by Ted Tayler
Tommy was the man of the house.
Colleen prepared and cooked his meals, poured him his drinks, gave him what he wanted in the bedroom, and produced an ‘heir and a spare.’ For the rest of the time, she had known it best to hold her tongue. Little else was required of her. She certainly never needed to get involved with the household budget, school fees, or anything remotely financial.
In the gangland world Tommy inhabited, cash was still king. Colleen may have graduated to having a credit card in their domestic lives, instead of than a fistful of notes thrust into her hands if she asked for something; but she had no idea how much lay in the account from which she paid for her weekly shop, or her few personal luxuries. It was none of her business.
Times had changed. Tommy was banged up in Belmarsh nick. Colleen was visiting him this afternoon. They had things to discuss. He would want to know how Tyrone and Rosie were doing. Did they miss their Dad? Were they ashamed of him? When were they flying in from Marbella to visit?
Colleen hoped to keep him away from that subject for a few weeks. The ink was hardly dry on those forms she signed. She tried to recall the last time she held a proper fountain pen in her hand, with ink as blue as the Caribbean, rather than a bloody black biro; but she couldn’t recall it.
Maybe when they signed the register in the vestry on their wedding day?
Colleen wasn’t one for looking over her shoulder at the past, not these days. She was determined to move forward. She shook the limp, bony hand of the solicitor and stared at the top of his head. She thanked him for everything he had done and smiled as she turned away.
Colleen paid him enough to re-arrange the O’Riordan family affairs in double-quick time. She could afford to let him stare at her tits, without reproach, and dream.
Her brother Sean had his hands full with Hugo Hanigan and Grid business. Seamus McConnell was being eased gently into a role as Sean’s number two. A role for which he was totally unsuited as far as Colleen could tell. No matter, it meant she had a clear road to do what was required. It would be a done deal before Sean, or Tommy realised and tried to put a spanner in the works.
As soon as Colleen noticed Sean was otherwise engaged, she started with the cars. Tommy didn’t need one, and she wasn’t fussed driving herself around town. Time to get rid. The cash could come in handy.
The Mercedes and the SUV went to auction. Colleen knew nothing about cars and cared less. It was a fire-sale; two lucky punters picked up decent motors for chump change. Colleen treated herself to a new dress and stashed the balance in the bedroom wall-safe.
As she had closed the door and spun the dials, she allowed herself another smug grin. Tommy thought himself so clever. He always forgot the combination. He wrote it on a playing card, the ace of spades, and tucked it into a drawer under piles of his socks and pants. Tommy didn’t think she’d find it, or realise what it meant.
When Colleen opened it for the first time, the day after the trial, she had been stunned by what she discovered. His gun and ammunition lay inside, which was no surprise. It was the rolls of notes, secured by elastic bands, that made Colleen gasp and sit back on the bed with a bump.
“You bastard, Tommy,” she muttered, “you had this much cash lying around. Yet you moaned every time I held my hand out for a few quid.”
Colleen had spent an hour counting out the cash. Eighty-five thousand in English money and thirty-five thousand in euros. The sixteen and a half thousand she deposited from the car auction was peanuts, but it would be put to good use in time.
After her first trip to visit Tommy in Belmarsh on Wednesday the seventh of May, Colleen called Tyrone. He and Rosie had lived the high life at their father’s expense for long enough. She told him the apartment they shared must go on the market. Their nearly new open-top sports cars would return to the dealer. She’d try to salvage enough from the proceeds of the sale to give them the deposit on a modest place they could finance themselves.
Tyrone was apoplectic. Rosie, listening in the background, was in tears. Colleen had no sympathy for them. Time for the spongers to stand on their own two feet. The bank of Mum and Dad had closed.
“What’s this rubbish,” stormed Tyrone, “where’s the money going?”
“Where do you think?” snapped Colleen. “I visited your father yesterday, and he’s hellbent on appealing. It doesn’t matter that they had him bang to rights. It will be money down the drain, but there’s no telling him. You know what he’s like, Tyrone.”
