by Owen Mullen
She would’ve been dead.
Charley staggered to the room and threw herself on the bed, sobbing into the pillow for herself and the family she’d never had and never would have.
She was on her own. Like always. Nothing had changed.
37
I tossed and turned, before finally admitting defeat and getting up. Above London, the moon had moved on, leaving a dark, starless sky that perfectly fitted my mood. Washing my face made sense, until I caught the haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondered where the boy who’d stolen fags from the corner shop had gone. The difference was more than the ravages of time: that kid was having fun.
The last twenty-four hours had been a wild ride, starting with Oliver Stanford’s phone call and the bombshell he’d dropped in Fulton Street. I’d considered cutting the copper adrift. What an error that would’ve been. Stanford was insurance: you paid the premiums for the day you really needed him.
That day had come.
From then on, nobody had covered themselves in glory, me especially. Next to what I’d almost done, even Mark Douglas’s royal fuck-up was forgivable, a mistake he’d corrected in an attempt to save his own arse.
Both my sisters hated me. This morning, only one of them deserved a call, and it wasn’t Nina.
When it couldn’t be put off any longer, I tapped the number, nervously drumming my fingers on the coffee table as it rang out at the other end. After the fiasco yesterday, I half expected her to hang up as soon as she heard my voice. I didn’t expect the scream that went on forever, or my heart beating wildly in my chest as I ran to the door with the sound of her terror in my ears.
And in that instant, I knew I’d outdone myself in the fuck-up stakes: I should’ve acted as soon as Douglas got the name instead of holding back.
Charley was paying the price.
Colin Bishop had come after my family.
I’d managed to get a frantic call off to Mark Douglas, one hand on the wheel, as I raced through the quiet streets. He was waiting for me at the door of Charley’s flat and saw me take in the splintered frame and the broken lock.
He held his hands up to reassure me. ‘She’s okay, Luke, she’s fine.’
‘What happened?’
Douglas shook his head and went inside. I followed, dreading what was coming. Charley was in an armchair, bent forward cradling a glass of brandy, or maybe it was whisky, unrecognisable from the woman who’d faced me down with a gun pointed at her. That lady was confident and unafraid, absolutely convinced her own flesh and blood wouldn’t pull the trigger. From the moment she’d realised she’d called it wrong, her trust in me and in her own judgement had started to slip away.
This was where it had ended.
Black lines of mascara ran down her ashen face from tired eyes. A cream silk dressing-gown draped her shoulders, the belt untied. I guessed Douglas had put it there and appreciated the gesture. The empty bottles on the floor told part of the story, though not all of it. Charley had fallen fast and hard. Knowing the role I’d played made me feel sick. But I hadn’t been responsible for this. Something more, something awful, had occurred.
I hunkered down and took her hands in mine, feeling the softness of her skin.
‘Hey, sis.’
She didn’t look at me. Mark Douglas answered the question he’d avoided seconds ago. ‘It’s in the bedroom.’
The curtains were closed, the light dim; the single bed was crumpled but hadn’t been slept in. What Douglas wanted me to see was in the darkest corner. It took a moment for the metallic smell to register then, as my vision adjusted to the gloom, I gasped and stepped away, suddenly understanding what had made my sister scream: his head rested on the back of the chair, sightlessly staring at the ceiling, the face so battered and beaten his mother wouldn’t have recognised him. His throat had been severed, the wound red and ugly. Wire binding his hands cut criss-crossed lines into his wrists where he’d struggled against the inevitable and the gag plugging his mouth had stopped his cries.
Colin Bishop’s men had known their business; slicing the trachea below the larynx prevented him making a sound. Thirty seconds to a minute later, lack of oxygen alone would’ve brought death. Mercifully for the victim, unconsciousness had happened much sooner. Listening to the gurgling coming from his throat while his heart pumped until there was nothing left would’ve been gruesome.
It was crude and cruel: a horror show.
