Insider (The Glass Family)

by Owen Mullen

  Oliver Stanford threw his hands down and swore at the mirror. ‘For Christ’s sake, Elise. Fix this thing, will you? Whoever invented the bow tie should’ve been put up against a wall and shot.’

  Elise stood in front of him, measuring the ends, making sure one was longer than the other.

  ‘It isn’t difficult. It takes patience, darling, and you’ve never had a lot of that, have you?’

  ‘Not when the car will be here in five minutes. Thank God you’re back.’

  ‘You don’t want to go and it’s making you irritable.’

  Her husband didn’t disagree. ‘I object to sitting through boring speeches praising a man I despise along with a bunch of people pissed out of their minds.’

  Elise teased the tie into place and stepped back to critique her work. ‘Very handsome, though I’ll never understand why you insist on wearing a real one. The clip-on kind look just as good.’

  ‘No, they don’t. Besides, a senior officer in the Met can’t be caught with a clip-on.’

  ‘If they’re all drunk, what does it matter?’

  ‘It matters to me. It says something about the man.’

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘That he’s superficial?’

  ‘Worse, he’s trying to impress and is prepared to cut corners.’

  She laughed. ‘Is that why you dislike Jocky Shaw so much?

  ‘One of many reasons.’

  ‘He’s always nice to me.’

  ‘That’s because he’d like to get into your knickers. And before you get all girly and flattered, he’s the same with every woman.’

  ‘I haven’t been a girl in a long time, and I don’t feel flattered, thank you very much. I just doubt he’s as bad as you make out.’

  ‘You’re right. Bad isn’t a fair description. Fucking awful is nearer the mark.’

  ‘I know you complain about him, I’ve heard you often enough, but, honestly, is he any worse than the others?’

  Stanford didn’t need to think about his answer. ‘In a word, yes. The job’s too much for him. Been a disaster since his first day. Started badly and fell away. I can’t remember a single initiative he’s been responsible for. He couldn’t spell strategic. A follower not a leader. The men don’t respect him. Is that enough reasons?’

  ‘Quite enough, thank you. At the Christmas party he brought me a sherry and told me to call him Jocky.’

  Stanford smiled grimly at his reflection. ‘Wonder what would happen if I tried that.’ He turned to his wife. ‘And for the record, Jocky’s a nickname he invented to make him seem approachable. Like everything about him, it’s a con. He’s a liability. The service is well rid of him.’

  ‘Who’ll take over?’

  Her husband understood. Elise was even more ambitious than him. In her artless way, asking if he was in the running. As she helped him on with his jacket, he lowered her expectations. ‘Any idea how many supers there are in the service?’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘A hundred and ninety-seven.’

  ‘Then it’s a shoo-in.’

  The city was quiet, gearing up for the night. Through the window, Niall caught glimpses of streets and places he hadn’t seen in years. His world had shrunk since he’d stepped off the Liverpool train at Euston and taken a taxi to a bedsit in Camden, where a friend of his brother had offered him the floor until he sorted himself out. The cab driver had heard the broad accent and seen an easy mark, taking him on York Way as far as Tufnell Park Tube station, before doubling back. Niall watched the meter clock the money up and smiled at the casualness of the racist stereotyping. He’d never forgotten the look on the driver’s face when the two one-pound coins had dropped into his upturned palm and he’d said, ‘Thanks for the tour, mate.’

  The cockiness of youth – for sure, he’d been given more than his fair share. Added to a quick mind and a handsome face, only a fool would’ve bet against him achieving great things.

  The bomb had changed all that. He’d ended up depending on the generosity of Wolf Kavanagh’s widow, asking nothing of him because he had nothing to offer except friendship.

  Until now.

  The men in the front seats kept their eyes on the road; Niall knew them, of course, from the pub – always at the end of the bar, keeping themselves to themselves, drinking Bell’s neat – the universe he’d return to after this was done. He touched his cheek, feeling its rough landscape, the unimaginable ugliness of it.

