by Martina Cole
‘Fucking Ryans! They’re putting themselves about all over the place and now my little Lana’s gone.’
‘Hardly little, son, she was the size of a house since she had the kid.’
Kenny rolled his eyes.
‘Don’t start, Mum. Whatever you thought of her she was my old woman and little Alicia’s mother.’
‘She was an old sort, that’s what she was. But whatever. I’ll sort out the baby, you get this all done and dusted, son.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that. I intend to cause the Third World fucking War.’
Eileen nodded, not at all fazed by her son’s determination.
‘Listen, I’ll take the baby home with me, OK? You work from here. But get it sorted soon, I’m feeling nervous. If they’re after the birds, then life is dangerous for everyone, ain’t it?’
Kenny nodded.
‘I’m seeing a few faces roundabout. Very soon the Ryans might just find themselves in more shit than Basildon dump. What with Vic’s old woman and all, people aren’t too happy.’
Eileen lit a Benson & Hedges from the endless supply in her apron pocket.
‘Not round the baby, Mum,’ he said reprovingly.
She snorted.
‘Never done you no harm, did it?’
Kenny sighed and left the room. He had to get all this sorted as soon as possible. First the Ryans, then a nanny for the baby. It did occur to him then to wonder briefly if the Ryans had put his face in the frame for the bombing of Maura’s boyfriend the filth, and this was quid pro quo but he dismissed the idea. Whoever had killed his Lana had done it for pure wickedness and he would make sure they paid for it in full.
He poured himself a large brandy and drank it straight back, needing the alcohol. As the tears welled up once again he swallowed them down. There would be plenty of time for grieving after tonight. And he wouldn’t be the only one grieving, he was determined on that.
Chapter Three
Radon Chatmore was a Rastafarian with long dreads and a public school accent. He was actually baptised a Catholic but took on the mantle of Rastaman just after his seventeenth birthday, more as a fashion statement than a religious belief. He had his father’s business acumen, though he preferred to see it as inherent cunning. His nickname was ‘Coco’ on account of the fact that he was the number one coke king of the East London club scene. He had been recruited by Benny Ryan a year earlier and they split the profits sixty-forty and drank together on a regular basis. Consequently when Abul had asked him to a meet with Benny he had assumed it was for the usual friendly chat and a beer. To be taken to a deserted barn in Ramsden Bellhouse did make him feel a little bit nervous.
When he was dragged from the car by Benny, Coco knew for sure he was in deep shit and as he was stoned out of his skull it was even more frightening than if he had been straight.
‘What the fuck is eating you, Benny?’
His voice was high and the affected Rasta talk long gone. He sounded pure BBC newsreader and this incensed Benny more than ever. He began kicking and punching his friend on the dirt outside the barn. Abul dragged Benny away.
‘Wait till we get him inside, we can be seen from the road.’
Breathing heavily, Benny watched as Abul picked up a protesting Coco and dragged him into the barn.
Inside were two tables. One had a hamper on it. The other had the tools of Benny’s trade, including the fabled glue and an electric cattle prod. One glance told Coco all he needed to know. Halogen lights lit the place up like a film set.
‘What’s wrong, Benny? What on earth is this all about?’
Coco’s voice was trembling with fear.
Abul could see the confusion in his eyes but couldn’t help him. As Coco looked at him in anguish, he held out his hands in a helpless gesture. He was telling him he was on his own. For all they were mates, Abul was with Benny now and that was permanent. Coco understood that even in his panic and fear.
Benny stood before him, his face closed and eyes hard. The deep blue of them that Coco had always envied looked almost luminous with anger.
‘What do you know about Vic Joliff?’
Coco swallowed; his throat had gone dry.
‘I don’t know anything about him, Benny. I know he’s heavy, that’s about it.’
Benny walked around the barn, shaking his head as if unable to believe what he was hearing. As if he knew he was being lied to and found it shocking and yet strangely amusing. He gave a little laugh before he spoke, his voice incredulous now.
