by Martina Cole
He walked into the Portakabin, a large smile on his handsome face.
‘All right, Del Boy?’
Derek Greene smiled back widely. He’d always liked Vincent O’Casey, and it had been a pleasure watching the boy flourish under his watchful eye. He was trustworthy and loyal, all the assets needed for this kind of life. Not exactly a contender for The Krypton Factor, but a shrewdie just the same.
‘Sit down, mate, the others will be here soon. They’re a little firm out of Manchester, and I have talked you up, so don’t let me down, OK?’
It was a friendly warning and Vincent swallowed down his nerves as he said nonchalantly, ‘I’m easy, looking forward to it. It’s been a long time coming.’
Derek grinned again. ‘Easy, tiger! I had to make sure you were ready before I sent you out into the big bad world!’ Then, in a kinder voice, he said seriously, ‘Look, everyone gets nervous, it’s what gives you the edge. The day you don’t get nervous on a jump is the day it goes wrong. I read a book once about Laurence Olivier, a very talented actor, but he said that he threw up every time he went on stage. See what I’m saying? It’s the nerves that give people the edge. You’ll be all right, Vince, you’ll do good.’
Vincent smiled with pleasure at the man’s words.
‘Now, did you find them a hotel where they can get tooled up?’
Vincent nodded. ‘It’s in Southend. Small place off the front, where a crowd of men from Manchester won’t be too noticeable.’
Derek grinned his usual amiable grin, the one that hid the hard man inside him. ‘Good lad. We can’t have them noticed by Lily Law around this gaff, know what I mean? They want to get in and out in a few days. You know the route, and we’ll talk them through it together, OK? But they are relying on you to get them away. Have you arranged the chop?’
Vincent nodded. He’d already put everything in place to exchange the main motor for a more sedate model that the police would not be looking for. It was an honest motor, a family saloon, but with a revved-up engine in case of emergencies, such as the police recognising them and giving chase. ‘All sorted, and all in place.’
‘Excellent. I think you’re going to be a useful addition to this oufit, young Vincent.’
Vincent was beaming at the praise. ‘Thanks for the chance, Derek, I appreciate it.’
As he spoke, Bertie Warner pulled up outside. Bertie had taken on the mantle of boss with ease, and he was now at the top of this very lucrative game. As he swaggered into the small Portakabin, he was all good-natured bonhomie.
‘Afternoon, my old mockers! I heard a great joke today: Why do brides wear white? Because all fucking kitchen appliances are white!’
Vincent and Derek both laughed, as was expected.
‘My mate Peter Bailey is a funny man, no doubt about it. Shame he didn’t go on the stage really – he could give that Jimmy Jones a run for his money.’
The phone rang and Derek answered it; he listened for a few seconds then passed the phone to Vincent saying, ‘Fucking hell, no wonder they need a good driver. They can’t even find their way to the Bow Road!’
As Vincent directed the men to the Portakabin, he felt the rush of adrenaline. This was the life, this was the life he had always craved, and it was within his grasp at last. He felt like the luckiest man alive.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Cynthia Callahan – she had dropped the name Tailor after she had left East London – looked around her flat and felt the rush of pride her home always gave her. She was living in a new development called Chafford Hundred, and she had a penthouse that looked over the Thames. She could see the boats plying their trades, and the shores of Kent. It was a lovely setting.
She had bought this place for yet another new start; as usual she had become involved with a man, who had eventually walked out on her. But not until she had bled him dry. She smiled to herself, the smile that made her look like an angel, but actually hid the fact she was a devil in disguise. Amoral as ever, she had understood the need to leave the South Downs, where she had been living previously, sooner rather than later. She had bought this place after reading the advertising blurb and was now awaiting the sale of her small house in Sussex.
Sussex had been good to her; she had quite liked it there – especially Brighton. Brighton had been the nearest thing to London, so she felt at home there. Now, out here in the Essex countryside, she was near enough to London to visit, but not close enough to be a part of it all. That suited her down to the ground. She had the best of both worlds really, and she did like her solitude.
She had already met a few of her neighbours. In the penthouse opposite her was a man called David. In his mid-fifties, he was getting over a bitter divorce – just the kind of man she liked. Old enough to appreciate her, and young enough to think they had a future together. He had a few quid, drove a decent car, and his furniture was expensive and tasteful. He would be her new conquest, and she was looking forward to the chase.
She opened her bedroom closets and looked at the large array of clothes. She would play the part of a retired career woman for him and, when she finally had him within her grasp, she would start borrowing money from him – just until her money arrived from the Cayman Islands of course. That would be her story. By the time he realised it was all lies, it would be too late.
She laughed with delight. It was so easy to get these men to part with their cash, and they never pressed charges – they were too embarrassed. Lying came easy to her, and she had discovered she was exemplary at it. It was said people who lied needed good memories, which was true! She had a patter, and she never deviated from it. She would talk in telephone numbers, insist on paying her half of any bills or holidays, and she would casually mention all the different business deals she had on the go. It was so easy she could con them in her sleep. Eventually she would need a cash injection, and they would give it to her unquestioningly.
