by Mark Newman
Serving his time in HMP Gartree, Ron acted as enforcer, going after anyone who posed a threat to Malkie or the firm. Tim Elliott was a petty criminal, banged up for street robbery and fencing goods; he was also a known grass. Classed as a vulnerable prisoner Elliott was housed on a segregated wing away from the main prison population that might seek to do him harm. Ron bribed a couple of the screws to get himself onto the segregation unit, so he could have a word with Elliot. It turned out that he had some shit on Malkie going back to seventy-seven. Something about a youth’s body found in a fishing lake near Glasgow. Elliot’s mistake was to mention the name Malkie Thompson when he started making noises about trading information to get a reduced sentence. Doing so, he set the ball in motion, and needed to be shown the error of his ways. Five minutes locked in the cell with Ronnie was time enough to convince him to remain silent. Sudden amnesia meant he never turned Crown Witness for the prosecution. He served his time, all of it. No prospect of an early release, he even got an extra eighteen months for wasting police time. Sometimes it’s better to do the time, to keep your mouth shut and your head down, least that way you’re still breathing, even if it is dank, stale prison air. Life expectancy isn’t too good on the inside for a grass.
In to the last ten months of his sentence, Ron got the word that Malkie had a special favour to ask. By that point, he was in happy mode, so close to getting out that he could almost taste it. Ronnie found himself backed in to a corner. If he said no, he’d serve the remainder of his sentence in isolation, but they’d find a way to get to him. Ron took the job, better to gamble his liberty than his life.
Ron can still see it now, clear as day, the fear etched on his face, the realisation that the end would be brutal and bloody. He put up a fight, but it was always going to play out the same way. The guy knew too much, had information that could bury Malkie for a long time, and dismember the organisation forever. The risk was just too great. There wasn’t even a hint that the guy was going to blab. Just Malkie tying up loose ends. Business—ruthless to the core. Take no chances, leave nothing undone.
Chapter 7
Frank’s lost in a trance. He won’t speak out of turn; this needs to come from Malkie. He’s still the boss man, but the silence is becoming uncomfortable, Malkie gets up, and hobbles over to the bar unaided, pouring himself another whisky. He’s taking his time, his hand trembling, spilling the amber liquid on to the bar. Both Frank and Ron see it, but say nothing.
His voice is like gravel in the mixer as he strains to clear his throat. ‘Some bastard’s taken out one of our own, Walter Browne. I want those responsible brought to me direct, but we keep this low key, understand?’
There’s no chance for questions, George is in through the main bar, striding across towards them. ‘Traffic’s a nightmare, accident out on the main carriageway.’
Malkie glares, his nostrils flared, ‘where the fuck is he?’
‘No sign of him… Disappeared, I tried his place, and a few of his local haunts, not even a whiff.’
Malkie slams his glass down hard on the table. ‘I want Cunningham here now, no excuses.’
George backs away from the table, his phone in hand, tapping away at the numbers as he turns and makes his way back towards the door.
Ronnie’s up, pacing back and forth. ‘We need to hit back and hit hard.’
Frank looks to Malkie, braving the question they’ve been skirting around. ‘What’s your gut feeling on this.’
Before he can answer, George is back in the room, flushed, nodding his head. ‘On his way over now…reckons he had a visit from our friend Sergei…enquiring after his health.’
Ronnie clenches his first, ‘I knew it, the slimy bastard; I said we could never trust that fucker. We should do him now before he gathers strength. Let’s show these wankers who they’re dealing with.
Malkie shakes his head. ‘Enough for Christ sake… Jesus. It’s not Sergei. OK. Too fucking obvious. That’s what they want us to think. We need logic here, not emotion. We gotta be sure who we’re going after. Sergei makes for a convenient scapegoat, on the say so of who, some street level whore or junkie?’
George is about to interject when Malkie’s phone begins to warble. He picks it up, and accepts the call. ‘Thompson.’
The voice on the other end of the line is familiar, and needs no introduction; it’s safer that way. ‘Just heard about an employee of yours who took a turn for the worse. Might not have to look too far on this one. Could be home grown if the intel is right.’ The phone clicks off. Malkie presses the call end button on the handset.
