About the Author

KERRY BARNES, born in 1964, grew up on a council estate in South-East London. Pushed by her parents to become a doctor, she entered the world of science and became a microbiologist. After studying law and pharmaceuticals, her career turned to medicine. Having dyslexia didn’t deter her from her passion for writing. She began writing when her daughter was born thirty years ago. Once her children had grown up she moved to the Kent coast and now writes full time.

Also by Kerry Barnes

Deceit

The Hunted
KERRY BARNES

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Kerry Barnes 2018

Kerry Barnes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © November 2018 ISBN: 9780008314774

Version: 2018-10-22

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Kerry Barnes

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part Two

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part Three

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part Four

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Bear, my shadow, my best buddy. Gone but forever in my heart.

Prologue
South London, 1968

A lamp cast its soft glow onto a round table positioned in the middle of the room. The closed, heavy red drapes gave the room a daunting – almost eerie – feel, as if the assembled group was about to engage in a séance.

Dread twisted around Ronnie’s stomach. For a moment, he didn’t want to speak, so afraid his words would come out as just a mere squeak, and that he would look less than a worthy man. The eyes that glared back at him were narrow and beady, silently interrogating him, or perhaps posed to intimidate. Either way, he was now in the lion’s den, entirely at their mercy.

Was his fiancée really worth it? Her beautiful face and long shapely legs popped into his head – yes, she definitely was. So, he had either to prove his worth or be fucked off by her brother and his close allies. Until now, he hadn’t quite grasped the power of these collective Jewish men. Sensing the intense atmosphere that pervaded the room, he knew they were more than just unassuming businessmen.

He presumed this first meeting would be a case of proving himself. After all, he was going to marry their queen, their worshipped sister. Now, he surmised that this meeting wasn’t all about giving him the rundown on how to treat his wife-to-be. It was more than that – something much more profound, almost cultlike.

The way in which they sat side by side with their hands clasped on the table symbolizing an unspoken bond between them, did it mean more than honour among family? After all, the two men who were scrutinizing him weren’t brothers by blood, they were brothers in a different sense. He suspected that they were united by a pledge.

Ronnie could feel that they were going to initiate him into something – whatever it was he would soon find out.

The silence, which was perhaps a mere few seconds, seemed to linger. They were sussing him out, trying to read his thoughts.

He almost jumped when the taller of the two men, his future brother-in-law, spoke. ‘I understand you are a man who wants to earn money …’ He paused and glared, waiting for affirmation by a nod or a yes.

Ronnie twisted his head slightly, questioning their statement.

‘We have a common enemy,’ the speaker continued.

Ronnie raised his brow and waited, hoping he would get to the point.

‘Arthur Regan!’ He hissed the name through gritted teeth.

Ronnie’s eyes widened. Yes, it was true: he and his brother Frank hated the Regan crew; in fact, they loathed them with a passion.

Arthur Regan was only nineteen and had already taken charge of all the knocked-off gear that entered Bermondsey. His little empire was strong-handed and growing fast. They may be just out of nappies, but they were taking over the manor and earning good money.

The business that had once been run by the Harman family had now been taken from under his nose just because the Regans had more muscle, and, worse, more front. The dealers, the robbers, and the pretty women were all being drawn in by Arthur’s success.

So what was he left with? Fuck all, that’s what.

He nodded and remained silent.

‘You are aware, I trust, that when you marry my sister, you and your brother become an integral part of our family? With that comes accountability!’

Ronnie frowned. ‘Of course, but what’s that got to do with Arthur Regan?’ With the menacing expression staring back at him, he wondered if he should have been a little less direct.

Ronnie watched in fascination as both men looked at each other and silently rolled up their sleeves to show a mark on their right wrist.

Still oblivious, Ronnie shrugged. Again, he wondered if his body language was really doing him any favours. ‘Sorry. Am I missing something?’

‘You have a reason to take out the Regans’ firm. Although it may be very different from ours, it amounts to the same thing. We want Arthur Regan and his men hunted down for the scum they are. His home, his business, his family, and his fucking name will be ripped away, piece by fucking piece. That bastard and his followers shouldn’t be walking the streets, making money, or even breathing the same air as us. So, if you want to marry my sister and enter our family, you must agree to be on our side, no matter what it takes to ensure their pathetic lives and those of their children are tortured and tormented until they are living like worms under a rock!’

A million thoughts tumbled over themselves as Ronnie tried to digest what the Jew was saying. Then, once again, his words were direct. ‘What have they done to you?’

‘Those cunts killed my brother, my beloved sister’s twin.’ The tall Jewish man looked to his left at the man seated beside him. ‘And they killed his brother too.’

Ronnie glanced at the shorter man. A sudden shiver ran through his body, and for a second, he thought he was staring at the Devil himself. Portrayed in those dark, expressionless eyes and lopsided grin was a cruel streak.

Leaning back in his chair, Ronnie grinned. This was it. He didn’t have to consider pledging himself to this pact, cult, or whatever the fuck it was. He was in. The Jews had money and a tight, nasty firm, and he had the prize bride. He had a gripe with the Regans, and so what better way to take over the manor than to do so with the help of a bunch of wealthy psycho Jews? Even better, he would take back what he believed was rightfully his.

He gazed down once more at the strange marks on their wrists and was startled by a rustling sound from across the room. He could just make out a brooding figure in the shadows. Something in his hand gleamed from the soft light of the lamp. In a sudden rush of panic, Ronnie’s forehead formed beads of sweat and his mouth became as dry as a horse’s salt lick. As the daunting man approached the table, the side lamp shone a light on the tool he had in his hand. Ronnie’s heart rate levelled as soon as he realized it was only a tattoo gun.

PART ONE

Chapter 1
Kent, 2002

The summer evening was drawing to a close. Mike could just soak up the last of the pink shimmer in the sky before he would have to face the cold, hard-faced bitch he called his wife. As he stepped out of his Porsche and felt his feet crunch under the newly laid gravel drive, he sucked in the warm air and braced himself.

Sacha, the housekeeper, opened the door before he had a chance to put the key in the lock. Her sweet round face was loaded with anxiety. It made Mike bite down on his lip and flare his nostrils. ‘Go on, love, tell me. What the fuck has she been up to now?’

Sacha lowered her gaze and shook her head. ‘Sorry, Mr Regan, but I just can’t do it anymore. I am handing in my notice … I can’t, I just can’t.’ Her voice cracked, as she tried to hold back the tears. Mike held out his big meaty arms for his housekeeper to fall into. He’d known she wouldn’t stay in the job for much longer. Sacha was too sweet and inoffensive. Dealing with Jackie was just too much for her.

He held her tight and stroked her long black hair. ‘Come on, love. Don’t get yaself upset. It’s okay. I understand.’

She gently pulled away. ‘I’m so worried about little Ricky, he is so … well, affected. Yes, maybe that’s the word. I will come back tomorrow, Mr Regan, to take him to school, but after that, I have to leave. She’s too …’ Sacha looked into Mike’s compassionate grey eyes and gave a smile loaded with sorrow. ‘She’s just hard work.’

Mike heard the cab driving up towards the house. He nodded and winked for her to go. He would deal with the aftermath.

As Sacha bustled herself into the taxi, she looked back to see Mike disappear inside the house of misery. Gutted she had to leave, she knew, nevertheless, that Jackie was becoming utterly out of control. The last straw was when she took a slap from her, for ushering little Ricky away before Jackie could say another cruel thing to him. Sacha would have loved to have swapped places with Jackie. Mike was perfect in her eyes, a Gerard Butler lookalike, rich and generous too. However, he was also faithful to his wife.

Mike stepped inside, gently closing the door, hoping that Jackie was crashed out somewhere. The house was quiet, so he crept up the curved staircase and walked along the corridor and into Ricky’s room. He gulped back the lump that had lodged in his throat. There, asleep, still hugging a pillow, was his little six-year-old son. The curtains were drawn, and his night light was just bright enough to show that his face was still moist from crying. There, among the child’s dreams, he witnessed another sob. Mike’s heart ached for his son – his sweet little chubby boy, with the biggest eyes, button nose, and wayward floppy fringe. He wanted to pull him into his arms and hug him tight, but he didn’t want to wake him. Quietly, he closed the door and walked back down the stairs and into the lounge. His shoulders relaxed when he realized he was alone. Loosening his tie, he went to the bar and poured a brandy, slowly allowing the bitter bite to warm the back of his throat. He held the bottle in his hand and rolled his eyes. Thank God she didn’t like brandy, or his vintage collection would be consumed by now. Jackie was content with a litre of vodka each day and didn’t care if it was called Grey Goose or Mother Goose, as long as it got her pissed.

Mike took his weighty crystal tumbler, with a double shot of brandy, out through the French doors and onto the patio, where the garden lights automatically came on and flooded the pool area.

With Sacha handing in her notice, and the concerning call he’d received earlier regarding his arms import, he really needed to think about what to do, now that both work and home were a mess. He shuddered and gulped back the drink. If it was true, and his deal had been intercepted by the government agents, he was looking at going down for a long time. Christ, what would happen to Ricky? He had to keep his head straight. First thing tomorrow, he would call a meeting at which only his trusted men would be present. He stared as far as his eyes could see and surveyed the walled perimeter. For a second, he thought he saw something glimmer, and his heart stopped beating. I am getting fucking paranoid now. He had to get some sleep; the last few days had been intense, and he needed a clear head for the morning.

As he went back into the house and upstairs, the inebriated snoring from their bedroom made him pass by silently, hoping his wife wouldn’t wake up. The last room on the left, the blue room, was cool and inviting. He removed his clothes and slid between the sheets, allowing the fresh cotton to engulf him. Just as he was about to drift off, a loud bang woke him and rattled his nerves. There she was in the doorway.

