by Owen Mullen
‘Don’t bother. Whoever it was, they’re gone. Why did you start the engine when you saw me?’
‘It was a reflex when you came charging at me with the bat.’
There wasn’t much I could say. ‘And you didn’t notice anybody hanging around?’
He shook his head. In the streetlight his nose was a lump in the middle of his face.
‘Your girlfriend left. Since then there hasn’t even been a car.’
I gave him another tissue – he looked as if he needed it; the engine was still running and he got behind the wheel. When his boss told him to sit outside my house, he’d probably thought his biggest challenge was not emptying his bladder all over his trousers: a broken nose didn’t come into it. It would be agony in the morning.
He rolled down the window and offered me a piece of advice.
‘Do me a favour. The next time something spooks you in the middle of the night, remember we’re on your side, will you?’
He didn’t believe anybody had been there. For a moment, neither did I.
12
George Ritchie got into the car and stretched. It had been a long day and he wasn’t twenty-five any more. The strain was beginning to show on everyone connected to the Anderson crew. Danny Glass hadn’t come back at them. For sure, he would. It was just a matter of when, where and how hard.
An assault in the heart of his own territory was an affront: four people – three dead, the other wounded – no way Glass wouldn’t retaliate. Ritchie knew Danny of old: a mad-arse psychopath capable of anything. Hour after hour spent in the office upstairs in the Picasso Club, watching Rollie come apart, hadn’t been easy. Long spells of silence when Albert’s son hadn’t said a word had ended with him boiling over, shouting wild talk about what he was going to do to the Glass brothers. For a man like Ritchie it was difficult to be around, yet he understood: the boy was scared. As his father’s old lieutenant, he didn’t blame him for that. Rollie was a chip off the old block, an idiot, just like Albert, and whatever angry nonsense he spewed, the ball was with the brothers.
The driver looked in the rear-view mirror and asked George the same question he asked him every night. And every night he got a different answer. ‘Where to?’
‘Clapham Common.’
‘Clapham Common, it is.’
Ritchie sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were at the Tube station. He got out and the car rejoined the traffic. His route home was never planned. Each night he picked a location out of the air. No pattern or logic beyond mixing it up and protecting himself from anyone anxious to know more about him than he wanted them to. It was clumsy, overly elaborate, but it worked.
He spotted them almost at once – the same clowns from the day before giving it another go – and allowed himself a smile. Glass would have to start using better people.
From Clapham he rode five stops to Elephant & Castle and changed to the Bakerloo Line, now and then glancing over his shoulder to see if they were still with him. At Piccadilly Circus he waited until the last second before stepping off and letting the train pull away before making for the exit, the late-evening sunshine and fresh air. For a few minutes he stopped to listen to two young blond-haired guys with guitars on the steps under Eros, singing songs Ritchie didn’t recognise.
He strolled along Green Park, past the Ritz hotel and on to Hyde Park Corner where he crossed the road and made his way back again. To a casual observer, Ritchie would’ve seemed like somebody with no particular place to go, a relaxed guy enjoying the beat of the street on a late-summer evening. In fact, he was anything but relaxed. Last night and again tonight, he’d had company: three men in a car at the club, two on the Tube, then just one.
He also knew they weren’t there now.
The man spoke reluctantly into the mobile phone, knowing what he had to report wasn’t going to be well received.
‘Lost him at Piccadilly. We need more bodies on this.’
Danny Glass reacted to the news exactly as expected, snarling, ready to blame whoever was handy.
‘Do I have to do everything myself?’ He singled out Marcus. ‘Well, do I?’
Marcus tried to reason with him. ‘Ritchie isn’t just any old tosser, Danny. He’s a fox. Streetwise and cautious.’
His boss wasn’t having any of it. ‘Cautious! Jumping on and off Tube trains is more than cautious. He knows we’re after him. Knew it from the beginning. And how does he know?’
‘Danny—’
‘Because we’re not good enough at our job, that’s how.’
‘We can give it another go tomorrow, put different people on it.’
