by Martina Cole
Georgio closed his eyes and coughed gently, a small trail of bile escaping from his lips. Looking up into Laughton’s face he said loudly, ‘Fuck you, Laughton. You can’t prove nothing.’
Then the kicking really started.
BOOK ONE
Dilige et quod vis fac
Love, and do what you will—
St Augustine of Hippo, AD 354-430
All the privilege I claim for my own sex is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone—
Persuasion Jane Austen, 1755-1817
Chapter One
Peter Wilson was frightened. As he looked into Frank Laughton’s face he sensed the full force of the older man’s determination and temper. Running his tongue around his teeth, he felt the looseness of two of them and the split on the inside of his cheek where he had bitten it.
‘Please, Mr Laughton, I can’t tell you nothing, see. I don’t know nothing.’
Frank Laughton sighed heavily and stared up at the clock on the wall of the interview room. ‘Did anyone ever tell you how dogs know you’re frightened of them? They smell your fear, see - like I can smell yours now.’ He took a deep drag on his cigarette and threw it to the floor, crushing it with his heavy boot.
‘You see, Peter, I want what you’ve got. That is, I want you to tell me what I want to hear. Now it won’t be the first time, will it, eh? Me and you go back a long way, don’t we? Remember the tellies a while back? I let you walk that one, because you were helpful. I like helpful people. I can be nice to helpful people. Whereas, when people are like you are now, annoying me, I want to hurt them and lock them away. I enjoy locking people away. It’s my job, and I get pats on the back and things like that, see? Now, at this moment in time, I am in a good mood, but I can feel that mood gradually slipping away and that ain’t good news for you, because it means I might really take it on myself to hurt you. Do you get my drift, shitbag?’
The quiet sing-song voice was more frightening to Peter Wilson than anything else Laughton could have done. Peter had grown up in children’s homes and foster homes, each worse than the last. He was used to the worst. Abused by his father and others over a fifteen-year period, Peter was a small-time hood, small-time husband and small-time father. He could barely read or write, and used words of only one or two syllables. He was a gofer, nothing more and nothing less. He had a haphazard sort of friendship with the people who used him to do the little jobs they couldn’t be bothered with themselves. He was a drug user, an abuser of alcohol, and also a nonsense case, having three convictions for tampering with neighbours’ children and his own. He was a loser of the first water and inside himself he knew all this. Had first had it knocked into him as a child, then repeatedly since becoming a grown man. As he listened to Laughton he knew in his heart he would do as he was asked. Eventually.
‘But what about me, Mr Laughton? What will happen to me?’
Laughton laughed. ‘What usually happens to you, Peter? You get pissed on, of course, like always.’
‘Is there any money in it?’
Frank smiled. In his heart of hearts he hated Wilson more than he hated Brunos and the others he put away. At least Brunos was going after the big rents.
‘There might be.’
Seeing a quick few quid, Peter smiled craftily. ‘I ain’t got a very good memory, though. If it’s difficult like, what I have to say . . .’
Frank wiped a hand across his face and sighed heavily. Glancing at the big electric clock once more, he realised it was three-fifteen in the morning and he hadn’t eaten for over eight hours. He could taste the cigarettes and tannin on his tongue and suddenly, feeling a rush of temper, he crashed a huge fist into the boy’s face, sending him flying back against the wall with tremendous force, and knocking over the plastic chairs.
Leaning over the trembling form, he said quietly: ‘Don’t annoy me tonight, Peter. I have one difficult customer already, and you’re going to help me put him away, as and when I tell you to - get it?’ Straightening up, he brushed down his suit jacket and tidied his hair.
Peter Wilson watched him from the floor. As Laughton reached the door, Peter said timidly, ‘Who’s the face, Mr Laughton? Tell me that at least.’
Laughton grinned, knowing the boy was his now, as he had known all along he would be. Turning, he said, ‘An old friend of yours, Peter. Georgio Brunos.’
He walked from the room, grinning.
