‘I ain’t no mug, Vin, so please don’t treat me like one. I’ll look after the family, and put it this way, I’m the only fucking guardian your son has at the moment. I’ll sort Pervy Pat, don’t you worry. And while I’m at it I’ll restore our club to its former glory days. We’re losing money hand over fist at the moment, but I have a plan.’
‘What you on about?’ Vinny sneered.
Sick of being treated like a lackey, Michael forgot all about his mother’s earlier warning and came right out with it: ‘I’m thinking of turning the club into a disco. Times have changed over the years and we need to move with ’em. Nobody wants to see live singers these days. I just know I can earn us a fortune by changing things. Trust me on this one.’
The only thing that kept Vinny from reaching across the table and punching his brother was the thought of ending up in solitary confinement. Instead he leaned across the table and hissed, ‘You listen to me, Billy Big Bollocks. That club is my baby, always has been and always will be. Therefore, I decide what’s what. You get my drift? Defy me, Michael, and I swear on my life I will make sure you live to regret it. Now, do we fucking understand one another?’
In the depths of Hainault Forest, Little Vinny was stoned, drunk and extremely morose. He had no idea of the exact spot where Ben had hung himself, but just being there made him feel close to his mate.
Annoyed with himself for doubting Ben’s loyalty, Little Vinny felt he needed to get a few things off his chest. ‘I loved you, pal,’ he shouted into the trees. ‘I weren’t really gonna tell the Old Bill that you had an unhealthy interest in Molly. I did think about saying it, but only because I thought you might’ve grassed. I should’ve known better. You were a top lad. No way would you ever snitch on me.’
Wishing more than anything else in the world that Ben was still alive to reply to him, Little Vinny put his head in his hands and wept. He’d been helping out his Uncle Michael at the club, but he couldn’t really move on with his life just yet. Too much had happened in a short space of time and his head was a complete mess.
Crouching down as if in prayer, Little Vinny made a vow to his pal: ‘I’m gonna get revenge for you, Ben. I know how much you loved your brothers and sisters, and I’ll make sure they don’t suffer like you did. You deserved so much more in life than the shitty cards you were dealt. I know you never killed yourself because of Molly. It was your junkie slag of a mother that drove you to it. Well, I’m gonna sort her out for ya. It’s the least I can do after everything you did for me.’
Pete and Paul had been friends with Roy Butler at school. Back in the sixties when Roy and Vinny had first opened the club, both men had jumped at the chance to work for the Butlers and had remained loyal ever since.
Officially, they were bouncers, but Pete and Paul had always been willing to help out in an unofficial capacity if need be. Even so, they were both gobsmacked when Michael Butler summoned them in for an afternoon meeting and demanded that they kidnap Pervy Pat that very night.
‘It’s a bit rushed, isn’t it, Michael? We’ll need time to sort out an alibi and prepare properly,’ Pete warned.
Though neither of them said it, it wasn’t the suddenness that worried them or even the order itself, it was the fact that Michael was the one issuing it. Although he’d been part of the set-up for years, Vinny had always been the one in charge of dealing with that side of things.
Desperate to make an impression, Michael Butler stood firm. ‘I’ve already sorted out our alibi plus a van, and we already know Pervy Pat’s movements. Billy Higgins is one of our own and that nonce-case needs to be stopped once and for all,’ Michael insisted. He didn’t mention his aunt’s ordeal, as his mother had ordered him not to tell anyone, other than Vinny. ‘Nosy bastards round ’ere will have a field day if they find out Viv got offered a portion of helmet pie,’ she had spluttered. Seeing the doubt in his employees’ eyes annoyed Michael. ‘Not being funny, lads, but Roy is dead, Vinny is banged up for the foreseeable, so I’m your boss now. You in or out?’
Paul and Pete exchanged glances. ‘We’re in, boss,’ Paul confirmed.
Queenie Butler was not in the most patient of moods. She’d done her utmost to cheer her sister up, but Vivian was still as miserable as sin. Viv had got over having a todger waved in her direction. They’d both roared with laughter over that last night. But she’d now gone into meltdown over Billy bloody Higgins. A man she’d barely spoken to for years.
