by Julie Thomas
Vinnie’s expression was one of complete surprise. ‘I can’t, sir, it’s not my stall. I simply look after it sometimes for a friend. And I believe he gets his stock from a pawnbroker, sir. Perhaps Bartholomew actually pawned it … sir.’
The headmaster stared at him for a long moment, and Vinnie’s face remained serene. What he wanted to do was burst out laughing: it was a sting and he was less stupid than he appeared, this old man. Finally, the headmaster gave a resigned sigh and went back to his writing.
‘I’ve called the police. They’ll want to take you down to the station for a chat. Consider yourself expelled. Don’t come back, Whitney-Ross.’
Once again, Mary was mortified; it appeared the acorn had not fallen far from the tree. All those years of public school, a gift that had kept her secretly tied to a family she loathed, and he had learned to be a thief? Vinnie used his patter to persuade her that this was just the turn of events he needed, and that school was doing nothing but cramping his entrepreneurial style. He was sixteen, he was allowed to leave, and he desperately wanted to be out on his own, living his life and making a crust. So he took a tiny room in a boarding house in Islington, with a shared bathroom and a communal TV lounge. He remained completely unaware that his gruff old landlady telephoned Mary every week to reassure her that he was fine. While his mother still worried that he had inherited traits that would lead to his downfall, she accepted that it was time to stand aside and let him fly.
He got his own stall on a weekend market and a local lockup for storage. At night he drove a delivery van for a friend who asked no questions when the odd box went missing. A neighbour at the market put him in touch with a contact in the importing business, and he used his savings to buy pallets of fashion and accessories knock-offs and sell them on without ever touching the goods, but always taking his cut. He haggled hard. If the seller thought he was going to put one over ‘the kid’, then he was mistaken. More importantly, Vinnie loved every minute of it, and when he dropped, fully clothed, onto his single bed to sleep, he couldn’t wait until the next day, the next challenge.
Mary sold up and moved to a small cottage down a village lane in Sussex, complete with flower garden. She sometimes felt she should wear a straw hat and ride a bicycle with a wicker basket on the front. Her eccentric neighbours all reminded her of characters in Agatha Christie or Dorothy L Sayers novels, but to the best of her knowledge none of them were murderers. She drank at a local pub, the Maypole Inn, and worshiped in a tiny stone church with a Saxon font. It was a peaceful, quintessentially English, village life, and the only thing she missed about London was Vinnie.
PART TWO
THE MIDDLE YEARS
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARCUS AND VINNIE
‘Get the knife.’
Marcus glanced desperately around the room. The floor was covered in debris swept from the table during the struggle. His companion was holding a thrashing man in a choke-hold on the floor.
‘There!’ The exasperation was evident in Dan’s voice. He was nodding towards an object sticking out from under a dirty plate. It was the handle of a knife.
Marcus lunged forward, grabbed it and tried to stuff it into Tom’s closed fist.
‘Not him, you fucking idiot. You.’
Marcus looked up at Dan; he was moving his finger from the man to Marcus and back again.
‘Go!’
Marcus went to Tom’s side. The man he was choking was slowly turning a deep shade of red and his eyes were open very wide.
‘Cut off his ear,’ ordered Dan.
Marcus recoiled in shock. ‘What?’
Dan snorted with contempt. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, grow a set of balls! Cut off this bastard’s ear.’
The man squirmed even more, but the hold was secure. Marcus looked at the long, thin-bladed knife in his hand. He moved in beside Tom and put the knife flat against the man’s head just above his ear. The voice in Marcus’s brain was battling with the desire to gag and the bile in his throat: You can do this! You were born to do this!
He looked up at Dan, who nodded.
‘That’s the place. One swift cut. Bring it down with force. If it’s blunt, you might have to saw a bit.’
Marcus closed his eyes and drove the knife downwards. There was resistance at first but he pressed harder and the cartilage gave way. Blood spurted everywhere and the man tried to scream, but he didn’t have enough oxygen. The outer ear came away in Marcus’s hand and he dropped it and the knife onto the floor.
