Maura's Game

by Martina Cole

  Maura slammed the phone down and it rang again almost immediately.

  ‘Who is this?’

  Tommy could see the utter confusion on her face.

  ‘Who is it, Maura? Give me the fucking phone, woman.’

  She slammed it down once more then took it off the hook. Getting out of bed, she dragged on a black silk dressing gown and marched down the stairs, Tommy hot on her heels. She still had not said a word.

  He was shitting himself, convinced that the call was something to do with him. As he saw Maura pouring herself a large Scotch and swilling it down in one mouthful, he said sarcastically, ‘Ain’t you had enough tonight? Now who was on the fucking phone, woman?’

  She poked a finger in his face, and he could see anger in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t call me woman, Tommy. Don’t you ever call me that again. And if you want to know who was on the phone, it was Vic fucking Joliff.’

  She saw his face go pale, and laughed.

  ‘I assume you want a drink now as well then?’

  ‘It can’t be . . .’

  ‘It was. I’d know that fucking voice anywhere. No one could find him when he went on the trot from the hospital, though it’s my belief the filth didn’t really look that hard.’

  ‘What does he want now? It’s been six years, I thought he’d laid down and died – or got himself a place in Spain. Same difference.’

  Maura sighed.

  ‘Oh, Tommy, don’t be so fucking stupid. His wife murdered, his throat cut . . . Vic Joliff’s looking for payback.’

  She poured them both a drink. There would be no more sleep for them tonight.

  Chapter Eight

  Garry was like a raving lunatic and Tommy Rifkind was sharply reminded of exactly who he was dealing with here. Even Joss was shocked at the way Garry was carrying on, and he had been known to have his moments. Maura and the others stood and waited until Garry had vented his spleen, as if the way he was carrying on was normal, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. The veins in his neck were prominent and he was practically foaming at the mouth. His dark hair was a mess; he had been running his fingers through it constantly, his agitation showing in the continuous jerky movements of his hands and legs. Tommy was again reminded of how his son had died and the knowledge made him feel sick.

  Finally Garry finished punching the walls and cursing everyone, even God, and his breathing gradually became more regular.

  Lee’s voice rang out in the silence of the small room.

  ‘Calm down, Garry, think with your head not your heart.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss? How could anyone calm down with that fucking nut-nut running around loose? I said we should have hunted him down from the off. And now this is the upshot.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should have questioned Tommy B properly before he died then we might have found out more.’

  Benny’s voice was low, and even though Tommy and the others had expected the comment from someone, they were still startled to hear it spoken out loud. Everyone automatically looked at Tommy. He kept his gaze on Benny longer than anyone would have given him credit for.

  Garry was still fuming as he cried, ‘I fucking told you, it was Lee! He crunched his head open before I had the chance to do anything much, let alone have a fucking friendly chat.’

  He realised then that Tommy B’s father was present and nodded to him in a respectful way. The anger left him as quickly as it had come on and he sighed heavily. The boy’s father was in the room after all. Though as far as Garry was concerned it had just been work, nothing more, nothing less. Tommy B could have been anyone. It was only the fact that his sister was trumping the boy’s relative that made him bother to be civil.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he growled.

  Lee had the grace to look at the floor.

  Joss surprised everyone by saying loudly, ‘Well, Vic will come after us all. You know what a mad bastard he is. Gut us like fish if we ain’t careful. I remember him from the old days. A grudge-holder is Vic Joliff and, no disrespect to anyone here but he is frightened of no one. I don’t know what took him so long but he will have used the wait to gather money and forces. Six years will have given him plenty of time to nurse his anger and work out how best to take revenge.’

  All the boys liked and respected Joss because, though he didn’t talk much, it seemed that when he did it made a lot of sense. Maura, however, didn’t need a lecture about Vic Joliff. She knew him of old and certainly didn’t need to be reminded by Joss, but hoped it might settle in the others’ minds. Benny especially had never really understood the old workings of their business and he needed to. Now more than ever.