‘Where have you been, ya fucking wanker!’ spat Jackie, full of piss and vinegar.

Mike sat up and rolled his eyes; she was off on one again. For a second, he stared and wondered why the fuck he was still with her. Half-dressed in a designer blouse and just her knickers, she looked like a streetwalker. Her hair was a mess with knotted extensions and her oversized, collagen-filled lips were twisted in an ugly fashion to match her tight, beady eyes. Botox, boob jobs, and a fake tan had done her no favours. She was only twenty-six and could have passed for eighteen a couple of years ago. Why she’d had to have all that shit done was beyond him. He didn’t recognize her anymore, but that wasn’t the issue. It was her wild personality that had truly changed beyond recognition.

‘Well, where ’ave ya been?’ she demanded, standing there swaying with her hands on her hips. Even the sleep hadn’t sobered her up.

‘Fuck off, Jackie, and leave me alone, will ya!’

‘You don’t know what it’s like for me to be stuck in this place all fucking day with that brat whining!’

Mike felt his blood rushing through his veins. If she’d been a man, he would have leaped from the bed and smashed her head straight through the window. He clenched his fists and flared his nostrils.

‘Leave it, Jackie, and go back to bed,’ he said calmly.

Jackie wanted a row; she needed to vent her anger, but he wasn’t having any of it.

‘Oh, that’s it, Mike. You just bury ya fucking head in the sand … Look at ya. Think ya better than me, acting like I don’t even fucking exist.’ With her face screwed up, she egged him on, eager for a fight. Anything to get his attention – any attention.

‘I’m warning you, Jackie. Go back to bed, or I’ll forget you’re a fucking woman.’

His deep raspy voice would have turned her on a few years ago but not anymore. She hated him – she hated everyone. Now she saw a change in his expression; it was a coldness that crept across his face. She hadn’t seen him like that before and thought perhaps she’d pushed him too far, but the drink fuelled her on and she lashed back again. ‘Oh yeah, fucking hardman. Well, you lay a fucking finger on me and you just watch. You’ll be seeing that kid of yours from behind bars, and only if I fucking say so. I have so much on you, Mike, that you’ll go down for a long time.’

That was the last straw. The thought that she could grass, and even worse have control over their son, incensed him, taking him to a pitch that would see the red mist come down. In one fluid movement, he leaped from the bed and lunged towards her, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her to the floor.

Her cheek caught the corner of the bedside cabinet, causing her to let out a dramatic scream.

Sucking in a deep lungful of air, he slowly calmed down and glared at his wife, who was squirming around on the floor.

‘You bastard!’ she yelled with a wilful jeer.

He sighed with relief that he hadn’t killed her. But when he clocked her malevolent expression, he wished he had. No woman had ever pushed him as far. Wife or not, no one would make threats concerning his son. Yet hitting her went against everything he stood for. Things would have to change.

He had only been with Jackie for seven years, having met her at his twenty-seventh birthday bash. She was stunning back then, a natural beauty. Her confidence was what had attracted him to her. The party was a big affair with friends and wannabe mates all trying to buddy up to him. He had money and a reputation, but he wasn’t stupid; he kept only a handful of close friends who were his business colleagues.

Then Jackie arrived with his brother’s girlfriend. Tall and slim, with blonde waves tumbling down her back and shrouded in assurance, she swanned over to him and gave him a birthday kiss. He remembered the sweet smell of some expensive perfume, and how he’d decided to engage in conversation. Little did he know that all the bull she plied him with that night was just to get that fucking great diamond on her finger. She was a wild spirit and had no intention of sticking to one man. Her subtle make-up and sweet expression were deliberately aimed at getting what she wanted. She wasn’t sweet at all, but by the time he realized what she was all about, he was up the aisle saying ‘I do’ and little Ricky was on his way.

He should have listened to his head when he saw the subtle changes; after all, no one can hide their real persona for very long. Perhaps it was the age gap, for she never settled down, always wanting to party and get pissed. But he was firm and put a stop to her antics with frustrating consequences. So she turned to drinking indoors during the day.

She got to her feet and shot him an acid glare. ‘You, Mike, will wish you’d never done that.’ She wobbled away, back to their bedroom, leaving him wound up and needing another stiff drink.

As he made his way down the stairs, his phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He checked his watch; it was 2.30 a.m.

It was Eric, his brother. ‘What’s up? It’s fucking early doors, mate.’

‘You best get back over to the lock-up. We’ve discovered something you might wanna see.’

Mike ran his big thick hands through his loose waves and then scratched his bristles.

‘Okay, mate. Give me half an hour.’

He didn’t ask what. He didn’t like to talk too much on the phone, just in case. He dashed back up the stairs two at a time and retrieved his shirt from the back of the chair in the spare room. Jackie was quiet, her mumbling and cursing having died off, so he assumed she’d gone back to sleep. Outside was deathly quiet. There wasn’t even a sign of a breeze. So, when he clicked the key fob to his Porsche, the sound of the locks releasing, although expected, still made him jump. He was tired, the lack of sleep taking its toll on his nerves. As he drove towards the entrance, the gates automatically opened. Deciding to have one last look in the rear-view mirror, he gave a sigh of relief. Apart from the outside lights, the house was in total darkness.

Good, she was still asleep.

His lock-up was in the middle of West Kingsdown in Kent, cleverly hidden in a place called Knatts Valley.

Centuries ago, the area had been divided up into plots of land for smallholdings. Over the years, the residents had turned the dwellings into large houses with stables or workshops, and some even had log cabins for holiday retreats. Through the middle ran a narrow lane, hardly wide enough for two cars, so if any police vehicles travelled along it, the residents, most of whom lived on the wrong side of the law, would be instantly notified. The lane was dark and just up ahead was the turning onto his land. From the front it looked like two large log cabins, and behind was a workshop cleverly disguised as an average-looking garage. Smaller cabins surrounded it, and so for anyone passing through, it would appear as a holiday let. However, it was a carefully secured place of business that only a very select few knew about.

He turned off his headlights and parked behind the first log cabin and slowly crept towards the side door of the workshop. He had a gun in his hand, in case this was a set-up. But then he saw Eric appear and look around. Eric spotted Mike and waved his hand, beckoning him to come in.

From the outside, the lock-up looked small, but once inside, the space seemed to open up. In fact, it was large enough to house twelve cars, a small office, and a kitchenette. The building was lined with steel shutters inside and almost impossible to break into.

There in the middle of the room, under a spotlight, bound and gagged, was Travis, their new recruit. Surrounding him were overwhelmingly daunting men. Willie Ritz – tall, lanky, mean, and hard-faced – Ted Stafford or Staffie for short – who looked as though he was made of plasticine, with a bobbly nose and oversized biceps, and Lou Baker – who looked a little like Johnny Depp – greeted Mike with a nod. Then they looked at Eric to announce the news.

Mike put his gun back inside the belt of his trousers and kept his eyes on Travis. In a firm and controlled voice, he said, ‘So, Eric, what’s all this about?’

Eric was livelier than Mike, but being only ten months apart, they could have passed for twins when they were younger. Mike, the eldest, commanded more respect and his cool demeanour earned it. Whilst this six-foot-seven giant, weighing around twenty-five stone, was an intimidating sight, it was the intensity of his eyes that could strike terror into anyone who was brazen enough to front him out. Eric, though, didn’t have the same presence about him, being slightly shorter and with a body that had once been muscular but had now turned to fat. Even his voice lacked authority, and when he spoke, he did so in a less measured way, often allowing his mouth to run away with him.

History was repeating itself. Like their parents, who had created the Regans’ firm, Mike and his friends were also inseparable. As close as brothers, they worked together, played together, and more importantly trusted each other. Their criminal activities had earned them enough to move away from Bermondsey and they now lived in the cleaner surrounds of Kent.

By the time the boys reached adulthood, they were notorious. Living the straight road, paying taxes, and working for a boss just didn’t appeal, not when they saw how their parents could earn a banker’s annual salary from a single overnight job. So it stood to reason that they would all follow in their fathers’ footsteps – and what better teachers than parents? Like being an apprentice, they learned the art of safecracking, ballistics, reading architectural drawings, and negotiating. As for understanding the tools of the trade for crafting their work, they were masters at extracting information and handing out punishment.

It was a rule that they had each other’s backs, come what may, like their fathers before them. They wouldn’t trust anyone outside the firm, especially once they were taking on bigger moneymaking crimes, like the import and export of firearms. Inexplicably, however, their activities had somehow come to the attention of the authorities.

‘I think I’m right in assuming you’ve found the grass then, Eric?’

Eric gave his brother a cocky smirk and a nod. ‘Oh, Mikey, my dear bruvver, I’ve found a lot more than that.’

Mike was intrigued. ‘Oh yeah, and what’s that then, Eric?’

‘Well, ya see, we were under the assumption that there was a little spy in the camp, an informant for the Ol’ Bill. But we were wrong, Mikey. See, Travis ’ere, ain’t working for the Filth …’ He kicked Travis’s chair. ‘Are ya, Travis?’

Mike inclined his head and stepped closer. ‘Oh, is that so?’

The others were holding their breath, waiting to see if on this occasion Mike would lose the plot and rip Travis limb from limb. But they should really have known that was unlikely, given his track record. Mike was a strategic thinker, rarely losing his cool. He had twin gifts. Whilst there were not many men who could take Mike on one-on-one, he also had an innate craftiness about him. It had eased them out of trouble on many occasions, enhancing their firm’s credibility.