Tom let the man go and both hands went to the wound and the blood streaming down his neck. He let out a noise halfway between a wail and a cough.
‘That’s your one warning. Pay what you owe or we’ll be back for the other ear – or worse,’ Tom said as he climbed to his feet.
Dan nodded at Marcus. ‘Bring the knife and the ear so he can’t have it reattached.’
Tom strode towards the door, and as he drew level with Dan he stopped. ‘I wouldn’t have bloody hesitated,’ he muttered.
Marcus’s eyes met those of the terrified and bloodied man. For a second they held each other’s gaze, then Marcus grabbed the knife and the mound of flesh and ran after Tom.
The first time Marcus was told to put the frighteners on a pimp who had kept too much money, he didn’t go far enough and the man was back on the street that night, proudly showing off his bruises.
‘Where did you hit him?’
Marcus frowned. ‘Arms, legs, with the bat.’
‘Didn’t break any ribs?’
‘No. I guess I was scared I might kill him.’
Dan nodded. ‘You need another lesson with the dummy: how to avoid permanent injury but still inflict pain. The word is that the pimps think their lives are much easier now that you’re in charge of prostitution.’
The contempt in his voice infuriated Marcus.
‘How dare they! What do I do?’
‘You need to establish your authority. If you can’t inspire fear, I’ll give the job to Tom.’
A week later the same pimp stole some girls from their best illegal club, and Dan instructed Marcus to teach the man obedience by breaking his legs. The weapon he was given was a baseball bat, but he swapped it on the way out of the store cupboard for a lead pipe.
The pimp was drinking in a pub and Marcus waited in the car park until closing time. As the man put a key in his vehicle door, Marcus struck him from behind in the small of his back.
‘Ahhh!’ He fell against the car and slumped to the ground.
‘Too fucking soft, am I?’ Marcus growled.
He raised the pipe and brought it down on the unprotected head. It made a delicious cracking sound. When he stopped, the pimp was a bloodied pulp, long dead.
Dan was furious and made Marcus dispose of the body himself on a construction site, but Norman took him aside and told him he had made his dad a proud man.
Marcus was surprised by his own reaction: he had felt no fear, no desire to vomit, no remorse – just satisfaction that he had done the job and cleaned up after himself.
The next five years passed like a bolt of lightning. By his twenty-first birthday, he was running the enforcement and protection side, had done his first drug deals and had created a city-wide reputation for his chilling ability to menace. When Marcus told you he had you in his sights, the best thing to do was leave the country.
He and Tom worked well together. They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Marcus was aware that if he wasn’t brutal enough, Tom would step in and claim the honour of dispensing justice. Tom recognised that Marcus was the boss’s son and was destined to lead, whereas Tom was destined to be his second-in-command. The leader was hot-headed and very bright, whereas the follower was manipulative and lived by his wits.
Melissa made it her business to cultivate her son’s sense of style. He liked Italian suits and shoes, luxury watches, and wore a pinkie ring with a massive diamond. There was intense speculation about his sexuality, fuelled by the fact that
he was never seen with a girl on his arm. He was aware of the gossip and didn’t care, life was too full and too brutal, and he was a focused control-freak. Women were not part of the plan at this point. His one indulgence, though, was his love for his sister.
Millicent, or Millie, was now a seventeen-year-old bottle blonde who loved parties and music and enjoying herself. Marcus knew that at some point she would be married off to someone ‘appropriate’ from the crime underworld, and he was determined that she would be treated right or she would be a young widow. He was also obsessed with keeping her safe from the scourge his family peddled onto other young girls. He lectured her constantly about drugs and alcohol, and vetted any young man who came near her, to the point where she complained that they were all terrified of him. His evident satisfaction at that state of affairs only annoyed her more.
