by Kerry Kaya
Billy raised his eyebrows. That was a matter of opinion. “Whatever,” he said with a shake of his head. “Someone is talking, and I need to know who it is.”
“And you used my brother to do that?” He clenched his fists tightly once more. His temper was beginning to get the better of him, and he took a step forward, ready to attack.
Noting the younger man’s stance, Billy stretched out on the chair. For all intent and purposes, he appeared unconcerned by Fletch’s outburst. The only signs he gave that he was about to kick off big time, was the fact that his eyes flashed dangerously and that a vein pulsated at the side of his temple.
“Slow yourself down,” he warned, stabbing his finger forward.
“Slow myself down? Seriously? Did you just say that?” Fletch roared. “I’m telling you now,” he growled. “I swear before God, if they touch one hair on my brother’s head, I will kill them, all of them. I’ll hunt them down and tear them apart, limb from fucking limb.”
Billy gave a smug grin; it was exactly what he’d expected the younger man to say, and all part of his plan.
“I mean it, Billy.”
With a short temper, blinding right hook, and a protective streak over his younger brother that bordered on obsessive, Billy didn’t, for a single second, doubt Fletch’s words. “As I’ve already stated, it won’t come to that.”
“It had better not,” Fletch warned. He gave his boss one last look of contempt, then strode across the dining room, and yanked open the door so hard that it almost came off of its hinges.
“Someone is talking, and one way or another, I will sniff the grassing cunt out, if it’s the last thing I fucking do.” Billy jumped up from his seat and roared after him.
As he stepped out into the hallway, Fletch locked eyes with Susan. Instinctively, he knew she’d heard everything that had been said. Without saying a single word to her, he walked out of the house, and striding across the driveway, he jumped back into his car, started the ignition, and sped away from the house. Fuck Billy King, fuck Susan, fuck the Bannermans, fuck all of them.
Chapter 4
George Bannerman tapped his fingers on his desk. Standing across from him was Joseph Hatton. He could sense the man’s unease, could feel his fear. It radiated from him like a beacon.
“I’ve not heard anything,” Joseph repeated, his voice stammering. “Not a dickie bird.”
He thought this through. So if King wasn’t involved in Albie’s disappearance, then where the fuck was his brother? He glanced down at his mobile phone, hoping, praying that he would hear something from him.
“Nah,” he growled. “This has got King’s name written all over it.”
Joseph’s heart plummeted at the precarious situation he found himself to be in. “I honestly don’t know anything, Mr. Bannerman, honest I don’t. Billy hasn’t said a word. If he’d have said something, you know I would have told you straight away. We made a deal, didn’t we?”
George sneered as he studied the man in front of him. He knew Joseph Hatton’s type. He would do and say anything to save his own skin.
“Well then, you’d best get out there and find out exactly what I want to know, or …” He left the threat to hang heavy in the air.
“I will do.” Joseph practically ran toward the door in his eagerness to get away from him.
A sneer creased George’s face and he fought the urge to smash up his office. Frustration flowed through him and as he picked up his mobile phone, he took a deep breath to steady himself. He dialled his brother’s telephone number for the fifth time that morning alone. When he reached the answering machine, he switched off the call and toyed with the device in hands. Tapping in a series of digits, he made a second call.
“Hello, Mum,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Have you heard from our Albie today?”
His heart sank as he listened to her reply. Where the fuck was his brother? It was the one and only question at the forefront of his mind. If nothing else, Albie loved the bones of their old mum, and would never go days, let alone weeks, without checking up on her. He said his goodbyes and switched off the call. The mystery of his brother’s disappearance gnarled at him.
Finally, he made one last final call and tapped in the telephone number for Mickey Shank, a paranoid schizophrenic and distant cousin. Shank wasn’t his real surname. It had derived from Mickey’s love of slicing people up, just for the sheer fun of it. He was known to carry big fuck-off blades around with him. In fact, his sole purpose in life was to cause as much damage as was humanly possible with his knives.
“Mickey,” he smiled into the phone, instantly hiding his mistrust of the man. “Got a little job for you.”
* * *
“Come on, Fletch.” Swallowing his pride, Billy was standing in the middle of Frank’s kitchen. It had been just over a week since Fletch had thrown his little hissy fit, and the fact that he had made a personal visit to the younger man was the closest he would ever come to apologising for using Spencer in the murder of Albie Bannerman.
Fletch remained silent. Sitting at the kitchen table, he lit a cigarette and pretended to leaf through a newspaper.
“Come on, lad.” Frank shot a sly glance in Billy’s direction. He was worried all right—worried that Billy would take away his cash supply. He glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall. The pub would be opening soon, and seeing as he wasn’t the kind of man to put money away for a rainy day, he was running short of cash. In fact, if the situation didn’t improve in double-quick time, he would have no other choice, but to raid the housekeeping tin. “Listen to what Billy’s got to say. Hear him out.”
At this, Fletch snapped his head upwards. “Fuck off, Frank,” he growled. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
Frank threw his arms up in the air. It was true. He didn’t know what had gone on between Billy and his nephew. The only thing he did know was that King could easily replace them, if he so wished.
