Insider (The Glass Family)

by Owen Mullen

  ‘Where did you get her?’

  ‘Paul Fallon brought her in.’

  Douglas laughed. ‘’Course he did. She was his cousin.’

  ‘Was Fallon dirty?’

  ‘Honestly, it’s too soon to know. Which brings me to Nina. I’ll be seeing her later. Her system was hacked.’ He shrugged. ‘It won’t come as a surprise; she’s figured that out for herself.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re on top of it.’

  ‘We are. There won’t be a repeat of Friday.’

  ‘I’ll give you a time for when the Bishops’ cash will be arriving on Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday? What happened to Wednesday?’

  ‘I prefer Thursday.’

  Charley might be my sister but the truth was we were strangers. All I knew about her was what Ritchie had found out, what she’d told us about her mother – our mother – and an upbringing that sounded even crazier than our own. I’d given her the job of fronting the club and running the girls. If it turned out she was an idiot, blood wouldn’t save her – she’d be on her way back to wherever she’d come from.

  My gut told me that wouldn’t happen.

  When I went back to my office, she was behind the desk making notes on a sheet of paper. Her new status hadn’t overawed her and, like Douglas’s guys, she didn’t look up when I came in. Charley’s presence filled the room and I almost forgot it was my office and not hers. She was wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans cut off below the knees and sandals, and might have been in a Caribbean beach bar writing wish-you-were-here postcards, while she waited for a tall glass of fruit and alcohol to arrive; the shades pushed into her hair completed the effect. Silver, gold and platinum membership cards lay in front of her.

  ‘You’re in my chair.’

  She didn’t move, put the pen down and said, ‘We’re doing this wrong.’

  ‘Are we? Five minutes in the door and that’s your assessment?’

  ‘I’m giving you my opinion. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Before I washed up at your door, I did my homework. Everything I came across said you were smart. Nina’s heart was never in the club, I get that. What’s your excuse?’ Her brown eyes stayed on me waiting for an answer that wouldn’t be coming. Charley said, ‘Then I understood: it was about focus. More accurately, the lack of it. LBC is big investment, a lot of money to put on the line. Why haven’t the potentials been maximised?’

  ‘I thought they had been.’

  Her reaction was unexpectedly angry. ‘No, you didn’t. No, you fucking didn’t. Don’t treat me like a fool. We both understand what I’m talking about here. The club’s an upmarket front. I’m guessing you’re running a laundry service – 30 per cent of the membership don’t exist but they eat and drink like there’s no tomorrow.’

  I let her speak.

  ‘Glass Houses and Glass Construction will be the same. Phoney property sales and deliveries that never happened. Padded invoices for concrete, bricks, insulation, heating systems…’ She paused for breath. ‘Architect’s fees that would choke a horse. The bigger the better. And at the end you sell Glass Gate units and make even more money. Have to give it to you – it’s the perfect business model.’ She clapped her hands, slowly. ‘Very clever. Very, very clever. Only, with LBC you’ve missed a trick that can make what you’ve created the centrepiece of your empire. The place looks incredible – whoever designed the interiors did a great job. No surprise it’s already one of the top half-dozen clubs in London.’ Charley lifted a platinum card. ‘And then it starts to falter because your attention has been on other … things.

  ‘People who’ve done well don’t care who knows it. In fact, they insist on getting the word out. This is a private members’ club but the last thing private members’ clubs are about is their members spending their money privately. Most of them are showing off. A bargain, a “good deal”, isn’t what they’re looking for. They want what they want and don’t mind paying. So why are we giving it away?’

  Charley was on a roll. Her brittle New York accent echoed in the room, frank and assured.

