by KERRY BARNES
Zara gestured for him to go into the dining room. ‘Take a seat, Victor. D’ya fancy a brandy?’
He smiled. ‘Any of your Izzy’s finest going?’
Everything Victor was saying was ringing true. He really must have been a good friend of her father’s because, as a rule, the most expensive brandy was consumed at the house and only with close friends.
Searching through the drinks cabinet, she was surprised to find that Ismail hadn’t touched the brandy. Then she wondered whether he actually knew a good label if he saw one. She knew, though, because her father had once taught her. She poured two generous measures and they sipped their drinks in silence for a few moments, each with their own thoughts.
‘Only the best, Victor. Cheers.’
As they took their drinks through to the study, Zara thought about the man her father called the Machine and her concern around Eric. ‘Er . . . would you excuse me a second, I just need to make a phone call.’ She politely got up and headed back to the office. Pulling the notebook from her bag, she dialled the number, half expecting it to be out of use.
To her surprise, it not only rang, but, more shockingly, it was ringing in the study. Startled, she rushed back to see Victor clocking the number on his phone. Instantly, she ended the call and watched as Victor’s lips turned down, and he slid the phone back into his pocket. Surely, this kindly-spoken, gentle giant couldn’t be this dangerous, almost psychopathic, man that even her own father respected?
As he looked up, clearly unaware that she had called him, she pressed redial on her phone and it rang again.
A sudden cheeky grin slithered across his face. How could he have gone from a man who could have dressed as Santa Claus and got away with it, to be a Bram Stoker character? Jesus, she thought, he was here in the study sipping her brandy. She just hoped that when her father said he was a very dangerous man, he meant if you got on the wrong side of him.
She stood glued to the spot. ‘My father said . . . ’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I can only imagine.’
‘You said I could trust you, but you never said you were the Machine.’
He sniffed the air and sighed. Suddenly, he appeared ten years younger, and his previously slouched shoulders were raised and his jowls were taut.
‘You can trust me, Zara. I never lied. The only thing I wasn’t upfront about was the fact that I saw you go into the back of the shop. So, I parked up across the street, and when you appeared, hailing a taxi, I pulled over. I had a gut feeling you were Zara. I knew about you. Your father often talked about his daughter with such fondness. And, of course, if I was wrong, then I wanted to know who you were to have a set of keys to the great man’s office.’
Zara suddenly found her tongue. ‘And your wife, and the gang? Was that all true?’
His eyes clouded over. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
Her mind went over her father’s words. This guy was supposed to be one of the most dangerous men in the country.
‘Why haven’t you dragged the culprits off the streets, then? Because from what my father said . . . ’
Victor smiled and raised his hand for her to stop. ‘Wait, Zara. I like to work alone. I don’t work with a firm, although your father paid me a good wage. I worked in the background. Even Izzy’s men never met me, and that’s how I liked it. But now we’ve met, and you’ve put your trust in me, I feel I can do the same.’ He placed his drink on the table and rubbed his hands together.
‘I was in the SAS. I left with fuck all to my name. If your father wanted someone taken away, removed from society, but didn’t want a big deal made of it, then he would call me. He probably told you I was dangerous because the one thing I won’t tolerate is not being paid. I did work for a man who fucked me off without a penny. First, I killed his brother, then I went for his cousin, and finally I went for him.’
Sitting back down, Zara grinned. ‘So, you mean, play by the rules or die by them?’
Victor gave her a firm nod. ‘Yes, and that saying, my dear girl, your father got from me.’
‘So, I can confidently assume that the man who killed your wife is dead?’
He grinned. ‘Yes, but I’m not a detective. This Hadlow gang isn’t run by a load of punks. There’s someone behind it all, and that’s where I’m baffled. So, if you still want me on the firm, I’m all yours.’
The nervous tremble left her body and a new-found confidence took its place.
Promptly at nine o’clock, the hard knock at the door had Victor on his feet.
‘It’s okay. It’s my men.’