Charley had screamed. I couldn’t imagine any other reaction. Yet, the most disturbing thing was the blood: it was everywhere – scarlet on white, soaking his shirt, on the carpet at his feet, even staining the edge of the bedspread. Understanding the significance wasn’t difficult. He’d died here. They’d killed him in this room.
From the evidence next door my sister had been out of it.
What if she hadn’t been?
In the lounge, I tried again to reach her, quietly coaxing her to speak to me.
‘Who is he, Charley?’
Her eyes flickered, like a sleeper waking from a dream.
‘Who is he?’
She turned her ravaged face towards me and whispered, ‘Jazzer. His name’s Jazzer.’
‘Jazzer?’
She nodded, slowly.
‘You know him?’
‘I know him.’
I called Nina and said I was on my way over without telling her why. She’d assumed she was in for part two of the bollocking I’d given her in LBC and sounded subdued. Understandable, given the state she’d been in last night. The list of people who didn’t want to speak to me grew by the day – her name was never far from the top. Tough titty. It was time for sister No 1 to step up.
Gradually, the colour returned to Charley’s cheeks. She was fragile, the shock of the mutilated man in the chair still with her. Pushing for an explanation wasn’t an option so, instead, I squeezed her hand and said, ‘I’m sorry.’
Some of the old fire flashed in her. ‘That you didn’t shoot me when you had the chance?’
‘No, really I am. You—’
‘If you’re going to give me your life story, for Christ’s sake, make it interesting.’
‘When you screamed, I thought Bishop had sent somebody to kill you.’
‘Bishop?’
‘Yeah, Colin Bishop – he’s the snake behind what’s been going on.’
Her expression hardened and she looked at me. ‘You think what’s in the bedroom is Bishop?’
‘Yeah, it’s the bastard’s next move and his last. He’ll pay for this, Charley, trust me. What I don’t get is how he’s connected to you.’
I realised I was on the wrong track before the words were out of her mouth. Her free hand covered mine. ‘Luke, Jazzer’s the guy who hit Lewisham and Lambeth. I paid him. Jazzer worked for me.’
Nina was still wasted: the party hadn’t ended at LBC. At this rate, she wouldn’t see fifty. She peered round the edge of the door and got her retaliation in first. ‘Before you start, you better accept you can’t control me. Not you. Not anybody. Don’t even fucking try. And for the record, you can shove your club. I won’t be back.’
‘That not why I’m here.’
‘Then what?’
‘Something’s happened.’
‘To Mark?’
She opened the door, fumbling for her cigarettes, her hands shaking so badly it took her three goes to light one up.
‘Mark’s okay but Charley isn’t.’
I gave her the short version, minus Lewisham and Lambeth, and laid it out. Her reaction was pure Nina. She shucked off the hangover and laughed a brittle, mirthless laugh drawn from a well of anger and misplaced resentment deep inside her.
‘You want me to bloody babysit? You can’t be serious.’
‘She’s family and she needs us.’
‘I couldn’t give a flying—’
‘She needs us.’
Nina threw her head back and blew smoke into the air. ‘Stop before I start crying.’
I wanted to slap her stupid face.
‘Believe me, this isn’t her idea.’
‘Why me? Did you toss a coin and I lost?’
‘There isn’t anybody else.’
She pointed the cigarette at me. ‘There’s you. Since you’re so fond of her, you do the dirty work.’
I felt anger hot on my cheeks. ‘I do, Nina. Every day. Or are you too out of it to notice? I’m making sure we’re still in business next week.’
She stood in the middle of the room, feet apart, one arm folded across her chest, playing the rebel – the part she was born to play – to the end. But it wasn’t real; the hangover was back and she was feeling it.
‘The answer’s no. Absolutely not. Next question.’
‘Then you’re out. You won’t starve – far from it – but it won’t last, not the way you’re going. I don’t ask you for much. This is important. If you can’t deliver, won’t deliver, it’s over for you.’
