by Roberta Kray
‘Huh?’
‘I think someone’s smashed into the back of the Jag.’
Joe was out of the van faster than a greyhound from a trap. ‘Stupid fuckin’ bastard!’ he muttered, presuming that Connor had been practising his usual careless driving.
Terry, after one final look around, bent down and grabbed the bat from under the seat. He jumped out of the van and strode around to where Joe was hunched over, peering at the rear end of the Jag.
‘I can’t see nothin’,’ Joe said.
And those were the last words he ever spoke.
In one swift, easy motion, Terry lifted the bat above his head and brought it down with all his force on the older man’s skull. There was the cruel sound of wood on bone, a dull, dense fracturing, before Joe slumped forward, fell against the boot and slid slowly to the ground.
Terry crouched down and peered at his former boss. There was no doubt that he was dead. Even in the cloak of shadow, he could be sure of that. The wound was gaping and bloody, a pulp of flesh and bone and tissue. Joe’s eyes stared glassily into the darkness.
Thinking that he was about to hurl, Terry leapt to his feet and pressed his knuckles hard against his mouth. Whatever he did, he mustn’t throw up. It was done now. It was over. He waited for the feeling to pass before lowering his hand and gulping in the cool night air.
He gazed down at the body and then checked his watch. Only a minute had gone by, and yet it felt like longer. Time seemed to have slowed, as if the world was turning on a different axis. He listened for a distant siren, afraid that someone had already called the cops. But that was crazy. No one had seen him. Nobody knew. And if he kept his nerve, nobody ever would.
Quickly he scrabbled in his pocket for the keys. It took all his strength to heave the fat corpse off the ground and into the boot. He could smell the sharp, metallic stink of blood, and other odours too – sweat and fags and musky aftershave. He tried not to breathe too deeply.
To make the body fit, he had to push and shove and bend the legs. By the time it was done, his lungs were pumping.
Terry gave Joe Quinn one last look before slamming shut the boot. Well, it was the end of an era – but also the beginning of a new one. He did the rest of what he had to do, and then he went into the pub and ordered a pint.
33
Tommy lined up the eight pints of bitter on the bar and put his hand out for the money. ‘That’s a quid twenty.’
‘Put it on the old man’s tab,’ Connor said.
‘He ain’t got a tab.’
Connor grinned as he picked up two of the pints. ‘And bring the rest over, will you?’
Tommy shook his head. ‘You think I got time for personal deliveries? I’m rushed off my feet here, in case you ain’t noticed.’
‘So get the kid to do it,’ Connor said.
Tommy glanced towards Mouse, who was perched on a stool at the end of the bar, drinking a Coke through a lime-green straw. ‘The kid’s got a name, and she’s on a break at the moment. Get one of the boys to come over, or use a tray.’ He dumped a round metal tray on the counter and held out his hand again. ‘Come on, a quid twenty. I’m not running a bleedin’ charity here.’
‘I already told you, these are down to the old man. We’ve been waiting over an hour already. The least he can do is buy us a pint.’
Tommy, who was too busy for an argument, waved a hand and turned to serve the next in the queue. While he was sorting those drinks, Connor started to load the pints on to the tray.
‘So where is the old man?’ Tommy asked. ‘It’s not like him to be late on a Friday.’ He glanced towards the corner, where Fat Pete, Terry Street and the rest of the crew were sitting.
‘Said he had some calls to make. He’d be along later.’
Tommy could tell from his tone that Connor wasn’t best pleased. ‘You two had a ruck, then?’
Connor narrowed his eyes. ‘What makes you say that?’ he snapped. ‘What you heard?’
‘Nothin’. Just asking. No need to go off on one.’ Tommy was used to his brother’s moods, and his paranoia. You only had to look at him the wrong way and he’d start accusing you of plotting against him. ‘You got the Jag, then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’ Joe had lost his licence a couple of months ago for drunk driving, and now Connor had the job of ferrying him around. Tommy was glad that the old bastard couldn’t get behind the wheel for a while; it made the streets a safer place. ‘How’s he gonna get here, then?’