Davey was first through the door, followed by Shamus and some other Irish men, who Zara had yet to meet. The sheer size of them was enough to make Zara feel she had serious backing. The manner in which they greeted her and with such respect shot her confidence through the roof.
Noticing their expressions change when they saw her guest, Zara introduced Victor before the atmosphere became edgy.
Davey gave a firm handshake and felt the power of Victor’s large hand.
‘Victor was a close and trusted friend of my father’s. He’s now on my payroll, so we can speak freely in his company.’
Davey raised his bushy brow. ‘Um, no disrespect, Zara.’ He then looked at Victor. ‘I know you trusted your father’s opinion but . . . ’
Victor coughed delicately. ‘I understand, Mr Lanigan. I have a few errands to run, so, please excuse me.’
Zara didn’t make a fuss and escorted Victor to the door, giving herself time to think about her impulsive decision. ‘I think I was getting carried away. It was great to listen to you talking about my father. The offer of being on the payroll still stands but maybe in a different capacity. Perhaps your ear-to-the-ground skills would suit us both?’
Victor allowed a generous grin to adorn his face. ‘Of course. I’ll get off to Margate and do some digging, and, yes, the CCTV. I can have that fixed up for ya, if ya like?’
Zara returned the smile. ‘Oh yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind. That will be one thing less to worry about.’
He gave a salute and left.
The meeting went on until the early hours of the morning, every man having their input, yet each of them looking to Zara for a nod of assurance. By the time they’d left, a plan was in place. Zara was exhilarated. However, there was still the thorny issue of Eric, who preyed heavily on her mind. As she climbed the stairs to her old bedroom, she felt her body suddenly become so overcome with exhaustion that she only just made it to her bed. She flopped down and went straight into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mike arose for the first time in twelve years from his own bed. But it had been a restless night: Zara constantly appeared in and out of his dreams.
He had to put a smile on his face for Ricky’s sake. Coming back to the home that his son had lived in for the first six years of his life was like stepping into a toy shop with a kid again. Ricky’s beaming smile and excitement couldn’t be contained. He’d run from room to room, recalling every last detail, and his enthusiasm went through the roof.
Mike could hear him downstairs, making coffee and singing along to ‘Story of My Life’ by One Direction. He sighed and thought about Zara for the umpteenth time.
Forcing a smile, he arrived in the kitchen and ruffled his son’s hair. ‘How did ya sleep in ya old room?’
Ricky turned to face him, with an egg slice in his hand. ‘Better than I’ve ever slept before. It’s hard to explain, but I feel like me again.’
Mike sat at the breakfast bar. ‘So, you like ya new car, then?’
Ricky was laughing and his whole face was alive. ‘Oh my God, Dad, it’s like a dream. All I gotta do now is learn to drive. You should see it, Dad. It’s bright red and goes like shit off a shovel. Er . . . not that I’d drive like a lunatic.’ He handed Mike a coffee. ‘I’ll be careful, Dad, I promise.’
Mike nodded. ‘Son, you were taken away from me twelve years ago. For eleven of those years, I believed you were dead. I could
n’t lose you to a fucking car crash, so you promise me you’ll be sensible?’
‘I will. So, what’s happening now with this police business?’
Mike ran his hands through his hair. ‘Yeah about that. I’ve a job to do, and although we said you can join the firm, I think we need to do this on our own. You just enjoy your freedom and the new car. I wanna see that smile on your face and the spring in your step. This work could get messy. Right now, I need to have a clear head. If I’m worried about you, then I won’t get the job done.’
Mike lowered his head, wondering if he felt comfortable about what he was about to do. His father popped into his mind, and for a moment, he cringed. No way would Dad have collaborated with the police, he thought. He breathed deeply and visited his conscience.
The Commissioner had given him the name of the pub that they suspected was a dealer’s den. It so happened that the pub called the Daylight Inn was on his turf, and regardless of where that information had come from, he would have made it his business to pay the place a visit and lay down his rules anyway.
Ricky watched the concerned look on his father’s face and decided he wouldn’t push the issue. The last thing he wanted to do was to have him worrying.
‘Okay, I get it, Dad.’