  His fingers itched – the fingers that weren’t there – and he tightened his hold on the bag.

  Like the instant the spark met the ammonium nitrate, too fast to avoid, a blue Mondeo overtook them and slewed sideways, blocking the road. Four men jumped out, guns drawn, shattering the windscreen in a hail of bullets before a word had been spoken. The driver and the guy in the passenger seat died instantly without getting off a shot or warning the club.

  Niall readied himself for the inevitable and didn’t hide. The leader walked to the car, taking his time, toying with his weapon as if he hadn’t decided whether he needed it. Niall’s missing digits were on fire, more painful than the awful moment, frozen in time, when they’d been separated from the rest of his hand in a flash of orange light. Then, there had been nothing – no searing hurt, no nanosecond of knowing. All that came later when he regained consciousness in the hospital.

  The hijacker opened the back door and pointed the black barrel at his head, nodding as if he understood. ‘The Irishwoman sent you. Smart.’

  ‘Nobody sent me.’

  ‘Give me the bag.’

  Niall thought about Bridie: when they told her, she’d cry and retreat to the sanctuary of the room at the back of the pub, to the cards and those damned cigarettes. But she was strong, she’d got over Wolf and she’d get over him.

  Deep inside Niall Monahan felt something lost return.

  If it wasn’t him here, it would be her.

  He’d saved her.

  The man with the gun spoke again, his piercing eyes boring into him, his voice tight with impatience. ‘Give me the fucking bag!’

  Niall slowly lifted the holdall off the floor, unzipped the top and turned it upside down, shaking its emptiness in a final show of defiance. His ruined face spread in a grin.

  ‘And don’t you be spendin’ it all at once, now, you hear?’

  It was seven-thirty. The money should’ve been here at seven. I stood at the back door of the club with Mark Douglas and his two guys, expecting a car from Bridie O’Shea to turn into the lane. The men Douglas had brought on board were similar enough to be brothers: slim bodies and broad shoulders, lantern jaws and eyes that never left the Margaret Street entrance. They didn’t acknowledge me and held their weapons out in front of them, poised and ready, like the mercenaries they so clearly were.

  Douglas understood the significance of the delay, glanced anxiously across at me and stated the obvious. ‘This isn’t good. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Nothing, yet.’

  Five minutes passed with no sign of the vehicle. Douglas couldn’t hide his concern.

  He knew. So did I. It was happening again.

  I was too preoccupied to notice the security guard from upstairs until he touched my arm to get my attention and almost had his hand broken for his trouble.

  ‘Sorry, boss, there’s somebody asking to see you.’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Says to tell you her name’s Bridie.’

  She sat inside the door like someone waiting to be interviewed for a job they needed but didn’t want. Bridie O’Shea wore a tan raincoat and a blue scarf; a faded carpet bag lay at her feet. Seeing her away from her usual habitat without the endless round of cards or swirling cloud of cigarette smoke was odd. I’d no idea why she was here, unless it was to tell me face to face she’d changed her mind and was dropping out of our arrangement, which would explain the non-appearance of the cash.

  She smiled when she saw me and nudged the bag with her foot. ‘Is this what you’re lo
okin’ for? Two hundred thousand pounds, as arranged.’

  My confusion showed. ‘I don’t understand.’

  She said, ‘I see you’re not a man who’s big on surprises. Even the nice ones. I’ll bet you got a fright when you opened the bag Niall gave you?’

  ‘Niall? Bridie… Niall hasn’t been here.’

  It took a moment for what I was telling her to register. When it did, she took out her mobile and made three calls, visibly ageing in front of me when none of them answered and reality hit her.

  ‘Bridie, let me get you a brandy.’

  I thought she hadn’t heard but she had.

  ‘No, I have to get back. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  Bridie O’Shea was no stranger to tragedy. In her Republican days, the indiscriminate violence she’d crossed the water to be part of had brought sorrow to scores of innocent bystanders caught up in a struggle she’d aligned herself with to impress the man she wanted. Today, it was her turn. Her men were dead, their journey cut short in broad daylight on those same London streets. We didn’t have the details. Along with the rest of the country, we’d hear them soon enough. By the time the next news cycle came around, the names of the dead would be forgotten – the images of bloodstains and splintered glass would linger.

