by Owen Mullen
Almost.
But this was what I knew: I hadn’t looked for this – it came looking for me. Squaring the circle was one of his expressions – now it was my turn.
My brother. My responsibility.
England expects and all that bollocks.
The gunshot echoed in my brain.
I guessed it always would.
Epilogue
The jukebox and the photograph of the Queen were gone. So was the computer Danny had used to spy on me. Felix watched me ease into the chair behind the desk. He’d done a decent job of taping up my chest, though when I breathed, a noise like worn brake pads groaned inside me. I’d been lucky – compared to what my brother had planned for me, it was nothing.
That didn’t stop it hurting like a bastard.
Felix said, ‘Sure you’re all right, boss?’
Boss!
I was the guy who’d wanted out. If it hadn’t been so painful, I would’ve laughed.
Oliver Stanford was the first visitor of the day and was his usual insufferable self. The smile I’d come to hate drifted over his lips.
‘The rumours are correct, it seems.’
‘What rumours?’
‘The ones that say you’ve taken over.’
Stanford wasn’t as relaxed as he pretended to be. He’d come in person to the King Pot to gauge how much jeopardy he was in and make another stab at staying relevant. His next sentence revealed the casual attitude and amused indifference were an act.
‘Be helpful to know if it’s true.’
The detective wouldn’t get what he was after from me.
He balanced on the balls of his feet and looked around. ‘We met in this office. Not so long ago, either. Doesn’t feel like it. You’d just come out of Wandsworth. Danny’s famous brother – his silent partner.’ The policeman reconsidered the phraseology. ‘Not silent, junior. Danny’s junior partner. How quickly the world turns, eh?’
I was bored with him already.
‘What do you want, Stanford?’
He drew a languid finger along the desk. ‘What I proposed in Hampstead still stands. I’d take it if I were you, now Danny’s out of the picture.’
‘Is he?’
‘You’re in the chair.’
A hand came up to stop me denying it. Light from the window flashed off his cufflinks. Gold. Paid for by the man he was so keen I replace. Like an animal sensing change on the wind, he was readying to seize whatever opportunity presented itself. Underneath the urbane, well-spoken policeman lurked a voracious appetite for power and money, and a ruthlessness destined to take him higher or take him down. There was more and he wanted it.
‘Don’t take too long to make up your mind. As I said before, you can never have too many friends, Luke. There are other players out there, anxious to take advantage. The two top dogs are off the board. Plenty of room for men with ambition. People who appreciate the value of what I’m offering. Better not to find that out the hard way.’
He talked a good game. Except by coming here he’d shown his hand. The implied threat was meaningless – we were prisoners of each other; whatever harm he could do me would be returned and we both knew it. The relationship he’d had with Danny would survive, but it would be on my terms.
I started as I meant to go on. ‘I’ll be in touch. Close the door on your road out.’
Felix said, ‘George Ritchie just walked into the bar looking for Danny.’
My fingers closed round the gun in the third drawer down, weighing it in my hand; it was loaded.
‘Who’s with him?’
‘He’s on his own. What do you want me to do?’
‘Put men on the front door. And for Christ’s sake do it right this time. Any sign of Anderson?’
‘No.’
‘Make sure he isn’t carrying and send him up.’
Ritchie was sharper than Albert and Rollie put together – him and eight million other Londoners. The last time I’d seen him was at a meeting in Peckham Rye Park on a chilly winter’s morning, when Albert and Danny met to defuse the tension building between them because my brother was stealing Albert’s territory. A bloody confrontation was on the cards and though talking produced nothing – Danny kept doing what he was doing – it staved it off. They’d sat on a bench, just the two of them, surrounded by grass and trees white with frost. Our instructions were to stay well back. Ritchie ignored them and walked his boss to where Danny was, eyes darting right and left, checking every bush, every tree. Then, he turned and went back to the car. He was dressed in a dark-blue overcoat, black leather gloves and a maroon scarf, more like a hedge-fund manager than a gangster. Lean and spare, even under the heavy coat. What struck me most about him was his determination to protect the fat bastard he worked for, and his lack of fear. I couldn’t imagine someone less concerned with their own safety.
Ten years on, the hair was thinner, there was greying at the temples, and his face was lined. But the wariness was still there as he paused in the doorway, Felix at his back. I laid the gun on the desk where he could see it and waited for him to come forward.
He sat down and asked the question soon to be on many lips in bars and bookies and building sites south of the river. ‘Where’s Danny?’
‘Where’s Anderson?’
The meet in the park had been a bust; this one might be headed for the same fate. We stared at each other until I said, ‘Taking a chance coming here, George. What do you want?’
His reply was unexpected. ‘To be left alone. Whatever happens from here on in has nothing to do with me.’
If Rollie Anderson really had perished, a fortune was there for whoever had the balls to go for it. George Ritchie had balls – he’d shown that in Peckham Rye.
‘Did you get away before the fire started?’
‘Wasn’t anywhere near the fire. I quit working for Rollie before it all kicked off.’
‘Where’ve you been hiding?’
‘What makes you think I’ve been hiding?’
‘Okay. Where’s Anderson?’
‘Search me.’
‘You haven’t heard from him?’
‘Why would I? I told you, we’re finished. I came to speak to Danny.’
‘Forget my brother. Is Anderson dead?’
Ritchie took a tired breath. ‘Friday nights most of the crew hung around the club. Rollie encouraged it. Made him feel like a big man.’
‘But not you?’
