The Take

by Cole, Martina

  THE TAKE

  MARTINA COLE

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2005 Martina Cole

  The right of Martina Cole to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law,

  this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted,

  in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing

  of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production,

  in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the

  Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any

  resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely

  coincidental.

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 5079 7

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Book Two

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Book Three

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Martina Cole is the No. 1 bestselling author of eleven hugely successful novels. Her most recent novel, The Graft, was No. 1 on the Sunday Times hardback bestseller list for eleven weeks, as well as a Sunday Times No. 1 bestseller in paperback, and The Know was selected by Channel 4’s Richard & Judy as one of the Top Ten Best Reads of 2003. Maura’s Game and Faceless both shot straight to No. 1 on the Sunday Times bestseller lists and total sales of Martina’s novels now exceed four million copies. Dangerous Lady and The Jump have gone on to become hugely popular TV drama series and several of her other novels are in production for TV. Martina Cole has a son and daughter and she lives in Essex.

  Highly acclaimed for her hard-hitting, uncompromising and haunting writing, as well as her phenomenal success, Martina Cole is the only author who dares to tell it like it is.

  Praise for Martina Cole’s bestsellers:

  ‘Martina Cole pulls no punches, writes as she sees it, refuses to patronise or condescend to either her characters or fans . . . And meanwhile sells more books than almost any other crime writer in the country’ Independent on Sunday

  ‘Intensely readable’ Guardian

  ‘Set to be another winner’ Woman’s Weekly

  ‘A cracking yarn . . . Cole writes with huge authority on what is traditionally men’s territory and more than succeeds’ Ms London

  For

  Mr and Mrs Whiteside.

  Christopher and Karina.

  With all my love to you both.

  And for

  Lewis and Freddie, my little pair of Kahuna Burgers!

  I would like to thank all the people who kept me company through the long nights of writing.

  Beenie Man, David Bowie, Pink Floyd, Barrington Levy, Usher, 50 Cent, Free, Ms Dynamite, The Stones, The Doors, Oasis, The Prodigy, Bob Marley, Neil Young, Otis Redding, Isaac Hayes, Janis Joplin, Ian Dury, Clint Eastwood and General Saint, Bessie Smith, Muddy Waters, Charles Mingus, Edith Piaf, Canned Heat, Steel Pulse, Peter Tosh, Alabama 3 . . . to name but a few.

  Prologue

  1984

  Lena Summers looked at her eldest daughter in abject disbelief. ‘You are joking?’

  Jackie Jackson laughed noisily. She had a loud laugh that made her sound very jolly. Very happy. It was a laugh that belied the vindictive nature beneath it.

  ‘He’ll love it, Mum, and after six years in poke he’ll be ready for a party.’

  Lena shook her head at her daughter and sighed. ‘Are you off your head? A party for him after the stunts he’s pulled over the years?’ The anger was in her voice now. ‘He was still romancing trollops while he was banged up!’

  Jackie closed her eyes as if the action would blot out the truths her mother was pointing out to her. She knew him better than anyone, she didn’t need this constant barrage about her husband.

  ‘Will you stop it, Mum. He’s me husband, the father of my kids. It will all work out now he has learned his lesson.’

  Lena puffed her lips out in astonishment. ‘Are you on drugs again?’

  Jackie sighed heavily, trying her hardest not to scream at the woman in front of her. ‘Don’t be silly. I want to welcome him home, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t going.’

  Jackie shrugged her ample shoulders. ‘Suit your fucking self.’

  Joseph Summers snapped his head above the newspaper as he growled, ‘Don’t you talk to your mother like that.’

  Jackie stretched her face in comic surprise and said sarcastically, as if talking to a baby, ‘Aw, I see, Dad. Need to borrow a few quid, eh?’

  Lena suppressed a smile. Jackie, for all her faults, had an uncanny knack of hitting the proverbial nail right on the head. Her husband shoved his face back in the paper and Jackie grinned at her mother.

  ‘Oh, come, Mum, all his family’s going to be there.’

  Lena tossed her head and, picking up her cigarettes, said nastily, ‘All the more reason to keep away then. Nothing but fucking trouble, the Jacksons. Look at the last time we got together with them.’

  Jackie was annoyed again and it showed, her heavy features screwed up as she tried with obvious difficulty to suppress her fury.

  ‘You caused all that, Mum, and you know it,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  She was clenching her fists now, and Lena stared at her eldest daughter, marvelling at her colossal anger. Even as a child she had been like that, one word and off she went into a frenzy of rage.

  There were tears in her daughter’s eyes. Lena knew she had to diffuse the anger now or face the consequences, and quite frankly she was tired, tired and more than a little interested to see what prison had done to her son-in-law.

