Family

by Owen Mullen

  At the door of the King Pot, two men, hands in pockets, cigarettes wedged in the corners of their mouths, lowered their heads as Nina walked across the fading chalk outline on the pavement into the morning light. One of them let his fag fall from nicotine-stained fingers and crushed the butt under his heel, his crooked teeth locked in a lewd grin. He whispered something she couldn’t make out to his mate and dropped into step behind her. A bodyguard, for fuck’s sake. It seemed ridiculous.

  Twenty-four hours earlier she’d been washing her hair, looking forward to picking Luke up outside Wandsworth. Having him around again, even for a while, would be good. Danny credited himself with bringing them up, and it was true; but it was Luke she’d been closest to. Then and now. Her favourite brother hadn’t brought this down on them. That dubious honour was reserved for Albert Anderson. Danny felt having a sister put him and Luke at a disadvantage. In this case, he was right. It gave Anderson an option: kidnap her and use her as leverage, maybe even offer to give her up in exchange for Luke.

  Not happening. Definitely not happening. Putting up with the creep her brother had ordered to follow her was one thing – she’d rely on herself to stay safe.

  Nina fumbled for her car keys, fingers trembling, visualising the explosion that had ended the lives of Cheryl and Rebecca when the bomb had gone off.

  Danny had always been a mad-arse but that was when his grip on reality had really started to slip. Yet, underestimating him would be a mistake – as his enemies had discovered over the years. The throwaway comment about her ‘little disappearing acts’ was almost as disturbing as the threat from Rollie Anderson. He was telling her he knew about her affair with Vale and they’d be smart to cool their jets before he sussed the true extent of her relationship with the accountant. That hadn’t happened. Not yet, thank God, otherwise he wouldn’t have allowed her to leave the office. Danny prized loyalty above everything. Team Glass and all that crap. After what he’d done for them growing up, her betrayal would anger him more than losing the money. Money could be replaced. Retribution would be swift and merciless.

  The idea of stealing from him had come one day when she’d been remembering the past. Nina’s version was very different from her brother’s. Danny had strange notions about women, even his sister. According to him, they were only good for one thing. In their dysfunctional household, unlike Luke, she’d been tolerated rather than loved. Never rated, and she probably never would be – a realisation that had become her inspiration. He talked about a three-way split. Long ago Nina had decided not to depend on it. Making sure she got qualifications – even if it meant going to night school – was part of the plan. Danny had his finger in a lot of pies, including real estate, but how he earned most of his money was shifty. What she had in mind took cash. A lot of cash. Buying and selling property, heading a team of smart people, not the kind of moron tailing her.

  She waited until she was in the car before calling Vale. They’d had a telephone conversation the previous night; Eugene had offered to come to her flat. A gesture she’d instinctively turned away; she didn’t need a man to protect her.

  The number rang out; she let it. Finally, he answered, breathless and surprised. ‘Nina?’

  Nina blurted out what she’d called to tell him.

  ‘He knows.’

  Vale couldn’t keep his voice steady. ‘What? Who knows?’

  The name fell from Nina’s lips.

  ‘Danny.’

  ‘Fucking hell! Hold on.’

  The line went quiet. At the other end, Vale put his hand over the receiver and hissed impatiently to the woman kneeling between his naked thighs. ‘Stop. Stop. Not now.’

  Yvonne wiped her mouth with her hand and got to her feet, glaring at him. Vale pulled his trousers up and waved her out of the room. When she’d gone, he brought his attention back to his mobile, struggling to get the words out.

  ‘Exactly what does Danny know, Nina?’

  ‘About you and me.’

  ‘About you and me and…’

  ‘And nothing.’

  Vale fell back in his chair. ‘Thank God. What did he say?’

  ‘We had a family meeting. As I was leaving, he called me out on my “little disappearing acts”.’

  ‘This is bad, this is very bad.’

  The rush of fear in his voice almost had Nina feeling sorry for him; she’d had him down as weak from the beginning. And here he was, cracking at the first sign of pressure.

