by Owen Mullen
Over his shoulder, the Old Father made sluggish muddy progress to the sea. I’d read the Thames was one of the cleanest rivers in Europe. It didn’t look like it to me.
‘Can you swim?’
‘No. No.’
‘Well, now’s as good a time as any to learn, eh?’
‘I… I…’
‘A word of advice: don’t drink the water. Christ knows what’s in it.’
He was near to tears. ‘Luke, please—’
This was fun. Reluctantly, I cut it short. Across the bridge, Small’s heavies were running to their boss, guns drawn. Felix and Vincent would get here before them but a shoot-out in broad daylight on the streets of London wouldn’t serve anybody’s interests. I hauled him up, gasping for breath. ‘Signal your goons to go back.’
He did as he was told, panting like a fifteen-year-old dog, his sixty-a-day habit telling on him. I slapped his face because I felt like it, then slapped it again for the same reason.
‘Enough of the “Lukie boy”. The name’s Luke.’
‘Luke, okay, Luke.’
The Harrods bag thudded against his chest; a bundle of notes slipped out. He reached for it, lost his balance, and almost went over the edge in what would’ve been the most expensive dip in history. I caught him – a mistake. Because Small realised he wasn’t going to die today. A light came into his eyes and, with it, some of his old cunning. He assumed we were cut from the same cloth and clumsily tried to flatter me, his mouth curling in an approving sneer as what passed for a compliment escaped his thick lips.
‘Thought Danny was the mad-arse.’
As an attempt to ingratiate himself it was pathetic.
‘You really need to work on your conversational skills, Jonas. No more of the Danny shit, understand? And stop acting like you’re worried about your money.’
He glanced quickly at his thugs and chose his words carefully. ‘Told you before, I like to stay ahead of the game. You said the 200 K was covered. All I did was ask for it.’
‘Not true, you were turning the screw because you want in. Listen hard – I won’t say it again. You’re in as far as you’re getting in. If that doesn’t suit, fuck off out of it. Another thing, when you count the cash, remember it’s 180 thou, not 200.’
His face twisted – given half a chance he’d kill me and be digging into his chicken madras an hour later or boring people with his wife’s homely pearls of wisdom.
‘There’s 10 per cent commission as per our arrangement. Like I said already – you get a better offer, my advice would be to take it. But don’t mention LBC again or I’ll break your fucking legs.’
Small took out his watch and studied it as if he expected to learn more than the time.
‘All right, I won’t. The subject’s closed.’ He leaned on the wall and stared down at the river, the bag of money forgotten at his feet. ‘Does the name Roberto Calvi mean anything to you?’
I caught a glimpse of his filling when he smiled. ‘You’d be too young. A baby.’
‘Is there a point to this, Jonas?’
‘Isn’t there always… Luke? Calvi – “God’s Banker” – that was his nickname, bit off more than he could swallow.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
Except, he hadn’t. I understood exactly where he was going.
‘They hanged him from this bridge we’re on.’
‘Who did? Who’s “they”?’
Small picked up the bag and peeked inside, pleased with what he saw: he was leaving with what he’d come for. ‘Dissatisfied customers. Sometimes they take it hard.’
30
Niall Monahan watched the man rock gently on the balls of his feet, occasionally lifting his glass to study the dregs in the bottom and putting it down again, untouched. His pockmarked sallow face was unfamiliar. Definitely not a regular. Years on the run on both sides of the border had taught the barman to be suspicious; he never moved more than a few feet from the revolver behind the counter – washing pint mugs in the sink, while out of sight his fingers traced the loaded Webley. In all probability, the stranger was just that – a guy in for a dram. Monahan preferred people he knew.
When the stranger finally left, he slipped the bolt on the front door, quietly so Bridie wouldn’t hear. She was where she always was, in the back room, sipping her stout, scribbling her scores in the notebook at her elbow. They hadn’t said much to each other today – old friends didn’t need words.
She sensed him before she saw him. ‘Christ Almighty, Niall. Don’t creep up on folk like that.’
