by Martina Cole
Josephine hugged her mum tightly, relieved now that she knew what was going on. ‘I didn’t even tell Michael at first, Mum. He noticed eventually, of course, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone else about it. As mad as this might sound, I feel different this time. I feel like this time I can do it. This baby moves about a lot. I can feel it’s alive. I wish I had told you, Mum. I know I can always trust you, no matter what. I am so sorry.’
For the first time in ages, Lana actually felt close to her only child. She held her daughter tightly, marvelling at her firm, round belly, and the familiar feel of her daughter’s embrace. It had been so long since she had held her in her arms. Her knowledge of Michael Flynn had caused the rift between them, and she knew now that she could not allow her personal feelings for Michael to cloud her relationship with her only child. She had no option – her daughter needed her, and that was enough.
‘I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through, darling. But I promise you, I will always be there for you, Josephine, no matter what.’
Josephine could feel her mother’s tears mingling with her own. The guilt was completely overwhelming her now. She knew how much her mum loved her; never once in her life had she ever felt unwanted or neglected. Her mum and dad had lived for her, and she had always known that. She had chosen her husband over her mum, and that had been hard, but she knew she would do the same again, if needed. He was everything to her, and he always would be.
‘Please, Mum, promise me you won’t say anything bad about Michael again. I just can’t stand it. He has stood by me and loved me through everything. He was happy to forget all about having babies, just so I wouldn’t have to go through any more heartache. That is why I didn’t tell him about this baby till I had to. I love him more than anything, and he loves me, Mum, I know that.’
Lana sighed gently. ‘I won’t say a word about anything or anyone. I promise.’ She had learnt her lesson as far as all that was concerned. That her Josephine had chosen Michael over her had given her a reality check. She wasn’t going to lose her daughter again, that was for sure. Michael Flynn was not someone she wanted in her daughter’s life, she knew him for the man he really was. But her daughter didn’t see him as anything other than her knight in shining armour, and she knew she would never disabuse her of that notion. It was pointless to even try. But she would watch him like a hawk, and pray every day that her Josephine would eventually see him for what he was.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Michael was watching Declan eat; the man was a veritable force of nature. He could consume his own bodyweight in steak, and still have room for a dessert. He was like a machine; he ate with a dedication that was almost inspiring, he enjoyed his food so much.
Michael was at the head of the table, of course, Declan was sitting to his right, and the other eight seats were taken up by people they worked with who were important enough to join them for dinner once a month. Declan couldn’t see the value of it at all. He just saw a big bill at the end for Michael to pay. These people worked for them – surely they should be paying the bill? They gave them their earn, for fuck’s sake! Yet Michael insisted that they wine and dine them. In Declan’s mind, this was completely fucking ludicrous. But he couldn’t see the money that they were bringing into the firm on a regular basis – Declan only saw the money they earned personally. He couldn’t see the big picture – that these men brought in far more than they earned. But then, Declan didn’t really understand the economics of the big earns. Michael made him come to these dinners, because he was his business partner. He had tried to educate him on the finer points of the businesses he ran, but Declan genuinely had no real interest whatsoever. Michael knew that these dinners were worth every penny. The men around him were all good earners, and they appreciated that he singled them out and showed them how much he valued them. He knew that, to keep people onside, you had to make them feel a part of everything, give them your time and, better still, your interest. It was a good night out for everyone concerned as well – good food, good wine and good company.
He sat back in his chair, feeling very relaxed. He had imbibed a few glasses of red wine, and he was enjoying the company. Jeffrey Palmer was on his left, in pride of place. He was always a good bloke to have around; Michael liked him a lot and, since the removal of young McCarthy, Jeffrey Palmer had done everything possible to show his appreciation. He was grateful to Michael Flynn for taking care of a very awkward situation for him, and he would never forget that.