  ‘LBC should be the most exclusive club in the world, not just London. And the most expensive. It’s a goldmine. But the gold won’t come out of the ground by itself.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Double the fees. Not quietly. Make a noise about it.’ She anticipated my objections and held up her hand. ‘Yeah, it’ll be too rich for some people’s blood and we’ll lose them. Plenty more will take their place, believe me. Forget the silver card for stars when they’re in town. Let them in for nothing. Worth it for the PR value, alone. The majority of members will not only accept the new charge, they’ll welcome it.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I do think. Cost isn’t the issue – unless it’s too cheap. But the key is the platinum deal. We make it the most sought-after piece of plastic in London. Nobody buys an LBC platinum card. It can’t be done because it isn’t for sale – it’s a non-transferable gift from the club to the biggest spenders. Platinum can make every fantasy you’ve ever had come true. Special services depend on having the right card and a charge is built into the bill the same as food and booze.’

  Charley read from the notes she’d been making when I arrived. ‘The girls are young and beautiful, but at the end of the day they’re hookers no different from the ones I’m guessing George Ritchie controls on the south side. For the price of a membership, we’re letting them use us, settling for selling a couple of bottles of champagne to horny tossers when we should be taking all of it. These girls think they need an agency. They don’t. The club is where the connections are made. LBC is the key. We’re outsourcing a big earner we should be keeping in-house. There’s no loyalty. No incentive to be sure every penny goes to us. Whatever else happens, that needs to change. But it has to be subtle; it can’t smell like a hustle. We put the pros on an exclusive retainer. A contract that guarantees both sides get what they want – money and security in their case. In return, they live clean, obey the rules and don’t work anywhere but LBC. I’ll vet them. Ten to start with.’

  Charley had it all figured out. She waved the pen in the air, then pointed it at me. ‘Where are the most expensive hookers in London?’

  ‘Shepherd Market, always have been, why?’

  ‘Wrong. From now on that particular honour will belong to LBC. To our girls.’

  She was too sure of herself, her analysis too insightful. My sister had walked this road before.

  I said, ‘These women may look terrific. Some of them are pretty screwed up. We’d be taking on a mess of blues.’

  Charley played with her sunglasses. ‘Business comes with risk; we both know that. Rather than being put off, we do what we do everywhere else. Minimise it.’

  ‘How?’

  She sighed, looked away, and brought her attention back to me. ‘Hooking’s a tough life. Most girls finish with nothing. The trick is to hold onto what you make while you’re hot and come out the other side in one piece. That’s the dream. And that’s our proposition. If you get sick, we’ll look after you. If somebody’s giving you a hard time, forget it, it’ll be taken care of. You need time off to go home and see your family, no problem. Just don’t be gone too long.’ Charley sat up straight, rolling out her vision. ‘We make it so a gig at LBC is as good as it gets. If you’re with us, you’ve arrived. We can even make sure they get solid financial advice, same as happens with football players who’d blow it because they’re young and think the big bucks will last forever.’

  She smiled and her eyes were as warm as a bath. ‘Admit it, it’s a great idea. You like it, don’t you?’

  Nina had never wanted to be involved with the club. Property was her passion. I’d tried to fit a square peg into a round hole and failed. Bringing in an outsider had been an option, though an option I’d always been reluctant to take. Now, I understood why. The solution was on its way: Charley was that solution.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, �
��I like it. I like it a lot. Start putting it together.’

  I rang the bell three times before Nina answered. At first, I thought she wasn’t going to, then the door opened and I followed her into the flat. She was wearing a black robe with orange dragons and was barefoot. She looked tired, like she hadn’t slept; her face wasn’t made up and her hair hadn’t seen a comb. I’d been around my sister’s moods all my life and recognised the signs. Nina was depressed. It didn’t take a genius to understand why.

  She dropped into a chair and stared at me. ‘I know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong. I couldn’t give a shit. Got this far without her, haven’t I?’

  A lifetime of insecurities had been laid bare and Nina was scared. I was here to tell her it didn’t matter. Our mother hadn’t loved us. Which meant we were better off without her.

  ‘Nina, listen, what we heard yesterday doesn’t change a damned thing. Before then, it was you and me and it’s still you and me.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘’Course it is.’

  Nina said, ‘What about her?’

  ‘What about her? You heard what she told us. Sounded to me like she got the worst of it.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘Charley was dragged all over the country by a woman who didn’t want her any more than she wanted us. She grew up with nobody. We had each other.’

