by Owen Mullen
Who did that remind me of?
I had no memory of my mother, and whenever I’d ask Danny about her he’d get mad, give me a slap and tell me to shut it. Eventually, I stopped asking. But the questions hadn’t gone away. Had he known she was pregnant when she left? Was Danny angry because she’d chosen her unborn child over us? Had she run from more than a stupefied husband? And, most burning of all, why hadn’t she taken the three of us?
North London wasn’t my turf – I rarely came here – with the hot sun bleaching the pavements it could’ve been a pleasure. Except, there was too much to think about to allow it in.
Stanford seemed to have forgotten there were more important matters to be addressed – like talking to people who’d be within their rights to doubt my promise their money would be looked after.
Beginning with Jonas Small.
Then there was Ritchie. He wanted rid of Charley, that was clear. Sending her back to wherever she’d come from would’ve been easy. Something had stopped me: was it because if she was blood there was a chance she’d have answers to the questions I’d been asking myself since I was old enough to understand my mother had abandoned me? Or could it be I’d immediately recognised she was exactly what we needed to run the less-publicised membership benefits of LBC?
Nina hated the club; anything that meant she didn’t have to be there should be good news. Nina discovering her replacement was her sister wouldn’t go down well and I didn’t have to be clairvoyant to predict Class A dramatics in my future.
Superintendent Stanford hadn’t stuck a pin in the map and ended up pitching his tent in this leafy part of the city by accident. The Oliver Stanfords of the world didn’t do anything by chance. Hendon – seven miles from Charing Cross – was London without the hassle. He’d get more for his money or, to be more accurate, more for my money.
In the past he’d been valuable to us, invaluable at times, but a mole had infiltrated his team. Danny had taken care of it the way Danny took care of everything, though the lesson had been clear – no paper trail, no communication except on burner phones. And on the rare occasion I met Stanford it was face to face at the derelict factory in Fulton Street, well away from prying eyes.
My brother’s relationship with him had been fractious. The policeman had been made to suffer a deluge of insults and small humiliations calculated to remind him Danny had his foot on his neck. I’d made a decision not to go that road. We didn’t have to like each other, in fact I detested the smug bastard, but if the association was to flourish it needed, at least, to be civil. Bludgeoning him with insults was unnecessary and, ultimately, self-defeating. He was on the payroll because he could be useful; the day that was no longer true, he’d be gone. Last night he hadn’t been – his jacket was on a shaky nail.
The whitewashed mock-Tudor building set back from the road was impressive. So were the cars parked in the drive – five of them, carefully squeezed together so as not to scratch the expensive bodywork. Stanford’s blue metallic Audi A6 was one of them.
I’d heard that when the Stanfords gave dinner parties, their guest lists were a who’s who of lawyers, senior Met officers and the odd High Court judge. Elise’s cooking talents weren’t required. Her husband hired an up-market catering company to do the food so she could concentrate on how she looked. By all accounts they were jolly affairs, the wine bill alone a couple of months’ honest toil for most people. I’d never been invited to his shindigs and tried not to take offence.
I followed the sound of voices and barking dogs, along a flagstone path, through a wrought-iron gate in a brick wall to the rear of the property, and stood for a moment in the shadows observing the scene. Oliver Stanford had a reputation for being tough with the men under his command, especially the younger ones. If they’d been standing where I was, they’d see a tall guy in a sky-blue T-shirt and white shorts, turning sausages on a barbeque, a pair of metal tongs in one hand glinting in the light, a glass of white wine in the other. And they’d never feel intimidated again.
His wife left the couples milling on the quarter acre of manicured lawn and came over to him. Elise Stanford was wearing a lemon print dress and sunshades, her slim legs still tanned from their holiday in St Kitts, Antigua, or wherever – somewhere beyond anything his salary from the Met ran to.
She touched her husband’s shoulder in a small moment of intimacy, threaded her arm through his and gazed up at him.