‘That’s blackmail.’ Her lip curled in a sneer. ‘You’re no better than Danny.’
She realised she’d crossed the line and took a step back, paranoia from last night’s drugs rolling in her eyes.
‘Refuse me on this and there’s no future for you and me, Nina. Everything I said last night will come true, only worse. Your call.’
The second confrontation in hours with Nina had drained me. She’d picked a bad time. Didn’t she always? I pulled into the side of the road and waited until my brain caught up and my emotions calmed down. In her bid to get my attention, Charley had made a mistake. She hadn’t been aware who George Ritchie was, otherwise she’d have had second thoughts about crossing him. It took a lot, but if anybody was unwise enough to provoke him, they’d quickly learn why people had been happy to see him leave his native Newcastle. The hits on the bookies and the taxi firm were assaults on the reputation of a proud man, a dangerous man. The result was lying in Charley’s bedroom with his throat cut. She was too shocked to join the dots, though she would.
Ritchie had better take good care of me because he had not one but two of my sisters against him. And Glass women made bad enemies.
He answered his phone so fast I knew he was expecting the call. What I had to say wouldn’t take long. ‘Charley got your message. This is where it ends.’
His steady breathing came down the line. None of this was a surprise to him.
‘And, George, get that fucking mess cleared up.’
Bridie O’Shea, ‘The Irishwoman’ as Kenny Bishop called her, and Ritchie had a lot in common; mellowed by age, deceptively ordinary, until some clown crossed them. A visitor to Kavanagh’s wouldn’t suspect the grey-haired lady playing patience in the tiny back room was one of the biggest villains in London, and had been for more than two decades.
Mark Douglas had given me a name. Bridie deserved to be told before I blew the fucker away.
Unlike Ritchie, she kept me waiting. Hearing it was me neither pleased nor displeased her; she was beyond caring and it showed. Two days ago, Niall Monahan had been alive, bickering with her like always. Now, she was on her own again, except this time she wasn’t young, the loss was greater, the energy to rebuild her world not there.
Her voice was hoarse, edged with grief. ‘Luke.’
‘Bridie.’
She assumed I’d called to ask about Niall. ‘The police released his body late last night. I’m on my way to see him.’
I didn’t offer to go with her. For sure, she would’ve turned me down. In her shoes, so would I. Sharing enemies didn’t make us friends.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I don’t know.’
The honesty of the answer touched me. I said, ‘I know who did it.’
‘Who?’
‘Colin Bishop.’
‘Man, you’re haverin’. Bishop’s an eejit.’
‘The eejit who killed Niall.’
She sighed and changed the subject back to Monahan. ‘You should’ve seen him in his prime. God, he was a fine boy. If I’d met him before Wolf…’
Bridie needed to talk it out; she’d forgotten I was there.
I said, ‘We’ll speak when you come back from the morgue.’
‘Yes, we’ll speak then.’
‘And, Bridie, I need you to do something for me.’
With the exception of George Ritchie, everybody I’d spoken to was having a bad day. Oliver Stanford was no exception. His tone was surly. He was alone and he’d been drinking.
‘Before you say anything, you ought to know I’m in my study trying to work up the courage to put a bullet in my brain.’
I didn’t give a damn. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it, Oliver, though I won’t hold my breath. My guess is that when Elise comes back from church you’ll still be in the land of the living. Larger than life and twice as ugly.’
He sneered down the line and I imagined the hate on his face. ‘You really are a soulless bastard, aren’t you, Glass? At least with your brother—’
I’d had enough Danny comparisons to last me till next Christmas.
‘Shut up and listen, copper.’
Fear made him brave. ‘No, you shut up, you piece of trash. You’re probably right about the bullet. I’m a coward. I’ve always been a coward. But there’s something you should know. Elise and I have talked it over and, first thing tomorrow morning, I intend to resign from the Met.’
I laughed, although it wasn’t funny. ‘Forget it, Ollie, it isn’t happening.’
‘You don’t understand. I’ve promised Elise.’
