by Roberta Kray
‘Christ, your old man’s going to get you all killed one day.’
Tommy, standing with his hands on his hips, had shaken his head. ‘This wasn’t down to him.’
‘You reckon? He might not have thrown the bomb, but he pissed off someone else enough to make them do it.’
Tommy had given one of his shrugs. ‘Maybe.’
‘There’s no maybe about it. And now you’re going to have the law sniffing round. It’s not good, mate. If they think it’s about to kick off big time, they’ll be paying you way too much attention. What about Romford? If they start poking their noses into that, then—’
‘They won’t. They don’t know anything about it. How could they?’
Frank had put his hands in his pockets, his shoulders stiff and hunched. ‘But what happens next? Joe isn’t going to take this lying down.’
‘We’ll deal with it.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
Helen frowned as she thought about the conversation. The two men hadn’t exactly fallen out, but some sharp words had been exchanged. She understood Frank’s frustration, but Tommy was in an impossible position. Unless he helped his father fight back, the Quinns would go under.
Suddenly that niggling fear came back to haunt her, the idea that she was responsible for everything that was happening. If she’d never been born, Tony Lazenby wouldn’t be looking for ways to get revenge. If her mum had never met Alan Beck, then…
But she didn’t have time to complete the train of thought. Her heart gave a leap as she saw a white van turn the corner. It slowed as it approached the Fox, and then she knew for sure that it was them. Quickly she scampered back upstairs and knelt down on the landing, peering between the banisters.
It was a couple more minutes before she heard the back door opening, followed by the heavy tread of boots on the stairs. She could tell from their voices and the sound of boisterous laughter that the mission had been accomplished. Everyone was home without any casualties.
As Joe Quinn’s firm gathered in the living room to celebrate their success, Helen tiptoed back to bed. She crawled between the sheets and curled into a ball. Despite her relief, she still felt uneasy. The battle might be won, but that didn’t mean the war was over.
19
Mickey Stott snorted another line of coke before pulling the balaclava over his head and picking up the baseball bat. He ran his hand along the smooth surface, already anticipating the damage he would do. There was, all things considered, nothing more gratifying than the soft thudding sound of wood against bone.
It was getting near to closing time at the Blue Lagoon, and customers were starting to leave. The strip joint owned by the three Gissing brothers lay on the west side of Shoreditch, and catered for all those City boys who liked to cop an eyeful after a long, hard day at the office.
Mickey and his army of nine were squashed into the back of a van that had been nicked that afternoon. They were parked up across the street, counting down the seconds before they swung the vehicle on to the forecourt and launched their attack. The Gissings were creatures of habit, always getting together on a Friday night to have a few drinks and split the weekly takings.
Mickey gave a long, low growl. No doubt the bastards were busy congratulating themselves on their latest achievement. He still couldn’t believe what they’d done. Ten fuckin’ years it had taken him to get enough cash together to buy the Lincoln, and now it was nothing but a heap of rubble. There would be the insurance money, of course, but the compensation came at a price: already the pigs had been sniffing round, asking questions and digging into his affairs. The fire had put him firmly on their radar, and that was the last thing he needed. With two firebombings within a week, they were getting jumpy, worried that the East End was about to explode into full-blown warfare.
Mickey felt a red mist descending. He could have dropped a word in the ear of the filth – every villain in Kellston knew that the Gissings were responsible – but that wasn’t his style. He was old school. He wasn’t a grass. When he had a problem, he dealt with it in his own way. What really wound him up, however, wasn’t the fact that the Gissings had set fire to his pub, but that the arseholes thought they could get away with it.
With this grievance bearing down on him, he gave the nod and the guy at the back banged his fist three times against the metal dividing them from the driver. The engine, which had been idling, suddenly roared into life, the van veering at speed across the road and coming to a screeching halt outside the Blue Lagoon.
