Broken

by Martina Cole

  He nodded.

  Golding looked at the screen and sighed.

  Then the kicking really started.

  Willy was in the middle of a field and he was sweating. Taking off his jacket, he placed it carefully on the grass verge and began digging again. He was over in East Hanningfield, Essex, in a field owned by one of his old mates - only the man didn’t know he was visiting.

  After a few minutes more he uncovered an oilskin. Kneeling down, he dragged a heavy bundle from the hole. He cleared off the worst of the dirt and opened the oilskin. Inside was a small arsenal of weapons.

  Willy removed a pump-action shotgun and cradled it gently in his hands. It was a favoured weapon, a Winchester - he had cut it down a few years previously. At short range it would take out three people at a time.

  He wrapped up the other guns and replaced them in the ground. As he filled in their shallow grave he was humming to himself. Patrick needed help and he needed it soon. Boris had pissed them all off too much. Now Willy was going to do what Patrick would have done in his place.

  He was going to take them all out in one fell swoop.

  Willy carefully rewrapped the Winchester and walked back to his car. Placing his jacket on the passenger seat, he tidied himself up as best he could and made his way to Maureen’s house.

  He was looking forward to his job. Seeing Patrick lying in the bed unable to move properly had set off something in his brain. Patrick couldn’t do the deed, but there was nothing to stop him doing it.

  He had thought it through carefully, because if he got a capture, he was putting Maureen on the line. He would be looking at hard time - seriously hard time.

  But Patrick would do the same for him. He knew that as well as he knew his own name. They were real mates. And real mates didn’t come along very often.

  That Boris needed to be taken out once and for all. Willy Gabney had decided that he was the man to do just that.

  This was personal, as well as business. He was sure Boris would understand the logic of that.

  He was still humming as he drove along the A13 back to Maureen, Duane and the good life.

  Chapter Thirty

  Marcel Jackson was handsome in a skinny, sharp-faced way. He kept his Jamaican ancestry evident, his dreadlocks and ever-present joint making him feel like he was a Brutha. In fact, his accent was forced and he had had a respectable upbringing by religious and hard-working parents.

  Marcel had gone to university, studied Economics and Sociology, come out and trained as an accountant, then had decided there was more money to be made without the hag of actually working. He had started dope dealing and soon gravitated to pimping. Nowadays he drove a top-of-the-range car, smoked only the best weed and had a very high sexual drive. All in all he was a natural-born pimp. His mother still thought he was an accountant.

  Marcel wasn’t a great believer in work as such; he had no respect for the women he dealt with and liked to spend the money they brought in as and when he got his hands on it. Consequently he was weighed down with gold, even replacing some teeth with ones made of gold. He slept only infrequently after indulging in high-class pharmaceuticals.

  He had sex as often as possible with as many different women as possible, and had fathered six children to his knowledge. He lived part-time with a white girl called Leona, who was a graduate and worked in advertising. They had a young son called Marcus and the kind of relationship most men dreamed of. She asked for nothing, neither his money nor his time. She too lived her own life. He supplied her with a bit of puff and a few Es for her weekend outings.

  All in all, life was good.

  As he tripped up the stairs to Lucas’s flat Marcel was humming. Relighting his joint, he strolled through the open door - then stood still in amazement as he entered the lounge and saw the battered body of Lucas on the floor, and a good-looking woman and a younger man going through his video collection.

  Kate smiled a welcome. ‘And what can we do for you?’ Lucas moaned softly. Through the bloody pulp of his face, his eyes were beseeching Marcel to help him. But Marcel, being the type who covered his own arse and no one else’s, turned around and walked straight back out of the door.

  As he started his car up, he was shaking his head in wonderment. Lucas had been an accident waiting to happen for years. Marcel had told him over and over the kids were wrong. Older girls already on the game were one thing, but even Marcel balked at the use of kids. It was a bone of contention between them.