‘“Another go tomorrow”. We’ve already had two. How many more do we need?’ Glass shook his head. ‘Though you’re right, Ritchie’s a fox, which means we have to be smarter. Think we’re smarter than he is, Marcus? I don’t. Not on this showing. The second he sussed we were after him, was the second it all got hard. We may have blown it. We’re lucky he decided to just give us the slip instead of taking a couple of our guys out.’
‘That isn’t his game, is it?’
‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? He’d slit your throat as soon as look at you. He was Anderson’s enforcer for years. How do you imagine he got that gig? He’s as ruthless as they come and, as we’ve just been reminded, he’s clever. Albert’s Brain, remember?’
‘Yeah but—’
‘When I was stealing fags and bottles of vodka from corner shops it wasn’t Albert I wanted to avoid, it was George. Christ knows how many bodies are holding this city up because of him. As soon as we started our nonsense, he would’ve seen us off, no problem.’
‘Why didn’t he?’
‘I’m guessing Anderson never said the word. George would’ve taken us out of the picture. Me and Luke would be part of a motorway somewhere.’
‘You think he talked to Anderson?’
‘I’d bet money on it.’
‘He wouldn’t listen?’
‘Albert had been king of the hill so long he thought it was his birthright. George doesn’t look for trouble. If it finds him, he’ll face it head-on, but confrontation isn’t his way. If Ritchie had been calling the shots, we would’ve hashed a deal that kept everybody happy. For a while. And when he’d convinced us everything was fine, he’d have made his move.’
‘Then the bomb doesn’t sound like Ritchie.’
In seven years, nobody had been stupid enough to mention Cheryl and Rebecca around Danny. He seemed not to have noticed where the conversation had gone.
Marcus said: ‘I’m guessing Albert panicked. Luke went down for killing him and Rollie took over. Why didn’t Ritchie leave?’
‘To go where? No, he made the right choice. Rollie was nineteen, too young and too inexperienced to run things. He needed somebody he could depend on. George was in a stronger position than ever. Hunky-dory, until the son made the same impulsive mistake as his father.’
‘The attack on the King Pot?’
‘Yeah. Started the whole thing up again. Only this time we’ll do what we didn’t do before. Finish the bastards.’
‘Meanwhile Ritchie knows we’re after him.’
‘Change the faces and increase the numbers. Could be we’ll get another shot, though maybe not, this guy is nobody’s mug. Get that message across.’
The history lesson was over. Glass added a final instruction. ‘Remember, Luke isn’t on board with this. Keep what we’re about away from him. Understand? And, Marcus, one other thing. Mention the bomb ever again and I’ll kill you.’
13
Golden light poured from the windows of the mock-Tudor building known as The Old Coach House, over the Mercedes and the Range Rover parked in the drive. Trevor Mills drew to a stop beside the expensive machines. They were the first guests to arrive by the looks of it. Not good. Too many opportunities for his wife to clock their hosts’ lifestyle and compare it unfavourably to their own. Trevor preferred the Stanfords to visit them. That way Barbara wouldn’t
be reminded of the Aga, the cinema room and – the most recent addition – a conservatory bigger than their lounge backing onto a quarter-acre of well-kept North London lawn. Usually after a night spent with the Stanfords, he could look forward to an earful about the shortcomings of the Islington flat that only eighteen short months ago she’d ‘had to have’, even though it cost silly money. Tens of thousands more than they could afford. Nowadays only very rich or very poor people actually lived in the city; property prices were tearing the heart out of London.
He killed the engine and unbuckled the safety belt. His wife hadn’t said much on the way. Trevor wasn’t complaining about that. When she spoke her tone was husky, the words taut with envy. ‘Why don’t we have this?’
It was always the same when they were invited here, except tonight Barbara was starting early. Off and running, and they weren’t even out of the car – a bad omen for the evening ahead. Her husband gave his stock reply to a question he’d answered a hundred times.
‘Because he’s a DCI and I’m not.’
‘But Oliver Stanford isn’t smarter than you.’