In a few seconds the advance guard had whipped open the door, jumped out and charged towards the entrance. It was their job to take out security. The attack was so fast and furious that the two bouncers, already preparing to knock off for the night, were taken completely by surprise.
The rest of the crew – with Mickey at the forefront – were able to get a clear run into the club itself. They hurtled into the room, bats flying wildly, swinging at everything in sight. Tables were overturned, with bottles and glasses smashing to the ground. The three strippers on stage covered their tits and started screaming. Some of the punters tried to make a run for it, while others dropped to their knees or sat paralysed with fright.
The lights in the club were dim, but Mickey knew his way around. He thundered towards the rear and was almost at the door marked Staff Only when he saw it open and a startled Lennie Gissing peer out. Before the oldest Gissing brother had the chance to close the door in his face, Mickey was on him. He pushed him back into the office and then, with all the fury of a man wronged, swung the bat and slammed it across his enemy’s legs. Lennie’s mouth was open as he slumped to the floor, but no sound came out of it. And Mickey wasn’t finished yet. A couple of broken legs were nothing compared to a man’s reputation. Cursing loudly, he put the boot in, kicking Lennie hard in the ribs, in the groin and then in the head. There was no point in teaching a bloke a lesson unless it was one he remembered for the rest of his days.
Once Lennie had ceased to care whether he lived or died, Mickey stopped wasting his energy. He’d been only vaguely aware of the activity going on about him, but his companions hadn’t been idle. Roy Gissing was lying on the floor, groaning softly. The third brother, Carl, was doubled over in the corner, spitting out his teeth.
Mickey looked at his watch and grinned. Eight minutes flat. A job well done. Better make an exit before someone raised the alarm. There was just time, however, to reach across the desk and grab the cash that was lying there. He stuffed the notes, a couple of grand he reckoned, into his pockets and went to gather up his troops.
The main part of the club was in mayhem, the girls still shrieking, the whole place turned upside down and smashed to pieces. He liked what he saw. Revenge was sweet. ‘Out! Out!’ he yelled, waving his arms about. With the adrenalin pumping through his veins, he sped into the foyer, swinging his bat at anything or anyone that stood in his way.
It was only as he stepped triumphantly on to the forecourt that Mickey’s bubble finally burst. A powerful beam of light stopped him dead in his tracks and he put his free hand up to shield his eyes. ‘What the…?’ He squinted quickly to the left and right, his fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of the bat, but already he knew that it was over. There was nowhere to run. The filth had arrived and he was well and truly buggered.
20
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when Tony Lazenby was jolted awake by the sound of the phone ringing. Far from being displeased by this interruption to his dreams, he rolled eagerly across the bed and snatched up the receiver. If the news was what he hoped it would be, then sleep was of secondary importance. ‘Yeah, Lazenby.’
‘Hi, it’s Jim. I’ve got good news.’
Tony pulled himself into a sitting position, grinning from ear to ear. ‘You got the scumbags?’ After the fire at the Fox, he had informed Jim Morris – a DI working out of Shoreditch – that one of his narks had tipped him off about a revenge attack being planned. It was
too late to catch the Gissings in the act, but the Quinns would be easy prey. And one less East End firm on the loose was good news for everybody. As the Blue Lagoon was used as the Gissing brothers’ main base, this was the most likely target. A surveillance operation had been mounted and Tony had been waiting for news ever since.
‘We got them all right.’
Tony punched the air with his fist. ‘Result!’
‘Only a couple of minor hitches,’ Morris said. ‘They came a bit earlier than we expected, turned up before the damn place had closed. They’d done a job on the brothers before we even made it to the door.’
‘How bad?’
‘Bad enough, but they’ll live.’
‘Caught you napping, did they?’ Tony said, laughing. ‘Typical. I give you the best tip you’ve had in years, and you go to sleep on the job.’
‘After closing time, you said.’
