Revenge

by Martina Cole

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ. Michael will go fucking apeshit when he finds out.’

  Peter Barker grinned. ‘I had worked that one out for myself, Declan.’

  Declan Costello held his head in his hands; he was absolutely mortified. ‘Round them up, Peter. But try and keep it on the down low.’

  Peter took a deep toke on his joint before saying huskily, ‘It will be a fucking pleasure, Declan, believe me. It’s already in hand actually – I took it upon myself to presume!’ He shook his head in wonderment. ‘It never ceases to amaze me, Declan, just how fucking thick some people actually are. But as my old nan used to say, you can’t educate a fucking haddock.’

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Jessie was pleased to see her mum waiting outside her school, and she jumped into the car happily. She knew how hard it was for her mum to drive at night; she had guessed far more about her mum and her problems than she let on.

  ‘I thought Dad might be picking me up. You know what he’s like about me getting home at a reasonable time!’ She was genuinely amazed that her mum had come to get her. She rarely left the house these days if she didn’t have to. It was something she knew was wrong, but no one would ever say it out loud. It worried her that her mother didn’t go anywhere any more, and it scared her that everyone acted as if it was normal.

  Josephine smiled nervously as she pulled away from the kerb tentatively. ‘He was unavoidably detained, as usual! Work stuff. How was your night anyway, darling?’

  Jessie laughed with delight. ‘It was a good night, Mum, a right laugh.’

  Josephine could hear the pleasure in her daughter’s voice. ‘That’s how it should be at your age.’

  Jessie didn’t answer; she was still basking in the night’s events.

  ‘I thought Natalie needed a lift home?’

  Jessie shrugged easily. ‘No, she’s walking home with some of the other girls.’ She wished it was her – she would love to walk home with everyone, exchanging gossip, and talking about the next party on Friday night that they were all looking forward to. Jason Ford had asked her to go with him. But that was never going to happen – she was always dropped off, and then picked up and taken home safely. It was her life, and she had to accept that.

  ‘By the way, Mum, I’m staying at Natalie’s house on Friday night. We’re going shopping Saturday early. I told her mum it was OK.’

  Josephine yawned. ‘’Course it is! We’ll get you picked up when you’re ready to come home.’

  Jessie grinned happily. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ She knew her mum would never question her staying over at Natalie’s. They had been friends since infant school, and they lived in each other’s pockets. Natalie was going to tell her mum she was staying at hers, and they would then be able to go to the party in peace. She couldn’t wait. Jason Ford was going to get the shock of his life on Friday. She was determined to show him she was a lot more grown up than he realised. She had been mad about him for over a year, and now he had actually asked her out. If her mum or dad knew about him, she would be grounded until she was old and grey. Her dad was like her minder! Yet she knew that he was not lily-white himself. She had heard all about him and her uncle Declan, but when she tried to ask her mother about the stories she’d been told, her mum had been less than forthcoming. She loved that they cared so much about her, but she also resented that they never gave her any freedom. She lived so far away from her friends, and that alone made her feel like an outsider.

  The name Flynn gave her a certain cachet. She was the daughter of a man who was feared and respected in equal measure and that was her cross to bear. She had been treated like royalty all her life, and she had known from a young age that was because of her father. Even her teachers were wary of her father; that had been a real eye-opener for her. She wasn’t a complete fool. People called him the Crime King of England – and a violent thug. It was awful, especially as her friends knew all the gossip too. But he was still her dad, no matter what people might say about him. She had a good life, and she appreciated it. Whatever he might be, he was the man she looked up to, and who she adored.

  Nevertheless, she was going to lie and cheat her way to the party on Friday night. She was going to have a good night out, by hook or by crook.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Salvatore Ferreira was not as big as Michael had expected him to be. In fact, he was quite short – only about five nine – but he was built like a brick shithouse. Anyone looking at him would know immediately that he was more than capable of great violence. It was there in his eyes. He had the look of the gutter; his eyes were without any kind of emotion whatsoever and that was the real giveaway. Michael knew he had the same look. It was why they had both advanced so far in their careers. It was what made most people take a step back from them.

  Salvatore Ferreira was dark-haired, dark-eyed and dark-skinned and he possessed a very proud countenance. Michael understood that as well – without that innate arrogance neither of them would have achieved anything of note. Michael was pleased to see that the man was very well dressed in a bespoke suit, handsewn shoes, and without the usual South-American need for loud, garish jewellery. He looked just what he was: a well-heeled businessman.

  They shook hands affably; each had a very strong grip. Sizing each other up, they were both pleased with what they saw in their prospective business partner. Michael knew his size gave him the edge, he was a powerful-looking man. Patrick Costello had told him many years before, ‘Always walk into a place like you already own it, and the chances are that eventually you fucking will.’ It was good advice, and something that he had never forgotten.

  ‘It’s an honour to have you here, Salvatore.’

  His tone conveyed the respect the man required from him. After all, he was the main supplier, the benefactor – without him, Michael would never have been able to guarantee such huge amounts of drugs to the people he dealt with. This was something that had never been done before on such a large scale. Thanks to Ferreira, he had an endless supply of cocaine that was purer than anything else on the market. It could be cut over and over again, and still be purer than anything in Europe. Everyone was a winner.

