by Owen Mullen
‘Glass needs to know he isn’t the only fish in the sea.’
Kenny stayed at the door. Typical Colin, everything was personal, always bent on settling scores, real or imagined, even if it meant getting him killed.
‘You know your trouble, don’t you, cuz?’
‘No, but I’m betting you’re going to tell me.’
Colin smiled and tapped the briefcase with a thick finger. ‘You forget, we’re the Bishops, you and me. And we own north London. Yeah?’
Kenny nodded. Colin’s pupils were the size of saucers – the cocaine was doing the talking. But it wouldn’t last. By the time they got to where they were going, the euphoria would’ve gone and he’d be ready to tear somebody’s head off.
Felix Corrigan ignored the dull slap of the windscreen wiper and kept his attention on the black Peugeot edging through the gates out into the traffic. He counted four men in the car; three he didn’t recognise and one he did: Colin Bishop’s pumpkin face was unmistakeable. He said something to the driver and they joined the traffic heading for Camden Road. Bishop was in the front. As they passed, he looked directly at Corrigan without seeing him. Felix waited a minute, checking to see if anybody else was involved. When he was satisfied the Peugeot was all there was, he pulled into the flow and spoke quietly into the mobile in his hand.
‘They’re on their way.’
In the office above the King of Mesopotamia, George Ritchie imagined the scene in Central London: Felix and Vincent would be in the thick of it; he envied them. It had been his decision not to be involved with the club – the south side was his stomping ground. Luke respected it and had hired the younger Mark Douglas to head up security. Fine, except with what was going down right now it was impossible not to miss feeling his heart rate increase, the sweating palms and the adrenaline rush that told him he was alive.
His phone ringing brought him back into the moment. Ritchie pressed it to his ear.
‘What’ve you got?’
The rustle of paper told him the man on the other end of the phone was reading off the information. ‘His name’s Stevens. James William Stevens. Jazzer to his friends.’
‘And what do we know about him, apart from the fact he’s a fucking idiot?’
‘Currently unemployed. Spent eleven of his thirty-three years at Her Majesty’s pleasure for two separate counts of robbery with violence.’
‘You’d think he’d get the message and look for an alternative line of work.’
‘He isn’t smart enough to figure that out. It’ll occur to him when he wakes up and discovers he’s a fifty-eight-year-old man with arthritis in his knees and half his life behind bars.’
Ritchie said, ‘Stand on me. He won’t have to worry about arthritis. Where does he live?’
‘The family started in Toxteth, near Sefton Park, and moved north to Bootle when he was in his teens. Our lad went wrong early. But prison didn’t scare Jazzer; he didn’t learn.’
‘They rarely do. Anything on the other two?’
‘Best guess, they’re Ronnie Stoker and Thomas ‘Tosh’ Hughes. Jazzer’s known Hughes for a decade, shared a cell with him in Armley Gaol in Leeds.’
Ritchie pictured them lying in the dark on their beds at night, smoke from their ciggies drifting in the air heavy with the sweat of twelve hundred captive bodies, whispering about working together when they got out.
‘And Stoker?’
‘Stoker’s his nephew. A natural-born mad-arse, apparently. By some miracle, apart from a two-stretch in HMP Altcourse for credit-card theft, he’s managed to avoid doing the kind of time his uncle James and Tosh Hughes have under their belts.’
‘A losers’ convention.’
The man sighed and didn’t disagree. ‘The world’s full of them, George. Anything else I can do you for?’
‘No, we’re good. And thanks, I’ll take it from here.’
Oliver Stanford closed the PC and went to the window. His attempts at identifying the man in the trees behind his house had failed miserably and he’d lost hope. After a while, every face looked the same.
On a clear day from here he could see the Thames Estuary and, in the other direction, the chalk outline of the South Downs. Elise loved that part of the country. They’d often talked about moving when he left the service. He favoured Petersfield, the Downs’ top town; she was drawn to Liphook. This morning, he could barely make out the other side of the river.