Even his father and so-called uncles saw him as a force to be reckoned with. He’d always been the same. As a ten-year-old, he seemed to have more balls than the others and was lethal with his fists or any weapon at hand.

Nevertheless, their new venture took them into the realm of possible breaches of national security – it was Mike and his firm’s biggest challenge to date – and their major concern was MI5 becoming nosy.

Their latest worrying matter was one of their more secure lock-ups in London getting turned over by the police. The cars were ready to be stripped and refitted, with all the gun parts carefully concealed in every orifice inside the car panels, before they were shipped to Ireland. But, two days ago, the police had surrounded the lock-up and turned the place over.

So there had to be a snitch. Luckily for Mike, though, his own inside man, DI Evans, had tipped them off. Mike was livid because that little tip-off had cost him more than the poxy guns were worth. Nevertheless, it had saved him from serving a big lump inside. But there was still a problem. There was a grass. And it wouldn’t be the Irish buyers because they had no idea where the lock-ups were. And in any case, why would they want to sell the Regan firm down the river? It was a complete head-scratcher.

‘So, who are ya working for, then, if it ain’t the Filth?’ asked Mike, in a menacing tone that would put the wind up any grown man.

Travis knew he was small fry in comparison to the men surrounding him. Right now, he was shitting himself. He knew it was over: there was no mercy showing on Mike’s face. Those icy, emotionless grey eyes made his bowels move of their own accord.

It was true. Mike did have a look that was like death calling, a deadpan steely expression that unnerved many a man.

Staffie, the shortest of the five men, at five foot seven, with no neck, and a goofy, childlike grin, stepped forward holding a torque wrench. ‘’Ere, Mikey, ya don’t wanna get ya hands all messy, now do ya, mate?’

Mike put his hand up. ‘Hang on a minute. Before I smash the granny out of this geezer, I wanna know all the facts.’

Staffie nodded, chuckled, and then placed the wrench back on the tool rack.

‘Take that gag outta his mouth. I think he wants to talk.’

Travis’s eyes glistened as he nervously clocked the blowtorch that was resting on the long wooden bench. Terrifying thoughts pierced his mind. Jesus! A childhood memory of catching his arm over the steaming kettle reminded him of the pain, but he knew that would be nothing in comparison to a naked flame. He swooned and felt the warm liquid run down his leg. Totally consumed by fear, his muscles became flaccid and his bowels relaxed. He wasn’t cut out for this work and stupidly he hadn’t looked beyond the actuality of getting caught. However, now he was facing the consequences head-on.

Willie Ritz, the big meathead with the scar that ran from his forehead down to his chin, cut the gag from Travis using his diver’s knife, his favourite tool. None of the firm ever understood why it was still his weapon of choice, even after an older gang of thugs had taken it from him in a street brawl and run that evil-looking jagged blade down his face. But Willie still turned that knife around in his hand and even kissed the blade. As tall as Mike, but with less meat on his bones, Willie liked to snort cocaine, especially if any violence was to be had. It raised his level of anger and sent him screwy and a little unpredictable. Whenever Willie’s eyes were like saucers, and glared a piercing blue colour, Mike knew his friend had gone over the top, and so he would remove the supply that Willie kept in a pouch shoved down the front of his trousers. Only Mike could get away with it – no one else would dare.

With trepidation, Travis took a few deep breaths and stared wide-eyed, waiting for the inevitable.

‘I think you’d better tell me what you’ve been up to, and, more importantly, who the fuck for.’ Mike didn’t shout or even raise his voice.

Travis looked at Eric and then back at Mike. ‘No, listen, please, ya got me all wrong. I, er … I was just taking pictures for meself, no one else, I swear.’ He knew it sounded stupid. Really, he had no excuse.

Mike looked at his brother. ‘Well, Eric, this prick ain’t playing ball, so you’d best tell me what happened.’

‘Gladly. We all thought that the Ol’ Bill were tipped off, yeah, and I dunno, I just had this sneaky suspicion that it was this little weasel, and so I followed the rat to his house. But, see, Mikey, Travis, ’ere, ain’t too clever. He left his phone right there on the dashboard of his car with the doors unlocked. So, I thought I’d just have a little butcher’s, ya know, to see if the little fucker had any numbers that I would recognize. Well, fuck me, lo and behold, on the screen was a photo of the London lock-up, and so, after ’aving a mooch through the other pics, I found what I can only describe as incriminating evidence. So, I ran in through his back door and there he was in the kitchen, taking his boots off. The shit-licker only had one of our guns tucked inside his fucking Timberlands.’

Mike looked back at Travis, who, in turn, looked as though he was going to pass out. ‘So, how do you know he ain’t working for the Filth, Eric? ’Cos I’m guessing you ain’t completely sure on that score.’

Eric smiled confidently. ‘I ripped the shirt off his back and he wasn’t wired. I tied him up, and the boys and me ransacked his pad. There was no sign of the Ol’ Bill being involved. So, we shoved him into the boot and brought him back here.’

Mike shook his head. ‘Eric, Eric, you have a lot to learn. I dunno, I still think he’s an informant, but I’ll let Travis tell me the facts.’ He turned back to Travis with a sneer. ‘You will, won’t ya, Travis? You’ll be only too pleased to tell me bruvver ’ere exactly who you are working for, eh?’

Willie sniggered. He knew exactly how Mike worked and braced himself for claret flowing everywhere when Mike set to work on their captive.

Travis watched through eyes of terror, as Mike removed his own shoes, his shirt, and then his trousers. ‘Hold me clobber, Eric. I’ve just had them dry-cleaned, and, well, I don’t want them stained, do I?’

Like a boxer ready for the ring, Mike stood in just his underwear. His legs were as thick as tree trunks and his chest was as wide as a standard doorframe.

‘Staffie, hand me a screwdriver. It’s only fitting, since this prick wants to screw me to the fucking wall.’

Travis let out a high-pitched scream like a girl. Then he began to wriggle and writhe about as if he’d been electrocuted. Mike looked at the others and laughed. ‘Fuck me, I ain’t even touched the knobhead.’

‘No, no, all right, I’ll tell ya. Please don’t hurt me, pleeaasse,’ he begged. The tears were streaming down his face and snot was bubbling from his nose.

‘Getting covered in claret, it’s pretty disgusting, don’t ya think?’

Travis nodded furiously. ‘Please, Mike. I’ll tell ya everything ya want to know. Just don’t torture me.’

‘Torture? Who said anything about torture? No, Travis, it’s called negotiation. Or do I mean interrogation? Well, let’s hear it, then. Who’s paying you?’ He tilted his head to the side and gave a sarcastic grin.

Gulping back the fear, Travis thought about the firm he was just about to grass up. Either way, he was a dead man. If only he hadn’t dated the sister. But how could he not? She was such a good fuck he couldn’t get inside her knickers quickly enough. And then he’d had to prove himself worthy of her affections. Really, though, it was her brothers he needed to impress. He was sucked in; before he knew it, they had him planted in among the Regans’ firm. He wasn’t cut out for all this hard-core bollocks.

He stared at Mike’s lifeless eyes, took another gulp of air, and said, ‘Harry Harman.’ Then he lowered his head and waited for the backlash.

Mike looked at each man with a deep furrowed frown, searching for some explanation. They either shrugged or curled down their lips. No one had a clue who this Harry Harman was.

‘Mikey, do you want the screwdriver or the mallet? What’s ya flavour?’ asked Staffie, now eager to see the carnage.

With his eyes blinking away the sweat, Travis peered up and winced. ‘Look, Mike, I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you everything. Just … please, don’t use a tool.’

In an instant, Mike snatched the screwdriver from Staffie and plunged it into Travis’s left kneecap. No one saw it coming, not even Travis. The pain was slow at first, until it reached every nerve in his leg and forced a demonic scream to leave his mouth. Lathered in sweat and writhing, he couldn’t clutch his wound because his hands were tied to the chair. Mike waited for the blood-curdling cries to die down before he handed back the bloodied screwdriver.

‘Mike, please, please don’t torture me. I’ll tell you everything, I swear …’ His cries tailed off, as his head flopped down from the unbearable pain.

‘And, Travis, me old son, I am a man of my word. Ya see, that weren’t torture, that was a dig. Now then, when you get yaself composed and stop the blubbering, I’m ready to listen.’

Eric started to laugh but was instantly silenced. ‘Shut it, Eric. This is no laughing matter, and you, ya silly git, took this rat on the payroll.’ He shot his brother a deadly glare and bit his lip.

Eric was on the point of defending his actions. Being chastised in front of the men was a piss-take. Furthermore, he wanted to be seen as an equal in command. Ideally, he would have loved to have been the main man, but Mike took that position. He always had – at school, at work, and at home. But it was worse when it came to women. Eric’s mind wandered, as it often did, to the one woman he’d wanted more than anyone – except Mike had got in there first. He was furious that when he’d expressed an interest in the woman, his brother had then dated her himself. Mike insisted he had already been seeing her, but Eric never believed that for a minute. However, he had the last laugh when she left the country, and Mike ended up with Jackie the tramp instead of his one true love.

‘So, Travis, from the beginning, what the fuck are the Harmans doing nosing around my business?’

Travis tried desperately to put up with the pain and concentrate before Mike stabbed his other knee. The Harmans had sworn they had his back. Come what may, he wouldn’t get hurt and when the business came their way, he would have a hefty cut of it. All he had to do was to find out where the lock-ups were, who their supplier was, and to record the evidence. The rest was up to them. Now, he wished he’d never agreed to any of it. It was no secret as to who he was doing over or how hard these men were.