  I was tired of fighting an enemy who refused to show themselves. Furious at always being a step behind. Never sure where or when an attack was coming. Taking my frustration out on somebody would be easy, except opening the club had been down to me and I hadn’t been alone – somebody had been watching. Waiting for the right moment to make their move. The vultures would be hovering, biding their time to strip the carcass clean: LBC, Glass Houses, Glass Construction – all on the line; all up for grabs.

  The rules of the game never changed: if you couldn’t defend yourself, you wouldn’t survive and didn’t deserve to.

  We’d survive or we’d die trying.

  George Ritchie was having my sisters picked up; they’d be here shortly. Mark Douglas had every entrance other than the front door locked down. At ten o’clock, as far as the world was concerned, it would be business as usual on Margaret Street. Behind the scenes was another story. Ritchie had called to reassure me everything on his side of the river was sound and that half-a-dozen guys were armed and ready to join me if I needed them.

  Good to know. So far, I didn’t. Although that could change in a heartbeat.

  Charley arrived first, dressed like a movie star, ready for another night as the club’s hostess. I told her what I understood about how it had gone with Bridie O’Shea. She let me speak and didn’t interrupt. When I finished, she said, ‘The girls have to be put in the picture.’

  She was right. If we’d learned anything from the Algernon Drake experience it was that no one and nowhere was safe. Her concern was appreciated but it had to be handled carefully. The hookers were in the dark about Zelda. As far as they knew, she’d received word from Ireland about her mother and gone home.

  ‘Just remind them to be careful who they pull.’

  Charley agreed and left to go upstairs. It was still early days though it was working out with her – behind the Christina Hendricks persona was a sharp mind. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of Nina. She arrived, looking tired and sullen, and slumped into the seat opposite me. My sister had never had a filter, a sense of how the wind was blowing, and didn’t have one now, her opening statement enough to tell me where her head was. In my face from minute one.

  ‘Maybe I should move in with George Ritchie – every time I turn around one of his guys is ordering me to get my bag and follow him.’

  ‘Nina, listen—’

  ‘The old letch would like that, he’s—’

  ‘Nina—’

  ‘How much longer are you going to allow this fiasco to go on? Somebody’s laughing at us. Fuck! The whole town’s laughing at us.’ She ploughed on. ‘We’re acting like a bunch of wankers, for Christ’s sake. Danny would’ve found out who’s behind it and crushed them after they stole Jonas Small’s money.’

  The Danny reference was a jibe too far. I put my hand over her selfish mouth. She realised she’d pushed too far. The words hissed from between my gritted teeth. ‘Ritchie’s crime is he’s trying to save your worthless life, and so am I. The family’s being attacked. Systematically picked apart. Chose a side, Nina.’ I took my hand away. ‘As for Danny – compare me to him again and you’re out on your arse with nothing.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Yeah? Try me.’

  Mark Douglas knocked on the door and came in before she could dig a deeper hole for herself. He shot a glance at Nina and then at me. ‘The hit on Bridie’s guys is all over the Internet. Nothing from the police.’

  ‘What about the club?’

  ‘Short of barricading the front door, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. Got Fraser and Hume up there, though they’re not exactly LBC types. I’m keeping them in the kitchen, out of sight. Chefs are scared shitless. If our enemy comes at us, we’ll give a decent account of ourselves.’

  Douglas seemed confident – unfortunately, some situations were beyond even him. Minutes after Charley came back down to the office, it all kicked off, and there were no prizes for guessing who started it.

  Charley closed the door and leaned against it. ‘Only a couple of girls in. I’ve told them what they need to know. Made it sound like a standard warning – nothing special to be concerned about. They’ll pass it on.’

  ‘Thanks, Charley.’

  Nina butted in. ‘Are we expected to stay here all night?’

