Family

by Owen Mullen

  A telephone rang in the lounge. Stanford excused himself and went to answer it. He was gone for only a few minutes. Mills studied his face when he rejoined the conversation but Stanford’s expression was as relaxed as it had been before the call.

  Brandy at the end of the meal pushed Barbara Mills and the judge over the edge, to a point where even several cups of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee couldn’t save them. Trevor’s wife rested her head on the table, eyes closed, to all intents asleep. Oliver Stanford presided over the scene like Pan, surveying the excess he’d encouraged. Trevor Mills caught his eye and his boss waved him closer. ‘Meet me in the study. Bring Bob.’

  ‘Bob? Is that wise? I mean, I’m not really sure why you invited him.’

  The DCI wasn’t accustomed to having to explain himself and didn’t like it.

  ‘Just do it, Trevor.’

  Mills did as he was told and, in the study, the three policemen faced each other.

  Stanford said, ‘I’ll make this quick. We’re in business. Anderson’s moving a shipment early tomorrow. Ecstasy. Fifty thousand tablets. A decent haul.’

  Wallace was impressed. ‘Decent? It’s a small fortune.’

  Mills was more interested in specifics. ‘How’s he shifting it?’

  ‘White Transit on the A285 to the city.’

  Wallace said, ‘Do we know the country of origin? Do we know—?’

  Mills cut him off. ‘Holland probably. Who cares?’

  ‘Think that’ll be enough to get Glass off our backs?’

  ‘It’s what he asked for.’

  ‘And your informant’s sound?’

  The DCI barely hid his irritation. ‘As a pound, Bob. Sound as a pound. Otherwise it’s sod all use to us.’

  Elise knocked on the door and came in. ‘Our guests are leaving, Oliver.’

  ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’

  His wife didn’t agree. ‘No, I think it’s time they went. Where did you put Barbara’s coat?’

  ‘Didn’t have a coat.’

  ‘She says she did.’

  Trevor sighed. ‘I’d better get her home.’ He kissed Elise on both cheeks. ‘Thanks for having us. Sorry about the pudding and… sorry.’

  At the front door the men shook hands. Wallace put his arm round Isobel.

  ‘See you tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘Tomorrow it’s sir, tonight it’s Oliver. Drive carefully, Bob.’

  Trevor Mills made sure he was the last one out the door. He wasn’t happy and not just because his wife was a lush.

  ‘Why did you tell him? We don’t know what’s going on with him.’

  ‘True, Trevor. Very true. But we soon will.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

  Mills was questioning his judgement. Again. And he didn’t like it.

  ‘Wise… no, perhaps not… but it’s necessary.’

  14

  The door of The Lord Stanley shut behind him as a friendly voice called, ‘Goodnight.’

  George Ritchie pulled his collar up against the chill night air and looked up and down the street, seeing only a few parked cars. Further along, a couple he’d noticed the night before were joined at the mouth, oblivious to everyone but themselves.

  His neighbours knew him as Mr Butler and, though he’d worked for the Anderson family for almost a decade and a half, even Rollie didn’t know where he lived. George Ritchie was beyond private, he was obsessive – in a brutal world it was how he’d survived.

  Closing time was still an hour away. No matter. His limit was two drinks and he’d had them. The regulars were used to him leaving early because he always did. He hadn’t lasted as long as he had in his business by being careless. It paid to keep your eyes open, especially since the cock-up at the King Pot. Danny Glass hadn’t come at them yet, though it was inevitable he would.

  Even now, seven years on, Ritchie couldn’t understand the logic behind the bomb Albert Anderson had planted in Danny Glass’s Merc, and not because the targets were civilians. So much nonsense was talked about a code that protected women and children.

  Noble old bollocks; it didn’t exist. What needed to be done got done and anybody would be offed if it suited. No, the question he’d asked himself many times was simple.

  What was gained by killing Danny Glass’s family?

  The answer was nothing. So, why do it? And why keep it from him?