Michael couldn’t tell him that the main reason the boy had been dispatched was because he had dared to pull a gun on his premises. He could not let that go – no matter who might be involved. He would have taken out anyone, no matter who they were or who they worked for. It was the principle.
‘What a great night.’
Michael smiled easily as always. He was good at that. ‘I like it here, Jeffrey. It’s a great place – a delicate mixture of bankers and wankers!’
Jeffrey laughed with him. ‘That is a great analogy, and very true! But listen, Michael, I want to run something by you. I had a visit from an old mate this week. He did a big lump in the nick, but he has been out a good while. He now lives in Spain. He has a couple of nightclubs in the ’Dorm, and he has the contacts to procure any drugs required – in any quantity.’
Michael Flynn sipped his wine; he was not going to join in this conversation until he had to.
Jeffrey Palmer knew the game, but he had downed a few drinks, and he felt secure. Michael Flynn had done him the favour of a lifetime and he wanted to return the favour. He grabbed Michael’s arm roughly, pulling him closer. ‘Look, Michael, from what he tells me, he can undercut anyone.’
Michael pulled his arm away roughly. Leaning forward, he looked into Jeffrey’s eyes, as he said sarcastically, ‘Well, fuck me, Jeff. Let’s ring him now, shall we?’
Jeffrey Palmer was taken aback at Michael’s reaction and, as far as Michael was concerned, so he fucking should be.
‘Listen, Jeffrey. We deal with people who are well under the plods’ radar, who can supply very good gear, and who have always proved themselves to be very reliable. Never once have we ever had even the threat of a tug. Yet you want me to wipe out a friendship and a business partnership that goes back fucking donkey’s years – a partnership that I have recently given to you, remember, and for what exactly? An ex-fucking-con who lives in fucking Benidorm of all places – the arsehole of the world. What the fuck are you on?’
Jeffrey Palmer knew that he had just made a major fuck-up. He had listened to his friend’s spiel and, as he had been promised a much bigger margin on what he was shifting on a weekly basis, it had seemed a far more lucrative venture for all concerned. He had foolishly assumed that Michael Flynn would bite his fucking hand off. But now he understood that he had not only discussed his dealings with an outsider but, to compound his offence, he had been willing to step over the man that Michael Flynn had introduced him to, who he had offered him a partnership with. A partnership he had accepted, and he had been so grateful for the opportunity. He was earning a fucking fortune, more money than he had ever earned in his life, and he was throwing it back in Michael Flynn’s face. That was not a good move. He could see the disgust on Michael’s face, and felt physically ill.
‘I am a bit miffed, Jeffrey. To be brutally honest, I can only assume that you have discussed our arrangements with your fucking “friend” from Benidorm, and told him all our business – times, dates and, more importantly, weights. That’s all private business, as far as I am concerned. I thought you understood the importance of loyalty and secrecy. I can’t see any reason to discuss our business with anyone outside of our little circle. But from what you just said, you have obviously told your mate, Mr fucking Benidorm, everything about us, from delivery to distribution. Otherwise, how would he have known he could undercut us?’
Michael was absolutely fuming. Of all the people on his payroll, Jeffrey Palmer was the last person he would have believe
d capable of something like this. He sat back in his chair, concealing his fury, and smiled amiably at the men around him. The waitresses here were stunning-looking girls, and they were waiting for the dessert orders. The girls who waited on them knew they were guaranteed a big tip. The bigger the tits, the bigger the tips – it was another reason why they got such wonderful service.
‘I think some cheeses for me, and a nice glass of vintage port. I’m not a dessert man, as you all know.’ Michael was laughing and joking as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Jeffrey Palmer was devastated. He had ruined, in less than a few minutes, a reputation that had taken him years to build. He waited a moment, watching the men at the table laughing and drinking, before leaning towards Michael, seizing his opportunity for another private word.
‘Look, Michael, I am so sorry. I just saw the money, I didn’t think it through properly. My mate is a straight arrow, though – safe as houses. He did a sixteen. You probably know him – Charlie Carter? Out of Notting Hill?’
