by Owen Mullen
Bridie O’Shea controls a significant part of north London; she talks about the old days and moving back to Ireland.
Six weeks after his cousin’s body was dumped from a moving car, Kenny Bishop handed the reins over to his nephew, Calum, and retired.
Felix Corrigan runs the territory that formally belonged to Jonas Small, east of the Aldgate Pump. Vincent Finnegan is his right-hand man.
James William Stevens [Jazzer] is listed on the NCA’s central national database of missing persons. Mr Stevens has not been seen since leaving a public house, alone, in Liverpool.
Shortly after brokering an out-of-court divorce settlement for a prominent Conservative lord, Algernon Drake died of a heart attack at his flat in Butler’s Wharf.
Operation Clean Sweep is ongoing.
Read on for a sneak peek at the next Glass family novel, Hustle, from Owen Mullen…
1
Poland Street, Soho, London
Day 1: Friday – 2 weeks before Christmas
It had been a cold day in the capital, the coldest of the year, and with the temperature dropping snowflakes fluttered and fell on the crowds hurrying about their business on Shaftesbury Avenue. A guy in a Santa beard and jeans torn at the knees knocked seven bells out of the Wizzard classic, ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’, loud and raw, his breath condensing in the chilly air. He wore a red-and-white woolly hat and gloves with the fingers cut off so he could play. On the ground in front of him a collection of coins, mostly silver, lay in his open guitar case. The woman in a cashmere coat rushing by had gone for a walk to kill time before her appointment. Now, she was late and didn’t give the busker a second glance. In Wardour Street, she passed St Anne’s churchyard and kept going. Across from The Ship public house, once a watering hole of John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix, she made a left, then a right into Poland Street where her car was parked, walking purposefully, in no doubt where she was going.
The entrance to the building was lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling inside the doorway. She hesitated, drew her expensive coat around her and climbed the stairs. Behind her, a car pulled to a stop near the green-and-gold façade of the Star and Garter. Like the busker with the guitar, she didn’t notice the three people in black reefer jackets who got out, or the good-looking guy with the stylish blonde hair leading them.
In his office on the second landing, Jan Stuka was waiting. With more than sixty years in the trade, the old jeweller had no need to advertise his talents. He’d owned the room in Poland Street for decades, though only came here when he had a client to meet. Stuka was a craftsman, an artist, a stout little man with a goatee and spectacles, who could’ve set up shop in Hatton Garden like so many others and guaranteed himself a comfortable living. Instead, he’d gone a different route, fashioning bespoke pieces using only top-quality gems, singular creations for those interested in getting exactly what they wanted – the best.
When she’d explained she wanted a bracelet for a man with the inscription From N to M – all my love – he’d stared balefully over his wire-rimmed spectacles; romantic messages on an item she could’ve bought from any high-street shop left him unmoved, and for a second, the woman was convinced coming to him had been a mistake. The necklace brought a different reaction. As she’d described what she imagined, he’d mellowed, making notes in a small dog-eared book, asking questions in a guttural accent, even finding the enthusiasm to suggest the male jewellery might be a classic design, 18 carat gold cuff – simple and stylish.
Perfect; she was delighted: someone was going to be very pleased.
During her second visit he’d shown detailed charcoal sketches based on their previous conversation, including the otherwise plain bracelet and its inscription. Stuka was an old-school artisan craftsman; he didn’t understand high tech computer modelling software and made everything by hand. The third time he’d proudly unveiled wax replicas of what he intended to produce, subject to her approval. This evening, they’d select the stones to make the necklace a reality – FL diamonds, flawless and clear, and pure blue sapphires, AAA quality. Finally, he’d tell her how much it was going to cost.
Not that she gave a damn about that.
On the landing, a bodyguard stood to attention, steroid-induced man-breasts pressing against the fabric of his shirt, thick arms folded. He didn’t turn his expressionless face towards her until she reached him. When he did, there was no recognition in his dull eyes and she realised the guy was on more than hormones. Swollen fingers tapped the door, the electronic lock buzzed and released. Before he could react, the three figures she hadn’t seen on her way in rushed from the shadows wearing balaclavas and pushed her through the door; the butt of a revolver crashed against the side of the guard’s head and they dragged him into the room, screaming threats at the old man.
‘Open the safe! Don’t fuck me about or I’ll blow you away!’
Max’s well-modulated voice was at odds with the jargon. The jeweller didn’t blink. ‘Do this the easy way, granddad, and nobody gets hurt. Don’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘Good for you. Just don’t be a hero.’
Stuka was telling the truth: by the time the Soviet army arrived, Jan was six kilos underweight, suffering from tuberculosis and barely able to stand, yet he’d survived in a place where more than a million had perished, his parents and grandparents among them. After that, what was there to fear?
He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo – 6613145 – faded into the mottled skin.
Defiance burned in the old Jew’s eyes. Anger thickened his accent. ‘What would trash like you know about heroes?’