“What happened to the rest of his money though, stuff that’s not tied up in property and that?”
“While he ran the show, he was minted,” said Colleen, “but Uncle Sean is the big man now. Gangs leaders don’t keep the inmates of Belmarsh on the payroll, not when they’re unlikely to work again for thirty years. Gangsters don’t get benefits, Tyrone, it stands to reason. No, you two will have to stop messing around and get stuck into proper jobs. The private school education your Dad paid for has given you the tools. It’s time you used them.”
Colleen had ended the call. Tyrone and Rosie needed that reality check. Tommy never dreamt of questioning the way they wasted their money. Rosie was his princess; the Spanish sun shone out of her backside. Tyrone was intelligent and hard-working when it suited him. He knew damn well criminal operations were where the money came from and had been happy to take it, but he kept a million miles from the career path his father, and grandfather had chosen.
The Marbella apartment should sell for seven hundred thousand euros, Colleen thought, on Wednesday afternoon as she sat in the taxi en route to Belmarsh prison. She had been true to her word. It went on the market within five days of the conversation with Tyrone. Tommy paid around three hundred thousand pounds for it, although he never told her exactly how much, as usual; so, they were going to turn a decent profit.
The trip took her ninety minutes, there and back, on Wednesday afternoons. It wasn’t for the stimulating conversation. Tommy expected her visit him, week in week out, on time, and to look a picture. Not for him, it was for appearance's sake. His status as one of London’s leading gangsters demanded his wife kept up the standards expected. He couldn’t have her turning up in jeans and a hoodie to let the warders, and other inmates’ wives think she’d let herself go.
It was bollocks of course, but Colleen dressed up for her prison visits to put on a show. She looked good when she made the effort. It didn’t take her long, and she knew what a mouthful she’d get if Tommy thought she disrespected him, and his perceived importance. Her cleavage had to be covered up, so Tommy and the warders didn’t get excited. It was the little things you missed on the inside.
As the miles ticked by, she recapped what she had to tell him, what was safe to mention, and what subjects to avoid. The taxi driver dropped her outside the prison at two forty-five. He headed off towards Woolwich for a cup of tea. He was under orders to pick Colleen up at four twenty on the dot. As soon as visiting time ended, she wanted to be in the car, and back home as soon as possible.
Once Colleen booked in at the Visitors’ Centre, she put everything not allowed in the Visit Room in a locker. She kept her visitor’s ID badge, a small amount of cash and the locker key. She then made her way over to the prison to go through the security process.
Tommy was a Category A prisoner, so, as well as a thorough search by a female warder, the hand geometry system recorded a 3D image of her hand on her first visit and stored it on a barcode to be used for recognition purposes against an image of her face. All this was checked as she went in and out of the visit.
Then after a short wait with the others in the waiting room, they were called through to the visit hall. Tommy sat at the table waiting for her.
“Hello, darling,” he said, “it’s good to see you.”
“Hello, Tommy,” said Colleen, “how’s life treating you?”
She listened as he gave her a blow by blow account of the past seven days. Prison life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Boredom had beco
me his worst enemy.
Tell me about it, thought Colleen, who listened to the same string of complaints last week. She heard something different today and concentrated on what Tommy said.
“Belmarsh maximum security is a jihadi training camp. The bloody extremists brainwash young prisoners and spread their terror message across the whole prison system.”
“How can they do that, Tommy?” she asked.
“A group of jihadists who call themselves the Akhi have got the run of the place. The screws and the governor know what’s going on but ain’t doing a thing. The problem is Belmarsh is a holding prison as well as a home for blokes like me, and young guys who are indoctrinated then move on in the prison system and create wider Akhi networks.”
“The authorities are letting a whole heap of trouble pile up then,” asked Colleen. “Has there been any violence here? Are you in any danger?”
Tommy shook his head.
“They don’t bother me. I keep myself to myself. I try to be positive and pray the appeal is successful. What’s the latest on that, Colleen? When did you talk to the solicitor?”
