Lowry opened the door, holding two hot coffees on a tray. He watched in amazement as the Commissioner and Regan rose to their feet.
‘Sorry, Lowry. Our meeting is over.’
***
Brooke Mullins pulled the bed cover over her head as soon as she heard her mother entering the room.
‘Come on, sweet pea, you have to eat something. Hettie has made a wonderful chocolate cake with sprinkles on it.’
Just the shrill tone of her mother’s sickly, over-the-top voice grated on Brooke. At nineteen, she was annoyed with life in general, but the last three weeks had been sheer purgatory. The normal emotional teenager–parent issues had been well and truly put to one side. They were replaced by feelings of devastating anger, humiliation, and – worse than anything – pure fear.
In one fluid movement, she threw the pink daisy-print duvet off her head and sat upright. Her hair was sticking out in all directions, and her once fresh cherry blossom-coloured cheeks were now a wishy-washy grey colour and covered in a layer of grease.
Rebecca tried to stroke her daughter’s arm but was instantly shrugged off.
‘Sweetheart, I know what you’ve been through is so difficult, but you need to eat and . . . ’ she sniffed the air, ‘take a shower. Come on. Please get out of this bed. You will feel so much better.’
Like a deranged young woman, with brown rings under her eyes and the intense hate casting doom, Brooke spat at her mother, ‘Don’t you ever tell me that I will feel better. You have no idea what I’ve been through. And don’t you dare try to tell me it will be okay, because, Mother, it won’t. Now, leave me alone!’
Rebecca backed away. Of course, she didn’t know how her daughter felt, or what on earth was going through her mind. She felt her tears well up and her heart was heavy. ‘I know, darling, I know, but I am just trying to help. I will leave you alone then.’
Brooke heard the door close, and she pulled the duvet back over her head. Her mother and father were the last people she wanted to console her now. They’d never shown any real interest in her or her sisters. She and her siblings were more like a by-product or an accessory. Talking to her mother was like conversing with her former headmistress – cold, stiff, and stilted.
She didn’t care if she needed a bath, and she certainly didn’t need to fill herself with food – that would only result in vomiting it back up. The windows had to be kept locked, no matter how hot it was, and her door closed. The light was permanently on and a kitchen knife lay under her pillow. She trusted no one and probably never would, ever again. She hated herself and the world around her. Things would never be the same, ever. The vision of those wide-eyed men clawing at her like they were devouring a hog roast would be with her for the rest of her life. She couldn’t cry anymore; the tears had dried up, and now she was angry, but also terrified. Her dreams were gone, and she felt her life was over.
Rebecca crept down the stairs, her eyes filling up once more, recalling the moment the police had brought Brooke home. It wasn’t so much the ripped clothes and exposed breast covered by a police blanket, or even the claw marks down her face: it was the dead look in her once bright, shiny eyes that would forever haunt her. Her daughter hadn’t stood a chance. The little bookworm, with her oversized glasses perched on her button nose and her sweetness as she gracefully wandered about, almost on tiptoes, seemed to be a distant memory. A well-liked, clear-headed teenager, who had so many dreams for the future. She worked hard at uni and still ensured she had time to have fun with her friends.
As Rebecca entered the kitchen, she found Kendall, her daughter from her previous marriage, perched on a stool devouring Nutella on toast. Dressed in black leggings and a T-shirt with a derogatory logo on the front, Kendall ignored her mother and swayed to the music streaming through her Beats by Dre headphones.
‘Kendall, do you think you could try to get Brooke at least to eat something? I am so worried about her. The poor little thing, she won’t listen to me . . . ’
Rebecca watched as her daughter continued to stuff her face and sway her head. Suddenly, Rebecca slammed her hands down on the table, which made Kendall jump.
‘Take those headphones off!’
Slowly, Kendall did as she was told, but with a sneering, disapproving look. ‘What now, Mother?’
‘I said, would you talk to Brooke? She won’t come out of her room, and I am so worried. She won’t eat, she is so . . . Look, please try to talk to her. Would you?’
‘For fuck’s sake, she’s your kid, it’s your job. Anyway, I think she needs professional help, or she will carry on like this and just end up milking it.’
