Yes, he had a lot to thank Al and Shirley for. Not only had they offered him a sanctuary, but a reason to carry on living. With a couple of sons of their own, it was good to reconnect with old friends, boys not only older, but streetwise. In fact, it didn’t take long before they discovered his true worth and set him to work making counterfeit CDs to flog on their market stall.
“Never touched a computer in my life! Funny in’t it? We never had computers at Orchard Grange, or CDs, come to think of it, and the internet was quite new. It was so different back then...”
Maybe the counterfeit CDs had given him a purpose in life but the enterprise stretched further. The next craze to be exploited was video games. Computers and games consoles were incorporating an ever more complex graphic interface into their products, but he managed to replicate these too. By the time he reached sixteen, Joe was in his prime and as clever and worldly-wise as his mentors. Hopeful that Mortimer would have forgotten him by now, it was time to step out of hiding.
“The authorities couldn’t touch me at sixteen. No way could they dump me back in care, but whatever else life threw at me, I owed Al and Shirley big time. So as soon as they needed an extra barman, I jumped at the chance, happy to muck in.”
Joe spent the next few years riding a roller coaster of highs and lows; work, arguments and girlfriends the usual distractions that came with growing up. If he wasn’t sofa surfing in his friends’ gaffs, he had his bolt hole at the Black Horse to fall back on. Handy on the nights he worked his shift there.
But everything changed when he captured the eye of a local big shot, George Oldman, a man who was as familiar with his past as Al and Shirley.
“I never forget a face, not even an ugly mug like yours. You’re Brian Winterton’s boy, ain’t yer?”
Speaking with a harsh cockney accent, he had the look of a businessman. His grey pin stripe suit looked expensive, his silver hair slicked back from a large, heavily veined forehead. Joe surveyed him coolly.
“Less of the ugly if you don’t mind,” he said.
Reflected in the lounge mirror, he could not fail to miss the warning look that flashed across Shirley’s face.
“Seen the ol’ man lately, ‘ave yer?” the stranger smirked.
“No,” Joe levelled at him, determined to hold his ground. “He can rot in hell for all I care after what he did to my mum.”
There was a beat of silence. Before any further words were spoken, George extracted a business card from his top pocket and lowered it onto the bar top.
“There’s more to it than yer think, son. I ‘ad all the respect in the world for your mum but when the fuzz came down heavy...” he tut-tutted. “Reckon it were Fran who turned ‘im in.”
Joe gritted his teeth. “You’ve got it all wrong. Mum would never do that. She was too scared, and in spite of everything, she loved him. Though God only knows why.”
With those words George’s face softened. “Well, before you get your knickers in a twist, your dad’s been askin’ about ya. Wanted to check you was okay and I promised I’d sort it. So my advice to you, lad, is hand in your notice at this dump and come and work for me in one of my bars. Something a bit more upmarket.”
To his immense surprise, neither Shirley nor Al put up any protest.
“You go, Joe,” Al managed to convince him. “He said he’d find us a replacement barman, and it’s time you stood on your own two feet.”
Joe couldn’t argue with that. He wasn’t sure he trusted George but true to his word, the man had clinched him a position in one of the swankiest pubs in Chelsea. It marked the beginning of a new life. One that launched him into the social hub of London, working across a chain of bars and nightclubs.
Having survived the horrors of his childhood, he thought he had hit the jackpot working for George. Okay, so he didn’t know much about the man, nor the shadier side of his enterprise outside the pub trade and the rumours he dealt in drugs and illegal gambling, but what did Joe care? An ambitious young man in his twenties, he had money in his pocket, smart clothes, nice cars and chicks practically throwing themselves at him.
Oh yes, that life was the dogs’ bollocks while it lasted.
Until that one fateful day George bullied him into applying for another bar job, only this time, he had picked a specific public house in Wapping.