This is the first hurdle, Colleen thought, I need to get my story straight. One slip from what I told him on my last visit and he’ll be sending a message to one of his mates on the outside to pay me a visit.
“I dropped in to talk to him only this morning, Tommy. I wanted you to have the most up-to-date news. The old codger was keen to keep me abreast of his progress. Because you were convicted in the Crown Court, you must first apply for permission to appeal. A judge will look at your application and decide whether to give you permission. There have to be proper grounds for making an appeal and strict time limits within which we can get it done.”
“Yeah, I get that,” said Tommy impatiently, “so where are we then?”
“He sent off the form last Wednesday. Applications to appeal, and for leave to appeal against decisions made by the Crown Court are dealt with by the Court of Appeal Criminal Division. You got sentenced on the twenty-eighth of April, and you had to apply within twenty-eight days of the date you were convicted if you’re appealing against your conviction. Or the same length of time from the date you were sentenced if you’re appealing against the length of sentence.”
Colleen could see Tommy struggling with the long words.
“It’s complicated, isn’t it?” asked Tommy. “Did he get the forms in on time?”
Colleen nodded.
“Think about it, Tommy. If the judge rejects your plea to challenge the conviction, you might still get a shot at reducing the sentence.”
“I want that solicitor to earn his bloody money, and have the conviction quashed, and get me out of here. How long’s this going to take, anyhow?”
“If we’re successful, you’ll get a letter before the hearing to tell you when and where it’ll take place. Our case will be presented to the judges. Because you’re appealing the conviction, representatives from the prosecution will present the case against you. If we must use the sentence appeal path, the prosecution doesn’t necessarily get a look-in. Still, let’s stay positive. First, get the go-ahead for the appeal. Then, get the conviction overturned. You’ll be walking the streets of Kilburn a free man again.”
“Have you heard from the kids?” asked Tommy.
“I had a quick chat with Tyrone not long after you went to prison. He and Rosie were very upset. I should give them another ring, to see how they’re fixed for taking time off from work.”
“I haven’t had a peep out of your Sean either for a while, I suppose he’s too busy to spare an hour for his brother-in-law?”
“I assume so,” said Colleen.
“What, you haven’t talked to him either?”
“I expect Hugo Hanigan keeps him busy, and he must keep tabs on Seamus McConnell now he’s his second-in-command.”
“You are joking? That eejit couldn’t tie his own shoelaces until he was fifteen. Portmarnock’s finest. What was Sean thinking, picking him as his right-hand man?”
“Maybe he hopes you will be back before long. Sean was always happier being your lieutenant; he’s never a born leader. Seamus was probably the candidate who would be least pissed off with you taking back your natural role.”
“You might have a point there, Colleen,” said Tommy, “you’re not just a pretty face, are you?”
No, thought Colleen, I’m not. A pity it’s taken you twenty-odd years to notice. She glanced at the clock on the wall. What were they going to say to each other for the next half-hour?
“Fancy a few refreshments?” Colleen asked. Tommy nodded, and Colleen wandered over to the vending machines. Two cups of tea, a packet of biscuits, and two chocolate bars punched a sizeable hole in the loose cash she had in her pockets; but it helped pass the time.
Tommy blew on his cuppa.
“I can’t believe they get away with calling this tea. We used to call this ‘love by the river’ didn’t we?”
Colleen laughed.
“Yeah, I remember. Love by the river is the cleaned-up version. So, there’s no other gossip from the inside you’ve picked up then?”
Tommy attacked his chocolate bar, and stared at the ceiling, trying to remember if anything important surfaced in the past seven days.
“Oh,” he said, sitting up straighter in his chair, “when I told you about the Akhi mob, and prisoners moving on from Belmarsh. I forgot I heard a whisper concerning Durham. I can’t see it happening, myself, because you only live twenty miles away. This bloke reckoned prisoners like me might be transferred to Durham. I can’t see it. First off, it inconveniences my family coming to visit; and second, when my appeal comes through, I’ll be free as a bird. No point moving me three hundred miles, is it?”
