by Ted Tayler
“How much did they borrow?” asked Phoenix.
“Five hundred,” said Benny. “Bloody stupid mistake I made there, Amy batted her eyelids at me, and I gave her the money rather than risk her dragging me inside.”
The rest of the afternoon gave Phoenix further examples of the sad, hand-to-mouth existence that defined life on the estate. It was depressing. At last, it was over.
“I’ll drop you back home if you want,” said Benny, as they drove off the estate.
“No thanks,” said Phoenix, not keen to let Benny give his address to Phil Dwyer, “drop me at the pub. I’ll have a beer before I pick up a takeaway. Thanks for today. It was an eye-opener.”
When they stopped in the pub car park, Benny said: -
“I might see you again if Phil wants someone given a frightener. If you hang around until six o’clock. He’ll be there. They stop off for a drink before they head home.”
“They?” asked Phoenix.
“Him and his sister, Annie,” replied Benny. “She’s the brains of the operation. Phil’s the brawn. I guess you worked that out already?”
Phoenix let that go. He wouldn’t say a bad word against Phil Dwyer, or his family, it wasn’t good for your health around here according to the reports he’d read. He waved Benny goodbye and went inside. Mick wasn’t working this evening, but the young girl behind the bar poured a decent pint, and Phoenix sat in the same seat as last night to await the Dwyers.
As he sipped his drink, he thought back to the clients he and Benny had visited. Bethany Archer, the single mum; Amy Fouracre, the nymphomaniac. The gambling addict two roads further on from Benny’s house who took out short-term loans every three or four months, and whose debts were mounting to dangerous levels. Dangerous to his health.
The deeper they travelled into the estate, the more the threats and intimidation grew. Benny piled on the pressure. When he had talked about Bethany Archer, he said a missed week meant two more added to the term. With the real no-hopers, as well as the term extensions, the interest rate also rocketed.
Phoenix went through the details as he could remember them. Benny’s existing loans and the fresh ones he had added this afternoon totalled eight thousand. Even if everybody paid on time for the minimum three months, Benny was collecting thirty thousand. The doorstep lender never revealed his cut, but the Dwyers were making an obscene profit. When you took a close look at what they did, it boiled down to demanding money with menaces.
The door from the public bar opened.
“He’s in here,” said Phil Dwyer, as he walked through, carrying a full pint.
Behind him came his sister Annie, carrying a large glass of white wine.
Phil Dwyer was a thug, pure and simple; from his shaved head, and body tattoos, to his steel-capped working boots. Annie was eight years younger. She was different gravy. They were the same height, but after that, there was no comparison. Her dark hair hung in curls on her naked shoulders. Hooped golden earrings framed her face. Annie’s figure was full and shapely. No way would she blow over in a breeze. She was solid. Her legs, shown off to good effect by the shortness of her skirt, suggested she exercised often.
Annie Dwyer was stunning. Phoenix had to keep reminding himself she was behind an operation that meant misery for hundreds if not thousands of people in Tyne and Wear.
“You’ll know me again,” Annie said, taking a seat opposite Phoenix. She crossed her legs, slowly, guaranteeing he saw the white panties beneath the black skirt.
“How did it go with Giggsy?” asked Phil Dwyer. He was used to blokes drooling over his sister. This one was playing it cool. Phil still couldn’t make him out. He might need to warn him to keep his hands off her.
“Educational,” said Phoenix.
“I didn’t get your name last night,” said Phil.
“I didn’t give it,” replied Phoenix, “but, you can call me Frankie.”
“Are you interested?” asked Annie, sipping her Chardonnay.
Phoenix allowed himself a brief grin.
“She means do you want to start work, Monday?” said Phil.
“I know what she meant,” said Phoenix, “yeah, I’m ready to start work. I told you last night. I need the money. I haven’t got anywhere else to be.”
Annie studied Phoenix for a while.
“OK, Phil, get Frankie started next week. We’ll see how he goes. I’ll leave you boys to sort out the financial details.”