The grey skies above the capital matched his mood. Elise had only been gone a couple of days and already he was struggling to make sense of his life. He could’ve had one of his officers on the property – paid him privately and set him up in the bushes – and Elise wouldn’t have had to leave the beautiful home she’d created for them. That would’ve meant involving people so he hadn’t considered it. Once you went down that road...
Without her, the house in Hendon was bricks and mortar, a place to live, not the totem of his upward rise it had symbolised not long ago. He’d tossed and turned, up and out of bed with every noise, peeking into the darkness from the cover of the curtains. A testament to his state of mind was the gun, no longer hidden in the book; now, it was under his pillow. And it was loaded. Fear was only part of it. Guilt as cold as the rain outside made sleep impossible and he cursed the ambition and the greed that had brought them here. Sending Elise away was like punishing her for some unspoken wrong. She was innocent; he was the one who’d brought danger to their door. She should never have married him. When she called, as she’d done both nights and would again this evening, hearing the unhappiness in her voice while he told the same litany of untruths left Stanford depressed. Her sister, Sylvia, was a stranger, her husband dull. Elise was hating every minute in Cornwall.
She’d asked when could she come back.
His response had devastated her. ‘Soon. Very soon.’
Remembering how their last conversation had ended was painful. Elise had put her mouth close to the phone and said, ‘I miss you, Oliver.’
He’d replied, feigning a cheerfulness he didn’t feel. ‘I miss you too, my darling.’
Then she’d whispered, so quietly Stanford almost couldn’t hear her, ‘I love you.’
And he’d realised she was crying.
Stanford sat down and reopened the computer. Whoever was giving the orders had it locked down tight. So far, his street sources had come up dry. Two possible resolutions remained. Luke Glass sorted it or he made the connection himself. He’d settle for either. Elise deserved better than she was getting and her husband would make it his business to see she got it.
Bridie O’Shea stood at the counter rolling a thin cigarette between her fingers to go with the one hanging from her lip. The barman mopping the wooden floor sensed her eyes on him and glanced up. ‘What? You’re like the Hag of Beara, so you are.’
She didn’t answer.
‘For the love of Jesus – what?’
‘Told you a thousand times – you’re usin’ too much water. It won’t be dry before we open.’
Niall leaned on the shaft and she saw the hand and the missing fingers. ‘If you’re unhappy with my work you can always do it yourself, lady. Won’t be easy, mind you, but I’ll try and not to take offence.’
The banter, or something like it, passed between them every day. Nobody else spoke to Bridie O’Shea like that. Nobody dared. Niall could and did because he was the best friend she’d ever had. In the years after Wolf passed, he was the one who’d sat with her into the small hours, holding her hand while she told him her fears for the future, or about the latest faithless man to break her heart. If she got drunk and passed out – a frequent event back then – it was Niall who’d put her to bed.
There was nothing romantic between them and never had been. Niall was gay and celibate, though sometimes, when he’d had a few too many sips of Tullamore Dew, he’d reminisce about strolling the Cliffs of Moher with a boy he’d met in Dublin, his voice faltering as he described the sun setting over the Twelve Pins mountain range
in far off County Galway, or the wild Atlantic waves pounding seven hundred feet below. And it would be Bridie’s turn to hold his hand.
She poured tea into two mugs, stirred in three sugars and handed one to him. He took it from her. ‘You’re quiet on it this morning, lady.’
‘I’m fine.’
He smiled. ‘Fine but quiet.’
She sighed. ‘I’m thinkin’ about what’s happenin’ over-by. Everythin’ tickin’ along, until suddenly…’
‘What’ve you heard?’
Bridie crushed out the cigarette and started on the new one, already reaching for the tin of tobacco and the papers. ‘Nothin’. And that’s the vexation of it.’
‘Somebody knows.’
‘And they’re keepin’ it to themselves.’
‘There are only two reasons people keep secrets – money or they’re shit scared. This Glass fella’s in the middle. Are you worryin’ he isn’t up to it? Because, if you are…’
Bridie kept her eyes on the roll-up. ‘He has to be, Niall – we’re about to give him a helluva lot of our cash.’