‘How should I know? Maybe he’ll get off his fat arse and walk.’
Tommy raised his eyebrows. ‘When hell freezes over.’
‘Not my fuckin’ problem,’ said Connor, before picking up the tray and making his way back towards the boys.
It was another half-hour before Tommy was able to take a break. He poured a couple of Johnnie Walkers and took them over to where Frank was sitting by the window, flicking through the evening paper. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, mate,’ he said, setting the drinks down on the table. ‘Bit short-staffed tonight. One of the girls called in sick.’
‘No worries,’ Frank said. ‘You look knackered.’
‘Yeah, the price of being busy. Still, I ain’t complaining.’
Frank took a sip of whisky and gave a nod. ‘I just called by to let you know that everything’s smooth over at Dagenham. I went to see Alfie this afternoon.’
Alfie Blunt, who had managed the shop in Romford, was working with them again on the second long-firm fraud. Often managers were paid to be the scapegoat, to take the blame and do the time when a fraud was finally uncovered, but Alfie preferred his freedom. With a mate in the travel business, he was able to find out when a respectable man with a common-sounding name was emigrating. Once he was out of the way, Alfie would take on his identity and trade as a businessman with a clean record. At the moment he was calling himself Martin Leigh.
‘Those new TVs are shifting,’ Frank continued, ‘and the stereos. We’ll be putting in another order at the end of next week.’
‘Good. I’ll drink to that.’ Tommy was glad to hear it. He was learning patience, but that didn’t stop him wishing time away. The sooner the fraud came off, the sooner he could be freed from the shackles of Yvonne. He glanced over to where she was sitting with Carol Gatesby. The two of them had managed to waylay Terry Street on his way back from the gents’ and were now flirting outrageously with him.
Frank lit a cigarette and sat back. Following Tommy’s line of sight, he laughed and said, ‘Terry had better watch it. That Carol’ll eat him for breakfast.’
‘Oh, I reckon he can take care of himself.’ Tommy noticed how Terry’s eyes flicked continuously towards the door and knew that he was waiting for Joe to walk in. Terry had come a long way in the past few years, helping to build up the firm and in the process making himself indispensable to the old man. Yeah, he was a smart one all right, but nice with it. You couldn’t help liking him.
‘So where’s Joe tonight?’
‘Good question.’ Terry looked up at the clock on the wall. It was twenty to ten. Connor had already called the flat twice from the phone in the hall, but there had been no reply. The boys were getting restless, wanting their money for the weekend. No one, however, had been prepared to go round to St George’s Court. If Joe was busy – and busy usually meant shagging some tart – then he wouldn’t appreciate the interruption.
Mouse passed by with her hands full of dirty glasses and a distracted expression on her face.
‘She okay?’ asked Frank.
‘Hard to tell,’ Tommy sighed. ‘You know what she’s like. She don’t say much at the best of times.’
‘Poor kid.’
‘You think I should have told her about Lynsey?’ Tommy asked.
‘Not my place to say. Hard to keep secrets in a place like this, though.’
Tommy reckoned she was coming round gradually. She was certainly talking to him more, although the thawing in relations didn’t extend as far as Mo
ira. ‘It ain’t the easiest thing in the world to tell someone.’ He finished his drink and rose to his feet. ‘I’d best get on. Give us a shout when you want another.’
Frank gave a nod and went back to reading his paper.
By closing time, Joe still hadn’t turned up and the boys began to drift away, grumbling about their boss’s failure to show. Connor, who had taken control of the cash, leaned against the bar with a big fat grin on his face. He tapped the bag with the money in it. ‘Maybe I’ll go find myself a game of poker. What d’ya reckon, Tommy? I might get lucky like you did.’
‘You won’t feel lucky when the old man catches up with you. Just go home, huh?’
‘It’s Friday night,’ Connor said. ‘What the fuck do I wanna go home for?’ He took a step back, stumbled against a table and laughed like a drain. ‘I’m gonna go up West and win meself a fuckin’ fortune!’
