by Roberta Kray
Tommy didn’t feel any guilt over his lack of faithfulness. The magic between him and Yvonne – if there had ever been any to begin with – had long since disappeared. They rubbed along for the sake of the kids, but that was about the sum of it. And a man had needs, needs that at the moment could only be satisfied by a cockney girl with a generous mouth. He glanced at his watch again, willing the hands to move faster.
At a quarter to two, just before Tommy was about to call last orders, Frank Meyer strolled into the pub. After finding Mouse and delivering her to Moira’s flat, he had driven up to Romford to go through the books with Alfie Blunt.
‘All okay?’ asked Tommy, eager for some good news. ‘You want a pint?’
Frank gave a shake of his head. ‘Jesus, who did you upset?’
‘What?’
‘Your car.’
Tommy frowned at him, confused. ‘What about my car?’
‘You’re telling me you haven’t seen it?’
Tommy looked over at Fiona. ‘I’ll be two minutes,’ he said.
In the car park, he walked around the white Cortina, cursing loudly as he surveyed the damage. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Some bastard had slashed every one of his tyres. His first thought was that his dad must have done it, revenge for their earlier altercation. It was the type of petty, spiteful act that was typical of him.
‘I bet this was the old man.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Frank, gesturing with his head towards Joe’s silver Jaguar parked near the cellar door. ‘Well, not unless he’s completely lost the plot.’
Tommy looked over to see that the Jag had received exactly the same treatment. Quickly he scanned the other dozen or so other motors that were parked outside the Fox. They all appeared to be fine. Whoever had done this had clearly been targeting the Quinns and the Quinns alone. ‘Jesus, I can’t believe this!’
‘Hey, it’s not the end of the world,’ Frank said. ‘Give Billy Kent a call. He’ll come over and sort it for you.’
Billy ran a garage over in Dalston, a hotbed of stolen motors and getaway vehicles. ‘But I need the car this afternoon. I’ve got stuff to do.’
Frank raised his eyebrows. ‘Stuff?’
Tommy raised and dropped his arms in frustration. ‘I’m supposed to be seeing someone, that’s all. A bit of business.’ If he had to stay and sort this out, he’d never get to see Shelley Anne. Sensing the much-anticipated assignation slipping away from him, he kicked out at the rear left wheel hub, stubbing his toe in the process. ‘Ah, Christ!’ As he hopped about on his one good foot, he was beginning to wish that he’d never got up that morning.
Frank Meyer reached into his pocket, took out his own car keys and threw them over. ‘Here, you can take the MG, but try and get it back in one piece. If you call Billy, I’ll hang around and wait for him.’
The black cloud hovering over Tommy’s head instantly lifted. ‘Really? You serious? Ah, thanks, Frank. You’re a mate.’
‘You owe me one.’
‘Come inside. I’ll get you a pint.’ As they made their way back into the pub, Tommy’s improved mood briefly darkened again as he pondered on who might have been responsible for the attack. Had Joe been stepping on another firm’s toes? If he had, Tommy didn’t know about it. Someone, however, was clearly out to get them. His money was on those Gissing bastards, and if he was right, then the trouble was only just beginning.
14
Terry Street paid for the two brews and took them back to the table. It had been pure chance that he had walked into Connolly’s today to find Joe Quinn sitting on his own, and he was determined to make the most of the opportunity. Usually Joe was surrounded by his henchmen, his cronies or the group of young wannabes who followed him around like hungry dogs waiting to be thrown a few scraps.
Terry was nineteen and he had ambition. He’d chosen the firm he wanted to work for with care and attention, watching, listening and weighing up all the pros and cons. The Quinns weren’t the most powerful or the most vicious firm in the area, but he believed – so far as his own future was concerned – that they had the most potential. At the moment he was still working his way up the ranks, fetching and carrying and doing the jobs no one else wanted to do, but he didn’t intend to stay there for long.
Joe gave a grunt of acknowledgement as the mug went down in front of him. He finished rolling a cigarette, rotating the cylinder deftly between his fingers and thumb before raising it to his fleshy lips, lighting it and drawing in the smoke. Only then did he resume his monologue where he had left off.
