Insider (The Glass Family)

by Owen Mullen

  Ritchie said, ‘All quiet on the Western Front,’ and qualified it with a whispered, ‘so far.’

  And while I was stuffing Cumberland sausages and scrambled eggs down my throat, he’d been busy. Sheets of paper covered his desk: bullet points and lists, scribbled and scored out as new ideas occurred. Ritchie was a thinker as well as an enforcer – in my experience, a rare combination. He twirled a pencil between his fingers. ‘We’re barking up the wrong tree, Luke.’

  ‘How so?’

  He lifted the last sheet he’d been working on and read what he’d written.

  ‘Because of how the timing went down, we assumed the attacks were related.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘Two of them definitely were – Lambeth and Lewisham. There’s evidence to justify lumping them together.’ He tapped the paper with the pencil. ‘The timing, the weapons – shotguns – the accents.’ Ritchie paused to gauge my reaction. ‘This point is key – they didn’t hurt anybody. In fact, they were almost friendly. And they knew you. “Tell Luke, Charlie was asking for him” remember?’

  He realised his tie was loose and straightened it. ‘Also. What did they steal? Not much. Some cash. A few drugs. Serious criminals would’ve approached the whole thing differently. For a start, they wouldn’t be satisfied with what this crowd got away with.’

  I didn’t disagree with anything he’d said. He’d marshalled his thoughts and aligned the information. But none of it was new.

  ‘What’s your point, George?’

  ‘I’m saying the first ones couldn’t be further from the hit on the van and club if they tried. We’re looking at separate incidents that, by coincidence, happened on the same night.’

  ‘Which means two enemies.’

  ‘Right.’

  I wanted to laugh – could it get any worse?

  ‘Is that better? I’m confused. Two hundred thousand versus spending money. A serious blag or a jolly for the boys.’

  Ritchie added, ‘Yeah, and a message behind both.’

  I remembered Mark Douglas’s description of the killer as he’d ended an innocent life. Career criminals – unless they were psychos – would be in and out. Cash would be their only motive. This crew had gone beyond that. London didn’t need another gang war and, since I’d taken over from Danny, I’d established ties with every outfit in the city with a vested interest. Until now, those agreements had held.

  ‘Looks very like it. The violence in the second hit was over the top. Hurt for its own sake.’

  ‘You’re saying brutality wasn’t just a part of it, it was it. Killing the guys and driving to the club. Slitting the woman’s throat... For what?’

  The question remained unanswered because footsteps on the stairs interrupted us. Ritchie held up a hand, suddenly alert, the hours without sleep gone from his face. Instinctively, my fingers closed over the gun inside my jacket as he reached for the revolver in the drawer where he kept the whisky.

  The door opened. My grip tightened. The barman stood in the frame.

  Ritchie said, ‘What do you want, Harry?’

  ‘Somebody… to speak to you.’

  ‘Not a good time. Tell them—’

  She swept into the room like the Spanish Armada in a fitted white dress with black polka dots and a scarlet scarf tied like a turban round her hair. The red-painted nails matched her lipstick, and in her ridiculously high stilettos she was taller than both of us; stunningly sensual, like a Hollywood leading lady from before my time. I loosened my hold on the gun, searched my brain for the right word and found it: voluptuous. Five hundred years ago, Rubens would’ve draped her naked over a chaise, stuck a few winged cherubs in the background and immortalised her in oils.

  I’d no idea who she was or what she was doing here, but I was about to find out.

  She tossed a Nike holdall on the desk between us.

  ‘No need to count it. It’s all there, minus my expenses.’

  At least one of the mysteries was resolved – we’d been thinking Charlie when we should’ve been thinking Charley.

  Maybe because she was a woman, or maybe because paying to be robbed rubbed him the wrong way, but George lost it. ‘Expenses? We’re being charged for you robbing us? Who the fuck do you think you are?’

  Charley tilted her head towards him and spoke in an American east-coast drawl out of the side of her mouth. ‘Doesn’t get it, does he?’