When he heard that Millie had been seen in the company of the son of one of the Clerkenwell Gang, he went straight to his father. ‘Things have changed, Dad. We need to address the new threats.’
‘What threats?’ His father had the ability to make any word dismissive.
Marcus bit his tongue. Stay on subject. ‘What threats? The Irish, the Turkish Cypriots, the Yardies. I see evidence of them every day.’
‘What do you suggest we do? Murder them all?’
‘Assert ourselves. Send some enforcers out to give them a clear message. They need to stay out of our business and off our patch.’
Norman nodded slowly. ‘It’s a big risk, could escalate into some kind of bloody revenge war, and a lot of bystanders would get hurt,’ he said.
‘Not if we show enough force. They won’t dare retaliate if we hit them once, hard and clean, and re-establish our dominance.’ Marcus knew he was sounding too impatient, and he was aware that was a dangerous thing to do to his father.
Norman seemed to make up his mind. ‘Talk to Tom, make up a gang, and hit their muscle. The Clerkenwells use Afro-Caribbeans and they’re dangerous. Use experienced men. No killing unless it can’t be avoided.’
On three consecutive nights, Marcus, Tom and a gang of their best enforcers hit rival gangs as they left the pubs where they drank. It was a well co-ordinated attack: broken limbs, ribs, noses, jaws, smashed teeth and some minor internal bruising, things that sent a message without doing any permanent damage. Marcus made sure that the young man who had dared to escort his sister was one of the Clerkenwells targeted. He inflicted that damage himself and delivered a very clear ‘stay away from Millie Lane or I will kill you’ message into the distressed fellow’s ear as he landed the blows.
The next day he was visited in his office by the police. This was a rare occurrence; Norman was acquainted with many politicians and senior police officers, and was well known for helping them look the other way. But his visitor was a young detective constable called Ron Matthews, who was clearly keen to make an impression.
Marcus looked him up and down with a thinly veiled sneer. Matthews was chubby, clean-cut, not much older than Marcus, and trying to appear authoritative.
‘Where were you last night around eleven, Mr Lane?’
Marcus smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Drinking in my local until around ten – any one of about a hundred people could vouch for me. Then my driver took me to a club in Soho – again, plenty of witnesses.’
Matthews nodded and made a note. ‘And the night before?’
‘Come now, Constable, you can’t expect me to remember that long ago. I believe I ate a very good rib-eye steak at Le Caprice, or was it Le Gavroche? I eat at both so frequently I forget which it was.’
Matthews drew himself up and snapped his notebook shut. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure you’re aware of a rash of serious physical assaults over the past few nights. Between members of the criminal underworld. If you should come into contact with anyone involved, I trust you’ll tell them that reprisals would not be a good idea. The police are watching.’
Marcus let out a short bark of laughter; it was humourless and without warmth. ‘Oh, I shall! I’m sure whoever they are will be quivering in their shoes, Constable.’
It was the summer of 1992, and Vinnie was drinking in his favourite pub and playing darts with Monty Joe, just as his dad had done years before. As he was about to take his turn, his cell phone rang.
‘Sorry, Mont, I need to take this.’
Monty Joe scooped up their glasses. ‘No problem, I’ll get another round in.’
Vinnie answered his phone. It was one of his best suppliers.
‘Vin, thank goodness! I need a favour. In about an hour I’m going to drop off an oversized crate at your lockup. Can you hold it for me? It’s top-quality stuff, shoes and handbags. I’ll give you twenty per cent of the stock.’
‘How long do you need?’ Vinnie asked.
‘A week, maximum. Got a shipment going out Friday and that’ll make room.’
You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.
‘Twenty-five per cent, and it’s there for as long as you need.’
‘Done. Don’t open it until I’m ready to pick it up, though. Apparently, it’s packed pretty tight.’
‘Some of the latest Colombian shipment has been stolen.’
Dan looked up at Tom. ‘What do you mean, stolen?’