Fifteen years earlier, Trevor Mills had mistaken that kind of assertion for admiration, married his wife on a rainy Friday morning at Marylebone register office and flown to a cheap hotel in a Spanish tourist resort – all he could afford – on honeymoon. His error wasn’t long in showing. Three days, four arguments and a couple of short and unsatisfying love-making sessions later, he’d discovered the woman he’d fallen in love with had raised resentment to an art form and tied it to a rare gift where, to the untrained ear, accusation sounded like support. It hadn’t been a happy union for either party. From the beginning they’d grown apart, keeping up appearances without knowing why. A ‘marriage of inconvenience’, Barbara Mills called it when she’d had a few. Which, these days, was often.
‘Tell me he isn’t. At least give me that much hope.’
Her husband wouldn’t be drawn into the familiar harangue, although he believed she was right: Oliver Stanford wasn’t smarter than Trevor Mills. Something his superiors at New Scotland Yard had so far failed to notice.
‘Can’t we just enjoy ourselves for a change? After all, these people are our friends.’
His wife’s derisive laugh filled the car. ‘Your friends, you mean. They’re no friends of mine. Can’t stand them, if you must know. He’s an arrogant bastard. And if you had half a brain you wouldn’t be fooled by the hugs and the kisses and the “Oh, you really must come to our coffee morning, the girls are dying to meet you” and see what a bitch she is.’
Her voice was shrill and a little slurred and Mills realised she’d been drinking. He hadn’t noticed, but it didn’t matter if she made a scene; it wouldn’t be the first. He had bigger things to worry about.
To most of the population – Barbara included – Danny Glass and Rollie Anderson were just names. ‘Bad guys’ who occasionally featured on the inside pages of the Evening Standard. As a DI, Mills had a deeper understanding. To him and his colleagues the gang leaders represented a lot more – this lovely house, for starters. Not to mention where they lived; the place Barbara suddenly found so lacking.
Christ alone knew how she’d react if he told her where the cash for that particular folly had come from. She couldn’t seriously think they could afford it on his salary.
Stanford hadn’t exaggerated when he’d given his grave summary: the raid on the King of Mesopotamia pub had put the wind up everybody with the slightest connection to the gangs who seemed determined to destroy each other. Picking a winner was anybody’s guess and, as his shrew of a wife was quick to point out, Trevor Mills wasn’t famous for picking winners. He wondered if she included herself in her caustic assessment.
No, of course she didn’t.
The front door opened and their hosts stood in the hallway ready to greet them, Stanford in a white shirt, sleeves rolled back showing off his tan, an arm round his wife’s slender waist. Beside him was a smiling Elise, every inch the upwardly mobile middle-class woman. Elise Stanford was almost as tall as her husband and shared the same bronzed skin, her green eyes clear, her teeth white and even. She’d chosen to wear a black dress set off with a matching choker: it worked. They were a handsome couple, no doubt about it.
On top of all that, they seemed happy. Trevor felt a pang of jealousy.
Mills and Stanford had joined the Met the same week and for much of the time their careers progressed along similar lines, almost in parallel, until Stanford was promoted to Detective Chief Inspector and became his boss. Any bitterness Mills felt he kept to himself.
Barbara put on her happy face and stepped out of the car. The women embraced, the men shook hands and the four of them went inside.
‘You’re early.’
‘Are we? Seven-thirty for eight?’
Elise corrected Barbara’s mistake. ‘Eight for eight-thirty. No problem, we’ll have more time to chat before the others get here.’ The women disappeared into the kitchen with Elise gushing. ‘We’ve had French windows put in. Honestly, you wouldn’t believe the mess. A word to the wise, Barbara, never trust a builder.’
Trevor heard and sympathised with his wife. Under his breath he whispered, ‘Fucking great.’ Stanford drew him into the room to the right of the stairs, which served as a study, and closed the door. Unlike his wife, he kept his voice low.
‘Before anybody else arrives you should know I’m expecting a telephone call later tonight.’
He poured two glasses of whisky and handed one to his DI. Mills accepted it without a word, his attention on what he was being told.
