by Martina Cole
Still, it wasn’t Flynn who he should be nervous of – it was Jimmy. Since Michael Flynn had been catapulted into the big leagues, it was eating at Jimmy like a cancer.
Terry Gold sighed heavily. He could hear his wife chatting away to his sister in the kitchen. He loved his sister dearly, although he wondered how the fuck she had given birth to a no-mark like Jimmy.
As he made his way to the kitchen, he caught the aroma of roast chicken, and he felt a little bit better. He loved his food and, if he had to confront Jimmy, he would be much happier doing it on a full stomach.
Linda Gold smiled at her husband as she busied herself with making the dinner. She was concerned about Terry though. He looked very worried lately, and that wasn’t like him at all. She opened the oven and, as she lifted the chicken out, ready to baste it once more, she said quickly, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, Terry. Declan phoned. I said you’d call him back.’
Chapter Eight
Jimmy Moore was angry, and he wasn’t a man who could hide his emotions. All this questioning of his business practices was getting on his nerves. As far as Jimmy was concerned, he did what the job required, and that was that. He might skim a little on the side, but that was just a perk of the job. At the end of the day, he still managed to deliver a decent wedge every week.
He poured himself a large glass of vodka. It had no real taste or smell, but it did the job required, and that was enough for him. He glanced around his office. It was a real shithole, but why would he care about that? It was no more than a base for him to work out of. His uncle Terry was always on at him to clear it up, make sure that there wasn’t anything that could be seen as incriminating evidence hanging around. As if the Filth were ever going to come near here!
His uncle Terry was turning into a right tart lately. He couldn’t see that it was the 1970s, not the fifties any more. He couldn’t see that the world was changing on a daily basis. He had been Jimmy’s role model all his life, but now Jimmy hated that the man he had tried so hard to emulate was, in reality, no more than a fucking dinosaur. He was young, he could see where the world was heading. From the punks to the skinheads, the message was as clear as a fucking bell: you had to look out for number one. There was no other choice.
He lit a cigarette, and pulled on it slowly, savouring the taste of the tobacco. He had a bit of coke in his wallet, and he was sorely tempted to have a quick toot. But his uncle would suss him out and they would end up arguing again.
Jimmy glanced at his watch; his uncle was late. It was after ten, and he had been the one to insist that Jimmy be there by nine-thirty at the latest. He sighed.
Hearing the outer door open, he downed his vodka quickly. It was strange, though – he had not heard a car pull up or seen any headlights. Normally his uncle parked right outside, it was impossible to miss him. The silly old fucker had probably parked up the road. He was paranoid lately, seeing skulduggery around every corner.
The office door opened, and Jimmy was startled to see Declan Costello’s minder, Danny Briggs. Danny was a large man of West Indian origin, with dreadlocked hair, and a body-builder’s physique. He was carrying a large machete and, as Jimmy registered the significance of that, he was too stunned to even try and defend himself.
Chapter Nine
‘It’s awful, isn’t it, Mum?’ Josephine was as shocked as everyone else about Jimmy Moore’s death.
Lana Callahan sighed. ‘Well, he was a fucker, Josephine. I hate to say it because his mum’s lovely. But, be honest, he was a lairy little fucker.’
Josephine didn’t answer; she was still shocked by the brutality of the murder. The local news had reported that he had received over twenty blows from a machete, and that the police were encouraging anyone who had been in the vicinity between nine and eleven p.m. the previous evening to contact them with any information.
Josephine’s father had remarked at the end of the news bulletin, ‘Well, that says it all, girls. The plod have more chance of arresting Bill and Ben for smoking Little Weed than catching the fucker responsible.’
‘His poor mum, though.’
Lana lit a cigarette and, pulling on it gently, she inhaled the smoke. As she blew it out, she said honestly, ‘It’s a tragedy, all right. But he upset a lot of people with his bad attitude. Look at how he treated your Michael. He’s a saint, that boy. Let’s face it, Michael can have a row if needs be – and how he kept his hands off that little fucker God only knows. But that’s the point, really, isn’t it? Unlike Michael, Jimmy didn’t have a sense of place, didn’t have the savvy to know when to back off, he didn’t have the brain capacity to realise that the only thing he had in his favour was his uncle. Michael swallowed his knob because he had enough sense to know that, until he earned his own creds, he had to take whatever Jimmy dished out.’
Josephine was staring at her mum now; the turn that the conversation had taken was scaring her. She didn’t like Michael’s name being used like that. She was frightened that Michael might be a suspect.
‘Michael was with us, Mum, you know that as well as I do.’
Lana shook her head slowly in disbelief; sometimes her Josephine really was as thick as shit.
‘No one’s saying that, love. If you listened to me, you’d know that all I was trying to say is that your Michael has self-control. That is very important in his line of work. I think that his ability to keep his emotions in check is why Patrick Costello took him on. The Jimmy Moores of this world never really prosper, Josephine, whereas the people like your Michael are a rarity. They are reliable, dependable, see?’