Mike snapped out of his thoughts. ‘You’re a good boy.’
‘Dad, do you think I could go to the Daylight Inn? There’s a top DJ playing there Saturday night. Liam and Arty are going.’
Unexpectedly, Mike got up from his stool with a face like thunder.
‘Dad? What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?’
Mike softened his look and sighed. ‘No, Son, it’s just that we have business at the Daylight. Jesus! Staffie and Willie should have run it past me first.’
‘It’s okay, Dad. I can stay at home. It’s not a problem.’
Suddenly, Mike burst out laughing. ‘It sounds so funny, you, a big lad of eighteen, who served time, asking me if you can go to a party.’
Ricky looked down at his hands covered in soap suds, then at his apron, and chuckled. ‘Well, I guess if you view me like that, then this looks pretty silly too.’
Mike laughed again. ‘Oh, ya know what? ’Course you can go. But you just party. Me and the lads have some business to take care of.’
Ricky saluted. ‘Yes, Boss. No worries. Hopefully, I’ll be tonguing some pretty chick.’
With an exaggerated raised eyebrow, Mike replied, ‘Like a bird, then, do ya?’
Ricky blushed. ‘Yeah, I ain’t had a girlfriend, but I have a new life, and Nan reckons I’m a good catch. So I’m gonna try me luck . . . Dad, are these gang members gonna be at the pub?’
Mike shrugged his shoulders. ‘I dunno, Ricky. All I know is we’ve been given a few dates and places, and the rest is up to us.’
‘You won’t get hurt, will ya?’ asked Ricky, now very concerned that his father was entering into something more serious than they were used to. After all, if the police couldn’t get a grip on these gangs, what made them think his father could?
‘Nah, ’course not. All we have to do is rough up a few dealers and find out who’s behind it all. I think I can handle that.’ He gave Ricky a cheeky grin, hoping to put his mind at rest.
The truth was, he could easily handle a few scallywags; he’d never had a problem in getting info before, so why should this be any different? Ricky did have a point, though, and if he found out the Commissioner was holding anything back, he would take him down and think nothing of it.
He also had to put Zara to the back of his mind and take his mother’s advice. ‘She’ll come back, once she’s got herself together,’ she’d said.
***
By the time Saturday night arrived, Ricky was almost hyper. This was the first time he’d actually been to a pub, and, more importantly, with his father. All those years of living with Jackie, he wasn’t invited anywhere unless Tatum was going to use him to earn money, and that was generally in the form of housebreaking.
He entered the lounge, smelling of expensive aftershave and wearing his new Levi’s and a white designer T-shirt. His floppy fringe was gelled back, and his tanned skin made his teeth look whiter than ever.
Mike gawped at the transformation. ‘Well, look at you, matey. You’re a right handsome fucker.’ He laughed. ‘Like your ol’ man in fact.’
Ricky blushed. ‘Do I look all right, Dad?’
Mike pretended to size him up. ‘There’s something missing.’
Ricky looked down and checked his new trainers and his jeans and then lifted his head with a quizzical expression. He thought he looked pretty good. ‘What? Dad, I don’t need a coat. It’s still warm.’
Mike pulled a box from his jacket pocket. ‘’Ere, Son, I’ve got you a present. I can’t make up for all those missed birthdays in one go, but this is a start.’
Ricky looked at the name on the box and gasped. ‘What? No way!’
Mike could feel his emotions rising and coughed to clear the lump in his throat; just seeing the joy on his son’s face melted his heart.
Ricky was shaking with excitement as he removed the lid to find a stunning gold-faced Rolex watch. As he gently removed it from the box and turned it over, a sudden tear fell down his cheek. Engraved were the words ‘RICKY MY BOY’, in the same style as the tattoo on his father’s arm.
‘Dad, oh my God. I love it. It’s so classy.’ He quickly strapped it on his wrist and moved his arm to see the diamonds catch the light.
Mike felt his heart lift; he had the money and the means to make his lad feel like someone. As his son walked towards the front door, he noticed how his shoulders were pulled back, his head was high, and his awkward gait was replaced with a confident swagger. And so he should be confident, thought Mike. Ricky is a Regan, and we have a history of holding our own.