No sooner were those words out of her mouth than Rebecca snatched her daughter’s arm and pulled her awkwardly to face her. ‘How dare you say such a cruel thing! That poor girl was raped by three lads! Jesus. And you have the audacity to say she will milk it? You, Kendall Mullins, should be totally ashamed of yourself.’
Kendall shrugged her mother off. Her younger sister was no concern of hers. ‘Well, for your information, Mother, I am not ashamed of myself. And all the bloody time you and Alastair fuss over her, but deny her proper help as well, she’s never going to get her fucking shit together, is she?’
Rebecca looked at her daughter long and hard and shook her head. Her once charming child was now a rebellious twenty-year-old with a lousy attitude. ‘Your language, Kendall, is absolutely disgusting and it’s hurtful to hear, I have to say. And calling your father Alastair is so disrespectful, and after all he has done for you . . . ’
Instantly, Kendall hopped down from the kitchen stool, and squarely stood in her mother’s face, in defiance. ‘What he’s done for me? Hello! He’s a creep! I never asked to be taken away from my father and dumped into your so-called happy family, did I? I was fine where I was. Just because you felt guilty about leaving me behind and—’
Bam. Rebecca slapped Kendall’s face, and then she immediately regretted it. ‘I am sorry. Look, I didn’t mean . . . ’
Kendall didn’t even hold her cheek, although it bloody well stung; instead, she glared back with a glacial expression. If looks could kill . . . ‘Fuck off, Mother. You’re so pathetic, weak, and fucking stupid. Seriously, take a look at yourself. On the surface, the perfect wife and mother. Then strip back the facade.’
Rebecca wanted nothing more than to shut Kendall up, but she’d already gone too far with the slap.
‘Running around like everything is wonderful, when, really, you know fuck all about what your husband is up to. Then there’s Brooke going out of her mind, and Poppy . . . well, do you even know anything about the jumped-up secret squirrel? The truth be told, Mother, I am probably the most normal person in this shambles of a family. And just a warning: don’t you ever hit me again, or, next time, I’ll forget you’re my mother.’
Pushing past her mother, she reached the door and looked back. ‘Oh, and by the way, I am going to be moving in with my father next week. I am twenty, and I’m sick of you telling me I can’t go anywhere until I pay you back the university fees. I don’t want to be a lawyer, I just want to be a hairdresser. I’m done with you telling me I owe you. You’ll get all the money back from my tips.’
Rebecca gasped. ‘What? No, you mustn’t. I mean, look, please, Kendall, don’t do that, you will—’
‘Ruin my future and blot your social standing? Yes, I know, Mother, and does this fucking face look like it’s bothered? No! Fuck you and fuck your career as well. That’s all you care about. God forbid, I should be a hairdresser! Well, I’m not going into law, and I don’t give a shit about your precious career either.’
Standing in shock, Rebecca jolted as the front door slammed shut. Kendall was right, though. No matter how much she pretended that her eldest daughter was a rebellious, spiteful young woman, she also knew that every word coming out of the girl’s mouth was the sodding truth. Pushing Kendall into a professional career in law – demanding she take a post in chambers – had obviously run its course, and there was no way she could stop her leaving now. The family was falling apart, and, even worse, she was powerless to stop it.
***
Willie Ritz was holding the punchbag while Ricky was tearing into it. His T-shirt and hairline were dripping in sweat.
‘Cor, son, you can hammer this all right,’ said Willie, using all his strength to hold the punchbag still.
As they swapped positions and Willie began throwing punches, Ricky noticed how the scar that ran down the man’s face reddened. He was right when he said the quack had basically made a pig’s ear of it. Still, as much as Willie was frighteningly ugly, he was, as far as Ricky was concerned, kind on the inside.
Ricky was just strong enough to hold the bag, but as soon as his father walked into the gym, he let go.
Willie held his hands up. ‘No way I’m gonna be holding the bag for that fucker.’ He pointed to Mike, who, in turn, laughed.
‘Listen, Willie, can you meet me in me cell with Staffie and Lou? We need to talk.’
‘Er . . . and me, Dad?’
Mike gave Ricky a full cheek-lifting smile. ‘Goes without saying, my boy.’
‘What’s up, Mikey? Everything okay?’
Mike surveyed who was in the room and then looked back at Willie. ‘Yeah, of course.’