It was only then that Tommy realised how pissed Connor was. He couldn’t let him take the Jag; he was likely to wrap it round the nearest lamp post. And even if he did manage to make it in one piece to the West End, he was drunk enough to blow all the money in a casino. Tommy held out his hand. ‘Come on, give me the keys and I’ll drive you back.’
‘Nah,’ said Connor. ‘I can drive, man. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me.’
‘Give me the keys and you can have another drink.’
Connor thought about this for a moment. ‘Scotch?’ he asked.
‘Anything you want.’ Tommy reckoned that one more wouldn’t make any difference. He gestured with his hand. ‘C’mon, the keys.’
‘Get me the drink first. And make it a double.’
While Tommy was sorting the Scotch, Yvonne came behind the bar and glared at him. In a stage whisper that just about anyone could have heard, she hissed, ‘Don’t even think about letting him stay here tonight. I’m not having him throwing up all over the sofa.’
‘He’s not staying here. Five minutes and I’m taking him home.’
‘You’d better,’ she said, before pursing her lips and strutting through to the hallway. Tommy listened to her clumping noisily up the stairs before turning back to Connor. He held the drink in one hand and stretched out the other. ‘Keys,’ he demanded, wiggling his fingers.
Connor took the keys out of his pocket and dangled them in front of him. ‘Here you go, bruv. They’re all yours.’
The exchange was made, and Connor retired to the nearest bench, where he sat back, lit a fag and put his feet up on one of the chairs.
As the staff herded the last of the customers out of the door, Frank came up to the bar. He looked over at Connor, and then back at Tommy. ‘You want a hand getting him home?’
‘Are you sure? I’ll have to leave the Jag at the flats. It’ll mean walking back.’
‘That’s all right. I could do with the exercise.’
‘Thanks, mate. I wouldn’t say no. It’ll be a bugger getting him up those stairs.’
Frank perched on a bar stool while Tommy saw the staff out and locked up behind them. Mouse, meanwhile, had started gathering up the dirty glasses.
‘Why don’t you leave those, hun,’ Tommy said, ‘and we’ll sort them in the morning? You’ve done enough. Get yourself off to bed.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Night, then.’
‘Night, love.’
Connor smirked at her. ‘And no sneaking out after everyone’s asleep. You don’t want to get yourself in trouble.’
Mouse’s cheeks blushed red, although Tommy wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or rage. ‘Cut it out!’ he snapped at Connor.
‘Shit, I was only giving some friendly advice. No need to bite me head off.’
‘Well keep your advice to yourself.’
Frank gave her a nod. ‘Night, Mouse. Sleep well.’
‘Night,’ she said, before hurrying through to the hall.
Tommy waited until she was out of earshot before addressing his brother again. ‘Just leave the kid alone, can’t you? She’s got enough problems without you adding to them.’
Connor knocked back his Scotch and slammed the glass down on the table. ‘You think, Tommy boy? I reckon she’s on to a bloody good thing and she knows it. Got her feet well under the table here.’
Tommy raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Let’s go then, shall we?’ He glanced at Frank. ‘You ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Connor was swaying as he stood up, so Tommy and Frank took an elbow each, manoeuvred him behind the bar and half walked, half dragged him along the hall and out of the door. The car park was empty now, apart from the silver Jaguar. They bundled him into the back of the motor, where he slumped sideways and promptly fell asleep.
Tommy got into the driver’s seat and wound down the window, partly to keep himself awake but mainly to freshen the atmosphere. His brother stank of beer and fags and sweat. He glanced at Frank and grinned. ‘Just try not to breathe too deeply.’
‘Believe me, I’m trying.’
By now it was a quarter to twelve. The streets were quiet as the Jaguar purred sweetly towards the south side of Kellston. The traffic lights were on their side, and within a few minutes they had left behind the shops and the identical rows of two-up, two-down terraces and were driving instead past larger detached houses with garages and manicured front gardens. Tommy frowned. ‘I still can’t figure what Joe’s up to. I mean, what’s he playing at not turning up like this?’
