by Robert White
All these petty matters grabbed the headlines, but another reporter, James Garner of The Guardian was concentrating far more on the gang’s illicit dealings. Garner had supposedly found a mole in the Dogs’ camp who, albeit anonymously, was willing to spill some beans. The broadsheet had published a full-page spread alleging drug dealing, punishment beatings and money laundering.
It all made interesting reading, yet allegations are one thing, proving them is another.
* * *
William’s service itself was an awfully small affair. Cheryl had asked that neither Frankie, Eddie or Tony attend, therefore denying the press further fodder at the expense of her dead son’s memory.
Contingency plans for armed police officers to be placed in and around the burial site had been put in place. Lancashire Constabulary had no intention of having another shooting incident on its patch, especially at an event that was covered on national television. But with The Three Dogs elsewhere, the chief constable considered this unnecessary and other than the media, who were kept at a sensible distance, Cheryl had her privacy.
The boy was laid to rest in the presence of his mother, his grandmother and Laurie Holland. Why no further friends or relations attended on that bleak and rainswept morning, I will leave you to decide.
* * *
They say that today’s news, is tomorrows chip paper, and they are correct.
Unbelievably, as January froze the bones and February blew down gates and fences, the boys of the press grew tired of Frank and friends. Worse still, the tandem murder investigations were no nearer a result. By the end of March, both inquiry teams were reduced by half.
As I’ve said before, life goes on.
Thankfully, this is true, and as winter was giving way to spring, on April Fool’s Day 1984, I was blessed with a son.
Paternity rights for fathers were still a long way off, and I was only able to sneak in two days with our new arrival before returning to duty. This meant a trade-off, the joy of Daniel James coming home, and the daunting prospect of having my mother-in-law as a house guest until my wife was on the mend.
Yes indeed, life goes on.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
7th April 1984. The Stanley Arms, Anfield, Liverpool
Although born to Jamaican parents, Arron Tower was a Scouser, born and bred. He’d first stood on the Kop to watch his beloved Liverpool FC as a twelve-year-old, in 1968. Arron was a rarity back then, a black man standing amongst the thousands of white faces. Then, throughout the 1970s, as black players were introduced to the various league teams, he would stand alongside men who threw bananas on the pitch and made monkey chants… and worse.
Quite often, they would turn to Arron during these incidents and say, “We don’t mean you mate…” as if that made it all okay.
Arron had grown up with racism, indeed, he’d stood alongside it.
Today, at just over six feet five and weighing in at sixteen stone four, he cut a formidable twenty-eight-year-old figure. It would be a brave, or incredibly stupid man, who made monkey chants anywhere near Arron Tower now.
Arron had grown up with violence. His parents had sailed from Jamaica in the late 1940s to fill the employment crisis that England suffered in the post-war era. His father had worked on the docks, his mother as an ancillary nurse in Walton hospital. They were law-abiding, hardworking souls, who took the bigotry thrown at them with all the serene grace of the devout Christians they were.
Arron did not.
He did, however, find some solace, as part of a group of Liverpool fans who didn’t care what colour you were, so long as you could fight. Arron stood out like the proverbial sore thumb as a lanky black man with dreadlocks, surrounded by pasty skinheads as the Liverpool hooligans took on all comers, home and away in organised mass street brawls. The 1970s were not a pretty time in English football history.
Arron quickly got his reputation as a hardman and gained the respect of his peers. But his real breakthrough came when he began to deal cannabis in and around his home area of Toxteth. Arron started small, just buying an ounce of resin a week, chopping it up into small deals and selling it to other kids his age.
It wasn’t until he was twenty-four that he met the Dutchman Luuk De Jong. Tower had been on a short trip to Amsterdam, when he had been introduced to the obviously wealthy and equally obviously homosexual, De Jong.
Arron didn’t give a shit what the Dutchman liked to do in his bedroom, or who with. All he cared about was that the man could supply just about any drug, in large quantities, at great prices.