With that, she stood up and walked out. Phoenix took another drink from his pint. It was thirsty work watching a black panther from this close as she glided across the room towards the door.
“I’ll only tell you once, Frankie,” said Dwyer. “Collect the money, hand every penny over to me, or Annie, and you keep breathing. Got it? As for my sister, she’s off-limits to hired help.”
“Got it,” said Phoenix.
“I’ll get us another beer, then I’ll tell you where you’ll be working, and your daily rake-off.”
Phoenix watched Phil at the bar chatting up the barmaid while she served him their drinks. He wondered whether Annie Dwyer would stick to her brother’s rules.
She didn’t look the type. She was dangerous.
Phoenix knew he might need to play a dangerous game if he remained undercover and believable.
CHAPTER 11
Monday, 21st July 2014
In London, Michael Terrence Quinn was starting a new week. He had been a leading East End gangster for decades. When the Mighty Quinn spoke, people listened or suffered the consequences.
Quinn enjoyed the trappings of success his unlawful enterprises provided. The large, detached property he shared with his wife, Cassandra, twenty-five years his junior, was full of high-quality furniture, state-of-the-art electronics, and several attack dogs. Children had never been a requirement; just a luxury.
The Quinn’s owned villas on the islands of Majorca, and Tenerife. The garages at home and abroad contained cars with eye-watering price-tags. Life was good.
Quinn didn’t have a working week as such. So, Monday mornings were no different from any other day of the week. Rise late, swim in the indoor heated pool, take a leisurely breakfast, and read the morning papers.
Before he knew it, it was time to drive around the borough he as good as owned. He would drop into a bar here, a club there, for a brief chat with his people. By mid-afternoon, he was ready to get to his office in Hackney.
Miriam Rowlands, his personal assistant had been with Quinn for twenty years. Miriam knew every one of Quinn’s secrets. Her husband had always worked for the gangster which meant those secrets would go with her to the grave. A plump, unattractive woman in her mid-fifties, Miriam was approved of by Cassandra Quinn. She was good at her job and posed no threat to the lifestyle to which the younger woman had become accustomed.
“Morning, Miriam,” muttered Quinn as he passed her desk, and entered his office.
“Coffee?” asked Miriam, already up and waddling towards the percolator.
“Perfect,” replied Quinn, and sat in his captain’s chair surveying the view from his office window.
“Lovely out, isn’t it?” said Miriam, when she placed Quinn’s coffee cup on his desk.
“Looks can deceive, Miriam,” growled Quinn. “There’s something going on, and I can’t work out what.”
“That’s not you, Mr Quinn,” said Miriam, “what have we got to sort out today then?”
“Nothing urgent. Why don’t you take off for the rest of the afternoon? I need to sit here and think awhile. Switch off the office phone, so I don’t get disturbed, there’s a good girl.”
Miriam looked back at her boss as she left the office. She’d never known him to worry about anything in the years she’d known him. Quinn was a hard man, typical of the sort born and bred in the East End after the war. They had to be tough in those days to survive.
Mick Quinn had done more than survive, he’d risen to the top of an organised crime gang that earned many millions of pounds
each year. He’d clawed his way out of the gutter with his fists. At sixty-three he was still a force to be reckoned with. Yet, something or someone was eating away at that kingdom of his he could see from his window.
Miriam switched off the phone, collected her handbag and car keys. She clicked the latch on the door as she left so the Mighty Quinn could be alone with his thoughts. As she drove her Mini out from the underground car park, she decided to take advantage of the sudden change in her routine.
Miriam headed for the West End shops and retail therapy. She told herself as she passed King’s Cross that everything would be back in its proper place in the morning.
Colleen O’Riordan sat in her penthouse suite. She had been keeping herself busy in the two weeks since Tommy’s funeral. The feet of the people working for her had hardly touched the ground. Hugo Hanigan had huffed and puffed, to identify the killer or killers of his security team. All to no avail.