The history of the Regans went back decades. The old man, Arthur, ran the firm with an iron fist. With his crew, they controlled the streets in Bermondsey.

Mike and Eric were Arthur’s pride and joy. He brought them up to be a pair of chips off the old block, and they were – to the extent that they were even more fierce and reckless. Learning everything they knew from their father and his contemporaries, so they wouldn’t have to learn their criminal trade within the walls of Wormwood Scrubs, it was almost an early baptism, except it began when they were aged thirteen and twelve respectively.

Travis often drank in the local haunts frequented by Eric and Mike. For years, he was just there mooching in the background, dealing a bit of cocaine and weed or selling knocked-off merchandise. It was Eric who had taken him on board, totally unaware that he was colluding with the Harmans. Yet, Eric wasn’t as sharp as Mike, and had royally fucked up this time, by not doing his homework on Travis.

‘So, tell me then, Travis, because I ain’t got all night, see. Are you gonna be the problem or the solution? It’s your choice.’

‘Harry Harman wanted me to take pictures of your lock-ups and stuff.’

Mike’s blank expression spoke volumes. Travis had to put more meat on the bones to satisfy Mike’s hunger for information.

‘I was seeing their kid sister, Paris. I swear, I didn’t want to get involved, but they … Oh my God, they’re gonna fucking kill me …’

‘No, they ain’t, Travis, because—’

No sooner had Eric opened his mouth than Mike spat, ‘Shut it! Eric, I do the talking, if ya don’t mind.’

Eric took a step back and bowed his head to hide his clenched teeth. It was outrageous. Mike was really getting in his face now.

‘Sorry about that, Travis. You were saying?’

‘I didn’t want to work for them, but they saw it as payback for seeing Paris. They said I owed them for taking liberties, and the only way to pay them back was to take poxy photos … That’s all I know, I swear.’

Mike held his hand up for Travis to stop talking. He paced the floor and then spun around. ‘Staffie, give me that screwdriver.’

In a sudden panic, Travis screamed, ‘Please! No! They know all your lock-ups and how you’re transporting the guns.’ His breathing was fast, and he was tripping over his words. They left his mouth like a pisshead on the run with his pants down.

Mike twirled the screwdriver around with his huge fingers. ‘You missed out the part about our supplier, Travis.’

Travis shook his head. ‘No, they don’t know, Mike. I swear, because I don’t even know.’ His round puppy-dog eyes looked over at Eric, urging him to say something.

‘Is that right, Eric?’ demanded Mike.

Eric snapped out of his sulk and mulled over the past events, trying to work out if there was any way that Travis would have known. He thought he’d been careful. But, had he been careful enough, though, by Mike’s exacting standards?

‘Yes, Mike. That’s right.’

Mike wasn’t a man to take unnecessary risks. ‘What I wanna know is this: what the fuck are they intending to do with that information, Travis? Oh, and don’t leave anything out. I want to know every last detail or … Well, let’s just say I can replace those fucking guns with your body parts.’

Travis eagerly nodded. ‘Oh, please. Come on, Mike. I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me, would they?’

Mike held his hands up. ‘Tell me this, then. Did the Harmans grass my lock-ups to the Filth?’

Travis nodded. ‘Yes. They want you outta the picture, by any means, even if it means grassing. I swear, if I knew then what I know now, I would never have got involved.’

‘Get the man a drink, Eric. It’s gonna be a long night. Travis, I want everything you have on these Harmans.’

Chapter 2

Jackie was nursing a bruised cheek and drowning her sorrows with another large glass of vodka, disguised with orange juice.

Cooking up another storm, she eagerly waited for Mike to get up from his bed and get on his hands and knees to apologize and offer to send her off on a shopping spree with a fat wad of banknotes. Besides, as she saw it, he owed her big time. Little did she know that Mike wasn’t even in the house.

Fifteen minutes later, as she was about to pour another drink, he appeared in the kitchen, looking washed out.

‘Oh, been on a bender, ’ave ya? Well, you best ’ave a fucking big bunch of flowers ’cos this shiner is not going away anytime soon. And if you think I’m gonna say I walked into a wall, you’re very much mistaken!’

Mike was exhausted, his mind now riddled with worry. Getting an earbashing from Jackie was the last thing he needed.

‘Jackie, just shut it!’

She jumped down from the kitchen bar-stool and stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Shut it? Fucking shut it? Have you looked at my face? Well, ’ave ya?’ she screamed like a woman possessed.

Mike lowered his head. At that precise moment, he wished it was Jackie sitting on the chair with a screwdriver through her eye.

‘Don’t you dare walk away from me!’ she screamed, chasing him across the marble floor. ‘You ain’t getting away with it. I swear, Mike, you’re gonna pay.’

In a fit of rage, Mike spun around, grabbed his wife around the throat and squeezed, watching her eyes widen in fear. She struggled to remove his grip and could feel her throat closing up. Unable to breathe, she really believed she was going to die. Then he let go and she collapsed on the floor, retching and gasping.

‘One more word from your vile mouth and I’ll fucking annihilate you. Now, I’m going to my bed and you’re going to leave me in bloody peace, ’cos, Jackie, I’ve had enough of ya.’ His face was red and angry, and saliva had formed at the corners of his mouth.

She knew she’d lost this fight. As he walked away, she grabbed the bottle of vodka with shaky hands and poured it down her throat. Then she slammed the bottle down hard on the worktop. ‘Cunt!’ she said to herself.

Yet, deep down, she knew he wasn’t that bad – well, not to her and their son. There was many a woman who would give their right arm to be married to Mike Regan, living in a fuck-off mansion, with diamonds in the drawer and furs in the wardrobe. However, all she wanted – ever wanted – was his attention. She craved it. Life should be about her. She felt she’d earned it, coming from nothing.

So motherhood was a complete fuck-up. She missed the nights out in the clubs, being treated like royalty just because she was Mike’s bird. She only stopped taking the pill because she thought he was getting a wandering eye. Really, she didn’t want kids, end of. Pregnancy would ruin her very sexy body. Yet as soon as her son was born, she saw the end of the flash socializing and all the attention that had been focused on her.

Mike had taken a new stance on life. At last, he was settling down. The trips to their villa in Spain were spent building sandcastles and going out on their boat; he was totally absorbed in their son. The neglect, as she saw it, turned to resentment, and so she began to despise the boy. He looked at her with either sorrow or hatred, but either expression grated on her. Those sweet words that Mike had said to her before the birth were now reserved for their son, and the truth be known, she was jealous and did everything to draw her husband’s interest back to her.

It started with the boob job because she caught him looking at a woman with bigger tits than hers. Then she turned her attention to her lips because she assumed he liked that sort of thing. However, all the trips to the beauty salon for Botox and fillers made not one iota of difference: he only had eyes for his boy. When the parties at their home became tame, she tried to liven them up by making cocktails and encouraging the men to drink. But when she downed a few herself, that just infuriated Mike, and so he put a stop to those too.

So now she saw herself drowning in a humdrum way of life. And her wild behaviour became a major source of friction between Mike and herself. His sharp digs irritated her. ‘How fucking old are ya?’ he would say, or ‘Grow the fuck up and be a mother. You ain’t on Jeremy fucking Kyle.’

If only he knew how much she wanted out of this prison called adulthood. It was purgatory for a young hot-blooded woman like her, who craved sex and a heady lifestyle. For Christ’s sake, she was only fucking twenty-six.

Just as she was about to reach for another hidden bottle of vodka, the doorbell rang. Without looking through the spyhole, she opened the door. It was Tracey, Eric’s girlfriend.

‘Cor, Jackie, the state of ya face. What’s ’appened?’ asked Tracey, following Jackie into the kitchen. Plonking her new Gucci bag on the floor, Tracey clambered up onto the bar-stool, preparing herself for the gossip.

‘That bastard up there, clumped me one last night.’ She tried to force a tear; at least she could expect some sympathy from her sister-in-law-to-be.

Tracey looked as made-up and fake as Jackie. Perhaps more so. She’d also undergone the boob job, hair extensions, and lip fillers. And yet, unlike Mike, Eric preferred his birds tanned and toned. She flicked her long bleached mane over her shoulder, placed her hands on the granite worktop, showing off her fake fingernails, and gazed down with pride at the tiny crystals she’d recently had glued on. ‘So, what’s ’appened then, Jack?’

Jackie poured them both a drink and sniffed back the fake tear. ‘I dunno, Trace. He ain’t the same. I reckon he’s got another bird. Ya know what it’s like. Fucking give ’em a kid and then they ’ave ya tied down and go off looking for a fresh bit of skirt.’

Tracey sipped the bitter vodka and poured more orange juice to dilute the rough taste. ‘Oh, I dunno, Jackie. Mike ain’t like that. He’s probably got a lot on his mind.’

Jackie gave her an evil glare. ‘And how the fuck would you know, Tracey?’

She was annoyed that her so-called friend was now sticking up for the enemy, as she saw him.

‘Oh, come on, Jackie. We all know what his line of work is! Perhaps he’s having a bit of bother.’

With a screwed-up face, Jackie spat back, ‘Who cares about his business! Look at me bleedin’ face. I didn’t do that meself, did I?’

Tracey raised her eyebrow as if to say ‘Who knows?’

‘What? D’ya think I’m lying, then?’

‘Wind ya neck in, Jack. We all know you like a drink. I’ve seen you so outta ya nut, you’ve fallen all over the show.’

Jackie shot her jaw forward in anger. ‘Don’t come it, Tracey. I know your game. Ya come in ’ere all done up, with ya tits hanging out and half ya arse showing. Hoping I wasn’t in, were ya?’