‘Fuck knows why I bother. A bleedin’ waste of space, that’s what he is. Useless. Calls himself a Quinn? Jesus, he’s not fit to have the name.’
Joe was stuck in a groove, like a needle on a scratched LP. Terry had been subject to the diatribe on Tommy for the last ten minutes. While he continued to listen, making the appropriate responses of sympathy and disgust whenever the older man paused to take a slurp of his tea or a drag on his fag, he waited patiently for the chance to pursue his own agenda.
Eventually, when Joe finally appeared to run out of steam, Terry turned the conversation to his other son.
‘So how’s your Connor doing? The trial must be coming up soon.’
‘Not soon enough,’ Joe growled.
‘You’ll sort it, Mr Quinn. No problem. You always do.’
Joe narrowed his eyes for a second. Although not immune to flattery, he was nobody’s fool. Terry held his breath, wondering if he’d been too obvious. No one wanted to be known as an arse-licker. But then Joe gave a curt nod and almost smiled.
‘You’re not wrong there.’
‘And if there’s anything you need me to do, you just say the word.’
Joe sat back and stared at him. It was a long, penetrating stare that seemed to bore straight through Terry’s eyes and into every crevice of his brain. For a moment he felt completely transparent. Did Joe realise what his plans were? Perhaps he could see straight through him.
‘Shall I give you a piece of advice, son?’
Terry put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. It was a rhetorical question – the advice was going to come whether he wanted it or not – but it was wise to act respectfully. ‘Sure. I’d appreciate that.’
‘You ever heard that saying about not trying to run before you can walk?’
Terry gave a shrug. ‘I just want to get on, Mr Quinn. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there?’
‘You’re still a kid.’
‘A smart kid, though,’ Terry said, gently tapping the side of his forehead. ‘Why do you think I came to work for you?’
Joe barked out a laugh, revealing a row of large tombstone teeth. ‘You’ve got a bleedin’ cheek, I’ll give you that.’
Terry grinned back at him. Since joining the firm, he had quickly sussed out that humour and charm could be as effective as brute force, particularly when it came to dealing with the ‘clients’. Every Friday night he did the milk round with Vinnie Keane, a six-foot-six giant of a man, collecting money from the clubs and bars, the bookies and the scrap-metal dealers who paid for the pleasure of Joe’s protection. He had soon discovered that a bit of friendly banter helped to ease the pain of the transactions.
‘I’ve got ideas,’ Terry said. ‘Lots of ’em.’
‘You and the rest of the world.’
Terry took the dismissive retort on the chin. He wasn’t going to push things. He had wanted to make an impression, to stand out from the others and to let Joe know that he could be more than a money collector. It might take a while, but eventually he hoped to prove how much of an asset he could be to the firm. With Joe getting older, there was likely to be a gap at the top before too many years had passed.
Connor, of course, was the natural successor to the Quinn empire, but he wasn’t smart enough to run it. He was nasty and unpredictable – both useful assets when it came to putting the fear of God in people – but he didn’t have his father’s guile. Connor never knew when to stop, which wa
s why he was banged up yet again. Even if he did manage to get off this time, he’d be back behind bars before too long. As for Tommy – well, he wasn’t even a contender.
Joe idly stroked the grey stubble on his jaw as he continued to stare across the table at Terry. ‘As it ’appens, son, there is something you could do for me.’
‘Anything, Mr Quinn.’
‘You could fuck off and leave me to drink this brew in peace.’
Terry didn’t take offence. Joe was hardly renowned for his good humour, or his nice manners, come to that. Pushing back his chair, he quickly got to his feet. There was nothing worse than outstaying your welcome.
‘Right, I’ll be off, then.’
Joe didn’t bother to reply. He stubbed his skinny fag end out in the ashtray and instantly began rolling another.