Colleen had a sudden surge of hope. Despite Sean saying nobody ever escaped from Belmarsh, she insisted that if Tommy’s appeal didn’t materialise, they needed to make plans to help him escape.
“We can’t let him rot in there, Sean,” she told him. “Tommy will expect nothing less. Do you want to tell him we’re abandoning him without at least trying?”
Colleen leant forward.
“If they did want to move you to Durham, Tommy, it might be our best chance of breaking you out.”
Tommy’s face lit up. He didn’t say a word, in case the guards overheard, but he felt happier than when he took his place in the visiting room at a quarter past two.
“Let me know next week if something further surfaces on that rumour,” said Colleen.
“Is it time to go already?” asked Tommy. Then he looked at the table. “Are you going to eat those biscuits?”
Colleen shoved the packet of custard creams across the table.
Visiting time was at an end.
Colleen and Tommy said their goodbyes. Tommy sat and watched his wife leave. Once she was outside, Colleen looked for her taxi. There was her driver, stood by the open passenger door, smoking his last fag on the first rank of the car park. Perfectly positioned for a sharp exit. Great, with luck, and only slightly manic traffic on the way back to the city, she should be home by six.
Her driver wasn’t the talkative type. Colleen was glad. She had plenty to think over on the drive back to Kilburn.
She had convinced Tommy everything was on track with the appeals process. Her solicitor had grave doubts an appeal against the conviction be granted. Which was why he delayed sending it until the last minute. He was happy to add the costs to his bill, but he preferred to be able to advise his next potential client his firm just secured a good win, not be laughed out of court.
As for the sentence option, the wily old bird had a few cards to play. He thought they stood a chance of arguing thirty years excessive when weighed against other similar cases. There were enough cases in the media highlighting lenient sentencing by a limp-wristed judiciary.
Colleen hadn’t told Tommy the solicitor warned her on occasion the judges re-affirmed the length of sentence and ordered it to recommence from the date of the appeal
hearing. If it took a year to reach court, Tommy could be looking at thirty-one summers inside those high walls.
She had steered around the problem of talking about the kids and deflected attention on her avoiding contact with Sean. Tommy wasn’t mad keen on cars. They were just a convenient way of getting around town, so she wasn’t surprised he never mentioned them.
Colleen O’Riordan had a smile a mile wide the whole way back to the capital. The news her solicitor gave her this morning had been the icing on the cake. There was no way Tommy raised that subject during one of her visits.
‘Have you checked our bank balance, sweetheart?’ ‘Will you find out how my stocks and shares are performing?’ ‘Did I ever tell you I have Cayman, and Channel Islands accounts?’
No, Colleen thought, you always told me not to worry my pretty head about how much we had in the bank. If I plucked up the courage to ask outright, you always said, ‘Enough.’
As for stocks and shares, or off-shore accounts, true, she wouldn’t have understood how they worked, but she could learn. Who said crime didn’t pay?
It was just as well she was seated when the solicitor told her this morning the overall sum Tommy salted away after laundering it through Hugo Hanigan’s private bank. Her hand had still been shaking when she completed the paperwork. There wasn’t a chance in hell she told Tommy that access to every one of his bank accounts was now in their joint names. With him inside for the foreseeable future, she controlled the purse strings.
Her taxi driver glanced in his rear-view mirror. This was a regular pickup for his firm. He wouldn’t mind putting his name forward for being available every week. She would soon get lonely, and she was fit. He idly wondered whether he might get lucky today.
At that moment, Colleen pondered the inconvenience Tommy’s move to Durham might cause. If Sean and the other gang members managed to disrupt the transfer and get Tommy away to a place of safety, she needed to act quickly to protect her newly acquired fortune. The steely look in her eye the driver saw when she caught his eye made his blood run cold. Ah well, it might be best to share the job around with the rest of the lads. He kept his eyes on the road and the busy commuter traffic for the last few miles.