by Martina Cole
As Danny pulled up in the driveway, Patrick was already walking towards him. As Danny parked his car, he took a deep breath. Then, opening the car door, he looked up into Patrick’s eyes and saw anger there, along with the disappointment.
‘You, Danny, had better come in here and tell me everything. Only I think me and you need what my ex-brief used to call a full and frank discussion.’
Chapter Twelve
‘So, you thought I wouldn’t find out the score, that I was too fucking stupid to suss any of it out for meself?’
Danny was frightened. He had never seen Patrick so angry. He had heard about his colossal temper, knew it was something that only emerged if he was seriously pissed off. Now he was seeing it first-hand and he could understand how Patrick had stayed at the top of his game for so long. He knew that this man in front of him, this angry man, was capable of walking out of his house and hunting down anyone who he thought might have been involved in this trouble. He was so incensed he was incapable of listening to reason or excuses.
Danny was clear that all his prior dealings with Patrick Kelly, and his sister’s place in both their lives, meant nothing to Pat now. Patrick Kelly too was on a mission, and he would not rest until he had seen it through to the end.
‘Did you know the full extent of Desmond’s fucking skulduggery?’
Danny didn’t respond, he knew he wasn’t really expected to. Patrick wanted to vent his anger first and if he answered him now, all he would do was annoy Pat even more. That was the last thing he had any intention of doing.
‘Did you know that he used Kate, my Kate, Kate Burrows, a Filth, and the woman I shared my life with, did you know that he used her name to launder the money he skanked off me? The money he made off my name and my reputation. Did you know that, clever bollocks? I sussed out Peter from the off, he ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, know what I mean? But he’s an old mate, and that means a lot to me. I also knew that Jennifer would watch my arse, she is more trusty than a fucking cricketer’s cockbox. You see my point, Danny Boy, it was Desmond I never saw coming. And he used the O’Learys. I didn’t expect it from Desmond. But apparently you did. Apparently you saw fit to keep your fucking trap shut about the things that were most important. So, given all that, I can only assume that you are either a cunt of Olympian standards, or you stood to gain from my fucking downfall. This is something I feel very strongly about, as I am sure you realise.
‘I can also inform you that Desmond went missing today, but then I have a feeling you might know about that. You come here, telling me all your gossip, but you keep the real gossip to yourself. So now I have to start digging on me own. And I am the digger of diggers. I can find out anything I want. Like you and your sister’s stints in care, your mother’s fucking nut-bag lunacy. But I let that go, I thought you were worth the effort. I thought you were worth my time. What I never allowed for was that you would throw my good nature back in my boat-race. I am stressed, really stressed, about all this. I think that you owe me an explanation, and it had better be a good one. I have never suffered fools gladly. In fact, fools have never entertained me. I hate fools, I hate idiots and, back in the day, I had a habit of making them disappear. Permanently. But then I am sure you already have a working knowledge of my past endeavours.
‘Well, my advice to you is, think about what I am saying, and find my fucking missing money, and find it quick. I pay you exorbitant amounts of poke to do my dirty work, and this is not just dirty, it’s fucking disgusting. I also have a long memory and I never forget a slight. I never forget someone who mugs me off and, do you know something, Danny? They never forget me either.’
Danny took it all, and he took it calmly. Danny knew he had to prove himself to Patrick, not just with his loyalty, but also his ability to take what was coming without fear or favour. Patrick had to know that he was not someone who would hold a grudge, was not someone who would see his own personal ego as more important than the person he was being employed by. Danny Boy saw that this was a water-shed, not just for him, but for Patrick too. After all, Patrick had taken him under his wing. He’d trusted him. And now he needed to prove that the trust placed in him was not misplaced, he had to prove that he was loyal, was dependable, and that he was more than capable of taking a bollocking. A bollocking that he knew he deserved, because he had tried to sort this out without going to Patrick and telling him everything that he’d found out. He had been a fool, had believed he could sort it out himself.
