by Martina Cole
He scanned the papers in front of him. It seemed Mr Ronnie Olds was found in Victoria Park, in a marquee of all things, with his entrails in his hands. Yes, it sounded like a Cavanagh had had a hand in that. Bolger was found in a back garden with his brains splattered all over the place. Could have been suicide, of course, or it could have been the work of Miss Briony Cavanagh and Mr Tommy Lane.
He had also pulled all the newspaper cuttings on Henry Dumas. It seemed he’d been a force to be reckoned with in the twenties. He’d liked little girls and all, from what Limmington had gleaned from Heidi. If he had made Briony pregnant, then she was only thirteen at the time of the birth. A flicker of distaste appeared on his face. Shame the man was dead. He could have had a little word with him, the father of Briony Cavanagh’s child, a child that was adopted by Dumas’ wife Isabel. Now this Isabel was a different kettle of fish all together. A peer’s daughter, if you please, and the spawn of Briony Cavanagh was now Lord Barkham, a respectable and influential businessman. Limmington wondered if he knew the stock he really came from. That was a poser. He’d have to tread warily here, but tread he would or his name wasn’t Harry Limmington!
Heidi Thompkins had a point. If he couldn’t make the charges stick, then he would have to play around with the evidence to suit himself. He was quite willing to do that to ensure they all got banged up once and for all. The ends justified the means in Harry Limmington’s book. As far as he was concerned, all the Cavanaghs were scum.
Briony was tired out. It seemed she was always tired lately. She brushed out her hair, looking at herself critically in the mirror of her dressing table. It was a strange feeling, seeing herself. She still looked in the mirror expecting to see herself as she had been when young. But Christ knew, she felt old lately. She’d felt old since she had seen her son. Her true son. But, she admitted to herself, she’d felt a lot better since she had seen Isabel. That was something she had needed to do for many a long year, and she had enjoyed it in a funny sort of way. Isabel had been the cause of great sadness, Isabel and Henry.
She smiled ruefully. Now she had a grandson named Henry Dumas. Strange the way life snuck up on you, without you even realising it. Strange and disturbing. She wondered how Henry had felt seeing her image before him day after day, because Benedict was her double, like the spit out of her mouth as an East Ender would say. It must have galled him, seeing Benedict and knowing there was nothing he could do. She guessed, correctly, he had made the boy’s life difficult. Well, she’d expected that. Henry hated to be bested and Isabel had certainly done that much. It would not have made for a good relationship between them. But then, that’s-exactly what Isabel had wanted, wasn’t it?
Yet who had taken the brunt of it all? Briony herself. Her son now felt a rage towards her that would not be assuaged by anything she could do. It was this fact, this terrible fact, that had brought on the tiredness, the feeling of lethargy.
All her life she had hoped and prayed to be reunited with him. Now her hopes were dashed, she had nothing else to look forward to. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, and she dragged the brush through her hair, pulling it ’til her scalp ached.
The bedroom door opened and Tommy came in. Briony watched him in the mirror. He seemed so chirpy today. How she wished at that moment she could tap his energy and channel some of it into herself.
‘Come on, Bri, get your finger out. It’s not like you to be a lieabed!’
Something in his voice, in his words, said so lovingly and kindly, sent her over the edge. The tears sprang from her eyes and blurred her vision. Her shoulders shuddered with sobs.
Tommy realised she was crying and rushed to her. Pulling her round to face him, he held her to him, raining kisses on her face and neck.
‘Come on, darlin’, for goodness’ sake. Tell me what’s ailing you?’
Briony leant against his shoulder, breathing in his smell and feeling the strength of his body. She needed his strength today, oh, she needed it. Only Tommy could make her feel right. It had always been that way since they were children.
Slowly, haltingly, the story came out. Tommy stroked her back gently and listened to her silently, feeling rage at Benedict engulf him, rage at the unfairness of life. That she should have been taken like that, sold like that, and now all these years later have to pay for something she’d had no control over! ‘Life’s a bastard’ was one of his mother’s expressions and it fitted this situation perfectly. Life was indeed a bastard sometimes.
