by Caz Finlay
‘Probably. She was tough as old boots back then as I recall. And as mad as a fucking box of frogs too. I could hardly believe it was her when I saw her looking all professional and respectable. The last time I saw her she was wearing a thong and shaking her arse in Nathan’s face,’ he said.
Grace closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair with a sigh.
‘Sorry,’ John said. ‘I forgot who I was talking to for a minute then.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Grace replied. ‘If I got upset every time one of Nathan’s ex-conquests was mentioned, I’d have to avoid half of Liverpool.’
John laughed. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t murder him before you did to be honest, Grace.’
‘Well, it wasn’t for want of trying, John,’ she said, grinning at him.
‘Still, I can’t believe that Candy Malone is a copper. She’s changed her hair and she looks different, but I would never forget that face.’
‘Can you do me a favour and keep this to yourself for now?’ Grace asked.
‘Of course. If that’s what you want,’ he assured her and Grace had no reason to doubt him. He was a loyal soldier.
‘Thank you, John,’ she said as she stood up. Walking over to him, she placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’d better get home before Michael sends out a search party. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.’
‘Night, Boss.’
Grace noticed that the living-room light was on as she pulled into the driveway, signalling Michael was already home and was waiting up for her. That would mean he’d be waiting for answers. What would she tell him though? The truth, of course. It was now or never. They had promised never to lie to each other, and while she hadn’t lied, she had kept the truth from him, and she knew from experience that was just as bad. She only hoped that Michael was more forgiving than she had been when he’d kept the possibility of Connor being Isla’s father from her the previous year.
As Grace pushed open the living-room door she almost collided with Michael on his way out.
‘I thought I saw your car pulling in,’ he said and she caught the smell of whisky on his breath. It knocked her and she took a step back from him.
‘Have you been drinking scotch?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Just the one. Lena brought it over after you left.’
Grace walked past him to their drinks cabinet and poured herself a brandy. Michael never drank whisky as a rule. She hated the stuff. It reminded her of her ex-husband, and even all of these years later the smell still made her nauseous. She’d never asked Michael not to drink it, but he usually didn’t. She wondered if his decision tonight had anything to do with her leaving to meet with John.
‘Want one?’ she asked him.
He nodded and she poured him a glass and handed it to him.
‘So what was so important that you had to leave to meet John Brennan in the middle of our dinner?’ he asked.
‘He found out some information about that DI who’s investigating the boys,’ she answered.
‘Oh? What?’
Grace sighed. It was one thing not telling him about Leigh, but blatantly lying about it was a whole different matter and she couldn’t do it. ‘He found out that she used to be a stripper at The Blue Rooms. And as well as that she was also one of Nathan’s many conquests.’
‘What? She was a stripper?’
‘Well, she would have called herself a dancer, I suppose, but she worked at a lap-dancing bar and took her clothes off for money.’
‘And she was screwing your ex-husband?’ he asked, his mouth open in shock.
Grace nodded.
‘Well, fuck me!’ He whistled. ‘This is good news though.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the DI who is trying to pin a murder on our kids is an ex-stripper—’
‘It’s not a crime to be a stripper.’
‘She was also shagging the biggest gangster in Liverpool! I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want her bosses finding out about that.’
‘So, you’re suggesting we blackmail her?’
‘Yes. And I can’t believe you’re not,’ he snapped.
Grace shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t work. She’s too straight.’
‘But if she knew that we knew—’
‘She does know,’ Grace interrupted him.
‘What?’
‘She already knows. Well, that I do, at least. I know her, Michael. I knew who Leigh was all along.’
He frowned at her. ‘You knew? So why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something as soon as the lads were arrested? Or when Paul was killed?’
‘It’s a long story,’ she replied with a sigh.
Michael sat down on the sofa. ‘Well, I’ve nowhere sodding else to be. Do you?’