Terry left the café and swaggered down the high street in an excellent mood. He’d done what he’d intended to do and hopefully left a lasting impression. There was still a long way to go – he had no illusions about that – but at least he’d laid the foundations. He would build on those, brick by brick, until he was the one who was running the show.
At the pawnbroker’s, he stopped to examine the goods in the window, his eyes greedily alighting on a gold signet ring with three small diamonds. That would look mighty good on the little finger of his left hand. He considered going in and trying it on, but then decided against it. For now, he needed to save his cash, to squirrel it away for when the big deal came along. Speculate to accumulate, that was what they said, and Terry was a staunch believer in the phrase.
Shifting his gaze, he focused instead on his own reflection. Nothing much there to complain about. He knew he had the kind of face and high cheekbones that women found attractive. Carefully, he smoothed down his dark hair and adjusted his tie. He nearly always wore a smart suit, no matter what the occasion. If you wanted to be someone, then you had to dress like someone. It was the only way to be taken seriously.
Moving away from the shop, he headed back towards the Fox, where his second-hand Capri was parked. One day he’d own a fancy motor like Joe’s, a penthouse flat in the West End and a house in the country. Other people dreamed about such things, but he was going to have them. Nothing and nobody would stand in his way.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said as he drew level with a slim, attractive redhead coming from the opposite direction. He saw her eyes flicker towards him, making a rapid assessment of his face, his body and his clothes before her lips deigned to curl into a smile. The next moment he was past her, but he knew that if he stopped and looked back over his shoulder, there was every chance that she would too. He considered it for a second, but kept on walking. There were plenty more fish in the sea.
Terry was never short of female attention; he could walk into any club or bar and pick up a bird in ten minutes flat. The trick was not to get too serious about them. A bit of fun, that was all it was. He knew too many blokes who’d been forced into marriage by an unwanted pregnancy – including Tommy Quinn, if the rumours were true – and he didn’t intend to get trapped like that. Young, free and single was the only way to be.
Without waiting for the lights to change, Terry jaywalked across Station Road, nimbly dodging the cars and the buses and the honking black cabs. As it happened, he had a lot of time for Tommy. The guy was sound, a good laugh, but he lacked the edge to make a truly good villain; when push came to shove, he would always put the interests of his family above those of the firm. And when Terry said family, he meant Yvonne and the kids rather than Joe. There was clearly bad blood between Tommy and his father, which was all to Terry’s advantage.
As Terry strolled into the almost empty car park of the Fox, he saw Frank Meyer standing by Joe’s silver Jag. One of Billy Kent’s vans was parked by the side entrance to the pub, and a man in greasy overalls was kneeling by the rear left wheel.
‘Hey, Frank. What’s going on?’
Frank gave him a nod. ‘Some scumbag slashed all the tyres on Joe’s motor. Tommy’s too.’
Terry quickly looked towards his own Capri, relieved to discover that it hadn’t been touched. ‘Does Joe know about this?’
‘Not yet,’ Frank said, with just a glimmer of a smile. ‘You want to be the one to break the good news?’
‘You’re kidding me, right? The mood he’s in, he’ll shoot the bleedin’ messenger.’ Terry walked all around the Jag, surveying the damage. ‘And no one saw nothin’?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary. But it’s a pub. People are coming and going all the time.’
‘It ain’t just spite, though. Not if Tommy’s was done too.’ There would always be people who envied the possessions of others, but this obviously wasn’t a random attack. ‘This is personal.’
‘Looks that way,’ Frank agreed.
‘Is Tommy around?’
‘Not for a couple of hours.’
Terry decided to be smart and make himself scarce too. Joe wasn’t going to be happy when he found out about the Jag, and was more than likely to take out his frustration on whoever was closest to hand. After all the hard work he’d put in at the caff, Terry didn’t intend to be that person. Glancing at his watch, he made out as if he had a pressing appointment. ‘Okay, I’d best be getting on.’
Frank gave his almost-smile again. ‘You’re not going to hang around, then?’
‘Things to do,’ Terry said. He suspected that Frank wasn’t fooled, but he didn’t really care. ‘Catch you later.’
