The Life

by Martina Cole

  Tania looked at her nana and, smiling slightly, she said quietly, ‘I’m nearly eighteen, Nana, I’m not a child.’

  Theresa nodded in agreement. ‘I know that, but you’re still a child to me. I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.’

  Tania sensed her nana had her suspicions, and she wondered how she would react if she told her outright that her advice had come just a little bit too late.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Four

  Danny and Davey were in a private drinking club in Soho. The family had taken the place over a couple of years before in lieu of a debt they were owed by another crew. The money borrowed had been used to purchase drugs – unfortunately, the river police had got wind of the daring escapade and put paid to the new business venture. The debt still had to be honoured though – that was the harsh reality of the Life. There was no insurance in their game, so the crew had signed this place over to the Baileys. They had refurbished it, reopened it, and it was now a popular haunt for minor celebrities and London Faces. It had been a good money-spinner for them, and it was legitimate. They could launder money through there too – another handy advantage.

  As they sat in the small office, drinking expensive coffee, they were chatting about their father and his behaviour.

  ‘I’m worried about him, Dan. I could hear him talking to himself last night. He was making a cup of tea, and I came out of the toilet, and I thought he had someone in the kitchen with him, but he was all on his tod.’

  Danny knew his father was gradually losing his grip on reality but, then again, he had never been that rooted in the real world anyway. It was over a month since the bombing and he had watched the man deteriorate day by day. He believed his father would eventually conquer his grief but, in the meantime, it was almost too painful to witness. He only acted normal with Tania, and that was because he was trying to make up for the loss of her mum.

  ‘He’s just missing Mum, that’s all, Davey. Like we all are.’

  Davey nodded, but he wasn’t so sure. He changed the subject. ‘Who do you think ironed Terrence Allen out, Dan?’

  Danny shook his head. ‘Who knows? He wasn’t exactly Mr Popular, was he? Whoever it was, they don’t seem willing to take the credit, do they?’

  Davey sighed. There had been a big price on Terry’s head, so why was nobody claiming it? Another mystery to add to the pile.

  ‘Listen, you get off, Davey. I’ve got a meet with a Filth in a minute. You go and round up the lads, make sure they have collected all the debts. Since the trouble, a lot of people have been taking the piss. I’ll meet you at the Electric Lady later on.’

  Davey laughed. ‘That Richard Casey is a cunt. Did I tell you he tried to fucking shake down our Jamsie? Said he had already weighed out the day before. When Jamsie asked him who he had given the poke to, the idiot said some geezer with brown hair.’

  Danny laughed at the man’s front. ‘What did Jamsie do?’

  Davey grinned and, as he slipped his leather jacket on, he said craftily, ‘He kicked the living shit out of him, and when he had finished, he took his Rolex off his wrist, and smashed it to smithereens. Jamsie is a natural-born enforcer; he has just the right amount of tact and force – know what I mean?’

  Danny laughed with his brother. ‘I know. He is coming into his own, our Jamsie. Not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, admittedly, but he has the right temperament for collecting.’

  Davey hugged his brother and, as he was taking his leave, he stopped by the doorway, and said seriously, ‘Do you think that whoever was behind the bombing might be lulling us into a false sense of security? I mean, why ain’t they fucking following through? Even the Russians have said as much to me. That big one, Sergei – who, incidentally, I personally think is gayer than a Mexican tablecloth – said that a bombing was generally a first strike, that it was about confusing your enemy, and while they were regrouping you then had the opportunity to do even more damage.’

  Danny could see the logic; the same had already occurred to him, but he was keeping his own counsel for the time being. He wasn’t willing to share his thoughts until he had some kind of proof.

  ‘I think that is something we should bear in mind but, until we have a name, or at the very least a fucking reason for it, there’s nothing we can do.’

  Davey sighed in frustration. ‘I suppose so, but it’s fucking doing my head in, I know that much.’

  Danny laughed. ‘Join the fucking club.’

  When his brother left, Danny Bailey opened the desk drawer and, taking out a large wad of money, he placed it in an envelope. Then he waited patiently for his guest to arrive.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Five

  Theresa was tired; the last few weeks had taken more of a toll than she was willing to admit. She wasn’t a spring chicken any more, that was for sure. She loved her little house and her boys had always looked after her – she was a fortunate woman in that respect. Tommy Barker was still with her, and they made a good couple – they both liked a few drinks, a good meal and, more to the point, they were both of a like mind about most things. She was sad that her days of wild coupling were over, but there was more to life than that. She and Tommy still had their moments; they were few and far between but, as he said, there was life in the old dogs yet! Most importantly, they were company for each other, and she felt she was lucky to have found someone like him to end her days with.

  Lena’s death had hit her harder than she let on – that she had outlived her daughter-in-law was difficult to comprehend. Her Daniel was a man bereft, he had worshipped that woman, and he was not coping well. He had cried in her arms the night she died, and she had held him like a child for the first time in over fifty years. It had been so painful to watch – he had tried to get to the car, or what was left of it anyway. He had acted like a man demented.