Willie knew then that it was serious. Between the lads, they understood every wink, nod, and expression – it was like an unspoken code. Growing up together from babies, they were as close as brothers.
***
An hour later, they were gathered inside Mike and Ricky’s cell. Ted Stafford and Lou Baker sat on Ricky’s bed, while Willie and Ricky sat on Mike’s. Mike shut the door and remained standing as if he was about to give a lecture. They all waited for the announcement.
‘So, I had a visit from the Police Commissioner, no fucking less.’
Willie licked his fag paper and raised his brow. ‘Oh yeah? What the ’ell’s that all about, then?’
‘Well, lads, he wants our help—’
Lou jumped in. ‘Since when do we ’elp the Filth?’ It was unusual for Lou to interrupt; he was usually the quieter one, who generally chose his words carefully. He was the man who could pull off acting like royalty, if need be.
‘My thoughts exactly, Lou, but here’s the thing. They have been overrun with crimes that not even the likes of us would condone, and it’s rife out there. The police haven’t got the manpower they used to have. It’s to do with politics and cuts or something like that, so there ain’t enough of the Ol’ Bill to bring these gangs to their knees.’
Staffie, who was Mike’s closest friend, scratched his bald head. ‘I dunno, I don’t get it, Mike. What’s it got to do with us, anyway?’
‘Listen up. We’ll be released early, all of us, in return for throwing our weight around and looking like we’re helping them, when, really, we ain’t. I don’t know the exact details. The Commissioner will be back to visit me in a few days to discuss it a bit further. But, whatever, I ain’t said yeah to it. You know me. No fucking way would I help the Filth. But what if we agree to their deal, and then, once we’re out, we treat it like a game to our advantage? What d’ya say if we rough up a few scallies that we would anyway, and, in the meantime, we use their blind eye to make a fucking mint?’
Willie puffed on the end of his roll-up, and then he let out a smoke ring. ‘We ain’t grasses, and we ain’t the Ol’ Bill.’
Mike nodded in agreement. He’d expected this reaction. It was who they were. Grassing to the Filth was a no-no in their line of work. ‘Yep, mate, you’re right, but these little firms have not only been mugging pensioners but they’re into killing kids as well. A twelve-year-old boy was murdered on his way home from school. And, oh yeah, they’ve been gang raping young girls.’
Staffie sat up straight. ‘Shit! Fucking bastards.’
‘Yep. So, they may be villains, but, really, they ain’t like us, or like the real Faces in London. If these two-bit gangs think they can muscle in on my manor, then they’ll get a shock, and whatever happens, we won’t get nicked. See what I’m saying? We won’t be helping the law, we’ll be helping ourselves to take back our turf and run the little shites out of town. Let’s face it, we would do that anyway. I’ve been away a long time, and I wanna get back out there and take back what’s mine, as ya know.’
‘If we were to agree, how far will they let us go? And what’s really in it for us? I mean, what about our own business? Are they gonna turn a blind eye, or, after they get what they want, will we find ourselves back in the slammer?’ asked Lou.
Mike shrugged his shoulders. ‘The finer details, I don’t know, but, before I get another visit, I need to know what you guys want. Let’s face it, we could make a lot of money out of this. Think about it. We ain’t being informants, are we? And besides, we won’t be working for the Filth, ’cos if we’re clever enough about it, they’ll be working for us. They’ll give us tip-offs, and if I push ’em, they could give us information that’d work in our favour.’
Willie chuckled. ‘Sounds like a fucking plan, mate.’
Staffie’s face was loaded with disapproval. ‘I don’t know about this. It ain’t what we’re about, is it? And what do we really have that’ll guarantee we’ll stay outta jail?’
‘Fuck off, Staffie, you’re always unsure these bleedin’ days,’ spat Willie.
‘No, Willie, Staffie has as much say as any of us.’
Staffie’s narrowed eyes widened. ‘Are you sure you’re gonna be one step ahead of the law?’
Mike grinned. ‘Haven’t I always been – well, in the past, before I was banged up?’
Staffie chewed his top lip and sighed. ‘S’pose so.’
Mike grinned. ‘If we’re all in agreement, I’ll need to work out how to guarantee our continued liberty.’