Michael shrugged his annoyance. ‘Like I’d fucking care about all that. I couldn’t care if he was Saint John the fucking Baptist. He still had no right to be told my business.’ Bending forward once more, he looked into Jeffrey Palmer’s face, searching it as if he was looking for another weakness.
‘Look, Jeffrey, I am so fucking outraged, I can’t believe what you said to me. It’s not just the fucking disregard for everyone you are working with – me included – it’s the knowledge that you felt comfortable telling a stranger how we all work. That is almost like grassing. Telling someone else about our business practices. You are a fucking liability. Can’t you see that? I brought you in, trusted you, and paired you up with a man I have worked beside for fucking years. You were my replacement, for fuck’s sake. You seem to have overlooked not just me, and what I gave you, but also the reaction of the people you have been dealing with on my behalf.’
All around, the men were telling jokes, and Michael sat back in his chair ready to join in. He had given Palmer enough of his time. He wasn’t going to let him have another say now. As far as he was concerned he could go fuck himself.
Garry England, a young up-and-coming money launderer, was holding court. He was a really funny man – he could tell a joke like a professional comedian. Michael ignored his cheese board. He had lost his appetite. He busied himself lighting a cigar instead. He gestured to the maître d’, and the man brought a bottle of Remy XO to the table, returning to place a brandy snifter in front of each of the men. The maître d’ knew that the brandy that this lot would drink would cost more than the food. With the good wines and the aperitifs, this would be a serious bill. Michael Flynn was a valued customer in more ways than one. It gave them status to have Michael Flynn dine there on a regular basis. He was a good tipper, always made sure that everyone who waited on him got a decent wedge at the end of the night. He also made sure that none of his guests ever caused any disturbances, no matter how much they might have drunk.
Michael opened the bottle of brandy, and poured himself a large measure. Then he passed the bottle on to Declan. Michael sipped the liquid, savouring the taste. He did like a nice brandy. Patrick Costello had educated him, explaining the finer points of a good brandy and a good wine. Patrick Costello had told him, in confidence of course, how he had paid a mad French bloke – a sommelier from one of London’s leading hotels – to teach him about wines, and how to appreciate them. Patrick had admitted to him that he had been amazed at the man’s knowledge, and at how much he had learnt from him. And Patrick, in turn, had enjoyed passing his knowledge on. Michael would always thank him for that.
Garry England was telling everyone at the table a funny story about when he was a kid and he had gone with his mum on a visit to Parkhurst to see his dad. Declan was already giggling like a teenager; he had heard the story before. Michael couldn’t concentrate though, he was still reeling from the shock that Palmer had actually attempted to replace the man he had introduced him to, a man he had worked with for years, who he trusted implicitly.
Jeffrey Palmer had been his choice. He had recruited him personally to be his replacement. He had trusted him to take over. That was the real bugbear – he had trusted a man who had not understood the enormity of what had been offered him, who had not had the intelligence to understand exactly what he was dealing with. It was a real melon scratcher, as his mum would say.
Chapter Fifty-Six
A very pretty girl carried their coffees into the spacious office that Michael used when he was in Canary Wharf. This was where the legitimate businesses were located, and where some of the more exotic business was also conducted. They were luxurious, and they were private. There was a whole workforce here who actually worked for their living.
Declan Costello was tired out and he sipped his coffee carefully.
Michael Flynn watched the big, overweight man opposite him with affection. Declan looked like a social worker, his suit was a tad too small, and his shirt was cheap. His whole look was unkempt and slightly soiled. But Michael trusted him. Declan Costello was a man who looked like an affable fool, but was actually a dangerous fuck when crossed.
‘I need your advice, Declan. I know I can trust you, so please tell me what you think.’