  ‘I am pleased to be here, Michael. My first time in London. Already I am in love with this country.’

  Michael grinned. ‘It’s a funny old town, Salvatore. But it is also one of the biggest tourist destinations in the world. The Queen sees to that, mate. We may be a small country, but we are a rich one. Europe has always looked to us for guidance. We are the main players, as we always have been.’

  Salvatore sat down on the black leather sofa gracefully. Michael knew he had come out of one of the worst slums on earth, that he had no real education – except what the Catholic priests had beaten into him on the odd occasion he had gone to school. Yet he was feared and respected by everyone he dealt with. There was more to this man than met the eye. He was not what Michael had been expecting. He had been told, on good authority, that the Colombians were basically fucking animals, without any social graces, but he had cast his net wider for information, and found out a lot more about the man by himself. You didn’t live as long as Salvatore unless you had something going for you up top. Salvatore was already coming across as a man after his own heart, who had embraced the financial aspects that his career had provided for him, and who had then learnt how to carry himself in any company.

  The two men had bonded immediately. They saw themselves in one another, and that was something they understood the value of. It was important to have trust – without it they were doomed. It didn’t escape Michael’s notice that Salvatore had left his men outside the door, and he was glad that his decision to meet the man alone had paid off.

  Michael sat down beside Salvatore. ‘I am so pleased that you came to England in person. I know how much that proves your belief in me. I wanted to show you that I have the money and the strength needed for such a venture – to not only finance this business arrangement, but also to police it and, more importantly, to g
uarantee you that there is nothing I am not prepared for.’

  Salvatore nodded easily. ‘I know this. I have done my homework, as you say. I would never have ventured this far from my homeland, unless I was sure of that beforehand.’ He took a long drink of the brandy Michael had poured him, then he said honestly, ‘But I have to ask you this, Michael, face to face – how are you going to deal with the Russians? They have always had the monopoly in Europe. The Russians, and their counterparts the Eastern Europeans, are like us South Americans in many ways. They come from countries that are more corrupt than you could even imagine. They are ruthless, and they are here in London already. They don’t play by the rules. They also have their own suppliers. True, it’s always shit stuff – as you know, they are better with heroin and it’s a completely different market. That aside, I need to know that you can control them, and that you have already implemented plans to ensure that they can never interfere with our business should they decide to. This is not something I would enter into lightly, you know that. You have guaranteed that you have the monopoly in Europe, and I believe you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have journeyed all this way. I just want you to reassure me that nothing and no one can interfere with our plans.’

  Michael was irritated. He had already proved to Ferreira that he had everything under his control – that was why the man had come over to England in the first place! The Russians were already on-side, as he had informed him; they were quite happy to let him supply whatever was needed. Once he was onboard with the Colombians, they didn’t really have a choice. It was a done deal. There was too much aggravation in Afghanistan and Pakistan these days for the crops to be safe. It wasn’t so easy for the Russians any more – they were not as welcome as they had been in the eighties and nineties. The Americans were all over them like a rash, and they were concentrating more on finance deals and investing heavily in property, especially Dubai, Croatia and Greece. Michael knew that Salvatore had been told this, and more than once. He also knew that Salvatore Ferreira would not have taken his word for it, he would have found out what he needed to know himself.

  Michael swallowed down his frustration. This was nothing personal, it was just Ferreira flexing his muscles, and making sure that Michael understood exactly what was expected of him. He was warning him that any problems that might arise would be his alone, and he would be expected to sort them out quickly and with the minimum of fuss. The man was a businessman, and at least he had the grace to say this to him on the quiet, man to man, without an audience. Still it rankled. But Michael had listened to his mentor Patrick Costello well. He could hear his voice now saying quietly in his ear, ‘Never let anyone know what you’re thinking, Michael, never show them anything of importance. The earn is the prize, never forget that.’

  Walking casually to the bar, he picked up the bottle of Remy XO. Then, pouring them both another drink, he sat back down beside Salvatore Ferreira on the leather sofa, smiling as if he had just been blessed by the Pope himself.

  ‘I can assure you, Salvatore, that no one will interfere with our business. I own fucking everyone of importance, from the police, to the Customs, to the fucking High Court Judges. I can access anyone needed.’

  Salvatore Ferreira nodded; he had expected no less. He had made his point, he could be magnanimous now. ‘I believe you, Michael. But I had to ask, you understand that?’

  Michael took a large sip of his brandy and, shrugging nonchalantly, he said carefully, swallowing down the raw anger that was threatening to overwhelm him, ‘Of course I do, Salvatore. I would do the same in your position. Now, I thought I would take you to one of my clubs in the West End.’

  Salvatore was watching him closely, and Michael knew this was some kind of test.

  ‘I like the English girls. Proper blondes!’

  Michael sighed heavily, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. ‘I had a feeling you would say that!’