  He walked to his flat, allowing himself a final glance round before going in. At the top of the stairs, Ritchie put the key in the lock and opened the door. In darkness he moved to the window and checked the street below. Everything was as it had been. No movement from the parked cars; the couple were still wrapped round each other.

  The flat was modest. Most of the furniture had seen better days. Ritchie wasn’t thinking of changing any of it. All he did was sleep here. His neighbours imagined he was a lonely widower and felt sorry for a man living alone. Their sympathy was misplaced. There was no heartbreaking story to tell. Ritchie hadn’t married through choice. It wouldn’t have been wise in the business he was in. Occasionally, when he needed a woman, it was nothing more than a transaction; they went to her place and George Ritchie paid.

  Down in the street the couple stopped kissing. The man took money from his inside jacket pocket and gave it to the girl. She took the notes, didn’t count them and walked away. He spoke quietly into a mobile phone, nodding at whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying, and headed towards his car.

  Further north, Oliver Stanford’s guests had gone and the house was quiet apart from rain drumming gently on the conservatory roof. He helped Elise clear the table and load the dishwasher, then watched her climb the stairs.

  Halfway up, she turned. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘Soon. Big day tomorrow. I have to be prepared.’

  His wife sighed. ‘Seems like every day’s a big day, Oliver. I preferred when you were on the beat.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You hated it and you loathed Bayswater. “Knee deep in Arabs and Indians.” If you said that once you said it a thousand times.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Couldn’t swing a cat in that grubby little bedsit.’

  ‘At least I had you.’

  Lately they’d been having this conversation, or a variation on the theme, a lot. Stanford tried to sound patient. ‘Elise, you worried yourself sick most of the time. We bought our first ever bottle of champagne to celebrate my promotion.’

  She smiled. ‘It wasn’t champagne, it was Asti Spumanti. Wouldn’t have it in the house now.’

  ‘And it made you ill.’

  ‘It made me a lot more than that as I recall.’

  ‘We talked all night about what we’d do when the kids came along. Your dream was to get out of the city. And here we are.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It isn’t for nothing. You’re right, every day is a big day. First to arrive and last to leave. It’s called staying ahead of the game.’

  ‘I understand, it’s just…’

  ‘Look, the party was a success.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Didn’t last long.’

  ‘Not our fault Dunlop-Marshall can’t hold his liquor. We won’t invite him again. Thinks he’s on the bench every time he opens his mouth. The man’s a bore, drunk or sober. And Barbara Mills was pissed from the off. Trevor has his work cut out there. They brought their problems with them. You’re tired and no wonder. Go to bed, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Elise knew Oliver’s hard work and his ambition had taken them higher than she’d ever thought possible. She ought to be more grateful. Instead she found herself in the past, imagining it was better than the present. For all their upward mobility, Elise Stanford was lonely.

  Her husband closed the study door and took out a mobile, a phone with only one purpose. He punched speed dial and listened to it ring.

  Danny Glass didn’t bother with hello. ‘Spill it.’
/>   Stanford repeated what he’d been told. Glass was a difficult bastard to deal with on a good day and, as usual, he was unimpressed.

  The policeman didn’t kid himself that the hard work – ‘first to arrive and last to leave’ nonsense he’d told his wife – had much to do with his reputation as one of the Met’s rising stars. Thanks to the South London gangster, he’d made a series of arrests in important cases, the kind of collars that got people’s attention. In return, Glass was to be left alone to get on with his business. As a detective at New Scotland Yard and now a chief inspector, Stanford was in a position to make that happen. On a number of occasions, he’d disarmed investigations before they got started, getting word to Glass when his affairs were attracting unwelcome interest.

  Oliver Stanford was tipped to go all the way to the top and Danny Glass, his partner in crime, was fireproof. Win-win. Until the raid on the pub rocked the boat. Rollie Anderson’s failed attempt at revenge for his father’s murder threatened to derail an arrangement that had served both parties well. Glass was convinced Stanford had known and had chosen not to tell him. Untrue. Danny Glass wasn’t somebody you wanted to cross.