Within a year, Arron Tower was driving a Mercedes, carried a Colt 45 everywhere he went and was the most feared man in Liverpool 8.
However, the trouble with people like De Jong, is they have no respect for their customers. If you have the cash, he will supply you. Hence the issue with The Three Dogs’ crew over in Lancashire. They had decided to cut Arron out of their business and deal direct with De Jong. This, of course, could not happen. This was about face. People would talk. People would say Arron and his crew had gone soft. Hence, Christmas Day.
* * *
Today was matchday. Liverpool were playing Spurs, and The Stanley was full to bursting. Arron took a gulp of his beer, sandwiched between his fellow supporters and considered the cock-up over in Preston.
He was bothered about the death of the kid. That said, he wasn’t crying into his beer about it, after all, kids got killed all the time, all over the world, but he could have done without it. Had his boys killed one of the Preston crew, particularly that queer bastard Eddie Williams, the heat wouldn’t have been so great.
As it was, the bizzis had been on top for over two months, kicking in doors and being generally a pain in the arse. It was only just beginning to die down, so Arron could start to make money again.
De Jong was the real problem. Every time he’d visited the city, he had insisted on visiting Tina’s Bar on the Albert Dock. The place was full of queers and lezzers. Arron would sit with his back firmly to the wall. Seeing those men snogging made him feel sick to his stomach. But De Jong was the main man; without him, there would be no Mercedes and no Jamaican holidays, so Arron sucked it up.
He knew the second Eddie Williams and De Jong set eyes on each other, it meant trouble. They had gone off to some disgusting sex party together. Eddie had always been a sly one and Arron just knew he would try to deal him out. And he’d been right.
That said, after the little visit to Verdi’s house, it appeared that the so-called Three Dogs had got the message. If they hadn’t they were more stupid than he thought.
Arron checked his watch.
Ten minutes to kick-off.
He finished his beer, pushed his way out of the door and into the crowded street.
* * *
Eddie Williams stood outside the chip shop opposite the Stanley pub. He wore a Parka coat, hood up, red-and-white Liverpool scarf pulled up over his mouth. Tony Thompson, who had never seen Arron Tower was leaning against the Stanley’s front window. He noticed the big powerful black man push his way out onto the pavement, glanced over the road to Eddie, who gave the merest nod, then set off behind Arron Tower.
The pavements were thick with fans, full of excitement as their team prepared to take on the mighty Tottenham Hotspur. Tony found the going difficult, but as Tower was so tall, and his dreadlocks so easy to spot, he stayed on track. Tower was a mere ten feet from Tony, as he stopped to light a cigarette. He pushed the fag into his mouth, pulled a zippo from his pocket, flicked the top open and cupped the combination with both hands as he sparked up.
It was a perfect opportunity. The thick crowd, Towers elbows raised.
Tony slipped in behind the giant of a man, pulled his machete, and with all his brute strength, plunged it into the left side of Tower’s chest cavity.
Arron didn’t move, or even cry out, he just dropped his light
er. Tony pulled out the knife and forced it in a second time, a fraction lower, closer to the heart.
Arron Tower’s knees buckled and he fell to the pavement. The crowd hardly noticing, filed past him, or stepped over. Tony backed away and walked against the tide of bodies for a minute before crossing the road.
Within a minute, Tony had dropped the knife into a waste bin and stood alongside Eddie as they heard the first shouts from members of the public to call an ambulance.
It was a pointless exercise. Arron Tower was already dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY
4th July 1984. Fulwood, Preston
Cheryl Greenwood teetered on a set of small steps as she clipped brightly coloured curtains to a rail in her new home.
Tony walked into the small bedroom, recently painted in pale shades. He grabbed Cheryl around the waist and lifted her to the floor in one swift movement.
“Hey Chez, now come on, what have I told you about climbing ladders?”
Cheryl draped her arms around Tony’s neck and looked into his handsome face.