The slight didn’t faze the robber. He said, ‘On another day, I’d buy you a drink and you could tell me what it was like. We’d have an interesting conversation. Except, that isn’t where we are, is it? And respecting what you’ve been through won’t stop me putting a bullet in you. Whatever you believe, believe that. Now, open the fucking safe.’
Stuka spat on the bare floorboards at his feet. ‘Nie.’
Behind his mask the thief smiled. ‘I’m guessing that’s Polish for no.’
He grabbed the woman by the arm, pulled her towards him and held the gun to her temple. She stiffened but didn’t cry out. Max spoke to the jeweller. ‘You should’ve died a long time ago. Somehow, you got lucky and didn’t. Eighty years down the line you’re fine about it. I understand.’ He dug the muzzle into the female’s smooth skin. ‘Take a look at her. She’s what? Thirty-five, thirty-six, maybe? How does she feel about it being all over? Ask her?’ His finger closed round the gentle sweep of the trigger. ‘In thirty seconds, we’ll be leaving empty-handed and you’ll both be dead. What I’d call a lose-lose situation. Imagine making it out of a Nazi camp for it to finish in a grubby little cubbyhole in Soho because of a few stones. What would the poor bastards in Auschwitz, Buchenwald and the rest of those hellholes say?’ He shook his head at the irony. ‘Do what I’m telling you or she gets it. Right here. Right now.’
On the floor the bodyguard groaned, regaining consciousness.
‘The old fucker thinks we’re bluffing. Let’s show him we’re not.’
Under the reefer jacket and the balaclava, the speaker was indistinguishable from the other two. The words were hard despite the soft tone. Coco went to the helpless man on the ground and straddled him, arms straight, pointing down, both hands on the revolver. staring into his terrified face, savouring his fear. The bodyguard realised what was coming and held his palms up impotently against it. ‘No! No! Don’t! It was me who told you.’
‘And we’re grateful.’
The silenced shots popped like balloons. Nobody would hear them outside the room. She stepped over the limp body and took up position at the only window as though nothing had happened.
Through the frosted glass, snow was falling on Soho. Stuka said, ‘I’ve met your kind all my life. You’re animals.’
The hostage hadn’t spoken; the gun barrel carved a p
erfect circle on her neck. Tomorrow – if there was a tomorrow – there would be a bruise.
Max said, ‘We’re serious people – you saw what we did to the guard. Tell this old fool you don’t want to die. Tell prisoner 6613145 to open the bloody safe before I blow your pretty head off.’
The jeweller’s resistance was admirable but it was fading – he was afraid, though not for himself. For her. She took a deep breath. ‘Don’t open it. They’re going to kill us, anyway.’
Stuka had seen unbearable inhumanity, yet he couldn’t allow himself to believe what she was saying. He shook his grey head. ‘No, no they won’t. Not if I give them what they came for.’
‘We’ve just watched them murder an unarmed man. They can’t leave us alive. We’re witnesses.’
He ignored her, turned to the safe embedded in the wall behind him and knelt in front of it. In the silence, the tumblers falling was the only sound. With the last click, the door swung open. Stuka lifted out a grey-metal box, set it on the desk and raised the lid. The robbers edged closer: this was why they were here. Inside were four small purple velvet purses with draw-strings tops. The jeweller spilled the contents of each one onto the desk in neat piles. Even in the poorly-lit office, the gems sparkled and shimmered.
‘Why four? Why four pouches?’
‘Diamonds and sapphires. Two pouches each: the very good and the very best. I only work with quality.’
‘How much are they worth?’
Stuka eyed his captor with contempt. ‘Anyone who looks at these and thinks only of money is a cretin. Sapphires take millions of years to form. A blink of an eye compared with diamonds.’ He rolled a perfectly clear stone away from the others with his finger. ‘The process that created this beautiful thing began more than a billion years ago. Perhaps even as much as three billion.’
He gave them a second to take in the enormity of what he’d told them, then tilted the desk; a fortune in stones cascaded in a drumroll on the wooden floor and scattered – after the old man’s history lesson, the last thing the thieves expected. The jeweller seized his opportunity, reached for the mask nearest him and clawed it away.
Coco screamed, ‘Shoot him! Shoot him!’
Max hesitated, blinking rapidly, as though he couldn’t take in what had happened and fired. Mr Stuka fell over the desk, his white shirt instantly turning red: shot through the heart, the man who’d survived the horror of a concentration camp died instantly.
Max shouted, ‘Get the stones! Move, we need out of here!’
The third robber twisted Nina’s arm up her back. ‘What’ll we do with this bitch?’
Coco had no doubts. ‘She’s seen Max’s face. Put her down.’
‘But not here. We’ll take her with us in case there’s a problem.’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid, Max. She knows who we are.’
The leader stood his ground. ‘No more argument, she’s coming.’
Out on the street, the car was waiting with the engine turning over. Behind the wheel, Henry couldn’t hide his nervousness; he was still in his teens, younger than the others, and only here because he was Max’s brother.
‘Did something go wrong?’ He saw the stranger and realised his question had been answered. ‘Who’s she?’