‘Well, that’s what I was told. Still, it makes no difference, does it? You nabbed the bastards and that’s all that matters.’ Tony leaned back against a pillow, savouring the sweetness of success. Finally he’d managed to nail Joe Quinn. Alan would rest easy in his grave tonight.
‘I said a couple of hitches, not just one.’
‘Go on then, spill,’ Tony said. He didn’t much care about the detail but felt obliged to hear the guy out. It was unfortunate that the Gissings had taken a beating, but he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. ‘What else did you manage to fuck up?’
‘Not us, mate. I reckon your nark got his facts a bit screwed, though.’
‘And how’s that?’
‘Because it wasn’t the Quinns we arrested tonight. It was Mickey Stott and his crew.’
The revelation hit Tony like a thump to the stomach. He slumped forward, feeling the breath fly out of his lungs. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. Gripping the phone tightly, he searched for words but couldn’t find any. The devastating news had left him dumb.
‘Tony? You still there?’
Tony flicked on the bedside light, squinting at the sudden brightness. ‘Yeah,’ he said eventually, his head still reeling from the shock. ‘I don’t get it, though. Why the hell would Mickey Stott do that?’ Before Jim got a chance to respond, he came up with an answer of his own. ‘Shit, the Quinns must have changed their plans, decided to pay someone else to do their dirty work. You need to put the screws on Stott, get him to talk. See if you can make a deal with him. See if—’
‘There’s no chance of that, mate.’
Tony could feel the rage growing inside him. ‘Of course there’s a chance. You want to nail the Quinns or not?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ Jim said. ‘But I don’t reckon they’re in the frame this time. This was personal.’
‘What do you mean, personal?’
‘Just what I said. Stott had his own reasons for giving the Gissings a good kicking. He thinks they burned down his pub.’
‘What?’
‘The Lincoln. You know, the one by the Mansfield Estate.’
‘Yeah, I know where it is,’ Tony said. ‘Christ, I didn’t hear about that.’
‘It only happened last night. Same MO as the attack on the Fox, except this time the fire brigade didn’t get there in time. The place was gutted.’ Jim gave a thin, sarcastic laugh. ‘Bit like Mickey Stott, now I come to think of it.’
But Tony wasn’t in the mood for wisecracks. The only thing he could think of was all that work, all those weeks of planning, swilling straight down the drain. Everything ruined by a two-bit crazy junkie like Mickey Stott. ‘So that’s that,’ he said roughly.
‘Hey, it’s still a result. Stott and his crew are going down for sure, and the Gissings won’t be back in action for a while. I’d call that two for the price of one.’
‘Sure it is,’ Tony said, although he couldn’t share his colleague’s sense of satisfaction. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘No problem. Give me a bell when you fancy a pint. I owe you one.’
‘Will do.’ Tony put down the receiver carefully, fighting against the impulse to slam it back into the cradle. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he muttered, glaring at the wall. Rubbing hard at his face, he tried to scrub the frustration away. Already the truth was starting to seep into his consciousness. He knew that the Gissings hadn’t set the Lincoln alight, but he could guess who had. He’d been outwitted and outmanoeuvred by his enemy. Joe Quinn had well and truly screwed him over.
Tony’s hands curled into two tight fists. This was a lesson he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It might take a year or it might take ten, but one day he’d make the Quinns pay.
21
It was the morning after the reopening party at the Fox, and the pub looked like it had been hit by a different type of bomb. Helen stood in the centre of the bar, her eyes growing wide at the prospect of the task that lay ahead. Every available surface was covered with dirty glasses and plates, overflowing ashtrays and the crusty remains of food. The air stank of stale beer and fag smoke.
‘Bet you wish you’d never offered now,’ Tommy said.
The party had gone on into the early hours. It had felt like half the East End had turned out for the event, with the three large adjoining rooms packed to the rafters. Helen, together with Karen and Debs, had been allowed to stay up until midnight. Yvonne, if somewhat reluctantly, had finally moved back in, and the family was reunited again.
