Insider (The Glass Family)

by Owen Mullen

  Ritchie ditched the let’s-all-be-calm act. ‘She’s not at her flat. Even had her office in Waterloo checked out in case she went there. A long shot, but you never know. Nothing. We’ll keep looking. For whoever attacked LBC, Luke Glass’ sister is a prize and a half. If they had her we’d have heard from them by now. The fact there’s been radio silence tells me they haven’t.’

  It made sense. There was no more to be said.

  He moved on to LBC. ‘Let’s leave the security guard out of it for the moment and concentrate on what we know.’ His eyes hooded; his expression changed. ‘The first two hits at Lambeth and Lewisham had the same MO. Masked men with shotguns.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Bad enough. It should never have happened. Threats but no actual violence – the only injury was to the manager, and that was an accident. He’s all right, by the way. We lost a day’s takings from Eamon’s and drugs from the taxis.’ He made a face. ‘Not serious. We’ll survive.’

  ‘What’s your thinking, George?’

  ‘Hitting the club complicates it. Before that, their out-of-town accents and the cheeky bastards asking for you told me somebody was sending us a message. I tightened everything up in case there was more on the way and waited for their next move.’

  ‘Asking for me? What do you mean?’

  ‘Said to tell you Charlie was asking for you.’

  ‘Charlie? Who the hell is Charlie?’

  Ritchie shrugged. ‘LBC is different – doesn’t fit the same pattern. It was ugly because they wanted it ugly. Machetes guaranteed they got their wish. The big mystery, the puzzle I’m trying to get my head round, is why. The three of our guys who collected the cash from Jonas Small were dead before the van got to the club. They already had the money.’ Ritchie frowned and shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Unless they are sending a message – showing us it can go down hard or easy.’

  He toyed with the amber in the glass. ‘Just so you know, I’ve put a call in to Newcastle. By lunchtime tomorrow, the cavalry will have arrived.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Enough for a war, if that’s where it’s headed.’

  He was planning for a battle. After three years in total control south of the river it didn’t seem real. Except, it was. We were in the dark, scrambling around trying to understand what the hell was happening.

  Ritchie said, ‘In case you’re wondering about the two downstairs, until we figure this thing out, they’re yours.’ He held up a hand before I could object. ‘You’re Luke Glass not Nina, that makes you the number one target for an enemy. I believe your sister’s safe. She’ll turn up at the door, bloody raging at me for hunting all over London for her.’ He smiled. ‘Nobody will be happier when she does, and, whether she likes it or not, we’ll have a team on her, too.’

  For a while, we didn’t speak. Then Ritchie said, ‘How much did we lose?’

  ‘Two hundred thou.’

  ‘Of Jonas Small’s money.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Couldn’t make this stuff up, could you?’

  ‘Make it up’s exactly what we’ll have to do. We’d collected the cash, which means it was our responsibility. Small will get his money. But it’ll take a lot of talking to persuade the others thinking about putting their business our way.’

  Ritchie said, ‘Going back to this Mark Douglas character. Him showing up when he did prevented a bloodbath. You’re short a head of security. Sounds to me like he’d be perfect – if he’s bloody stupid enough to take the job.’

  7

  We came downstairs into the bar. The men in the corner had their orders and stood, ready to go wherever I was going. It was still early, yet all over the city guys like them would be in position, watching and waiting for an unknown enemy to show face, squeezing information from reluctant mouths. We’d had south London to ourselves for too long. Been kings of the castle. And it hadn’t been good for us; we’d gone soft and paid the price. George Ritchie, as seasoned a pro as I’d ever met, had to be spitting nails. Ritchie saw me check out his guys and guessed what I was thinking. His hand touched my arm to stave off resistance. ‘Don’t fight me on this.’

  He’d read it wrong – fighting him was the last thing I’d do. I’d seen the bodies in the van, riddled with bullets, hacked like butcher meat. If he hadn’t made moves to keep me safe, he wouldn’t be doing his job.

  The same couldn’t be said for our pet copper, Oliver Stanford. So far, he’d been as useful as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking competition. I hated surprises. He was supposed to make sure I didn’t get any. The policeman had forgotten his place and was due a reminder.

