by Owen Mullen
A shaft of moonlight broke through the clouds. Stanford caught a face, a face he couldn’t put a name to. Then the man melted into the night and was gone.
Stanford closed the study door and put the gun back in its hiding place in the book, beside the burner phone. He hadn’t needed to use it. Another time, maybe that wouldn’t be the case. He poured three fingers of Chivas, added a little water and drank a quarter of the amber liquid in one go. Slowly, gradually, his hands stopped shaking. He sat in front of the computer, undecided about whether to turn it on, staring at the blank screen, trying to separate thoughts from emotions.
First the bullet, now this.
If Luke Glass was telling the truth, the threats hadn’t come from him: Luke had his own troubles. That wasn’t to say the south London gangster wasn’t connected. Stanford’s association – he smiled grimly at his choice of words – with the family had begun with the older brother, who Stanford hoped was in a shallow grave covered in lime.
Wishful thinking.
What was happening had Danny Glass written all over it: the brutal and unnecessary violence in the attack on the club; the menacing figure in the garden – not the first time that little piece of coercion had been used – and the bullet in the shoebox, the kind of cruel joke he’d enjoyed. Classic Danny.
The more Stanford turned the details over in his head, the more obvious it became. Danny wasn’t in Spain. Wasn’t in the ground, either. No such luck. He was back. The crazy bastard was back.
Whatever had gone down between the Glass brothers, Danny had clearly come out on the losing end. It looked like he wasn’t letting that result stand.
And suddenly, it made sense.
Slaughtering the men and slitting the woman’s throat was vintage mad-dog Danny.
So why should Stanford care who ruled the roost? They were dragged-up gutter trash, always had been and always would be. Let them destroy each other. When the dust settled, he’d do business with whichever one of them was left. The difference was no difference.
Stanford took another sip of his drink; it didn’t help and he knew why: his nice neat theory was bollocks. Luke Glass was at the beginning of what looked like a war. Whoever was provoking it had pegged Stanford as his ally. And if Luke Glass went down, Oliver Stanford was going down with him. Hanging back, allowing it to play out, wasn’t an option.
He finished the whisky, poured another and dialled a number in Cornwall.
‘Ted? It’s Oliver. Sorry to be calling so late. We’re fine but Elise is missing Sylvia terribly. Is it okay for her to come to yours for a week or two? Not me, no. Nose to the grindstone, I’m afraid. Criminals don’t take holidays.’ He faked laughter at the old joke. ‘Tomorrow, yes. Great, I’ll tell her. And thanks, Ted.’
Stanford was in the kitchen when Elise came downstairs the next morning. His side of the bed hadn’t been slept in and he was still wearing the shirt he’d had on the day before. Usually, he’d have left hours ago to beat the traffic into Central London.
She remembered she was cross with him, the smile died on her face and she said, ‘I waited. You didn’t come up.’
Stanford said, ‘I know. I wasn’t tired. I lay on the couch. Sorry.’
‘I heard you talking to someone.’
‘Yes, Ted.’
‘Is Sylvia okay?’
‘Sylvia’s fine. I called him.’
‘Why? You don’t even like him.’
‘Ted’s all right. You’re too hard on him.’
‘He’s all right in small doses but he keeps asking us to join his bloody bowling club as guest members. Bowling! What makes him think I’d be interested? Bowling’s for old folk. How long do you want us to go for?’
‘Not us.’
‘You are coming? Why would you want me to go there by myself?’
‘I’ll join you… later.’
Elise lost her temper. ‘Don’t lie. Don’t lie to me, Oliver. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’
Stanford inhaled. ‘As a matter of fact, there is, Elise. Senior officers in the Met have been receiving threats.’
‘Threats. What kind of threats?’
He waved further explanation away. ‘The less informed you are, the better. Let’s just say we’re taking it seriously.’
‘Has anyone been hurt?’
‘No, not yet. Though that doesn’t count for anything.’
‘It isn’t on the news or in the papers.’
‘We’ve kept it quiet. Intentionally. We’ve a fair idea who’s behind it, but until we can prove it, our hands are tied.’
‘And you’d feel better knowing I’m hundreds of miles away, bored out of my head.’
‘If the worst that happens is you’re bored, I’d settle for it any day.’
Elise leaned forward and took her husband’s hand. ‘I love you, Oliver.’
‘And I love you. Life without you would be unbearable. I wouldn’t last long. That’s why I want you well away from here. Will you do as I ask? They’re expecting you. And tell Ted to sign you in at his bowling.’ He smiled. ‘He married the wrong sister and nobody knows it better than him.’
The moment Jazzer stepped onto the platform at Euston station he knew it was a mistake. London wasn’t Liverpool; there was no place for him in this city. But she was here.
Yet another sleepless night had brought him to the point where he believed if he didn’t do something, he’d go insane. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face, her body, the red lips sneering lust, laughing at him.
A taxi dropped him on Earl’s Court Road outside The Blackbird pub. Going in for a quick one crossed his mind. In a rare flash of self-awareness, he rejected the idea. Jazzer had never had just one in his life, unless he was potless. Even then, he’d scrounge a second and a third from some daft bastard with more money than sense. Threaten them, if that was what it took. There would be plenty of time for drinking after he’d done what he’d come to do.