  As she held him that night, the years had rolled back and he was just her boy again, the boy she would protect with her own life if needed. It had been hard for her, seeing him so distraught, so broken. Even though he was a grown man, he was still her youngest son, her baby.

  She glanced at the clock and, hearing a car door slam, she made her way out into her kitchen. As she put the kettle on, she heard the front door open, and she called out, ‘I’m in the kitchen.’

  Petey Bailey came into the room; he filled the space up with his bulk. He used his size to his advantage at every opportunity. He was nothing like his father – her son had never needed to prove anything to anyone.

  ‘Where’s Tommy?’

  ‘He’s gone to the club. You know him and his bloody poker!’

  Petey grinned. ‘He’s a game old fucker, Nana, you’ve got to give him that.’

  She nodded happily. ‘True. Actually, that was why I wanted to see you.’

  He sat down at the small table, and waited until she had poured out their teas before saying, ‘Come on then, what’s the big secret?’

  She opened the biscuit tin, and placed it in front of him before sitting down opposite him and saying. ‘You’re gambling again, ain’t you?’

  Petey sipped his tea before answering her. ‘Who told you that?’

  She shrugged easily. ‘Tommy, of course. He was in a big game over in Ilford last Friday, and your name came up.’

  He didn’t answer her, instead he concentrated on his tea and waited for her to carry on. He was fuming, but he wasn’t going to let her know that.

  ‘I know you won’t appreciate me bringing this up, but you know what your father thinks about it, and it’s better you get a tug from me than him. Because he will find out – especially the way you carry on. Twenty-five large in one night? It’s no wonder you’re being talked about! Use your loaf, Petey – that kind of money brings attention you don’t want.’

  ‘I can handle it.’ He was defiant, like a little kid, and she felt the urge to slap him across his face. He was weak and arrogant.

  ‘I hope so, because your father will go fecking ape if h
e hears about it.’

  Petey sighed heavily. ‘I’m not a kid, Nana, I’m a fucking grown man in case you haven’t noticed.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘It’s my own money, hard-earned money at that. I ain’t fucking stupid.’

  She had said her piece; it was pointless to labour it. And anyway she had something else she needed to get off her chest.

  She looked at him shrewdly, and said just two words: ‘Young Tania.’

  Petey felt fear tighten his stomach muscles, and he looked at her warily. ‘What about her?’

  Theresa knew straightway her suspicions were correct. ‘She has a crush on you, God help her.’

  She watched his shoulders relax at her words. ‘There’s not a lot I can do about that, Nana. It’s the old Bailey charm.’

  ‘Bailey being the operative word. She’s your cousin.’

  Petey looked at his nana; she was as shrewd as she was brutally honest and she was warning him. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Give me a fucking break, Nana! I know I’m not exactly Mr Faithful, but my own cousin? Shows what you really think about me, don’t it?’

  She nodded. ‘It does. Yeah.’

  She saw him narrow his eyes, and she knew she had hit the nail right on the proverbial head. ‘You leave her alone, Petey. I know you better than you know yourself. What’s bred in the bone, comes out in the blood. You’re what we used to call in Ireland a cock man – you see a hen at every opportunity, and you live for the chase.’

  He laughed, trying to diffuse the situation. ‘I hold me hands up! I like the ladies, but I know where to draw the line. She’s my fucking cousin! Give me some credit, will you?’

  Theresa let it drop; she had made her point, and he was aware that she was on to him. It pained her to admit that, as much as she loved her eldest grandson, it had been many years since she had actually liked him.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Six

  Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Williams was a strange man, but Danny Bailey liked him. He was as bent as a corkscrew, and he had the mentality needed to differentiate between certain crimes. He would hunt down a rapist or a nonce, with the tenacity of a Rottweiler, but he was quite happy to turn his eyes away from certain other criminal activities. He was never backwards in coming forwards, especially when it came to his price – and he priced himself highly. But he was a man who could find out literally anything. He was not that tall, but he had bulk and, coupled with his bald head, deep-set blue eyes, and pock-marked skin, he looked more like a villain than a Filth.

  ‘Hello, Danny. My condolences.’

  Danny nodded, and poured the man his usual – a large neat Grey Goose over ice. The man sank it in two gulps and held his glass out for an immediate refill.

  ‘Hit the fucking spot, I tell you. Traffic is murder out there. Fucking hours to get through the congestion! I’ve seen babies born quicker.’

  Danny placed the bottle of Grey Goose vodka and the ice bucket on the table; experience had told him that was the best thing when dealing with Williams. He was a functioning alcoholic, and he was actually quite proud of that fact – he brought it into conversation at every opportunity.

  Williams poured himself another large drink before saying, ‘So, young Danny, I am assuming this ain’t a date. What do you want?’

  Danny sipped his brandy delicately. ‘I need some information, but it has to be between me and you – a private transaction. The family can’t know about it.’

  Williams laughed. ‘Like that, is it? Has this anything to do with your recent problems?’

  Danny nodded.