“I’ll make it worth yer while, son,” he pressed. “Secure this job and I’ll see to it you’ve got a never-ending wallet full ‘o cash, as much coke as you can snort up yer hooter and more fanny than you can shake yer cock at.”
He might have worn a smile, but Joe saw the glint in his steel blue eyes, a look that warned him refusal was not an option.
He fiddled with his tobacco pouch, turning it in his hands as he prepared to divulge the most shameful part of this story. But Maisie had insisted on no secrets.
“That pub didn’t even belong to George,” he mumbled.
Pity he hadn’t known that at the time.
Only when he had secured the job did he discover the proprietor was a former partner of George’s – and one who had stitched him up.
“Best you don’t say nothing about me,” George growled. “Mention my name and you’re dead, son. All I want from you is a bit of surveillance.”
The truth was that some years ago, George and his partner, Claude Dupont, had built up an extremely lucrative property business in the Costa del Sol. The market had bottomed out in 2005 but when the company went bankrupt, George learned that Claude had been cooking the books and siphoning off a greater share of the profits than he was due.
Joe could not deny how nervous he felt. George had clearly been plotting this for years, just waiting for Claude to invest in a new boozer. But as an unwitting pawn in George’s game, Joe had charmed the pants off the landlady, Martha Thomson.
Oddly enough though, she knew a bit about him already, having been a loyal friend of his mother’s from way back.
“Broke my heart what happened to Fran,” she confided. “Poor cow! Never did understand why she stuck around with that bastard.”
Such compassion left Joe trapped in a gut-twisting dilemma. He adored Martha, a lively peroxide blonde whose wicked sense of humour and sharp tongue reminded him of his mum, and it sickened him to think he was working for the enemy.
Yet there was no way he could fight George. Forced to bide his time, he kept his head down, said nothing and within a few months of working at the Golden Fleece, had become well acquainted with Mr Dupont himself. He knew where his office was and most importantly, his wall safe. Deep down, he feared the real reason for his employment and it gnawed at his insides like a cancer. Obviously George was planning a robbery, one that very much relied upon Joe being in place.
But another month crept by before his suspicions were confirmed.
It was a bitterly cold night in November, bulging clouds darkening the sky, releasing sheet upon sheet of drizzle, the weather so foul that few punters would hang around.
Joe had specific orders to stay late but with Martha cashing up, fate had a crafty way of intervening. The icy, dank weather had brought on the worst of her arthritis and after hearing her griping about her knees all day, he used the situation to his advantage.
“Why don’t you let me take the cash up to Mr Dupont’s office? I’ll pick up your coat and handbag while I’m up there.”
“Oh, give over!” she scoffed. “I’m not an invalid.”
“C’mon, Martha,” Joe pressed, “it’ll save you an extra trip up them stairs...” and without waiting for an answer, he had spun from the bar, bounding up to the top floor so fast, he arrived breathless.
Seeing her raincoat hanging up in the cloakroom, along with her red leather handbag, Joe made a swipe for it. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and with precious seconds ticking, he snapped open the clasp to locate the spare keys she had been entrusted with.
“Is that you, Martha?” Dupont’s voice droned from the adjacent office.
Joe froze but
with no other choice than to face the boss, he stepped boldly up to the door.
“No, it’s me. Martha’s knees are playing up, I was just fetching her coat.”
Dupont watched Joe beadily as he lowered the cashbox onto the desk.
“Tonight’s takings,” he added. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Sir, before I call it a night? A brandy perhaps?”
A short, thickset man with a permanent suntan, Claude grinned broadly. “That’s jolly decent of you, Joe, but nah... You can get off now.”
“Okay. Goodnight, Mr Dupont.”
Joe lingered just long enough to see him open the cashbox. Long enough to see the hefty piles of notes. Long enough to feel his heart hammering as fast as it had ever hammered when faced with the wrath of his father, or even a beating at the hands of Mortimer.
It had turned 11:30 when he and Martha left, and with the door latch switched to locking mode, she slammed it shut behind them.