‘Drive! Just drive!’
The wheels spun on the icy road. In the back seat, the woman sitting between Coco and Julian hadn’t spoken since telling Mr Stuka not to open the safe. Jan Stuka hadn’t listened and it had gone badly for him. The thieves, murderers now, took off their balaclavas: the guy in the front was handsome: perfect white teeth, piercing blue eyes set in smooth boyish skin, and blond hair expensively styled so it fell to one side of his face at the front. Beneath his jacket he wore a midnight-blue silk scarf casually tied at the neck. The girl was slim, twenty-two or three, with crimson streaks in her black bob matching her painted nails. Two minutes earlier she’d ended a life: no one would guess. Her breathing was steady and calm, detached from the callous crime that had left two dead in the upstairs office.
The third man pulled off the mask and let it drop to the floor from his slender fingers. His face was white, unnaturally pale, the lean jaw covered in designer stubble. Above it, a receding hairline made him look older than his years. Intensity surrounded him like an aura. At its core, an anger that curled the bloodless line of his lips at the edges. He spoke quietly, his tone sharp and crisp, each word heavy with foreboding.
‘This is a mistake, Max. A huge fucking mistake. We ought to have finished her when we had the chance. She’s dangerous.’
Max airily dismissed his objection. ‘Be a good chap and put a sock in it, Julian. She’s fine.’ He turned in his seat and smiled at the woman. ‘You’re not going to be a problem, are you, darling?’
Julian lowered his grey eyes and resisted the urge to argue. The exchange revealed the pecking order in the group and the tensions between them. The driver didn’t count – an immature boy out of his depth on a good day. The other three very different people with one thing in common – the absolute certainty they were superior.
It wasn’t just the plummy accents or the assured way they held their heads: it was everything; and it rolled off them. Killing the jeweller and the guard had cost them nothing because they believed them to be nothing.
Outside the world went about its pre-Christmas business, unaware of the drama. On Wardour Street, heading north, Coco had never felt more alive. She snatched the woman’s bag, emptied it onto her lap and sifted the contents. The soft-leather Hermes purse inside held cash and credit cards, lipstick, a comb and a compact. Nothing unusual. Until she read the cardholder’s name.
‘Well, well, well.’
Max saw the excitement on her face. ‘What is it?’
‘Guess who we’ve got here. Guess who this bitch is.’
‘Stop fucking about, who?’
‘Nina Glass. We’ve only kidnapped Luke Glass’ sister. Christ Almighty.’
Acknowledgments
It amuses me to see a name – in this case mine – on the cover of a novel, suggesting to the reader that what they hold in their hands is the work of a lone individual. Nothing could be further from the truth. To take a spark of an idea and work with it until it becomes a one hundred thousand word book, written and re-written, edited and re-edited, proofed, typeset, designed and finally sent out with a carefully considered marketing plan behind it, requires the gifts, talents and commitment of many people. I am fortunate to be one of them.
I am indebted to the outstanding team at Boldwood Books. As my publisher they promised a relationship, a genuine partnership, and have certainly delivered, so thank you Amanda, Nia, Claire and Megan. But Sarah Ritherdon deserves a special mention. Her unflagging energy, endless enthusiasm (who else would email me on a Sunday morning on her way out the door to go sledging with her children?) and innate understanding of storytelling, are the reasons this brief acknowledgement is necessary in the first place.
Most of those involved in the publishing process are unknown to me. Nevertheless, they have my gratitude. Among those I do know are my editors, Sue Smith and David Boxell; patiently smoothing the manuscript’s rough edges, bringing clarity and correctness to the language. I imagine them shaking their wise heads when, like a headstrong teenager, I occasionally go my own way only to regret it a few pages later, backtrack, and bow to their superior knowledge.
DS Alasdair McMorrin of Police Scotland CID, and Kay Etherington of the Metropolitan Police Service. Both generous with their insights and their time. Invaluable sources of how things work in the real world of policing. All appreciated.
Decades ago, I fell in love with the city of London whose famous streets and landmarks are the ever-changing and constantly inspiring backdrop to the story of the Glass family. I couldn’t ask for a better canvas to paint on.
And lastly, my wife Christine who believed when it was easier to doubt. I’ve praised her flair and ability in every book without coming close to describing the depth
and breadth of her involvement. How about immense? Awesome, maybe? Or just plain old, thanks, baby?
Owen Mullen
Crete, April 2021
More from Owen Mullen
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Also by Owen Mullen
The Glass Family Series
Family
Insider
Hustle
PI Charlie Cameron
Games People Play
The Wronged
Whistleblower
Mackenzie Darroch
Deadly Harm
In Harm's Way
Standalone
Out Of The Silence
So It Began
About the Author
Owen Mullen is a highly regarded crime author who splits his time between Scotland and the island of Crete. In his earlier life he lived in London and worked as a musician and session singer. He has now written seven books and Family was his first gangland thriller for Boldwood.
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About Boldwood Books
Boldwood Books is a fiction publishing company seeking out the best stories from around the world.