‘I should’ve gone with my instinct and called the police, Queen. If I’d accompanied Janey to the station, she’d have had no need to blurt it out to her family. She didn’t want to tell ’em, but obviously they guessed something was wrong. It’s my fault Billy’s fighting for his life.’
Queenie gritted her teeth. If her memory served her correctly, Vivian hadn’t shed this many tears over poor Molly. ‘For Christ’s sake, snap out of it, Viv. It’s terrible what happened to Janey, but no real harm was done – he only tickled her with his stick, and she’s barely family to us, is she? As for Billy, he’s been living in Rainham for donkey’s years with a heart condition. Been in and out of hospital many a time.’
Shocked by her sister’s outburst, Vivian retaliated: ‘You can be a very cold-hearted person at times, Queenie. Has anybody ever told you that?’
‘You need to get a grip, love, or you’ll end up in that loony bin again if you’re not careful. I spoke to Michael earlier and he’s promised to deal with the matter sooner rather than later, OK?’
Vivian nodded. Ensuring Pervy Pat got his comeuppance was the least she could do for Janey and Billy.
Having waited until it was dark, Little Vinny put the hood up on his jacket and checked nobody was about as he tapped on Alison Bloggs’ front door.
‘I’m so glad you’re here, Vin. I’ve been feeling really depressed.’
Ushering the ugly whore into the hallway, Little Vinny handed her the bottle of vodka he’d stolen from the club. ‘Get that down your neck. It’ll make you feel better,’ he urged.
‘D’ya want me to suck you off again?’ Alison volunteered hopefully. She wasn’t used to gifts unless she gave something in return.
‘Maybe later,’ Little Vinny lied. ‘First I want you to drink that and tell me everything that’s happened.’
Alison began to greedily slurp the neat vodka while describing how Social Services had turned up earlier in the week and taken all her children into care.
‘They’re stopping me child allowance, Vin. How am I gonna manage financially?’ Alison whined, clearly far more concerned about losing the money than having her kids taken away.
Little Vinny sipped his cider and smirked as Alison’s eyelids began to droop. He’d bought a score’s worth of Temazepam off a local dealer and emptied the liquid from the capsules in the vodka bottle.
Putting on an identical pair of Marigold gloves to the ones he’d throttled his sister with, Little Vinny waited until Alison had drunk most of the vodka before plonking himself next to her on the stinking threadbare sofa.
‘That you, Vin? What you doing?’ a sleepy Alison slurred.
‘I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago. Snuffing out your miserable existence, you waste of fucking space.’
‘What?’ Alison mumbled, eyelids drooping.
Little Vinny took the razor blade out of his pocket. ‘Rot in hell, slag,’ he hissed, as he slashed first Alison’s right wrist, then her left. He then took great pleasure in watching the blood and life seep out of her body.
Patrick Campbell aka Pervy Pat was not a stupid man. He’d experienced more in his twenty-five years than most blokes had in a lifetime.
Left in a public toilet as a newborn baby, Pat had no idea who his actual birth mother was. He’d then been shunted from one children’s home to another before being fostered by Lena and John at the age of ten.
John had been a nice man, had encouraged him to take up sport. Lena, however, was a bitch. When John had a heart attack and passed away, Pat had been
led a dog’s life, both physically and mentally, thanks to Lena. Well aware that he was now notorious among the locals, since his release from prison Pat had taken to going further afield in search of prey. Pretending he was some big shot usually got him what he wanted these days without a struggle.
Rubbing his hand up and down his latest victim’s back, Pat was rather pissed off when she informed him that she had no intention of leaving with him, no matter how much he flashed the cash and promised her a good time.
‘Your loss, sweetheart. There’s plenty more fish in the sea,’ he said, turning away.
What Pervy Pat didn’t realize as he sipped the last of his brandy and sang along to Black Slate’s ‘Amigo’ was that outside the Fanshawe Tavern a rather unpleasant surprise was waiting for him.