It was only when it started to dawn on them that she wasn’t all she said she was that the rot set in, but by then she was already making plans for her flight. She’d be unavailable on all her phone numbers and gone from her home that they eventually found out had been rented and not owned by her. The truth was she did own it, but through a holding company and she rented it to herself. Oh, she was a clever little girlie. No paper trails, no actual criminal act, she just borrowed money. It happened all the time. The police had never once interviewed her, and so she had no qualms about continuing. It was lucrative, and it was easy – perfect in fact.
So why had she felt this sudden longing to see her daughter? She truly wanted to see her, see what she looked like, how she had turned out. Gabriella would be sixteen now, on the cusp of womanhood. Did she look like her or did she now resemble James? Cynthia had a feeling it would be her; she always had, even from a baby.
Cynthia had no interest in James Junior; he was already too far gone from her to be of any interest. But Gabriella had possessed the same spark that she herself did. What she was feeling was in no way maternal, it was simply curiosity.
She knew Gabriella was with her mother and father, and she shuddered at the thought of how she would be living. They lived like tinkers – all TV sets and boiled food. Cynthia had hated it as a child, aspired to a better way of life than the working men’s clubs they frequented. She felt almost sick with shame about her upbringing.
Yet Celeste had loved all that, so had James when she had taken him to the club for the first time. He said it was a great place for meeting up with friends – like he had ever had any friends! To her it had always felt like slumming, but then she was above all that kind of shit. A good restaurant, decent wine and intelligent conversation were beyond these people’s comprehension – they had thought she was a snob, and she knew she was. She was proud to be one. Who in their right mind would want to live like them? Hand to mouth, eating food that had more preservatives in it than Joan Collins? Their main topic of conversation was what was going on in EastEnders.
If she had
one regret, it was leaving her daughter to live like that. But then what would she have done with her? She had her own life, and a good life it was. Nevertheless she was curious to see her again. It never occurred to her though that her daughter might not want to see her, that what she had done to her family might not be forgiven, let alone forgotten. As far as Cynthia was concerned, she had summoned her daughter to her side and what else could her daughter do, but answer that call? To Cynthia Callahan, that was simple logic.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
‘You’re joking, Celly?’
Celeste shook her head, and said seriously, ‘No, I’m not, Mum. She’s frightened to tell you and Dad, and who can blame her?’
Mary felt sick at what she had heard, and if Jack found out there would be murder done. That Cynthia thought she could waltz back into her daughter’s life after all this time was outrageous. ‘She’s not thinking of going, is she?’
Celeste, one eye on the Trisha show and one eye on her mother, said honestly, ‘I think she’s just curious, Mum, you know. But I don’t think she wants to go for any other reason than that.’
Mary nodded, but her heart was beating too fast for her own good. She sat on the sofa and bit her lips in consternation. Her first thought was that Cynthia might have changed, but she dismissed that idea as soon as it arrived. This was something far more sinister, she knew that in her waters. If Cynthia wanted to see that child there had to be an agenda. So, what could it be? And why hadn’t Gabby discussed it with her?
‘When did this happen, Celeste?’
Celeste shrugged her huge shoulders. ‘A few days ago.’
That explained the child’s demeanour recently anyway. ‘What do you think, love?’
Celeste closed her eyes for a few seconds before saying, ‘I think she should run as far away from her mother as possible and, before you ask, I told her that.’
Mary nodded in agreement.
‘Cynthia is trouble; she’s a liar, and she’s dangerous. But, at the end of the day, she is Gabby’s mother.’
‘More’s the fucking pity. Well, I’ll have to wait and see if she asks me about it, won’t I?’
But Celeste wasn’t listening any more; the woman on Trisha was confronting her demons, which were drink and drugs, and Trisha as always was sympathetic but firm. Celeste liked Trisha, she had a nice way about her.
Mary watched the screen blankly, her mind in turmoil. Cynthia plus Gabby added up to a disaster, and she knew she had to make sure that any meeting between them was monitored. By herself if possible. None of this was good for her heart, she knew, but it was something that had to be addressed and at the earliest possible opportunity. Her daughter Cynthia was like Jaws – just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water . . . back she came, like the proverbial bad penny.
One thing was for sure though – Jack must never know about any of this. He would see his elder daughter dead before he let her back in this family again.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Terry Marchant was a Mancunian with a loud laugh and an even larger thirst. Vincent liked him and, along with his two cronies Patrick Miles and Anthony Dawes, he was good company. They were blaggers extraordinaire, and they roamed the country robbing banks and building societies with gay abandon. They did the stealing, and then relied on a good wheelman to get them out of the way. Which is where Vincent came in; he got ten per cent of the load, and all he had to do was drive. It was a doddle.