Declan sighed. He knew that Michael was in a quandary; he had surreptitiously listened in to his conversation with Jeffrey Palmer and, like Michael, he had been mortified. More so because it had been Jeffrey Palmer talking such bollocks, a man who should have known better. But it was always the chosen ones who overstepped the mark.
‘I did try and warn you, Michael. Patrick always said, the more you give people, the more they want. He was on the money. Why do you think he recruited you? As young as you were, he trusted you from the off, but you also had the added advantage that Patrick actually liked you. He saw your potential, and he was right. I know he made you prove yourself to him, prove that you were capable of what he asked of you – that was his way of sounding people out. But, on reflection, he brought you in out of nowhere, didn’t he? He didn’t bring up someone from the ranks, someone he knew, he had already worked with. He brought you straight in over all their heads.’
Michael digested the man’s words; there was a logic there that couldn’t be denied.
‘You need to think long and hard about the people you put in place, Michael, and eventually you need to find yourself a number two. I’ve said this to you before. It’s a big fucking responsibility for one person.’
Michael listened carefully. He respected Declan’s opinion. He had a lot more going for him than anyone realised. Patrick used to joke that Declan was like a tree who didn’t quite manage to reach the top branches, but he was a lot shrewder than people gave him credit for.
‘I am aware of all that, Declan, but I’m asking what do you think about Jeffrey Palmer? I can’t believe he opened up to Charlie Carter! The man’s a fucking card-carrying, paid-up moron, who now knows who we deal with, how and when we deal with them, and what we earn from them. That is a dangerous fucking combination. What was that cunt thinking? I would have laid money on him having the nous to keep his fucking business to himself.’
Declan laughed. ‘He was thinking about money, Michael. What else? You might guarantee him a good fucking wedge, but I bet Carter can offer him a better one. They are mates as well, and that is the danger, see? Jeffrey can’t see that he is dealing with people you chose, who you know are safe, who have proved their worth over and over again. Jeffrey Palmer doesn’t know anything about them, he’s never even heard of them. He can only see his mate, and the benefits of working with someone he knows well. He has been told he can earn a lot more money if he can persuade you to change suppliers. It’s the old story, Michael. Though I have to say, Charlie Carter will swallow a tug. He is a man who knows when to shut his trap.’
Michael sighed heavily. ‘I know all that, Declan. You are hardly giving me a fucking lesson in life are you? What do you think I should do about it? That is t
he fucking question.’
Declan smiled lazily. ‘You want me to suggest you take out Palmer, Carter and anyone else who you think needs to be silenced? Well, I won’t, Michael. I think you need to give Palmer a good fright, and Carter as well. After all, they aren’t going to confront you, or try and usurp your position, are they? I bet they are at panic stations already. But, remember this, if you stay your hand now, Jeffrey Palmer will never forget how close he came to dying. It’s a learning curve for him.’
Michael laughed. ‘If Patrick were here they would all be in blindfolds and smoking their last cigarettes.’
Declan shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. Patrick would have used this against them, and guaranteed their loyalty for life. Unless, of course, he was on one of his fucking mental half hours, then he would have killed everyone anyway, whether they had fucked him off or not.’
They laughed together then, knowing how true that was.
‘Fucking hell. He could turn on a coin, could old Patrick.’
Declan nodded his agreement. ‘You’re preaching to the converted here, Michael. I lived with it all my life, remember? That is why I am telling you to think about this carefully. Patrick was a hard man, and he had a lot of respect, but he made a lot of unnecessary enemies over the years. He took against people on a whim, for no real reason, and that caused us untold aggravation at times, believe me. Ultimately, you had to take him out for the greater good.’
Michael closed his eyes; he hated to be reminded of his part in Patrick’s death. Declan was right in what he was saying but, even though Michael knew all that, and agreed with everything the man had said, he still felt, deep down, that Jeffrey Palmer had crossed a line, gone too far. But he kept his own counsel; he had asked for Declan Costello’s opinion, and the man had given it to him.