  ‘Depends, Nina.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘What happens next. My guess is nothing will. But I’m not betting your life, let alone mine, on it. When the members start arriving, go upstairs, have a couple of drinks and mingle. Only a couple, don’t overdo it – we need our wits about us.’

  ‘What wits?’

  If Charley had kept her mouth shut it would’ve ended differently. She didn’t. ‘Don’t you think you should cut Luke a break?’

  Nina didn’t hold back. ‘What I think is that you should keep your Yank nose out of our business.’

  Charley pushed off the wall. ‘Isn’t it about time you dropped the spoiled little bitch act and be your age? Or maybe it isn’t an act. Maybe it’s who you really are. Either way, I’m tired of it.’

  ‘And I’m tired of seeing your fat arse squeezed into an Una Burke, so where does that leave us?’

  ‘The real problem is you’re pissed because she left you and took me. Admit it.’

  Mark Douglas was standing between them – he might as well not have existed. Nina screamed and flew at her sister, grabbed a handful of hair and dragged her into the centre of the room. Charley stumbled, regained her balance and held Nina to her in a bearhug, thrashing and panting until they both crashed to the floor, scratching and kicking each other.

  Nina straddled her, punching her, shouting, ‘Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!’

  Charley covered her face with her arms and chose her moment to throw Nina off. I was tempted to close the door and let them get on with it. Douglas looked at me for guidance. I nodded and he pulled them apart, still spitting and cursing, though not before a painted talon raked his cheek.

  I said, ‘Charley, upstairs now and get ready to do what I pay you for.’

  I rounded on Nina. ‘Get out of here and don’t let me see you again until you grow up! Mark, take her home. I’ll get George Ritchie to send over a couple of babysitters, make sure she does what she’s told.’

  When I’d calmed down, I went upstairs into the world I’d created, where all that mattered was how many strangers knew your name and how many zeros were at the bottom of your secret account in the Caymans. As I strolled across the imported black and white marble floor, under the chandelier that had been freed from a chateau in the Loire Valley at a cost too painful to dwell on, a waiter balancing a bottle of Krug Private Cuvée champagne and four Waterford hot pink flutes on a
silver tray glided soundlessly past. A woman with the biggest Afro I’d ever seen gave me a come-on stare and said something to her companion. Both were stunners and I was flattered, until I realised they were two of Charley’s girls. From the mirrored booths around the walls, faces I didn’t know smiled at me: the men were tanned and rich, the women young and good-looking, no doubt dressed in the current ‘must have’ designer labels, wearing their partners’ wealth on their fingers and round their necks. They were happy, and no wonder. The plush decor, the Amex Black Cards in their calf-skin wallets and Bottega Veneta handbags lulled them into believing they were the chosen ones and disguised their true identities: lucky bastards, casually knocking back some of the most expensive booze in London in a club named after them.

  Me, I kept it simple – I was a whisky and Hugo Boss kind of guy.

  There was no envy on my part and, of course, I could and would greet them like old friends. They were fools, clueless about the dramas going on behind the scenes, unaware they were being used to clean dirty money, earned from other people’s addiction and back-alley sex. Or that any moment my enemy might come through the front door. If that happened, the temple would crumble round their ears and all the diamonds in Hatton Garden wouldn’t be enough to save them.

  Outside, rain fell silently on the city from a dark sky; my mind turned to Kelly. Since she’d dumped me, I hadn’t thought about her. Standing at the door of LBC, I pictured being crushed between her smooth thighs as she moaned, threw her head back and climaxed long and hard. I’d phone her, except the timing was wrong, and, quite rightly, she’d tell me to do one.

  Mark Douglas wasn’t back yet; he was taking his time. I stood in the elegant entrance under the domed roof beside the huge statue of Fortuna, the Roman goddess of luck, alabaster coins cascading from the horn of plenty nestled in the crook of her arm.

  The capricious whore had done fuck all for me so far except cost me money and take up space.

  She wasn’t alone.

  32