  Her reply was cool, contempt lapping at the edges. ‘It isn’t a crime, Eugene.’

  He tried to backtrack. ‘No, no, of course not. That isn’t what I meant.’

  ‘Then what did you mean?’

  ‘Danny isn’t stupid. If he’s made the connection it’s only a matter of time before he puts two and two together and comes up with the right answer.’ In the office, sweat filmed on the accountant’s forehead. ‘We’re fucked, Nina. We’re fucked. Oh, Christ—’

  ‘Only if we panic.’

  Vale spoke to the room. ‘We haven’t been greedy. Not really. But stopping now won’t save us. He’ll suss what we’ve been doing. The cash keeps coming in, the numbers will spike. He’ll see the figures, ask himself what’s different, and bingo!’

  Listening to him go to pieces down the line, Nina recognised Eugene Vale was a bigger threat to her than her brother. She interrupted his meltdown and took charge. ‘Get a grip. Be a man. First up, we don’t lose our heads. Danny knows about me and you. So what? I’m a big girl. That’s all he knows. If he’d had even a suspicion of something more, I wouldn’t be here and you’d be in the back of a van on your way to Fulton Street. We’ll be okay so long as we keep it together.’

  Vale was a long way from keeping it together. The reference to Danny’s retribution made him want to be sick; he covered his mouth to stop himself from vomiting over the carpet where Yvonne had been kneeling. At the end of the day, Nina was Danny’s sister and blood was thicker than water. Chances were, he’d go easy on her and bury him – literally.

  ‘Eugene? Eugene, are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah…yes.’

  ‘We act normal.’

  ‘And keep seeing each other?’

  ‘Of course. Anything else would attract attention.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s the right thing?’

  Stupid question: of course, she wasn’t sure.

  Nina brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and forced confidence into her reply.

  ‘Absolutely, Danny doesn’t have to approve of my personal life. Whether he realises it or not, those days are gone.’

  ‘What about the skim – should we cool our jets?’

  ‘No, we continue, step it up, even.’

  ‘Up? You can’t be serious.’

  Before making a move on him, Nina had done her homework. There was a reason he’d never taken her to his flat. Two divorces had cleaned the accountant out, he’d lost the nice houses he’d owned – one in Brixton, a cool place to live these days, the other in a leafy avenue in Clapham – and now he was living in a bedsit in Stockwell. Even in desperate times though, without Nina pushing him, he’d have been too terrified to touch a penny of Danny’s cash.

  ‘We agreed not to quit until each of us had what we needed. I don’t know about you but I’m a long way short. Let’s not kid ourselves: Danny will find out. Eventually. By then, we’ll be gone.’

  Silence on the other end of the line told her she had him. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. ‘You’re saying… you’re saying…’

  ‘I’ve no intention of stopping or scaling down. We have to go on.’

  Nina took reassurance from the fact that Vale hadn’t broken completely. That gave her something to work with, though not much. The new conflict with Anderson wasn’t the worst news. The longer it went on, the better. It would distract Danny.

  In Lewisham, Vale slumped behind his desk, his head in his hands; he needed the conversation to end. Nina sensed he couldn’t take on any more and ended it
. ‘I’ll contact you in a couple of days. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’

  The accountant had a final question. ‘You said if he’d found out I’d be on my way to Fulton Street. What did you mean? What’s at Fulton Street?’

  ‘Believe me, Eugene, you never want to find out.’

  10

  The sky above New Scotland Yard in the Curtis Green building on the Victoria Embankment was overcast and heavy. In the room, the atmosphere matched it. DI Trevor Mills and DS Bob Wallace were quietly discussing the events south of the river when the senior man came in and took his seat. DCI Stanford didn’t acknowledge them.

  Stanford dropped a manila folder on the table and pushed it away, his eyes travelling over their faces – men he trusted; people with more in common than anyone could ever know.

  He let the silence do its work before he spoke. ‘As you can imagine, it hasn’t been a great morning so far. I’ve just come from a meeting with the commissioner, among others. Without going into details let me say… it wasn’t pleasant.’