Finding the flat was no problem, exactly as he’d seen it in his nightmares. He stabbed the buzzer with his finger, expecting… what? The woman to appear, throw her arms round him and whisper she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him? And if that fantasy came true, what would he do? What would James William Stevens’ reaction be?
That had been decided long before he’d left Liverpool.
On the unmade bed in the room upstairs she’d taken something from him.
Jazzer wanted it back.
It took him a minute to realise somebody was talking. Jazzer slowly raised his head from the table. The barman lifted the almost empty pint glass and leaned on the chair opposite. ‘No more for you, my friend. You’ve had enough. I can call you a minicab, if it’s any help. Where do you live?’
His voice was soft – Irish, maybe, and kind. Jazzer was neither. He slurred an angry reply. ‘Fuck off! Fuck off and bring me another drink!’
The barman shook his head. ‘Sorry. You were well gone when you got here. Shouldn’t have served you then.’
He put his arm round Jazzer’s shoulder and walked him out. ‘Watch yourself, okay? This is London. Get yourself home. Good lad. You’ll be all right in the morning.’
The air was cool after the warmth of the pub. Jazzer flattened himself against the wall and tried to think. Earlier, he’d got no answer at the flat and gone for a drink to kill time. The last thing he recalled was ordering a pint and a double whisky from a smiling girl with big tits. After that, the barman was throwing him out. In between, nothing – the blackout had lasted most of the day.
Above his head, pinned to the bricks, a sign told him where he was. What he’d come to do flooded over him.
The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea
EARLS COURT ROAD, S.W.5.
He forced himself to stand and lurched away, one unsteady step after another. People on the street saw the wild look on his face, the jacket half on, half off, and moved to let him pass. His eyes blurred, his head was a weight too heavy to hold up; he fought aga
inst an overwhelming urge to lie down on the pavement and sleep. Instead, he kept on, sweat filming his brow, his breath a storm in his lungs. When he got to the flat, he was exhausted. His shaking finger searched for the buzzer and pressed. Nothing happened. He pressed again. The darkened windows, the scene of his humiliation, mocked him, an animal growl starting in his throat. He hurled himself against the door, fists pummelling the panels, screaming impotent rage.
‘No! No! No!’
Jazzer collapsed, sobbing like a child.
She wasn’t there.
24
Superintendent Stanford spoke quietly into the phone. ‘We have to meet. Today. Now.’
The policeman’s blue eyes saw a different world from the one I lived in. We were on opposite sides of the track, always would be. And that was fine by me. It might’ve been his car the bullet had been planted in; its deeper significance touched both of us. He was right – we did have to meet.
I said, ‘Where are you?’
‘Paddington station.’
‘Okay, Fulton Street in thirty minutes.’
‘Too far. I don’t have the time.’
‘All right. Just this once. Soho Square. Make sure you’re not followed.’
He laughed, short and harsh. ‘Followed? Too late for that, I’m afraid.’
I expected him to be there when I arrived and he was, on a bench near the rustic black-and-white hut in the middle of the square, surrounded by young tourists lying on the grass, enjoying the sunshine. He was early – a warning I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
I sat down and waited for him to speak. Stanford didn’t need to tell me storm clouds were gathering on the horizon; they were in his eyes. He leaned forward, balanced his elbows on his knees and stared at the paving stones.
‘I had a visitor last night.’
‘Somebody came to your house?’
‘As good as. He was at the bottom of the garden, hiding in the trees. Except he wasn’t hiding.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘Not clearly enough to pull him out of a line-up.’
‘What did he do?’
‘What he came to do. Make sure I saw him, and I did. First the bullet, now this, what the hell’s going on?’
‘That I don’t know. But I’ve an idea why it’s happening.’
Stanford waited for me to make sense of it for him. ‘Everything north of the river is under attack – the club, Nina’s real estate company, Glass Gate—’
He hadn’t climbed the greasy pole at the Met by being stupid. He interrupted. ‘And me.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Who would know? Who would know about us? We’ve stayed underground ever since Danny.’
I shrugged. ‘A good question. Clearly, somebody does.’
Stanford hesitated. ‘It isn’t him, is it? I mean, he hasn’t come back, has he?’
As far as the world was concerned, my brother had quit the business he’d built from the ground up, leaving me and Nina to take over. Only four people knew the whole story and none of them were talking. Stanford was worried – he’d every right to be, though not for that reason. I gave him what I could to make him feel better.
‘It isn’t Danny.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because he wouldn’t waste time on gestures. Outstanding scores would’ve been settled. You, me, anybody who’d crossed him – and he’d be holding court in the office above the King Pot with the jukebox playing The Who and the photograph of the Queen on the wall.’
‘Just like the old days.’
‘Just like the old days.’
He seemed to accept it. ‘Okay, so it’s not Danny. Who does that leave?’
