“A fortune?” Billy said, seemingly unable to take it in.
John could see his opportunity. He had never seen Roy make a stand like this before; it had to be real. He could see a chance to move on, with his brothers safe and secure.
“And you know Billy, he’s not even given a figure. That means it must be real money,” John added. “Just think what you could do with that much money. Listen, I wouldn’t even need a cut. You could split it three ways. One part to you, one to Nick and the rest to Mary and Roy. I reckon you could get a mini fortune each. I mean—to hell with O’Neil if you had that money in your pocket!”
John looked at Billy and could see it was making sense to him. This was money, it could be real money like none of them had ever seen. I turned to Nick, who was still transfixed by the TV, oblivious to any other conversation.
“Oh I knew you’d do this,” Mary snapped at Roy. “You couldn’t keep your trap shut, could you? You think Billy would think about selling this pub, the pub his Ma worked to a bone to pay for; the home he was brought up in? The home where his poor Ma breathed her last breath? You do not know the meaning of family!”
“But Auntie Mary, Ma would want us to be happy…” John said, trying to reason with the old woman, though he knew it was futile.
“I tell you something, this pub gets sold over my dead body!” Mary replied, almost screaming.
“Auntie Mary,” Billy said putting his hand over hers. “We will never be selling this pub. Ma’s here; she’ll always be with us here.”
John’s heart sank; how could Billy pass up this cash. His hatred for Mary was stronger now than ever before.
“And you,” Billy said looking at Roy. “You will never get involved in Blake business again!”
“Billy! Uncle Roy’s done more for this pub then any of us. If it wasn’t for him we’d all have ended up on the streets as kids!” John snapped.
He couldn’t help himself now. Roy had summoned up all his courage to question his evil wife and John couldn’t just watch and see him knocked back down—even if it meant challenging Billy head on.
Billy stared back at John for a moment, as a predator would stare down a weaker animal. A smile started to spread across his face; John suddenly felt uneasy.
“If you weren’t my brother,” Bill said, still smiling. “I would take that glass out of that old man’s hand, who calls himself our uncle, and stick it in you throat.” He paused. “Do you understand?”
John found himself nodding. He saw Nick out of the corner of his eye, now interested in the conversation. His smile matched that of Billy’s.
“I don’t want to hear another word from you,” Billy said.
John knew better than to say anything more; this was not an empty threat. He glanced across at his uncle, who just shook his head.
“Good,” Mary smiled. “I’m pleased we cleared that up. No we can focus on the matter at hand; Charlie O’Neil.”
“Yes Charlie O’Neil. He has to pay for how he’s insulted our family. Sending a skivvy like Mickey the Bag to leave such a message for us—that he didn’t need us anymore. Who the hell does he think he is?”
Mary smiled.
“We know his business. The money from the clubs and bars is nothing to him. His real cash comes from dealing with those South American wankers,” Billy said.
“If you can take that, you take his empire,” Mary agreed.
“Yeah and how did he build his empire in the first place. He was just the strongest guy at the time, the one that would be the most violent, the one who would be most feared. But his time’s gone. This is our time now.”
“You should go to Robert Payne’s tomorrow. He might make a deal. He could be sick of working with a lame duck like O’Neil,” Mary said, her whisper like an instruction to Billy.
“Yes, yes, that’s what we’ll do. The three of us will go to Payne’s tomorrow. What’s that place in South America John, that they deal with?” Billy asked, looking back at John, seeming calmer now.
“Juarez,” John said, almost to himself.
John had learnt this from a week when he had worked closely with Payne. Shortly after starting work with the O’Neil firm, Payne had selected him to give him a hand with some ‘office tasks’. After all, he was the only Blake brother who had completed school.
“So what’s with your brothers then?” Robert said, still sitting behind his desk.
John was sat opposite him, surrounded by paperwork, He was trying to calculate the VAT on the variety of invoices that surrounded him.
“I mean, you seem like a decent kid, you can use a calculator and have manners,” Payne continued. “They are important traits. Now if I had your brothers in here, I reckon I’d have to fumigate afterwards; and there’s no chance that either of them would be able to figure out something as complex as a calculator.”
John smiled and nodded, not quite sure what he should say to something like that. Robert Payne didn’t look like a gangster or master criminal; he resembled an accountant who liked going to the gym. He always had a suit and tie on, with a pair of reading glasses in his jacket pocket. His was hardly an image that many would find scary. But John was not fooled by this; Payne was a cold-blooded killer.
John had spent the couple of days prior working in Payne’s office, much to Billy’s annoyance. Payne had said he needed some help with the books and that he should leave the other stuff to his brothers for the next couple of days. In that time, John had gained a better understanding of O’Neil and Payne’s business. On that face of it, they were sat in the main office of the haulage company that Payne and O’Neil were joint directors of. This particular haulage firm, however, made most of its money from importing cocaine from Juarez in Mexico.
“Seriously, what’s the deal? Why are you so different?”
“I don’t know, they’re alright when you get to know them,” John said. But that was a lie; he did know why his brothers were so different to him.
“Get to know them!” Payne smiled. “Your brothers are cunts, kid. But I imagine you know that better than me.”
