by Hugh Fraser
HUGH FRASER
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First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Urbane Publications Ltd
Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleaming Wood Drive,
Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ
Copyright © Hugh Fraser, 2017
The moral right of Hugh Fraser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-911583-06-6
eISBN: 978-1-911583-08-0
Design and Typeset by Julie Martin
Cover by Julie Martin
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
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The publisher supports the Forest Stewardship Council® (FSC®), the leading international forest-certification organisation. This book is made from acid-free paper from an FSC®-certified provider. FSC is the only forest-certification scheme supported by the leading environmental organisations, including Greenpeace.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
1
London 1964
The phone’s ringing. I turn over and put my head under the pillow. It rings and rings and finally I get out of bed, go into the hall and answer it. Tony Viner’s voice is low and mean.
‘Get over here now.’
‘In a while,’ I say.
‘Now.’
The line goes dead. I go back into the bedroom and put on a dressing gown. My watch says it’s half past eleven. The bed looks so inviting but Viner sounded well chafed and he can be an evil bastard so I know I’ve got to get going.
I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I stand by the window and look up at the blue sky and the fluffy white clouds racing each other towards the rooftops of Hamilton Terrace. For a moment, I wonder what it might be like to wake up in the morning, have a quiet breakfast and toddle off to work in a bank or an office, all safe and sound, and no nasty villains shouting at you down the phone. The kettle whistles and I make myself a cup of Nescafé and a piece of bread and marmalade and take them through to the bedroom. As I open the wardrobe and think about what to wear, the phone rings again and I go into the hall and answer it. It’s Bert Davis.
‘Don’t go to Viner’s.’
‘What are you on about?’ I say.
‘Be outside yours in five minutes.’
The line goes dead. Bert Davis is one of George Preston’s minders. George and my dad built up a strong firm out of protection and extortion after the war, until they ruled Notting Hill and most of Shepherd’s Bush. When my dad got shot by a mob from Bermondsey, George became the governor and now he’s well into Soho and the West End. He’s got muscle and he makes Tony Viner look like Mickey Mouse, so I know where I’m going. I go into the bedroom and put on silk underwear, stockings and shoes. I slide a blade into my suspender belt and wonder how the fuck Bert can know about Viner’s phone call. I slip into my black Jaeger dress, apply a light make-up, finish my coffee, put on a grey suede jacket and drop my Smith & Wesson into my shoulder bag.
I take the lift to the ground floor. Dennis is behind the porter’s desk, reading a paper under the counter. I open the lift gate and walk across the foyer.
‘Morning Miss,’ he says.
‘Morning Dennis. Been on all night?’
‘Ten hours straight.’
‘You should be in bed.’
‘Is that an offer?’
‘You cheeky old bugger.’
I walk past the desk, give him a pretend cuff round the ear and he laughs as he goes to the glass door and opens it for me. I slip a ten bob note in his pocket as I pass him. I’ve kept him well oiled ever since he took a good slap from a couple of ferrets who tried to get the key to my flat off him.
Bert’s Jaguar is parked outside in the service road. I get in beside him. The engine’s already running and he doesn’t look at me as he pulls out onto Maida Vale and turns left into Elgin Avenue.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘The governor wants a word.’
We drive to the end of Elgin, cross over Harrow Road, turn right beyond Westbourne Park Station and he parks the car in front of George’s house in Lancaster Road.
The front door’s opened by an old bloke with a walking stick and a shaky hand who I recognise as Jacky Parr, one of my dad’s old firm. He was a feared man in his day and I know he taught my dad a few tricks, but he’s well past it now. He looks me up and down.
‘Blimey girl, if old Harry could see you now he’d be right proud. Eh Bert?’
‘Easy now Jacko,’ says Bert as he walks past him. I smile at the old fellow and follow Bert along the hallway to a room at the back. He knocks on the door and a voice tells us to come in.
George is sitting in an armchair with a glass in his hand. He’s wearing his usual handmade suit and crocodile shoes. He was a boxer for many years and although he’s getting on a bit now he’s still in good shape. He points at a chair opposite him without looking at me and I sit down. Bert goes to the sideboard, picks up a whisky bottle and holds it poised above George’s glass. He gets a nod and pours, then he shows me the bottle. ‘Drink Rina?’
‘Yeah, go on.’
He pours one and hands it to me, turns and looks at George, who’s still staring at the fireplace, and goes out of the room. The silence continues and I’m beginning to wonder if George has had a stroke when he gives me a long look.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’
‘Eh?’ I say.
