Double Kiss

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  Frankie thought the question was rhetorical and didn’t answer. But then he realized Tommy was still staring at him, waiting for a reply.

  ‘Er, yeah,’ he said. ‘I would.’

  ‘But do you know what else?’ Riley said. ‘Even though little Tanya wasn’t from that kind of background herself, she soon fitted in. Assimilated, I believe that’s the word, Tam?’

  ‘Indeed it is, boss.’

  ‘Yeah, she learned herself some pretty manners. Picked up a lovely home counties accent. Made herself some hoity-toity mates. Minded her Ps and Qs. And even bagged a nice bunch of solid GCSEs to boot. Sounds like a dream, don’t it? And this year, this month, to cap it all, she’s only sitting her ruddy A levels before heading off to university, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Only she’s fucking not,’ Riley exploded. ‘Because suddenly it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. Leastways not unless we do something about it. And quick, eh?’

  We. Frankie didn’t like the sound of this at all.

  ‘Because, you see, here’s the kicker,’ Riley said. ‘Her mum, God rest her soul, died last year in a helicopter crash. She was on her way to Ladies’ Day at Royal Ascot, bless her soul. I was meant to be flying there with her, but got detained. Talk about bloomin’ lucky. Well, for me, yeah?’

  But the way Riley had said it . . . the look in his eye . . . did he mean he’d been seeing this woman? Had been having an affair with her? Was that the real reason for his interest in this girl?

  ‘The only way they were able to identify her body was from her hat,’ he snapped. ‘A beautiful pink thing that I bought her from John Boyd – the geezer who does bloody Lady Di’s hats. Now, Frankie, this is the problem, see? Tanya’s mum’s unfortunate demise caused a “trigger”, that’s what they call it, isn’t it, Tam?’

  ‘Yeah, boss. The thing what pushes people right over the fucking edge.’

  ‘Exactly. And you see our concern is, Frankie, that this is what’s happened to little Tanya. Because from that tragic moment onwards, she slowly but surely started going off the rails. There was word of her nipping up to London to see her older brother, who was living with their granny in their Knightsbridge home, and she’d be hanging out with his stoner friends. Turns out little Tanya liked going out clubbing an’ all. She got herself a boyfriend, one of her big brother’s mates. I see what you’re thinking, Frankie, what’s so wrong with that? She’s an eighteen-year-old girl, old enough to vote, old enough to decide whose cock she sticks in her mouth. But the thing is –’

  Frankie just kept his own mouth shut. Where the hell was all this going? And what the hell did any of it have to do with him?

  ‘It didn’t stop there, did it?’ Riley said. ‘The brother of my goddaughter moved out to their place in the south of France, to get himself straight, to detox, and she was left alone at weekends in London. You know what happens when you leave a grieving, eighteen-year-old girl unsupervised? She ended up doing naughty things with increasingly naughty people. That was until last Monday, when she didn’t even bother tipping back up to school at all.’ Riley closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, then took a deep swig of his drink.

  ‘Which is when the boss got the call,’ Grew said. ‘From the grandmother.’

  ‘A dear old lady too,’ said Tommy. ‘And one I’d told after the funeral, any trouble and she was to come straight to me. Now she wasn’t just missing a granddaughter, but jewellery too, paintings, furniture, even fucking hats.’

  ‘They even smashed the glass case Tommy had paid for it to be displayed in,’ Tam said.

  ‘They’d been robbed?’ Frankie said.

  ‘Worse,’ Riley said through gritted teeth. ‘Little Tanya took her mum’s hat herself. Or rather, her and her new fellah did. And what a horrible bleedin’ fellah he is. Tell him, Tam.’

  ‘His name’s Jonny Dukati,’ Tam said. ‘But everyone calls him Duke. He’s a fucking naughty boy. Not only is he a violent son of a bitch who’s already done a two-year stretch for GBH up in Manchester, he loves the white stuff, too much bloody coke, thinks he can do anything he bloody well likes when he’s on it. Anything at all . . .’

