by Owen Mullen
Thanks to me, Danny had another victim to add to his despicable night’s work – the second he threw Mandy out I should’ve decked him and left him to it. If I had, Mandy wouldn’t have gone to the Shark’s Mouth and crossed paths with whoever had done this to her. But I hadn’t. I’d let her go, humiliated and alone: the fault was mine.
Beside the bed the chair was hard and far too small for somebody my size. Getting comfortable wasn’t going to happen. I turned out the light and settled for listening to the rise and fall of her breathing in the darkness. When she woke up, I’d be there.
40
South London was easing into the weekend under a clear sky. All over the city people would be making plans to have lunch, go shopping, or meet up with their mates for a few beers before the football. Stanford envied them. This morning, the five-bedroom house in Hendon, the cars, the holidays and all the over-priced extravagant rest of it he’d lied and cheated to acquire didn’t seem important. The senior officer had been at the scene for close to eight hours and what he’d witnessed made him wish he’d never heard of Danny Glass.
He’d been asleep when the mobile had rung on his bedside cabinet and had stretched to answer it without opening his eyes – a reflex from years in the job. Beside him, Elise had stirred and turned over. Trevor Mills had spoken quickly and quietly. What he’d said had had his gaffer on his feet and racing for his car.
The memories of the night he’d just lived through would never leave him and he couldn’t help re-living it again. Arcs of water poured from four fire engines into the burning building without making a difference – flames leapt in the air and the heat was intense. Mills was waiting for him. Stanford asked, ‘When did it start?’
‘As far as we can tell, sometime around eleven-thirty.’
‘Who called it in?’
Mills pointed to three girls huddled together, comforting each other.
‘They didn’t see anyone and there are no cameras. Just what you’d expect from Anderson.’
‘And I’ll bet he’s seen to it that there aren’t any working within a mile of here. We’ll get no help in that direction. How many people were in the club?’
Mills offered a guess. ‘Friday night.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Still early, so maybe a hundred, a hundred and fifty.’
Stanford took in the number and swore quietly. ‘Has Anderson been told?’
‘Haven’t been able to contact him.’
‘So, that’s a no.’
‘That’s a no, sir.’
Stanford introduced himself to the fire chief, a sandy-haired Scot called Quinn, with twenty years’ experience of thermodynamics, hazardous materials and the dozen other elements likely to have played a part in the disaster.
‘How long before you get it under control?’
‘Joking, aren’t you? The best we can do is stop it spreading. A blaze like this only stops when it runs out of flammable material or oxygen. Best guess, we’ll be here for a while.’ The fireman shook his head. He pointed to an officer at the top of a ladder. ‘There are bodies everywhere – piled at each door. Most of them already dead from suffocation and smoke inhalation before the roof came down.’ He took off his helmet, drew a weary hand through thinning hair, and put it back on. ‘This is the worst one I’ve seen and I’ve seen a few, believe me. Identification will be impossible. Be hours before we can get the victims out.’
The DCI said, ‘Can’t you just smash the doors in? People might still be alive in there.’
Quinn kept the irritation he felt out of his voice. ‘The rush of air would feed the flames, otherwise we would’ve already done it.’
Stanford drew Mills away from the fire chief; both detectives were sweating.
‘It doesn’t look good, Trevor, and I don’t mean the fire.’
‘Danny Glass?’
‘Who else?’
‘Could be an electrical fault, a cigarette, anything.’
‘It could, but it isn’t.’
The DI chose his words. ‘If you’re right, he’s gone up a couple of divisions. We’re talking mass murder.’
Mills was naïve – another reason why his career wouldn’t go much further. ‘You don’t think he’s capable? This is a reprisal for that fucking video. This is his answer.’
‘But we were going to take Anderson down, surely—’
‘Surely fuck all. Glass wanted to send a message nobody will forget.’
Behind them, something collapsed and the fire roared. A new column of sparks and smoke rose into the air – Danny Glass’s signature for all of South London to see.