‘You’re supposed to be on my fucking firm and I turn round and you’re sniping for Tony Viner and fuck knows who else.’
‘I never said I was yours.’
‘I could have you down for life.’
‘But you won’t.’
He stares at me like he could smash his glass in my face because he knows I’m right. I killed his son while he was raping my sister Georgie when she was a child but he can’t grass me for it without it becoming known that his boy was a nonce and his other son was too chicken to get revenge for it.
‘You’ve got some fucking neck,’ he mumbles.
‘What do you want George?’
I wait while he drains his glass.
‘Viner’s making moves on my clubs.’
‘So what else is new?’
‘Danny Teale fronted up to a couple of his mob last night at the Nucleus and they pulled his teeth out, broke his fingers and had his gir
l away. I want you to do Viner and find the girl.’
‘You want to start a war?’
‘Viner’s a fucking headcase. He’s taken too many liberties and caused enough aggravation. He’s got to go.’
If it became known that I’d killed a man like Viner I could have half of North London after me.
‘Get someone else,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I’m not doing it.’
‘You will when I tell you what’s coming your way.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Your old man pulled off a big winner before he copped it. No one ever knew where he hid the cabbage, until now. Do this bit of work and it’s yours.’
‘How much are we talking about?’
‘Two hundred large.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘In used notes.’
‘You’d give that to me?’
‘Harry was your dad. It’s only right.’
George is a ruthless bastard but he does have respect for the code. While I’m thinking about how I could change my life with that kind of money, Bert comes back in and tops up my glass. I take a drink, look at George and wonder how far I can trust him.
‘Who’s the missing girl?’ I ask.
He takes a photo out of his pocket and passes it to me. Danny Teale and his brother Jack are sitting at a table in some club with a couple of other heavies, smiling and toasting the camera. Danny’s got his arm round a pretty blonde girl, who can’t be more than eighteen.
‘A bit young, isn’t she?’
‘That’s how he likes them. They’re getting married.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Dawn.’
‘The ones who crunched him?’
‘One’s called Brindle, he’s one of Viner’s. That’s all we’ve got.’
‘How did you know Viner phoned me this morning?’
‘I’ve got a man in there. If you’re game for this, he’s waiting at the Royal Oak to fill you in.’
I killed a man for Tony Viner a couple of weeks ago, and from the sound of him when he phoned me, he’s got some beef about it, so it might be good if he goes out anyway. The money’s too good to refuse and I want to know what’s happened to Dawn. I drain my whisky glass.
‘All right.’ I say.
‘Good girl.’
‘I’ll need expenses.’
George stands and looks at himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He’s well over six feet tall and broad with it. He tweaks his tie, smooths his hair down and takes a fold of notes out of his back pocket. He counts off two hundred quid and passes it to me, then he walks to the door and opens it. Bert is standing in the hallway. I walk past George and follow Bert out of the front door to the car. He drives down Great Western Road, turns left into Westbourne Park Road and pulls up outside the Royal Oak.
‘Your Georgie still at that boarding school?’ he asks.
‘She’s finishing there soon.’
‘Gone all right for her with all the posh girls, has it?’
‘Not bad.’
He doesn’t need to know that she put a girl in hospital for calling her a guttersnipe when she first arrived.
‘You’re looking good Rina.’
‘Cheers Bert.’
The pub’s quite crowded for a lunchtime but I find a space at the bar and order a whisky. A bald bloke next to me turns round, looks at my tits and breathes beer fumes at me.
‘I’ll get that for you love,’ he says.
‘I’m all right thanks,’ I reply.
‘Only buying you a drink.’
‘I said I’m all right.’
‘Suit yourself, you stuck-up cunt.’
The barman, who I know from the street we grew up in, puts my drink down and winks at me.
‘I’d leave it out Derek, unless you want to get hurt,’ he says.
‘You and whose army?’ says Baldy.
I walk away from the bar and sit down at a table by the window. I glance back and see the barman lean towards the bald bloke and speak into his ear. As he listens, a look of fear spreads across his face. When the barman moves away he comes to the table and loiters for a bit, looking embarrassed.
‘Er, sorry for what I said there, love,’ he says. ‘I was out of order. Bit pissed, you know?’
I give him a quick nod and he walks out of the pub. A tall bloke, in a grey overcoat, gets off a stool at the other end of the bar, comes to the table and sits opposite me. He puts his pint on the table, takes a packet of Players out of his pocket and offers me a cigarette. I shake my head.
‘Where do I find Viner?’ I ask.
‘He’ll be in the Royal Vauxhall tonight.’
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’
‘Straight up.’