  ‘And it’s these ambitions,’ Tommy said, ‘these dangerous ambitions of his, that, unless he changes his ways and very bleedin’ quick, are liable to get him killed . . . and if little Tanya’s in the vicinity when this goes down, then I’m afraid we’re going to be scraping her off the floor right alongside him too.’

  There it was again – we. Did Riley mean that him and Tam were planning on doing the scraping? That this Duke’s ambitions were ones that crossed with his?

  ‘But do you know what the biggest problem with this fellah is?’ Riley asked.

  ‘No,’ Frankie said. There was more?

  ‘He works for me.’ Riley drained his drink and held it out to Darren for a refill. ‘Which is something little Tanya’s father would not be very happy about were he to find out. And his is a friendship that I do not wish to risk. Particularly as he is a – how shall I put it?’

  ‘Co-investor, boss,’ said Tam.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. A co-investor, or sleeping partner if you will, in many of my current schemes.’

  Darren’s bulk appeared wobbling between Frankie and Riley for a few seconds, as he topped his uncle’s glass with Dalwhinnie.

  ‘Now I know what you’re probably thinking,’ said Riley, as the big lad stepped aside. ‘Why don’t I just call old Jonny boy off? Tell him to stop dating her, or whatever it is these young folks call it these days? Tell him that if he doesn’t I will cut off his cock and ram it up his arse?’

  ‘Er, right . . .’ Not exactly how Frankie would have put it, but yeah, that was certainly the gist of what he’d been thinking.

  ‘Because – and now we really hit the nitty-gritty – he’s no longer around to ruddy tell.’

  ‘He was meant to have been doing some . . . business for the boss out in Amsterdam,’ Tam said.

  The pirates . . . No prizes for guessing what kind of business that might have been in. Unless, of course, Tommy had sent him out there to discuss the price of tulips and cheese.

  ‘Only instead, he went off radar,’ Riley said. ‘And not only did he pull a Houdini himself, but he absconded with my goddaughter. Now normally,’ he continued, ‘I am a patient man. But various reports I’ve received on young Duke’s recent conduct have led me to believe that this situation needs shutting down and fast.’

  Frankie still didn’t get it. Why was he here? Riley slowly grinned then, leaning forward on his sofa and staring deep into Frankie’s eyes, so knowing, Frankie knew, just knew, he’d just read him.

  ‘Now why me?, you may well be asking. Why has Mr Riley got me in here today? And you may well have already come up with some answers. Such as you owing me a favour. And you having proved yourself so highly adept last year at sorting shit out, that even I haven’t quite worked out just exactly what the hell it was you did to get your little brother set free.’

  Frankie said nothing. No way was he ever going to talk about that. Not to anyone. It was the kind of information that could get himself put away for good.

  ‘But there’s another reason too,’ Riley said. ‘Why you’re exactly the right person to help sort out a shit storm like this.’

  Again Frankie said nothing. But this time because he didn’t want to hear whatever it was Riley said next. Because whatever card Riley was about to play, Frankie already knew he was trumped.

  ‘You know her,’ Riley said.

  ‘Who me?’ Did he mean this Tanya girl? ‘No, you’re mistaken,’ Frankie said, almost smiling now. Because maybe this meant Riley didn’t need him after all.

  ‘Mistaken?’ Riley slowly raised his eyebrows. ‘Tut tut, you disappoint me, Frankie. Surely by now you know I never make mistakes.’

  ‘What I mean is,’ Frankie said, ‘there must be some mistake, because I don’t know anyone called Tanya. No one at all. Honestly, I swear.’


  ‘Ah . . .’ Riley slowly nodded. ‘. . . well, that’s because she wasn’t called that when you last saw her. No, she was called “TT” back then.’

  ‘TT?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He screwed up his face, like he’d just smelt something bad. ‘And, I mean, you can get why she ditched it, you know, a nickname like that, as she got older. What with it sounding like “titties”, the way it does.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Darren grinned.

  TT? Frankie frowned. Because there was something, wasn’t there? Something about it. Something familiar. Not the way Riley was pronouncing it, but how it was spelt. Something he’d heard before. Only where?