Tom shrugged. ‘What I said. When the truck was unloaded, a crate with three bricks was missing.’
‘What does the driver have to say?’
‘Not much. He picked up from three trucks at Dover. It wasn’t until he unloaded at the warehouse that he realised a crate was missing.’
‘A crate of what?’
‘Knock-offs, handbags, shoes.’
Dan nodded slowly. ‘Leave it with me. I know who might be able to track that.’
Across the city, Vinnie was doing an inventory of his double lockup. It was almost full of stacked boxes and packing crates, and he needed to shift them. Stock sitting in a lockup was not earning any money. Over the years it had become harder to buy and sell without seeing the goods. In the old days he had been like a futures broker, doing deals on his phone and taking a cut as it went through, but nowadays ‘cowboys’ were ruining it for everyone by selling non-existent stock. People needed to eyeball what they were buying, touch it, feel the quality and count the items. This had led to him holding a lot more stock, and stock made him nervous. If it was slightly the wrong side of the law, you ran the risk of being raided.
He tore open a box and rifled through the contents – T-shirts embroidered with the logos of popular bands. They sold well on the market stall, and he made a thousand per cent profit on each one.
‘You own these two lockups?’
The question broke through his reverie, and he spun around. Two large men in suits, with badly hidden shoulder holsters, stood in the alley just outside his doorway. Muscle. Gang muscle.
‘Yes, gentlemen. Can I help you?’
‘We’re looking for crates.’
He frowned, genuinely perplexed. He had kept well away from the gangs.
‘Of?’
‘Something you shouldn’t have.’
The speaker pulled a very large crowbar from behind his back and stepped into the lockup.
Vinnie sighed. ‘Be my guest.’
He stood and watched them as they tossed boxes aside like kindling and pulled crates off piles. About ten minutes into the search, one of them jemmied open a large wooden crate to reveal handbags and shoes. They stopped abruptly and looked at each other. Vinnie felt a prickle of unease, as if a cold shadow had passed over him.
‘Knock-offs, for the pub and market trade. Made in China, via Eastern Europe,’ he said in his most reassuring voice. The men started digging, throwing the contents over their shoulders. Vinnie was about to try a weak protest when one of them straightened up and turned towards him. In his hand, he held a brick-shaped packet, wrapped in black plastic.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
Vinnie raised his hands, palms towards them. ‘Whoa! I
have no idea. Never seen it before, I swear.’
The other man pulled a second brick from among a twisted pile of handbags. ‘Never seen this before either?’
‘No! I’m a two-bit hustler with a market stall. I don’t do drugs! I’m holding that crate for someone else. I haven’t even opened it.’
The two men went back to the crate and within a minute had found the third brick. They kicked handbags and shoes out of their way and walked back to Vinnie.
‘Save it for the boss.’
Vinnie felt his knees literally start to tremble. ‘Which boss?’ he asked quietly.
‘You’re coming with us.’
They put a felt hood over his head and shoved him into a car.
He couldn’t believe it. That scene in the movies where the baddies put a hood over the good guy’s head? It was real. Honest to God, they did that. He was aware of the seriousness of his position, but still couldn’t help wondering how many of his friends would believe that detail. After about twenty minutes of what felt like inner-city driving, with lots of tight turns and periods of being stationary, they stopped. The door was opened and someone grabbed him and pulled him out.
The men took hold of an arm each and marched him across uneven ground and through a doorway. The temperature changed, and the floor was smoother; he was inside. His nostrils were assaulted by an acrid combination of smoke, old urine and gasoline. He stumbled forward until they pushed him down onto a chair and whipped the hood off. He was in an open expanse, a warehouse or an abandoned parking building. The lighting was dim, but he could see that the concrete walls were covered in graffiti.
The two men stood, arms folded across their chests, one on either side of the chair. He was about to comment on how well they had decorated the place when a car stopped outside, multiple doors opened and closed, and footsteps crossed the gravel to the exterior doorway in the gloom at the end of the room.