The Royal Vauxhall Tavern is a pub where drag artists perform and the last place I’d expect to see Tony Viner.
‘Does he still live out Essex way?’
‘Big place outside Chigwell.’
‘Family?’
‘Just him and his Pit Bulls.’
‘Who’s Brindle?’ I ask.
He lights a cigarette and takes a long drag on it.
‘Hard case from up north who’s not long on Viner’s firm, trying to make his mark.’
‘He certainly made one on Danny Teale.’
‘Him and Brindle robbed a big house together a while back. Brindle set it up, did the work, all Danny really done was the alarms. Brindle just found out Danny pocketed a diamond necklace from the job and didn’t tell him, so he had to settle up.’
‘What’s he done with the girl?’
‘No idea.’
‘How will I know him?’
‘He’s young, about twenty-five, short, muscly, blond hair, leather jacket.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘It’ll cost you a score.’
I take two tenners out of my purse and hand them to him under the table. He takes out a pen, writes a number on a beer mat and passes it to me.
‘Give me a day,’ he says.
I put the beer mat in my bag.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
‘Ray.’
‘What’s Viner’s beef with me?’
‘You just done a bit of work for him.’
‘So?’
‘He’s got it in his head that George Preston gave you the same job and you got paid twice for it.’
‘That’s bollocks.’
‘It’s what he thinks.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was there when he phoned you.’
‘And you told George?’
‘Yeah.’
The man I killed for Viner was a well-known grass who offered up one of Viner’s boys for murder and I reckon maybe George has tried to take the credit for it, to up his reputation and to put one over on Viner. Ray downs the rest of his pint.
‘Another drink?’ he says.
‘I’ve got to go, thanks.’
If this geezer’s working for George, nosing around in other firms and playing both ends against the middle, I reckon the less time I spend with him the better. I pick up my bag and head for the door. Bert’s Jag is now parked across the road and I go over and get in.
‘Where’s Danny Teale?’ I ask.
‘Powis Square licking his wounds, I reckon.’
‘What number?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you show me?’
Bert moves the car off, turns into Chepstow Road, then into Talbot and when we get to Powis Square he points at a house near the end of the terrace.
‘Ground floor flat,’ he says.
The curtains are drawn over the bay window and a couple of raggedy boys with dirty faces and knees are sitting on the steps, looking at a Beano comic. One of them looks up as the Jag passes and nudges the other one to have a look. A streetwalker comes towards the car and then backs off
when she sees me.
‘She’s out early,’ says Bert.
‘Drop me round the corner.’
Bert turns the car into Colville Terrace and parks.
I walk back into Powis Square and the tom we just saw looks at me as if I might be trouble. I give her a smile as I walk between the two boys and up the steps to Danny’s house. She smiles back and moves on along the pavement. I ring the ground floor bell. After a while the curtain of the bay window is pulled aside and an old woman has a quick look at me and disappears. I hear shuffling steps behind the door and then the woman opens it. She’s tiny, like a little shrew, in her apron and cap, with a pointy nose and sharp eyes that narrow as she looks at me.
‘Is Danny in?’ I ask.
‘Who wants him?’
‘Rina Walker.’
She turns and scurries along the hall and into a door on the left. Moments later she pops her head out, beckons me to come in and disappears again. I step into the hall, close the front door behind me, walk into the flat and follow the old lady into the front room.
Danny Teale is sitting on the sofa, facing a television that’s showing some kids’ programme with puppets. His hands are bandaged, his face is cut and bruised and his lips are swollen and sunken at the same time. He nods weakly to me and raises a bandaged hand towards an armchair. Danny mumbles something to the old lady which includes the word ‘mum’ and she goes to the television and switches it off.
‘Cup of tea?’ she asks, in a high chirrupy voice.
‘I’m all right, thanks,’ I say.
She looks to Danny, who shakes his head and says, ‘Hag.’
While I’m wondering what his mum has done to deserve the abuse, she takes a packet of Park Drive off the mantelpiece, lights one, puts it in Danny’s mouth and he takes a long drag. His mum sits close beside him on the sofa holding the fag for him.
‘Sorry you got hurt Danny,’ I say.
‘I’ll fucking kill him.’
His words are slurred and unclear and without his teeth he sounds like he’s about a hundred years old but there’s no mistaking his fury at what’s been done to him.
‘Brindle. Right?’ I say.
‘Yeah.’
‘Who’s the other one?’
‘Never seen him before.’
‘Do you know where Dawn is?’
‘He’s got her somewhere. He wants two large by the end of the week, or he’ll do her.’