Josephine smiled then, her relief almost tangible. ‘I see what you mean now. For a minute there I actually thought you were going to say that Michael might have been in the frame.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Josephine, have a day off, will you!’ Lana looked at her lovely daughter – she was a real beauty. But the girl’s propensity for worrying about nothing bothered her mother. Josephine had never really come to terms with her father’s sudden – albeit temporary – disappearance from their life. Though they had visited Des regularly, Josephine had never been comfortable in the prison environment. She had hated visiting him in Parkhurst and, even when Des had been sent to the open prison on the Isle of Sheppey prior to his release, she had still found it difficult to cope with her father’s predicament. Even worse was remembering how rough life had been without him. Oh, they’d managed to keep a roof over their heads, but times had been tight and Lana had had to budget down to the last penny. Now, luckily, their businesses provided the Callahans with guaranteed financial security, but Lana knew Josephine had never forgotten that time. She’d never take the relative luxury they lived in these days for granted.
Now she had fallen head over heels for Michael Flynn. And, if Lana knew anything, young Michael was going to rise up to the highest echelons of the Costello firm. Her daughter needed to understand that, when you tied yourself to men like Des and Michael, you had to accept the possibility that they might be put away, and Josephine could find herself exactly where Lana had been all those years ago.
It was an occupational hazard for them, but it was hard on the woman left behind, alone with kids and an empty bed. You had to learn to deal with it, and that was basically that. Perhaps it was time she opened her daughter’s eyes to the world she had chosen.
Chapter Ten
Michael was tired, and he had to stifle another yawn. It was late; the weather had turned over the last few days, and the night air was heavy with icy fog. It was bitterly cold for early October, and the Indian summer they’d been enjoying had disappeared overnight. The weather report had even said there was snow in Scotland – the best fucking place for it as far as he was concerned. He hated the cold, always had. The long nights depressed him – even as a kid he had dreaded the clocks going back an hour. You got up while it was dark, and it seemed wrong somehow. Days shouldn’t begin like that, days should begin with light and sunshine. Even a weak winter sun was preferable to no sun at all.<
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But tonight the fog would serve a purpose. He looked around him – all he could see were the dark shapes of the trees, and the muddy track he had driven over an hour earlier.
He had thought he would be nervous, frightened, but now he’d set things in motion he had no real feelings either way. This was something that had to be done, and he had no option other than to get it over with, and get on with his life. He had already killed – a whole fucking family – even though he had not known what he was doing at the time. But he had learnt how to deal with it. Once you accepted something it was so much easier to live with – no matter how bad it might be. He had planned every step meticulously this time and, so far, it had all fallen into place. He hoped that everything else would be as easy.
He was not a fool, and he had made sure that he had every contingency in place. He had pondered this for hours on end, planned every detail, trying to work out as many different scenarios as possible. He was convinced that he was covered, no matter what might happen.
He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, pleased at how calm he appeared. If the police should happen upon him, and ask why he was sitting alone in a car in the middle of nowhere, he had a perfect alibi ready. He had blankets, a flask of soup, and a pair of binoculars. He was a twitcher he’d claim; tell them he often slept in his car so he could get up at the crack of dawn and pursue his hobby. He even had a notebook prepared to show them, if necessary, filled with times, dates, places and what species of bird he had seen. It was probably a step too far, but he had been determined to make sure he had covered every angle. Now he just wanted to get it over with. He was bored, cold, and dying for a decent drink.
As he arched his back to loosen his muscles, and allowed himself a large, noisy yawn, he saw the glare of headlights as a car crawled slowly up the dirt road ahead of him. He relaxed back into his seat, took a long breath, and held it deep inside, until the car pulled up beside his, then he exhaled slowly.
This was it.
He got out of his car quickly, and the cold night air was enough to chase away the last vestiges of tiredness. He smiled amiably as he slipped into the passenger seat of Terry Gold’s Mk IV Cortina. Michael was pleased to see that Terry had used his usual car. That would make things much easier for him.
‘Brass monkeys out there, mate, I’m freezing.’
Terry smiled apologetically. ‘I had a bit of trouble finding this place, Michael. Not exactly the A13, is it?’
Michael smiled, and Terry Gold was impressed at how straight and white Michael’s teeth actually were.
‘You got the gear then, Terry?’
Terry Gold sighed in mock exasperation. ‘’Course I have. Be a bit pointless coming all the way out here if I didn’t, for fuck’s sake!’
Michael laughed. Terry Gold had to be as thick as proverbial shit. There was no way in hell he would have fallen for any of this. But greed was a great incentive to so many people. When Michael had told Terry casually that, if he could lay his hands on a couple of keys of coke, he had a buyer who was new to the game, caked up with money, and who wanted the transaction to be as private as possible, Terry Gold had nearly bitten his hand off. Terry had always had one eye on the main chance, it was second nature to him.
It didn’t matter that Terry suspected Michael had had a hand in his nephew’s murder. Jimmy’s death had been overlooked, but everyone in the know was aware that the Costellos had wanted it. Terry Gold had no choice but to swallow – what else could he do? And this was an opportunity he couldn’t turn down.
‘It’s in the boot, Michael.’