‘About?’
‘The information our mutual friend is so keen to have.’
‘Wow! That was fast. Well done.’
‘Not the moment to be dragging our heels, Trevor. I meant what I said this morning. Danny Glass can and will do us in. Depend on it. We have to give him what he wants.’
‘Even if it causes a war?’
‘The war has already started. Our best interests are served by making sure Glass is still standing when the dust settles. Any other result will be a disaster for us.’
‘What about his other demand, putting a shadow on the brother?’
‘Already taken care of.’ Stanford made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Luke Glass has joined the blue whale and the white rhino. He’s a protected species.’
‘An endangered species.’
‘Quite. If anything happens to him, it won’t be down to us.’
Mills was impressed. The DCI hadn’t wasted any time and it occurred to him Stanford deserved to be where he was. Perhaps he was smarter than him after all.
‘What can I say? Except, well done again.’
Stanford smiled his superior little smile.
‘Of course, the best result, the very best result, would be if they wiped each other out, wouldn’t it?’
‘I disagree, Trevor.’
‘Really? London would be a safer place, at least until some new vermin took over.’
‘Maybe so, maybe so.’ Stanford waved his arms at the book-lined room. ‘Meantime, who would foot the bill for all this?’
Mills grinned. His boss was pleased with himself, and indeed it was good work. Better to play the game and appeal to his ego.
‘A fair point, governor. This is the reason they made you chief.’
They clinked glasses. Stanford considered the compliment and the smile reappeared.
‘One of the reasons, Trevor. One of the reasons. Cheers!’
Trevor watched his wife across the table splashing wine into her half-filled glass. Barbara was going for it tonight. Normally she’d make it to the finish line with her mascara if not her reputation intact – the drinking had seen to that long ago – but already she was in a world of her own, dull-eyed and disconnected from the conversation. The other guests weren’t far behind. Winston Dunlop-Marshall – high court judge by day, piss artist and tit-groper by night – was telling a story Mills remembered from
the last time he was in His Honour’s company. Deborah, Dunlop-Marshall’s wife and twenty-five years his junior, was plainly bored out of her mind and had dropped any pretence at listening, preferring to stare into space.
Bob and Isobel Wallace were the least affected by alcohol. As newcomers to this scene, they hung on every drunken word falling from WDM’s thick, sensuous lips. Wallace had heard about his boss’s soirées and viewed the invitation as significant.
Mills was surprised to find Wallace here, especially since, Stanford had more or less agreed he was suspect.
The judge finished his anecdote to fake laughter that quickly died. Deborah patted his arm. ‘Very funny, dear. Now for Christ’s sake, put a sock in it.’
Elise made her grand entrance with a tray of baked Alaska to wild applause. Barbara Mills was the exception. The sparks startled her and she knocked a glass of red wine over the white table cover.
The hostess was unfazed. ‘No harm done. No harm done.’
Isobel Wallace dug her spoon into the meringue. ‘Ice cream inside. How clever, Elise.’
Elise purred. ‘Oliver and I had this in France. We loved it, didn’t we?’
Her husband was unable to reply because his mouth was full and nodded instead. Isobel, pleased to be invited to a dinner party at Bob’s boss’s house, couldn’t help trying too hard.
‘Would this be nouvelle cuisine?’
The evening had been one of the least enjoyable Trevor had ever had. He took it out on Mrs Wallace. ‘Does it look like a tiny bit of nothing on a big white plate?’
‘No.’
‘Then it can’t be, can it?’
Bob Wallace had hardly spoken. With Dunlop-Marshall and his fund of unfunny stories, it wasn’t noticed. For his sins, he’d been parked next to Barbara Mills, who now and then said something he couldn’t make out. Wallace edged away, hoping none of the others noticed.
Stanford stood. ‘More wine, anybody?’
Winston Dunlop-Marshall and Barbara Mills held their glasses aloft. He topped-up the visitors and missed himself out – the third time he’d done that. Mills gave him credit. Oliver Stanford was an excellent host and a consummate actor. No one would guess the pressure he was under.