Ricky watched the dynamics and how the men looked up to his father, hanging on his every word. He felt proud, but, also, he wanted to be a part of the firm and not just ‘Mikey’s son’. Although he and his dad had been apart for twelve years, it didn’t matter. He wanted to be by his side, no matter what that looked like.
‘Can I say something?’
Mike’s stern face lit up when he looked at his son. ‘Of course you can, my boy.’
Ricky nervously looked at the other men. ‘Um, your lawyer. Couldn’t he have a contract drawn up, or, better still, be present as a witness when the judge signs your release papers?’
Willie patted Ricky on the back. ‘Good idea, Ricky. See, up there for thinking, down there for dancing.’
Mike nodded, encouraging his son. ‘Yep, he may well be the brains of the outfit,’ he laughed, as he looked over at Willie.
Staffie jumped in. ‘And the fucking brawn. Ya should’ve seen him bash the fuck outta Tit and Tat.’
All four men laughed while Ricky blushed.
CHAPTER TWO
With Tatum and her son in prison, Jackie had to get off her arse and make her own money. She’d syphoned off a very healthy amount from Mike before she’d done a runner. The house near Ely was the first to be flogged off. Cash was king as far as she was concerned and what was the point in keeping the place on? She’d dwindled the proceeds away to the point that now she was nearly skint. And the regular poke she’d received from Tatum for using her son on the burglaries had now gone. Having pissed off half the site with her temper tantrums, she was down to no friends, with just herself and a bottle of Grey Goose for company. But even that had recently been replaced with a cheaper bottle of vodka.
She looked out of the window and watched as Cora, Tatum’s wife, stood gossiping with two other women. Holding bags of knocked-off T-shirts, Cora was now confident enough to have the women running around for her. It was once Jackie’s job: she had the contacts and the suppliers and could make a few bob. However, one supplier got a bit cheeky, so Jackie slapped her. Word spread what a bitch Jackie could be, and hence, slowly but surely, the suppliers and the runners backed away.
Cora turned her head to look right through Jackie’s window, allowing Jackie to see the smirk that slithered across Cora’s face.
Firmly under Tatum’s thumb, Cora had led a somewhat oppressed life. Even though they’d had six kids together, Tatum still had the energy to look elsewhere for sex, and he didn’t have to look very far. He and Jackie had compatible sexual appetites, and so whenever he could – which was often – he would find an excuse to see her and they would fuck ’til the cows came home.
Selling her arse to Tatum had been a good money earner for Jackie, but that all stopped too when he went inside.
Jackie had to admit that after a few trips to the beauticians and to a few high-end shops, where she could purchase some decent clobber, Cora did look pretty good. In fact, the woman scrubbed up better than she did. And because Cora’s kids were older now and mostly off her hands, giving Cora more time for herself, she had the means to have a life she wanted. It was an everyday insult to see Cora flashing the cash while she had zilch.
Slamming the glass tumbler down on the table, Jackie walked away from the window and stormed into her bedroom. Furious, she looked around. Her once brand-new caravan was, at one time, the best on the site. She’d bought it when she’d moved to Ireland, and it was still the best model when half the site, herself included, moved over to Essex.
But everything was changing around her, and Jackie felt angry and jealous. Not only were the younger travellers buying top-of-the-range caravans and four-by-fours, but even Cora – the bitch – was swanning around in a brand-new Land Rover, courtesy of her own business.
Jackie looked at her wardrobes and gritted her teeth. Two doors were leaning against the frame. She couldn’t exactly remember how that had happened, but she knew she’d probably pulled them off their hinges when she’d overdone it with the drink. Rifling through her now old-fashioned gear, her frustration increased.
It was time she sorted herself out – got out of her pyjamas, dyed her roots, and put on a bit of slap. She could always turn a pound into a tenner. With her looks and her cheek, it used to be a doddle, but that wasn’t the case now. She wasn’t getting any younger, and Botox was expensive. She’d already sold most of her jewellery and designer rig-outs.
After pulling every last item of clothing from the wardrobes and throwing them onto the bed, she stepped back and gazed, wondering if among them there was something decent enough to go out in. She noticed a wine-red coloured velour tracksuit, one that she’d never worn before. With her hair dyed black and curled, she could probably pull it off.
An hour later, she was showered, dressed, and had added the finishing touch of hairspray. As she opened the drawer in which she kept her tobacco, she noticed she was down to her last packet but then clocked the small drugs parcel. She’d forgotten all about that.