  ‘And Danny.’

  ‘Yeah, and Danny. Don’t forget he looked after us when we needed it. Now, when Charley finally raises enough bottle to hook up with her family, she’s still on the outside. How must that feel?’

  Nina folded her arms across her chest. ‘Couldn’t care less how it feels.’

  ‘Not fair, Nina. You’re holding a past beyond her control against her. Our mother left with a baby in her belly. We don’t have to like it, but Charley’s that child. As much a victim as you or me or Danny. She wants to be part of a family. Something she’s never had. Give her a chance.’

  Nina gazed at the wall. ‘It isn’t just her…’

  It would’ve been easier to deal with this when the business wasn’t on the line. Right now, I couldn’t afford to fall apart because my mother hadn’t loved me. Nina was struggling – she needed her brother to be there for her. I leaned closer and took her hand in mine.

  ‘We can’t pretend that circumstances forced Frances Glass to abandon her children, can’t lie to ourselves that it broke her heart and she never forgot the kids she’d left behind. But it wasn’t about us, Nina. She was in trouble before she packed a case and turned the key in the door. Even if she hadn’t run away, she wouldn’t have coped. And I don’t believe it was because she’d married a man who was too fond of the booze, although who’s to say that was all his fault?’

  ‘He was an alcoholic.’

  ‘Was he always like that or was it because his wife left and took their unborn child with her?’

  Nina said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Neither do I. If she’d felt anything for us, she’d have found a way to get us back.’

  The silence went on for a long time and I could see the conflict raging behind her eyes. If I’d helped, it didn’t show. She needed somebody to blame, to lash out at. Charley fitted the bill.

  Finally, she said, ‘I don’t like her. Keep her away from Glass Houses. I mean it, Luke. Away from anything I’m doing.’

  ‘Agreed. She’ll be working at the club. You won’t be affected.’

  ‘She’s got plenty of show but is she up to it?’

  ‘I think she is.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Nina, right now I’m not sure of anything. Ask me in five years.’

  ‘Five?’

  ‘Okay, ten.’

  25

  I studied Mark Douglas for telltale tics of anxiety and found none. He seemed on it, relaxed and in control, his voice even and unhurried as he laid out the logic behind what he’d put in place. ‘The last attack wasn’t clever. A show meant to cause maximum damage. I’m expecting the next one to be more subtle.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be difficult.’

  He nodded his agreement and went on. ‘We’ve got people at Glass Houses in case whoever we’re up against decides to diversify.’

  ‘How did Nina take that?’

  ‘Didn’t ask. I’m trying to keep everybody alive. End of. Her and Charley have been warned to stay clear. The cleaners will be in this afternoon instead of this morning and every entrance is locked and manned. If they decide to blast their way in the front door, they’ll be on the receiving end of a welcome they won’t forget. I’ll be at the back with my guys. We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be.’

  He stopped speaking though I knew he hadn’t finished. Douglas said, ‘I’d prefer you weren’t here when the money arrives. There’s no knowing what—’

  I interrupted. ‘Forget it.’

  On the surface, he was calm; fit and strong and a year or three younger than me. I’d bet on myself against him any day of the week and he knew it. He’d done his best to keep it from me: Mark Douglas was feeling the pressure. Good news. Over-confidence got you dead. Uptight and above ground was better.

  ‘I hear you. Now, you hear me. LBC is mine – my club. Nobody’s running me out of it. Not today. Not any day.’

  ‘Okay, but stay in your office. I’ll handle it – that’s why you hired me.’

  I smiled a hard, humourless smile, reached into the desk drawer and took out the gun. ‘If somebody dies in the next thirty minutes, it won’t be me. I bought security, not a babysitter. So, don’t fucking insult me.’