Grace sat down beside him. ‘I met her years ago. In another lifetime, or at least that’s what it feels like. It was the Christmas Eve just before Nathan went to prison. Leigh, or Candy as she was known back then, turned up at the pub demanding to see Nathan and screaming the place down about how she’d got rid of their baby for him.’
Grace took a sip of her brandy. The memory of that night was still a painful one for her. Taking a deep breath, she went on. ‘Nathan threw her out, and he told me she was crazy. He said that she was some dancer from the club who was besotted with him. But I knew he was lying. Anyway, after he and Leigh had caused such a scene, I couldn’t face the customers, so I went upstairs to the flat and that’s when I heard her screaming again. But this time it was different. He was hurting her. At first I was just worried that Jake would hear or the police would come, and our Christmas would be ruined. He was only five.’
Michael said nothing and continued to stare at her.
‘I went outside to the alleyway behind the pub and found them there. Leigh was half naked, he’d ripped most of her clothes off – he got off on that – and he was strangling her. I could see her lips turning blue. She was looking at me. Silently pleading with me to help her. So I grabbed hold of him and tried to pull him off her. It distracted him long enough for her to wriggle free.’ She picked up her drink and knocked the rest of it back. A tear she hadn’t even known was there rolled down her cheek.
Michael placed his hand over hers. ‘What happened after that?’
Grace wiped the tear away with the back of her hand. ‘Nathan turned on me instead and Leigh ran away.’
Michael swallowed. ‘So you saved her life? And she just fucked off and left you to fend for yourself?’
Grace nodded. ‘She was terrified, and I was used to fending for myself. She came back a year later when he was in prison and apologised. She thanked me for helping her turn her life around. We stayed in touch for a while, until it became clear we were two very different people with very different outlooks on life.’
‘But you saved her life, Grace. She owes you.’
‘I’ve already called in the favour, I’m afraid.’
‘When?’
‘It was Leigh who gave me Solomon Shepherd’s name. And I’m not sure we would have ever found out he was behind Paul’s murder if she hadn’t.’
He shook his head. ‘So you got that information from the woman who’s now trying to put two of our other children away for life? Talk about fucked up!’
‘I know.’
‘She still owes you though,’ he added.
‘We have other means at our disposal first,’ she said to him.
He downed the last of his brandy. ‘You should have told me.’
She nodded. ‘I know.’
He turned to face her then, all traces of anger gone. Reaching out his hand, he brushed her hair from her face. ‘I wish I had known you when you were married to that bastard. I would never have let him hurt you,’ he said.
Grace nodded. ‘I know,’ she lied. Because she wasn’t sure that anyone could have saved her from Nathan – anyone but herself. ‘I’m sorry I left you in the middle of our romantic evening out.’
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly the n
ight I had planned. But I’ll get over it,’ he said with a smile.
‘Well, the night is still young. And the kids are at your dad’s,’ she said as she stood up and took hold of his hand, pulling him up from the sofa.
‘Oh. What do you have in mind?’
‘What do you think?’ she teased.
He pulled her towards him and pressed his body into hers. ‘I’ve been thinking about getting you out of this dress all night,’ he whispered in her ear as he started to undo the long zip up the back.
Grace leaned her head back as Michael trailed hot kisses along her neck and jawline. Being wrapped in Michael’s arms was the best way in the world to purge any thoughts of her psychopathic ex-husband.
Chapter Twelve
Alastair McGrath glared at his right-hand man Jock Stewart and scowled. ‘How long has it been since we’ve had some decent wedge from those fucking Johnson brothers now?’ he barked. ‘It must be at least six weeks? Or more?’
‘I reckon more, Boss. Last time I went up there I met with Craig and he only gave me eight grand. Gave me some cock and bull about waiting for payments and problems with the supply chain, but if you ask me, something fishy is going on up there in Liverpool.’
‘What else have you heard?’ Alastair asked.
‘Not much, except no one has seen the older brother for a few months. He was supposed to be running their little outfit, but my sources tell me he’s disappeared.’