  ‘Let’s put this in perspective, shall we?’ Her voice was soft. ‘Vic lost his old woman the same as we lost Janine and Terry.’ She looked at Tommy as she said, ‘And you lost your boy, as we all know. From his phone call Vic evidently still believes it was one of us who shot his wife, right, though word is well and truly on the pavement that we had nothing to do with any of it. We never got to the bottom of Rebekka’s part in it all. I’m going to see Joe the Jew in Silvertown this afternoon as it happens – I’ve been keeping my eye on him. I’ll have a word with him about Vic. But the fact is, at this moment in time we’re still none the wiser as to exactly who did what six years ago. There was far more skulduggery afoot than anyone realised at the time. What we have to do now is try and find out who called the shots, and the first stop has to be the filth. If anyone knows it will be them. I hear Inspector Billings is now on desk duty so another visit to him might not go amiss, Benny.’

  He grinned. He liked the thought of going to see that nonce again. It appealed to his sense of the outrageous. He might even go and see him at work this time, just for the sheer aggravation of it.

  Everyone was quiet as they wondered what exactly lay behind this latest development. Maura and her brothers had never really believed that Vic was solely responsible for all the mayhem, aided by Tommy B, but until now it had been plain sailing for them and no one had stood against them. Until Vic resurfaced.

  Garry would not be appeased. He wanted death and destruction and he wanted it now. Maura could read his mind and spoke again.

  ‘No one does anything without my express say-so, OK? We need to collate everything this time so we can find out for ourselves exactly what the fuck is going on.’

  Everyone nodded.

  ‘What about us, Maura? What do you want from us?’

  Tommy’s voice sounded strange. He felt strange, taking orders from a woman, especially one he had bedded not ten hours earlier. Women to Tommy fell into two categories, the ones you married and the ones you didn’t. He still wasn’t sure how he’d classify Maura Ryan but he had a feeling she wouldn’t give a flying one whichever way he decided.

  ‘You do what everyone else does, Tommy. Basically you do what the fuck you are told to do, OK?’

  He swallowed the insult from Garry because he had to. But it stayed in his mind for a long time afterwards.

  ‘Leave it out, Garry. We have enough enemies as it is without you causing more hag.’

  Maura’s voice held a reprimand and even Tommy had to acknowledge that she could control her brothers far better than any man could have done. Except of course the saintly Michael. It was funny but he had always liked Michael alive; dead he got on Tommy’s nerves. They all talked about him like he was the Second Coming or something. He’d been a thug, like they were all thugs, himself included. This lot, though, thought that they were better than everyone else. It irritated the life out of Tommy sometimes. They seemed to forget that he had lost a child because of the last turn out. No one thought of the consequences for him, did they? It was all about them as usual. Tommy B had been a little fucker but he was still his own flesh and blood. They talked a lot about family, but what about his fucking family?

  He glanced at Maura and saw that she had guessed what he was thinking. Her half-smile was kindly and he smiled back at her.

  ‘We all
have grievances. Let’s make them work for us, not against us.’

  Everyone knew what she meant and once more Tommy was amazed at the skilful way she controlled the biggest nutters this side of the Watford Gap.

  Vic Joliff had changed. He had always been a mean and vicious man in his business dealings but his overall personality had been saved by a streak of generosity that surfaced every now and then if he heard of someone in trouble, and of course he’d loved Sandra and the kids. Since his wife’s death, however, that had all changed. He had no generosity any more; in fact, he was what his own mother termed a vicious bastard of a man. But he hated to be double-crossed, hated to be used, and used he had been. Someone had taken a diabolical fucking liberty and he was not swallowing it. No fucking way, José.

  Every time he thought about it he felt as if he could kill someone with his bare hands, and he was more than capable of that as everyone knew.