Her assassin had appeared and disappeared like a will-of-the-wisp.
While her sworn enemy Hanigan floundered, Colleen had increased her control over Tommy’s old gang and made inroads into areas controlled by her neighbours. Colleen finished her cup of Earl Grey tea, stood up, and walked to the window.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun shone bright, winning the battle against scattered clouds. The temperature was in the mid-twenties centigrade outside. In her apartment, the air-conditioning kept Colleen as cool as a cucumber.
“Not long now, Hugo,” she called.
Hugo couldn’t hear Colleen, of course, or see her. She had taken care not to reveal her new address to anyone connected to the Grid. With everything else Hanigan had on his mind at present, Colleen doubted he would waste time finding out. Hugo Hanigan was an arrogant swine. He always had been as a young boy. He thought himself better than the rest of them.
After tonight, Hugo Hanigan and the Grid would have another problem to solve. In a few days, Colleen would be ready to make her final move. Everything was in place. Nothing could stop her now.
*****
Meanwhile, in the far north of the country, Phoenix drove door to door collecting small amounts of cash. The client list he had been given comprised the elderly, the disabled, and the unemployed. The only thing guaranteed was there would be someone home when he knocked on their door.
The most frequent question they asked was, “Where’s Alan?”
Phil Dwyer hadn’t told him who Alan was, or why he wasn’t around any longer. Phoenix knew better than to ask. Whoever, Alan was, he must have been a nasty piece of work because every house Phoenix called on seemed pleased to see a new face on their doorstep.
Phoenix kept notes in the same style as Benny, for Dwyer to confirm he handed over the right amount. Not everybody paid in full, but the consequences were explained to them. His message was politer than they were used to, and by the end of his list, only one couple had been unable to offer anything. Phoenix stuck the eight pounds needed into his money bag from his own pocket.
The husband lost his job two months ago, and the couple’s benefit had been cut, despite their belief that the reduction had been made in error. His wife still looked after their youngest two kids full-time, but the eldest boy had been sent to his grandparents in Sunderland.
“We couldn’t afford to keep him,” said the wife, bursting into tears.
“We went over on the bus to visit him, the weekend before last,” the father explained, “he doesn’t understand. He thinks we don’t love him.”
“On the estate where my parents live,” the wife continued, “collectors take pension and child allowance books away. They come back on allowance day, give the books to the householder and take the money as soon as they’ve collected it.”
“The cuts in the younger people’s dole money, have caused crime rates to soar,” said her husband. “There’s been a spate of burglaries around here in recent months.
“The older people are scared burglars will come in even while they’re home,” said the wife, “they’re that desperate.”
Phoenix sat outside the house in his car for several minutes after that visit.
Phil Dwyer and others like him needed to be taken out of the game.
Phoenix counted the money, four hundred and eighty-six pounds. Time to head back to the pub and another uncomfortable meeting. He parked the car at the safe house and walked up the road to the pub.
The quiet bar was empty. Mick was back behind the bar.
“The same as last time, mate?” he asked. Phoenix nodded. As he exchanged the pint glass for cash, he added: -
“Phil won’t be in tonight. He’s gone to watch the match. His sister will be along soon.”
Terrific, thought Phoenix, if the other night was typical, I’ll be fighting her off. He didn’t have long to wait. He had hardly sat down with his back to the window when the pub door opened.
Annie Dwyer stepped in off the street. She wore her hair up, her shoulders bare. With every stride, her breasts threatened to spill over the top of the flimsy top she wore. Phoenix spotted immediately one thing she had left at home, was a bra.
“Get me a drink, Frankie,” she said.
Phoenix did as he was told. A please would have been nice, but Annie was a no-nonsense woman, used to getting her own way. He would go along with it for now.
Mick waited with the large Chardonnay when Phoenix reached the counter.
“Hope she’s not in one of her drinking moods,” he whispered, “or you won’t have much of your commission left when you leave here.”
