Family

by Owen Mullen

  ‘To what do I owe this surprise?’

  ‘Do I need a reason to see my little sister? You look like you’re in your element. Thought you didn’t like working for our brother.’

  ‘I’m okay so long as I don’t dwell on it. Besides, it’s a means to an end.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Absolutely. My long-term plans don’t include Danny Glass.’

  ‘Do they include me?’

  A light came on in her eyes. For a moment I had the feeling she was judging me. Nina knew I wasn’t serious, but she answered my question anyway. ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘How you feel about having a woman as your boss.’

  I laughed. ‘If you mean you, I suppose I’ll get used to it.’

  She said, ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  The same question Danny had asked – it must be in the genes.

  ‘No, not by myself.’

  ‘C’mon, brother. Spill the tea.’

  ‘It’s a nice day for a drive to the coast.’

  ‘And you’re taking Mandy? The Mandy Danny had so much to say about.’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Will she be around long enough for me to meet her?’

  ‘Maybe. Probably.’

  ‘Good for you, Luke.’

  ‘Why don’t you come with us?’

  Nina leaned on her elbows on the desk, pretending to think about it, and didn’t reply. Finally, she said, ‘I’m meeting somebody.’

  ‘Secretive? Not like you. When you were a teenager, you’d flaunt the boyfriends Danny didn’t like under his nose.’

  Driving to Mandy’s, I was struck again by how much had changed; the buildings were the same but the shops and businesses – even the people walking down the street – seemed different. Finally, I recognised a newsagent on a corner and a memory jumped out at me: it was smaller than I remembered, the plaster on the outside walls cracked and faded to a dull grey, the door and part of the window covered with For Sale notices written on postcard-size cards Sellotaped to the glass. I’d raced through that same door with the owner, Mr Varma, after me, shouting and swearing in whatever language they spoke where he came from.

  This was where it had all begun.

  We were young and it was a laugh, at least it was for us. Until it stopped being funny. My job was to act suspicious and draw the bearded Indian away from the counter so Danny could reach over and grab as many packets of cigarettes as he could. Small stuff. Just what you’d expect from a couple of apprentice wide boys, and for a while it worked.

  Until Mr Varma got wise and was ready for us. One hot summer’s afternoon Danny was waiting for me at the school gates, his hands deep in his pockets, distractedly kicking at stones. I asked why he was there. He shook his head and started walking. I followed the way I always did back then. We got to the shop and went into our usual routine. Mr Varma pretended not to notice us but suddenly, he was standing in the doorway. Danny got past him. I wasn’t quick enough. He caught me out on the pavement and had me by the collar, screaming about calling the police. Then, he let go and fell to the ground. When I turned, my brother was standing over him, eyes glazed like a sleepwalker, an expression of pure hatred on his face. He bared his teeth like an animal and really laid in, kicking him and calling him a Paki bastard – although he knew he wasn’t from Pakistan. Blood poured from the Indian’s head, matting his hair and his shirt, staining the dull grey concrete.

  It ended when somebody shouted from across the street for him to stop and we legged it. Later, Danny sold the cigarettes to another shop and bought us fish suppers. We ate them on the way home and stayed up talking about the future, while our father slept off yet another bender next door. In six months, he’d be dead and I’d be my brother’s responsibility.

  That night Danny invented Team Glass and told me about the Lucky Bastards Club and how we were going to be in it. I believed him and went to bed in the early hours, tired but happy. What we’d done to Mr Varma never got mentioned again.

  Sometimes the future was shaped by what didn’t happen. In our case, we didn’t get caught and the rest went the way it went: from watching an unarmed man being beaten over a few packets of fags to throwing Albert Anderson off the forty-third floor of a half-built office block.

  Quite a journey. And it wasn’t finished.

  A dark-skinned girl in a pink and blue sari, probably Mr Varma’s granddaughter, stood in his place. I bought a Daily Express to justify being there. She gave me my change and I saw her hands and arms were covered in henna.