Stanford sipped the coffee someone had handed him. It was cold and looked like mud with about as much taste. His gaze went to the blue and white cordon well away from the blaze and the crowd continuing its vigil, ghouls for the most part, addicted to other people’s tragedy. When they started bringing the bodies out, some would be glad they weren’t any closer. Later today, the flowers and teddy bears and scribbled messages of sympathy from strangers would arrive – a modern phenomenon the DCI didn’t understand. But he understood the pain on the faces of parents whose sons and daughters had left home, dressed to the nines, and hadn’t returned. Tear tracks on their cheeks and the despair in their eyes singled them out. Most stood sullen and silent, hoping against hope for good news that wouldn’t be coming.
Threads of grey smoke rose from what had been the Picasso Club. Exhausted fire crews remained at the scene, helmets off, quietly talking to ambulancemen and paramedics. At this stage, the police had little part to play other than keeping the crowd and the media at a distance and maintaining access for essential vehicles – a major challenge on its own. Christ knew how many TV crews were here, apart from anything else. Quinn, like Stanford, had been called from his bed and immediately began rounding up his team.
The investigator shared what he’d seen with the detective. ‘Pretty sure what we’ll find before we even start.’
‘Deliberate?’
Quinn scratched the stubble on his chin.
‘That’s asking too much at this stage, but they couldn’t get out.’
‘Yeah, I heard.’
Quinn said, ‘We’re going in. They’ll search for survivors then start getting the dead out. Christ knows how long that’ll take.’ He patted the detective’s shoulder. ‘Better not to think about it.’
Stanford would’ve liked to take his advice. That wasn’t possible. The DCI was tired. Tired of dealing with an evil bastard like Danny Glass. Tired of the whole fucking game.
Gangland feuds – thugs settling old scores or wrestling for control of territory – was a fact of life much like natural selection. Whenever they could, the police let them get on with it. So long as public safety wasn’t endangered, nobody cared if they killed each other.
This was different. Revenge had reached a new level and, no matter how many witnesses were prepared to swear he was somewhere else, Danny Glass was responsible.
Unfortunately, there was a mile of difference between knowing it and proving it. And even if he could get the evidence needed for a conviction, he’d be signing, not only his own, but Elise’s death warrant. And it wouldn’t be pretty. For the time being, he was tied to the psycho bastard whether he liked it or not.
Driving across the sleeping city in the wee hours, listening to the reports on the police radio, revulsion at himself as well as Glass spurred a need to face this monster down and he’d pointed the car towards the King of Mesopotamia. Danny Glass hadn’t been surprised to see him when he’d burst through the door into his office. Glass had sounded drunk. ‘Was wondering when you’d show up, Ollie. What kept you?’
Stanford had let it all out. ‘You mad fucker! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’
The gangster’s face had darkened. ‘Careful, Ollie. Careful. It’s my birthday.’ He’d glanced at his watch. ‘Or, it was. Don’t spoil it, there’s a good lad.’
The detective hadn’t been intimida
ted. ‘I left you a message. I told you… I told you we had him. That he was finished and you’d won.’ Stanford’s voice had cracked. ‘I can’t protect you even if I wanted to. Nobody can. You’d do better to get out of London. Now. Tonight. Everybody’s seen the video. They know the fire at the Picasso Club’s down to you.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes. Anderson made a clown of you – or, rather, you made a clown of yourself – and this is your response.’
Glass had stood up. ‘You’re over the line, copper. Another word—’
‘And you’ll what? Kill me? Is that what you were going to say?’
Danny Glass had relaxed. ‘Anyway, Oliver, I don’t know what the hell you’re on about.’
Stanford had gasped. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me you didn’t order the hit on Anderson’s place?’
Glass had sat down again, his fingers toying with the empty whisky glass. ‘I’m not telling you anything, Detective Chief Inspector. You’re the one throwing accusations around.’
‘Come off it.’