Joe shivered. Even now the drizzle hadn’t let up. Martha lived only a couple of streets away, but he insisted on walking her home, making sure she was safe indoors before heading for the London underground. He watched her draw the curtains, conscious of the keys in his pocket. It was only a small bunch, but the thought of having them in his possession weighed heavily.
Creeping around the corner in the direction of the tube station, he waited a few more minutes, checked his watch, and on the stroke of midnight, returned to the Golden Fleece. As predicted, George’s black transit van lingered on the curb.
Joe slipped Martha’s spare key into the side door and sneaked back into the bar. Leaving it ajar, he heard the swish of a van door. George and his men were only a few steps behind him, and the hiss of the man’s voice chilled him to the core.
“You stick around and keep a lookout. Just tell me where the cunt is and we’ll get on with it.”
Joe swallowed hard.
“Up the stairs, second floor, first office on the left,” he whispered.
A slick of sweat clung to his face but with no choice other than to pass the keys over, he prayed with all his heart that one of them would unlock the safe.
The next part was a waiting game. Leaning against the bar, Joe watched in dread as each man took it in turns to shimmy up the stairs. All he wanted was for this to be over now. For George and his goons to act fast, grab the dough, dish out whatever beating they had in mind and then maybe they could all fuck off home.
Unfortunately, George had other ideas.
Taking a gulp of water, Joe was alerted to some kind of commotion as a succession of shouts emanated from the top floor.
The next sound took him by surprise.
A blood-curdling howl of pain.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he could not bear to imagine what was happening.
It sounded for all the world like they were torturing the poor fucker.
But the horror he felt then was nothing compared to the icy breeze coiling into the bar as the side door flew open. Joe nearly shat himself. For there, braced in the frame, seething like a Rottweiler, was none other than Martha.
“I knew it,” she snarled, “soon as I realised me keys was gone. What the bleedin’ hell are you playing at, Joe?”
Limbs quivering like jelly, he stepped towards her.
“Martha, just go,” he croaked. “You don’t wanna be here.”
Martha was having none of it. “You conniving little shit! Get out o’ me way!”
Joe stood his ground, banking up his courage, but his words were cut short. Another scream filled the pocket of silence, and he knew there would be no stopping her. Martha took another step and shoved him aside. Then turning towards the stairs, all arthritic pains forgotten, she strode to the top with furious intent.
“No!” Joe gasped. His voice sounded hollow but he had to stop her, his terror surging as he sped up the stairs.
He had only just caught up when she turned to him, fury and disgust in her cold eyes and curled lip.
“D’you know, I should have known not to trust you! Might o’ known you’d turn out to be the same as your criminal father!”
“I’m nothing like him,” Joe whimpered. “This isn’t down to me...”
The next thing he knew was a shot of searing pain as she drove her high-heeled stiletto boot into his foot. Gasping in agony, he stumbled. Too late to stop her charging the rest of the way up the stairs and hauling the office door open. Too late to stop one of George’s men turning with his gun and popping out a bullet at point blank range.
She hit the carpet with a thud. Watching from the landing, Joe felt the floor disappear under his feet, waves of horror draining away any last hope. The last thing he saw was the crimson stain spreading through her blouse, a fatal wound that left him in no doubt that she would never get up again.
Chapter Thirteen
“That’s terrible,” Maisie shuddered, “the poor woman.”
“Yeah,” Joe sighed. “No one was expecting her to come back nor the alarm going off. My guess is Dupont had a panic button fitted under his desk.”
How the police had turned up so fast was a mystery. Perhaps he should have made a run for it, but even though he knew it was too late for her, he couldn’t bear to leave Martha lying there alone.
“I got five years.”
“Five years?” she echoed. “That’s a bit harsh!”
“Is it? When George’s gang was arrested, there was no way I could wriggle out. We were up for robbery, GBH and murder. Okay, so I didn’t pull the trigger but I might as well have done. I was guilty of aiding and abetting.”