He had dropped the proverbial, he had wanted to come to this man with all the answers but, unfortunately, the answers had not been as forthcoming as he’d expected. In fact, he had not realised that Desmond had covered his own arse in many respects. Or how far he’d gone. He now understood that he was still a novice where Patrick and his ilk were concerned. The knowledge hurt Danny, but it was also a learning curve. He recognised that experience far outweighed front, and it also outweighed pride.
‘I am sorry, Pat, I wanted to nip this all in the bud and come to you when it was sorted. I wanted to prove to you that I was capable of sorting out any little discrepancies, that I didn’t have to come to you for every problem that cropped up. I wanted to show you that I was keeping an eye out. I wanted to prove to you that I was on the ball, had your interests at heart.’
‘Little discrepancies? Are you having a fucking tin bath at my expense? Little discrepancies are when a onner or a monkey goes amiss in the betting offices. Little discrepancies are when a till is out in one of the clubs, it is not classed as a little discrepancy when my fucking money is being used to bankroll drug deals and my name is being used to garner said drug deals. Especially when, after all that, I ain’t even getting a fucking drink from it all. I see that as more of a major fuck up. Not on my part, you understand. More on the part of the fucking imbecile who thought it might be a good idea at the time. I don’t want your apologies, Danny Boy, I want you to sort it out. I pay you to front my operations, and I pay you fucking well. So now, I want you to sort this, and sort it soon.
‘The O’Learys have the right arse with Desmond, so I can only assume they have had a word with him. I suspect that Scott of the Antarctic has a better chance of turning up in the near future than our Desmond. So you had better make sure that Kate is without stain, as they put in the Bible. Kate never asked to be a part of this, and I will not let her be crucified because of her job. As much as I hate the Filth, and I do hate them, make no mistake about that, Kate is not one of the ones we avoid. She is the one we really want to be there if one of our family get murdered. Know what I mean, Danny? She is one of the good guys. She is also someone who is not deserving of losing her reputation over a piece of shit like Desmond. Incidentally, Desmond has left his wife power of attorney, and she knows where the money is, the stuck-up, two-faced whore, and I am relying on you to make sure that she returns it to its rightful owner. That would be me, by the way.’
Danny had always known that Patrick Kelly had been a force to be reckoned with back in the day, but he now realised that Patrick might have retired from the game, but he had not lost the power to roar. Patrick Kelly was as powerful as he had ever been.
Danny understood then the authority he commanded. Patrick had always concealed his strengths though, had understood that it was far more sensible to keep your power hidden away.
All the time Danny had believed, deep down, that Patrick was finished, was over the hill, he had actually been at the height of his power. Patrick Kelly had something that most people never really attained. He had respect. Desmond had used Patrick’s name to broker his deals, and the O’Learys had taken that on face value. Now they knew the score, they had taken out Desmond, not Patrick. Patrick was still powerful enough to ensure that his demise would bring unwelcome aggravation on the people responsible. Someone had tried to take him out years ago, but he had survived, and gone back after them with a rightful vengeance that made sure no one would attempt anything like that again without the help of at least a tactical
nuclear weapon.
Patrick saw the truth dawning on Danny’s face, and it grieved him, even though he knew it was inevitable. He had always hidden his light under the nearest bushel, it was what had kept him out of trouble from day one.
‘Oh what tangled webs we weave, when first we practise to deceive. My old mum used to say that to me, and I never understood it for years. She was a shrewd old bird, and she could have more fights than John Wayne. I take after her, Danny, I feel it is only fair to warn you about that. I want you to sort this, and sort it sooner rather than later. As for the O’Learys, I could swallow them whole, you remember that, boy, because I can assure you that they do. They will do anything to make it right with me. The man ain’t been born who can frighten me. And I can be one frightening bastard when the fancy takes me. Kate calmed me down, but even she knows that, push me too far, and I’ll hunt you down like a fucking rabid dog, and I’ll smile while I do it.’