Tracey slammed the glass down, nearly shattering it. ‘Now, you listen, Jackie. I didn’t come ’ere to bloody row, and I don’t like what you’re saying. But I’ll not be surprised if he does go elsewhere. I mean, look at the state of ya. And, Jackie, you’re hardly Mother Teresa. He ain’t blind, love.’

Those words were like a red rag to a bull. Jackie launched herself off the bar-stool, and on her way to taking Tracey down, she managed to snatch a clump of her hair, pulling her heavily to the floor. Tracey yelped like an injured dog. She had hit her knee hard and was in absolute agony. Her friend’s shrieks of pain brought Jackie back to reality. But before she had a chance to say she was sorry, Tracey pushed her away. Grabbing her bag and hobbling towards the door in her noisy stiletto shoes, she shot Jackie an evil glare.

‘Fucking bad move, bitch,’ she growled.

The door slammed shut and the silence left a buzzing in Jackie’s ear. ‘Cunt,’ she mumbled to herself once more. She’d done it again, and this time she’d pissed off Tracey, her sidekick. She stared at the clump of hair on the floor and felt sick. Yet more disturbing was the threatening tone in Tracey’s voice. Holding the bottle of vodka over the sink, she attempted to pour the last of the evil liquid away, but her hands shook so violently, she just couldn’t do it. Instead, she poured it neat down her throat and swanned out to the garden to soak up the sun.

* * *

By the time Mike had got up from his bed, it was four o’clock in the afternoon. He pulled back the curtains and looked at his wife sprawled out on a sunlounger in the hot sun. He shook his head and thought about Ricky. He would be home from school any minute and would have to face a drunken mother with no cupcakes and sweet words, just drivel and sarcasm. Once he was showered and had climbed into his tracksuit, he went downstairs.

He found Ricky in the lounge, still in his uniform, and Sacha sitting there, looking all forlorn.

‘Dad!’ screeched Ricky, as he leaped from the floor and ran into his father’s arms. Sacha gave him a half-smile and stood up to make her exit.

‘I’m sorry, Mike. You know I love Ricky, don’t you?’

Mike held his son, stroking his back, as his son nestled into his neck. ‘I know, Sacha. Don’t worry, I’ll sort something. You’ve been good to me and Ricky and I won’t forget it. ’Ere, take this.’ He pulled a wad of fifties from his tracksuit bottoms. ‘Take yaself on holiday.’

Sacha looked at him open-mouthed. ‘I can’t take all that.’

Mike’s eyes softened.

‘Babe, call it compensation.’

‘Thank you, Mike.’

He winked and nodded. ‘Don’t worry, Sach. I’ll take care of Ricky. That heartless sket won’t be left alone with him, not if I can help it.’ He put Ricky back on the floor and patted his backside. ‘Go on, Ricky. You get on with your homework.’

He headed to the kitchen with Sacha on his heels. ‘I’m gonna put her in a rehab place, and if she refuses, then she can fuck off. I ain’t messing around anymore. She might be my wife, but Ricky is my son, and he comes first. It’s a mighty shame she doesn’t see it that way. Anyway, you get yourself off home and don’t be worrying.’

Sacha stared out into the garden and noticed Jackie burning up from the sun. ‘Er, do you think you should get her in? Christ, she looks like a beetroot.’

Mike chuckled. ‘Nah, let her fry. It’ll give her something else to whine about. Jesus, she’s one ugly mare. Ya know, she was a good-looking kid a few years ago, but now look at her. She’d give Jackie Stallone a run for her money.’

Sacha laughed. ‘Oh, Mike, come on. She don’t look that bad. She’s fashionably attractive.’

Mike looked away. ‘Not my thing, I’m afraid.’

Sacha felt awkward: she had her wages and there was no reason to stay. Mike smiled sweetly and showed her to the door.

* * *

After playing hide-and-seek, Mike took his son off to a select restaurant just down the road from his huge Kent pad. The staff almost stood to attention and quickly tripped over themselves to have him seated and his food served. A few customers smiled and nodded out of respect. Just as their food arrived, one of his phones rang. It was Jackie, screaming obscenities, and in among all the shouting and bitching, she never once asked if Ricky was with him. With one swift movement, he dropped the phone into the jug of water and laughed.

Ricky, with a straw in his mouth, sucking on a smoothie, looked up and smiled. ‘Was that Mummy?’

Mike would have denied it, but he’d gone past pretending Jackie was kind at heart. Even as young as Ricky was, he knew she wasn’t a good mother.

Shortly afterwards, his other phone – his business one – rang. It was Eric. ‘All right, Mike. All done and delivered.’

Mike smiled. That will teach the dirty fuckers.

* * *

It wasn’t until early the next morning that the phone rang again. This time, he didn’t smile; instead, he flared his nostrils and took a deep breath. ‘Are you fucking sure, Eric? How do you know it was the Harmans?’

Eric was pacing the floor. Maybe they’d gone too far this time; after all, they knew very little about the firm.

‘Mikey, what are we gonna do? Staffie loved that dog. I mean who does that, kills a dog, eh?’

Mike chewed the inside of his mouth. ‘Eric, it ain’t about the bleedin’ dog, you fucking muppet, it’s a statement. They’re throwing down the gauntlet after what we did to Travis.’

Eric felt uneasy. The description of the dog’s dismembered body was horrific, but then, so was Travis by the time they’d finished with him. Mike had used Travis’s own phone to take the photos of the aftermath and returned it to the man’s car. He’d then texted Harry Harman from Travis’s phone saying, photo evidence in my car. After he removed his prints from the phone, he left.

‘I don’t fucking like it, Mikey. I mean, what’s next, and, more to the point, who’s next?’

Mike was livid. ‘Now, you listen to me, ya great pussy. Get a grip. I’ll smash the fucking life out of each and every one of those cunts, if they so much as hurt a hair on anyone’s head. Call a meeting at mine. We need to make a plan. I ain’t taking this lying down.’

Eric felt sick. ‘All right. See you in an hour.’

* * *

Ricky was up early and trying to put his school uniform on, while Jackie was still in bed. The sight of his little boy engulfed in innocence, with his hair sticking up and his shoes on the wrong feet, melted Mike’s heart. Then he had a sudden sickening thought and shuddered. ‘You ain’t going to school today, buddy. You’re going on a trip with Mummy.’

Ricky looked up and smiled. ‘Are you coming, Daddy?’

Mike picked him up and hugged him. ‘Not right away, my boy. In a few days, I’ll join you.’

The sweet smile adorning Ricky’s face drooped, and Mike almost sensed the fear. But, right now, his son was safer with Jackie than … he shuddered to think.

‘Jack, get ya arse down ’ere, now!’ he screamed up the stairs.

Jackie had gone to bed with a splitting headache and her face red raw from the sun. She could hear him shouting and tried to focus, but it was all a blur. She felt an uncomfortable throbbing covering her chest and her cheeks, and the banging in her head was relentless; it was a reminder that she’d fallen asleep in the garden. She sat upright and winced with the various pains. Then, she heard him call her again.

‘All right, I’m coming!’ she screamed back. She wasn’t in the mood to drive Ricky to school. For one thing, she looked an absolute mess, and for another, all she wanted was to go back to sleep. After grabbing her satin robe from the end of the bed, she wrapped it around herself and slowly descended the stairs. With every step, she felt dizzy and had to hold the banister to stop herself from being sick on the spot.

Mike was staring at her in disgust. ‘Fucking state of you. Jesus, you look like someone’s dug you up from a grave.’

‘Bollocks, Mike.’ She gave him a death glare. ‘What’s all the screaming about, anyway?’

‘Listen, Jackie, and I mean fucking listen.’ He was narrow-eyed and deadly serious.

Jackie stopped in her tracks. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Get ya bags packed. You and Ricky are off to Spain. I want you to go to the airport and wait for the next flight. And tell no one where you’re going.’

She rubbed her eyes and tried to straighten her hair. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked again.

Mike didn’t have time to discuss business – not that he would anyway – but, now, time was of the essence. He needed his son out of the country.

‘Jackie, for once in your life, shut the fuck up, get the bags packed, and just go, will ya? I’ll join you when I can.’

‘Well, you’ll have to give me a few hours. I need to go to the hairdressers and the—’

Before she could finish, he aggressively snatched her arm and pulled her close. ‘You’ll get those bags packed and be ready to get on the road in fifteen minutes!’

She knew then she couldn’t push him any further. Something serious was going down.

‘All right. Get off me. ’Ave you booked a flight?’ Her pitch was high and sarcastic.

Mike let go of her and snarled, ‘You’re one useless bitch. Just go to the airport and book the next flight, and if there ain’t any today, then stay in a hotel until there is one! You’ve got the credit cards. Now, use your poxy pea-sized brain and get your arse into gear.’ His deep voice, his spiteful tone, and the urgency of the situation were enough to clear her head in an instant. Without another word, she left the room and headed upstairs.

Unbelievably, Jackie was out of the house with their bags in record time. But he was disappointed by how roughly she bundled Ricky into the back of her white Range Rover. Her shoving Ricky the way she did raised his anger. He wanted to drag her by her extensions and ram her face into the wall. But he couldn’t get caught up in yet another domestic; he needed his son away from here and soon. The thought of speaking to any woman like that, let alone hitting them, was just not part of his make-up. He always treated women with decency and respect and never in his life had he raised his hands to one – until the day before yesterday with Jackie. But there was no love left between them. The only reason he kept her around was because she was Ricky’s mother, or she would have been gone years ago.