Picking her up, Tommy carried her to the big bed and placed her on it gently. Then he lay beside her and murmured to her. They spoke of the trouble in hushed tones as lovers do. Tommy brought out all her grief and bore it himself. He listened to her anguish, to her heartfelt sadness at the unfairness of life. Then, when her sobs were fading, he kissed her long and hard, gradually undressing her with practised fingers.
Briony watched him above her, his hair all grey now, no sign of the shiny blackness of yesteryear, but that was how she still saw him in her mind’s eye.
Together they spanned the years, making love like youngsters, with a sharp abandon, a poignancy, that only the knowledge of age can bring about.
Tommy, for his part, saw the girl in the blue velvet dress, with her startling red hair and green eyes. The girl he had met every afternoon on a park bench. Today Briony was that girl again, though she had always stayed young to him.
They made a long slow loving that crept into the afternoon, and afterwards they held one another tightly, whispering of the old days, laughing at their shared memories of people long gone now and times well past.
They spoke only of the good times. It was a healing, and they both knew that.
Briony slept for a while in his arms, to wake later in the day refreshed and without a shadow of the tiredness she had felt earlier. She awoke to see Tommy looking at her with love and tenderness in his eyes, and suddenly that was enough for her.
Jimmy Granger checked his shotgun.
‘So we go in now then?’
Daniel looked at him. ‘That’s about the strength of it, yeah. But remember, I want that slag Mitchell,1 waste him first. You all got that?’
He scanned the faces of the men in the car and each of them nodded once.
Boysie laughed low.
‘Then I take out Pargolis. You lot just look and listen, keep your eyes peeled on the people in the pub. If any of Pargolis’ blokes try anything, blow them away. That goes for anyone drinking in the pub too. If you think they’re a threat, just blow them away, simple as that.’
Boysie was repeating himself with nerves and excitement. Two minutes later Daniel gave the signal and they all got out of the Rolls-Royce. Six large men, with shotguns underneath their coats and murder on their minds.
Inside The Two Puddings, Davey Mitchell was holding court, telling jokes to Pargolis who laughed a little too loudly. The manager of the pub was surreptitiously watching the door, all the while serving drinks and holding conversations with the punters. The pub was only half full, the atmosphere charged. Conversations were loud and in some cases aggressive. The clientele was a mixture of workmen and local bully boys, young up and coming villains who wanted a bit of the reflected limelight being seen with the likes of the Cavanaghs or Pargolis could give them.
As Daniel and Boysie walked into the pub, their four minders fanned out in the bar area itself, having been let in by the barmaid as arranged.
One look at Daniel and Boysie and the pub went quiet. Unnaturally quiet. Men moved towards the sides, out of range of the shotguns, drinks still firmly in their hands, excitement heightened by alcohol. This was news, this was big news and they were to witness it.
‘Hello, Davey, not like you to be quiet. Normally your mouth’s going like the clappers.’ Daniel’s voice was friendly, conversational. He placed his shotgun on the end of the bar, facing away from Pargolis, Davey, and the three men with them.
Davey swallowed hard, his eyes riveted to the gun. Pargolis watched everything in sho
ck. His head was reeling at the sight of the twins.
‘Don’t worry, Davey boy, I ain’t gonna shoot you, son.’
Walking towards him, Daniel opened his coat and brought out a long-handled eighteen-inch blade. It was more like a machete than a knife. At a signal from Daniel, two of his men pinned Davey Mitchell to the bar by his arms.
‘Look, let’s talk about this...’ Pargolis’ voice was a croak. This was not supposed to happen. This was what they were going to do to the twins. This was wrong, all wrong. He had been buying the twins’ men, been setting the scene himself. He was Peter Pargolis, he was a big man.