‘We have to talk.’
‘Sure, talk away. But make it quick.’
He blurted out. ‘You’re not goin’.’
She lowered the cards and looked at him. ‘Say again.’
‘The money. You’re havin’ no part of it.’
Bridie scratched her ear. ‘Givin’ out orders now, are you? Must think you’re Wolf. He was fond of doin’ that. Confused bein’ my husband with bein’ my gaffer, poor man.’ She laughed softly and smiled. ‘So, I’ll tell you what I told him, shall I? Away and behave.’
The rebuke echoed in the room. ‘Clear enough for you, is it? Fuck off and let me get back to my game.’
They’d been together too long for the bluster to work. He ignored her and spoke quietly. ‘Get used to it. You’re stayin’.’
‘I’m not… Jesus, man…’
‘I’m serious, Bridie, it’s not happenin’.’
‘Glass called me. He has it sorted.’
‘He doesn’t and you know it.’
She sat back in her chair and faced him. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘In a couple of hours, we’re deliverin’ a bloody ton of cash to Luke Glass.’
‘Yeah, like we’ve already done, Niall. What’s changed?’
‘My fingers are itchy. Been that way all week.’
He meant the fingers he didn’t have.
‘I saw how you acted round him – like a feckin’ schoolgirl. Never liked his brother but you took to him, don’t deny it.’
Bridie drew deeply on her cigarette and sighed. ‘You’re as queer as a bottle of bloody chips. Surely, you’re not jealous?’
Niall said, ‘I love you. I always have.’
‘And I love you. What’s that got to do with anything?’
He took her hands in his. ‘Then help me keep you safe.’
‘I am safe. I will be safe.’
‘How can you be sure? There’s no plan.’
She slapped his head playfully. ‘Of course, there’s a plan. Do you think I’m a complete feckin’ eejit like yourself?’
Felix and Vincent had wanted to come to the club. Not on. Ritchie had loaned them to me as backup for an hour. That was it; they were his men now. I’d reckoned without Mark Douglas’s reaction. He’d forgotten I was the boss and that I made the decisions – something he needed to accept if we were going to be able to carry on working together. If he resigned like he’d threatened to do, I’d be sorry, but I wouldn’t stop him.
After the adrenaline rush, the office was eerily quiet and I had time to think. Liking who I did business with wasn’t a priority – just as well in Jonas Small’s case. The meeting place had been his suggestion and it was no random choice plucked out of the air. Small thought he was the smartest guy in the room – a mistake – and proved it, to himself at least, at every opportunity. I was always going to hear the story because he was always going to tell it. Today’s history lesson had been about the ill-starred Roberto Calvi, Chairman of Banco Ambrosiano, which collapsed in one of Italy’s biggest political scandals. The Vatican and the Mafia were involved – not people you want to be falling out with. Calvi had fled Italy and come to London. Which of his sins caught up with him on Blackfriars Bridge wasn’t known and was a moot point because they killed him anyway.
And dead was dead.
In his unsubtle way, Small was pushing, still trying to deal himself in. Not clever. Danny had been a mad-arse, that much was true; he w
asn’t the only one. Our family had more than its fair share and he’d do well to remember it.
There was a knock on the door and Mark Douglas came in holding a sheet of paper. There was nothing stiff about him; he didn’t avoid eye contact with me and launched into an update on this morning’s meeting that felt like it had happened weeks ago.
Despite everything, I didn’t want to lose this guy. ‘Mark, I—’
Douglas said, ‘Forget it. These bastards making clowns out of us isn’t sitting well with me and I overreacted. Anyway, maybe the tide’s turning. The guy at the bar had two drinks. A pro. The barman remembered him because he paid cash and didn’t tip. In a place like this, nobody uses cash – the till records membership numbers for every transaction and spits out a receipt. Thank Christ or we would’ve had to check everybody who was in. And just as we thought, the membership’s phoney: the name and address belong to an eighty-two-year-old man in Acton, a widower in the early stages of dementia. No relatives; just him. His carer comes in three times a day. Gives him his tea at half-past six.’