‘No, Ollie, you come off it. As I said, it’s my birthday. Been here all night. Had a right old skinful, as you’ll have noticed.’
‘You’re as sober as I am.’
Glass had laughed. ‘Yeah? Gave a speech on top of the bar not long ago. Nearly fell off and broke my bloody neck in front of fifty-odd witnesses. Ask the barman for names, and sharpen your pencil, there’s a fair few of them. Or ask the plods trailing my brother. They’ll swear no one left here all night.’
‘You’re unbelievable, you really are.’
‘Won’t argue with you there. As for Anderson, hope he’s dead, he won’t be missed. Pleased to hear I can cross him off my ‘To Do’ list. Your dirty mate – what’s his name again? – Wallace, isn’t it? Haven’t forgotten about him. He’s still on there.’
The fire had smouldered for hours. In the rubble, one of Quinn’s team was on their knees sniffing the ground. Others dressed in white suits gathered samples. Trevor Mills appeared again at his elbow. ‘BBC News are predicting a hundred dead. Where the hell do they get their information?’
The DCI poured the coffee on the ground and threw away the carton.
‘They make it up. Thought you knew that, Trevor?’
‘Tossers.’
His boss touched his arm. The first victims were being loaded into a black van. In the distance, a hush settled over the crowd, broken by the sound of crying. This was reality. In a tatty club south of the Thames, young lives had ended.
Mills watched the macabre procession. ‘Be our turn soon.’
Stanford wearily rubbed his eyes. ‘Thanks for that, Trevor. Just what I need this morning.’
‘I meant to go in, sir.’
‘I know what you meant.’
He changed the subject. ‘Our only way out of this is to take the spotlight off Glass.’
‘With respect, sir, how is that possible?’
Stanford thought out loud. ‘Torching a club isn’t a gangland signature. So many civilian casualties could make terrorists the likely suspects. Feed that to the media – they’ll lap it up. I’ll go with the normal script… too early to be certain… not ruling out it being the work of a dissident organisation… as yet, nobody has claimed responsibility… you know, the usual bullshit.’ He drew the corners of his mouth into a humourless grin. ‘Where are the bloody Provisional IRA when you need them, eh? After I’ve written my report and passed it upstairs, we’ll hand the whole fucking mess over to Counter Terrorism Command.’
‘Will that fly?’
It was a good question. Stanford was asking himself the same thing.
‘I’ll guarantee you, Trevor. They won’t find evidence that says otherwise.’
41
Nina rose through levels of ragged consciousness and broke the surface like a drowning woman coming up for air. Bile seared her throat, taking her to the edge of vomiting. It passed, and she lay breathless and clammy and trembling. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Harsh light flooded the room. Nina groaned and closed them again, unable to escape the nausea in her stomach or the damning flashes of memory behind them: tearing each other’s clothes off; him carrying her naked to the room; his tongue and his fingers relentlessly exploring her.
She staggered through to the lounge. A bottle lay on its side under the table. Nobody had to tell her it was empty.
Nina pressed her hand against her throbbing temple. Danny had given her her first drink when she was thirteen and laughed when she’d retched and spat it into the sink. But, living with her hard-drinking brothers, she’d quickly acquired the taste.
Outside, the sky was blue. She lifted her mobile: five missed calls, all from Luke. Whatever he wanted would have to wait. Today wasn’t the day. Tomorrow might not be, either. As soon as Vale woke up, she’d get rid of him – she’d had her fun; there would be no repeat. Nina slumped on the couch and switched the TV on.
Jonjo wasn’t sure he had the energy or even the will to get out of bed. Yesterday, the future looked bright. Today he had no future, at least not south of the Thames. Going to Kent in the middle of the night had been his own idea and he’d struck the motherload with Danny Glass’s hapless performance. Humiliating and hysterically funny. Rollie had loved every second of it and, for a couple of days, Jonjo had basked in glory as Anderson told the story to anybody who’d listen. At the club, he’d been waved through like a film star. Then Charlie Thompson had suggested hitting the King Pot and it had fallen apart. Instinctively, Jonjo had recognised it was a reckless move George Ritchie would never sanction. When he’d tried to stop them, Rollie had turned on him and dumped him. In minutes, Anderson’s gratitude for capturing his arch enemy on camera had ebbed away and Jonjo was out.