Boysie laughed out loud, as if reading Pargolis’ thoughts.
‘That’s the trouble with you bubbles, you talk too much, like your friend here. Never heard of the early bird then, I take it? You have to get up before your clothes are on, mate, to get one over on us.’
‘Danny... Danny Boy, don’t do this thing ... Let’s try and talk about it at least...’ Mitchell was stuttering with fright. The bright blade was catching the light as Daniel held it up, bringing it slowly towards his mouth.
‘I’m going to shut you up, Davey, I’m going to shut you up permanently, like I should have when you shot your trap off when me auntie died ... Remember that, do you, you ponce!’
Pushing the blade lengthways into Mitchell’s open mouth he pushed with all his might, slicing through the soft skin of his cheeks and jowl. The scream was loud and frightened, the man’s voice gradually trailing off as Daniel pushed upwards, bringing the blade out once more and then upwards again, pushing the tip through the roof of his mouth and up into his brain.
Daniel nodded to the minders and as they let go of his arms, Davey Mitchell dropped to the floor. Finally Daniel dragged the blade free and stood with blood dripping on to the floor as he wiped it off on Davey Mitchell’s good suit.
Pargolis watched the scene in morbid fascination. Then he saw Boysie walking towards him with the shotgun poised, aimed at his stomach, and knew, totally and irrevocably, that he would never see his wife or his children again.
Briony was woken by the loud knocking on her front door. Tommy got up and looked out of the bedroom window, half asleep.
‘Who is it, Tommy love?’
‘It’s the Old Bill.’
She sat upright in the bed then, her face pale with shock. ‘The Old Bill? What on earth could they want?’
She leapt from the bed and pulled on her dressing gown. She could hear the flapping of Cissy’s slippers as she went to open the front door and, charging out on to the landing, she collided with Daniel.
‘It’s the police, Danny Boy. What have you been up to?’ He smiled good-naturedly and shrugged.
‘I ain’t done nothing, Mum, I swear.’ He smiled down at her and she watched as he belted up his dressing gown and walked nonchalantly down the stairs.
Briony and Tommy followed him. Briony had a sick feeling on her that grew as she saw the number of policemen in her hallway. ‘What is going on here, please? Why are you here at this time of the morning?’
Her voice was surprisingly steady. She glared at the gaunt detective in his old, well-worn raincoat.
Limmington smiled, and took off his hat in a courtly gesture.
‘Miss Cavanagh, I’m sorry to get you out of bed. It’s your nephew we’re after.’ He turned to Daniel who was watching him with a closed expression on his face.
‘Daniel O’Malley, I arrest you for the murder of one David Mitchell. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. Do you understand what I have just said?’
‘Yeah, I understand, and me name’s Cavanagh, mate. Get it right.’
Limmington looked at the big, handsome man before him and couldn’t restrain a smile. He’d said he’d get them, he had promised himself that. But in the end the two Cavanagh boys had simply taken themselves out of circulation. They couldn’t hope to get away with this night’s work. No matter how many high-powered friends they possessed. He had witness statements, and he had fingerprints, bloody fingerprints from the knife blade. Daniel had given it to one of his men to dispose of. He should have done it immediately instead of leaving it in the back of his car. He had them all bang to rights. Soon he’d be visiting this house a second time, and then he would arrest the woman in front of him, standing with her hand held to her mouth and those deep green eyes wide with innocence. Well, she would have a murder charge on her and all.
Handcuffing an unprotesting Daniel, he took him out to the waiting car and they made their way back to the station. Briony watched the policemen leave. They had obviously been expecting a fight and they were disappointed.
Tommy took hold of her hand and held it tightly. Then, picking up the phone, he dialled. He would find out the score of last night’s work, see what he could do, if he could salvage anything.
It was two-thirty. By three o’clock he told Briony everything.