  He had fought his way back to health, left with little money and few connections, and he had taken it on the chin. After his old police pal got him out of the country he had been two years on the trot, getting well, living in shit holes, until he finally felt up to following up on old contacts who had used the money from drugs deals he’d set up without a second’s thought and tried to forget all about him. But he had bided his time and gradually clawed it back, what was left of it. It amazed him the number of people, some his so-called best friends, who had not only assumed he was dead but had clearly rejoiced in the fact. It had been a real eye-opener. Now some of them were dead themselves, and the others knew better than to cross him again.

  Vic Joliff was back. Back with a vengeance.

  Sometimes when he glimpsed the scars on his neck he got so angry that he felt faint with anguish and the need to pay the whole lot of them back in the worst way. It was as if this was all his life could amount to now: tracking down the scum who’d brought him to this and making them pay.

  He’d bought himself a villa in Majorca with some of the money he’d managed to retrieve; set his mother and ponce of a brother up there too, on the other side of the island. He barely saw them. He’d been careful not to blow his cover, partly because that was the deal he’d made with Billings, and partly because after Sandra’s death and the betrayal he’d suffered he’d turned into a recluse. Couldn’t stand human company; didn’t want or need it. And in his isolation and physical pain he broke one of his own longest-standing rules: he sampled the merchandise. He’d never been a cocaine user before this, thought it was strictly for the mugs all the time he’d dealt in it, but in his years of exile it became his friend, his salvation, the source of all his most brilliant ideas.

  After a line or two things always seemed amazingly clear-cut, Vic’s best course of action the simplest thing in the world. The Ryans had killed his wife in some brain-dead piece of tit for tat. Now they were living high on the hog off the proceeds of a major drugs distribution network that should have been his. He’d come that close to it, him and his band of merry men. He’d scores to settle there too, of course, but for now they could be useful. He started up a few drugs deals, using his former partners. Nothing too big, just enough to draw them back into his web.

  Because Vic Joliff had made himself a promise. Every last living soul who’d ever crossed him would be made to realise in full measure what pain and fear really were. He’d blow them away, one by one, saving the Queen Bitch herself for last.

  He laughed to himself, softly at first then louder and louder as he stomped across the echoing wooden floors of a smart Docklands apartment, the first in a constantly changing series of safe houses. He itched to be back on the town, in the life, King Vic holding court before the young guns, taking his pick as he put together a gang that would corner the drugs distribution market for the entire country. Piece of piss. He had the masterplan safe in his head.

  He had another line to celebrate his own cunning, and pulled a face. What were they cutting the stuff with nowadays? It took another two before his temper and his equilibrium were restored and he was jolly Vic Joliff again, smiling at the thought of the mayhem he was about to unleash.

  Benny was with Abul and they were on their way to see Billings at work. Maura had told him to keep away from the man’s workplace but Benny could be conveniently deaf when the fancy took him. Today he had dressed carefully in a dark blue suit, white shirt and blue tie. He looked every bit the respectable young man, as did Abul. They were having trouble keeping their faces straight as they were announced by a civilian secretary who looked as if she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. Benny could handle ugly birds providing they were tidy. This one was a typical graduate: scruffy, bad teeth and a BO problem. Ideal police material as far as he was concerned.

  He wondered if Billings was giving her one. He wasn’t averse to the rougher end of the shagging market as they all knew. But no, she was out of school uniform so he wouldn’t be interested. It was a pleasure to see his face as they were ushered into the office. Disbelief coupled with pure fear. Just how Benny liked it.

  ‘Are you fucking mad?’

  Billings’ voice was low, so low Benny and Abul had trouble hearing him, but even without hearing anything they would have guessed the drift of what he was saying.

  Benny looked scandalised.