‘Excuse me? Are you trying to fucking mug me off?’
Benny looked at Abul, all innocence and hurt.
‘Have I got ‘‘Cunt’’ written on my forehead or what?’ He pointed to it dramatically and Abul stifled the urge to laugh. In this mood Benny Ryan was better than a play.
Coco, in contrast, felt the urge to cry. He had heard about Benny’s temper, who hadn’t? But this was the first time the famous anger had been directed at him personally.
Abul didn’t answer, he knew he wasn’t expected to say anything. He was straight man to Benny’s favourite tactics while interrogating.
‘Are you going to answer me?’
Coco was nearly crying now. He could feel the loosening of his bowels as he knelt before his persecutor.
‘Please, Benny. I swear to you . . .’
The kick to his face was punishing and thankfully it knocked him spark out. Abul took the man’s pulse.
‘He’ll be out for a while, Ben. Shall I make a cuppa?’
Benny nodded.
‘I’m starving. Open the sandwiches and all, we’ll have a picnic, eh?’
Abul opened the hamper. He had made sure that all Benny’s requirements were met. Hot sweet tea in a Thermos, and plenty of wholesome food and fresh fruit. While he arranged the food on plates Benny cut them both a large line of cocaine. Abul felt his heart sink. Once that kicked in, Benny would go even more over the top than usual.
‘I don’t think he knows anything, Ben, do you?’
Benny shrugged his giant shoulders and sipped at his mug of tea. He took a large bite from a Marks and Spencer sandwich before answering, his mouth full of food and his voice muffled.
‘This is lovely, what is it?’
‘Chicken tikka and salad. Filling but tasty.’
On the floor Coco moaned in pain. Benny kicked out at him again with a booted foot. ‘Shut up, you ponce, can’t you see we’re on a tea break!’ He laughed at his own wit. ‘Can’t beat Marks for a good bit of grub.’
Abul nodded agreement.
‘Worth paying that little bit extra, ain’t it? What are you going to do with him?’
He nodded towards Coco.
Benny chewed on the last of his sandwich before replying.
‘Kill him, I expect.’
‘You’re joking!’
Benny shook his head.
‘Never been more serious, mate. People saw you take him: it’s the best way I know to put out the message that I am on the fucking war path. Well, I’m right, aren’t I?’
Abul sighed.
‘He ain’t heavy duty, Benny. He has a nice house, a nice mum and dad, and a nice little bird. He earns you dosh. Give him a fucking break, man.’
Benny put his hands to his chest in mock horror.
‘What are you, Abul, stuck up his fucking arse or what?’
Abul laughed despite himself.
‘You are one mad cunt, I tell you, Benny.’
‘I will do a deal with you, OK?’
Abul nodded.
‘I will leave him alive on one condition, right?’
Abul nodded again.
‘I get the last of the sandwiches.’
Benny was deadly serious and Abul knew this. He pretended to think before he answered. He knew how to handle Benny better than anyone.
‘All right. It’s a deal.’
Benny poured the last of the hot tea over the unconscious man’s face to wake him.
‘Come on, wanker, up and out
of it. I got a hot date tonight with a big-chested bird.’
When Coco finally came round, the first thing he saw was Benny Ryan standing over him with a cattle prod, a big smile on his face.
Kenny Smith kissed his little daughter goodbye and left his large rambling house in Laindon. He got into his new Mercedes. As he went to put the key in the ignition a snub-nosed revolver was poked into the side of his neck.
Garry Ryan’s voice was low and menacing.
‘Drive, Smithy, and don’t make any unnecessary moves.’
Kenny closed his eyes in distress.
‘You piece of shit, Ryan. What you gonna do now? Make my baby an orphan?’
Garry laughed.
‘Only if you push your fucking luck, mate. But think about this. If I wanted you dead, you already would be. No discussion, nothing. Now, drive.’
‘Drive where?’
