Family

by Owen Mullen

  In the background a frightened Amy cried for her mother. The call ended and I was standing in the middle of the floor, tears running down my face and a man’s laughter echoing in my ears.

  59

  It was raining in Newcastle. Pissing down. George Ritchie’s sister didn’t care; he had to persuade her to let him in. Eventually, reluctantly, she did. The lights were on and a white sheet covered the window where, once upon a time, a boy had sat listening to his mother and his famous uncle talking. That boy was dead. That boy was Jonjo.

  Hannah played with her fingers and stared at the raindrops drumming against the glass, racing to the bottom, while the clock on the sideboard ticked the seconds away in silence.

  She wasn’t able to look at her brother, knowing if she did the dam inside her would break and anger beyond her control would come gushing out. Ritchie could only guess the pain she was suffering. There were no words, yet he had to tell her something – Hannah was owed that much. All he had was excuses.

  ‘I warned him, Hannah. Swear to God, I did. He went his own way.’

  Hannah repeated each syllable slowly, searching for its meaning.

  ‘You… warned… him.’ She lifted her eyes, brimming with tears. ‘Is that supposed to help? Because it doesn’t. It doesn’t help me at all.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you? I doubt it.’

  Ritchie tried to explain. ‘Jonjo was headstrong, you said so yourself often enough. Always in a hurry. He thought I’d lost it when I laid it out for him, and he crossed somebody he should’ve avoided. Once he’d done that, there was nothing I could’ve done. Nothing anybody could’ve done.’

  His sister’s reply stung. ‘If you’re looking for absolution, go to St Anthony of Padua in Church Street. You won’t find it here.’

  ‘That’s not fair. He knew what he was doing was dangerous. I believed I’d stopped him.’

  ‘Except you didn’t, George. Your whole life’s a list of what you didn’t do.’

  She was talking about the last years of their mother’s life, when Hannah had cared for her. George had promised to visit and hadn’t. Something had always got in the way. In the end, she’d passed without seeing her only son.

  His contribution had lasted three whole days. He’d come north, paid the funeral director in cash, left an envelope stuffed with money on the sideboard and returned south.

  Ritchie changed the subject. ‘What’re the arrangements?’

  Hannah wiped her cheeks. ‘I’m going to London to bring him home.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Spoken too soon.

  She rounded on him, her face stiff with contempt. ‘No, no, you won’t. You won’t do anything. Don’t come to the funeral, you’re not welcome. Don’t dare leave money. After today, I don’t want to see you again. Go back where you belong and stay there.’

  Ritchie let himself out; it was still raining. He dug his hands into his pockets and bent into the wind. At the first pub he came to he ordered a large whisky then another and threw both of them over in a couple of gulps. It didn’t help.

  His sister’s words seared his brain. ‘Go back where you belong.’

  Where was that? George Ritchie didn’t know any more.

  60

  Trevor Mills knocked on his boss’s door and went in. The previous day he’d been off-duty and hadn’t appreciated having to drive across London to take a statement – another gripe in a long list. He’d left his wife, Barbara, in bed today, claiming she wasn’t well. He’d taken her a glass of water and a couple of paracetamol earlier and was still waiting for her to say thanks. On the coffee table in their lounge, the front page of the Daily Mail had carried the latest news on the hunt for the Asians who’d been in the queue at the Picasso Club and an op ed railing against the hordes of immigrants pouring into the UK. The detective had smiled grimly to himself. The good men and women of the National Crime Agency were going to be disappointed. He almost felt sorry for them. They were chasing the wrong people.

  Not only that, they wouldn’t find them. The video wasn’t clear enough to allow identification. He’d bet his pension the communities the Asian boys were from wouldn’t let them come forward to be fitted up for something they didn’t do.

  Mills had no direct contact with Glass – Stanford dealt with Danny – and that was how Trevor Mills liked it. Life was complicated enough without having to jump whenever the gangster felt like putting you through your paces. In any case, it had been a wasted journey. Luke Glass hadn’t had much to give in the way of information yesterday, though, from the state of his flat, he’d upset somebody.

  DCI Stanford’s white shirt might’ve just come out of the box.

  Mills held up his mobile to show him the picture of the missing mother and daughter.

  ‘Good-looking for a hooker. Tough on the kid having that for a mum.’

  Stanford didn’t comment – he’d given Luke Glass the chance to pick a side. Predictably, he’d gone with his brother.

  Mills said, ‘How do you want me to handle this?’

  The response surprised him. ‘I don’t, Trevor. Yesterday was a show. It’s gangland stuff, same as the body floating in the Thames. They’re animals. This is how they live. Unless it spills onto the streets and upsets the commissioner, I don’t give a flying fuck what they do to each other.’

  ‘Didn’t you say we’d handle it?’

  Stanford’s lips pressed together. ‘I say a lot of things, Trevor. Doesn’t mean they’re true. Glass had a chance to be smart and turned it down.’

  This was the first Mills had heard about it.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I offered him an opportunity, a new deal.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He didn’t take it.’

  ‘More fool him. What about the sister? She might be up for it.’

  ‘Maybe, she’s certainly got the balls, but no, I still think Luke’s the man we want.’