“You try and talk some sense into him.” He none-to-gently pushed his youngest nephew forward.
“Come on, Fletch.” Standing just inches away from the table, Spencer gave his brother a lopsided grin. “No real harm was done.”
“No real harm was done?” Bumping back his chair, Fletch jumped up in a fit of rage. “Are you stupid or something?” Immediately, he regretted his choice of words and hastily changing the subject. He stabbed his finger toward his boss. “You were bang out of order.”
“For which I’m apologising.” Billy gave his protégée a wide smile. “Enough now, eh? You’ve made your point. Come back to work.”
Fletch gave a hollow laugh. He looked at the faces staring back at him, sighed, and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “I need to speak to Billy, alone.”
“You heard the man, both of you get out.” Billy’s loud voice broke no arguments.
Frank swallowed down a retort. Is this what life had resulted to? Being thrown out of his own kitchen? “Come on,” he grumbled to his nephew. “Leave them to it.”
Billy waited for the two men to leave the room, then took a seat at the Formica covered table. “So?” He took a cigarette from his packet, lit up, and exhaled a plume of smoke above his head. “Okay, so I admit I was out of order.” He spread out his arms and a cheeky grin creased his face. “In hindsight, I should have run the situation past you first.” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Fletch sighed. He opened his mouth to speak and Billy held up his hand, cutting him off.
“I know that you don’t like it, but I need to know what’s going on. I need to know who the grass is. And there is someone; I can feel it in here.” He poked himself in the chest. “There’s only one way the Bannermans can be getting their information, and that is from one of you lot, because it sure as hell isn’t coming from fucking me.”
“I get that.” Fletch sighed and lowered his voice. “But you should never have used Spencer, you know he isn’t …” He closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting to say the wor
ds out loud. “… You know that he … isn’t right, not up here.” He tapped his temple to emphasise his point. “If the old bill comes knocking, he won’t be able to handle it. He’ll crumple, and that’s if Bannerman doesn’t get his hands on him first.”
“That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that,” Fletch interrupted.
“Yes I do.” Billy leaned closer. “Bannerman won’t go to the old bill. We both know that, and if we all keep our traps shut, he will never find out who it was that killed that ponce Albie.”
Fletch thought this through. He could see Billy’s point. It wouldn’t be in George Bannerman’s best interests to go to the police.
“So,” he lifted his head and gave a coy smile, “is all forgiven?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Against his better judgement, Fletch nodded his head. The way he saw it, he didn’t really have much of a choice on the matter. As Billy had stated, he’d made his point and now it was time to get back to work.
“Good.” He leaned back in the chair, a wistful expression upon his face. “From all accounts, Albie Bannerman’s missus is a bit of a goer.”
“What?” Fletch narrowed his eyes.
Billy chuckled. “Bannerman’s missus. I’ve heard she’s up for a good time, and what with her old man out of the picture,” he opened up his arms, “she’s fair game …”
“You wouldn’t,” Fletch interrupted him.
Billy laughed even harder. “Yeah, I fucking would.”
Fletch’s mouth fell open. “But what about …”
“Listen,” Billy interrupted. “What my Susan doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt her, does it?” He gave a wide grin. “In fact, I think I need to take a wander South of the river … would be rude not to in the circumstances.”
Fletch screwed up his face, causing Billy to laugh even louder.
“Anyway …” Billy stood up and stretched out his back muscles. “You can collect my missus tomorrow morning; fuck knows why, but for some reason, she likes you,” he chuckled out loud. “And remember,” he stabbed his finger forward, “keep schtum about Bannerman’s old girl. If my Suze gets wind of it, I’ll know where it’s come from,” he warned.
Fletch could feel his cheeks redden and he nodded his head. It was no secret that Billy played around. He had done so throughout his marriage, apparently, but to target Albie’s wife, that was low, even for Billy’s standards.
“Right, that’s that then.” Standing up, Billy made to walk toward the kitchen door, and placing his hand on the door handle, he paused and turned back around. “Oh, and one more thing, Fletch.”
Fletch looked up.
“Don’t ever threaten me again.” He stabbed his finger forward. “That’s your first and only warning, do you understand me?”
Shamefaced, Fletch took the warning on board. For all intent and purposes, he knew that he’d had a lucky escape. There weren’t many people who spoke to Billy the way he had, and lived to tell the tale.
* * *
Susan’s heart skipped a beat when she saw Fletch hovering beside the front door. It had been just over a week since he’d stormed out of the house and she had last seen him. Aware that Billy was still at home, she busied herself, collecting up her handbag and shrugging on her coat to hide her blushes.
She could hear her husband’s gruff voice coming from the dining room, and taking a deep breath, she moved across the marble floored hallway, her high-heeled shoes clip-clopping as she walked.
“Where to, Mrs. King?” Fletch stuck his chin in the air, waiting for her to answer. He knew how to play the game, and he kept her at arm’s length. His manner was both cool and professional, exactly what Billy expected from him.
She opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by her husband’s large frame standing in the doorway. “Take her wherever she wants to go,” he instructed Fletch.