Now, sitting in a pub on Southend Seafront drinking orange juice, Vincent was getting a real insight into the men he would be dealing with. Terry Marchant was a hardcase, that was obvious to anyone. He had the look, the build and the carriage of a man who it would be foolish to mess with. Vincent had learnt that over the years – you could tell from looking at certain people whether or not you could fuck with them. Terry Marchant was a definite no-no in that respect. But he was a lot of fun, and he had a great personality. His two colleagues were small-time, but nice blokes all the same. Vincent felt he would enjoy working with them.
Terry Marchant, for his part, was pleased to see that the lad was not drinking alcohol. Even though the blag wasn’t for a few days, he appreciated that the kid wasn’t stupid enough to get a tug for driving over the limit. It meant he was sensible, and unlikely to get himself on the police radar, so to speak. Derek had spoken highly of the boy, and that should have been enough for him, but Terry still preferred to look the drivers over and form his own opinion of them before he gave the nod. Buyer beware and all that. He was weighing out a nice wedge for Vincent, and their livelihoods depended on him doing a good job.
It was strange really; no one ever understood that robbing was the easy part – it was the disappearing act afterwards that was hard. Once people saw a sawn-off, they tended to do as they were told. The Old Bill, on the other hand, were not so amenable. They hated blaggers with a vengeance; there was nothing so annoying to a Filth than a bank being knocked over in their jurisdiction. Fucking muppets! What were banks for? Sitting there, full of wonga, and no real security. Done properly it was a piece of cake.
He and the boys had sussed out the lay of the land already. It was a good little set up and the bank would be full of dough as it had all the wages for the surrounding areas waiting to be picked up. It was on a quiet road too – just the kind of place he liked. They’d do a final check but he was sure they’d covered all the bases and they’d be in and out, quick as a flash.
Terry ordered more drinks and started to tell a story about an old mate from Warrington who had robbed a bank while drunk as a cunt. It was a funny story but it was also a bit of an allegory. It showed the stupidity of people while in the throes of alcohol, and how badly things could go against you if you weren’t careful.
He noticed that young Vincent listened raptly, and he knew then that he had got his point across with the minimum of fuss. He didn’t like aggro and he didn’t like heroes. He liked people to do their jobs and forget about it. Seemed that this kid had all the attributes he needed.
So, finally, Terry Marchant relaxed and was able to enjoy the rest of his stay in Southend.
Chapter Eighty
‘I told the social worker I didn’t want to see her, Nana.’
Mary relaxed, breathing out a heartfelt sigh of relief. ‘You did the right thing, child. She wouldn’t have wanted to see you for any other reason than trouble. God forgive me for saying that about my own daughter, but it’s the truth. Everything she touches she destroys, and we both know that, don’t we?’
Gabby nodded. ‘I’m sorry I never told you, Nana. I didn’t want to upset you. But when I came in and saw your face I knew then Auntie Celly had to have said something.’
Mary smiled sadly. ‘She did it for the best, lovie.’
Gabby nodded, but her eyes were filling with unshed tears. ‘I know, Nana, but I wanted to see her a bit, just a little bit. She is my mum.’
Mary held her granddaughter close and comforted her as best she could, all the time cursing her elder daughter. Why couldn’t she have just stayed away? Why did she want to upend this child’s life on a whim? With Cynthia she had no doubt it would be a whim. No good could come of it.
Chapter Eighty-One
Vincent was waiting patiently outside the bank in Essex. It was twenty past ten in the morning, and Terry Marchant and his two accomplices had just walked into the bank, ski masks over their heads and sawn-offs in their sports bags.
Vincent watched through the window. The bank didn’t get busy until lunchtime and so at nearly ten thirty it was more or less empty with just the three tellers inside and a couple of young mums paying their electric bills. He watched the pantomime unfold inside and, five minutes later, the men were on their way to the car and he was already getting ready to drive away. It had been so easy – too easy really. He was around the roundabout and on his way to Basildon before the first sirens were even heard in the distance.
At Basildon he turned off towards the train station, and t
he three men, now devoid of ski masks and without their distinctive red tracksuit tops – which were all the bystanders would remember – were relaxed and laughing. The adrenaline rush was over, and their job was done without so much as a hiccough. They chopped the cars with the minimum of fuss, leaving everything behind them except the money, and they were back in Southend within the hour.
Never had Vincent O’Casey had such a spectacular day. And never had he believed that a blag could be that fucking simple. They had netted just under a hundred grand, and he went home ten thousand pounds better off; it was like all his Christmases and birthdays had come at once. The best thing had been that he had loved it, loved every second of it. And tonight he was going to have the greatest night out of his life.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Gabby had never seen so much money before in her life, and her eyes widened in disbelief. Vincent loved seeing her reaction as he showed her his cut.
Gabby looked at him in amazement. ‘Ten grand!’
He grinned. ‘Yes, ten thousand pounds, and keep your voice down or we’ll have your nana and granddad in on top of us in a minute.’
‘They’re out, you div – they’ve gone to bingo with Mrs Jacobs over the road. And Auntie Celly ain’t gonna come in here, she’s watching her soaps. A fucking bomb couldn’t get her away from the telly when Grant Mitchell’s on.’