“Juarez,” John repeated to his brother. “It’s in Mexico, its North America not South.”
“North America or South American—who gives a shit—they all look the same!” Billy laughed
“I’m so pleased to see my boys back together again,” Mary said, looking at her nephews smiling.
John smiled back. In his head, he was screaming at the old woman.
Chapter Six - DCI Hawkins
Detective Chief Inspector Hawkins always found the walk to his office invigorating. It took him right through the open-plan office, full of young career hungry detectives who all knew his name. They all greeted him with “Morning Sir” or “Good morning Guv,” all desperate to remain in his good graces. He of course knew very few of their names. He loved the power; he was king here and everyone else, merely his subjects.
The next part of his walk took him past the more modern-looking offices of his detective inspectors. They were equipped with superior IT equipment, deluxe coffee facilities, and the general type of luxury that most policemen would not ever be able to dream of. His D.I.s had of course earned this level of office. They worked in the UK’s premier team of policemen, Hawkins’ team. What Hawkins liked most about this part of his walk, was that these were the offices of his subordinates, and his was grander still.
The final sight he saw before reaching his office was perhaps his favourite, his PA’s desk and reception area. It wasn’t like he lusted after her or had some older man’s fascination with the young woman; it was nothing of the sort. It was merely that he had a PA. Her whole job was to make sure he always had a fresh coffee on his desk, that his diary was up to date, and—Hawkins particular favourite—that his calls were screened. She was his slave. It was that simple.
He approached the reception area, and the young attractive PA looked up. He had often wondered if she fantasied abut him; he was of course a powerful man and people are dr
awn to power like moths to a flame. She was bound to fantasise about him and he didn’t blame her. He was the King after all.
“Good morning sir.”
“Morning…” Hawkins stopped short; he briefly couldn’t remember her name, the name of the PA that had worked for him for three years now. And if he wasn’t the King of this building this would be awkward moment. But Kings don’t have to care about these little indiscretions. “Morning, morning.”
The PA didn’t react in any way which demonstrated she had either not noticed or understood her menial significance to him. Instead she smiled and resumed typing on her computer. He’d got away with it. But he didn’t care if she had noticed. Who gives a hell what she thinks. She probably loves a bastard, Hawkins thought smiling as he opened his office door.
Hawkins’ office was the very definition of unadulterated luxury. He had a flat-screen TV on the wall, its purpose being to display twenty four-hour news so the DCI knew everything that was going on in the world. But it was actually mainly used for sport. An expensive looking antique leather sofa was sat against the wall, with a beautifully crafted oak desk situated on the opposite side of the office, underneath a gold plated framed painting of the building some hundred years ago. The room was littered with a variety of photos of Hawkins’ family and of momentous milestones in his career. The final piece of furnishing was Hawkins’ favourite. It was a grand brown leather seat, the sort of chair that, in his mind, Churchill would have been sat on in Downing Street. This was Hawkins’ throne room.
Hawkins had been working in the Serious Organised Crime Agency for five years. In real terms, he was as senior an officer as members of the public would be likely to see at the agency. More senior officers spent their days on the golf course or at high-level meetings at the Yard. But Hawkins didn’t care; he was where he wanted to be. He was in his kingdom. Hawkins relaxed into his comfortable seat and turned the sports news on. Bliss!
The intercom on his desk beeped. “Sir, your eight thirty’s here.” It was Hawkins’ PA.
Eight thirty—dear God! He thought it had beeped to confirm that his coffee was on the way.
Hawkins prodded the intercom with annoyance. “Eight thirty?”
“Yes sir, Detective Inspector Khan. She is just in the waiting area.” The intercom bleeped at the end of the message.
Hawkins sighed. He remembered the file he had been meaning to read since the end of last week and gave it a glare before picking it up out of his in tray.
He read the front page of the file; Miriam Khan, Detective Inspector, start date Monday. A woman, Hawkins sniffed before flicking through the file, twenty-six years old, he shook his head, three years bloody service and already a D.I.
A fast tracker, straight out of Uni, and she thinks she knows the world. Great!
The intercom bleeped again. “Should I send the Detective Inspector in sir?”
What he wanted to say was no. Send her back to school so she can learn a few things and tell her not to come back until she was at least thirty-five.
“Yes,” Hawkins grunted back. “No chance of some coffee, I suppose?”
“Yes of course sir,” the PA responded, with not a hint of irritation in her voice.
There was a loud knock at the door and Hawkins straightened his tie. “Enter”.
A petite young Asian woman walked into Hawkins office and closed the door; if he could have drawn a picture of the person about to walk in it would have been this. Clearly a favourite with all her senior officers. What a tough career she must have had.
“Good morning sir.”
The woman’s voice stank of privilege. Hawkins quickly decided he didn’t like her.
“D.I. Khan?”
The woman nodded in reply.
“Have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir,” Khan said, avoiding the sofa and sitting on one of the less comfortable looking seats in front of Hawkins' desk.
Avoided the sofa—clearly trying to show her professionalism. Hawkins was too long in the tooth to be sucked in by this; he had made a point of neither standing up nor offering the new D.I. his hand to shake.