When Tatum had arrived at Maidstone Prison, he’d called her and set up a meeting for her with a man named Leon Khouri. He gave her the parcel to take into the prison, but the handover had never taken place. Her son Ricky had been expected to take the drugs on the visit, but he’d flatly refused, and she’d been left shitting herself. Luckily, she’d managed to get away from the visiting room with the parcel still concealed in her oversized hair bun.
Her mind went into overdrive: there was always money in drugs, she thought.
***
Before leaving her caravan, she had called Leon, in the hope that he would see her. To her surprise, he’d agreed. Heading over to South-East London, Jackie pondered what she would say when she met the man. She was aware that he was seriously dangerous because Tatum had already given her the heads-up when she’d picked up the parcel. His deep, intense glare had been concerning enough. Compared to her husband, Mike, though, he was probably only small fry, but she’d escaped that relationship twelve years ago and hoped that Mike had given up looking for her and Ricky. Little did she know that Ricky had met up with his father in prison.
The sun beaming down turned her car into an oven. Dressed in the velour tracksuit more suited to colder weather, Jackie was sweating buckets. She peered into the rear-view mirror and cursed; her eyeliner was embedded into the wrinkles around her eyes and her drawn-on eyebrows had smudged. Her hair had lost its lustre and gained a frizzy halo. As she looked away from the mirror and straight ahead, she suddenly had to slam on the brakes. A tall, slim woman, wearing a flowy dress, stepped onto the zebra crossing. Jackie gritted her teeth. She’d once looked like her, but the last twelve years had left her tired, and although she hated to admit it, she was looking old. Without the money to get her lip fillers and Botox, she was bordering on ugly.
Once the woman had crossed the road, Jackie set off again. Turning into the long, overgrown drive that eventually widened into a dusty track, Jackie could smell the dryness in the air. A few chickens ran out in front of her, making her slam on the brakes again. At that moment, she felt nervous. This place was miles away from anywhere, and no one knew where she was going or would even care for that matter. She hesitated. It would be sensible just to turn around and head back. But behind her was another car, a large black BMW, and so she continued along the drive.
The farmhouse looked like an unsuspecting old cottage, with rambling roses and a wishing well by the front door – a typical pensioner’s palace. Then, as she parked the car, she noticed more vehicles behind the cottage. Her heart began to beat even faster. There was no way she could go back because the Beemer had blocked her in. She would have to hold her head up and not show she was nervous. Her whole body shook anyway, from all the drinking, but clutching her fake Chanel bag, she managed to steady her hands.
Jackie didn’t need to knock at the door because the man who had followed her in his car placed a thick, muscly arm over her shoulder and pushed the door open.
She turned enough to nod politely and was met with a cold stare. She didn’t recognize the tall, heavily built man and wondered if he was a business associate of Leon’s or someone higher up the chain. He certainly wasn’t a copper. The tattoo on his neck and across his chunky knuckles confirmed that little notion.
Stepping inside, she was surprised at the layout. What was probably once the main living room was now an office with just a few essentials. However, the room kept its rustic charm, with exposed oak floorboards and a beamed ceiling. To the right was a large wooden desk and directly in front of her were two brown velvet sofas. The random mismatch of dining room chairs and a coffee table with magazines on it reminded her of a dentist’s waiting room.
The previous meeting had been brief. All she’d done was to knock at the door and give her name and take the parcel. At the time, she just assumed it was the dealer’s house. She hadn’t realized that the cottage held any special significance. Judging by the hard-faced men in the room, though, she had clearly been mistaken.
Sitting behind the desk was Leon. He appeared to stiffen and looked uneasy when the tattooed man came in. ‘Everything kosher, Steph?’ he asked nervously.
The tattooed man snatched a briefcase from one of the seated men, gave a menacing sneer in Leon’s direction, and marched out the door. The tension suddenly lifted, and the men, who were gathered and poring over a large map of South-East London, went back to circling areas on it, using black felt-tip pens. Jackie didn’t know whether to say hello or ignore them and walk over to Leon. She suddenly remembered her make-up had run in the heat: she’d been distracted by the car behind, causing her to forget about the state of her appearance. Now, she was feeling uncomfortable and could have kicked herself.