  I said, ‘Let’s get a couple of hours’ sleep and meet again around lunchtime. Whoever’s behind this might have shown their hand and we’ll know what we’re up against.’

  I’d arrived at the King Pot in the middle of the night. Now, a dawn sky, pale and streaked with grey, broke over London. Orange tinged the horizon to the east: it was going to be a sunny day.

  Glass Houses had put me in the way of a two-bedroom flat in a new development in Balham, the kind of place a thrusting executive like myself should lay his weary head. I liked it. Not as much as the old place, but well enough. What I found told me there wouldn’t be much thrusting for a while: the wardrobe doors were open, clothes hangers were scattered on the bed, and the drawer of one bedside cabinet was on the floor. Kelly had left and taken her stuff with her.

  Not entirely unexpected.

  On the coffee table in the lounge, she’d gouged her anger into a yellow Post-it.

  THIS ISN’T WORKING.

  K

  Usually I was the one to call time on relationships though not always. Losing Kelly hardly registered. I didn’t feel sorry. I didn’t feel anything. In the kitchen I dropped the note in the bin under the sink and made coffee. Before it brewed, I changed my mind and lay back in the chair beside the fire. My eyes closed and I was asleep in seconds.

  The mobile ringing brought me back into the land of the living. I grabbed it without checking the ID and got my character handed to me. When it came to anger, Kelly was a novice, a beginner barely scratching the surface.

  My sister was the real McCoy.

  From the balcony, Nina followed a dry-bulk cargo barge loaded with sand as it passed on its way up river, waving to a man in grey overalls and a flat cap standing in the prow, smiling when he waved back. Her mood was high and no wonder. Drake’s cheque was clearing at the bank and he’d acquitted himself passably in bed. She took a last look at Tower Bridge and the Tower of London behind it. He’d got his money’s worth – in more ways than one – and would need the rest of the weekend to recover. The poor darling was still sleeping. Let him. Egged on by her, he’d beaten his personal best and almost killed himself in the process.

  The male ego at work once again, imagining he could satisfy a younger woman without bringing on a heart attack. Still – ten out of ten for effort.

  At one point, he’d made a sound in his throat like dolphins talking to each other and she’d thought he wasn’t going to survive. But he had. On Monday, Algie would be boasting to his colleagues about the foxy lady he’d tamed on Friday night. Nina expected to hear from him again. But that wasn’t happening. Before she left, she laid an LBC platinum membership card on the bedside table. The girls at the club could satisfy his demands in future; he’d had all he was getting from her.

  Her mobile rang while the guy on the barge still had his hand in the air. Nina wasn’t a fan of George Ritchie and resented the influence the Geordie had with Luke. Hearing from him was never good news. She steadied herself. ‘George. What can I do for you this bright, beautiful morning?’

  Ritchie didn’t rise to it; he had more on his mind. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  His tone set her on edge. ‘Sorry. Didn’t realise I needed your approval to go out.’

  ‘Where are you, Nina? It’s important.’

  She thought about not telling him. Something in his voice changed
her mind.

  ‘Butler’s Wharf, if you must know.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘None of your fucking business.’

  ‘Okay. You’re right. Stay where you are. A car will pick you up in twenty minutes.’

  Nobody did awkward-little-girl better than Nina Glass. She said, ‘No, thanks. I’m going into town.’

  Ritchie wasn’t listening – the fool didn’t appreciate the danger she was in. By the time she did, it could be too late. ‘Twenty minutes, Nina. If you’re not happy, take it up with your brother.’

  She didn’t scream. Didn’t shout. Her fury was beyond that. Instead, Nina quietly spat into the phone, articulating each word so her message couldn’t be missed. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  ‘Nina – the club was hit.’

  She raved on. ‘No man tells me what I can or can’t do, do you hear me? No man. George Ritchie has just given me an order. Put your flunky back in his box. Get him off my case. Or else.’

  The line died in my hand. Immediately, it rang again and I roared. ‘Hang up and I’ll break your fucking neck!’