‘Not me. I assume they were there as usual. No reason to believe anything else.’
Not quite what I wanted. ‘Which means, they’re dead?’
His eyes bored into me and I saw the steel in them, the fearlessness he’d shown on that frosty morning a decade earlier. ‘Which means your guess is as good as mine. The difference is: you care and I don’t.’
‘Then what’s the deal? What’re you after?’
‘To retire without having to look over my shoulder every day for the rest of my life. I’ve done enough of that.’
‘Retire? You?’
My scepticism didn’t amuse him. ‘I came to speak to the organ grinder.’
‘You’re speaking to him. Things are straight between us, don’t worry about it.’
He nodded and walked to the door. ‘Since you’ve been so reasonable, here’s something for nothing. You’ve got a problem.’
I shook my head. ‘We had a problem, not now. Everything’s squared away.’
Ritchie smiled. ‘Not everything. Not the informer.’
‘Dealt with.’
‘No, he wasn’t.’
He seemed sure.
‘You’re talking about the copper. It’s sorted.’
‘It isn’t. You got the left hand. Should’ve been looking at the right hand. Mills has been feeding us stuff for years.’
The policeman’s death would’ve been hard. Tortured and mutilated in Fulton Street for information he didn’t have. Poor bastard. I tried not to imagine it.
‘Somebody told me you can’t have to
o many friends. What do you think?’
He stared across the floor. ‘Depends on the friends, doesn’t it?’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
Ritchie was leaving. If he did, I’d never see him again. I said, ‘Retiring isn’t for you, George. You wouldn’t like it – I’ve got a better idea.’
I hadn’t seen Nina since Fulton Street when we’d watched Felix and Vincent Finnegan put Danny’s body in the boot of the car and drive off. We didn’t speak – what was there to say?
Her hair was shorter and she wore a brown leather jacket over a black T-shirt and jeans, the image of the rebellious teenager who’d given Danny a hard time. Standing in the doorway, she was my little sister again, pale and uncertain.
I’d considered the options and already made my decision: any bullshit and it was over – she could go her own way and that would be that. Otherwise… otherwise, we had things to discuss.
Her sharp eyes took in the differences around her and made a stab at an icebreaker. ‘Got rid of the music. Good decision. But what’s Her Majesty done wrong?’
She didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one. The time for jokes might come – this wasn’t it.
‘Why, Nina?’
She looked straight at me, her voice free of apology or justification.
‘I needed the money.’
No story. No explanations. No excuses.
‘Simple as that?’
‘Simple as that. He’d never have let me go. You weren’t the only one who suffered the “Team Glass” speech.’
‘You understand Vale won’t be around much longer.’
A statement, not a question.
She shrugged. ‘Do what you have to do.’
I leaned back in the chair: for better or worse what I was about to say would define the future. ‘I’m drawing a line in the sand. Done is done, Nina. But this is the one and only time.’
Her expression didn’t alter though something came alive behind her eyes. I said, ‘Rollie Anderson’s dead.’
‘You sound sure.’
‘I am. Everything’s ours. But we need to move fast.’
‘Thought you wanted out?’
‘Out from under Danny.’
She nodded; she’d felt the same. ‘Where do I fit in this new world order?’
‘Once I have a firm grip on both territories, the businesses will be split. The street stuff won’t be your concern. You’ll handle real estate, more or less doing what you’ve been doing. With one big difference. It’ll be completely legit and scaled up – hugely. In five years, between us, we’ll be running the whole of the South Side and have one of the biggest property portfolios in the city.’
It was everything Nina wanted. Everything we both wanted. She studied my face, looked away, and came back with regret in her voice. ‘You’ve changed, Luke, you know that, don’t you?’
She was right. I had changed.
‘It was time, Nina.’
Postscript
Despite a nationwide media campaign carried out by the Metropolitan Police, the whereabouts of the five Asian men wanted in connection with the arson attack on the Picasso Club are still unknown.
Roland Anderson was eventually identified as a victim of the blaze along with several members of his organisation.
DS Bob Wallace’s body has never been found. The case remains unsolved.
DI Trevor Mills was killed in a hit and run incident in York Way, Islington, in the early hours of Saturday the 18th of September. There were no witnesses.
Oliver Stanford has been promoted to superintendent.
Nina Glass manages one of the fastest growing property portfolios in London. Her brother, Luke, has a substantial shareholding in the business.
George Ritchie works for Luke Glass. Every night he goes home by a different route.
A man fitting Danny Glass’s description was sighted in Marbella on the Costa del Sol. Spanish authorities have been unable to confirm he is in the country.
Acknowledgments
A book is never just the work of one person; the talents and hard work of many are needed to bring it into the world. I would like to thank the team at Boldwood Books – Amanda, Caroline, Nia, Megan, Ellie, Sue and Mills who made me welcome from the first day. But especially, my editor Sarah. I love your energy.
Alasdair McMorrin who shared his long experience of the underworld and the police and is always generous with his time. Thanks, Alasdair.
And lastly, my wife Christine, who brings her limitless imagination to the pages of everything I write. Her contribution is immense. Without her, this book doesn’t exist.
Owen Mullen
Crete, July, 2020
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About the Author
Owen Mullen is a highly regarded crime author who splits his time between Scotland and the island of Crete. In his earlier life he lived in London and worked as a musician and session singer. He has now written seven books and Family is his first gangland thriller for Boldwood.
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First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
Copyright © Owen Mullen, 2020
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