He lowered his head, the tears welling. He would never forgive himself for Martha’s death. Here was a much loved woman whose sparkling wit and big heart had touched everyone who knew her.
“I was the only who showed remorse,” his voice cracked. “Broke down in court and cried but it didn’t make no difference. The CPS had a field day. Here was Joe Winterton, son of a notorious villain. They wanted to make an example of me.”
“But how did you cope?” Maisie gasped. “In prison, I mean?”
Joe shrugged. Leicester Prison hadn’t been that different from the care home, really. The same pecking orders prevailed, the same bully boys, the same victims. But where he had broken up fights in Orchard Grange, there was no way he could tackle the villains in that place and live to tell the tale. Some of the violence had sickened him, scenes that kept him awake and would forever haunt his nightmares.
“I became something of a recluse,” he said. “Got into drugs, ‘cos if ever anything kicked off it was easier to turn a blind eye.”
He caught the shock dilating her eyes.
“Drugs?” she echoed.
“Drugs were rife in the nick,” he snapped. “It was just a coping strategy as far as I was concerned. Got to survive somehow. Don’t think I’m not ashamed of the way I turned out...”
“I wasn’t having a go,” she tried pacifying him. “When did you get out?”
“2012. Got parole after three years but it felt like a lifetime. By the time I got out, I was well screwed up. Who’d wanna employ me now?”
Hands curled into fists, he felt a froth of anger bubbling.
God, how he loathed George Oldman for the shit he’d got him into, wishing from the blackest abyss of his heart he had never met the bastard.
“Everything was ticking along nicely in the days I was helping Al and his old lady behind the bar. I could have had a half decent life if George hadn’t muscled in and fucked it all up.”
He might even have found a better way out of the mess he was in, but drugs had weakened him, yet another dark slippery hole for him to fall down. Released from prison an addict with nothing but the clothes on his back, he was moved into a half-way house.
“Unlike prison, there weren’t no rules. Blokes used to die in them places from overdoses or getting stabbed in fights. The one I ended up in was an absolute shit hole even by today’s standards.”
Condemned to live
in a festering hovel, inhabited by hard men, and not just former convicts, Joe found himself in a thoroughly hostile environment.
“Getting into crime was the only solution for those wasters, but I thought bollocks to that, it ain’t worth it. I’d already had a belly-full of prison!”
Shame it wasn’t just their company he had to endure, though.
Mixing with such ne’er-do-wells had brought another chapter of chaos rolling into his life. Because of all the people he might have stumbled across, he never imagined it would be his old nemesis, Danny Butler.
“You must remember him,” he said. “One of the hard nuts at Orchard Grange. It started with the message. D’you wanna know what it said?”
“Go on,” Maisie prompted him. He met her wide green eyes with a shiver.
“‘Scum like you can run but you can’t hide and I’ve got your card marked, Joe Winterton...’ That was bad enough, but you know what was even creepier? Some sick fucker had tied a red ribbon around it.”
Maisie’s face turned ashen. “A-a red ribbon?” she mumbled.
“Yup! Some cruel psychological joke and it proper wound me up! Then a day later Danny showed his ugly mug at the hostel, so I decided to front him out...”
Regrettably it took just one hate-filled glare to light the fuse, a look that told him Danny had never forgotten the night he’d whacked a bat over his head. And no sooner did their eyes lock than the fists started flying. For Joe, in his befuddled, drug induced paranoia, had not only accused Danny of delivering that note but called him every name under the sun.
Pity he had overreacted, because Danny was no longer the nasty rat-faced little shit he had confronted in the care home. Danny had morphed into an even nastier, muscle bound, shaven-headed, neo-nazi thug.
“Bastards kicked the crap out of me,” he spat, “three against one, but it marked the end of my days in that hostel. Starting a fight was against the rules. Got slung out I did and you already know the rest...”
Lethal Ties Page 8