* * *

A black Mercedes pulled up on the drive and out crawled Eric, looking the worse for wear; his designer stubble was hardly Calvin Klein, more scarecrow, and his wide light-blue eyes looked dark and sunken. Mike spotted right away that his brother was sweating from fear, a thin layer of greasy mist cladding his face. He had aged overnight.

‘Jesus, Mikey, that poor dog. Those Harmans are absolute animals!’ he said, as he paced the floor, running his hands through his hair.

‘Eric, listen. I won’t let no fucker lay a hand on you. Now, calm down.’

Eric looked up through his long dark lashes, and for a second, Mike felt sorry for him. ‘I’ve sent Ricky to Spain with Jackie, to keep them out of the way. Now, what about your Tracey? Maybe she should join them?’

‘You must be joking. Jackie only nearly scalped my bird, all ’cos she thought Tracey had her eye on you. No disrespect, Mikey, but Jackie was out of order.’

Mike put his arm around Eric’s shoulders. ‘Listen, it’s gonna be all right. And I know what ya mean about Jackie. She’s a cunt. Trouble is though, Eric, right now, she’s my cunt, and I still have to look out for her. Mark my words, though. Once this shit is over, if she doesn’t buck up her ideas, she’s gone for good.’

Eric’s ears pricked up. ‘What? Are ya gonna dump her?’

‘Yeah. She’s pushed me to backhanding her, and that ain’t me.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I don’t love her. In fact, I fucking detest her. I should never have got with her and just waited for … Oh, never mind. I’ve got my boy to think about now.’

They headed to the bar in the lounge and waited for the others to arrive.

Eric thought about his brother’s words and wondered if he was contemplating going back to his ex-girlfriend. He’d heard through the grapevine that she was in London. He’d been tempted to make a play for her himself, but this latest row between his brother and Jackie might have put paid to that pipedream. If Mike split with Jackie and knew his ex was back in London, he would no doubt go sniffing around.

‘Mikey, I think I want to jack it in. I wanna settle down, have a family, and start me own business.’

Mike chuckled. ‘Eric, you are a fucking bell-end sometimes. What ya gonna do? You ain’t even got a swimming certificate let alone a GCSE.’

Eric looked his brother over and felt that nagging sense of envy that seemed constantly to eat away at him. Being classed as second best to Mike was not how he saw his future.

‘Anyway, Eric, we have more serious matters at hand than career advice. ’Ave ya told Farver to stay in Florida? I want him outta the way an’ all. This is a war we are walking into, and I don’t know the level of their army … yet.’

Eric felt his stomach churn. ‘Yes. Dad’s staying another few weeks. Do you think they’ll do us over, one by one?’

The brandy hit the back of Mike’s throat and he swallowed twice. ‘No! I didn’t string up Travis’s cat, did I? I fucking strung him up. They wouldn’t have the guts to open up Staffie. Nah, they cowardly butchered his dog instead. Who the hell do they think they are, eh? The fucking Mafia?’

Within a few minutes, Lou and Willie arrived. Like Eric, they were unsettled. Staffie was the last to arrive and he was freaked out. Mike poured them all a drink, and they headed for the dining room where they used to play poker, until Jackie managed to ruin that too, with all her mad, drunken outbursts.

They sat around the table and Mike looked from one to the other; his sidekicks, they were. It was how it was from when they were born. His father, Arthur Regan, used to run the firm. Willie Ritz’s old man, Charlie, and Staffie’s father, Teddy, were the muscle in the crew. Then there was Lou Baker’s father, Big Lou, who was the brainy one. They were Bermondsey boys with a serious reputation and an eye for a good heist or for pavement work. Robbing the security vans, they ran the manor.

‘I don’t like it, Mikey,’ said Lou, always the voice of reason. ‘It’s not knowing enough about the Harmans that sits uneasily with me.’ His tone was softer than the others and slightly more refined. In fact, Lou looked the odd man out. With his passion for sharp suits and his blow-dried hair sitting neatly behind his ears, he was always immaculately turned out – and more like their lawyer than a villain.

Mike nodded. ‘Well, lads, that’s our first job. I want every single fucker in South-East London interrogated. I want everyone knowing that the Harmans are grasses. I’m gonna make damned sure that no other cunt will wanna work with them – that is, if they are attempting to take over the firms in our manor. These cowardly bastards will regret trying to bring me down, that’s for sure.’

Willie was almost chewing his lips off, his last toot of cocaine having left him agitated, as per usual. ‘I wanna know why they saw fit to grass our operation up to the Filth, and why us? I mean, we’ve got no beef with them. We don’t even know ’em!’

Mike snarled. ‘Well, I’ll get to the bottom of it, even if it means ripping a few heads off along the way!’

Staffie jumped to his feet. He was raging. ‘Well, I swear to God, if I get my hands on any of those Harman brothers, I’ll gut them like a piece of fish. I fucking loved that dog. ’Orrible, evil lowlifes they are!’ After a few deep breaths, he sat back down.

Mike poured him another brandy. ‘’Ere, Staffie. Drink this, mate, and calm yaself down.’

Mike looked at Staffie. He couldn’t remember a time when the man was young or had hair; he was always the big bruiser with a thick forehead and hands like bricks.

‘Right, get on ya phones now and call around. I want to know everything there is to know about these bastards.’

Chapter 3

Harry Harman entered his mother’s kitchen with a face like a smacked arse. Doris was in her pinafore, not that this was unusual. Making a sandwich, she turned to her eldest son. Briefly looking him up and down, with no hint of an expression, she carried on slicing the cheese.

‘Where’s the ol’ man?’ His deep voice was gruff from too many fags and he had another distinguishing characteristic – a fat neck to match his overlarge head. A spiteful-looking man, he glared with hate most of the time. Those cold eyes never softened, even when he watched his mother with her crooked fingers, riven with arthritis, pouring tea into her dainty bone china teacup. She was almost fifty-seven and yet the boys still had her running around after them, cooking and ironing their shirts. They had moved out years before, with huge drums of their own, yet they would still bring their washing home, treating her as though she was their slave.

‘I don’t know, Son. Shall I give him a message?’

Harry tutted. ‘Nah, I need to find him, like fucking now!’

Doris stopped buttering the bread and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Son, he’s probably up to no good with that old tom up on the Sandycroft estate, as well you know an’ all. So, I would be grateful if you didn’t come in ’ere and raise your voice at me,’ she said calmly, before she picked up the knife again and carried on buttering the bread.

Harry was seriously irritated. He knew his father was off somewhere having it away with the next tart who would put it out for him for a few drinks, but he felt somewhat guilty; he should have been more polite to his mother. Doris had a knack for winding him up with her righteous ways. She moaned constantly about their father and for good reason: he shagged everything in sight, and when he wasn’t doing that, he spent all their money on drink.

Whilst she could at least thank her lucky stars that her husband never belted her one, her mother always said she’d married beneath herself. And as the years rolled by, she wished things had been different. Hindsight was a wonderful thing but if only she’d never said ‘I do’ at the time. Trying as hard as she had, she’d been unable to change him or her sons for that matter. All three were a chip off their father’s block. And all of them had two things in common – a total lack of class and not a single brain cell between them.

Frank Harman wasn’t the best-looking man in South-East London, but he was okay – although he viewed himself as a Paul Newman double. If he was, Doris never saw it, and now he resembled the wrestler Big Daddy. Still, she’d made her bed and she had to damn well lie in it.

With three boys and a girl in the family, they sadly took on their father’s looks and build, with the possible exception of Scottie, who was the better looking of the bunch. Paris wasn’t too much of a looker without make-up, and certainly never had her mother’s sweet face.

Trying to keep up her posh voice and sophisticated ways only earned Doris the reputation for being a snob, and so, as the years dragged by, she became resigned to being put down at every turn by her insufferable children and humiliated by her villainous husband. Even her daughter had an air of arrogance about her, goaded on by the three boys. Their little princess, they called her. Doris wasn’t so blinded by her antics as the boys were, though. She was a class-A tart and was always causing unnecessary bother. Flashing her new tits and a five-hundred-pound pout, she was a spoiled little madam.

If only she could be proud of at least one of her four children, but the truth was she was ashamed of them. Totally. Frank was to blame. He brought them up to do whatever it took to earn a few bob, and there was nothing legitimate in it either. He laughed at their naughty antics, and so it was no surprise that they were all off the rails before they even reached primary school.

‘Where’s Paris?’ Harry asked, trying to moderate his angry tone.

Doris shrugged her shoulders. ‘How would I know? I haven’t seen her in a week. She’s probably staying over with that new fella of hers … Travis, I think his name is.’

Harry knew that wasn’t the case. He shuddered inside, remembering the picture of Travis in pieces. It wasn’t the bruises that turned his stomach but the fact that it was obvious he’d been gruesomely tortured. The photo on the phone had served as an ominous warning.

As thick-skinned as he was to violence and life itself, he felt uneasy. Looking back at his brother Vinnie’s feeble attempt at revenge made him want to crucify him. Gutting the dog was pathetic and instantly sent out the wrong message. He should have carved up Stafford, not the mutt: now that would have been a real warning not to mess with the Harmans.

‘I’ve made some fairy cakes. Would you like one?’ asked Doris, with a fake smile.

Harry thought he could see a trace of sarcasm on his mother’s sweet face, but, on reflection, he assumed he was just on edge and angry. ‘No, I need to get hold of Farver and Paris.’

Doris took her cup and plain cheese sandwich over to the kitchen table and sat herself down. Harry watched her, and for the first time in his life, he noticed how lonely and pitiful she looked as she ate her boring lunch at the Formica tabletop in her plain dress and pinny. The vision of Travis and then this image of innocence, his mother, oblivious to her son’s antics – he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it if the Regans hurt her. She wasn’t like them. ‘Muvver, can you go and stay with your sister for a while?’