He grinned, building up to the big reveal. ‘The carer checks out okay but she’s got a boyfriend, a real loser with a record for credit-card fraud and resetting. We’ve got men outside the house. Tonight, once the old boy’s sorted, we’ll lift her and make her tell us which rock the lowlife’s hiding under. What’s going on is obvious, although I’d be surprised if it’s just the old bloke they’re ripping off.’ He raised his head. ‘Imagine stealing from an eighty-two-year-old. Soulless cunts. Be getting a slap, whatever they say.’
Douglas paused. ‘I take it you’ve spoken to Bridie O’Shea?’
‘Yeah, and it’s on. She looks like your granny but I wouldn’t mess with her.’
When he’d gone, I called George Ritchie. As ever, he answered right away. Choosing not to be involved wouldn’t stop him following the unfolding story north of the river and he’d know about my meeting with Small.
‘I need the guys again, George.’
‘Any time, Luke. As many as you like.’
He paused and I sensed he was going to ask about Blackfriars Bridge.
‘What’s Small saying to it?’
‘The usual guff. Wasting my time trying to put pressure on me about the club. He’s a strange man.’
Ritchie agreed. ‘He’s that all right.’
‘I’m looking for an excuse to break his jaw. If he doesn’t stop quoting his wife at me, that’ll do it.’
George laughed into the phone. ‘Got an awful lot to say for a dead woman, hasn’t she?’
‘Dead? His wife’s dead?’
‘The rumour is Jonas caught her in bed with another man and offed the two of them.’
‘When was this?’
‘Way back. Nobody’s seen Lily Small since 1987.’
Oliver Stanford pulled into the drive outside his house and turned off the ignition. Victor Russo had made an excellent job of the repairs to the Audi – good as new – though Stanford didn’t feel the same about the car. When he looked across at the passenger seat, he pictured the shoebox and its intimidating contents and remembered why Elise was still with her sister in Cornwall.
He pinched tired eyes; it had been one bastard of a week, and it wasn’t over. The drugs in the hooker’s handbag had been laced with methamphetamine, commonly referred to as ‘speed’. Smoked, snorted, injected or taken orally, the effect on an unsuspecting user could be devastating. Added to the inherently unstable synthetic cannabis – black mamba – no surprise the guy had gone off the deep end.
On the phone, Glass had been brusque. No appreciation for the favours he’d called in to get the test result so quickly. Stanford wasn’t a fool; the relationship with the gangster or his brother had never been great. Sooner or later, it would end. What that meant for him wasn’t something the copper let himself think about.
Normally, Stanford shunned police functions, leaving parties especially – listening to half-pissed boring bobbies tell each other lies wasn’t his idea of a great night out. But there were times it couldn’t be avoided. Tonight was one of those.
John Jacob Shaw – Jocky to his many pals – was the living proof it was better to be lucky than smart. The lazy incompetent bastard was retiring after three decades of fooling some of the people all of the time. Shaw was popular with the powers on high so showing his face made political sense.
Stanford was sick of playing the game; he didn’t have it in him any more. This was the last. And if his bosses questioned why he didn’t show up, fuck it, he’d tell them the truth.
The key slipped into the lock and he stepped inside. Immediately, Stanford sensed he wasn’t alone and reached for the hammer he’d hidden in the umbrella stand after the stranger in the garden’s nocturnal visit, his fingers closing round its wooden stock, the weight of the head heavy in his hand. He gritted his teeth and slowly pushed the kitchen door open.
Elise was sitting at the table they’d bought on a rainy Saturday morning from Habitat in Tottenham Court Road; she looked wonderful. When she saw her husband, she jumped up and ran to him.
‘Don’t be angry, Oliver. Please, don’t be angry with me. I couldn’t stand being away from you another day.’
She fell against his chest and he held her, gently stroking her hair.