***
Mike drove to the Daylight Inn pub; it was one of the largest in the area and was surrounded by shops and a train station. It had been years since Mike had had a few drinks in there. He was somewhat surprised to find a bouncer on each of the three exits. He inwardly laughed at the state of them and wondered if with their black stab proof vests and walkie-talkies they could actually have a half-decent ruck. Willie and Staffie came bounding up behind him, all ready for the action.
‘Lou’s on his way. Liam, that great oaf, is still trying to park that oversized Beemer.’ Willie looked over at his son trying a parallel park. ‘I swear me boy’s a tent short of a fucking circus. The little fucker only nearly filled the beast with petrol instead of diesel and had a row with the pump attendant over it.’
‘Cor, Willie, the apple ain’t fallen far from the tree, then, eh?’ laughed Staffie.
Willie had to laugh; it was true. Liam had inherited his temper and infinite recklessness, and, like himself, he had a reputation, even at the tender age of nineteen. He was certainly a fucker.
Mike and Ricky laughed together; Liam looked so much like Willie it was untrue. Apart from the scar down Willie’s face, he was his double; he was tall and lanky with a face that only his grandmother could love, yet he had a heart of gold.
Ricky watched Liam step out of the car. They had known each other as youngsters, and the homecoming party had them instantly reacquainted.
Finally, Lou turned up dressed as usual in a three-piece suit, as if he might be going into a business meeting. He was about to ruffle Ricky’s hair but noticed the gel holding it in place and patted his arm instead. ‘Where’s Arty? I thought he was coming?’
Staffie pulled on a cigarette and griped. ‘I left him in the bathroom. I swear to God, his mother has tried to bring him up looking like a fucking tart. I nearly choked on the fucking spray of smelly shit, and what’s with all this fucking face balm and tanning crap? I don’t know if I’ve got a son or a fucking daughter.’
Willie was laughing. It was so good to have the firm together on the outside and now their own sons with them. It was undoubtedly history repeating itself, from his own father, alo
ng with Lou’s and Staffie’s, all in the Regan firm, and now their own boys, vowing to look out for each other.
‘’Ere he is!’ said Staffie.
They turned to see Arty, a more handsome version of his father, crossing the road. For years, Staffie was teased because his oversized biceps made him look like Popeye. Now his son, who was a good foot taller, had similar bulging muscles, but his height took the dairy off the huge arms and legs.
Mike nodded at the boys. ‘Right, listen.’ He pointed to Willie, Staffie, and Lou. ‘We’re gonna drink at one end of the bar and sort out a bit of business. Youse will stay well away, have fun, don’t drink too much, and don’t be pestering us. What goes down doesn’t involve you guys, so, whatever happens, you’ve got ya wheels, so just fuck off and get away from here. Got it?’
Ricky was watching his father in action; he ran the firm, no question about that, and Ricky felt his chest puff out. His father was someone who hard men looked up to. His eyes then flicked towards Arty and Liam, to see if they were happily taking direction, only to find them nodding respectfully.
‘And you, Ricky. You stay with the boys, yeah?’
Ricky nodded back. ‘Yeah, no worries. I won’t even be looking your way, not when I’m sucking some bird’s face off.’
Arty slapped his back. ‘Get you, ya fucking dirty bastard.’
Liam had a high-pitched voice. ‘Listen to him. Our Ricky fancies himself as some Casanova.’
Willie placed an arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘Well, my boy, Ricky’s the looker, but, Liam, I guess, like me, you’re the charmer, eh?’
Mike, for the first time, gave a hearty laugh that made his cheeks red and his eyes water. ‘You, Willie? A charmer? The only thing you could charm would be a boss-eyed ferret.’
The banter between them had begun and it kicked off their good spirits and demonstrated their close bond with each other. Ricky was in his element, being treated with such affection by them all but especially by the lads. Not having a sibling and being cruelly treated by Tatum and his nasty sons, it was like a breath of fresh air.