bastard.’

  As his mind registered her words he was held from behind. He could feel himself being dragged on to the dirty pavement, and for a second wondered if he could still be seen. Then he was being held by two large white men, and suddenly he was frightened. It had all happened too fast for his brain to react. They had got him exactly where they wanted him. He could have wept.

  He saw Maura Ryan raise the piping over her head and bring it down with considerable force on his knees. The piping was twelve inches long and three inches thick. It shattered his kneecaps. He screamed. Then he felt the piping come down again and shrieked again. White hot pain was flashing behind his eyes, coming in sickening waves. He felt the arms that held him loosen their grip. Then Maura was kneeling beside him. She pulled his head up by its dreadlocks and stared into his face.

  ‘Don’t ever get ambitions again, prick. Do you hear me? Next time I’ll leave you in the same state I left Danny Rubens in. Michael Ryan is dead, but I am alive and kicking and don’t you ever forget that. You pass the message on to your Yardie friends.’

  Barrington nodded through his agony.

  Maura and the men stood up and he watched through a haze of pain as they approached the pitch. It was deserted. The two young black boys working it had run off. They had no intentions of getting involved with that type of violence. Maura and Roy secured it and left.

  As Maura went to her Mercedes she passed Barrington Dennison again. She looked at his twisted legs and pain-ravaged face, and felt herself begin to buzz with excitement. She had handled that exactly as Michael would have done. He would be proud of her!

  When they arrived at the other pitches, they were already deserted. Bad news travels fast on the streets.

  Barrington’s girlfriend was so stoned she did not even realise that anything out of the ordinary had happened until the ambulance arrived. She had been too busy listening to Bob Marley singing ‘Redemption Song’.

  Back at the club, Maura and the boys discussed the measures they would have to take to re-establish their superiority in London. Within a week it was done. Maura had proved herself a shrewd woman and slipped on Michael’s mantle easily. When she was sure she was firmly entrenched, she turned her attention to the Irish problem and her brother Geoffrey.

  Kelly was waiting for Maura in a small bedsit in Kilburn. The owner of the house was a sympathiser. There were many of them in London.

  Kelly heard a car drive into the deserted street and glanced at his watch. It was just after two-fifteen. This must be Maura Ryan. He got up from his seat and went to the window. Pulling back a grubby net curtain, he watched her as she locked up her car and walked into the house. The front door was already open. He could hear her soft steps on the stairs.

  He carried on looking out of the window to make certain there was no one else about. He was still not sure exactly what kind of meet this was going to be. The death of Michael Ryan must have hit her badly; he knew himself how close they had been. For his own part, Kelly had always liked and respected Maura, and enjoyed doing business with her. In the IRA there was no discrimination; women were blooded along with the men. He had met women in the cause who were much, much harder and shrewder than many of the men. He knew women who would not think twice about blowing up a school bus or shooting a pregnant woman, something that most of the so-called hard men would baulk at. But above everything else he trusted Maura Ryan, and it was for that reason, and that reason only, that he had agreed to meet her tonight.

  He turned from the window as she tapped lightly on the door of the room, and let her in.

  ‘Hello, Kelly.’ Her voice was neutral.

  ‘Maura. Please take a seat.’

  As always, he was courteous. It came naturally to him where women were concerned.

  Maura sat on the tiny PVC sofa and took the glass of Bushmills that Kelly offered her. He sat opposite her and smiled. He was quick to notice in the light of the naked light bulb that she smiled with her mouth but not her eyes. She was obviously still grieving. As she opened her black bag to get her cigarettes, Kelly felt a small twinge of uneasiness. Maura sensed it.

  ‘Don’t worry, Kelly, this isn’t revenge time. I know exactly what happened and I want to explain it to you.’

  He picked up a book of matches from the small coffee table between them and lit her cigarette for her.

  ‘Go ahead. I’m listening.’

  Maura pulled on the cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose.

  Kelly grimaced. He could stomach many things from women, but smoking was not one of them.

  Maura breathed in deeply. When she spoke her words were hesitant and sad.

  ‘It wasn’t Mickey who grassed up O’Loughlin and the others.’

  ‘Well, who was it then?’ His voice was brisk.

  Maura took a gulp of the Bushmills, its peaty tang giving her courage.

  ‘It was my brother Geoffrey.’

  Kelly digested this bit of information.

  ‘Mickey was good to you over the years.’ Her voice was full of the pain of losing him.

  ‘Listen, Maura.’ Kelly’s voice was gentle. ‘There was one thing Michael could never understand. In London, the Ryans are big. You own the majority of the police force. You run the main clubs. Your businesses include gambling, drinking, sex, all the things that are big money spinners. You’re also involved in the building and construction games. But, you see, to us and the likes of us, you’re small fry really. We’re an international organisation, known and feared all over the world. We’re given money by Gadaffi, Baader Meinhof, the PLO. The list is endless. All we ever gave you was our trust. And that trust was broken.’

  Maura was angry. ‘For God’s sake, Kelly, why do you think that I’m here tonight? I want to clear Michael’s name. He’d been paying into your cause since 1960. He helped you over the years more than he had to. He hid people. Got arms, Semtex. He gathered information on Members of Parliament and members of the armed forces. People whom you then blew up and killed or maimed.’

  Kelly interrupted her.

  ‘I’m not disputing all that. Michael was a good business asset over the years. Holy Jesus, we never wanted to harm him but it was the logical step to take after what happened.

  ‘What exactly do you want here tonight? Tell me that, Maura. Michael’s death is done, over with. I’m sorry we got the wrong man though that can soon be remedied. But I think that you came here tonight to ask for something. Not just to tell me that your brother Geoffrey is for the chop.’

  ‘What I want is us all back on our old footing.’

  Kelly laughed. Really laughed.

  ‘Sure, you’re a funny lass. Three of our best men are on their way to the Maze and you want us to forget
all about it! Are you demented, woman?’ He laughed again, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  Maura lit another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. She looked solemn and annoyed.

  ‘I’m glad to think that you had such a high regard for Michael.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm. ‘That he was so indispensable to you. But you see, Kelly, Michael meant everything to me. Everything. His death was not a “logical step” in my eyes. It was a brutal killing that was unnecessary. If you had waited and let us inform you of the circumstances, it could have been avoided.’

  Kelly was sorry for his laughter. In his first flush of joviality he had forgotten that he was talking about this woman’s kin. In the IRA you had no allegiance to family or friends. Only to the cause.

  ‘I’m sorry. Sorry to the heart for laughing. But you do understand what I was saying?’ He looked into her sad white face and was sad himself. There were many women like her who had lost their loved ones to the cause. Husbands and sons who would never be coming home again, or were rotting in the bloody Maze. He tried again.

  ‘You realise that Geoffrey is a dead man now, don’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Look, Maura, I’ll tell you what I’ll try to do, but I can’t promise anything. I’ll talk to a few people for you . . . explain the situation like . . . put them straight. The fact that you sacrificed Geoffrey should tell them that you’re trying to re-establish your old footing. But that’s all I can do. I can’t personally guarantee anything. You must understand that.’

  It was all she had expected. She had at least seen the back of Geoffrey. That was her main reason for coming here. She smiled at Kelly wistfully.

  ‘Well, I for one won’t hold a grudge. I remember when my brother Benny was murdered, Michael said it was an occupational hazard. He said it could have been any one of us, and he was right. It’s the price we pay for the life we lead, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s the same with us, Maura. Sure, isn’t that fecking Geoffrey the foolish one? Biting the hand that feeds him. Well, in a family the size of yours, there has to be one bad apple. It’s the law of averages.’