  I pointed the gun at her. ‘But it’s a good question. Answer it before I blow your fucking head off.’

  She brushed the threat aside with a manicured talon, parked her ample arse on the edge of the desk and pouted like a little girl who knew how cute she was and how much she could get away with because she’d done it before.

  ‘That’s no way to speak to your long-lost sister.’

  Part II

  9

  It was as if the air had been sucked from the room. I searched her doll-face for a crinkle at the eyes, a twitch at the corner of her mouth; some hint she wasn’t serious. The tension grew until she broke it, laughing like she’d just been told the best joke in the world. And I realised she wasn’t kidding.

  The last fourteen hours had been more difficult than any in the three years since I’d taken over. George Ritchie felt it, too. Anger stirred in me. I’d never hit a woman. Right now, I was prepared to make an exception.

  She poked the holdall as though it were a dead animal. ‘Open it.’

  The zip peeled the canvas apart. Inside were plastic bags of pills and smoke and ‘H’ from River Cars in Lambeth beside wads of money, counted and tied, ready to be deposited in the night safe of Lloyd’s on Lewisham High Street.

  I lifted a bundle of twenty-pound notes, turned it in my fingers, and let it fall back into the pile. George Ritchie was right about the hit on the club not being connected to the other two. This woman was bold and brash and in your face. She’d gone out of her way to get noticed, but I didn’t see her sanctioning the atrocity in the lane behind LBC.

  ‘Where’s the rest?’

  Her answer was unapologetic. ‘Like I said, I had expenses.’ She shrugged the deficit away. ‘You know how it is.’

  Beside me, Ritchie was incandescent, incensed by her casual dismissal. ‘You had… you paid the people who robbed us with our own money?’

  She smiled. ‘Thought you’d appreciate it. Except, you’ve missed the best bit.’

  An alabaster digit pointed to the holdall and the paper, creased and old. I’d never seen a New York birth certificate before; the important part was the last two lines from the bottom.

  MOTHER’S NAME: Frances Glass

  FATHER’S NAME: Daniel John Glass

  My parents.

  Ritchie leaned over, took it from me and scrutinised it. Too quickly, he said, ‘She’s at it. This is a forgery.’

  The woman didn’t react. Her expression stayed exactly as it had been. ‘I’m not and it isn’t.’

  The pantomime had gone on long enough. I said, ‘Supposing this fairy story is true, did you really imagine making fools of us was the best way to introduce yourself?’

  ‘Got your attention, didn’t I?’

  ‘Only until we kick you into the street.’

  ‘Really? You should be thanking me.’

  ‘Thanking you? For what?’

  ‘You’re vulnerable. I showed just how vulnerable.’

  ‘No, no, you didn’t. What you did was reckless. Worse, it was stupid. Nobody in their right mind would do what you did. Now, we’ll track your guys down and won’t stop until we find them. And when we do, we’ll break their legs.’

  She didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed locked on mine and I saw Danny staring back at me.

  ‘Exactly what did you think these amateur dramatics were going to get you? What the hell are you after?’

  The red lips opened. Behind them, the tip of her tongue darted over white teeth.

  ‘I’ve been on the outside my whole life. Now, I want in.’

  O
f course, she did. Her and half the villains in London.

  ‘Whether you like it or not, I’m part of this family. I didn’t go away. Someone took me away. Now, I’m back – not looking for a handout, not asking for something for nothing. I’m prepared to work. But I want my share.’

  Ritchie had heard enough. ‘Why’re we wasting our time? She’s not worth it.’

  She took a folded note from inside her bra, laid it on the desk and smoothed it out with the exaggeration that, even in our brief acquaintance, I’d come to expect.

  ‘George can do all the checking he wants. It won’t change the facts. Contact me when you’re ready to talk seriously, Luke.’ She winked. ‘But don’t leave it too long, eh, brother.’