  ‘Nice.’

  She answered without a trace of accent. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I used to come here when I was a boy. There was a man. He had a beard. Think his name was Mr Varma.’

  The girl smiled. ‘That would be my grandfather.’

  ‘Don’t suppose he’s still around.’

  ‘No. I never knew him. He died trying to stop a robbery before I was born.’

  I said, ‘Sorry to hear that,’ and left.

  Outside, the newspaper went in a rubbish bin. All Mr Varma was doing was trying to pay his way in the world, more than could be said for us. His bad luck had been in running into Team fucking Glass. Now, the teenage thief who’d murdered him was in the middle of a gang war and I was on my way to see a prostitute who wrote lipstick messages on bathroom mirrors.

  As soon as Mandy opened the door of her flat, I realised we wouldn’t be heading to Brighton or anywhere else just yet. She was naked except for high heels and the ankle bracelet.

  What happened next was entirely predictable. We didn’t make it to the bedroom, or even the couch.

  In the car she closed her eyes and let the wind blow her hair away from her face, a beautiful face. I tried to concentrate on the road. With her beside me, not a chance. A few days and already I was in deep. Deeper than was wise.

  She turned her head and smiled. ‘I feel like I’m in a dream and don’t want to wake up.’

  ‘Dream on.’

  Her fingers ran up and down my arm. ‘This was a good idea. I thought you might’ve changed your mind.’

  Her fear was talking though we both understood what she meant. Silly girl. She wasn’t the only one who was dreaming. I knew who she was and what she was and it couldn’t have mattered less.

  20

  Oliver Stanford stood in the middle of the room surrounded by detectives, some on the phone, others with their eyes fixed on PC screens. The irony of trying to sound casual was clear to him. In the very heart of the Met he was playing a part, choosing his words carefully because somebody might be paying more attention than they should have been.

  He called over to DI Mills. ‘Going for an early lunch, fancy joining me, Trevor?’

  Mills looked up, understanding immediately. His DCI rarely had a break. Eating and drinking took time when there were criminals to catch.

  ‘Give me a minute to finish this.’

  Mills typed a final few sentences, reached for his jacket and hurried to catch up with his boss. Neither man spoke until they were beyond the iconic revolving New Scotland Yard sign, which had followed them from 10 Broadway, the address of London’s police force for forty-nine years. The new building was smaller and reactions to the move were mixed. Oliver Stanford had no opinion. He couldn’t have cared less. The job didn’t change.

  Trevor Mills said, ‘Where’re we going, the Clarence?’

  The Clarence on Whitehall was the nearest pub, usually filled with tourists and off-duty policemen. Mills was already a regular customer, often preferring to have cod and chips or beef and ale pie and a couple of pints in the Tin Belly dining room upstairs rather than go home to Barbara. The food was good; the booze was overpriced. Then again, the centre of every big city was a rip-off. In the end you got used to it.

  ‘No. We need to talk. That isn’t the place for it.’

  ‘Where is?’

&nbs
p; ‘Somewhere we’re not known, Trevor.’ He stuck out his arm and a taxi pulled in. Stanford gave the driver instructions. ‘The Masons Arms, Hallam Street.’

  They headed towards Regent Street crowded with visitors and shoppers enjoying the sunshine. Stanford loosened his tie and rolled his shirt sleeves up, but he still looked like a policeman. Trevor Mills had no idea what was going on and started to ask; his boss cut him off and put a finger to his lips. The taxi took them two miles across the city and stopped outside the pub. Stanford paid the cab and the men went inside. It was still only a little after noon – too early for the lunchtime crowd. Harley Street and a slew of medical businesses were close by. In another hour the place would be mobbed. Mills took a seat and let the senior detective do the honours – it was his show, after all. Besides, he made more money. That thought reminded him of his bitch of a wife’s undisguised disappointment every time she saw where his boss lived. Stanford was at the bar with his back to him, taking notes from his wallet. Mills heard Barbara’s withering words and felt a flash of resentment pass through him.