Suzy watched in disbelief as her husband was dragged, protesting from the house. Unlike Daniel, Boysie was not coming quietly. He was making a racket that woke up the whole street, and caused more than a few curtains to twitch. Looking at the large imposing house opposite his own, the owners two respectable doctors, Boysie shouted at the window: ‘Had your fucking look, have you? You nosy pair of bastards!’
Then, dragging his arms away from the policemen restraining him, he took a swing at the young uniformed man nearest him and caught him a stunning blow on the temple. The boy went down and Boysie kicked him in the head with slippered feet.
Standing in his drive, he looked around at the twenty other policemen. Fists clenched, he was ready for a fight.
‘Come on then, come on, you ponces. I dare you to come and take me.’
Then he laughed out loud, head back, teeth exposed.
‘Come on then, what’s the matter? Your mummies told you not to play with the naughty boys, did they?’
DI Canningfield shook his head in amazement. This boy was a lunatic. He should be put away where he belonged.
Boysie walked slowly down his drive, arms still up, fists still clenched.
‘Come on then ... What’s the fucking matter with you? You’ve got an audience, ain’t you? Show the public what hard nuts you are.’
Then he was running down the road, the police in hot pursuit. As he approached the end of it, he saw the road block. They had come prepared.
He swerved away and ran down a neighbour’s drive. She watched in fascination as he scaled her side entrance. He ran the hundred and fifty feet of her back garden, stepping through her ornamental pond, his trousers heavy now with water and dirt. He launched himself at her back fence, repeating the run through the garden backing on to it. He burst from this over a large wooden back gate and out into the street parallel to his own. As he ran full pelt down the street, he bounded out on to the main road, the men behind him shouting and hollering for him to stop.
Laughing once more, he catapulted himself on to the main road, where he was hit full on by a police car.
Boysie was seen by the policeman following him to rise about fifteen feet into the air before landing with a sickening thud on the pavement on the other side of the road. His head was bent to the right in a grotesquely unnatural position.
As the police all surrounded him he looked up at them. He opened his mouth to speak and a trickle of blood slid slowly down from his nose and into his open mouth.
He mouthed the word ‘Bastards’ before a shuddering passed through his body and he died. A young PC watched his legs twitching in the final throes of death and put his hand over his mouth to swallow the sickness engulfing him.
The DI pushed his way through the men and, smiling to himself, kicked Boysie Cavanagh as hard as he could in the stomach, lifting him off the pavement with the force of the blow.
The young PC watched his superior, silent and nauseated.
‘That’s one piece of shite removed from the face of the eart
h. Timpkins, get an ambulance.’
With that, the man walked back to the squad car and lit himself a cigarette.
Boysie Cavanagh lay on the cold pavement, dead but with a twisted smile on his face. It seemed even in death the Cavanaghs had got one over on them.
Daniel had not said a word since he had been told the news of his brother’s death.
Limmington, against all his instincts, actually felt sorry for him. Knowing how close they were, how they were together continually and had stuck by each other through thick and thin, he couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the large man before him.
‘Drink your tea, son ... Come on. It’ll do you good.’
Daniel looked at the tea and then at the old man before him. Picking up the paper cup, he stared at the hot liquid for a few seconds before he flung the entire contents into Limmington’s face. Limmington put up his hands instinctively, then Daniel was up and fighting. He grabbed hold of Limmington’s jacket, raining punches on the man’s face and head.
It was all over in seconds. The officer in the room raised the alarm and then five men were holding Daniel down, kneeling on him to contain him. His face was pressed against the coldness of the floor. Then, to the absolute amazement of the other men in the room, he began to cry, big bubbles of snot mingling with tears that seemed inexhaustible. His shoulders shuddered violently as he sobbed, mouthing his brother’s name over and over.
The enormity of death hit him with the force of a twenty-pound hammer. His Boysie, his other half, was gone. Gone, never to return. They had been together since birth, had shared, had planned, had dreamed together, with never any real thought for anyone but the other. It was all gone, Boysie was gone. Daniel wished he could have died with him.