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Riley, watching him closely again, reading him. ‘Now you’re getting it.’ He grinned across at Grew. ‘Didn’t I tell you he was smart?’

  Grew nodded. But Frankie was still frowning. Whatever memory that name had just snagged, it still hadn’t surfaced into view.

  ‘TT Landy,’ Riley said.

  And – boom – there it was. The connection Frankie had been searching for. Now clear as day. Little T was how Frankie had known her back then in Marbella. Back when he’d gone away with his parents and their mates and she was a sweet little girl with blonde plaits always tagging along and trying to join in – that’s how he remembered her. Back then, she couldn’t have been more than seven years old, six years younger than him. Little T was the little sister of Freddie Landy. Christ, the same Freddie, if Riley was to be believed, who’d now turned into a junkie and was currently drying out in the south of France.

  Gaz Landy was their old man and Sooze the wife. The same couple Riley had been describing earlier – Riley’s silent partner, and her, the poor woman, now dead.

  Frankie thought back to the photos Riley had been staring at behind the bar on the night of the launch. Was that who he’d been looking at? Gaz Landy? And Freddie? And Little T? Was that the connection with Frankie he’d made? Jesus Christ. Was that why Frankie was sitting here now?

  Another knowing smile from Riley. ‘Good, I see you know who I mean,’ he said. ‘Which means you probably also know that, much like your father, her pop’s detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure at the moment.’

  For icing a security guard in a heist. At least, that’s what Frankie had read in the papers a couple of years back when Gaz Landy had been put away.

  Riley clicked his fingers at Darren. ‘Show him the photo,’ he said.

  Darren fetched it from the bar and handed it to Frankie. A scrawny-looking, but pretty with it, girl with long blonde hair stared back at him. A heart-shaped stork mark there above her right eye, with dark-red lipstick and pale skin. So this was how Little T looked now, a mini-Kate Moss, even down to the heroin chic.

  ‘So that’s her, my goddaughter, who’s at the mercy of this wolf of a man she’s got herself hooked up with. Who you’re going to help get her back off. Because of the favour you owe.’

  ‘But how?’ Frankie said.

  ‘You’ll work it out. You’ll have to.’

  ‘But what if she –’

  ‘Doesn’t want to leave him? Doesn’t want to come home? Then you’ll have to be persuasive.’

  ‘But I don’t even know where she is.’

  ‘Ibiza,’ Tam said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, the Balearics,’ Tommy said. ‘Right next to Majorca.’

  Frankie just stared at him, the image on that postcard flashing up in his head.

  ‘See, boss,’ Tam said, misreading him. ‘He knows it. That’s him halfway to finding her, I reckon.’

  ‘Finding her? But how –’

  ‘The same way you found Susan Tilley’s killer last year, son,’ Riley said. ‘By using your bloody snout. And by not bloody giving up until the job’s bloody done.’

  Frankie’s heart was thundering now like he was about to have a seizure. Little T, Ibiza, his mother and Mallorca, all blended into one. But this was crazy, right? And dangerous, if what they said about this bloke Duke was even half true. He wasn’t the right person to be doing this at all.

  Only Riley was grinning like it had already happened, like finding Duke and the girl and bringing her home were just a few little details that needed ironing out. He was already up on his feet and rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, if we’re done here, I’ve got an appointment upstairs with a pair of double Ds and a Brazilian.’

  ‘What’s the Brazilian’s name, boss?’ Grew asked.

  ‘Christ,’ Riley said, rolling his eyes. ‘Do us a favour, will you, Frankie? Try and teach this bent bastard some decent jokes while you’re away.’

  ‘What do you mean away?’

  ‘Well, you didn’t think I’d be sending you off on your own, did you? I mean, I know you can handle yourself and all that. But our friend Duke, in addition to being balls deep into my beautiful little goddaughter, ain’t such a shrinking violet himself. So I thought having a little professional backup on hand probably ain’t a bad idea. After all, let’s not forget, you are still fairly new to this game.’

  This game. His game. The one Riley wrote all the rules for and called all the shots in.