Danny understood that he had made a fatal mistake. Patrick Kelly was back in the driving seat and, the worst thing of all was, he was relishing every fucking moment. He was loving every second of it. Without Kate to hold him in check, he was like a kid in a candy store. Overexcited, pumped up on sugar, and determined to do whatever he wanted. Patrick was enjoying himself, and that was what could well be the cause of not only his downfall, but also that of everyone else involved. These were dangerous times, and Danny knew he had better prove himself, once and for all.
Kate smiled at Miriam Salter. She didn’t need her and her determined personality at this exact moment in time, but she knew she had to humour her.
‘Have you got a few minutes, Kate?’
‘ ’Course I have, what can I do for you?’
Miriam shrugged, her heavy shoulders seemed to rise up like a hunchback’s. She was even bigger than she was before. Kate hated that she thought things like that, but the Miriams of the world irritated her.
‘I think Sandy Compton’s mother is an alcoholic, and I desperately need your advice. She won’t even acknowledge her daughter’s death and worse still, neither she nor the husband want to arrange a funeral for her. Do you think I should try to get some public money to pay for it?’
Kate didn’t know what to say. ‘Look, Miriam, the body will not be released for a good while yet, as well you know. Why not wait until it’s relevant? By then the parents might have come around.’
Miriam nodded, barely moving her head. She had a knack of making her feelings known with a subtlety that was extremely annoying. ‘Maybe you’re right. I have always trusted your instincts, Kate. You are rarely wrong. I should wait, I should have the patience to step back and wait until the Comptons are prepared to bury their child. But it’s hard, Kate, you know. Hard to help people who are so angry and hurt that they can’t see how destructive their feelings actually are.’
Kate felt the guilt rise up inside her. People like Miriam were hard work and she hated that she resented her so much. Miriam did so much for the families of the dead. She was the one who sat with them, listened to them, and eventually helped them come to terms with their loss. She visited people who had been raped, burgled and mugged. She ensured that Kate and her colleagues were not burdened with their emotions when they needed to be clear-headed to solve the crimes.
‘Tell you what, Miriam, I’ll talk to the brass, see if they can get someone in from outside, a professional grief counsellor . . .’
Miriam puffed herself up to almost frightening proportions. She straightened up like a demented, podgy runner bean, and her grey eyes became little slits of anger and distress. Kate immediately regretted her words, understood that she had inadvertently insulted this woman and all the work she had done for the families of the deceased.
‘I can’t believe you just said that, Kate. If you think I’m not experienced enough, then all you had to do was say. I am willing to step back and let the professionals take over. In fact, as I have recently been widowed myself, I can see why you might think I don’t have the necessary qualifications for dealing with people who have lost their nearest and dearest . . .’
Miriam’s voice was rising with every word, and Kate was aghast at her faux pas, but she had not meant it as it had come out. She was only trying to offer some kind of help. Miriam had a couple of older women who assisted her for a few hours here and there, both were do-gooders like Miriam but, unlike Miriam, they did not see their role as pivotal, as important, if not more important, than anyone else’s. It occurred to Kate that this was what really needled her about Miriam. Like her husband before her, God rest his soul, she thought she was doing the most important job of all. Taking care of those left behind was a mantra that both Miriam and her husband had lived by. On top of all their church work, and their other charitable labours, they had seen themselves as the modern-day equivalent of Mother Teresa and St Francis of Assisi combined.
‘Calm down, Miriam, for God’s sake.’
People were staring at them, young PCs were smirking at the sight of Kate Burrows and Minging Miriam in what seemed to be a full-blown argument.
‘Calm down? You’re telling me to calm down? How dare you! I’m not averse to speaking my mind, and I do not take kindly to someone like you speaking to me as if I mean nothing.’