  In Chalk Farm, the rain drummed against the windows of the house in Prince of Wales Road. Down in the basement, Kenny and Colin Bishop’s relationship was at a low, even for them. Since Luke Glass announced the arrangement had been changed, they’d argued bitterly about how to respond. Not the needling-each-other exchanges and squabbles blowing up and blowing over in minutes – real rows, screaming matches, almost coming to blows. Colin wanted to pull out. Glass could fuck himself. They’d clean the cash through somebody else. Kenny, the brains of the partnership, disagreed. This was an opportunity to be involved in something big, something with legs: a permanent solution to the difficulty making too much money brought.

  The basement had been used by Colin Bishop’s great-grandfather as a coal store when the family moved into the house two years before the start of the 1914–18 war. It was damp and smelled like something had died behind the skirting; black and green mould clung to the flaking plaster on the walls and the ceiling, and in places the decay was so extreme the original Victorian brickwork was visible.

  Kenny Bishop sat in the only chair at a scuffed wooden table, filling an open attaché case with wads of notes bound together into five-thousand-pound bundles. He tallied the running total in his head and made one last stab at persuading his cousin not to go.

  ‘You don’t have to do this. The boys can handle it.’

  Colin had already had a ‘bump’ off his fingernail before getting out of bed as he did every morning to help him shrug off the lethargy that was a symptom of his addiction. Today, the other half of the Bishop empire had made an effort: he’d shaved and was wearing a dark jacket over a white open-necked shirt and jeans.

  He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, carefully unwrapped it and arranged the powder inside in a line. Kenny said, ‘Why you’re wasting Charlie is beyond me. It’ll have worn off.’

  The reply was arrogant and unapologetic. ‘Because I feel like it, okay? Stop telling me what to do. I don’t like Glass. Thinks he’s smarter than everybody else. Danny was the same. Superior fuckers. That family needs taking down a peg or two.’ He fingered the gun in his pocket and repeated the lack-logic diatribe that had nothing to do with business. ‘Getting involved with him was always a bad idea. Should’ve dug in my heels. Because I didn’t, this is where we are. The bastard is leading us around by the nose.’

  Kenny wanted to tell him that if anybody grabbed his nose
, it would come off in their hand. Instead, he said, ‘He’s done what needed to be done. I don’t have a problem with it.’

  Colin sneered. ‘And that tells every bugger in London everything they need to know about you, Kenny.’

  ‘I go along to get along. You should try it instead of butting heads.’

  ‘He’s changed the fucking deal. We should’ve backed out, like I said.’

  It was true: a lot had changed. Colin insisting on handing over the money himself, for one.

  Two hundred grand was worth a roll around in the mud, but it wasn’t worth dying for.

  Kenny said, ‘This is madness. What’ll you achieve?’

  His cousin didn’t need to think. ‘The satisfaction of seeing his face. Losing Jonas’s cash has put the wind up big bad Luke Glass.’ He laughed. ‘Who’d have believed it, eh? He’s scared and he’s panicking. Well, he’s about to realise the Bishops don’t scare so easily.’

  Kenny wasn’t listening; he’d given up. There was no talking to Colin when he was coked up. And it wasn’t a sometime thing; he was high every day. Glass had been hit and was minimising his risk – his reasoning was solid. The other way around, they’d do exactly the same. He put the last bundle of banknotes into the briefcase, closed the lid and set the combination lock. Colin held out his arm, half expecting him to take another shot at persuading him not to go through with it. He didn’t; he was done.

  Colin placed a reassuring hand on the gun in his pocket. ‘Relax,’ he said, ‘I’ve got this.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what the other guys thought.’

  Upstairs, a driver and two bodyguards were waiting. Rough-looking geezers not big on small talk, whose jackets bulged on the left-hand side. Colin Bishop made it a four-man team – anybody who tried to hijack them this morning would be up against it.

  It was ten thirty-six. The delivery was scheduled for eleven o’clock in the lane behind the club. Mid-morning traffic in the capital was unpredictable. Barring some serious delay, they’d be there in twenty-five minutes. Colin nodded to the other three and went out to the car; the engine was ticking over, quietly purring, ready for the road. The bodyguards climbed into the back. Colin got in the front, rolled down the window and looked up at the heavens, daring the rain to keep falling.