“Welcome to the team.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m thrilled to join SOCA. This is what I’ve worked for through my entire career,” Khan said, with not a hint of irony.
All three years of it! What dedication! The Chief Inspector thought to himself.
“So, first question. What is it you think we do here?”
Khan took a breath before answering. Must be nerves.
Hawkins smiled.
“Well, sir. SOCA was formed in 2006, after its initial beginning as the National Crime Squad. The division concentrates solely on organised crime and brings members of the big syndicates to justice; in short we arrest serious criminals.” Khan finished, looking proud at her answer.
Pitiful answer—which was exactly what Hawkins had expected. He stood up. He was about to give his favourite speech. He sucked in his stomach and puffed out his chest.
“Inspector, the Serious Organised Crime Agency is about so much more than arrests.” Hawkins began by deliberately omitting the ‘Detective’ rank when he addressed the woman.
“Don’t worry, it’s a usual mistake.” Hawkins said, without further apology. He put his hands behind his back as he started to pace up and down.
Khan tried to smile.
“Richard Pascale once said; ‘our universe is complex but not chaotic’. The world is balanced through continuity and sustainable leadership; this allows us to starve off any chaotic symptoms when they crop up.” Hawkins stopped pacing and looked at the young Detective Inspector. “Do you understand?”
“I think so?” Khan said, not looking convinced..
“Good, our role in the Serious Organised Crime Agency, is primarily to keep the criminal world in check. If they step over the line, we tax them. Balance in their world creates balance in ours; sustainable leadership ensures the public are safe and secure.” Hawkins finished.
Khan nodded.
“We have many on-going operations and as soon as the next major one starts, I will look to involve you, in some minor capacity or other,” Hawkins said sitting back down in his seat. “Have you got anything you want to look at yourself over the next few weeks? You must have some outstanding paperwork or such?” he said. He was expecting an answer along the lines of some suggestion that she needed a couple of weeks to get used to her new surroundings, meet the rest of the team, and to familiarise herself with the area.
“Yes sir, I would like to look into the Charlie O’Neil syndicate,” Khan said, sitting up.
Hawkins scowled. Had this young woman not been listening to a word he had said? Charlie O’Neil was exactly the type of criminal he was trying to refer to; he knew the rules and played the game.
“O’Neil?”
“Yes sir, there are a few interesting leads I have been looking at, I believe could connect him with significant criminal activity,” Khan replied.
“I think, D.I. Khan, that you need to spend some more time looking at how organised crime operates in its essential elements, and to develop an understanding of what it truly is,” Hawkins said, still scowling. “Then you will know better who to target.”
“Do we not look to arrest crime lords in SOCA, sir?” Khan asked innocently.
Hawkins looked at the woman. He was angry now. He suddenly had the feeling that the new D.I. had painted him into a corner, the jumped up little bitch! He was the bloody king of this team.
“It’s so easy to get over awed when you first walk into these offices, to think you’re something between Elliot Ness and the caped crusader,” Hawkins said, impressing himself on how he’d kept his calm during the course of the young woman’s challenge. “As I said, most of my team is committed to on-going operations."
“Are we not here to take down crime lords then sir?”
Hawkins gripped his armrests with frustration. He had given up biting his tongue. Had this contemptuous young wom
an no end?
“Because I was having this very discussion with my Uncle Freddy at Sunday lunch yesterday…”
“Young lady, I don’t give a damn what your Uncle bloody Freddy thinks!”
“Oh sorry, I keep doing that. I must remember, when at work, that he’s not my Uncle Freddy. He’s Chief Constable Fredrick Campbell.” Khan said, resisting the temptation to grin. “He is still the head of Scotland Yard, isn’t he?”
A lesser man would explode at this point; but Hawkins was made of stronger stuff. He could always see the bigger picture—that is after all what Kings do.
“One Detective Sergeant would be suitable for me, sir, to start my investigation,” Khan smiled.
Hawkins looked at the woman as he reached across and pressed his intercom. The cheeky bitch.
“Where’s that bloody coffee!”
Hawkins had taken some pleasure in leaving Khan to wait for over thirty minutes before announcing which Detective Sergeant he was going to assign to work under her, as she had requested. He hoped that in that time that she would have thought about her previous actions in his office, and was now willing to do some listening and not be so headstrong.
Hawkins walked into the D.I.’s room. He was sure that Khan scowled back at him but hoped he was wrong. He held the door for the other man who entered the room.
“D.I. Khan this is D.S. Early,” Hawkins said, introducing the detective.
D.S. Early was a short man, with a large gut hanging over his trousers. His cropped white hair and unshaven face aged the man to his sixties. He was Hawkins perfect trump card. Thanks to Uncle Freddy, Hawkins had accepted that it was best to play along with the spoilt brat, who had arrived earlier in his office. But this didn’t prevent him from setting up a bit of retribution.
Early was his retribution, and as such he was perfect. The man was an embarrassment to SOCA; he was only in the team due to the old boys network that held the puppet strings of department staffing. He had been a useful man—once upon a time—but that was a good twenty years ago. In recent years he was just an oaf.
Serious People Page 5