  The call that had convinced Kelly she was always going to come second, or third, or even fourth or fifth, seemed a long time ago. The saddest thing, sadder even than losing her, was that she was right – the business took everything I had and then some. Bringing George Ritchie in had been one of my better ideas and for thirty-eight months we’d run like the proverbial Swiss watch. Danny would’ve described it as ‘money for old rope’. London had become the most peaceful crime-infested city in the world. Overnight, that had stopped being true.

  Ritchie and Nina didn’t get along and were always locking horns. Knowing how difficult she could be, I’d naturally assumed she was to blame. Now, I realised it was more complicated. Another side to George Ritchie had been revealed, a side I hadn’t known existed until now. George was a bad loser.

  As we watched the woman leave, he was clearly unhappy. ‘I can’t believe you’re letting her go.’

  ‘What would you like me to do?’

  ‘Make an example of her.’

  ‘And how exactly would I do that?’

  He didn’t answer and I said, ‘She made fools out of us, George. Spotted we were weak and took advantage. If it hadn’t been her, it would’ve been someone else.’

  Ritchie disagreed. ‘Deal with her the same way we’d deal with any chancer who tried it on. Otherwise, we’re putting out the wrong message.’

  ‘No. The wrong message is that you can turn Luke Glass over and get away with it. That isn’t what’s happening here.’

  Ritchie broke eye contact. He wasn’t convinced – he was going to have to live with it. Lambeth and Lewisham had been done to make a point and, though George didn’t like it, the woman had exposed us and she was right. We were vulnerable.

  One mystery solved. If only the club were as easy.

  George Ritchie was against her. That was only to be expected. Nobody appreciated being made to look foolish, least of all one of the most feared gangsters in the city. He’d make a dangerous enemy but she’d tackle that problem when she had to. It was Luke she’d had to impress – he’d need time to process the bombshell she’d dropped on him. Meanwhile, Ritchie could dig as deep as he liked; the birth certificate was genuine. She was Charlene Glass, the child her mother was carrying when she’d left her father. Danny, Luke and Nina were her family. Together at last.

  That called for a celebration. Charley lifted her phone and dialled the number.

  Jazzer pushed through the crowd, elbowing people, spilling their drinks. Any who objected got a mouthful and were pushed aside. He was in a foul mood and doing his best to hide it from his friends. The humiliating rejection in Earls Court Road had left him down and he was taking it out on whoever got in his way. At the bar, he raised his hand in the air, snapping his fingers, daring the staff to ignore him. They caught the hard set of his mouth, the meanness in his eyes, and took his order.

  ‘Three lagers.’

  ‘Three lagers coming up.’

  Jazzer said, ‘How much?’

  The barman told him.

  ‘Should be wearing a mask, mate. Fucking daylight robbery.’

  ‘Take it up with the management. I only work here.’

  The Liverpool boys had asked a taxi driver to take them somewhere good and been dropped outside the Princess Louise on High Holborn, a wood-panelled Victorian homage of tiles, mirrors, mosaic floors and elaborate ceilings, on a sunny Saturday, rammed to the rafters. Tourists and city types overflowed out onto the pavement. Ronnie and Tosh were in great form. They loved it, laughing and joking, their spirits lifted by the knowledge they were going home with money in their pockets. When Jazzer came back with the pints, he said little; they didn’t notice. His brain was on fire, still thinking about the woman, wanting to slap her face, kiss the red off her lips, make her naked. Anything to regain his lost masculinity.

  The buzz from the crowd was so loud and constant, he almost missed the call. She was the last person he expected to hear from. Jazzer turned from his friends and waited for her to speak. Her voice sounded far away. He pressed his ear to the mobile, his heart beating in his chest.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. In some pub. Why?’

  ‘Meet me at the flat.’

  Jazzer was too stunned to reply.

  ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’m already here.’

