Queen of Green (Queen of Green Trilogy Book 1)

by V E Rooney

  I hear Jizzer land on the floor with a thud. “Fuck’s sake, there was no need for all that, you know,” he whines. The lads are asking him if he knows anything else that might be useful to us. Has he heard any rival crews chatting shit lately?

  “Well, it wouldn’t be Vinny, would it? Him and Sean were tight, like. Hula Hoop’s lot?” Jizzer says, referring to this twat called Graham Hooper who runs a small crew from Kirkdale. “They don’t have the bollocks for something like this, do they? You know what? The first name that came into my head when I heard about Sean? Jimmy Powell.”

  I wondered when Jimmy’s name would come up as one of the likely suspects. Even though they may have become business partners, the past enmity between them would point to Jimmy. But I know it’s ridiculous. There’s no way Jimmy would risk an all-out war by taking out Sean himself. He’s not that fucking stupid.

  I make my grand entrance into the lounge. Jizzer’s eyes blink wide open. “Fucking hell.”

  “Alright, Jizzer? Aren’t you talkative, eh? A right little Chatty Kathy, aren’t you,” I say as I reach inside my jacket. I swear he just flinched away from me. “Oh, behave yourself, will you?” I say as I throw a wad of notes at him. “I wouldn’t be so quick to point the finger at Jimmy Powell, not if I were you. Someone like him won’t take too kindly to someone like you throwing mud at him. Know what I mean?”

  With that, I beckon for the lads to follow me.

  After calling Vinny, our next visit is to a house in Dingle, the home of one of these kiddie bike thieves. We’ve been told that these lads have pinched some cars for Vinny in the past but they’ve also made their services available to other crims for the right price. Paul, Lee, myself and the dogs remain in the car while Mitch and Colin go to the house and knock on the front door. It’s opened by the kid’s mum by the looks of her. The lads speak to her for a bit and then she closes the front door. Mitch and Colin come back to the car and tell us that these lads are hanging around in the nearby park with their mates.

  When we get to the park, with me and the dogs following the lads at a distance, we come to the playground area where a bunch of young scallies are messing on the roundabout. I hang back behind some bushes with the dogs. When the scallies see the lads approaching, they get off the roundabout and stand together, arms folded, snouts in the air, sneers on their faces. It’s about as big a display of teenage testicular fortitude as you’re likely to find. It’s commendable to see such a stoic attitude instilled in the youth of today.

  Paul and Lee make the introductions.

  “Alright, lads?”

  The kids look at each other then back to us. There are a few muffled alrights back at us.

  “Looking for Simmo. Any of you lads know this Simmo?” asks Lee. Just then, a trackie-clad boy wearing a baseball cap steps forward.

  “Who wants to know?” he says to us.

  “Do you know him?” asks Lee.

  “Who wants to know,” says baseball cap, this time slowly and deliberately, like he’s talking to a retard. Cheeky little bastard.

  “We want to know, you fucking little cunt,” says Paul as he grabs baseball cap by the back of his neck and gets him in a headlock.

  “Fuck off! Fucking touch me again and I’ll…” splutters baseball cap.

  “You’ll do what, fuckface?” says Paul as he tightens his grip. Baseball cap’s mates are on their toes, not knowing whether to get stuck in or run away.

  “What do you want?” says baseball cap, as he wrestles with Paul.

  “Are you the one who nicked that Suzuki bike the other week?” says Lee, getting in his face. At the mention of this, baseball cap freezes. Then, in the blink of an eye, his mates scarper in different directions.

  “Get after them!” Paul shouts to Lee, Mitch and Colin, who duly give chase. They get hold of two of the scallies while the other two sprint away. Not to worry. From my vantage point, I turn to Tyson and Floyd.

  “Chasey chasey!”

  Off they go, running down their quarry head on. Two of the scallies let out high-pitched yelps and screams when they see the two Rottweilers bearing down on them. Baseball cap is starting to look worried. “Fuck! Don’t!” I hear him cry.

  Tyson and Floyd have got these two lads cowering on the ground in front of them, snarling and growling at them. As I walk up, I call the dogs off.

  “Tyson! Floyd! Back!”