  ‘You said he turned you down.’

  ‘It’s a long game, Trevor, a long game. Now, how’s the investigation into Bob Wallace going?’

  ‘Got every available man on it. Christ knows what it’ll do to the budget.’

  ‘Let me worry about that. The important thing is that we leave no stone unturned. Bob was a good officer; he deserves our best work.’

  Mills wondered if the conversation was being recorded. Stanford sounded plausible – almost as if he believed what he was saying. Except they’d just had an unguarded discussion about Danny Glass. Oliver Stanford was a bigger conman than Glass, able to move between reality and fantasy and remain completely convincing.

  Mills said, ‘It would’ve been easier if Luke had stepped into Danny’s shoes.’

  ‘Agreed. When his brother falls – and he will – he’s going down with him.’

  He changed the subject. ‘The red herring about the Asians in the Picasso queue has caught on.’

  ‘Seems so. Which means Danny Glass is going to get away with it?’

  ‘This time, maybe. But not for much longer. He thinks we’re inside the tent. His reign as King of the South is nearly over. One of these days, it’ll be him they fish out of the drink.’

  ‘The end of an era.’

  Stanford wrote a headline in the air. ‘Gang boss dies in shoot-out.’

  ‘So long as he does die.’

  ‘He will, Trevor, we’ll make sure of it.’

  Although it was eleven o’clock in the morning, Danny sounded tired, as if he’d been woken from a sleep. At first, he didn’t realise it was me. When he did, he pulled himself together.

  ‘Luke. Any news?’

  I told him about the phone call, Mandy screaming and a man laughing in the background. He didn’t interrupt. Even when I lost it and couldn’t finish a sentence.

  ‘The laugh, did you recognise it? Was it Anderson?’

  ‘I couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘Did you hear anything that might give us a clue to where he’
s holding them? Think – traffic noise, trains, water.’

  ‘Only Amy crying.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No.’

  He paused, choosing his words, softening his tone. ‘You and I have had our differences over Mandy. Believe me when I tell you I’m sorry. Nobody deserves what Anderson’s done to her and her little girl.’ Danny hissed down the line, talking more to himself than to me. ‘He’s a soulless bastard. Just like his old man.’

  He was thinking of Cheryl and Rebecca and wasn’t going to like what I had to say.

  ‘I appreciate it, but I’ve made a decision. If Anderson contacts me again, I’m going to offer to trade places: me for Mandy and Amy. I’ll show up wherever he wants. Alone.’

  Danny’s reaction was predictable. ‘Don’t. For Christ’s sake, don’t. Whatever he promises, he won’t deliver. You’ll be walking into a trap. Rollie’s a reptile, he can’t be trusted. He’ll kill all of you.’

  It was the truth.

  ‘I have to do something. I’m going insane.’

  ‘Stupid doesn’t help anybody except Anderson. We won’t give up until we’ve found them.’

  He meant well. It wasn’t enough. The dread I’d lived with since discovering Mandy and her daughter weren’t at the flat crushed my chest, choking me.

  My voice was a whisper. ‘They’re dead, aren’t they?’

  He came back strong. ‘Luke, listen to me, you don’t know that.’

  But I did know it, and so did he.

  The call from Stanford was unexpected. He’d tried and failed to do a deal with me in Hampstead. Going to Danny for help rather than him must’ve rankled.

  ‘My guess is they’re still in the city.’

  He was offering me hope.

  The trouble was, I didn’t believe him. Not about any of it.

  He had no interest in Mandy or Amy or me. He was saving his own arse or trying to. Maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe Anderson would finish what he’d started with his failed attack on the pub. The game was still in play and when the dust settled, he’d do business with whoever was left standing.

  Convincing me he cared was a non-starter. Deep down Stanford was just another twisted human being prepared to step on anyone and anything on his road to the top, confident he wouldn’t be coming back down.

  Not so different from Danny or Anderson.

  His next comment caught me off guard.

  ‘George Ritchie was caught this morning on CCTV at King’s Cross Station coming off a train. We tailed him but he lost us.’

  ‘Ritchie?’

  ‘The very same. The only sign that Anderson’s crew might’ve survived. So, we’re redoubling our efforts to locate them. Wherever they are, the woman and her daughter won’t be far away.’

  ‘You better tell Danny.’

  The detective then burned the last bridge between himself and my brother. I imagined him smiling. ‘You tell him. Better still, let him find out for himself.’

  61

  The flat had become a cell and I was as much a prisoner as I’d ever been in Wandsworth, pacing up and down trying to keep my imagination in check. Sometimes drinking yourself into oblivion is the only thing that makes sense. I felt like it but didn’t do it. At any minute my mobile could ring with news. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any more and left.

  I was in the car when Nina called. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? This is awful.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m a mess. All over the place. This whole thing is my fault.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’m coming over.’

  ‘No, don’t. I’ll come to you when I’ve checked in with Danny.’

  The drive to the King Pot passed in a blur, the thousands of decisions, big and small, needed to navigate the city traffic made without input from me. Harry was serving somebody at the other end of the bar and didn’t notice me come in. Apart from Felix, none of my brother’s guys were around. He acknowledged me with a nod and came over.