‘Just drive. We’re meeting some friends in a minute. Be nice for you, won’t it, eh? We can have a chat about old times.’
Kenny drove away, his heart in his mouth and his hands itching to get into the glove compartment where he kept a strategically placed firearm.
Prison Officer Danzig walked through the unit quietly. It was early evening and the maximum-security prisoners were on TV hour. Unlike burglars and car thieves in open prisons, the Max prisoners could only watch one hour of television twice a week. It caused endless trouble when they couldn’t keep up with the soaps, and now the video had gone AWOL they couldn’t even tape things. Danzig sighed. The powers-that-be sometimes forgot that this was a unit dealing with the higher echelons of crime. Boredom and the men’s innate intelligence were a worrying combination.
A man looking at an eighteen stretch was on the edge. He needed to be occupied far more than a youngster doing two or three years. It wasn’t a case of making their lives easier, more a case of making life easier for the screws in charge. And how could you really be in charge of a crowd of men when all the time you were shit scared of them?
He blew his nose noisily before going into the rec room so they would be alerted to his arrival. That way any nefarious dealings would cease until he had left. Inside he was amazed to see only two men silently watching Pet Rescue.
He walked to his small office and unlocked the door, waving at the other POs on the way. Inside the office he found Vic Joliff. He was hanging from a beam on the ceiling, his mouth stuffed with papers from Danzig’s desk. One was his Lottery ticket, which annoyed him no end as it was now evidence.
It was also covered in blood because whoever had hanged the fucker up had also cut his throat. Sighing heavily, Danzig rang the alarm.
It was going to be a long night and he had arranged to go and look at a flat with his eldest daughter. He had the down payment ready and waiting for her because he was willing to pass on messages from the outside. Now that little earner was up the Swanee with Vic Joliff.
Marge listened as Maura made arrangements over the phone from Carla’s house. As usual she marvelled at her friend’s ability to turn off her emotions and concentrate on what she felt was more important: the family and their business dealings. Marge, the mother of two grown daughters and a son, lived by her emotions and knew it was her biggest weakness. Though her husband adored his fiery little wife, Marge knew deep inside that she controlled him with her tears, her anger and her loud voice. She nagged everyone around her and ordered their lives. She’d happily order her friend’s life if it would make everything easier for her, and if Maura would let her. Fat chance of that, though.
Joey came into the room. At thirteen he was a handsome boy who resembled his mother rather than his father, and everyone thanked God for that small mercy every day. Malcolm Spencer had been the stuck-up weedy sort, an architect rather too full of his own cleverness. Heaven only knew what Carla had ever seen in him, but it had worn off fast enough once she discovered what a cheat he was.
Joey had dark auburn hair and piercing blue eyes, the Ryan nose and square jaw. He adored his Auntie Maura with a passion.
‘Mum said to ask if you needed anything?’
Maura smiled at him.
‘No, thanks, I’m off out in a minute.’
‘OK.’
As he left the room Marge said saucily, ‘If I was only twenty years younger!’
Maura laughed.
‘Thirty years younger, you mean!’
Marge grinned.
‘True. Where the fuck did all the time go, Maws?’
She shrugged.
‘Who knows, Marge? I’d better get moving.’
‘Where you off to?’
Maura could hear the fear in her friend’s voice. Her own was short as she answered.
‘Who are you, Marge, the police?’
Marge stared at her, still waiting for an answer. But she didn’t hear what she wanted. Instead Maura said: ‘It is best for all concerned if you know nothing, Marge. What you don’t know, you can’t repeat.’
Marge was insulted and it showed. Her stocky little body bristled with annoyance. ‘I would never repeat anything you said, Maws, you should know that by now.’
‘You might, Marge, if someone had a gun in your face or a knife to one of the kids’ necks.’
Marge paled.
‘Is it that serious?’
‘Marge, whoever this is, they’re killing civilians. No one is safe, love, especially if they’re close to me. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
Marge stared at her silently.