The woman had the most perfect teeth Charley had ever seen. In fact, everything about her was perfect – the figure, the sallow skin; the pretence that whoever was speaking was the most interesting person in the world. Convincingly done and hard to resist, even when you knew it was a trick. She met Charley’s gaze with frank green eyes, answering her questions in a cultured voice with a trace of an accent. She was beautiful and she knew it. This wasn’t her first visit to Claridge’s; a minor member of the Saudi royal family had invited her to his suite. Her name was Safiya; the Mayfair hotel was a long way from the fishing village she’d been born in south of Penang. By design, every trace of her former self had been eradicated. All except the fear of poverty and the greed it had spawned.
Safiya said, ‘And you’re offering how much?’
Charley told her and watched her reaction when she added, ‘You’ll also have private medical insurance and four weeks’ paid holidays annually.’
‘Pension?’
Charley smiled. ‘Listen, honey, this is the best goddamned deal you’ll ever get, don’t kick the ass out of it.’
‘Is that a no?’
‘That’s a have-a-nice-life. See you around. But not around LBC. That option’s closed.’
‘Turning off Euston Road into Great Portland Street. Be with you in five. Nobody with them.’
Mark Douglas nodded: so far so good. He brought his attention to Vincent Finnegan, high on the roof of the building opposite the lane.
‘You seeing anything, Vinnie?’
Finnegan fingered the binoculars and scanned the traffic from one end of the street to the other. ‘Nothing to concern us.’
‘Okay, let’s hope it stays that way.’
Barry French was surprised to hear it was Nina Glass on the other end of the phone. The accountant couldn’t know she had a viewing scheduled in Holland Park for noon and was dressed to impress in a red Michael Kors sheath dress. Or that she’d spent an hour scribbling figures on the sheet of paper in front of her, then scoring them out. But he did realise she was on edge. It was in her voice and in her question. ‘How much is my share of the business worth?’
‘That isn’t something I can answer off the top of my head.’
‘Approximately.’
‘It depends. You’d have to ask Luke.’
‘Don’t mess me about, Barry, how much? And why does it depend? I’m a partner. I’m entitled to a share.’
French replied cautiously. ‘I’d imagine a lot needs to be considered.’
‘Like what?’
French ran a finger under his collar, correctly guessing the family had had a dust-up and this was the result. ‘Are we talking a half or a third?’
‘A half. Has to be.’
‘That’s why you’d be better to ask your brother. He’ll have it figured out. He usually does. Then it’ll be down to how much he can lay his hands on and how soon you want it.’
‘I want what’s mine. What belongs to me.’
‘Don’t we all, Miss Glass, don’t we all.’
He put the phone down and immediately called Luke.
The Peugeot stopped at the end of Hampstead Road and waited for the lights to change. Mid-morning traffic raced past, adding poison to one of the four most polluted thoroughfares in the city. Colin Bishop had stopped speaking. The men with him realised the high had peaked and he was starting to crash, a descent into a dark place only another snort could stave off. Anxiety washed through him; sweat broke on his brow. He quietly ground his teeth together, clutching the attaché case to him like a comfort blanket. His travelling companions saw the change and hoped they would be well clear when the comedown really got going. Colin was a nasty piece of work on a good day. Paranoid and aggressive, he was capable of almost anything.
Bishop sniffed, shifted in his seat and barked at the driver. ‘Can’t you go any fucking slower?’
The journey had taken twenty-eight minutes. The high had lasted seventeen.
The men Douglas had brought in crouched in position, guns drawn, unblinking, totally focused on the Peugeot’s black nose edging into the lane. From reflex, I patted the gun in the waistband of my trousers and looked at my watch: three minutes past eleven. Six days since Friday – it seemed longer – but there would be no repeat of our mistakes: LBC was locked down tighter than a duck’s arse. Beside me, Mark Douglas spoke into his two-way, checking with his spotters one more time.
The exchanges crackled in the air, tinny and distant.