Helen picked up one of the big refuse sacks. ‘It won’t take long once we get started.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you had a head like mine.’ Tommy winced and rubbed at his temples. ‘Thanks, love, you’re a star.’
Helen smiled and set to work. As she piled the rubbish into the sack, she thought back to the previous night. Frank Meyer had been there, and Moira too. There’d been music and singing, even dancing at one point. She had drifted through the crowd, sipping her Coke as she studied the men in their slick suits and the women in their party dresses. As she passed by one group and then another, she’d caught endless snippets of conversation. That was the thing about being a kid – no one really noticed that you were there. There had been the usual gossip about one person or another, as well as talk of the fire, the ill-judged ambition of the Gissings and their ultimate downfall.
Joe had swaggered around the pub as if it had been him, not Mickey Stott, who had pulled a balaclava over his head and put the three brothers in hospital. Helen knew, however, that her grandfather hadn’t been idle in the weeks since the Fox had been attacked. Stott’s fast and violent retribution against the Gissings had given Joe the opportunity to move in on new business, and he had grabbed it with both hands. Although she didn’t know all the ins and outs, she had been aware of the flurry of activity and the constant comings and goings of his henchmen.
Karen and Debs had spent most of the evening ogling Terry Street, who much to their annoyance had turned up with a pretty blonde on his arm. Since the bombing of the Lincoln, Helen had noticed a change in Joe’s attitude towards Terry. It wasn’t respect exactly – Joe didn’t respect anyone – but a kind of recognition that the younger man had both cunning and brains. Terry had proved the latter not just by coming up with the plan to oust the Gissings, but by having the sense not to brag about it afterwards.
When Helen had first begun to comprehend the violent, shadowy world that the Quinns inhabited, it had filled her with fear and trepidation. Now, even after the short period she had been here, she was becoming accustomed to its different principles and morals. That wasn’t to say that she approved of the way the family behaved – she had listened to too many Sunday sermons for that to happen in a hurry – but she was learning to live with it.
Joe still scared the hell out of her. However, there’d been no repeat of the performance in the cellar. This wasn’t, she was certain, down to any softening in his attitude, but purely a result of having more important things on his mind. Occasionally he would fix her with one of his steely glares, but on the whole he just ignored her.
&nbs
p; Helen ran a cloth over one of the tables, buffing the wood to a fine sheen. Four weeks was all it had taken to get the Fox open again. It would have been much longer if it hadn’t been for Tommy’s efforts in preventing the fire from spreading. Had the flames reached the stash of bottles behind the bar, the place would have gone up like a tinderbox. Not that he’d got much in the way of thanks for his trouble. Joe was preoccupied with expanding his empire, and Yvonne would have been more than happy to see the pub burnt to the ground.
Helen had spent every waking hour helping Tommy to get the place up and running. She looked around, proud of what they’d achieved. Reaching over, she touched the new red and gold flock wallpaper. She liked the feel of the raised velvety surface against her fingertips. There were long red curtains too. Joe had wanted to put bars on the windows – thus preventing any future firebomb attacks – but Tommy had managed to talk him out of it.
‘Are you kidding? Half our customers have been banged up at one time or another. They ain’t gonna want to drink in a bleedin’ jail.’
Helen stood up straight and did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. Yes, the Fox looked better than it ever had. It was the floor, though, that she liked best. The old worn carpet had gone, replaced by a zigzag of oblong wooden blocks. There was a name for the style, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Anyway, it would make the cleaning a lot easier.
As she swept a pile of paper plates into the bag, she realised with a start that it was almost the end of August and school would be beginning in the first week of September. Her heart sank. She wasn’t looking forward to it. She wished she could stay here in the pub and never step inside a classroom again. The three-week deal she’d made with Frank Meyer in the cemetery was long past, and with the fallout from the fire, she’d forgotten all about it until now. Thinking of Frank reminded her of something else she’d heard last night.