  In a way he was glad that Lucas had had his capture. Whoever those two people were they were serious about what they were doing. He wondered briefly if they were Old Bill. After all, a kicking like that for a known pimp wasn’t exactly unheard of from the police. He’d keep his eye out in case they decided on a repeat performance with him.

  As he drove by the end of the road he saw a young girl sitting on a wall. Instinct told him she was ripe and might be willing. Stopping his Jaguar, he smiled at her.

  She looked at him with spaced-out eyes and said nonchalantly, ‘Marcel?’

  He nodded and she jumped into the car happily. Marcel drove away, thankful that his journey had not been fruitless after all.

  The girl was chattering about Lucas, a beating and being frightened. Marcel listened with half an ear, wondering whether she was worth the hag.

  A blow job and a joint later, he decided she was.

  Boris and Sergei went into Girlie Girls at just after 2 a.m. It was still buzzing. The air was ripe with music, sweat and alcohol. It was Stag Night and the place was full of drunken men and their wallets.

  Girls danced on tables, their bodies moving suggestively to the raucous music, their faces devoid of any real expression. It was late, they were knackered and they wanted to go home.

  Boris watched the scene with interest. A pretty girl with large hips and surgically enhanced breasts was arguing with another girl who had apparently muscled in on her punters. The men, a crowd of City boys with loosened ties and red alcohol-laden faces, thought it was hilarious.

  The second girl, a stacked blonde with a sequined G-string, was the real aggressor.

  ‘Fuck off! Ask them who they want dancing for them.’ She moved one hand down her body. ‘This is all mine, darling, which is more than you can say.’

  The brunette brought back a meaty forearm, the punch landed a nano-second later and then the bouncers were between the women, trying their hardest to separate two semi-naked hellcats.

  False nails and stilettos flew everywhere, the bouncers taking a hammering from the screaming girls. Eventually, they picked them up bodily and half dragged, half carried them off the small stage. Their sweaty bodies were practically impossible to keep a grip on and the girls kept escaping and running back, bent on killing each other.

  Cocaine-induced paranoia was the real problem between them.

  It was always the same at the end of the night. If one didn’t make as much money as she expected, or another girl seemed more popular, it caused fights. Tomorrow they would be bosom pals, or at worst respectful rivals.

  Boris sighed. But this place was a useful front and once he had overhauled it and changed it to what he really wanted it would be a good earner. Plus, it laundered money for them. In fact, that was its primary function at the moment.

  He followed the two bouncers through to the dressing area. The girls were on the floor still fighting, and even Boris understood the men’s reluctance to stop the fray. Other dancers milled around, shouting encouragement and laughing at their counterparts who were in a state of drug-crazed anger. The smell of sweat was overpowering, and he curled his lip at the sight of the women and girls avidly watching the fight.

  They were like animals. They hunted in packs and felt safer in a crowd. But ultimately they were all out for number one.

  The blonde girl had the edge. Now she was kneeling on the brunette and punching her face over and over. He nodded at Sergei who took the blonde by her hair and dragged her over to the exit. She was slung out
naked into the cold night air.

  One of the bouncers, a large black man called Curtis, was nursing a deep scratch on his face. The other man, also black, was laughing at the girls’ antics. But Sergei’s intervention and Boris’s presence made the onlookers nervous and they were gradually growing quieter.

  Finally everyone fell silent as Boris said loudly, ‘Those two girls are out. They will have to find alternative employment. And if I ever see a scene like this again, you’ll all be sorry.’

  He snapped his fingers at the bouncers. ‘You two, collect your pay and fuck off. I am not paying you to be entertained.’

  The two men were shamefaced, the women subdued. It was how Boris affected people.