Peter lay on the floor, his hands protectively holding his wedding tackle, and two big fat tears rolled down his face.
He was a dead man, and he knew it.
‘What do you fucking mean, what’s going on? Do you think I’m here for the beer or something?’
Georgio’s voice was high and indignant and Donna closed her eyes before answering him.
‘Don’t swear at me, Georgio, I’m not the enemy.’
He wiped a heavy hand across his face and sighed. ‘It’s a fucking setup, Donna, you know it is. What the fuck would I be doing at a blag, eh? Especially one with loaded guns and a fucking bunch of ice creams doing the actual blagging.’
Donna drew in a deep breath before speaking, trying to calm down the erratic beating of her heart. ‘Look, Georgio, all I know is, they’ve turned the house over . . .’
He pounced on her then, grabbing her thin arms above the elbows and shaking her. ‘Did they take anything? Say anything?’
‘Georgio, for God’s sake. Calm down! You’re hurting me.’
He stared down into the beautiful strained face of his wife, then, pulling her into his arms, he crushed her against his body. Burying his face in her hair he breathed in her scent.
‘Laughton’s after me, Donna. He wants my face in the frame and I can’t do a fucking thing about it.’
Donna hugged her husband to her, feeling for the first time ever a sense of unease about the man she had married.
‘But why would this Laughton want you so badly? What have you ever done to him, Georgio, that he should do this to you?’ She pulled herself from her husband’s embrace and looked into his face. ‘It just doesn’t make any sense.’
Pushing her roughly away, he bellowed, ‘What do you mean? Do you think I had a tickle then, is that it? Fuck me, my own wife thinks I’m a blagger now! That’s all I need, ain’t it? Where you been then? Round me mother’s? I bet she’s loving this, ain’t she. Christ! I can’t believe you fucking said that.’
He stormed around the small interview room, his shoulders tense, his face a mask of hard energy and rage.
‘Will you calm down, Georgio, please? I am not trying to say anything. I just want to know what the hell is going on, why you should be blamed. That’s all.’
He bit on his bottom lip. His pupils were like pinpoints in the harsh lights of the room. He was agitated and Donna realised then that he was really in trouble. Serious trouble.
‘Get me a brief, love, a good brief. Phone that cunt Simpson - it’s about time he earned his collar anyway. Then get on to Davey and the others at the lot, tell them the score. Tell Davey I’ll be in touch whatever happens, all right?’
Donna nodded, then realised that she was being dismissed. He wanted her to leave! Standing straight, she pushed the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
‘I’ll go then. Leave you to sort this lot out, shall I? It’s seven-thirty in the morning and I haven’t slept all night, my home has been ransacked, legally ransacked, and you have the audacity to dismiss me?’
Georgio looked at her in consternation. ‘Leave it out, Donna. I’ve got enough on me plate without you crying and bawling. Laughton’s hauling me up the court this morning to get an extension, the way things are going I ain’t even going to get bail, so the last thing on my mind is you. I’m sorry if that upsets you, love, but that’s the truth of it.’
He gazed into her face and sighed once more. ‘I’m looking at a ten stretch here, don’t you realise that, woman!’
Donna nodded. ‘I do now, thank you, Georgio. Only I didn’t think pe
ople got ten years for nothing. But there, you learn a new thing every day, don’t you? Now I’ll go and get you yet another brief, shall I? Only I got you one last night in case you didn’t notice!’
Georgio stormed across the room and grabbed her arm. Twisting her round to face him, he hissed: ‘This is the real world, Donna. I’m a builder, a used-car dealer, I’m fucking Essex Man, love. I ain’t got to do nothing, I just need to be implicated. I ain’t no angel, never pretended I was, but this is over my head, darlin’. Way over my head. I’ve never so much as nicked a penny sweet, but Laughton wants me. Yeah, Donna, come down into the real world. Think of the Guildford Four and the Birmingham Six. Think about the West Midlands Crime squad. Where do you suppose my black eye came from, eh? The dirt on my clothes? He’ll tell people I was trying to do a runner, or that I attacked them. It’s all part of the game, love. The filth fit people up all the time, and that’s why I’m so frightened, because on the big ones, they always get away with it.’