  With the two scallies at my feet, they now feel able to look up at me.

  “Oh fuck…fuck…” says the first one as he clocks my face. His mate looks at him.

  “Who is it?”

  “Are you fucking messing? It’s her! Sean Kerrigan’s bird!” says the first one. I can’t help but laugh.

  “Sean’s bird! Way off the mark, sunshine,” I say, smiling. “Come on, get up and let’s have a nice little chinwag, eh? Don’t be thinking of running off again because these dogs will have your bollocks as chew toys. Got that?”

  With the dogs at my side, I guide the scallies back to where Paul is still grappling with baseball cap much to the amusement of Lee, Mitch and Colin.

  “Let him go,” I say to Paul. Baseball cap spins away from Paul with a dramatic flourish and rejoins his four mates who are now standing in a huddle while we circle them. Suddenly they’re not so cocky any more.

  “Now then, children,” I say. “Are you gonna be good little boys and help us out or do you wanna end up as these two’s dinner tonight?” I say, cocking my head down at the dogs. “Simmo? Step forward, sunshine, I haven’t got all day.”

  Baseball cap steps forward.

  “What do you know about this Suzuki motorbike?” I ask.

  Simmo hesitates for a bit. Looks side to side, then back at his mates, then back to me.

  “Look…I swear down…I didn’t know it was to do with Sean, OK? If I’d known…”

  “So you did nick this bike?” I ask.

  “Yeah but I thought it was for a job, you know? Bit of smash and grab and all that. Sometimes I get asked to nick a bike for when someone wants to do over a jewellery shop or something, you know?”

  “Who asked you to steal this bike?” I say. Simmo has a pained expression on his face.

  “I dunno who it was. Never seen him before. He wasn’t one of Vinny’s lads or or any of the others. From out of town, he was. Sounded like he come from down south. Fuck knows how he got hold of me. Like I said, never seen him before.”

  “Down south? What, you mean he had a London accent?”

  “Yeah, a bit, I mean, I’m not sure, like. But yeah, sounded like a Cockney.”

  “So, come on then. What did this Cockney say to you?’

  “Got a phone call a few weeks back. This Cockney, says he got my number from a mate. Just said he wanted a high-powered bike, he didn’t say what for, just that it was for a job. He paid top whack for it and all.”

  “You delivered it to him?”

  “Well…kind of…I mean, this was the weird thing. He wouldn’t pick it up in person. Told me that once I got one, I was to phone him, so when I did that, he said to park it by this garage down in Allerton and that I’d get my money then. So I take the bike down to Allerton like he said and I’m waiting around for a bit, and then this fella comes over, gives the bike the once-over and then hands me a plazzie bag with 500 quid in it. But it wasn’t the same fella I spoke to on the phone. This fella had a different accent. Still from down south but more posh, like.”

  After we get detailed descriptions of these two Southerners, including the phone numbers used, I give Simmo a wad of cash for being so cooperative. The crew and I turn to leave when Simmo stops me.

  “Listen…I’m really sorry about Sean. But is it…” Simmo stops, not sure what to say.

  “Is it what?”

  “Is it true? You’re running his crew now?”

  I don’t say anything. I just cock my head to one side, the way a dog does when it’s confused.

  “Any chance of a job?” Simmo says. “Getaway cars, or if you n
eed a driver or anything then…”

  I cut him off by laughing and shaking my head.

  “A woman leading a crew? Taking the piss, aren’t you, lad? As for a job? Wait until your bollocks have dropped properly, eh?” I say as I turn away.

  37. CONFESSION

  This is the bit where you think I’m taking the piss and making stuff up. I wish it was bollocks, I really do. But unfortunately, it isn’t. There are some things that once are seen can never be unseen. And you will be fucking gobsmacked at who was caught up in this particular web.

  Jimmy, myself and a few others are over in Amsterdam to hook up with the Venezuelans and their mates ahead of another shipment. We’re there on something of a working holiday, for a couple of weeks. Going over the plans, poring over possible pitfalls, going over the plans again and again until we all know the drills off by heart.