“I need to get stuff done Tone.”
She let go of her man, took a step back and smoothed down her T-shirt with both hands.
“I’m starting to show, see? Soon I won’t be able to help so much.”
“You don’t need to Chez, I told yer. I got blokes who can do all that. In fact, I got one coming over in an hour or two, to put up that fancy light, the one for the ceiling, you know, that one that twists round with cartoons on.”
“You mean, the mobile.”
“Yeah, that.”
“Well, just help me with these for a minute then. Laurie will be here soon, we’re going shopping to Manchester, to that big place, you know, The Arndale.”
“You’re going to pick out the pram then?”
“I reckon, come on, give a hand.”
Tony struggled with the small curtain hooks, his thick fingers not made for the delicate task, but he went along with Cheryl. After all, she was carrying his child, and this was to be the nursery.
No sooner were the curtains in place, a horn blared at the bottom of the drive. Cheryl looked out into the bright sunshine of the summer’s day, to see Laurie with the top down on her new car.
Cheryl waved through the window, kissed Tony on the mouth and skipped down the stairs.
She pulled on a lightweight jacket, found her bag, that contained more cash than most families would see in a month, and made for the car.
Cheryl dropped into the passenger seat of the VW Golf Gti Cabriolet and rubbed the leather seats with her hand. “Nice car Laurie… very nice.”
Laurie was power dressed to the max, in a white linen two-piece with massive shoulder pads. Underneath she wore a blood-red silk blouse with a long pointed collar folded over the top of her jacket.
“And you’re looking fab girl,” added Cheryl. “You look like you just walked off the set of Dynasty.”
Laurie fired up the Golf and the two pulled away. “Frankie bought me the car as a present. He’s trying to get back into my good books, now he’s had to fire off that little tart Maisy.”
Cheryl smiled. “It’d take more than a bloody motor to get me to forgive the cheating bugger, I’ll tell you.”
Laurie didn’t answer, just changed the subject.
“You’re looking great too Chez. You and Tony all okay?”
Cheryl knew exactly what her friend was hinting at. There had been some dark and terrible days since Christmas. More tears than you could believe a person could shed. But Tony had been a rock, and now she was expecting his son.
“I still think about William every day Laurie, if that’s what you mean. He’s the first thing that comes in my mind every time I wake up. Some days, when I open my eyes, I forget… you know? My head still thinks he’s here. I expect him to be buzzing about the place, getting into mischief the way he did, then I realise that he’s gone and ain’t ever coming back, and the pain is so bad, I feel like I can’t even get out of bed… like I’ll never get up again, coz there’s no point… does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense… but I’m so pleased to see you happy again Chez.”
The pair lapsed into silence. Cheryl thought that there was more to Laurie’s last remark than she was letting on.
* * *
Manchester was heaving with shoppers and visitors taking advantage of the beautiful sunshine. The two women had shopped till they dropped and sat in an outdoor café, watching the world walk by, enjoying a glass of wine.
Cheryl eyed her friend. “So… come on, really, how are things between you and Frank these days?”
Laurie pursed her lips and tapped the table with her nails. Considered her real answer, then offered, “He’s trying Chez. In his own way, he’s doing what he thinks is right. What he thinks will make me happy.”
“But you ain’t?”
Laurie shook her head. What was the point in lying to Cheryl. After all, she had no one else to confide in.
“It was bad enough before Maisy,” she said. “I mean, he never showed me any affection back then… not unless he wanted sex. Then, well, it was just that. He’d paw at me for a minute or two, then… wham-bam. Fuckin’ hell Chez, it was like being a kid again, you know, when you didn’t know any better.”
Cheryl gave a wry smile. “Oh, I know honey.”
“Anyway, once I found out about Maisy, well things got even worse. We were like strangers. Ships in the night.
“Then… well then there was Christmas. I don’t know how you coped Chez. I mean, he’s got such an evil streak in him. I… I just can’t live with the violence anymore. I seen it all my days. You know my story. I told you… with me mum an’ all.”