She swallowed back the fear that what he said was true. She said quietly, ‘But those people were released . . .’
Georgio hugged her to him, his laugh rich and deep and worried. ‘After how long, sweetheart? Think on that one. How long were they banged up in some stinking nick before they were earholed out, eh? That’s the frightener, love. That’s what frightens me.’
Looking up at her husband’s strained face, Donna felt the fight leaving her body. In his position she would be upset, she would be full of bitterness and agitation.
‘Oh, Georgio . . .’ The tears came then, hot and stinging, and she savoured her husband’s tight embrace and the words of love whispered in the stale confines of the interview room that smelt of cigarettes and urine.
Georgio stroked her silky hair and said softly, ‘You don’t understand this world, Donna - you never did, that’s why I picked you. You had a bit of class, a bit of savvy. But you have to be my girl now, my clever girl, because I’m going to need you, more than ever before.’
He stared into her face, holding her head between his large, rough hands. ‘I’m depending on you, Donna.’
He saw the depths of his wife’s eyes, saw the perfect bow of her lips and the perfect arch of her eyebrows. He drank in her beauty then, wondering how long it was since he had really looked at her. Suddenly he saw her as another man might and the pain in his chest was brutal.
‘I love you, girl. I’ve always loved you, and together we’ll beat that bastard at his own game.’
Donna nodded, her lips trembling, unsure that she could actually speak the words he wanted to hear.
‘See, darling, this is what I want. What I need. You and me against the world, eh?’
Donna nodded again, licking the salty tears from her lips.
‘With you beside me, I’ll walk away from this, and then Laughton will never come near or by me again.’
Donna rested her head on his chest, the tears coming faster now, needing the feel of his hands on her tiny waist. He was hers, and she loved him, and any disloyal thoughts she might have had, she forced from her mind.
For the first time in nineteen years, Georgio needed her. It was heady stuff indeed.
The car lot was deserted, as if everyone had heard what had happened and were keeping away. Donna locked up her Mercedes and stepped carefully across the forecourt. Davey Jackson watched her from the office window and swore softly under his breath. His eyes swept the small office and registered the mess everywhere. He broke into the conversation he was having on the phone.
‘Yeah, all right, Paddy. I’ve got to go, her ladyship’s just turned up. I’ll ring you back.’
Donna walked into the office just as he replaced the receiver. ‘Hello, Donna. All right, love?’
She nodded, smiling slightly, and Davey wondered just how Georgio had landed a stunner like her and kept her all these years.
‘I suppose you’ve heard?’
Lighting a cigarette, he took a deep drag on it. ‘Slags they are, especially Laughton. He prides himself on being the dog’s gonads and everyone knows he’s a prize prat. He came after me a few years ago. He’s renowned for fitting people up.’
Donna sat on the edge of the desk. ‘Dolly says the same thing. Everyone does. But why Georgio?’
Davey shrugged nonchalantly. ‘He’s a face, Donna. He might have a little tickle now and again, nothing too elaborate like. It’s par for the course in this game, we don’t even entertain ringers. He’s done well, he looks like he does well. That’s enough for that ponce Laughton. Georgio knew it was only a matter of time before someone had a sniff, only we thought it would be the big boys, the Revenue. So there you go, love. What’s the score anyway?’
‘They’ve been to court and got the extension, another forty-eight hours, then they have to charge him or let him go.’
‘He’ll be home before you know it, love. Carol was only saying this morning, when he gets back we’ll have a night out, eh? Just the four of us.’
Donna nodded, wishing she was as sure of everything as Carol and Davey Jackson.
‘How’s his mother took it?’