  ‘Aren’t you pleased to see us? And we made the journey especially, didn’t we, Abul?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You are one ungrateful old ponce, Mr Billings.’ Benny’s voice was still pleasant as were his face and his body language. No one observing through the glass partition wall of the open-plan office would guess what was taking place from Benny’s behaviour but Billings’ face might let the cat out of the bag. Benny said through gritted teeth, ‘I am like a long-lost nephew to you, aren’t I? So fucking smile and nod while I tell you what you are going to do.’

  Billings was in shock so total he wondered if he might actually need hospital treatment to get over it.

  Benny Ryan, one of the most notorious criminals in the country, was standing in his office before him as if he had every right to be there.

  Billings’ broken boiled hand was a sight to behold and he instinctively held it close to his chest. He had undergone extensive skin grafts and his face was only slightly scarred but his hand was useless except for simple tasks. He had refused early retirement, asking to complete his twenty years so he could collect a full pension. Friends had made sure he got his wish. But they wouldn’t stay friends for long if they found out he was even on nodding terms with this young man, the very one who had been responsible for his freak ‘accident’.

  Billings listened with as much composure as he could.

  Benny grinned that menacing grin of his and said in a friendly fashion, ‘See, that’s easy enough, even for you. You know it makes sense. Now, Mr Billings sir, I want you to think long and hard and then tell me where you think Mr Victor Joliff, otherwise known as Dead Cunt, could be at this moment in time? You do not have to answer me yet. I am willing to give you ten seconds’ grace.’

  Chief Inspector Billings wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Instead he kept up the inane smile and tried desperately to stop himself from crying out as Benny took hold of his injured hand in what looked to his curious secretary like a particularly hearty handshake.

  Benny said with concern, ‘This looks really nasty. Fancy a cup of tea? I’m parched. Abul, switch the kettle on . . .’

  ‘All right! I’ll tell you all I know but it might be nothing. A routine surveillance logged a possible sighting of Vic with a face called Stern . . .’

  Benny smiled widely.

  ‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Always a pleasure doing business with you. And you take care of yourself, won’t you, Mr Billings. I don’t know where we’d be without men like you in the Force.’

  Joe the Jew was an old man. He had a bald head covered in liver spots, arthritic hands, and a girlfriend of nineteen. She was a sweet little thing called Camilla and he had
been nicknamed Charles because of it. The name made him smile every time he heard it.

  His sunny nature was part of Joe’s rep. He came across as the definitive mensch – but anyone who believed that was in for a shock. Joe owned just about every spieler and gambling joint in the East End. He also, because of the times we live in, owned two lap dancing clubs, in one of which he’d met Camilla, and a portfolio of development properties. And then there was the debt-collecting agency and a scrapyard. He had tallymen who worked the council estates for him, and he had been banking the proceeds since the Second World War. Joe was as rich as Croesus and he loved it. He always said Camilla was his third childhood sweetheart to date, but she was the best lay of them all. Sign of the times again. Young girls these days would fuck a corpse if it had a few quid. This always raised a laugh, as he knew it would.

  When he saw Maura Ryan he smiled warmly. He had always liked her, ever since she had taken on the Milano brothers, a pair of Italian ponces, ice-cream traders whom he had hated with a vengeance for over half his life. In fact, he liked Maura Ryan more than he liked a lot of people. He had also been close friends with Michael and missed him, just like he missed Joe the Fish and all the old crowd.

  ‘Maura Ryan! You look wonderful. Take a seat. Let me get you a drink. More importantly, what can I do for you?’

  He was smiling and Maura smiled back. She was in his scrapyard where he was always to be found during the day. He had started it in the war and it had been a gold mine ever since. Joe loved the scrap, it was his forte, and of course an ideal way of disposing of anyone who dared to stray on to his turf.

  ‘You’re looking good, boy.’

  He laughed out loud, displaying teeth that were old and yellow but, as he proudly told anyone who asked, still his own.

  ‘What can I say? I have regular sex and can highly recommend it.’

  Maura was really laughing now and Joe was pleased.

  ‘You look like you need to smile more, Maura. I see the laughter lines are fading from around your eyes.’