Chapter 8
Jason Cunningham’s scanning the room, the look on their faces giving nothing away. He has it all planned out in his head, his acceptance speech—rehearsed it a hundred times over. Been a long time coming.
No boss man, Malkie’s absence conspicuous. All part of his game. Keep them waiting, build the anticipation. The atmosphere’s thick. They’re all just waiting on the word. The all-important endorsement, it could be any one of them. The future of the organisation hangs in the balance.
George is there, drink in hand. Heard he’s been looking for him, tasked with bringing him in, whatever that means. Doesn’t matter now. It’s unimportant. He and George have never seen eye to eye. Already got a retirement plan in place for him when he gets made. He’s smiling back at him, it’s all fake. They both know it. Just going through the motions. George’s nothing more than a cancerous growth, been sucking the lifeblood out of the organisation for years. Emergency procedure needed, time to make the incision, cut out the tumour.
Needs careful handling, George and Malkie go way back. Old school stuff, bonded by the past. Trouble is George knows stuff. Too much. He’s surprised Malkie’s let it get that way. If the Old Bill ever pulled him in, offered a deal – well, who knows? Faced with the choice of twenty-five years plus without parole, or three to five in a cushy, low category prison – he knows what he’d do.
The time’s come for Cunningham to take his rightful place. Make the changes a reality, they’re long overdue. Onwards and upwards. Malkie’s let things stagnate. Content to keep it small. A distinct lack of ambition in his old age.
Not him. Cunningham’s got plenty of ambition. A man with a vision. Way he sees it; it’s down to him now. Just needs the say so from the boss man. He’s been working hard behind the scenes, cultivating new contacts. Now’s the chance to step up a league. Raise the profile. All it needs is the money and backing to put it in play.
Malkie’s entering the room now, heads turning to welcome the boss. Two minders flank him. Cunningham doesn’t recognise either of them. Both thick set, pumped, gym addicts. Side arms hanging loose under their jackets. That’s a new development. Could be expecting trouble? Or maybe just being over cautious.
Frankie Mayer, the Polak, follows them in. Nobody’s brave enough to say it to his face though. The product of a Northern Irish father and a Polish mother. He’s eyeballing the room, got the instincts of a pit-bull. His role, head of security, it’s been that way as far back as Cunningham can remember. Done well for himself, a safe pair of hands. Unlike George, he knows his own limitations, content to remain an employee. Cunningham’s undecided as yet whether to keep him on the payroll. He needs to suss him out. Frank doesn’t give too much away. He’s a practical guy. Not like George, he’s too emotional. Unpredictable, difficult to gauge.
Cunningham’s watching Malkie approach. Notices he’s trying to hide the limp. Invisible to the untrained eye, but he’s locked on to it. He can feel Malkie’s pain with every step. Admires him for that. Shows strength of character, but he’s had his day. Now’s the time for new blood. He came close a few years back with the whole club scene. He and Ryan Kane cleared up. Least they did till Malkie slammed the brakes on. The firm’s been in recovery ever since.
He’s done with all that shit. Worked his way back up. Penance served. Tired of playing the waiting game. The organisation needs a new boss, and a new direction. Opportu
nities aplenty for those who pledge loyalty. Those who don’t… Their choice. Live or die by it.
He moves to the bar, takes a Vodka Ice from the refrigerator. Ronnie Price is there; he places a hand to his shoulder. ‘Mr Cunningham, long time.’ He takes a moment to the scan the room. ‘Lot of faces gathered. Guess the old man’s finally ready to call it a day.’
Cunningham turns, and shakes Ron’s hand in an enthusiastic grip. ‘Find out soon enough. Whatever happens here today you and I should talk.’
‘We should, I hear you been reaching out… Making new friends.’
‘You asking or telling?’
‘Just saying.’
‘Good to see you, Ron, don’t leave it too long, yeah.’
‘Count on it.’
Cunningham moves away from the bar, careful not to draw attention. He needs to keep them guessing, for now.