‘Well, unpromise her. You’re staying exactly where you are until I tell you different. And you can stop peeing your pants, the insider’s sorted. Unless they’ve already sussed you, you’re in the clear.’
It took a moment to register. ‘Sorted? Does that mean what I think it means?’
My turn to sneer. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, grow up, Stanford. When you told me about the mole, how else did you imagine it could end, eh? Think taking him aside and having a quiet word would do it?’
‘All the more reason for me to go. Elise says they’ve had their money’s worth out of me. So have you. Getting out makes sense.’
Cheeky.
‘Listen. There’s noise coming – a lot of noise. I’m expecting you to put yourself in the middle of it. Steer any investigation in the other direction, away from the family. Operation Clean Sweep isn’t one man – when they lose contact with the mole, they’ll send somebody else. That’s how it works. You’ve had an invitation to join the team.’
‘I tried. Bremner wouldn’t take my call.’
‘Then, that’s your new challenge, isn’t it? Get on it or you and I are going to have a problem.’
‘What’ll I tell Elise?’
‘Try the truth for a change. Might be surprised at her reaction.’ I put my mouth closer to the phone and drove the message home. ‘Don’t mug me off, Ollie. It isn’t over until I say it’s over.’
38
The mortuary attendant had dirty fingernails and dead eyes; empathy wasn’t a word he understood. Mortality left him unmoved. For him, grief was a profitable sideline, and in his years on the job he reckoned he’d seen them all: adults who drew away like frightened children when the sheet was removed and had to be coaxed to come closer; the disbelievers, sleepwalking through their pain too stunned to speak, unable to comprehend the sudden void in their existence or the hurt that would never heal; and the few like the old lady in front of him, stoic and calm, there to say a quiet, private goodbye.
Admirable, though it didn’t change the price.
He pegged her as late sixties/early seventies, greying at the roots, the complexion smooth and fresh as a girl’s, until the smoker’s dip at the corners of the mouth. She pressed notes into his outstretched palm, telling him what she wanted in a soft Irish accent. He gave the money a cursory glance, stuffed it in the pocket of his white overall and led the way.
The cadaver was second from the end in a row of metal cabinets. The attendant rolled it
out and drew down the sheet. Niall Monahan’s face might’ve been carved in soapstone, his skin the colour of putty, the marks from the blast like hairline cracks in unfired porcelain. Even in death his long eyelashes were beautiful. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead. Bridie tenderly smoothed it in place. From behind her, the attendant’s harsh voice shattered the silence and stole the intimacy from the moment.
‘No touching.’
She pulled her coat tighter and glanced over her shoulder. ‘I need a minute.’
‘Okay. One minute. But no touching. Then you’re gone before anybody gets here.’
When the door shut, she leaned closer, whispering like a lover. ‘I would’ve told you years since and maybe I should have, except you would’ve been unhappy and you’d had your share of that. This is the truth, the truth nobody knows but you and me: Wolf Kavanagh was a bastard. He used me. Like a fool, I let it happen. Marryin’ him was a mistake I lived with for nigh on twenty years. After the funeral, when his cronies had drunk their fill and slurred how sorry they were for the umpteenth time, I threw the lot of them out and did a wee jig on the bar. It was the happiest day of my life, that’s the God’s truth.’
She traced the dull line of the scar from underneath the eye to his jaw with her finger. ‘Then you came along, brave and kind and gentle. Everythin’ I’d dreamed of. But you were gay and I...’
The words fell away, not needed – he’d known.
She toyed with the edge of the sheet, tempted to see for herself the bullet wounds that had ended her friend’s life and changed her mind. Memories were forever. She already had the best of them.
‘We had some good craic, though, didn’t we?’
Bridie smiled. ‘Oh, I can hear you, Monahan. I know fine what you’d say. “Now she tells me.” And you’d be right.’
She kissed the cold lips. ‘Rest easy, lovely boy. Whoever did this to you will regret—’