Holding the china teacup in her hand, Doris looked up at her son and just stared.

Harry was uneasy. ‘It’s just safer for the moment, Muvver.’ He softened his words.

‘Have you forgotten, Harry, my sister passed away six months ago? You were all invited to the funeral … but I guess you were too busy to go.’

Harry swallowed hard. He did remember her mentioning something, and yet he’d forgotten about it. He’d been too busy at the time – although he wouldn’t have gone anyway. He hardly knew his aunt. ‘Well, have ya got a friend you can stay with?’ His guilt now turned to annoyance.

‘No, Son, I don’t have any friends because your father put a stop to having any of those! Anyway, why do I need to get away? What trouble are you in now?’ Her tone was bitter.

‘Never you mind, Muvver. Just do yourself a favour and get away for a bit.’

‘No, Harry.’

With a deep furrowed frown, Harry glared. ‘Listen, Muvver, I ain’t fucking about. Ya need to get away from the house—’ Before he could finish, Doris jumped up from the table.

‘No, Harry! You listen to me for once in your life. I’m sick to the back teeth of being bullied … yes, bullied, by all of you. As for that useless father of yours, I’ve been pushed around by him for far too long, and I will not take it from you too. So, take note, sunshine, I’m not going anywhere. This is my home and not yours, so if anyone is leaving it’s you, Harry. Christ Almighty, I’ve had years of hiding from the aftermath of your troubles or dodging the police. Well, no more!’ She sat back down and took another sip of tea.

Harry sighed in frustration. Of course, she was right. For the first time in his life, he looked at her for who she really was – a downtrodden, washed-out woman. He pulled a chair out and sat opposite. ‘Muvver, I’ve a flat down the coast. It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s okay. Why don’t I take you there for a short holiday?’ His voice was almost sweet; it was so unlike his usual gruff tone.

Doris gave him a wry grin. ‘Harry, please stop taking my aloofness as stupidity. I’m fully aware of what you’re up to. Since when did you do charm? If you think offering a trip down to the seaside is doing me a favour, you’re very much mistaken. I know the truth and so do you. Like all of you, if I was to get hurt due to your antics, then none of you would be able to live with yourselves because you would be eaten up with guilt!’ she said, with a raised voice.

‘Muvver!’

‘No, Harry, just shut up, please! A holiday down the coast? I never even knew you had a holiday home. I haven’t been to the coast in over twenty damned years. You only want me to go now because it suits you. Me, invited to have a break? It’s ridiculous.’

Those words, coming from the mouth of this mild-mannered lady stunned Harry. And the look in her eyes told him she was not going to put up with him pushing her around. The speed at which he jumped up from the table caused the chair to topple over. Before she’d a chance to say another word, he left, slamming the door behind him.

The cold stark reality of the present situation made Doris so tearful. Her dear sister’s departure from this life was such a travesty. Doris deeply missed their weekly chats on the phone and the odd weekend trip up to Bath. It shouldn’t be this way; she should have been able to sit and share a pot of tea with her own daughter and chat, but Paris was just like the others – all out for herself. Staring down at the china teacup, she heard nothing but the quiet humming sound of the fridge, her only company. It was a stark contrast to when her kids had lived at home; the constant loud noise had been unbearable. They never spoke – they always shouted.

Just as she stood up to wash up the cup and plate, the back door burst open and in stormed Paris. Usually, Doris would greet her, offering lunch or a drink, but not today. Today, she wanted nothing more than to be alone and pretend she’d never had a family.

‘All right, Muvver?’ she said, as she plonked an oversized bag on the table. ‘I’ve got a few bits that need to be hand-washed. Put the kettle on. I’m fucking parched.’

Doris ignored her and continued with the washing up.

Paris rifled through her Louis Vuitton tote bag looking for her phone, still annoyed that Travis hadn’t returned her calls. In among the make-up, hairbrushes, and hairspray, she finally felt the rhinestone-covered phone case and retrieved it from her bag, only to find the battery had died. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she cursed and dived in again to find the charger. After plugging it in, she returned to her seat and looked over at her mother. ‘Did ya make the tea?’

Doris untied her pinafore and turned to face her daughter. ‘No, Paris, I didn’t. If you want a cup, then make it yourself.’

Paris’s heavily made-up face produced a frown that even the Botox couldn’t freeze. ‘What the fuck’s up with you?’

‘I’ve had your brother in here demanding I move out for a while, I’ve had your stinking father take my last tenner from my purse yesterday, and now you, expecting your washing done and tea made. Well, you can all go and bugger off. I’m sick of all of you.’

Her caustic words made Paris gasp. She’d never heard her mother speak with such hostility to her, nor wear that look of spiteful anger. It just wasn’t in her nature.

Doris glared with tight lips, feeling her blood boiling. Her once sweet little girl was now nothing but a tart. Everything about her was fake, with her ever-changing bleached hair extensions, her oversized lips, and the thick black eyelash extensions, all of which made her look like a transvestite ready for a Las Vegas show. The skintight dress and fake tan would, Doris thought, be fine for the nightclub, but it was midday. Her look was more suitable for streetwalking around King’s Cross, where she would probably make a fortune selling her arse. In fact, Doris wondered if the figure-hugging dress did Paris any favours, particularly as it was bright green and the lumps and bumps made her look like a caterpillar. Still, what did she know about fashion? On balance, the boys seemed to go for her, and she wasn’t short of a fella. Perhaps it was the prodigious fake tits, mused Doris, that distracted anyone from thinking that she looked like a pig in lipstick.

Paris ignored the outburst and asked, ‘Who wanted you to leave?’

Doris gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Harry did.’

Paris guessed there was trouble. There was no way Harry would want their mother out of the house unless something bad was about to happen. Before she’d a chance to say another word, her phone sprang into action, bleeping with a string of messages. Leaping from her chair, she snatched her mobile, and with hands shaking from a hangover, she scrolled down the long list of messages and swallowed hard. She hastily dialled Harry’s number and waited for him to answer, anxiously tapping her foot.

‘Harry, what the fuck’s going on? Muvver’s got the raving hump, and I’ve had thirty missed calls.’

Harry told her he was on his way back and would pick her up in five minutes to take her to their seaside flat.

Now uneasy, Paris waited quietly in the kitchen. It was the panic in her brother’s voice that troubled her. Her brothers were never nervous: they were always self-assured, as if nothing ever fazed them. She was proud to be their little sister. It gave her a reputation and allowed her into places where drinks would be bought for her. She was spoiled, and she knew it. With a whinge, a whine, and a sulky pout, she would get the latest bag, shoes, or even a car.

Annoyed, she called him back.

‘Harry, why ’ave I got to go to the flat, for fuck’s sake? Travis ’as promised me a long weekend in some foreign country. He reckons it’s a surprise. Harry? Harry?’ She looked at the phone and realized Harry had ended the call.

‘Muvver, what’s going on? I’ve got Harry telling me he’s on his way, but now he’s put the poxy phone down, and you ain’t even gonna make me a brew!’

Doris stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall and sighed; her daughter was such a petulant, rude, and insensitive little cow. She hadn’t even looked up to acknowledge her mother; she merely applied a layer of lip gloss.

‘Paris, you can wait for Harry outside.’

With her lip gloss in one hand and a small round mirror in the other, Paris froze and slowly flicked her eyes to see her mother looking deadly serious.

‘You what?’

‘I said you can wait outside for your brother and also take that washing with you. I’ll not be your skivvy, ever again. And that goes for your brothers as well. Are we clear?’ Each word was precise.

Paris frowned. ‘What’s wrong with you? I mean, ’ave ya started the menopause or something?’

Doris shook her head and walked away, mumbling under her breath, ‘I started it years ago.’

Ignoring her mother, Paris began adding another layer of lip gloss. Suddenly, Harry came flying into the kitchen as if he had a rocket up his arse. ‘Right, where’s Muvver? I need her to come with me. You! Get ya gear. We have to go.’

He watched Paris still fussing over herself. Clearly frustrated, he once again shouted at his mother.

‘Muvver! Come here! You have to leave wiv me, right now.’

Paris suddenly jumped up from her seat. ‘What’s going on, Harry?’

‘Nothing. Just get yaself into gear and wait in the car.’

He looked down the hallway. ‘Muvver, will you hurry up!’

There was silence. Beads of sweat were now running down his nose and he hastily pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and ran it over his wet face. ‘Muvver!’ he screamed again.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he growled, as he marched along the hallway.

Doris casually appeared from the living room, looking right through Harry as if he wasn’t even there. She’d been about to go upstairs when that irritating son of hers had started up again.

‘Muvver, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you hear me? I ain’t messing about. You have to come with me.’

Unexpectedly, Doris stopped, turned, and glared, with contempt smeared across her face.

‘Harry, take your precious sister and get out of my house. And, listen well! Before you upset my neighbours with your bellowing, close your big mouth, turn on your heels, and just go. I’m not going with you, so please leave, before …’ She sighed. ‘Oh, never mind. Just get out!’

Harry was looking at a stranger: this wasn’t his mother. There was nothing he could do except physically throw her over his shoulder, and he wasn’t about to do that.

Doris was about to shout, ‘And don’t slam the door’, but it was too late. The back door banged shut, and she was left with a ringing sound in her ears and a tightening in her chest.

Harry almost pushed Paris with all her bags into his Mercedes. ‘Hurry up, Paris. We need to get out of ’ere.’