  Oliver Stanford didn’t hide his amusement. He chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, especially when you put it like that.’ He took a few seconds to enjoy the joke. ‘Your sister’s mobile switched on five minutes ago. She’s at Butler’s Wharf.’

  For the third time in two minutes, my phone rang. Nina was calm. ‘The club was hit? When?’

  ‘After you left.’

  Suspicion crept into her voice. ‘And that’s why Ritchie’s ordering me around?’

  I exploded. ‘You stupid bitch. People died. Ritchie’s doing his job, which is more than could be said for you.’

  ‘A friend called me.’

  The response was weak, self-serving – I’d expect it from a child.

  ‘I don’t want to hear about your “friend”. There’s a car on the way for you. Get in the back and keep your mouth shut. And when you see George Ritchie, you owe him an apology.’

  Sunlight glinted on the abandoned tinfoil containers and stained cardboard lids littering the floor; the smell of curry filled the flat. In the centre of the room on a beat-up coffee table, a half-eaten onion bhaji shared a white plate an inch thick with scraps of cold paratha and the survivors of two unnecessary portions of pakora.

  The previous night they’d downed Strongbow – nowhere near as good as the Old Rascal they drank back home – blown triumphant smoke rings in the air and talked about how overrated these London types were. It had been easy. Easier than any of them had dared hope.

  Jazzer lay in bed watching dust motes float in the air. His head ached. Cider did that to him. Since the Holiday Inn in Lime Street, not a day had gone by when he hadn’t thought about the woman. His obsession concerned him: females were warm-bodied distractions. Not this one. This one was different. This one he wanted.

  At the sink he splashed water on his face and filled the battered electric kettle. Whoever was here before them had left a crumpled bag of sugar and a jar of Maxwell House in the cupboard, caked hard and months beyond its sell-by date. Vile, though better than nothing. He made himself a cup, sipped it and screwed up his face – the bloody Mersey tasted better.

  Ronnie was at his elbow. ‘I wouldn’t have minded one.’

  Jazzer set him straight. ‘You think that but you’d be wrong. Help yourself.’

  Tosh surfaced from under the sleeping bag on the floor, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy child.

  ‘What time’s this tart coming?’

  Jazzer wanted to punch him; he didn’t like Tosh calling her a tart. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be here.’ He kicked the holdall of money and drugs. ‘Got this to collect, hasn’t she?’

  In Lewisham, terrorising the punters had been fun. Now, his palms were clammy and he didn’t feel well. He blamed the shitty coffee. The truth was, he was nervous. When the doorbell rang, Ronnie pressed the entry buzzer and they waited.

  The top buttons of her white dress were undone; beneath, the bra was losing the struggle to contain the pale-cream swell of the breasts. Red hair fell to her shoulders, red lips – the lips Jazzer saw when he closed his eyes – parted when she smiled. Something amused her.

  ‘Been having a party?’

  ‘Just a few drinks to celebrate.’

  ‘Is there a law against opening a window in this country? My Christ, it stinks in here.’

  She was older than Jazzer remembered – strangely, that made her even more desirable. Her voice was strong and deep, almost masculine. ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No.’

  The others hadn’t seen her before. Jazzer watched their reaction – they couldn’t take their eyes off her; it wasn’t just him. When she lifted the bag, her dress tightened across her rear. Behind her back, Ronnie made a crude gesture. Jazzer hated him for it but understood: she was messing with them because she could.

  And Ronnie wasn’t wrong: doing her would be a challenge, a battle he’d willingly lose.

  She pushed their share of the money across the coffee table, giving them another eyeful of her ample tits, aware of the stir she was causing, playing to the audience.

  The lounge of the Holiday Inn hadn’t diminished her and Jazzer had imagined he was squiring a movie star from the forties or fifties, a full-bodied seductress he couldn’t put a name to.

  Every second sentence had a double meaning. Or, that was how it had seemed. In a blunt New York accent, she’d said, ‘If it’s too much for you, now’s the time to tell me.’

  Like that. She wanted it. The bitch wanted it.