Remembering made him sick. His uncle’s reaction in the cafe had been unexpected. George wasn’t afraid of much, but when Jonjo had shown him the video he’d been afraid – and not for himself. Back in Newcastle, if Ritchie had told him to throw himself in the Tyne, he’d have done it without asking why. Down here, things were different. Jonjo had seen an opportunity and gone his own way.
He sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, fighting down the bile rising in his throat. An almost-empty whisky bottle lying against the skirting board, where it had rolled, reminded him why he felt so rough. Unlikely possibilities ran through his head: his uncle would speak to Rollie and get him his job back. Failing that, he’d approach another crew. The only result he couldn’t live with was going home. That would mean he’d failed to make his mark in the capital.
Jonjo crawled towards the bottle, held it to his lips and drained it, which revived him enough to search his jeans for his mobile. Ritchie would still be angry with him – he expected a lecture. In his head he went over how to handle it.
A voice on the other end of the phone told him the number was currently unavailable.
Not having to face his uncle’s wrath was actually a relief. As it subsided, he realised he’d no idea whether Rollie had gone through with the attack on Danny Glass’s pub. For all he knew, Glass might be in the mortuary with a name tag on his toe and his brother with him. Anderson could be the undisputed king of the South Side. But without George Ritchie to speak on his behalf, he’d stay clear. Rollie was a mad bastard, as unpredictable as the weather. There was no telling how he’d react.
Jonjo poured himself a glass of water and checked his watch: ten past eight. For the time being he’d keep trying to reach his uncle and keep his head down. Money wouldn’t be a problem for a while. By then, he’d have figured out what to do. More accurately, his uncle would tell him what to do and, this time, he’d do it.
He washed his face in the sink, then called again and got the same message. In an hour he’d go to the supermarket for whisky and beer. Better get something to eat, as well. There was no telling how long he’d be stuck here.
His fingers closed round the TV remote control.
I was wakened by my mobile ringing. It was d
ark and I was disoriented. Then the mist cleared and it came back to me. Against the odds, I’d somehow managed to sleep in the cramped chair – a bad-dream sleep, the kind that sucked your energy and emptied you emotionally.
The phone was still going. It was tempting to ignore it. Whoever was there wasn’t giving up. At the other end of the line, the sound of breathing was like waves breaking on a beach. I lost it. ‘Who the fuck is this? Anderson, is that you?’
The line died in my hand. If Anderson was trying to unnerve me, it was working.
Mandy was still out of it and I worried I should’ve taken her to hospital. It was ten to seven: The Picasso Club would be a blackened shell. I stopped myself thinking about how many had died in the inferno, and what kind of death that would have been.
My mobile rang again, shattering the early-morning silence. Something snapped inside me and I made a grab for the phone, only succeeding in knocking it to the floor. It lay on that god-awful carpet while an invisible vice squeezed my chest. If Anderson had been in the room with me, I’d have strangled him with my bare hands.
Years of resentment I hadn’t been aware I was carrying poured out of me. ‘You’re going down just like your old man. Albert begged me not to throw him off that building. Cried like a baby because his miserable existence was coming to an end. He even offered me money. I told him to fuck off. Now, I’m telling you.’
She cut through my rant like a lance, her tone as cold as yesterday’s rain. ‘Tell me you didn’t know about the Picasso Club.’
Nina.
‘Are you serious? Of course, I didn’t know.’
‘Is that the truth?’
Trust was in short supply in the Glass family.
‘I promise you. I’d have stopped him.’
That my own sister could consider, even for a moment, I was capable of such a crime rocked me to my core. She backed off, but only a little, doubt still whispering in her ear.