  ‘All right then, keep your hair on.’

  ‘Well I ain’t fucking going.’ Joe got up and stamped from the room, and they heard him putting the kettle on in the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll get him there, don’t worry.’

  She was regretting her decision already.

  ‘Look at him, anyone would think he’d just got out of prison!’

  The men laughed.

  They could see their friend’s spotty behind pumping away at the small Asian girl they had purchased for him the night before. He had actually been released the previous day from Shepton Mallet,
where he had spent the last six weeks. It was an open prison, and his friends had picked him up in a limo with his girlfriend Tracey and a large amount of alcohol in tow. Tracey had been worn out before they had even reached Dartford toll tunnel and he had dumped her at the Crossways Hotel, much to her chagrin. They had then made their way into London where he had shagged anything with a pulse. He was overdue for going home but not one of them had the guts to point that out to him. He was drunk, aggressive drunk, and no one wanted to start him off. Freddie Jackson was a handful, and as much as they loved him he was also an annoying fucker into the bargain.

  He had just done six years of a nine-year sentence for firearms, attempted murder and a malicious wounding charge and he was proud of that fact. Inside he had mixed with what he saw as the cream of the underworld and he had come out of there thinking that he was now one of them.

  The fact they were all doing in excess of fifteen years made no difference to Freddie Jackson. He was Sonny Corleone in his mind. He was a man to be reckoned with.

  Freddie Jackson had worshipped Sonny, had never understood how they could have killed his character off. He had been the business, far more menacing than that shortarsed runt Michael. Freddie saw himself as the Godfather of the Southeast. Righting wrongs, causing untold hag and making his fortune into the bargain.

  No more fucking about for him. He was after the main prize these days and he was determined to get it.

  He rolled off the sweating girl. She was pretty and her vacant face reassured him of the usefulness of women.

  He glanced at his watch and sighed. If he didn’t get his arse in gear Jackie would have his nuts. He smiled at the girl, then, jumping from the bed, he said heartily, ‘Come on boys, chop chop, I have to see a man about a witness statement!’

  Danny Baxter groaned inwardly but outwardly he looked thrilled at the prospect. He had forgotten how frenetic and dangerous life with Freddie Jackson could be.

  Freddie’s cousin Jimmy Jackson smiled with the men. He was a watered-down version of Freddie and wanted to be like him. He had visited his cousin religiously and Freddie had appreciated that fact. He liked the kid, he had heart. Plus he was only nine years younger than Freddie. They had a lot in common.

  Today he would show Jimmy just what he was capable of.

  Maggie Summers was fourteen but appeared eighteen. She had the look of her older sister but she was a tinier, sleeker version. She still had the wonderful skin of extreme youth and dainty white teeth that had not yet been tarred by years of smoking or neglect. Her blue eyes were big, wide-spaced and kind. Like her older sister she could take care of herself; unlike her older sister she didn’t often have to. Yet.

  At just five feet tall, she had long legs for her height and was completely unaware of how lovely she actually was. In her school uniform of black miniskirt, white shirt and navy-blue sweater she looked as if she was coming home from work instead of school, and that was the look she tried to create.

  Lisa Dolan, a sometime friend and occasional enemy, said gaily, ‘Your sister having a party tonight, then?’

  Maggie nodded. ‘I am just going to give her a hand. Want to come with me?’

  Lisa grinned happily. ‘Yeah!’

  If she helped she was guaranteed an invite. They dropped into step beside one another. Lisa, a dark-haired girl with buck teeth, said quietly, ‘Here, Maggie, according to Gina, Freddie Jackson got out yesterday. That can’t be true, can it?’

  Maggie sighed. Gina Davis was Tracey Davis’s sister, which meant there might be a grain of truth in her claims. It also meant Jackie would go ballistic if she heard about it. Tracey had been seeing Freddie when he had been arrested, but she had had the sense to keep away from the trial. Maggie had assumed it had fizzled out, but it seemed she was wrong. Her Mum had gone on and on about it, hating the way her sister’s husband humiliated her all the time. Lena had gone round after the girl herself and been assured it was well and truly over by Tracey’s irate father. Tracey had only been fifteen at the time. In the last four years she had produced twin boys and Freddie couldn’t get the blame for them as they were only eighteen months old. Truth be told, even Tracey had no idea who the father was, but she was Freddie Jackson’s type, big, breathing and with a pair of breasts. Those, according to Lena, were all the criteria needed.

  Maggie had a working knowledge of everything and everyone in her world thanks to her mother. Lena had the handle on everyone, and what she didn’t know she had an uncanny knack of ferreting out. But she hadn’t heard anything about Freddie getting out early till now.