  Oliver Stanford isn’t smarter than you.

  Tell me he isn’t.

  At least give me that much hope…

  Stanford set the beers down and tossed two packets of crisps on the table.

  ‘All we’ve time for, I’m afraid. Got a meeting with the commander at three.’

  Mills lifted his drink – wet and clear and cold – and put the thoughts in his head aside for another day. ‘Must be five thousand pubs in Central London, why here?’

  ‘I’ve arranged for somebody to meet us. Better nobody knows who we are.’

  ‘Who?’

  His boss sipped his drink and appraised him over the rim of the glass. ‘The snitch who told us about Anderson’s drug shipment. We need to ask him face to face where he got the information.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘You know better than that, Trevor.’

  Mills inwardly sneered. Stanford was an arrogant bastard – Barbara wasn’t wrong about that – it was ‘we’ and ‘us’ when things went badly and ‘me’ when they went well. In this case, it had gone off the rails and he was spreading the responsibility for the failure. A fresh wave of resentment rose in Mills. He said, ‘How long has this guy been spilling for you?’

  The reply was guarded. ‘Long enough.’

  ‘And the info’s always good?’

  Stanford gripping his pint was displeased at having his judgement questioned.

  The pub gradually filled with office workers in groups of twos and threes, eagerly crowding the bar, determined to enjoy their hour of freedom in the middle of the day. Mills caught Stanford checking the clock above the gantry and sensed his anxiety.

  He rubbed it in. ‘Maybe he’s changed his mind?’

  ‘He’d better not have or I’ll… wait… It’s him. He’s here.’

  A thin man in a black suit jacket, white collarless shirt and blue jeans stood in the open door. He came over and sat down, immediately suspicious.

  ‘You didn’t say anything about bringing somebody else in. Who the fuck is this, Oliver?’

  ‘Nobody to worry about. Relax.’

  In his business, relaxing didn’t end well. The latest call from the detective hadn’t come as a surprise. He’d heard about the hit on the van and been expecting it.

  ‘Before we start, my information was rock solid, 100 per cent.’

  Stanford reassured him. ‘All in good time, all in good time.’ He turned to Mills. ‘Get this man whatever he wants, Trevor.’

  This guy stupidly assumed he was off the hook and reverted to type.

  ‘Since you’re buying, I’ll have a lager and a large vodka.’

  Stanford’s expression hardened. ‘Like hell you will. Think yourself lucky I haven’t blown the whistle on you. And for your cheek, you’re getting sod all.’

  The informer faked offence. ‘You told your boy to get me whatever I want, which happens to be a lager and a large vodka. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Don’t push it. Tell me what happened in Kent.’

  ‘Far as I’m concerned, nothing. The word was fifty thousand tablets were coming from the coast. Anderson uses that route a lot. Never has any problems. Should’ve been fine.’

  ‘Except there were and it wasn’t. Danny Glass’s ready to string up whoever made a fool of him. Shall I drop your name in his ear?’

  Mills wondered if his boss realised he was actually talking about himself. The decision to set Wallace up was Stanford’s. He was the one who’d jeopardised Glass’s hit by letting Wallace in on the call.

  The informant with no name blanched at the threat, his weasel face got thinner and the wide boy bravado disappeared. ‘Christ’s sake, don’t do that, Oliver. The information was on the money. Honest.’

  Stanford let him sweat. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘You know how it is, people tell me things.’

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘Just people.’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘If I tell you or anybody else, I might as well shut up shop. I’ll say it again: the info was good. When I passed it to you, it was gold.’

  ‘And you’re prepared to stake your life on this guy? Because that’s what you’ll be doing.’

  The man drew a hand through the stubble on his jaw, two days’ worth at least.

  ‘Wouldn’t go as far as that, but he’s straight, I’d swear to it.’

  The informant got up. ‘Weren’t serious about telling Glass, were you? I mean, might as well shoot me yourself.’