  I spend most of my time with Paul, Lee and Nunes while I’m there. So I’m doing my usual, you know. Focusing on the work, getting all the paperwork in order, getting bank accounts, credit orders and transfers in place, letting everyone know what they need to do. Drawing up contingency plans in case any of it goes tits-up. You’ve always got to have a plan B at all times.

  When I’m not with the lads working on business, we’ll alternate between just hanging out in Amsterdam, having long leisurely lunches, doing a bit of sight-seeing, meeting up in bars to watch the footie, that kind of thing. Sometimes, when it all gets a bit testosteroney or when it’s time for the lads to do what lads like to do in Amsterdam, I just like to go off by myself and wander up and down the canals for a few hours in peace. And I relish the chance to get away from Jimmy fucking Powell whenever I can.

  Every second spent with Jimmy Powell is another second where I surprise myself with the murderous scenarios I can come up with to get rid of the fucker. Never mind making my skin crawl, it wants to fucking sprint away from the bastard. It’s like he’s deliberately trying to come across as the sleaziest, nastiest, most debauched gobshite who ever gobshited. But it’s not deliberate. That’s how he is. Fortunately I’m never alone with him for more than a few minutes. Nunes knows how much I can’t stand him. And Jimmy knows in no uncertain terms that he is to afford me much more respect than he’s ever shown to a woman in his entire life. Our ongoing business partnership depends on it to some extent and he knows that.

  He doesn’t say or do anything to me directly, it’s just Jimmy being Jimmy and not being able to keep a lid on his base inclinations for too long. We can’t go past a sex shop without him wanting to have a quick mooch inside for his wank mags and pornos. Can’t go into the red light district without him brazenly ogling the girls in the windows and him making disgusting gestures to them. Can’t walk past an attractive girl on the street without making some sleazy comment or blatantly leering at them. Him, not me.

  I’m not alone in my disgust, I know Nunes is having to hold his metaphorical nose around him as well. One time as Nunes, Jimmy and I are on our way to a meet, Nunes turns to me with an expression of contempt. “I thought Englishmen were supposed to be gentlemen,” he says quietly, shaking his head. I sigh. “Sadly, our Jimmy appears to be the first successful hybrid between a man and a pig,” I reply.

  So everything’s in place for this next shipment from Venezuela. We’ve all done our jobs and now it’s just a waiting game.

  It’s the night before we leave Amsterdam. There’s nothing else for me to do except take over once the shipment arrives at home so I’ll be heading back to the UK – first to London for a bit and then back up north.

  The lads are having one final jolly in Amsterdam and we’re in Jimmy’s rented flat in the city centre for some pre-goodbye drinks. Jimmy is being his usual, loud, lairy self, giving it the Big-I-Am in front of the others. I can tell Nunes would much rather push the fucker into the canal and be done with him but it’s all relatively cordial and civilised.

  Jimmy necks his drink back and claps his hands together. “Right then, boys,” he says like a know-it-all Scout leader, “let’s get out there for some nosh and nosh, eh? I take it you’re not coming, love,” he says to me dismissively. “Probably for the best, love, don’t want you cramping our style.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Jimmy,” I say, rolling my eyes at him and giving him a quick sneer. “I would hate for anyone to think I was in any way remotely connected to you. So yeah, it’s probably for the best.”

  He ignores me. They all make to leave.

  “Oh, Jimmy? Is it alright if I hang out here for a bit? Need to change my tampon.”

  At this he wrinkles his nose.

  “For fuck’s sake, love, is there any need for that? Never trust something that bleeds like a pig once a month and doesn’t fucking die, that’s what I say, am I right, boys? Haha. Do what you want, don’t want you bleeding all over my nice floor. Just make sure you slam the door after you, yeah? Think you can manage that?”

  “I’ll do my best, Jimmy.”

  So off they all fuck. Nunes and I agree to hook up in London the following week once he’s done his bit and I wave them off.

  I’m alone in Jimmy’s pad. The place is a shithole. Empty beer cans, bottles, takeaway cartons and wrappers everywhere, dirty plates all over the place. His fucking wank mags lying about.

  Isn’t it lovely of Jimmy to be so trusting of me? Bless him. Here I am mooching about in his flat. Oh look, there’s a stack of porno videos lying by the telly. Oh look, what’s that lying on the floor, half-sticking out from under the sofa? Looks to be a plastic bag. I pull it out. There are some folders in there. And a couple of videocassettes.