  ‘I hate that Gina, she’s a liar and if my sister knew what she had said . . .’

  Maggie left the sentence unfinished, getting her point across without too much detail. Lisa would not want to be cross-examined by Jackie, so hopefully she would keep that morsel of information to herself.

  Lisa, paler now but forewarned, changed the subject quickly.

  Leon Butcher was a small, tubby man with tobacco-stained teeth and a lager belly. He lived in a two-bedroomed council flat with his elderly mother and a collection of jetsam. He was an Uncle, in other words, and he lent small amounts on property, usually jewellery. Today he was looking at an eighteen-carat gold and diamond eternity ring. It was a beauty, first-grade diamonds, lovely setting. He smiled at the young girl in front of him who had obviously stolen it from a relative. She had the sunken eyes of the smack head and he said gently, ‘A fifty, that’s all.’

  It was worth ten times that and she knew it.

  He threw it on the grubby kitchen table and removed his eyeglass, then lit a cigarette and pulled on it deeply. He could wait. He had played this game many times before.

  After an age the girl said quietly, ‘OK.’

  He went to the kitchen drawer and took out a wad of money, and as he turned back to face her he saw Freddie Jackson standing in the doorway.

  ‘Hello, Leon.’ Freddie grinned drunkenly. ‘Is that money for me?’

  The girl stood up unsteadily, sensing the atmosphere.

  ‘Hand it over, that’s my compensation.’

  Leon passed it to him with shaking hands.

  Freddie quickly counted off five twenties and gave them to the girl. ‘That your ring, sweetheart?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Take it with you, love, and forget you were ever here, OK?’ He smiled at her and his handsome face suddenly looked friendly, approachable.

  She took the ring and left the flat as quickly as possible.

  ‘On our own, eh, Leon?’ He walked towards the smaller man menacingly.

  ‘What do you want, Freddie?’

  Jackson looked down at him for a few seconds before saying quietly, ‘What do I want, Leon? I want you.’

  As he nutted Leon, the man dropped to his knees. Then bringing back his leg Freddie kneed Leon in the face, sending his head crashing backwards into the melamine kitchen cabinets. Dropping sideways, Leon curled himself into a ball and took the kicking doled out quietly and stoically. Finally spent, Freddie looked down at the bloody mass before him and said, ‘I dare you to press fucking charges, you grassing cunt. Now where’s the tom?’

  Leon was in agony and a swift kick to the groin had him yelping out, ‘In the bedroom.’

  Dragging the man up none too gently Freddie threw him across the room. ‘Get it.’

  He followed Leon into the small bedroom, watching as he pulled a wooden box with difficulty from under the bed.

  Opening it, Freddie saw it was full to the brim with wads of money as well as a small fortune in jewellery. He picked up the box and put it under his arm.

  ‘You cost me six years, Leon. You better move away soon because I will always be back, you hear me?’

  Leon was still standing and Freddie had a sneaking admiration for him because of that. He had given him a good trouncing, the man would be pissing blood for weeks. But he had made his point.

  Leon had only been a witness, through no fault of his own. Filth had made him test
ify, he was aware of that, but it still didn’t lessen Leon’s crime in his eyes. He should have gone and done his stir like a man, not served Freddie up as an alternative.

  As he left the flat he was whistling. Not a bad day’s work by anyone’s standards.

  Danny Baxter saw him walking back towards the limo with the box under his arm, and grinned as Freddie stopped to chat up a girl with a baby in a pushchair. On this estate there were plenty of girls like that, and they were Freddie’s cup of tea inasmuch as they had a little flat and no real life, and if he bunged them a few quid they were eternally grateful.

  ‘He never stops sniffing out strange, does he?’

  Danny sighed. At nineteen, Freddie’s cousin Jimmy had a lot to learn about Freddie Jackson. ‘This ain’t got nothing to do with being banged up, Freddie’s always been like it. We used to call him “Ever Ready”. If you could see some of the sights he’s shagged!’ Freddie got in the car and said loudly, ‘I heard that, Danny boy. Like I told you, the ugly ones are the best - grateful, see.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘Let’s get up the pub, eh?’

  ‘Don’t you think you should go home and see Jackie and the kids, Fred?’

  Freddie Jackson laughed loudly at his young cousin’s words.

  ‘No, I fucking don’t, Jimmy. Fuck me, soon that’s all I’ll be seeing, morning, noon and fucking night! To the pub, boy, and don’t spare the horses!’

  It was seven thirty and the Jackson house was filling up with people, the banners were all in place and the sandwiches and chicken legs were waiting to be consumed.

  The whole place smelled of Rive Gauche, soap on a rope and coleslaw.