Parked up behind Patrick Campbell’s car, Michael Butler was becoming rather impatient at being kept waiting. ‘I thought you said he always left this boozer before ten.’
‘He did the other nights, Michael, but we’ve only followed him a few times, remember,’ Pete reminded his boss.
‘Give us that torch. It’s as black as Newgate’s knocker out there,’ Michael ordered.
All three men were sitting in the back of the van while keeping a watchful eye out the front window. ‘Don’t start shining torches. We don’t want to bring unwanted attention to ourselves. No way can we miss him parked ’ere,’ Paul warned.
‘So what’s occurring exactly, Michael? We need to know our alibi,’ Pete said.
‘Our alibi is a game of poker at the club. Us three, plus Nick, the Kelly brothers and Jimmy Elliot. The others are all back at the club as we speak. I’ve told ’em to answer the phone and say I’m in the middle of a card game if anyone buzzes or rings. I’ve also told Nick to make two outgoing phone calls to my mum and dad, just in case the phone records are checked. I’ll wise my parents up on what time I supposedly called when I get back.’
Seeing Pete and Paul glance worriedly at one another, Michael grinned. ‘Like two rabbits caught in the headlights, you pair remind me of. Chill, for fuck’s sake. I know you’re thinking I shouldn’t have involved Nick ’cause he has Old Bill in the family. But that makes for an even better alibi, if you get my drift. Anyway, we’re not committing murder, just gonna teach Pat what happens to perverts.’
Pete stood up and leaned over the passenger seat. ‘Speak of the devil.’
Pat Campbell’s pride and joy was his Jaguar XJS, so his first thought when he was grabbed from behind by two men in balaclavas was that they were after stealing his car. ‘Get off me, you shitbags,’ he yelled, desperately trying to break free from their grasp.
Seconds later, Pervy Pat was smashed over the head with a hammer by a third man, then dragged into the back of a van.
Little Vinny was in high spirits as he strolled back towards the club. Today had been a good day. Visiting Hainault to pay his respects to Ben had made him feel much better about himself, and killing Alison was the icing on the cake. If Ben was looking down from heaven, Little Vinny knew he’d be relieved that his brothers and sisters would no longer have to suffer the hardship he had. At least in care the poor little bastards would be bathed, fed and clothed properly.
The spring in his step left Little Vinny the moment he put his hand in his pocket. His keys were missing.
Patrick Campbell had no idea where he was being driven to, or who’d abducted him. The bang on the head had left him dazed and confused, and he couldn’t see a thing because a sack of some kind had been placed over his head and tied up around his neck.
‘Where am I? What’s going on?’
Michael Butler grinned at Pete as he supplied the answer: ‘You need a little operation, me old mucker. Did you know that poor young Janey was a pal of mine’s granddaughter?’
‘Operation! But I’m not ill. And who the hell is Janey?’ Pat mumbled through the sack.
Pulling the sharp carving knife out of the bag of goodies he’d brought with him, Michael ordered Pete to tie their prey’s arms up.
‘What you gonna do to him?’ Pete asked, alarmed. He and Paul had been under the impression they were just going to teach the nonce a valuable lesson.
Michael Butler had never been as cold-blooded or sadistic as Vinny. Even Roy had got off on violence more than he had. However, now that he had been left in sole charge of the Butler empire, Michael knew he had no choice other than to do what he was about to.
The man’s screams were horrendous when Michael unzipped his trousers and began hacking wildly at his penis.
‘Jesus wept! He’s gonna die and we’re all gonna be up for murder now,’ Pete hissed.
Chucking the severed penis out of the window as though it were no more than an unwanted pork sausage, Michael ordered Pete to shut the fuck up and told Paul to take the next turn off and stop the van as soon as the coast was clear.
Ten minutes later, the cockless, unconscious pervert who’d wronged Auntie Viv was lying on a grass verge in Aveley, while Michael and his henchmen were on their way back up the A13 towards London.