‘Sounds fucking well dodgy to me. But from what you told me, he was a knobhead anyway, wasn’t he? If it’s got anything to do with my money or my drugs though, I want to fucking know about it.’
Jock nodded. In his opinion, the Johnson brothers were prize idiots to follow their eldest brother the way they did. It was clear that Craig was the only one who had any real nous about him and the rest of them shared a brain cell between them. It was Craig whom Alastair had met in Frankland when they were banged up together, and Craig who had convinced his boss that he and his brothers were the men to expand their business up north. Jock didn’t agree with that at all. He knew that Jake Conlon and the Carters had the whole of Merseyside sewn up, and that the Johnsons were small fry in comparison. The Carter twins had done some work for some associates of Jock’s a few years back and they had always impressed anyone they worked with. They were clean, ruthless and professional. Jock had been shocked and saddened to learn of Paul’s untimely demise, but he supposed that was to be expected in their chosen profession. You live by the sword and all that. If Jock had been making the decisions, it would have been the Carters that they’d have gone into business with, not the Johnsons. But he didn’t make the decisions, and no one, not even Jock Stewart, who was as hard as they came, questioned Alastair McGrath.
‘I think it’s about time a few of the lads took another visit up north, Jock. And this time, tell them not to come back without my money, my drugs or one of the Johnsons’ heads on a spike.’
Jock nodded. ‘Of course, Boss. I’ll go, and I’ll take Nev and Finn with me.’
‘Not you. I need you here. I’ve got something more urgent I need you to sort out for me. The Russians are breathing down my neck and I need you to speak to your contacts in the West End to find out what went wrong with their deal last month.’
‘Okay. I’ll get on it. And I’ll send Jerry with the lads. He’ll make sure they don’t cause too much mayhem while they’re there.
‘I don’t care if they cause fucking mayhem. In fact, let them wreak fucking havoc for all I care. Tell them I want answers, Jock. I was supposed to have my feet well and truly under the table up there by now. So, what the fuck is going on?’
‘They’ll get to the bottom of it, Boss,’ Jock replied. ‘I have a few contacts up there I can call on. I’ll put the lads in touch with them.’
‘Good,’ Alastair said, smiling for the first time since their meeting started. ‘Fancy a smoke?’ he asked as he opened the ornate wooden box where he kept his finest Cuban cigars.
‘I wouldn’t say no,’ Jock replied as he took one from the box. Taking his cigarette lighter from his pocket, he lit Alastair’s cigar and then his own. He sat on one of the stiff leather chairs in Alastair’s lounge and took a long drag of the cigar. There was no way he’d be telling Nev and Finn to cause mayhem in Liverpool, and he would keep to his original plan of having Jerry keep an eye on them. The last thing they needed was a war with the Carters. Especially when they had Alexei Ivanov and his gang of Russian mobsters to contend with. In Jock’s opinion, they needed allies, not more enemies. He’d have a discreet word with Jerry and make sure he knew the score before he and the lads set off for Liverpool. What Alastair didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Chapter Thirteen
Craig Johnson was making himself a couple of slices of toast when he heard the hammering on the front door. Assuming it was his eldest daughter Cheyenne forgetting her key again – she had just turned thirteen and at the same time had become the teenager from hell – he slammed the butter knife onto the kitchen worktop and stomped down the hallway, swearing under his breath. The last thing he needed tonight was a run-in with Cheyenne. His wife Gemma was out at her mum’s with their other daughter, Sasha, and she was always able to handle their wayward older daughter much better than he was.
Opening the door, he was about to launch into a rant when a large hand pushed him back inside the house. He staggered backwards as he watched the three unknown men barge into his hallway.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Craig shouted, immediately regretting going to the door without something to defend himself. Even the butter knife was looking like a good option right now as the biggest of the three men came bearing down on him.
‘We’re friends of Mr McGrath,’ the one at the back replied just as a large fist connected with Craig’s jaw.