It was impossible not to envy them. They had it all, hadn’t they? Beautiful people living in a bubble, removed from the trials and tribulations that beset most of the planet. And on top of that, they were obviously in love. I studied my shoes, giving them a little longer before I broke in uninvited and spoiled it. Three of my places had been robbed and, though I didn’t expect Stanford to stop it happening, he hadn’t bothered to contact me.
Not our deal. Clearly, he needed a reminder.
Elise returned to the guests, doing the rounds with a bottle, topping up drinks that had barely been touched, while two grey-and-black Scottie dogs with tartan collars ran beside her, looking up with their old-man’s faces. I liked dogs: they were loyal; you could depend on them. More than could be said for their master.
Stanford wiped sweat from his brow on the top of his sleeve, lost for a second in a haze of charcoal smoke – just an ordinary bloke having friends round on a Saturday for a few beers, the odd over-cooked pork chop and warm potato salad: a modern English tradition.
When I stepped into the light, his expression hardened. His wife called to him; he ignored her and came towards me, smiling as if I were an acquaintance who’d decided to visit at an inconvenient time and had to be shepherded away from the party before I got ideas about staying.
Through clenched teeth he hissed his displeasure. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
His arm snaked round my shoulder, forcing me to walk through the gate to the front. Resolutions about civility went out the window. My fingers closed round his sun-burned hand and bent it back, watching the corner of his mouth curl as the pain arrived. Behind full lips his teeth were perfectly straight. I said, ‘Touch me again and I’ll lay you out.’
Stanford stood his ground. ‘Don’t threaten me, Glass. This is my home.’
The anger was real. For a moment, I thought he was going to punch me, a mistake guaranteed to put our fragile relationship on a different footing. He said, ‘I can think of half a dozen reasons why you shouldn’t be here.’
I could think of more than that.
‘Why are you?’
‘If you need to ask, you’re not doing your job, Superintendent.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘You really don’t know, do you?’
His irritation with me spilled over. ‘Fucking tell me and be on your way. I have people waiting.’
Stanford might have added, ‘This is a respectable neighbourhood.’ Wisely, he didn’t.
‘You know, Oliver, there was a time you would’ve known what was going on before I did. I miss those days. Could rely on you then. You’ve taken your eye off the ball. Too busy dipping your snout in the trough with the rest of the pigs and living it large. It doesn’t feel like I’m getting value for money any more and that makes me unhappy.’
‘What the hell’s happened? Spit it out!’
‘Three of my places got hit last night and I have to tell you about it?’
‘Three? You said it was the club. I heard about the bookies. What else happened?’
Anger leapt in my chest. I had to stop myself punching his well-fed face. Seconds passed while I fought the urge to choke the fucker. I’d been wrong to treat him like a human being; it didn’t work. With scum like him, fear was the key. However deeply he’d resented the barbs and slurs and slights from Danny, he’d taken them because he’d been scared of him.
He wasn’t scared of me. But he soon would be.
When I had myself under control I said, ‘And two’s okay, is it? Two’s all right? No need to contact me, see w
hat I might need, if it’s only two?’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Really? What did you mean?’
His shoulders fell, exasperated with my reasonable expectations. ‘The report I got this morning said we responded to the bookies in Lewisham. Shots were fired. Nobody was hurt. There was no mention of anything else. You’re telling me there were three attacks. First I’ve heard of it.’
‘And why would that be? Go on, take a stab in the dark.’
Sweat that had nothing to do with the barbeque filmed his forehead. Behind the blue eyes, he was torn between answering my question and telling me to get the fuck off his property, a dilemma better left unresolved. From the garden, his wife called to him, genteel irritation in her well-modulated voice, impatience disguised for the benefit of the guests.
‘Oliver! Oliver! Where are you, darling?’
I guessed the sausages were burning and that would never do.
Stanford heard her and concentrated on me instead. Good decision.