He takes a seat, and raises the bottle to his mouth, then gulps it down. He’s concerned about Ron’s comment, reaching out, making new friends. Tells himself it’s nothing, and he’s just messing with him. He puts it to the back of his mind then watches Ron work the crowd. Mr Charisma, everybody’s favourite fixer. He’s the key. A shrewd operator. He saw an opportunity, and took it.
He’s the kind of guy Cunningham can do business with, just needs to get him on side.
Won’t be easy, Ron did an eight stretch. That’s loyalty. Kept schtum the whole time. Lot of rumours about his role on the inside. Word is he got weighed in big. That’s how it goes sometimes. Ron took the fall, did the time, got the reward. Above all else, he got respect and trust, that’s what really counts.
He’s the fixer. The man who can make things happen. Got the ear of both George and Frank. A professional respect exists between the three of them, that’s clear to see. Dig away at the surface a little, get down to the root, and things look very different. Sure they put on a performance, play to the crowd. The back slapping camaraderie, it’s all fake. Break it down, look at it logically, it boils down to rivalry, all three gunning for top position, they all want to be Malkie’s favourite bitch.
George’s pouring Malkie a drink, two fingers. All ready for the sit down. Two minders on the door. Frank gives them the nod. Doors closed, bolted shut. No one getting in or out. Not till his say so.
The room’s been swept twice for bugs, once last night just after close, and repeated first thing this morning. Came up clean on both counts. Can’t be too careful. New surveillance technology what it is, they all need to remain alert.
Things are different now. Got some new DCI on the Serious Crime Unit. Young guy out to make his name. He’s got a hard on for Malkie. DCI Rory Kempton. Thirty-three years old. Graduate type, accelerated promotion. Not a real copper, a college boy playing at cops and robbers, going through the motions. Putting in his basic year requirement, a prelude to the fast track. Already earmarked to make Chief Super within five years. So far, he’s got a decent pedigree, responsible for exposing the infamous DI Morrison as a bent cop, that is just before he disappeared. Those with their ear to the ground reckon Kempton had Morrison cornered, that he panicked and shot him, then buried his body someplace. But the good money’s on Morrison having the dirt on Kempton, and just when it mattered, he told him what he had, Kempton had no choice but to let him walk.
He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already made it to Cunningham’s hit list. Kempton has one chance to get on side. Got his Achilles heel, a wife and family. He plays at being the perfect family man – Cunningham knows different. He’s got the pictures to prove it.
Cunningham’s got plans to set up a meet and give him the ultimatum. He’s not interested in the pictures, they can keep, a future bargaining chip. No, he’s going after the family. He’s got no qualms about it. He’ll do what he needs to do, whatever it takes to get his point across.
Cunningham’s letting his eyes wander around the room, faces – past and present. Lot of dead wood, hangers on. He can do without most of them. There are choices to be made; they’re either with him, or against him. They opt for the latter, fine with him, skip to the elimination round. Start over, build it up from the floor. Sure they have experience, some might even have expertise in their field. Nothing he can’t pick up. Old men from a bygone age. Time for the new breed.
Got to give Malkie his dues, quarter of a century at the top, no mean feat. He’s played it just right, fed the police just the right amount of information to keep them on side. Back in the day, the inside man was DS Ken Millar, Morrison’s underling. He and Malkie had an understanding, and it worked well for a time, but then Millar got greedy, tried to dictate terms. The way it transpired, he had an accident, a hit and run. Fuelled up on eight pints of lager he stumbled in to the road. The car came out of nowhere, mowed him down – he didn’t stand a chance, dead at the scene. No witnesses forthcoming, the incident was resigned to the cold case file, and there it remains, gathering dust.
Movement catches Cunningham’s eye, the proceedings are about to start. Malkie’s standing, shaking off George’s bear like arms. Important for the boss to stand unaided. It’s all about perception. He can’t be seen to be weak, needs to command respect.
He’s standing, casting a watchful eye over those gathered. Conversational voices ebb away. ‘To business, gentlemen.’ He pauses, making sure he has their attention. ‘Landscape’s changing, evolving. Important we stay ahead, up our game. Lot of newcomers itching to take our prime business right from under our noses.’