‘Your old man’s a law unto himself.’
‘True.’
Frank gave a yawn. ‘Fancy the dogs during the week? Wednesday, maybe?’
‘Yeah, sounds like a plan. I’ll see if I can get some cover.’ Tommy indicated left and turned into the drive of St George’s Court. He was almost at the flats when he saw the blue flashing light in his rear-view mirror. ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake! What’s their game?’
Frank looked over his shoulder. ‘Hey, Connor, wake up. We’ve got company.’
Connor gave a grunt. His eyes briefly flickered open before instantly closing again.
Tommy slid the Jag into the pool of light spilling on to the forecourt from the foyer and switched off the engine. He watched as the panda car drew up behind them and two uniformed officers got out. He didn’t recognise either of them; they weren’t local filth, unless they were both new to the station. The older of the two, a thin-faced man with cropped grey hair and sergeant’s stripes, came over to the driver’s side and leaned down.
‘Is this your car, sir?’
‘My dad’s,’ Tommy said. ‘He lives here.’ He gestured with his head towards the slouched figure in the back. ‘So does my brother. He’s had a few, so I thought I’d drive him home.’
‘Are you aware that your left rear light isn’t working?’
‘No,’ Tommy said politely. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘Could I see your driving licence, please?’
‘Sure.’ Tommy reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out his wallet and passed over the licence. ‘Here.’
‘Thomas Quinn,’ the officer said, reading off the details.
‘Yeah, Tommy Quinn. That’s me.’ While the thin-faced guy was checking over the licence, his partner was prowling around the Jag, peering at the tyres. ‘I’ll let Dad know about the light. I’m leaving the motor here. He can get it fixed in the morning.’
‘Would you mind getting out of the car, sir?’
‘What for?’ Tommy said. Although they were going to have to get out anyway – Connor would need to be hauled up to the flat – he still resented being told to do so by the filth. And there was the money to worry about, too. The bag full of cash was sitting on the back seat.
Frank threw him a warning glance. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go home.’
Tommy reluctantly did as he was asked. He looked towards his father’s living room window on the first floor, but there was no light showing. As Frank got out of the Jag and pulled himself up to h
is full height, Tommy saw the officers exchange a look. If things turned nasty, neither of them fancied taking him on.
‘Would you mind opening the boot, sir?’
‘Jesus,’ muttered Tommy as he leaned back into the car and took the keys out of the ignition. ‘Haven’t you lot got anything better to do?’ He walked to the back of the car. As he turned the key in the lock, there was a split second when he was aware of Connor shifting in the back seat and Frank bowing his head to light a cigarette. And then the boot swung slowly open.
34
It was after one o’clock and Helen was still awake, waiting for Tommy to come back. She shifted on to her side, peering into the darkness. What was taking him so long? Perhaps Connor had kicked up a stink, or there’d been a row with Joe, or maybe he’d just dropped by Frank’s place for a nightcap on the way home. Whatever the reason for his absence, she couldn’t sleep until he was safely in his bed.
She stared at the thin slice of light creeping under the door. An ominous feeling was tugging at her guts. An image of the smashed Jaguar jumped into her head, the metal crushed and crumpled, Tommy slumped over the wheel. And what about Frank? She gave a shudder and pulled the blankets tighter around her.
Suddenly there was a loud hammering on the back door to the pub. Helen sat bolt upright, her heart in her mouth. She heard the door to Yvonne’s bedroom open and the sound of her footsteps as she padded along the landing. Grabbing her dressing gown, Helen leapt out of bed and rushed to the banisters. From here, she could see the hallway two floors down, and she watched as Yvonne hurried down the stairs.
‘Who is it?’ Yvonne called out as she approached the door.
‘It’s the police. Open up!’
Not an accident, then, thought Helen. The cops didn’t shout like that when they’d come to break bad news. So what were they doing here? She thought of the Molotov cocktails that Fat Pete had put together in the kitchen – but that had been years ago. Surely they couldn’t have found out about the bombing of the Lincoln.