Kate was shocked at Miriam’s vehemence. ‘What do you mean, someone like me?’ There was a challenge in Kate’s words now for anyone to hear. The onlookers were thrilled at the continuing saga.
Miriam shook her head in a slow gesture of disgust. ‘You, swanning around with that man, like Burton and Taylor, thinking you are better than everyone else when you are living with a criminal. You, a policewoman. Someone who should know better . . .’
All Kate could think of was, Burton and Taylor? Was that an insult? She wasn’t sure, all she knew was that she felt a terrible urge to start laughing. Rip-roaring, loud laughter. The woman was off her bloody head. So she said as much. ‘I think you came back to work too early, Miriam, you are obviously still not in your right mind. Grief can do that to a body. Listen to yourself, woman. Screeching and hollering in the hallways, making a spectacle of yourself. I apologise if I offended you, but I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to offer you some help, offering to try and take some of the burden from you. That was all, there was no hidden insult, or underlying offence. But do not talk to me like that, do you hear me? No one talks to me like that and gets away with it.’
Miriam was suddenly calm, her whole body seemed to deflate in an instant. ‘My husband and I have done more for the people of Grantley than anyone else, and I say that as a fact. I am proud of what we do. He might have gone, but I am determined to keep his memory alive. I do not need any help, or anything at all, from the likes of you.’
With that, she walked away, a certain rough dignity in her rounded shoulders, and a surprising spring to her step given her immense size. Kate stood and watched her retreat. She saw Annie make a comical face of mock horror while saying loudly, ‘What the fuck was all that about?’
Kate shrugged. ‘I’m fucked if I know.’
And they both started laughing at the total incongruity of it, their earlier fight forgotten.
Mariska Compton was in bits. Her daughter’s death had finally hit her. It was the way her girl had died that was hurting her, it was the way her daughter had been tortured, abused. It didn’t help that she also felt some responsibility because she had never been interested in the girl. Not on any real level anyway.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
That had been the sum total of their conversations for many years. As long as Sandy was clean, tidy, and in employment, and as long as she was as far away from her as possible, Mariska had not really given her a second’s thought.
Now, as Mariska looked at her daughter’s possessions, looked around the girl’s flat, she wondered what she was supposed to do. What did one do in these situations? She certainly had no intention of looking through all this stuff, did she? She wasn’t sure.
&nbs
p; She glanced around the room, it was a lovely room. Sandy could have been a designer if she had really wanted to. She had made the most of the space, the light. She had a flair for the dramatic; she dressed dramatically, like Theda Bara or a very young Joan Collins. Very Hollywood, very feminine, and yet Sandy had been very strong inside herself. It was one of the few things she had ever admired about her daughter. She saw a photograph on the mantelpiece, it was of the two of them, mother and daughter. It was a very pretty picture, they both looked happy and connected. No one seeing it would guess at the true nature of their relationship and, for some reason, this made Mariska feel tearful.
She was suddenly aware that there was no chance to change their situation, they were lost to one another. The daughter she had never really had any time for had finally become important to her, only it was too late for either of them to do anything about it. She knew the next step was to go and see her daughter’s working environment. As much as it repulsed her, she knew that she needed to see it. It was the only way she would ever be able to put this whole sorry mess behind her.
As Miriam had told her over and over again, without the men, these girls would be out of work. It was simply supply and demand. They had men working in the background, men who made sure these girls were sucked in before they knew what had happened to them. They kept them there with fear, intimidation and violence. She made it all sound so much easier, made her feel that it wasn’t her fault, or even her daughter’s fault. Miriam had made her realise that she had nothing to reproach herself for.
She was so glad she had listened to the woman, it had helped to get it all off her chest to someone she knew she would never see again once this was over. Miriam was kind and helpful, but not exactly someone one would choose as a friend in normal circumstances. But there was nothing normal about any of this and, as the old saying went, any port in a storm. That sentiment seemed very apt at this moment in time.