‘See you.’
Terry got into the red Capri and made a hasty exit from the car park. The attack on the motors had only confirmed the rumours he’d been hearing about other firms trying to muscle in on Joe’s business. The Gissings especially were looking to expand. As old enemies of the Quinns, they were clearly in the frame for this latest act of provocation. He tapped his fingers against the wheel, smiling widely. He wasn’t worried by the turn of events. On the contrary, he was well pleased by it. Trouble was good, very good. Trouble would give him a chance to prove himself.
15
Tony Lazenby flicked through the newspaper again while he waited. The headline news was still the same doom and gloom as it had been the first time he’d read it: troubles in Belfast, an imminent state of emergency over the forthcoming docks strike and some less than reassuring pronouncements from the PM, Ted Heath. The damn country was going to the dogs. He lit another cigarette and checked out the time on the dashboard. It was almost three o’clock, only half an hour since he’d followed Tommy Quinn to this small block of flats in Hoxton. Time passed slowly when you were sitting doing nothing.
He wound down the window to let in the fresh summer air. Earlier, Lennie Gissing had sent one of his boys to the Fox to set things in motion. Slashing the tyres on the Quinn cars was only the beginning, a warning shot across the bows, a preliminary to what was to come. If you wanted to wind up Joe Quinn, there was no better way of doing it than having a go at his precious Jag. The guy thought more of that motor than he did of his own kids.
Tony had been parked way down Station Road, but still with a decent view of the pub. He grinned as he thought about the expression on Tommy’s face when he’d seen the state of his Cortina. It was a shame Joe hadn’t been around too – seeing his reaction would have been priceless.
When they’d discussed the plan last night, Lennie hadn’t been too keen on the whole car idea. ‘I don’t get it. If we do that, then they’re gonna be waiting for something else to happen. It’s like tipping them off in advance.’
‘You reckon? That arrogant bastard doesn’t believe anyone has the nerve to take him on. He’ll be pissed off about the motor, but he won’t be worried enough to take any precautions. That’s the joy of it. He’ll be kicking himself when you go in for a second time. You’ll have made him look a bloody fool.’
Lennie had eventually come round to his way of thinking. For Tony, this wasn’t just about moving in on the business; it was about taking steps to destroy the Quinns once
and for all. If you wanted to ruin a man, you had to ruin his reputation too. Joe wasn’t going to know what had hit him.
Having followed Tommy Quinn to the flats, Tony had gained an unexpected bonus. After parking up, Tommy had walked across the road and rung one of the bells to the side of the main front door. A minute later the door had been opened by a small blonde wearing a red dress so short and so low-cut that it left nothing to the imagination. She was a slim, slutty-looking girl in her early twenties with a wide mouth and an ample cleavage. Her affectionate greeting had left little doubt as to the nature of their relationship.
Tony pulled on his cigarette and grinned again. So, the dirty bugger was playing away. It was a piece of information that could be useful in the fight that lay ahead. He wondered how much Tommy told her about Quinn business; some men could be less than discreet when it came to pillow talk.
‘Careless talk costs lives,’ he murmured with a sly smile.
With nothing else to do, Tony gazed along the road, rating the girls out of ten as they walked by. Most of them were only a six or a seven. Either there were no hot babes in Hoxton or they’d all gone shopping up West. Although he tried not to, he couldn’t help comparing them to his ex-wife, Dana. Physically, she had been his ideal woman – tall and slender, with long dark hair. Classy, unlike the tart Tommy Quinn was shagging. All she had needed was a personality transplant and she would have been perfect.
Tony chucked his fag end out of the window and snarled. It had been two years now since Dana had left him for some toff architect with a silver spoon up his arse. She’d claimed it was nothing to do with the money, but he didn’t believe her. It was his moods, she’d said, that had driven her away. Jesus, what kind of a reason was that? Everybody had their off days. She should have tried doing his job for twenty-four hours, mixing with the lowlifes and the scumbags and the psychos, and seen how bloody cheerful she felt at the end of it.