  He went upstairs, stopping on the landing to crack the door to his daughters’ bedroom open. The glow of a nightlight washed the innocent faces of the twins: his girls.

  Nobody was going to harm them. He wouldn’t let them.

  15

  I closed my eyes and imagined mist floating in white clouds over the shifting water of the channel forty-five miles away, the image soothing the tension in me, though not enough to completely calm the adrenaline rushing through my body. Wandsworth had been an education. At dawn, waking to the noise of hundreds of inmates dragging themselves into yet another twenty-four hours behind bars, the feeling in my gut that something bad was about to happen always with me. Every day, the sense of non-specific dread hanging in the air: a helluva way to live.

  This shouldn’t feel the same. But it did.

  It was 5.30 and still dark. We were parked at the mouth of a country lane in Kent. Me and Felix in the back, Danny and Marcus in the front seats, a second car with four men in position a mile away waiting for the signal. Behind the wheel, Marcus held binoculars in one steady hand and a mobile on speakerphone in the other, clearly at ease with what we were about to do. I couldn’t see his face. All I had to go on was his voice, even and confident, every couple of minutes asking our spotter further along the road the same question, getting the same answer.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Stanford’s information had brought us to this place. We’d been eating fish and chips and drinking beer from the bottle when the call came through to the office above the King Pot. Danny was in remarkably good form, considering: feet up on the desk, his fingers tapping along with Mick and Keith, Charlie and Bill doing ‘Honky Tonk Women’. Today’s monologue was on one of my brother’s favourite subjects – why sixties music was the best. I’d heard it before, many times, we all had, and knew it came down to the rise of English groups – the Stones, the Yardbirds, The Who; The Kinks were a particular favourite – and how they were better than American bands, especially ‘that soul malarkey’ as he called it.

  ‘Darkie music. I mean, what the fuck is that about?’

  Nobody had an answer for him. At least, not any they were foolish enough to voice.

  The jukebox was stacked with his favourites. Strangely, something I’d never understood, the Beatles weren’t mentioned. But anybody connected to Stax, Atlantic or Tamla Motown – anybody black – should’ve been drowned at birth, according to him. Danny found the synergy between colour and immigration impossible to resist and had moved on to explaining the finer points of his views between mouthfuls of crispy fried cod.

  Not difficult to follow; there were no finer points, just flat-out ignorance.

  ‘We don’t want them, we don’t need them, and we can’t afford them. Send the bastards back to wherever they came from and stop any more coming in. End of.’

  The phone interrupted his diatribe. He put the call on speaker so we could hear Stanford in a few sentences give us everything we needed: the day, the time and the contact.

  ‘Tomorrow, early doors. White Transit, French reg, on the A285 heading towards London carrying fifty thousand tablets of methylenedioxymethamphetamine.’

  Methylenedioxymethamphetamine. Better known as ecstasy or Molly.

  I expected my brother to be pleased. He wasn’t.

  ‘What the fuck do French plates look like?’

  ‘Two letters, three numbers, two letters.’

  ‘Haven’t given us much warning, have you?’

  ‘Only just heard.’

  ‘We’re talking five or six hours.’

  ‘Leave it if you don’t fancy it.’

  Danny barked into the phone. ‘Do yourself a favour, copper, don’t get cute. And don’t tell me what to do.’

  He slammed the receiver down, picked it up again, dialled a number and spoke to somebody. ‘Forget it. Get back here. Change of plan.’

  Then he remembered I was there. ‘What did you make of that?’

  ‘Mmmm. Not sure.’

  ‘What does “Mmmm” mean? Spit it out.’

  ‘Doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘“Doesn’t feel right.” Hit Anderson where it hurts, you said. Suddenly you don’t fancy it. I’m lost. Explain it to me.’

  I didn’t have an answer, not one based on anything concrete. He was right, it was exactly the kind of score we’d hoped for and it had been my idea. Except now I’d gone cold on it.