  Back in the club, business had died down. They were gradually wrapping up for the night. He nodded for the main bar to close and walked over to get himself a drink. There were still a few drunken revellers about but Boris ignored them. Some girls were still working, dancing for the last few quid. Their body make-up was running and one girl clearly showed flea bites from her cats around her ankles. Boris curled his lips once more. He himself had never understood the male need to make a show of their masculinity in public. As he watched a young man on his knees trying to lick one of the girls’ buttocks he felt his stomach revolt.

  Sergei joined him at the bar and they ordered Remy Martins. They sipped them and chatted as the club gradually cleared. By 2.45 there were only a few stragglers and the usual handful of girls waiting it out for the last couple of tenners. The cabfare girls, as they were known. They didn’t come into their own until the men were too drunk to be over-critical of their bodies.

  It was as they watched a girl remove her G-string and scratch at her ample buttocks that Sergei noticed Willy Gabney enter the club. He put his hand on Boris’s arm to alert him. Distracted by a quarrel between two late revellers and the barman, he did not immediately notice. When Willy removed the Winchester from under his coat, Sergei felt his bowels loosen and pulled hard on Boris’s Armani jacket.

  He finally looked at Willy but it was too late.

  Even the late-night drinkers took on board the large ugly man with the pump-action shotgun.

  Willy nodded pleasantly, then began blasting.

  Boris’s face was a study in shocked incomprehension. His body moved as if to make a run for it as the impact of the first shot lifted him off his feet and he careered into Sergei, who was still standing rooted to the spot.

  The second shot sprayed their upper bodies, taking away bone and skin, sending muscle and hair flying in all directions. Any resemblance the two men bore to human beings was gone.

  The third shot was unnecessary, but guaranteed Willy Gabney peace and quiet until he had made his escape. The last few shots were what were known as the warning shots. They told people to keep away and not attempt to be a hero - and warned others in the business that this was serious, and any attempt at retribution would be met with the same.

  When Willy had finished the club was deathly quiet. Even the music had stopped. The two sacked bouncers watched everything impassively. The girls were all white-faced and terrified.

  Willy lowered the gun, nodded his head as if taking leave of a business acquaintance and walked out of the club in a nonchalant manner, the same way he had entered it.

  Passing the stunned doorman, he smiled. ‘Nice night for it anyway,’ he said politely.

  Then he disappeared into the darkness.

  Ratchette arrived at Lucas’s flat at 3.45 a.m. What he saw astounded him, and made him more aware than ever that Kate Burrows was not only a good policewoman but also the sort not to take anything from anyone without coming back.

  Half of him admired her for that, the other half hated her with a vengeance. He saw Golding’s smirk as they presented the evidence to him and he had to stand in the flat of a filthy paedophile and take it.

  Kate picked up her bag. Nudging the grotesque man still lying bleeding on the floor with one well-shod foot, she said, ‘I will leave all this in your capable hands. And I’ll tell you now, I am not going to be the fall guy for you or anyone else. Do you understand what I’m saying? Because if push comes to shove, Mr Ratchette, I will open my mouth so loud the Home Secretary won’t need a phone call to inform him of what I’m saying, he’ll hear me all the way from here to Whitehall.’

  ‘You get yourself home, ma’am. I’ll finish up here,’ Golding offered.

  She nodded her thanks, then added to Ratchette: ‘You’ll find films here that contain images of the children I was investigating, besides other children and young adults of whom I have no knowledge. Mr Browning has agreed to make a statement concerning allegations against Mr Kelly that I think you will find removes any suspicion you might have had about your Masonic friend and business partner.

  ‘In the light of that,’ she went on, ‘I expect to be back in my job on Monday morning as usual. I also expect to receive credit for all the work I have done in bringing these paedophiles to court, and also for bringing in Robert Bateman who I think can safely be classed as a serial killer. I also insist on being the one to arrest and formally charge Suzy Harrington.’

  She breathed out a long sigh. ‘Now I will go home and get some rest. I trust you will sort out this little mess with the minimum of publicity and the maximum of respect, sir.’