  ‘I hear your family have been on to every bent Filth they own – but no one came near me. So why now? I deal with nonces and murderers, the occasional high-end drug dealer or blagger. I am a legend in my own lunchtime, as you well know.’

  Danny laughed; this man was a riot. One arrogant ponce, as his father would say. ‘I want you to get me copies of all the fingerprints and all the forensics from the bombing. Could you do that?’

  Williams frowned; he was genuinely puzzled. ‘But your family have already got all that, or so I heard anyway. West End Central was buzzing afterwards.’

  Danny grinned. ‘It was damage limitation, that was all.’

  ‘I guessed as much. I can’t see terrorists really bothering about you lot, but the papers do love a fucking good story, don’t they? How much did it cost to set that rumour abroad?’

  Danny shrugged. ‘Enough. But what I want now, Chris, is everything. I want copies of everything pertaining to the bombing, I want all the paperwork connected to it and I want copies of the original documents.’

  Williams was genuinely perplexed. ‘Are you saying you were short-changed?’

  ‘I’m saying I want you to do this for me as a personal favour, and I want you to buy the necessary papers from someone who my family has never dealt with before. There’s a hundred grand if you can deliver. Two hundred if you can deliver within three days.’

  Williams poured another Grey Goose, and he swallowed it quickly. He was running names through his mind, working out how he could accomplish what had been asked. He was ticking off possible candidates he could approach, working out what he had on certain people, and how much it would cost him to buy their services.

  Finally, after what seemed an age, he smiled at Danny Bailey and, raising his glass in a toast, he said confidently, ‘Consider it done.’

  Danny nodded. ‘I also want everything they have on Terrence Allen’s death.’

  Williams sat back in his chair; he was aware there was a hidden agenda here, and he respected that. He was sensible enough to know that this man had his reasons, and they did not concern him. ‘As I said, Danny, consider it done.’

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Seven

  Liam heard his brother before he saw him, and he was relieved that they would be alone in the office. As ever, Petey was all noisy, good-humoured bonhomie, hailing everyone he saw, from the lowest waitress to the Faces propping up their bar, and it irritated Liam. His brother was the sole reason for his discontent. Petey believed that he could do and say what he wanted without fear or favour. He needed to be knocked down and reminded that he was only there because he had the name Bailey.

  Petey came into the room acting the archetypal London criminal, the old-style Face. He even dressed the part and, nine times out of ten, he could pull it off. Petey had more personalities than a fucking chat show, but Liam knew that none of them were the real Petey Bailey. His brother was a fucking fake, albeit a good one; he could talk his way out of a snake’s belly.

  Petey laid a package on the table between them, and said jovially, ‘Here you are, bruv. You can stop pissing your fucking pants now like a big girl’s blouse. I told you I could replace it, didn’t I?’ It was said as a statement – no answer required; he was just proving a point, as always.

  Liam picked the package up warily; he had been here too many times before. ‘You can’t just act like this is fuck-all, Petey. You do realise you nearly buried us both?’

  Petey grinned that handsome grin that made the women’s hearts melt and the men think he was one of the original good guys. ‘Give it a rest, Liam! You know as well I do, we earn our crusts, mate. We do our jobs but, in reality, we are still no more than fucking bus boys. The old man ain’t going to ever let us have our fucking due. We have the right to take it.’

  ‘We don’t do that bad, Petey, and you know it.’

  Petey laughed; Liam could be a real pain at times. ‘Face it, he still treats us like kids, for fuck’s sake.’

  Liam could see the truth of his brother’s argument, but he could also see his father’s side. They were getting a good wedge, but when you weighed it up with what they actually brought in for the family, it looked like a pittance. It wasn’t – it was a fucking good earn and, unlike Petey, Liam understood that money had to be invested and he didn’t spend every penny he had as soon as it hit his wallet. He had a family to support –
Amanda and Bernard relied on him and he took that responsibility very seriously.

  Petey was greedy, always had been. He spent his whole life trying to catch up with himself, whereas the other boys managed to live within their means. Even fucking Jamsie could balance his chequebook, and that was no mean feat for him; Jamsie had the brain power of a fucking politician – he listened and repeated anything he thought sounded sensible. But he still managed to pay his bills and spend his earn wisely.

  When Petey gambled he bet huge amounts because he was convinced that there would always be more money coming in – he was a Bailey, after all. But even a Bailey could push certain people too far, and that was what was happening now. Petey had run up bills, and bills had to be paid. Petey should know that better than anyone – he had hammered enough people because they owed the family; it was a part of the job description: thou shalt not shaft the people you owe money to. People were demanding their poke, and they had every right to do that.

  ‘Well, clever bollocks, I think you need a reality check. I’ve had three different families ask me to have a word with you on the quiet about your mounting debts. Do you not see how that looks to outsiders? You are running up bills all over the Smoke because of your gambling, and you don’t think the people concerned are going to ask for what they are owed? Are you that fucking stupid? I’ve batted them off, but if they go to the old man next time, do you honestly think he will just pay them, and then forget about it?’