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Jack Cornel believed himself to be an intelligent man – if he had been allowed to have a decent education, he knew he could have made something of himself. His biggest problem was his arrogance, which he had worn like a shield since childhood. All his life he had sought arguments with anyone that he felt might be looking down on him. He had a huge chip on his shoulder. He hated to be treated like a nobody. His father had been a well-known drunk and his mother an even bigger one. The Cornel boys had grown up in a filthy council flat, the result of haphazard parenting, and had to live with the stigma of having the Cornel name.

  They had not just witnessed violence – they had been the recipients of it since they could remember. It had been a hard upbringing. Jack had tried to protect his younger brother from his parents’ viciousness and their complete disregard for the two children they had somehow created.

  His father had finally beaten his wife to death when the two boys were thirteen and ten respectively. They had then had to try and survive in the care system. Too old for adoption, and much too disturbed for fostering at a residential care home, they had eventually been placed in a lock-down facility that catered for children either sent there by the courts for serious offences or, like the Cornel brothers, because no one knew what to do with them. It was a severe and harsh environment, and they stayed until eventually the social workers released them one after the other on to an unsuspecting public. By then they were past redemption, inured to pain and, without the skills to adapt to society, they had lapsed into the world of petty villainy. Burglars, thieves and liars, they had simply existed, until Jack shot a Dooley. That one act had made him believe he was now capable of moving them up in the world, thereby making a real name for themselves. Jack Cornel saw this as his chance to shine, and he was determined to make the most of the opportunity. He had assured his brother Cecil that, with Dooley’s murder behind them, they were finally on the road to public recognition and wealth.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Declan was watching the Cornel brothers as they drank themselves stupid in a private club Michael had acquired a few years previously, in lieu of a heavy debt. They were with a couple of young lads, both up-and-coming Faces, who knew exactly what was wanted from them. The Cornels had walked into the club with the lads, without a second’s thought, and that alone proved just how gullible they were. They were not even on their own home turf.

  It was pitiful. The Cornel brothers actually believed that Michael Flynn was going to arrive here at some point, with the Colombians in tow. As if that would ever happen! As if anyone truly in the know would think that a man like Michael Flynn would actually come to a shithole like this, and bring his overseas guests with him.

  He had told the bar staff to give them what they wanted, and to make sure the drinks were large and plentiful – the drunker these prats were the better. The Dooleys had made a major fuck-up by not paying the Cornels out for their brother’s murder. The fact that they were on remand didn’t really mean anything – they were running everything from the prison, business as usual. Rumour had it that they had a problem with the brother who had died, but so what? No one in the world they lived in would swallow something so outrageous. It was their brother, for fuck’s sake! And that needed sorting out. It was a piss-take, an insult to them as a family, and especially when it was perpetrated by people like the Cornels – a pair of prize cabbages, whose combined IQ was equivalent to a fucking mongoose.

  Whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, Declan blamed the Dooleys’ tardiness for the Cornels thinking they were on course for the big time. Now the Cornels were his problem, and that wasn’t something he would forget in a hurry. The Dooleys owed him. He was doing their dirty work for them after all, and he was going to make sure they compensated him for his aggravation. It was going to be a very expensive oversight on their part.

  He stepped back into the office quickly. They were drunk as cunts, but Jack would know there was something amiss if he saw him there.

  He had told the doorman to clear the club by two a.m. The Cornel
s would think they were getting a lock-in. His lads had already told them they had arranged it so they could be there when Michael arrived. They were drunk and vulnerable and, as far as Declan Costello was concerned, that was exactly as it should be. The treacherous pair of filthy, dirty bastards! Wanting to fucking shoot Michael Flynn dead, and then to assume that would be enough to give them credibility, turn them into real Faces, real villains. They thought he would allow them to step into his shoes without a fight? It was so demented, it was almost comical.

  Declan Costello could feel the beating of his heart as his anger smouldered. If the Barkers had not given him the heads up tonight could have been a blood bath; it could have brought the Filth down on everyone concerned, including the visiting Colombians, and that was something, he had a feeling, that would not have been taken lightly.

  He lit a cigarette, and pulled on it deeply. It was just coming up to one o’clock. Michael would be there within the hour, and that was when the Cornel brothers would finally realise the error of their ways.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Michael Flynn watched Salvatore Ferreira as he cheerfully succumbed to the charms of the beautiful Bella. She was one of his top-earning lap dancers. She wasn’t as young as she looked, but that didn’t really matter. She had the thick blond hair, blue eyes and creamy skin of a real English rose. She also had a very posh accent, and that went a long way with the clientele. She was really from Dagenham, but she had taken elocution lessons, ballet lessons, and had shrugged off the mantle of an Essex girl, creating a whole new persona for herself. He admired her. She had the sense to realise that this wasn’t a job with a pension, she knew that her shelf life would be short, but could be very lucrative if she played her cards right. He had guaranteed her three grand, cash, to keep Salvatore amused: go home with him, and make him feel like a king. In fairness, she deserved a fucking BAFTA. What a performance! He caught her eye, motioned towards the door, and Bella was off her pole, and in Salvatore’s lap within nanoseconds.