I didn’t speculate; there was no point. We’d had feelers out on the street since the raid on the club and come up empty. Apparently, nobody knew anything.
Stanford carried on. ‘Maybe somebody doesn’t like the direction you’re going. Not just south of the river, now it’s central, up west. There must be a few dissatisfied villains waiting on a chance to take you down.’ A sly look washed across his face. ‘Don’t suppose George Ritchie would have anything to do with it, do you?’
‘Forget it.’
‘Sure, except he’s played second fiddle to Albert Anderson—’
‘I said, forget it, Oliver. George is solid as they come.’
Stanford scanned the kids on the grass – too young to be touched by the realities of the city they were living in – and floated a version of what he’d already said. ‘Maybe, maybe. It could be you’re moving too fast.’
The suggestion irritated me. ‘Too fast? Too fast for who? Nobody’s missing out. Toes aren’t being stomped on. Everybody’s happy and so they should be. We’re making them money. We’re cleaning their dirty cash. The big players – Jonas Small, Kenny and Colin Bishop, and Bridie O’Shea – are all involved.’
‘Jonas Small’s two hundred grand down.’
‘Wrong, he isn’t. That’ll be covered by me.’
‘Fine. So, what do you need?’
‘Ears to the ground. Not only in London – in Manchester, Birmingham, everywhere.’
‘What am I listening for?’
‘Noises from out-of-towners who fancy a bit of vertical integration in the Big Smoke at my expense.’
Stanford nodded. ‘Elise is on a train to Cornwall.’
The policeman had acted fast. Sending his wife to Cornwall was smart. I didn’t remind him that if somebody was out to hurt him, it wasn’t far enough.
It wouldn’t have made his day.
I walked back to the club along a busy Oxford Street, turning over what Stanford had told me in my mind. The bent copper would kick his granny if the price was right. But he loved his wife and was spooked. Had Elise Stanford actually been in danger? I doubted it but, given what had happened to the woman in the office, I couldn’t be sure. That said, sending her to Cornwall was one less distraction for her husband when I required his A game. Beyond was a bigger concern: somebody was aware of his connection to the Glass family. If they knew that, they knew everything. Which gave me one more call to make before I reached the club.
Barry French was a partner at Burton, French and Allan, the accountancy firm started by his grandfather. Their offices were in The Cut, not far from The Old Vic. Barry and Oliver Stanford had never met and never would – a pity, because they had plenty in common, up to their eyes in debt and greedy to take on more. Barry was thick-set and prematurely balding. If he kept his nose clean, eventually, he’d be the managing partner. Except he needed money now – not fifteen years down the line when his father retired. I liked Barry; there was no bullshit with him. He knew why he was doing what he was doing and played with figures with the same creativity Eddie Van Halen had played his axe. Nobody else got near our accounts. Three young kids and a fourth on the way guaranteed he’d be focused for the next couple of decades. We’d spoken recently when I’d told him about Charley, putting him on his guard in case somebody suddenly started taking an interest in Luke Glass.
Today’s conversation was short and I did all the talking. Another reason I liked him.
When I got to the club, Mark Douglas was in the office above me, trawling through a stack of papers piled on the desk. In the room with him were two strangers parked behind PCs – late thirties, buzz-cuts, lean and spare – who didn’t raise their eyes from what they were doing. My new head of security had been meeting his guys off the train at Euston. These two fitted the bill. And my initial impression was well wrong; they’d clocked everything about me in the first three seconds. Douglas broke away from his work and drew me into the corridor. Being in charge sat well with him; he was buzzing, confident and energised, relishing his role. George Ritchie’s judgement was usually spot-on. Not this time. George was smarting from how easily Charley had exposed the security on the south side – the security he was responsible for – coupled with the fact I’d ignored his argument for consolidating what we had, in fa
vour of opening the club.
Friday night had been a watershed – for LBC, for the whole organisation. Wherever I went, whoever I talked with, I got a sense of being closer to the beginning of what was happening than the end. People were scared. Clearly, Mark Douglas wasn’t one of them.
He hooked a thumb towards the new guys, not bothering with names or introductions.
‘They’re down from Scotland for this gig and they’ll be here as long as we need them.’
He got ahead of any objections. ‘They’ll report directly to me. You’ll notice a few unfamiliar faces around the place from now on. Don’t be alarmed. Your last head of security did a piss-poor job. The previous crew were useless. We’ll do better – a lot better.’
I couldn’t fault him; he’d moved fast. That said, he was putting himself on the line – any balls-up and the responsibility would lie squarely with him.
Douglas qualified his actions. ‘Upstairs won’t know what goes on here, but the club will be covered twenty-four-seven. If somebody decides they’re coming through the front door they’ll get more than they bargained for. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. It wouldn’t be pretty.’
He started to walk away and changed his mind. ‘We’re checking out everybody Paul Fallon brought with him, including the people who died in the attack.’
‘Come across anything yet?’
‘Yeah, as a matter of fact. The woman – Rose – didn’t have an online gambling problem but she owed.’
‘Think she was involved?’
‘No, though she probably had a skim running on the takings.’
‘Makes sense.’