‘Where else?’
‘River Cars in Lambeth at exactly the same time as Lewisham.’
‘Anybody hurt?’
Like he cared.
‘We didn’t involve the police in case they sent an honest copper by mistake. Three hits and you know sod-all about them.’
Stanford didn’t speak, obviously affected by what I’d told him. Eventually, he said, ‘There wasn’t a word on the streets. Not a word. Otherwise, you would’ve known it was coming. Which means they’re tourists.’
‘Yeah, the first ones are. Shotguns with Liverpool accents. A different story at LBC. Entirely different. Did you get anything on the picture I sent?’
‘Still waiting. I’ll call as soon as I have something.’
I didn’t believe him.
Oliver Stanford was a lot of things, stupid wasn’t one of them. He’d correctly gauged where he stood with me and was trying to mend his fences. ‘What about cameras? Did they give you anything?’
‘That’s been covered, there was nothing.’ I ignored his sudden rush of interest. ‘Okay – here’s an easy one to get you started. An ex-Glasgow copper called Mark Douglas. I want everything you can dig up on him. Everything.’
‘I’ll get straight on it as soon as my guests leave.’
I started to walk away; he was beginning to make me sick. Over my shoulder I shouted, ‘Too little too late, Ollie!’
I drove down Hendon Way, past Brent Cross, and on until traffic lights brought me to a halt, furious with myself, gripping the steering wheel so hard my hands hurt. Stanford was an easy target but he wasn’t to blame. The arrangement with him was a carry-over from my brother – his ‘tame copper’, he’d called him. I’d left it in place because it had suited me. But it was beginning to look like it had run its course. Whatever happened from here on in, Superintendent Stanford would have to give more than he’d become used to giving if he wanted to be in the plan. It wasn’t just George Ritchie who’d lost his edge, Oliver Stanford had, too. With no one in our way, it had all got too easy. Until last night when it wasn’t. The policeman’s true feelings had been on show in his attitude. Arrogant. Unapologetic. Unaccountable. Climbing fast and high had warped his perspective. He’d started believing his own publicity. Whether he knew it or not, he’d gone rogue.
Near the North Star pub, I pulled in to the side of the road. The sun was warm, the sky still blue. About now, Elise Stanford would be passing out cutlery for the dessert. Probably strawberries and cream. What could be more English? Perfect with a bottle of bubbles, and a great way to end a wonderful day. I hoped they enjoyed it, because their reign as lord and lady of the manor was coming to an end.
The trip to north London had clarified things that would’ve been self-evident if I hadn’t had so many bloody oranges in the air. Elise’s husband was out of order and needed a slap and I had just the man to see he got one.
At the other end of the line George Ritchie was subdued even by his taciturn standards. Like most people who were good at what they did, he was his own biggest critic and I pictured him at his desk above the King Pot, mulling over what could’ve been done to avoid the attacks, giving himself a hard time in the process.
He greeted me without enthusiasm. ‘Luke, how did it go?’
‘It didn’t. Danny had the right idea about Stanford. Under the cosh is all he understands. He’s enjoying himself so much he’s forgotten where his nice life comes from. And how easily it can end. Thought it was okay to have the local cops handle last night without contacting me, would you believe? Refresh his memory, will you, George?’
‘It would be a pleasure.’
‘Leave the wife and kids out of it.’
‘If you say so.’
‘And the dogs. They haven’t done anything.’
Ritchie sounded disappointed; I was cramping his style. ‘Not giving me much to play with, are you? How hard a slap does he get?’
‘Enough for him to reassess his priorities and remember what a lucky boy he is.’
‘A silly boy.’
‘He’s living the dream, George. Wake him up before it turns into a nightmare for the rest of us.’
The Princess Louise was less busy than it had been and Ronnie and Tosh had snagged a booth to themselves. As he walked towards them, they applauded, welcoming him like a hero returning from the war. Jazzer held up his hands to quiet them down and went into the act he’d worked on in the taxi from Earls Court. He dropped into the seat, smiling, although he didn’t feel like it.