They got out of the car together, and Terry lit himself a cigarette. Michael watched as he busied himself opening the boot, pulling up the carpet where he had hidden the three keys of coke in the space where the spare wheel should have been.
Michael shook his head. How fucking predictable could you get? The first place the Filth would look if they were to search your motor was the boot.
As Terry leant into the boot to pull the heavy bundles free, Michael slipped a small lead cosh from his coat pocket. The first blow was enough to subdue Terry and knock him out. The next fifteen blows were just insurance; there was no way this ponce was ever going to recover no matter what might happen in the next couple of hours. Michael pushed the body into the boot and slammed the lid shut. Then, whistling under his breath, he got into the driving seat and started the car. He drove it deeper into the woodland until it was impossible to drive any further.
Getting out of the car, he leant in from the driver’s side and took the handbrake off. Then he used all his considerable strength to push the car, and its grisly contents, into a large, deep and extremely filthy lake. He had to wade into the freezing water and keep pushing until the car finally slipped down and disappeared out of sight into the murky depths.
Satisfied that it was gone, and that no one would know it was in there, Michael finally made his way back carefully in the darkness to his own car. His trousers and shoes were already hampering him and, opening the boot of his BMW, he quickly stripped himself. Once he had dressed in clean clothes and new boots, he got into his car, put the heater on full blast, and drove slowly back through the lanes. When he finally pulled out on to the A2, he put on his radio, and drove home at top speed, feeling good. He had achieved something.
Terry Gold’s disappearance was a nine-day wonder. His nephew’s bloody demise had been a violent lesson to anyone in the firm who harboured similar dreams of getting ahead by skimming. But the disappearance of Terry Gold, a happily married man who adored his family and always put them first, really frightened everyone who knew him.
No one was ever arrested or even suspected of having any involvement in Terry’s disappearance. On the other hand the Costellos didn’t ask around about him either. They didn’t discuss it, let alone speculate as to what might have occurred and that, in itself, spoke volumes. Not that anyone said that out loud, of course, but it didn’t stop people wondering.
Chapter Eleven
Michael glanced at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, pleased with how he looked. He was a man to respect; having the Costello brothers’ favour gave him the creds he needed to carry out his new businesses with the minimum of real effort. No one in their right mind was going to give him any kind of aggravation.
Since taking out Terry Gold six months ago, he now had his own personal earns. Patrick had given him the lion’s share of three very lucrative pubs, and a new nightclub they had recently opened in East London. All he had to do was show his face on a regular basis and collect the takings from his managers – it was so easy it felt almost wrong. He was coining it in, and he had to do fuck-all. But he was shrewd; this was just the opener. Once Patrick had seen for himself how Michael coped and what he could earn from the venues, he would then be asked to do some real work. Patrick was thrilled with him, and he had rewarded him well for proving that he was a man who could be trusted. It was just a matter of time until the serious graft was offered him. Michael couldn’t wait.
Josephine was standing at the far end of the bar, and he watched her for a few minutes. She was chatting away to her friends and, as he observed her, he couldn’t help smiling. Everyone liked her – she had no side to her and that was her greatest asset.
As usual she was the best-dressed bird in the whole place. She had a knack for finding the clothes that really suited her figure. She always looked well groomed, from her hair to her make-up to her nails. Even if she was only popping to the shops for a pint of milk she made sure she had her make-up on and her hair done. It was all part of her charm. He loved her femininity. She was fragile, vulnerable and she needed him so much. He wanted her to need him, to depend on him. That was how it should be.
The music was blaring out, and he was pleased to see that the place was already filling with people. It was still early, and Friday night was ladies’ night. The girls got in the club for free before ten thirty and, by the time the pubs turned out, the place was thronging
with women and girls of every shape and size.
Catching her eye, he motioned to Josephine to join him and, as she walked towards him, he saw the bouncers giving her the once over. It was gratifying, but she was his – and everyone knew that.
‘It’s really taking off, Michael, don’t you think? You must be well pleased.’
He grinned. ‘It’s all right, Josephine, we’re getting there. Listen, darling. I have to go and sort a few bits out. You be all right with your mates for a while?’
‘’Course! You go and do whatever you need to.’
He kissed her gently on the lips. ‘I won’t be long, darling, promise.’
Josephine looked into his eyes; he was so good to her, always had her best interests at heart. ‘You know where I am!’
He watched her as she went back to her little clique of mates, before making his way to his offices. He walked through the foyer of the club, pleased to see that there was already a big queue of people waiting to get in. He saw the doormen searching the ladies’ handbags, not just for weapons – a girlfriend was the obvious choice to smuggle in a knife or firearm – but for alcohol as well.
As he slipped through the heavy brocade curtains that led into the offices, he was whistling under his breath. Life was definitely good.
Closing the heavy door behind him, he savoured the relative quiet. The music was now no more than a muted drone. He loved this office, it was his sanctuary. It had pale cream walls and expensive oak furniture. There weren’t any windows, but that was a plus really – it added to the security that was necessary when large amounts of money were involved. The big, heavy safe was bolted to the floor behind his desk, dominating the room. It was not just used for the storage of the money that the club accumulated, but also for certain other items of value.