Phoenix took the white wine to the table. He sensed that Annie’s eyes hadn’t left him. She hadn’t taken the chair opposite him this time, she sat next to him on the cushioned bench.
“How did your first day go?” she asked.
“Four eighty-six,” he replied.
“It should have been five twenty,” she said, “what, are you going soft already?”
“That’s not a complaint I’ve ever had,” said Phoenix.
Phoenix had timed it to perfection. Annie had taken a large sip of her drink, and his deliberate double entendre caught her mid-swallow, causing her to cough, and splutter.
“Bastard,” she said, as she recovered.
“Only when I’m provoked,” said Phoenix.
“Slip the money bag onto the seat between us, Frankie,” she whispered, “I’ll give you your cut later. Ten per cent is the going rate. It’s worth much more. You don’t have to fret over tax and national insurance.”
Phoenix placed down the bag. There were still no other customers, and Mick paid no attention.
“What game has Phil gone to watch?” Phoenix asked.
“A pre-season friendly, at St James’s Park,” replied Annie.
“Cricket?” asked Phoenix, in all innocence, remembering his local park with men in whites, when he was a young boy.
“No, football, of course. Newcastle United, the Toon Army. What planet are you from? Fifty thousand fans will turn up at the Park just to watch the grass grow. They’re fanatical.”
“Right,” said Phoenix, “sport’s never been my thing, I’m afraid.”
“Phil says you’re an odd one to fathom. He’ll be even more confused when I tell him this.”
“Phil warned me off, you know,” said Phoenix. “Do you think it’s wise to tell him you met me without a chaperone?”
Annie squeezed his knee and left her hand resting on his thigh.
“I’m my own woman, Frankie,” she said. “I see who I choose, whether Phil approves or not.”
Phoenix wondered whether his own approval mattered, or maybe Annie was used to taking what she wanted, regardless.
“I’m ready for another,” said Annie, draining her wine glass. She picked up the money and her handbag and headed towards the toilets.
Phoenix looked at his unfinished pint. It was decision time. He walked to the bar, caught Mick’s attention, and ordered a fresh glass of Chardonnay. Mick smiled.
“O
ne for yourself?” he asked.
“No thanks, Mick. I’m off soon. If the lady wants to stay the whole evening that’s up to her. I need my beauty sleep. I’ve got another day on the road tomorrow.”
“Annie won’t be happy,” warned Mick.
The lady in question made her way back to the table as Phoenix turned away from the bar. When he sat beside her, Annie placed fifty pounds on the seat.
“No point messing around with change,” she said, “are you not drinking?”
“Can’t stay long,” said Phoenix. “I’ve got another early start in the morning.”
“Don’t let anyone con you with their sob story tomorrow,” she said, “we’re not a charity. You should bring six hundred for Phil tomorrow night.”
The atmosphere was cooler now. Phoenix had drawn a line, and Annie had sensed it. Her hand stayed well away from his thigh. Phoenix downed the rest of his drink.
“You’re off already?” Annie asked.
“No, I’ll keep you company until you finish that glass, or someone else comes in. I hate to see women drinking alone. It might be old-fashioned, but it was the way I was raised.”
“There’s plenty I don’t understand about you yet,” said Annie. “Where are you from, what brought you up here, and where are you living?”
“I’m the hired help,” shrugged Phoenix. “The less we know about one another the better, considering the business we’re in. That’s what Phil said the other night.”
“If you let me finish this wine, I’ll give you a lift to your place,” she offered, “you do have coffee I take it? We can get to know one another better.”
Phoenix realised he wouldn’t brush her off without antagonising her. A woman scorned can be dangerous in normal circumstances. A woman from a crime family known for her violent tendencies was someone he needed to avoid annoying, if possible. His health depended on it.
“I’m only a five-minute walk from here,” said Phoenix, “across the road from the shops. The place is a tip just now. I’ll tidy up before having company. Maybe we can walk from here together another night and forget the coffee.”