‘Vincent?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t move. Stay with it.’
‘Felix?’
‘One hundred yards out. They’re alone.’
Douglas tried to sound relaxed. ‘Okay. Follow the plan. Park across the entrance. Anything happens, they won’t be able to get out.’
We’d had the Bishops’ vehicle in our sights from the moment it left Chalk Farm. I wanted to avoid a fire-fight in the middle of the day and was ready to abort if we had to. So far, nothing suggested that was how it was going. The Peugeot crawled towards the door. I stepped into the lane in front of it. Colin Bishop’s fat face glared at me through the windscreen, twisted with emotions I didn’t understand.
He walked round the bonnet, holding the case to his body like a baby. I’d heard about his drug habit and thought little of it; he wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last. What I hadn’t factored in was the intensity: Colin Bishop hated me and nothing either of us could do would change that. Conversation wasn’t necessary – we both knew why we were there. All he had to do was hand me the case and get back in the car. Simple stuff.
He threw it at me with both hands. ‘Try not to lose it, eh?’
I caught it and felt the weight of its contents. ‘I’ll do my best, Colin.’
‘That’s what worries me.’
He grinned like a gold-medal winner in the idiot Olympics. Suddenly, the grin disappeared and he looked down at the red circle spreading on his white shirt just above the heart. Bishop staggered and fell to his knees.
Somebody in the Peugeot shouted, ‘He’s been shot. Colin’s been shot.’
And for a moment, time stood still.
Colin stared at the scarlet stain and instinctively put a hand to his face. The stupid fucker had almost started the gunfight at the O.K. Corral with a fucking abuse-related nosebleed. A couple of the guys sniggered. Mark and I exchanged relieved glances, and he said, ‘Show’s over. Let’s get this done.’
Part IV
26
Three Weeks Later
Algernon Drake loosened his tie, took a sip from the glass of dry white wine in his hand and surveyed the scene from his balcony. It was after midnight. Across the river, Tower Bridge was an illuminated marvel against the dark night sky. Drake should’ve been happy – in court he’d given one of his finest performances, ruthlessly picking the prosecution’s admittedly shaky case apart in his s
ummation. The jury had taken less than an hour to find in his client’s favour and he was in the mood to celebrate. For that, he needed a woman.
He closed his mobile, irritated and displeased. Nina wasn’t answering her phone. Since their coupling there had been no contact. It had taken that whole weekend to get over the session. If he told himself the truth, he’d avoided a rematch. Nina was the female version of her gangster brothers: nobody fucked her, she fucked them – literally.
But after a day of winning, Drake was ready to be on the losing side, for a little while at least.
He tried her number again and heard a Martian voice tell him it was unavailable; she’d turned it off. The bitch was blanking him.
His fingers drummed the table. Suddenly, the extravagant praise about his sharp mind, his eloquence, the back-slapping and the handshakes in the corridor outside No 2 court seemed meaningless. In truth, he didn’t give a damn about their opinions, good or bad: what did they know? He finished his drink, considered pouring another, and rejected the idea; alcohol wasn’t the high he was looking for. Drake took out his wallet and rippled his thumb over the thin line of red fifties and purple twenties – probably around five or six hundred pounds. If he needed more, he could get it.
A naked Nina came into his head. Drake felt his throat go dry and wanted to call again. Then, he saw the card with LBC written on it and the decision was made for him: to hell with her; Nina Glass had had her chance.
Drake paid the taxi and stood on the pavement in Margaret Street pondering the wisdom of what he was doing. The club looked like many buildings in Central London, except it wasn’t. The two dark suits at the door didn’t give him a second glance. Inside, he swiped the card through the reader on the wall and waited. Behind the bar, the message that a platinum-card member had arrived was received and a hostess came to greet him. The girl was Asian, too tall to be Thai, with a trace of American in her accent – he guessed Hong Kong Chinese. Her dark hair, streaked with blonde, fell to the shoulders of her black dress. She smiled and shook his hand in a cool, firm grip.