A few moments later Craig had been manhandled into the kitchen and onto one of the wooden chairs. He looked at the three men who had forced their way into his house and felt a sickening feeling building in the pit of his stomach. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it down. Two of them were about his age, early thirties, and built like tanks. All muscle and shaved heads. The third man was obviously in charge because the other two looked to him the way his brothers usually looked to Craig – waiting for orders on what to do next. The third man was older, dark-skinned and with a thick head of grey hair. He reminded Craig of his old woodwork teacher in school.
‘Where is Mr McGrath’s money?’ the older man asked.
‘It’s in a safe place. I can get it for you tomorrow,’ Craig lied, trying to buy himself some time.
The bald men laughed and their boss frowned at them. ‘You expect me to believe that? Do I look like a cunt?’ he snarled, his attention now directed back to Craig.
Craig nodded and licked his lips. ‘I’ve got it, I swear. I’ll get it to you tomorrow.’
The old man smiled. ‘Oh, I know you’ll get it to me, you little prick. Because if you don’t, I’ll have to settle for your head instead.’ He pulled out a flick knife from his pocket and held it to Craig’s throat.
‘I’ll get it,’ Craig stammered.
The old man nodded. ‘Mr McGrath will need something for his trouble too. You’ve kept him waiting for far too long, and you know he’s not a man to be kept waiting?’
He moved his hand and held the knife directly under Craig’s eye. Craig felt like he was going to shit his pants as he realised who was standing in his kitchen holding a knife to his eye. When he’d met Alastair in prison, he’d told him numerous stories about Jerry the Jamaican, who was fond of popping out an eye and offering it to his boss as a souvenir. Alastair McGrath had talked of how much he loved Jerry’s party trick, and he had laughed every time he told the story. Craig had laughed along too – never for a moment imagining that he might be on the receiving end. He squirmed under the pressure of the knife and one of the bald men came behind him, pinning his shoulders down so he could barely move. Craig grimaced and instinct made him
struggle, even though he knew there was no escape. The man holding him down was freakishly strong, and he knew he was going nowhere.
A trickle of sweat ran down his back as he felt the tip of the knife pierce his skin. Then suddenly the front door slammed. ‘I’m home, Dad,’ came his daughter’s voice from the hallway. Her footsteps were coming towards the kitchen and Craig swallowed. God, he couldn’t let them hurt his daughter.
Suddenly, Jerry had pocketed his knife in one swift move. ‘Not in front of a kid,’ he mumbled to the man who was holding Craig down. Then Craig felt sweet relief as he was released from the man’s grip just before Cheyenne breezed into the kitchen in her crop top and garish makeup.
She barely batted an eyelid at the three intruders in the kitchen. She was used to different people visiting the house all hours of the day and night.
‘Can I have that toast, Dad? I’m starving,’ she asked, spying Craig’s discarded supper on the worktop.
‘Yeah, of course, love,’ he replied.
‘We’ll call back tomorrow for our money,’ Jerry said with a smile. ‘Two hundred and fifty.’
Craig swallowed. They’d only lost two hundred grand of Alastair’s money and they’d paid back at least twenty already.
‘Interest,’ Jerry said as though reading his mind. ‘Enjoy your toast, darling,’ he said to Cheyenne.
Then the three of them walked out of the kitchen as quickly as they’d came in.
Craig stood up on shaky legs and walked towards his daughter, before giving her a hug, thankful that she’d come home when she did, and that neither he or she had been harmed. At least not tonight. But Jerry and his two henchmen would be back, of that he had no doubt.
‘Urgh, gerroff, Dad, what are you doing?’ Cheyenne said as she pushed him away from her.
‘Oh, stop being a moody cow for a change, Chey, and give your dad a frigging hug,’ he said.
She looked up at him and her face softened. Maybe she saw the lingering terror there. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said with a grin and she gave him a brief squeeze. Then she picked up the plate of toast and flounced out of the kitchen in a cloud of Body Shop perfume, leaving Craig to wonder just exactly how he was going to find two hundred and fifty grand in less than twenty-four hours.