‘I haven’t told her yet,’ Donna confessed. ‘I don’t know what to say. So far the News has only said they’ve pulled in two people for questioning. No names, nothing. I’ll wait until he gets home before I start worrying them. After all, what’s the point? If he comes home, we’ll be all right.’
Davey smiled sadly. This woman in front of him wasn’t geared up for all this. It was unfair.
‘He’ll be home, darlin’. Laughton’s a prat. Everyone has a bit of hag off him at some time or another - it’s par for the course.’
Donna smiled, a tiny restrained smile, and Davey felt his heart melt in his chest.
‘So everyone keeps saying. Georgio told me to tell you to carry on as normal.’
Davey swept out his arms in a gesture of good will. ‘That’s exactly what I am doing, my lovely.’
‘Can I do anything?’
Davey laughed then, a deep belly laugh. ‘Go home and get yourself tarted up for the conquering hero. That’s all you need to do, Donna love.’
She didn’t smile back. Instead she slipped from the desk and nodded. ‘Of course it is. Now why didn’t I think of that?’
Turning abruptly, she walked from the tiny office and slammed the door behind her. Davey watched her walk stiff-backed towards her car, and he tapped his teeth reflectively with the end of a biro. There was more to Donna Brunos than met the eye. Now why had he never realised that before?
Thoughtfully, he picked up the phone and began dialling.
Maeve Brunos was reading the Sun and drinking a large mug of strong black coffee. It was a ritual she enjoyed every day. Her husband was at work in the restaurant downstairs, preparing the evening meals, and her children were out and about. Bringing up six kids in a small flat made you very aware of quality time. And this was her quality time, her time alone. ‘Maeve’s half-hour’ they called it, and she loved every second of it.
She read the leader on the front page and tutted. A photograph of the young security man who had died the day before in an armed robbery was emblazoned across the front page. It had been taken on his wedding day; the caption read: FIND THE KILLERS.
Maeve sipped at the strong coffee and lit herself a Benson & Hedges Light. Drawing deep on the smoke she began to read the story, her eyes darting continually to the photo of the young man and his pretty, plump wife. Tragedy was always a decent seller of newspapers and Maeve lapped it up, getting her excitement in the comfort and security of her own home. When the doorbell rang she sighed and heaved herself out of her seat, and lumbered down the steep staircase. Recognising her daughter-in-law’s outline, she smiled gently. Her heavily-lined face lit up at the prospect of a visit from Donna. Maeve pulled the door open clumsily, banging it against the wall.
‘Come away in, darlin’. Let’s see you. Jaysus, you’re looking terrible! What’s wrong?’
Donna silently followed her mothe
r-in-law up the stairs, listening to her talk.
‘Is that bugger playing up, eh? He might be a grown man, but a slap across the arse wouldn’t do him any harm . . .’ Then followed the usual ritual of Maeve’s pretending her son was a nuisance to be put up with, when everyone knew she worshipped Georgio, as she did all her children.
‘Maeve . . . sit down. I have to talk to you.’
But Maeve slapped a cup of coffee on to the small, scratched drop-leaf table and carried on talking as if Donna had not even spoken.
‘Did you see the newspaper, about the robbery? What a crying shame. His wife was on Thames News last night, a pretty little girl, crying and bawling over her husband’s murder. What’s the world coming to, I ask meself? A young man shot down in his prime. For what, eh? Money. Always money. Have these people never heard of working for a living? Christ, I hope they hang the bastards by the balls, I do. Those tiny children left without a father . . .’
Donna closed her eyes as Maeve carried on, knowing in her heart that conversations similar to this one were going on all over the country at this very moment. It was a death to shock the nation, like that of PC Blakelock, the policeman from Muswell Hill who was killed in a riot on a North London housing estate. The papers were having a field day, and the case would undoubtedly be dragged up time and again whenever something similar happened. It was political. Law and Order. Death and Destruction. Everyone calling for the reintroduction of hanging, birching, and anything else they could think of - everyone including the mother of the man who was likely to be charged with the murder.