  I never knew Jimmy was so diligent. How thoughtful of him to label these videos. I probably would’ve shoved the bag back under the sofa if it hadn’t been for what was written on the labels. I would’ve presumed they were more of his pornos if I hadn’t seen what was written on the labels.

  KENWOOD

  Kenwood. I’m guessing it’s not a Merchant Ivory film, Jimmy doesn’t seem to be the type. Hang on a minute. Kenwood. Kenwood. Kenwood. Why, suddenly, is a tiny bell tinkling in my mind?

  I see a middle-aged, stout, officious, pompous posh twat standing at a lectern. I see this posh twat holding his chin up, like he can’t bear to speak or look at the oiks in front of him. I hear him. “The Home Office is satisfied that there is no reason, nor any new evidence, which would necessitate another inquiry into this disaster. Of course, our sympathies go to the families and loved ones of the deceased, but it’s time to draw a line under the matter. That is all I have to say.” Then he turns and walks off-camera, ignoring the shouts of the journalists. Walks off without so much as a thank you or goodbye. Ill-mannered twat.

  Peter Kenwood. He’s only the fucking Home Secretary. The gobshite in charge of the Police, of border control, blah blah.

  No. It can’t be. Could it be? There’s only one way to find out. I put the first cassette into the VHS machine.

  I wish I had never pressed ‘play’.

  I’m glad I pressed ‘play’ because otherwise I wouldn’t have believed it.

  I wish I had never pressed ‘play’.

  I’m glad I pressed ‘play’ because I know that this is fucking dynamite. I vomit my guts up to the point where I’m dry-heaving. At times I can’t physically bear to look at the TV screen, can’t physically bear to hear those awful sounds. But it’s him. It’s definitely Peter Kenwood. He looks a bit younger, not so much of a fat bastard as he is now, but it’s him. The footage is a bit grainy in places, a bit blurry sometimes where the static CCTV camera which is recording him blips a bit, but it’s definitely Peter Kenwood.

  Peter Kenwood is a paedophile. Not only is he a paedophile, he’s a fucking sadistic, warped, evil bastard who gets off on torturing those poor kids.

  Before I ask the questions of how Jimmy of all people has got this, whether he’s blackmailing the fucking Home Secretary, whether this stuff is leverage of some kind, before I start going through the other stuff in the plastic b
ag, I make a vow there and then.

  I am going to take this bastard Kenwood down. I am going to bring him to his knees, rip his cock off and shove it down his fucking throat. One way or another, no matter how long I have to bide my time, this bastard is going down.

  The second tape is more of the same, only it looks to be filmed in a different location. Someone is moving the video camera around and the footage reminds me of the stuff you see in telly shows like Watchdog or the Cook Report, where they use concealed cameras in someone’s bag, you know? It looks to be filmed in a big house somewhere and it looks to be a party of some kind. All men, all wearing face masks and weird costumes. It’s like a fancy dress party. A paedophile fancy dress party. The camera goes from room to room filming men with kids, doing all kinds to them. The sound is more muffled but I can make out English accents, French accents, Dutch accents.

  There’s Kenwood again. He’s got this Phantom of the Opera-style mask on but I would now recognise that fat bloated bastard anywhere. Making the same kind of grunts and shouts as in the first video. It’s definitely him.

  I go through the other stuff in the plastic bag. Photographs. Some look to be stills of the videos, some look to be photos taken where these videos were filmed but from different angles and perspectives.

  Oh my Christ. No way. Look at this one. It’s a solitary photo of Kenwood and Simon together. They look to be at some golf tournament and they’re shaking hands with each other and doing cheesy grins for the camera.

  Kenwood and Simon. Kenwood and Simon.

  My hands are shaking as I go through the rest of the bag’s contents. Typed letters with Home Office letterheads on them. Correspondence between Kenwood’s staff and Powell’s solicitors, but nothing between Kenwood and Powell themselves. Other typed letters between Powell’s legal people and HM Customs & Excise. Handwritten letters between someone with the initials PK, I’m guessing Kenwood, and someone with the initials BI.