  ‘Sorry about Mandy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten what you did when Danny wanted to put a bullet in my brain. If you need me, I’m here.’

  The office was exactly as it had been. He lifted his head and saw the replacement jukebox, the computer on the desk and the photograph of the Queen on the wall. There was one important difference: it was empty.

  Danny wasn’t here.

  I ran a finger up and down the neck of one of the whisky bottles. Tempting. If Danny had been here, he would’ve insisted and I’d have had a glass in my hand whether I wanted one or not. Nobody ever dared sit in Danny’s chair. Without thinking I dropped into it. An application for a pub licence in a name I didn’t recognise sat on top of the desk. One of Danny’s many business fronts. On paper he’d own very little.

  An amber light blinking in and out told me the PC hadn’t been turned off properly. Typical Danny. Technology had never been his thing. I tapped the space bar and went into shock. My brain refused to accept the evidence of my own eyes. What I was seeing was beyond anything I’d expected. I backed away from the screen, a hundred thoughts piercing my mind like poison darts.

  I had to get out of there.

  The car was driving itself again. Behind the wheel confusion lay like a weight on me. I pulled into the kerb and switched off the ignition. The images on the screen had made me doubt my sanity. It hadn’t felt right from Day One. Like a fool I’d refused to tackle it head-on. Now the scales were lifted, I felt numb and alone.

  No one had warned me.

  That wasn’t true. Somebody had.

  some people have long memories

  From a distance, still wearing the same threadbare coat he’d had on when I’d met him the first time, Vincent Finnegan looked like an old tramp in out of the rain. Close up didn’t improve things – he hadn’t had a shave in days, his shirt was creased and frayed. He’d lost weight, making deep hollows of his cheeks. The former hardman was by himself at a table, leaning against the back wall of the bar giving him an early sight of everybody who came in. A lingering trace of the callous enforcer he’d been skulked in the flinty corners of his eyes and there was a humourless half-smile on his lips as he assessed me walking towards him. He swirled the almost-empty pint measure in his hand and the dregs at the bottom, like he’d been waiting for me to arrive and buy him a refill.

  I came straight to the point. ‘You know why I’m here.’

  He didn’t feign surprise. ‘I can guess.’

  Finnegan pushed his nearly empty glass across to me. His timing was off. There were gaps in what I knew only he could plug. He’d get a drink when he’d told me what I needed to know.

  I pushed the glass back. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Vincent. You said you and Danny had a falling out. A “misunderstanding”. What about?’

  The question wasn’t one he was keen to answer – even for free booze. His attention wandered to the men at the next table playing cards, then around the bar, everywhere but me.

  ‘Leave it alone, Luke. There’s nothing good down that road.’

  ‘Got the impression you were thirsty.’

  ‘Not that thirsty.’

  ‘You’re afraid of Danny, aren’t you?’

  The suggestion brought a mirthless grunt but no denial.

  I mocked him. ‘Vincent Finnegan scared. If all those women you used to pull could see you now. I can’t believe it. You and Sean Poland terrified people. Or maybe that was just Sean.’

  The Irishman’s circumstances had changed – he still had his pride. Stomping all over it forced the reaction I wanted. Finnegan drew his coat open to reveal the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers. I wasn’t impressed.

  ‘All that tells me is you live in fear.’

  ‘No, Luke, I live in expectation. I’m not going out like Poland.’

  I’d no idea what he was talking about. He saw my ignorance and a light came into his eyes. He had the upper hand, once upon a time a common occurrence – not these days.

&
nbsp; He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at me.

  ‘Surprised it’s taken a bright guy like you this long to figure it out.’

  ‘I’m not so bright, Vincent.’

  He raised his walking stick and tapped it on his leg.

  ‘None of us are, mate.’

  ‘And I haven’t figured anything out.’

  He nudged the pint glass at me again. ‘Then, I’d order a double if I was you – you’re going to need it.’

  Finnegan watched me make the call. One pint had become three. His spirit was reborn and he sat straight, eager to hear the exchange. When Danny answered I said, ‘Where are you?’

  The abruptness fazed him and he faltered. ‘You… all right, little brother?’

  I ignored his question and repeated my own. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the house.’

  ‘The house? Which house?

  ‘Our old house. We own it, you and me. Own most of the fucking street as a matter of fact. Told you we were into property, didn’t I?’

  ‘Stay there. I’m coming.’

  Bile rose from my gut, burning the lining of my throat, leaving a foul taste in my mouth, and I had to stop the car and be sick before I could drive on. I’d stared in disbelief at Danny’s PC screen and the live camera showing my flat and the couch where Mandy and I had made love. My first reaction was confusion, then embarrassment as I tried to work out what it meant. Danny had anticipated Rollie Anderson would pursue his vendetta and had it put in to protect me. When? I checked the files. The camera footage dated back to a month before I’d been released.

  And suddenly, I understood.

  On that first day coming out of Wandsworth, I’d been right – I was being watched. It had taken all this time to figure out who was behind it. Now, I’d bet everything I had that if I called my anonymous ‘breather’, a burner would ring in Danny’s pocket.