Cheryl sipped her wine and took a deep breath.
“Yeah, you told me all about it love, but let me tell you somethin’, I was brought up in a proper shithole too. My mum was not much different from yours. She weren’t on the smack or anythin’ but she was on the game for years. I had more fuckin’ uncles than you could shake a stick at. And, just like you, some of ’em tried it on. Some, not many, got what they wanted too. If my old mum needed the money, there was no arguing with her, and I was told to do what the blokes wanted. The odd wank here, the odd BJ there. It was fuckin’ horrendous. I couldn’t wait to get away, I was desperate. Then, after a one-off shag, I go and get myself caught, and William comes along. I figured that was me lot. Single mum at nineteen, stuck in another shithole on benefits. I never thought for one minute I would ever meet a bloke as good as Tony. He’s kind…”
Laurie couldn’t stop herself. “He’s a gangster Chez. He’s a… a murderer.”
Cheryl waved a hand. “Oh! And this is who talking here? How come you suddenly got all pious? Sitting there in your posh suit, driving your new car? Come on Laurie, wise up. What kind of bloke do you think we would both have ended up with eh? With our track records? At best, a decent lad with a job in a factory, renting a flat on the Grange or Callon? Or maybe we’d end up with a petty thief or burglar, or maybe just a fuckin’ loser who gets himself locked up every Friday night scrapping with the coppers.
“Girls like us Laurie, we don’t get the good guys. We might turn a head or two, but we get the bad guys, or maybe, if we are lucky, the not so bad. So I reckon I’ve fallen on my feet with Tony. I know what he is.”
Cheryl lowered her voice.
“And I know he topped that bloke over in Liverpool too, the one who did for my William. He told me as much. And you know what Laurie? I’m fuckin’ grateful for it. I wish I could have been there and seen the bastard bleed out. I’m happy Laurie, for the first time in my life, I’m happy, and I love him.”
Laurie managed a thin smile. “I know you are Chez, and I’m happy for you… but it ain’t for me… this… this constant looking over your shoulder. I mean, our house is like a fortress these days, c
ameras everywhere, panic buttons. It’s more like a prison than a home.”
Cheryl turned down the corners of her mouth and shrugged.
“Is that the real problem?”
Laurie looked puzzled, Cheryl clarified her position. “The lad in prison. Your first proper fella, your first love… what’s his name?”
“Jamie.”
“Yeah, that’s him, Jamie. Is he the reason you can’t get it back together with Frankie? I mean, I know what a mean bastard Frank is but you knew that when you took up with him. I reckon that’s what turned you on about him in the first place. So why not give it a go, spice things up in the bedroom for him, you know, make him see what he’s been missing? Why not forget about Maisy, and Jamie, I mean, after all, she’s been kicked into touch, and your old flame is in the nick. I mean, what was I just sayin’ about losers? Come on, the lad can’t be no angel; apparently, he’s in nick for a shooting.”
Laurie shook her head. “It was me that was the loser Chez. I had a good bloke there. A proper decent man. And if I know Jamie, there’ll have been a good reason behind what happened; somethin’ to do with the Marines. I can’t stop thinking about him Chez, about how things could have been. I know it was me that messed up. I just want a chance at being happy, like you. I want someone who loves me, treats me nice. And I don’t mean new cars and clothes either. That don’t prove nothing. I mean affection, real affection.”
To Laurie’s surprise, Cheryl darkened. “Well I think you need to realise how lucky you are. And I’ll tell you this much. Don’t go sniffing around this lad Jamie either. If Frankie gets wind of it, he’ll top you both.”
Laurie, eyed her friend. She was tainted, touched by the madness. She had lost a child due to the violence and thuggery, yet here she was, loyal to the cause. Blind to the wickedness.
“Maybe he will Chez, but I didn’t escape one whore, to become one myself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Walton Jail, Liverpool