  Stanford drew a deep breath and blew it out. ‘Before that, I had a chat with Danny Glass. Another experience I didn’t enjoy very much. Mr Glass wanted to tell me in person how disappointed he is with our performance and, despicable fucking low life that he is, I agree with him. So, a simple question. What happened?’

  Trevor Mills shot an anxious look at Bob Wallace. The detectives had risen through the ranks and prided themselves on having their fingers on the pulse of the city’s underworld. On the evidence, those fingers had been somewhere else.

  Stanford said, ‘I’ll put it another way. What the fuck happened yesterday and why were we the last to hear about it?’

  Blank expressions.

  He drew the folder towards him and held it in the air. ‘This initial report is crap. Absolute bollocks. Statements, eyewitness accounts, all of it. A gigantic exercise in time-wasting. Why? Because we know – the whole of South London knows – Anderson is responsible. I could’ve written it up without getting out of this chair and made it more believable.’

  He glared at his fellow officers; his features taut with loathing. No humiliating third degree for them. They avoided making eye contact. Their record was as solid as anybody’s in the Met and it was rare for the boss to lose his temper. When he did, the smartest thing was to keep your head down until the hurricane blew itself out.

  Stanford got himself under control. Losing it wouldn’t get them anywhere.

  ‘Glass is angry. I don’t blame him, don’t blame him at all. In his shoes, I’d feel exactly the same. He’s alive, no thanks to us.’

  DS Wallace raised his hand. ‘Why not just let them get on with it?’

  A look passed between Stanford and DI Mills. Mills was a sallow, intelligent man with sharp eyes and a quick mind; quietly efficient and still ambitious, even after twenty years on the force. The two senior officers had worked closely together for ten of those years and were friends who knew everything about each other. Mills answered his colleague.

  ‘Am I hearing right? If you really think that’s an option, you’re in the wrong room.’

  ‘I’m serious. Let them kill each other – it’s what they want. Save ourselves a lot of trouble.’

  Stanford stepped between them. He didn’t mind friction; it showed passion, and passion was a necessity in successful police work. Now wasn’t the time – they were under pressure, which was only going to get heavier. The DCI saw his career stalling and that wasn’t in the plan.

  ‘We have a triple murder on our patch and already the media are jumping up and down calling it the first shots in a turf war. The home secretary and the prime minister are concerned, naturally. Likewise, Sir Ian. Cowboy shoot-outs on the streets of the capital aren’t what the commissioner likes to read about over his eggs Benedict. He’ll be making a statement later and stressed how important it is to prevent any escalation of violence. On top of that, the mayor’s in on the act. Banging his drum about the capital’s murder rate. It’s up this year, as if we didn’t know. He’s expecting us, not unreasonably, to bring it down to something that doesn’t make his well-known position on law and order look silly. Not hard to see where he’s coming from, is it?’

  He paused. ‘And that brings us to our own little dilemma. We’ve cocked up and I want somebody to tell me why. Anderson’s a vicious bastard, same as his old man, but you couldn’t accuse him of being bright, so it isn’t possible nobody knew what was going to go off. Yet the word didn’t get through. Why is that?’

  Wallace came in again. ‘At the risk of getting shot down in balls of shit, how certain are we it was Anderson? I mean, Glass isn’t short of enemies.’

  ‘True, except yesterday his brother, Luke – the guy who sent Albert Anderson over the edge of a high-rise – came out of Wandsworth. There was a party in their pub. The three of them should’ve been there – Danny, Luke and their sister, Nina. They weren’t, that’s why they’re still breathing. Rollie’s waited seven years. Seems he thought that was long enough.’

  ‘The brother was the target?’

  Stanford said, ‘Glass certainly thinks so. He wants us to protect Luke. Round the clock.’

  Wallace wouldn’t let it go. ‘Isn’t he capable of looking after his own?’

  ‘He’s getting his money’s worth, Bob. Wouldn’t you?’