  But this is what I know: if it looks like shit and smells like shit, it’s probably shit.

  I said, ‘Could be a set-up?’

  Danny held his exasperation in check. ‘Not a chance. I’ve got Stanford by the balls. He goes wrong on us it’s ta-ta to the good life for him. Oliver likes things just the way they are. He won’t do anything to jeopardise it. Every dirty copper’s worst nightmare is winding up inside. Dozens of cons with nothing but time to square old scores.’

  He let me picture it, forgetting I’d been there. ‘Better off dead and he knows it.’ Danny licked his fingers, wiped them on page eighteen of the Daily Mail and tossed the paper into the bin. ‘Nah, it’s fine. It’s kosher.’

  I let it go. Maybe it was just me. Since my release I’d been edgy; easily spooked.

  ‘What’s a cargo that size worth on the street these days?’

  ‘Three hundred, three fifty. Depends.’

  He snapped. ‘What’s wrong now?’

  I shrugged. ‘Can’t put my finger on it. But I don’t like it.’

  He rested his elbows on the desk. Dissension from the ranks wasn’t what he was used to. Anybody but me pouring cold water on the news he would’ve been across the desk and at their throat. He settled for giving me a look that could’ve drawn blood.

  ‘You’ve changed, do you realise that?’

  Spending the best part of a decade in prison will do that to you.

  ‘You’re morbid. Everything’s dark. And you’re depressing the shit out of me. I’ll go over it one more time. Trust? Fuck trust. Trust isn’t what this is about. It’s about leverage. Stanford’s in our pocket. Snug as a bug. Our very own tame filth and remember this is what we’re paying him for. This is why Mrs Ollie’s so happy in her new house.’

  ‘Yeah, I get it.’

  ‘Do you? That’s good. Tell you what, when we snag this E, you pocket a couple or twenty and get them down your neck. See if they’re as good as they should be. Call it product testing. Cheer up, for fuck’s sake.’

  That conversation had been running round my brain ever since though it helped nothing. We’d asked for intel so we could knock a wheel off Rollie Anderson. Stanford had delivered. This bit should be straightforward.

  Famous last words.

  In the front seat Marcus kept his dialogue going.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing.’

 
The clock on the dash said six minutes to six. I tried again to visualise the mist on the water, the small boat carrying the drugs and the seagulls hovering and swooping in its wake as it sailed towards the horizon minus its cargo. Like all the best plans: simple.

  Three vehicles went by one after another, none of them the Transit. In an hour, this road would be busy. In two, it would be buzzing. Any later than that, robbing the van would be a non-starter. Stanford’s information was beginning to look suspect.

  At four minutes to six the darkness melted, the sky lightened, and the new day arrived. In the front, Marcus said, ‘Anything?’ and got the familiar reply.

  Felix voiced what everybody else was thinking. ‘Maybe it’s not coming.’

  Danny pulled his coat around him and spat through gritted teeth.

  ‘It’ll be here. Now shut it.’

  My brother had to believe: dodgy intel meant his pet detective wasn’t in control, maybe even gone over to the other side, and that pebble would cause ripples beyond anything he could allow himself to consider. He’d invested too much time and money in Oliver Stanford for it to go sour on a B road in the home counties.

  Marcus kept his concentration on the exchange with the spotter.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No.’

  Then it got interesting. The spotter said, ‘Wait a sec. White Transit… French registration… Yeah, it’s ours.’

  Danny thumped the dashboard. ‘See! See! I knew it.’

  Marcus spoke to the other car. ‘Target sighted. Get ready to fall in behind.’

  Minutes later the van appeared, keeping a steady speed well within the limit. Our second car made to overtake but instead of completing the manoeuvre ran alongside until its nose was in front, horn blasting, edging the vehicle we’d been waiting for over. The Transit had no option. It left the road and ran down the lane to where Marcus had reversed and slewed, blocking progress.