  Decades with Albert Anderson and then his idiot son, Rollie, had been enough insanity to do George Ritchie for ten lifetimes. Luke was smarter than his brother, less reactive, able to look into tomorrow, gauge the consequences of actions taken in the heat of today and choose a wiser course than most. Ritchie liked his boss, respected him even. Nobody else would’ve talked him out of retiring. But this time, he was wrong.

  They should be sending out a message. A serious message. The attacks on his side of the river would be discussed in every bar and street corner from Balham to the Isle of Dogs. No one would be surprised by what happened next and the lesson had to be hard enough to deter any other wide boys with similar ideas, lurking in the shadows, waiting their chance.

  Violence as a deterrent – not a way of life. Bones broken in a good cause so lessons could be learned and the status quo maintained.

  Despite what his boss thought, this interloper, with her hips and her lips, a Nike bag of money and drugs and a claim so outrageous it just might be true, meant he was sure the lady was trouble. Ritchie would check her claims, though he didn’t doubt she was telling the truth. She was a Glass – it screamed out of her. The world already had two – Luke and Nina – more than enough. In Danny’s time, there had been three: nobody could forget how that had worked out.

  Charley had tossed pebbles into the pond, his pond; he’d deal with the ripples in his own way. That only left what was going on up West. A hit on LBC was always inevitable. Flying high made them a target; somebody had them in their crosshairs.

  Jazzer climbed the stairs to the flat in Earls Court Road, more nervous than he’d ever been in his life. His legs were close to buckling, his heart pounded in his chest, and his palms were damp with sweat. This was his fantasy, the thing he’d dreamed about every day since meeting her in Liverpool, yet he almost wished it weren’t happening. Excitement was destroying him. When he’d told his friends about the call, he’d acted as if it were no more than he’d expected and basked in their envy and admiration, draining his pint and casually wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  ‘So, the lady wants me.’

  Ronnie had pressed for details. ‘Christ Almighty. Did she actually say that?’

  ‘Her very words.’

  Tosh said, ‘Then you’re a lucky bastard.’

  He’d smirked. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it, Tosh. But I’m not sure.’

  ‘Not sure about what?’

  ‘This is a pretty nice boozer. I’m happy to kill time until the train with you guys.’

  Ronnie said, ‘You can’t be serious. She’s sensational.’

  Jazzer drew nicotine-stained fingers through the stubble on his chin, keeping the pretence going. ‘It’s been a good trip. We did what we came to do. I’m enjoying myself where I am.’

  Tosh elbowed him. ‘Then, you stay and I’ll go. Don’t bother sending out a search par
ty if I don’t come back. Seriously, Jazzer, pass on this and you’re off your head.’

  ‘You think I should go?’

  ‘Absolutely. And give her one for me while you’re at it.’

  The door was ajar. He pushed it the rest of the way, expecting to see her in the centre of the room, waiting for him. She wasn’t. She was on the bed, covered from the waist down by a crumpled sheet, her long hair arranged over her breasts, hiding them. The tinfoil containers and cider bottles were where they’d been. Jazzer didn’t notice. She tossed her head back, and slowly drew the bedclothes away.

  10

  The good weather had brought the crowds out and Regent Street was even busier than usual. I was angry and irritable; the shock of somebody claiming to be a long-lost sister did nothing for my mood. Stop-start traffic was the final straw. An opportunity to take how I was feeling out on a dark-green Vauxhall Astra dawdling in the middle of the road was too good to miss – I blasted the horn, flashed the lights and waved my arms until he got the message and moved over. As I passed, he stuck two fingers in the air. My reaction told me all I needed about my emotional state: I wanted to grab the bastard by his stupid hair, drag him into the street and beat the living shit out of him. Luckily for me, at Swiss Cottage, he faded from my rear-view and the chance to land up on a road-rage charge disappeared.

  I put my shades on and forced myself to relax: it was what it was.

  Ritchie would confirm if this Charley-woman’s birth certificate was genuine. Whether we were related remained to be seen although, even from the few minutes in the office, I’d recognised an unfortunate family resemblance: what she’d done was bold and arrogant, over the top and excessive.