‘Thanks, lads, thanks. But first things first, eh? I need a drink.’
He waited until the pint was in front of him before giving them what they wanted.
Ronnie said, ‘C’mon. Spill.’
Jazzer pretended he didn’t understand. ‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘Sure, you do. What was she like?’
He held the glass with both hands so Ronnie and Tosh wouldn’t see he was shaking, took a long drink from his lager and licked his lips. His friends would believe he’d given the woman a good seeing-to because they wanted it to be true. But it wasn’t true.
She’d owned him from the first touch to the last. Mounting and remounting him, crushing him between the creamy thighs he’d fantasised about parting, until he’d thought his heart would explode. When he’d begged her to stop, she’d laughed and kept going, drowning him in her flesh, using him for her own pleasure. The headboard had banged against the faded wallpaper like an untethered shutter in a storm; he couldn’t breathe and prayed for it to end. In the midst of panic the words, spoken with contempt, came to him.
back in your box, Sonny Boy
11
People were expecting to hear from me; it would be unwise to disappoint them. Tomorrow would be time enough to deal with the others. Today, my priority was Jonas Small.
When I called, he answered right away, his voice like gravel. Of course, he knew already what had happened and agreed to meet me later in Brick Lane at a Bangladeshi restaurant he owned called Chittagong. His parting shot had been, ‘Don’t worry about it, Lukie boy. We’ll have a curry and a powwow. I like a good curry.’
It wasn’t difficult for him to be relaxed. It was his cash, but it was my loss. Replacing what had been stolen was down to me. He wasn’t going to be out of pocket and we both knew it.
Jonas Thomas Small had never been young – one look at his wizened face, partly hidden by a beard, proved the adage about the impossibility of putting an old head on young shoulders wasn’t true. He had the wrinkled leathery skin of a man whose working life had been spent out in the open. Loose skin sat in folds over the collar of his shirt and when he grinned – which he did a lot – a gold filling glinted in the light. Small’s exact age, as with so much about him, was unknown, though his reputation for being loyal to his friends and ruthless with anyone who crossed him wasn’t disputed.
He was sitting at a table at the back and didn’t get up or shake hands – an indicatio
n of how the conversation was going to go. Now we were face to face, ‘Don’t worry about it…’ wasn’t where we were. He was wearing a grey three-piece suit with a large yellow check running through it and looked like a music-hall comedian, the kind who told the same bawdy jokes every night and laughed at them himself. The chain of a fob watch disappeared into the waistcoat; he ran his finger along it and spoke out of the side of his mouth, as if he were letting me in on a secret.
‘My father gave me this watch. The only fucking thing he gave me.’ He coughed into his hand. ‘Had a meet one time with your brother. At this very table, as a matter of fact. Wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea, a right handful, but I liked old Danny.’
‘He respected you.’
The first of many untrue statements I expected to make before the night was over.
Small took the compliment in his stride, finding no reason to disbelieve me.
‘Always wondered what happened to him.’
Said with wistful curiosity.
For a while after my brother disappeared, I’d been asked the same question every other day. My answer had never altered and didn’t now. ‘No mystery. He got out while he could, Jonas, same as anybody with any sense.’
Small shrugged like the suspicion had come from me instead of him. ‘The business we’re in… we make enemies. Worth a thought.’
No, it wasn’t. This guy was the undisputed governor of the East End and had been for almost three decades. Long before my brother plundered Albert Anderson’s territory like a ninth-century Viking on acid, he’d marked out his manor and given everything west of Aldgate Pump a wide berth. The metal head on the pump symbolised the last wolf shot in the City of London. To my knowledge, Small hadn’t shot any animals, but he’d brought the lives of more than a few people to a premature end. Becoming his enemy wasn’t what I had in mind.