  Stanford smiled. ‘Not a bad idea. Why didn’t we think of that, Trevor?’

  ‘It’s never too late.’

  When he’d left the detectives eyed each other, grimly. Mills said. ‘A wasted journey.’

  ‘Not exactly. We know more than we did. I believe him. In a dozen years, he’s never been wrong.’

  The DI threw his own line back at him. ‘And you’d stake your life on this guy?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t but he’s straight, I’d swear to it.’

  Both policemen laughed.

  ‘That leaves three possibilities.’ The DCI counted them on his fingers. ‘One: you were right and Wallace is playing for the other side. Two: Anderson got wind of something and went off-plan.’

  Trevor Mills swirled the dregs of his pint around the glass. ‘And the third?’

  ‘That maybe the leak isn’t on our end.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  Stanford was well aware of his DI’s opinion. The way their careers had gone, it would be a surprise if he’d felt any differently, especially with his lush of a wife whispering lies, telling him that he could be the more successful man. Understandable maybe to think that, but not true: detective inspector was as far as Trevor Mills would ever go. To rise higher you needed to be capable of appreciating the bigger picture. That let him out. Otherwise he wouldn’t be asking such a stupid question.

  ‘No, that isn’t good. It’s the worst option imaginable. Glass believes he’s strong when, in fact, that would mean he’s vulnerable. And whoever knows about Danny Glass knows we’re involved.’

  ‘Where does that leave us?’

  ‘Okay, in reverse order: Glass is convinced his team is sound, so let’s believe him until proved otherwise. We know Anderson didn’t get his information from the street. That leaves us with your suspicion – Wallace. How the stupid bugger thought he could pull it off is a mystery.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘The only thing I can do. Give him up.’

  ‘To Glass?’

  ‘Who else?’

  21

  The basement flat in Moscow Road, Bayswater was the first place George Ritchie stayed when he came south. He’d bought it with cash, though not for its aesthetic or investment values. Small didn’t do it justice. Accessed from the street at the bottom of concrete steps, cracked and worn with age and covered in part with moss he’d never
bothered to dig out, it was tiny: a single room with a sink and cooker in one corner, a bed in the other, and a WC in what had probably been a cupboard once upon a time.

  A loner by instinct, Ritchie developed the habits that would define his persona in that claustrophobic hole in the ground in West London. Those same instincts had brought him back there.

  In the early days his local had been the Daniel Gooch, for no reason other than it was at the far end of Queensway, a good distance from the flat. And, like he’d do in Camden Town years later, he drank his two pints and left long before closing time. Occasionally, at half-time in a football match on the TV screen, somebody would talk to him and find him polite and quietly spoken with an accent very different from their own. Behind his back the regulars called him ‘Mr Two Pints’ and let him be.

  Ritchie had realised Camden was a bust as soon as he saw the kissing couple who were obviously not lovers – their embrace was the embrace of strangers, awkward and forced, not nearly passionate enough to deceive an old dog. And he knew they were on to him. From behind the ragged curtain he’d watched the man take a call on his mobile and pass something to the woman – money for services rendered. Then, they’d gone their separate ways.

  In the darkness, Ritchie reached under the single bed for the suitcase kept packed and ready. The key to the Bayswater flat, his two passports and three bank books were in a safety deposit box at Victoria Station. Ritchie had no regrets: this was the price of the life he’d chosen and he left without a backward glance.

  At Mornington Crescent he hailed a cruising taxi, took it to Great Smith Street and walked to Victoria Station. Getting what he needed didn’t take long. A second cab dropped him off at the top of Queensway.

  Moscow Road was deserted when he went down the stairs, turned the key in the lock and opened the door. The case went under the single bed. He took off his jacket, sat in the chair near the window and closed his eyes. The police would find the white van burned out on waste ground across the river from the O2 Centre. There would be no licence plates to identify it or fingerprints on the charred shell.