‘I’m not angry, darling. I’m not angry at all. I need you here.’
The light from the window hurt Jazzer’s eyes. His temple throbbed; he groaned and curled himself into a ball. He was on a bed – his bed – fully clothed, his head aching, his lips cracked and dry, no clue how he’d got there. Jazzer had been fourteen years old when he’d had his first blackout after downing three litres of Strongbow with his mates in Stanley Park. Since then, loss of memory had become an accepted part of his life. Everybody he knew joked about it, wore it like a badge. So, what was there to be concerned about? His last clear recollection from today was the faces of his friends, at the bar laughing with a stranger who thought it was safe to wind him up about the woman in London.
The only people who knew were Ronnie and Tosh – they must’ve told him – and egged the mug on to give him the juicy details. The bottle appeared in Jazzer’s hand as if some unseen force had passed it to him and pressed his fingers to the neck. Then the man was on the floor screaming, blood pouring from his head, and Jazzer had felt rough hands hauling him outside.
Tosh was shouting: ‘Fuck’s sake, Jazzer, he was joking. What’s wrong with you?’
Somebody called him an animal. After that, there was nothing except an emptiness where the afternoon was supposed to be. He rolled off the bed and stood, dizzy, blinking stupidly at the wall. Still drunk, though sober enough to realise he couldn’t go back to that pub. There were bloodstains down the front of his shirt.
Jazzer stuck his hand into his trouser pocket and came out with a wad of fivers and tens and twenties – what was left of the money she’d paid him. If he could turn the clock back to the meeting in the Holiday Inn in Lime Street, he’d tell her what she could do with her job. And she’d have to find another idiot, some other guy to humiliate instead of him. An image of the unmade bed in Earls Court Road rushed to meet him; he turned away, almost like warding off a blow, wishing a blackout would swallow him.
Bridie leaned on the open car door and spoke to Niall, alone in the back, his good hand firmly gripping the holdall on the seat beside him. In the evening light, his eyes shone; he’d washed his hair and put on a fresh shirt – at long last the forgotten soldier had a purpose. He was happy and she realised how much her need to protect him had cost Niall Monahan. The bomb he’d been putting together had taken half of his hand; unintentionally, she’d taken his pride, as well.
After the accident, Bridie had given him the room upstairs on condition he left the IRA. That way, she could keep him safe. He’d been crushed, too weak to argue, when she’d announced there was no role for him in her businesses. His nerves were shot. He was lucky to be alive. But the blast had cut a hole inside him he’
d been filling with alcohol ever since.
Not today. Today he needed his wits about him and he was sober.
Bridie fussed like a mother on her only child’s first day at school. ‘Now, no hero nonsense.’ She pointed to the guy in the passenger seat. ‘We’re in radio contact with Luke Glass.’
‘I heard you.’
She tapped his forehead. ‘Aye, but is any of it goin’ in?’
Niall faked irritation. ‘You’re startin’ to annoy me, girl. Do you imagine sayin’ the same thing over and over to a fella will make any feckin’ difference?’
She saw the livid scar, the marks on his face, and remembered the night after the pub closed: they’d been talking about the past, the old days. He’d gone to his room and returned with a faded photograph of a shy young man taken on a summer day, the green Wicklow hills in the distance behind him. Niall had been proud and so he should: the teenager had long eyelashes and clear skin; a fine boy. The local girls would’ve fancied him and been disappointed if they’d known he couldn’t love a woman – he barely knew it himself. With one exception: he loved her. Always had. And she loved him.
She spoke quietly, the words catching in her throat. ‘It makes a difference to me.’
‘Then you’re a bloody fool, Bridie O’Shea.’
‘It’s true, I am. Only… I’m fond of you. Can’t help myself.’
He pretended to mock her. ‘Now she bloody tells me.’
Bridie replied with her familiar bluster. ‘All right, have it your own way. Just don’t forget—’
‘Sweet Jesus!’
‘Do what I’m askin’, Monahan, or you’ll answer to me.’
31