Little Vinny was in a complete panic. It wasn’t just his old house keys on the keyring, the bunch his uncle had entrusted him with for the club were on there too.
He’d had them when he went into Alison Bloggs’ place, so they must have fallen out of his tracksuit bottoms while he was sitting on her shabby sofa. In his stoned, drunken stupor he’d been so elated at killing her that he’d forgotten the most important thing of all: covering his tracks.
Not knowing how to dig himself out of the hole he’d got himself into, he tried to get hold of his uncle and then Ahmed. When that failed he was at a loss. Having made his way back to the club he decided his best option would be to hide in a doorway opposite the club and wait for Michael to show up.
‘Got any drink or money, Sonny Jim?’
Little Vinny startled at the sight of the dishevelled old tramp peering in at him. It occurred to him that this doorway was probably the vagrant’s spot, and the last thing he needed was the guy kicking off and drawing attention to him. He held out his bottle of cider. ‘Here, have this.’ Then he reached into his pocket for his last fiver and handed him that too.
‘Bless you, my boy. May God take good care of you,’ the tramp said, before walking away with his gifts.
Slumped in the doorway with his head in his hands, Little Vinny decided he had nothing to lose by putting his own faith in the big man above. ‘Please, God, I swear, if you help me out of this situation, I will never drink, take drugs or do anything else bad ever again,’ he mumbled.
When his Uncle Michael suddenly appeared, as if materializing out of nowhere, for the first time ever Little Vinny truly believed that it paid to be nice to people.
PART TWO
Just as you cannot understand the path of the wind or the mystery of a tiny baby growing in its mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the activity of God, who does all things.
Ecclesiastes 11:5
CHAPTER SIX
Summer 1984
Queenie and Vivian had always been creatures of habit, and for the past few years they had fallen into a regular Saturday routine. First they would travel down to Plaistow Cemetery to tend to the graves of Roy, Lenny and Molly. Then they would visit their dear old mum’s plot in Bow before popping home, getting dolled up and heading off to the Roman.
Roman Road market was most certainly the place to be these days, especially on a Saturday. The trendy stalls and shops attracted women done up to the nines, not just from London but Essex and the surrounding counties as well.
At fifty-seven, Queenie was three years older than her sister. Both women wore their hair straight, shoulder-length and bleached blonde, and they had often been mistaken for twins. Neither lacked confidence. The heavy foundation they applied helped cover up their wrinkles, the bright red lipstick thickened their naturally thin lips, and the high heels they wore made them look much taller. Queenie was only five foot two, Vivian five three, but in their eyes they
looked far more glamorous than all the younger dolly birds the Roman seemed to attract.
Vivian nudged her sister. ‘Look at the bleedin’ state of that! Talk about mutton done up as lamb.’
Queenie craned her neck to see who her sister was referring to. ‘Gordon Bennett! She’s got to be in her fifties. That ain’t a skirt, it’s more like a wide belt. If you look close enough, you can see what the old trollop had for breakfast this morning. Fancy walking about showing your muff at her age! Got no class these women, have they?’
About to reply, Vivian unfortunately caught her heel in a hole in the pavement and fell flat on her face.
Queenie crouched down. ‘You all right, Vivvy?’
Within seconds, Vivian was surrounded by concerned shoppers and stallholders. Steve, who sold fruit and veg, gathered up Viv’s shopping bags. ‘You OK? Let me help you up, darling.’
Being the aunt of such notorious nephews often had its advantages, but right now Viv wished she was anybody but herself. The story of her stacking it would be all round Whitechapel by this evening and her nosy neighbours would probably dine out on it for months. ‘Poxy bastard shoes. Me heel snapped off. Show’s over, people,’ Vivian spat, as she scrambled to her feet.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’ Queenie asked, her face full of concern.
Hobbling towards her sister with one shoe on and one off, Vivian grabbed Queenie’s arm and hissed, ‘I’m fine. Let’s go to the pub.’
Michael Butler grinned as he finished counting the previous evening’s takings. His brilliant business brain had proved all the doubters wrong. He was literally raking it in.
The Wronged Page 5