  ‘It isn’t. I’ve been here before.’

  ‘Yeah, you have, but not like this. Last time you got caught. That isn’t an option.’

  The reminder of his five years in Leeds, Armley Gaol, for robbing a sub-post office in Moss Lane had taken Jazzer by surprise. She’d done her research, all right.

  ‘You can handle it, yes or no?’

  There it was again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Be sure. I don’t do disappointed.’

  And again.

  ‘What should I call you?’

  ‘Why do you need to call me anything?’

  ‘I like to know who I’m working for.’

  ‘You’re not working for anybody yet.’

  ‘Tell me your name.’

  ‘It’s Charley.’

  In Liverpool, he’d considered moving on her there and then. His instincts warned against it. There was a coldness that both attracted and repelled him so they’d discussed the plan in detail. At the end, she’d handed him an envelope of ten- and twenty-pound notes to get the ball rolling, and left. He’d stalked her with his eyes through the hotel’s front door onto Lime Street, devouring the sensuous sway of her buttocks underneath the leather skirt.

  Tosh and Ronnie had been inside, too, and knew prison ate away at your self-belief till you had nothing. Some cons never got it back, especially when they discovered the wife had another man to keep her warm at night – usually a boring bastard with a job. Cash on your hip reclaimed lost ground, helped you believe in who you were. Tosh and Ronnie were getting what they’d been promised. Jazzer was depressed. The money wasn’t important.

  He followed her downstairs to the pavement hoping to engineer a last chance for himself. It was about his needs not hers, releasing the pressure in his head and the heat in his groin.

  His throat was dry. He stammered like a teenage virgin. ‘Wh-who are you?’

  She stared, as if the question offended her, and he said, ‘How… will I contact you?’

  The red lips he ached to kiss twisted in a sneer. ‘Contact me? Why the hell would you contact me?’

  ‘Because… I want to.’

  She looked him up and down, her foreign accent sharp and flat at the same time on the London street.

  ‘Back in your box, Sonny Boy.’

  8

  This is what I know: when George Ritchie was right, he was right. Arguing with him wa
s a waste of breath because George wouldn’t back down. Until we had a clearer understanding of what we were dealing with, it made sense to be cautious. Unfortunately, my sister railed against any attempt to rein her in and always had. Danny had tried, failed and eventually given up. Yeah! The great Danny Glass beaten by a girl with pigtails and freckles. Wise men said watch and learn. I had. Under the surface, Nina was the same difficult teenager she’d always been. Though, if her attitude didn’t alter we’d be having a serious chinwag, her doing the listening for a change. An honest mistake was one thing – I’d made plenty of those in my time – being a reckless fool was something else. We were doing okay. Better than okay. Except, this was London, the city was rammed with people who’d love to take what we’d built away from us. Glass Houses was making money – I gave her credit for it. But it was just one revenue stream among many in the family business. LBC – however much she hated having to be there – was the new baby. Babies demanded attention and kept you up at night.

  It was time Nina started pulling her weight.

  I slipped my gun inside my jacket, drove to a greasy spoon in Balham that did the best fry-up south of the Thames and sat at a table near the window, keeping an eye out for my shadows. I didn’t see them, which meant they were good. Nice to know.

  The tea was always the same in this place: a hair away from undrinkable served in thick mugs it took both hands to lift. The sheer normality of florid-faced customers casting cholesterol concern to the winds and getting stuck into sausage, egg and chip breakfasts behind the toxic pages of the Daily Mail and The Sun relaxed me, and by the time I pointed the car in the direction of the King Pot, I felt better.

  Ritchie looked like he’d been up all night; his tie was undone – his only concession to tiredness. George Ritchie had been a man when I was still a boy. Sometimes I’d joked about him advising his boss, Albert Anderson, to permanently discourage two lads by the name of Glass from stealing cigarettes from corner shops he was supposed to protect. Fortunately for me and Danny, Albert had ignored his advice, otherwise we would’ve ended up with sixty tons of cement on our arrogant young heads and spent the next hundred years in the foundations of a mega-storey monstrosity scarring the city skyline.