  Stanford anticipated the next question. ‘And before you ask about overtime, the commissioner approved it an hour ago in the interests of containing the situation. He realises there’s no love lost. Albert Anderson murdered Glass’s wife and daughter in a car bomb. Luke sorted old Albert’s hash for good. It’s a tinderbox that’s been smouldering away for years. Could go off at any minute and seems like it’s going to. These people are locked together by family and history: Rollie adored his old man – Christ alone knows why – and Danny brought Luke and his sister up after their mother abandoned them and their father died of drink. Anything happens to his brother… remember who we’re dealing with. Glass is a psychopath. But he’s our psychopath. And don’t forget it. Nobody benefits from a bloodbath. Too much publicity. The last thing we need is Channel Four doing an in-depth profile on gangland London and, inevitably, asking what the hell we’re doing about it. Your informants must think you’re pushovers. Let them know that isn’t the case. As for the investigation—’ he flung the folder into the middle of the table ‘—go over this junk. And get it right this time. I want proof. Anderson has to go down for this.’

  He stood. ‘Oh, one more thing. Glass doesn’t intend to sit quietly while Albert’s boy tries to do him in. He plans to hit him where it’ll hurt, in his pocket. That takes information. Get anything and everything you can dig up about Rollie’s operation. Lean on whoever you need to get it. Keep Glass believing we’re on his side.’

  Mills offered some black humour. ‘And aren’t we?’

  It didn’t get a laugh. Stanford took the question seriously. ‘Actually, no, we aren’t. There’s only one side and that’s our side.’

  The officers headed for the door. Trevor Mills held back. ‘What’s up with Wallace? His attitude seems… strange.’

  The same thought had crossed Stanford’s mind. ‘I agree. Keep an eye on him, Trevor. We can’t afford any more cock-ups.’

  Mills let his anxiety show. ‘How bad is it really, boss?’

  ‘Bad. Glass is almost out of control. If Anderson is stupid enough to attack him again, it’ll be a battlefield down there and, whatever the commissioner chooses to tell the PM, there won’t be anything we can do to stop it.’

  ‘What if Anderson wins?’

  ‘Then we’d better pray he leaves Danny Glass dead. I’ll tell you, Trevor, there would be a reckoning. He’d take us down with him. All it would need is a word in the right ear.’

  He allowed the consequences to sink in.

  ‘Everything would come out. We’d be finished.’

  We drove in silence through streets I should have recognised but didn’t. This time yester
day I was stepping into the world, determined to make a fresh start. A day later I’d had a hangover, a hooker, a face-to-face with a bent detective chief inspector and somebody had tried to kill me. A busy beginning. Thanks to Rollie Anderson it looked like the old band was getting back together after all. I parked behind a building on a concrete space of open ground strewn with broken glass and unfastened my seat belt. Felix did the same.

  ‘Don’t bother, you’re not coming.’

  ‘Thought I was supposed to go everywhere with you?’

  ‘Not everywhere.’

  Felix wasn’t having it. ‘Sorry, Luke. Danny wants me glued to you. I’m coming.’

  In the bank, he browsed through leaflets on savings accounts and mortgages while a girl with Rasta curls and dark brown eyes gave me a printout of my balance and went into her routine. I could see her mentally going through her lines. When she was ready, she cleared her throat, fluttered her eyelashes and said, ‘You have a substantial sum in your account, Mr Glass. Would you like some advice about what investments offer the best return?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure? I could check if one of our advisors is available to speak to you.’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  Without missing a beat, she moved to the next page from the training manual.

  ‘Have you decided what you intend to do with your capital?’

  ‘I’ve got a vivid imagination. I’ll think of something.’

  She smiled a wooden smile. ‘Is there anything else I can help with? Anything at all?'

  ‘Really, I’m fine. Thanks for your help.’

  I put the statement in my pocket and resisted the urge to discover how much a ‘substantial sum’ was until I had a drink in front of me. Felix followed me out the door.

  And there it was again, that feeling.

  Felix picked up on the change in me – his hand went to the gun under his jacket in a reflex reaction. ‘What is it?’

  I looked up and down the street. ‘No, it’s nothing.’