“Just the village shops, please.” Susan glanced across to Billy and held her breath as she spoke. “And then maybe to lunch at that new little bistro that recently opened on the High Street.”
Fletch nodded his head.
“Here, take this.” Billy delved his hand inside his trousers pocket and pulled out a roll of cash. He passed the money across and planted a kiss on her forehead.
Susan’s cheeks flamed once more, and she glanced quickly toward her husband’s employee. She noted that he averted his eyes and she placed the money inside her handbag, eager to get out of the house and away from him. “Thank you,” she smiled. She made to make her way forward and he put out his hand to stop her.
“Fletch, I want a word.” Billy cocked his head toward the dining room.
* * *
“What’s up?” Following his boss into the room, Fletch closed the door behind him.
Billy stood casually beside the dining table. “What do you know about pills?”
“Pills?” Fletch narrowed his eyes. “What pills?”
“Those pills that the kids are all raving about?”
“Not a lot.” He took a wild guess that Billy was talking about a new wave of drug doing the rounds, Ecstasy, or E’s as they were more commonly known on the street. “Why?” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you want some?”
“Like fuck I do. Give me a drink any day of the week over any of that shit.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ve heard that there’s a lot of profit to be made from them.” He shrugged his shoulders. “By all accounts, kids are turning up in their thousands to get their hands on them.”
“Yeah, you mean raves.”
“Raves?” Billy’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yeah, they’re sort of like organised parties that are put on in a warehouse or empty field. The promoters just turn up and take over. Me and the boys were gonna go to one a few weeks back.”
Billy nodded his head, thinking it over. “Can I leave it with you to find out more about this rave lark then? If there’s money to be made, I want a slice of the action.”
“Yeah, of course.”
Satisfied, Billy gave him a wide smile. “Go on, take my missus wherever she wants to go, and look after her,” he warned.
“Yeah, I will do.” Fletch gave a half smile and backed out of the room, sure that Billy would notice his blushes.
* * *
Leaving the house, Susan breathed in a lungful of fresh air before making her way toward the silver Mercedes parked on the driveway. Dutifully, Fletch opened the car door and she climbed inside. She waited until he drove the car toward the end of the driveway, and looking over her shoulder at the house, she turned back in her seat.
“Where have you been?”
He looked up into the rear-view mirror and locked eyes with her. “Nowhere.”
“I heard you and Billy argue.”
Fletch shrugged his shoulders. “It was nothing.” It was a lie and they both knew it. He flicked the indicator and turned onto the lane. He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head, and feeling uncomfortable, he resisted the urge to squirm in his seat.
“It didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s all sorted out now.” He looked up and locked eyes with her in the rear-view mirror for a second time. A cheeky grin spread across his face.
“Anyone would think you missed me, Mrs. King.”
Averting her eyes, Susan swallowed down her embarrassment. She could hardly tell him that he’d just hit the proverbial nail on the head.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she groaned.
She heard him chuckle out loud, and turned her head to look out of the car window, her skin flushed pink.
“I’m right, ain’t I?”
“No.” She looked up at the rear-view mirror, a half smile creased her face. “You’ve got some …”
“Front,” he interrupted her, laughing. “Yeah, it’s not the first time someone has said that.”
“I was about to say nerve, actually.” She grinned. “But yes, I can see their point. If nothing else, you do have a lot of front.”
&nb
sp; “All part of the charm,” he winked, pulling the car over to the kerb. “You know,” he said as he turned in his seat and gave her a wide smile, the sort of smile that made her tummy flutter, “it’s nice to see you smiling for once.”
She nodded her head. “Actually, it feels nice to smile.”
Opening the car door, she climbed out. As she crossed over the street, she could feel his eyes upon her and breathed deeply, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder. She couldn’t deny that there was a certain something about him, and she smiled to herself. He’d come into her otherwise mundane life like a breath of fresh air.
* * *
Dripping in gold, Mickey Shank was grinning from ear to ear. He pulled open his camel-haired trench coat to reveal a samurai sword.
George Bannerman blew out his cheeks. “That’s impressive, Mickey.” He gave the man a cautious smile and glanced around him. They were in the middle of Greenwich market, surrounded by market stall traders, selling their wares, and unsuspecting law-abiding citizens, out doing their weekly shopping.
“It’s the only one in the country,” Mickey boasted, leaning in closer.
George smiled once more. How Mickey hadn’t been locked up in a secure unit, such as Broadmoor, he had no idea. There was more than an underlying hint of madness about him that you could see in his eyes.
A troubled childhood was the root of Mickey’s problems. With an absent father, and an alcoholic, drug-fuelled mother, who was oblivious to her son’s screams whenever her latest bit on the side would punch and kick the living daylights out of him, he didn’t stand a chance growing up. Pulled from pillar to post, foster care placements had been his only salvation—his only chance of a normal life—until his foster carers decided that they, too, couldn’t handle him and wanted rid.
It was the madness that usually got to them in the end, that and the stash of knives they would find hidden underneath his mattress. Even from a young age, Mickey had been obsessed with blades. They made him feel safe. To a certain degree, George supposed that they still did, and after the childhood Mickey had had, he understood his need to keep himself tooled up.