  As Kate marched out of the flat and down the stairs, her eyes were burning with rage and fatigue. Her whole body was rebelling against all the shocks it had received over the last few weeks.

  In short, Kate was terminally exhausted.

  As she went over to Golding’s car which she was going to borrow, she saw Benny Boarder out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning against a BMW, smiling.

  ‘Am I glad to see you!’ Kate told him.

  He grinned. ‘Oh yeah? Same here. Get in. I just spoke to Patrick. I need to take you to the hospital.’

  She got into the car, not even asking him what he was doing so close to her. At this moment nothing could faze her and there’d be plenty of time for questions in the days and weeks ahead. For now all she wanted was to put her arms around Patrick Kelly and find peace at last.

  Maureen knew that something wasn’t quite right with Willy. He had come in earlier in the evening, changed his clothes and then gone straight out again. He had not offered her any explanation and she had not asked for one. She knew how to play the game, but she would bet her last ten quid that skulduggery was afoot. All she hoped was that he didn’t get his collar felt and that she didn’t have to look forward to years of visiting him in prison.

  Though she would, if that was the upshot.

  When he came home he made a call on his mobile, out of earshot, and then placed a small folder in her lap. Duane had gone to bed and they were alone.

  ‘What’s this then?’ Maureen’s voice was shaking.

  ‘Look inside and decide which one you like the most and I’ll buy it for you. It’s a cash buy, and no matter what happens, darlin’, it will be yours, OK?’

  She opened the plain buff folder. Inside were estate agents’ details for large detached houses in the Manor Park area. Her eyes misted with tears. She looked at him in wonderment.

  ‘Is this a joke?’

  He shook his head. ‘Look, Maureen, I had to do a last bit of work tonight and it might come on top. If it does I’m looking at a serious lump, but I had no choice. Either way, you’ll own this house outright, whether I am there or not, OK? If I get a touch, we can get married, and hopefully live there happily ever after.’

  ‘Oh, Willy. What did I do to deserve you?’ She was nearly in tears and her face, already puffy, was in danger of further damage from violent crying.

  He put one meaty arm around her shoulders. ‘I am the lucky one, girl. I know that better than anyone. You’re me bird, ain’t you? I have to take good care of you, mate.’

  ‘I don’t need houses, Willy, you know that.’

  He nodded gently. ‘Yes, I know that. But I want you to have it. I want me, you
and Duane to have a proper life. In a nice area with nice things.’

  Maureen stared down at the pictures of the beautiful properties and then looked around her own council flat.

  ‘There is only one stipulation.’

  She looked into his eyes. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘No disrespect, love, but you’ll have to let me sort out the decorating. I can’t live with pink like this for the rest of me natural.’

  She smiled through her tears. ‘You can do what you like, Willy Gabney, you know that. I am just glad to be a part of it all.’

  He pulled her into his arms. She was all right, was his Maureen. He felt he was a very lucky man. A man who had finally found out what life was all about.

  He only hoped it wasn’t too late to enjoy it.

  Detective Inspector Martin Haskiss looked at the carnage in the club and sighed heavily.

  ‘Any idea who these two were?’

  No one seemed to know. A search of the remains gave up no identification whatsoever.

  Pascal had already cleaned them of everything, from mobile phones to wallets. He knew the score and was glad that Willy Gabney had sorted it all out. He had also cleared the club of most of the witnesses, only leaving the people he thought were intelligent enough to give believable statements. The men who had been visiting the place were too stoned or pissed to know what had gone down and the dancers had all had it away on their toes.

  All in all, not a bad night’s work.

  He took the wallets and phones directly to a contact and booked himself on an early-morning flight to Ibiza. A couple of weeks of sun and the opportunity to look over a club he had a share in there was suddenly too good a chance to resist. The offices had been cleaned of anything pertaining to Patrick Kelly and all seemed above board and legal. Let the Filth wonder what they liked, Patrick was banged up in hospital and was never in the place anyway, according to witnesses.