  *

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ Grew said, ‘I’m sure we’ll get along famously.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Frankie. Because it wasn’t exactly like he had a choice, so he might as well be social, eh? And it could be worse. Christ, what about all them other bellends that made up Riley’s crew. At least Grew had a brain and a half-decent dress sense. At least he wasn’t called Tam.

  Grew walked him back down the spiral marble stairs and into reception. Frankie remembered the fit bird – Chloe, wasn’t it? – who’d been on the desk last year, the one who’d slipped him her phone number and had told him she wasn’t a pro. He never had called her, had he? Not because he hadn’t wanted to, more because of Sharon. Because he’d still hoped back then he was in with a chance. But feet clicking across the black and white chequered floor today, he felt different. Like instead of getting closer to Sharon, with each day passing, now he was getting further and further away. And the girl sitting behind the desk in that Chloe’s place today, he’d never seen her before. But her bored look said it all – he was just another one of Riley’s hoods.

  ‘You want her to call you a cab back to Soho?’ Grew said.

  ‘Nah, but . . .’

  ‘What?’

  No harm in asking, was there? While he was on Riley’s books, he might as well try and get something out of it for himself. ‘There is something.’

  ‘So shoot.’

  ‘What you told me last year . . .’

  ‘When?’

  Frankie slipped a business card out of his jacket pocket and held it up. It was waxy white and embossed with Grew’s name and phone number printed on it in a neat black font.

  ‘About giving you a call if I needed any help,’ Frankie said.

  Grew said nothing. Meaning what? His offer had had a time limit on it?

  ‘Well, I do,’ said Frankie.

  Grew checked his watch. ‘Right now?’

  ‘No, afterwards. When we’re back from the Balearics.’ Not just Ibiza. Nah, because he was already seeing this little trip as far more than that.

  ‘And who’s this favour to do with?’ Grew asked. ‘Tommy?’

  ‘No,’ Frankie said. ‘My dad.’

  The tiny vein beneath Grew’s left eye pulsed so slightly Frankie wasn’t sure he’d even seen it at all. Grew had known Frankie’s dad before he’d gone away. Frankie remembered them sometimes playing snooker together after hours in the club. Grew sparked up a cigarette and gazed out through the bright, sunlit window across the garden square outside. He took a long drag and blew out.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in asking,’ he said.

  ‘I got two names,’ Frankie said. ‘And I need addresses to go with them.’

  ‘So go look them up in the phone directory.’

  ‘It’
s not that simple.’

  ‘Yeah? And why’s that?’

  ‘Because both of them are cops.’

  18

  ‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Frankie said.

  Mackenzie Grew grinned. ‘Oh, whoops. Mea culpa. Didn’t I mention it wasn’t just me coming along for the ride?’

  ‘No.’

  Jesús shot Frankie a cold glance, before flipping open the overhead locker on the opposite side of the plane aisle to stow his bag. He grunted, annoyed that it was already full.

  ‘This bag, it is yours?’ he asked the bloke in deck shoes, chinos and a Fat Face shirt sitting below it, who was jabbering into his mobile phone.

  The bloke ignored him and carried on talking. Something about share prices.

  ‘I said, is it, this bag, yours?’ the Spaniard repeated, taking the briefcase down this time to illustrate his question more clearly.

  ‘Oi. Hang on, Alan,’ the suit said into his phone. ‘Look, mate,’ he told the Spaniard. ‘You can’t just move that. I –’

  The Spaniard slammed his case hard into his chest, knocking his phone from his hand.

  ‘Australia,’ he said, glancing down at the man’s lap and grinning.

  ‘Whuh-what?’ the yuppie said, confused. He was clutching his case like a shield.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ a stewardess asked, her accent Spanish.

  ‘Este hombre acaba de decir que se estaba moviendo,’ said the Spaniard, slipping flawlessly into his home tongue, all bright-white smiles now for the stewardess. They rattled off a couple more sentences in Spanish Frankie didn’t get a word of. He’d bought himself a phrase book down Foyles on Charing Cross Road the day before yesterday after his meeting with Riley, but had only got as far as mastering the necessities for ordering himself a fry-up and asking directions to the bog, neither of which struck him as particularly likely to be of very much help now.