Cunningham’s readying himself for his moment; he tries to disguise his nerves, shifting side to side.
George has a big smile on his face, wolf like. Taking satisfaction from Cunningham’s discomfort.
He’s staring back at George; there’ll come a time when he’ll wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face. Melt it away with a blowtorch. Back to the present – he clears his mind of George’s ruined carcass.
Malkie pauses, takes another swig of whisky, readies himself. ‘So here we are, gathered as one. And I know some of you out there think I’m about to sign off, hand over the reins…’
Cunningham tries to relax in his seat. This is it. His time has finally come. He’s mouthing the words in his head. Outlining his plans for the business. He’ll give them a taste in his acceptance speech, nothing more. That’ll come in time. He’s got some housekeeping to do first.
George, Frank, and Ron, they’re all prepped. It could be any one of them. The news they’ve been waiting on. One thing they have in common, know for sure it’s not Cunningham, too much baggage. He can’t be trusted, he can’t even trust himself. Afflicted, those were Malkie’s exact words.
Malkie clears his throat. ‘Yesterday, Walter Browne was gunned down in his office…Murdered. Got all the hallmarks of a professional hit. No prints, nothing taken or disturbed.’ He pauses, letting the information and the gravity of the news sink in. ‘The question is why? Why go after Walter Browne, a civilian?’
Mutterings from around the room, disbelief and anger. Calls for retribution. Accusations made towards those who may have pulled the trigger.
Malkie raises his hands, calls for quiet. ‘Rest assured, friends, we will have justice, and vengeance. And I promise you this; Walter Browne’s death will not go unanswered. But for now, the present, we exercise caution. We can’t allow ourselves to be drawn in to a war. Those who antagonise us, they will pay.’
Ron’s up out of his seat. ‘We need to respond, we can’t leave it like this.’
Malkie, his breathing shallow and raspy. ‘Let’s be clear, I don’t want anybody going vigilante on this.’
George is sitting quiet, the revelation still fresh, he’s kept his eye on Cunningham the whole time, looking for a sign, a reaction – nothing.
Malkie looks set to continue. ‘Looking around this room, I see faces from the past, lot of shared history. I know some of you are thinking I’m past it. That I’ve had my day. Some might even be sizing things up, thinking they can do a better job than me.’ He lets
the words hang, taking his time eyeballing each one of them in turn. Daring any one of them to defy him. None willing to take the challenge.
He sees it all: loyalty, ambition, frustration, hate, as vivid as if it was spray-painted on the wall. ‘This is how it is...’ taking his time, another swig. Signalling for a refill. He waits till it arrives. Then he takes another draught, and enjoys the warm glow, savouring the last drop. ‘We let the police do their job, investigate the brutal murder of a pillar of our community. Behind the scenes, we keep our profile low – carry out our own investigation, nothing that’ll draw attention.’
Cunningham’s up, slamming his drink down. ‘This is bullshit.’
Malkie ignores the outburst. ‘This new DCI, Kempton, he’s just waiting for us to fuck up, and we’re not going to do that. Tact and diplomacy, that’s how we go forward.’
Cunningham’s pacing up and down, the indignation written all over his face. ‘You’re serious? One of our own gets taken out, and you’re content to sit back and wait…some kind of messed up logic that!’
Malkie’s death stare burns in to him. ‘Sit down. Mouth off again, I’ll wire your jaw shut.’
Frank’s up now. Arm outstretched, signalling for Cunningham to take his seat, imploring him to do the right thing. He doesn’t want to have to make an example of him. It’s a delicate operation; he’s playing his diplomatic card. He’s still Malkie’s guy, for now, but the day will come when choices have to be made. Cunningham’s ready to branch out. He doesn’t want to make an enemy of him. This needs to be done right. ‘Cool it. Sit down, we’re all good here, Jason.’
Cunningham complies, and takes his seat. He’s seething, and continues to mutter under his breath, audible to those within six feet. ‘Bullshit… Too lame to admit you’re done.’
George is up, lurching for Cunningham. ‘What’s that you’re saying?’