‘This place is like Fort Knox,’ Maura added, ‘but I’m sending Joey and Carla away. They don’t know that yet so keep shtoom.’
‘Even you’re worried, aren’t you?’ Marge said incredulously.
Maura nodded. Then, picking up her bag, she kissed her friend gently on the cheek and said, ‘Get yourself off home, mate. I will ring you tomorrow, OK?’
As she heard Maura laughing with her minder Tony Dooley Junior, the enormity of what was actually going on hit Marge. She had to sit on the sofa to gather her thoughts.
In all the years they had been friends Marge had overlooked a lot of what Maura had done in the name of her job. Anyway, she’d believed the dangerous days were over. She’d just been given a new understanding of her best friend, a glimpse into the world she really lived in.
Marge shuddered.
It had been like staring into the fiery pit of Hell.
Kenny Smith was inside a Ryan safe house in Orsett, Essex. He was none too pleased and it showed. Garry poured him a large brandy from a cut-glass decanter.
‘Nice round here, ain’t it?’
Garry’s voice was neutral. Kenny didn’t even bother to answer, his disgusted expression saying more than words ever could. The place had more minders than a Southend nightclub and Kenny knew he had no chance of escape. He had to sit it out and see what the score was, hard for him when he was used to being the main man at most events and commanding the kudos his specialist work exacted.
As he watched that nutter, as he always thought of Garry Ryan, Kenny’s mind tried to come up with some kind of getaway plan. He knew the house was large, in its own grounds, and could see a road which he assumed to be the A13 from the window. It was about a quarter of a mile away across open fields. Not much cover but it was dark and if he could get a good run he might be in with a chance. He clutched the glass tightly, wondering at the odds of slamming it into Garry Ryan’s face. The thought made him smile and Garry laughed as he watched him.
‘The last thing I need is a full face of Mars Bars, but I wouldn’t advise it, Kenny. You are in no danger from me or anyone else, I swear to that. But if you start any antics I will have no qualms about nutting you once and for all, OK?’
Kenny nodded. The futility of his own situation was what smarted with him most. He was used to being the man. How many times had he sat somewhere and watched some other mug who had crossed the line shit himself because he had a capture? It was a very revealing few hours.
When Maura Ryan walked
into the room Kenny was so relieved he almost smiled at her.
Maura, though, looked far too serious for his liking and he wondered once more if he would ever see his little daughter again or be around to bury his wife.
Sarah Ryan opened the front door to the young priest with a big smile on her face.
‘Hello, Father.’
She was preening herself with satisfaction. A man of God at her front door for all the neighbours to see was her idea of Heaven on earth. She knew that they were all aware of exactly who her children were and it amazed her that so many of them were impressed by their violent reputation. She herself was ashamed and scandalised most of the time.
‘I am Father Peter, the new priest at St Bartholomew’s. I came to say hello.’
His Irish accent was like music to her ears and what a fine handsome young man he was, his curly hair neatly slicked down and dark eyes smiling. She ushered him into her lounge with as much alacrity as her advanced years would allow. She was pink with pleasure and the young man smiled at her kindly. As he settled himself on the sofa she watched him eyeing her religious statues and said with pride, ‘I have always been a good Catholic and a true believer, Father. Now, can I get you a cup of tea and a bit of cake?’
‘Thank you, that sounds wonderful.’
As she left the room Sarah was walking on air. This was just what she needed to bump her up a bit. She was so down over young Terry and the new priest showing up when she was at her lowest ebb felt like fate at work. As she made the tea she sifted through stories she could regale the priest with that would make her family look less criminal than they were. She could not think of many and knew that their reputations would have preceded them as usual.
She walked back into the room to see if he wanted sugar and was confronted by a sight she’d never dreamed she would see in a million years. The young priest had gone through her dresser, opening drawers and rifling through letters and other personal effects. He was holding an old photograph of Sarah and her nine children, and as she stood in the doorway watching in amazement he tore it in two.
‘What in the name of Jesus do you think you are doing?’