With her brother panicking the way he was, and almost manhandling her, Paris sensed this situation was more serious than she’d previously thought. Usually, she would have been gobbing off, but, for the first time in her life, she remained quiet and allowed Harry to get himself settled and on the road before she opened her mouth. He didn’t pull away gently either; he left rubber on the tarmac. Never would Harry drive like that, not in his precious top-of-the-range car.

‘Harry, what’s happened?’ She kept her voice low-key.

‘Well, princess, I hate to tell ya, babe, but your fella won’t be taking you away for the weekend. He’s dead.’

After being forcibly pushed into the back, Paris was leaning forward, gripping the corners of the two front seats. ‘What?’

Her voice was so loud, it seemed to vibrate in his ear.

‘Sit back and get ya seatbelt on.’

In a sudden daze, Paris sat back and fastened the belt. ‘What happened? Who the hell killed him?’

‘Did I say anyone killed him?’ He knew that question was unfair. This mess wasn’t his little sister’s fault.

‘Well, bruv, we wouldn’t be flying up fucking Wrotham Hill like Lewis Hamilton if he died of natural causes, would we?’

He looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Sis, you don’t seem upset. I thought you liked Travis?’

She squirmed in her seat. ‘Well, yeah, ’course I did, but I weren’t gonna marry him or have his babies. He was all right, sweet, really … anyway, what’s ’appened?’

‘He was working for me, an inside job, but the silly bastard got sussed out and …’ He paused, waiting for a reaction.

‘So I ain’t going away this weekend then? Fuck it. I was looking forward to that.’

Harry flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror again. ‘You’re a heartless cow.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, I was taught by the best, Harry.’

The thought circled in his mind: she wasn’t wrong. They had pressured her when she was a kid not to show weakness and indoctrinated her in the belief that only wimps cry, and everyone is out for themselves.

He remembered when she was only thirteen, and all the girls in her class were invited to a party except her. She’d fallen out with this young girl called Amberley Fitzgerald. He shuddered when he thought about it; perhaps, on that occasion, his family had gone too far.

Amberley had made it quite clear that she wouldn’t be friends with Paris because Paris had taken her boyfriend away. Amberley lived in a big house in Wilderness Avenue in Chislehurst. Her parents were bankers, and so she always had the latest clothes that outshone any other girl, plus she had a pretty face with long dark curly hair. She had it all. All the girls wanted to be friends with her, and so when they went against his sister, it was a racing certainty that all hell would break loose, no matter what.

When Paris came home in tears and told them that she’d been victimized and bullied, Harry and Vinnie went mental. They told her to stop crying and stand up for herself; no one must ever bully her, and, more to the point, get away with it. There was no such thing as having a friend; everyone has their own agenda in life. The only people in the world you could depend on were family. ‘Tears are for weaklings,’ Harry told her. In response, she wiped her cheeks with a tissue.

The very next day, outside the school grounds, backed by her brothers, Paris stood ready for the fight of her life. Her fingers loaded with cheap rings, she launched an attack the minute Amberley appeared. With no sense of control, Paris punched the girl relentlessly, gruesomely tearing shreds from the girl’s face. Harry and Vinnie watched with pride as their little sister showed her worth, rucking as violently as any lad. The fight was eventually broken up by the head teacher, who was given a fierce verbal attack by Harry. All the way home they patted her back, showering her with praise.

Harry remembered his father’s words when they arrived home: ‘Now then, you start showing people who’s the fucking boss. That little larruping will give a warning to all those silly little girls that no one messes with a Harman.’

* * *

In the rear-view mirror Harry witnessed the same expression as the day she’d sniffed back those tears and fallen into a world of callousness. Since then, she hadn’t changed; she still had that sneering look to this day. Nothing ever fazed her. It was as if he and their father had ripped out her soul and left a void. Still, he loved his sister; she was loyal to them, regardless.

‘So, tell me, Harry, what’s going on? You look like you’re shitting a brick.’

‘Travis was tortured, the poor bastard …’ He swallowed hard as he recalled the images of Travis on that chair with his eye scooped out and with his flesh ripped from his cheek; he could only guess it had been done with a claw hammer. ‘I need to get you away, princess, because the bastards that killed Travis will be coming for us.’

Paris gasped, ‘Oh my God, Harry. It’s the Regans!’ Her mouth remained open, digesting his silent acknowledgement. ‘Are you fucking nuts? Seriously? Why would you get involved? This ain’t our vendetta.’ She paused, waiting for an answer, but then she noticed in the mirror her brother’s shifty eyes and knew that he hadn’t done it for the family honour.

It was always about the money with her family. Planning and scheming to ruin the Regan family was a continual source of conversation, from father to sons, like some hereditary disease.

His silence irritated her. ‘I just hope it was worth it, Harry, because the Regans are legendary. And you may have kept me out of the business, but I ain’t blind or deaf. And our flaming uncle and our ol’ man should have cut their losses years ago.’ She huffed. ‘What I don’t get is, if they have killed Travis, why are they coming for us, now they’ve had their pound of flesh?’

With a sharp intake of breath, Harry shook his head. ‘All right! Paris, leave it, will you? Just let me think!’

The realization hit Paris like a horse’s hoof in the teeth. ‘Leave it, Harry? How can I? I’m now mixed up in it. I just don’t get why they’re after us now though, if they’ve already killed Travis …’ Her jaw tightened. ‘Harry, what else have you done?’

With her words ringing in his ears, he snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake, Paris, Vinnie has murdered Ted Stafford’s dog and thrown its butchered body back in the garden. Now shut up and let me think.’

‘Why would he do that?’ she softened her voice.

‘Because, Paris, he has shit for brains, he’s taken too many drugs, and he thought that stupid stunt would have our ol’ man singing his praises.’

They drove in silence for twenty minutes, both contemplating the reality of the situation.

For a moment, Paris felt sorry for her brother. They were close, and she looked up to him; yet, as much as she acted the needy little sister, she wasn’t as oblivious to what her family’s firm did as she made out. The years of brainwashing and inciting hatred towards the Regans hadn’t worked on her, but, obviously, it had done the trick on Harry. Time would tell if the family would have their backs, now the shit had hit the fan. Or would they be hung out to dry?

Harry flicked his narrow eyes back to the mirror. ‘I’m sorry, Paris, but I promise you this much. I will get it sorted out. But, for the moment, we need to get down to the coast. I’ve left a message for Farver to fetch Muvver and bring her down an’ all. I dunno what’s got into the dopey cow, walking around like a fart in a trance. Was it me or did you notice her behaving strangely?’

‘Yeah, she told me to take me washing and practically told me to fuck off. Menopause, I suspect. So what’s gonna ’appen now? I can’t stay in that poxy flat. I’ll get cabin fever.’

Harry didn’t answer, his mind now back on the photos of Travis. He took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves.

Chapter 4

On the way to Gatwick Airport, Jackie fumed. Who the fuck did Mike think he was, demanding that she go to Spain? She gritted her teeth and put her foot down, using the horn at the motorist veering in front of her. Why should she do as he said? He had no right. It wasn’t as if he really cared about her. Maybe he wanted to move someone else in for a while? Could it even be his perfect ex?

Jackie went over in her head the number of times he’d looked her up and down with that expression of despair. Or perhaps it was disgust? She knew deep down she would always be compared to that woman who had fucked off and abandoned him. She would always be second best. Well, not anymore. She had her own plan. Fuck you, Mike Regan.

Ignoring the turning to Gatwick, she carried on along the M25. Ricky moaned. He needed the toilet, and in a flash, she told him to shut his mouth, which he promptly did. He didn’t want another slap from her. She pulled down the sun visor and gawped in the mirror at her sore red skin and bruised face. Her anger climbed a pitch. You just wait and see, Mike. I’ll have the last fucking laugh.

‘Sit still, ya little shit!’ she hollered, as she spotted Ricky squirming.

‘Mummy, I need to pee.’

‘Hold it in. You ain’t a baby,’ she snapped at him. Her sudden plan made her jittery. It was now or never, and Mike had just given her the final shove to put her future dream into action.

Ricky tried hard not to pee, but the rush out of the door this morning hadn’t allowed for a trip to the toilet, and now he was frightened. Beads of sweat gathered along his hairline, as he struggled not to wet himself. Then, he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and along with the torrent of wee, came a stream of tears. His mother would slap him. At least he was safe until she stopped the car. She was concentrating on the road ahead and didn’t hear the tinkling sound. A small pool gathered in the hollows of the leather seat, and slowly, not making too much noise, he removed his tracksuit top to mop up the mess. Keeping one eye on his mother, he quickly slid the top under the front seat, praying that his trousers would dry out soon.

As young as he was, little Ricky was no idiot. He had his mother sussed, and he knew that how she treated him wasn’t right. He loved his grandparents and Sacha, and adored his father, but he despised his mother. At six years old, he was fully aware of the spite she held for him. With an observant eye, he realized that they were now not off to Spain because he knew the drill: the parking, the airport customs procedures, the flight, and then the drive to the villa. They were on the motorway, passing signs and areas that he didn’t recognize and heading in the opposite direction from Kent. Then he spotted the sign for the M11; he had no idea what that meant.

* * *

Mike poured Staffie another drink. He could see that the vile act carried out on Staffie’s dog was ripping him in half. ‘Listen, Staff. Do yaself a favour and get the dog outta your ’ead. I know you loved him, but you need to get yaself together, so that we can seek justified retribution.’

Staffie looked up at the huge man and knew he was talking sense. Besides, Mike was the one man he wouldn’t argue with for two reasons: he was the hardest guy he knew, and he also respected him.

‘You will ’ave your chance to avenge ya dog’s death, but we need to round up this little Harman crew before they cause more mayhem. Got it?’

Staffie nodded and gave a smile that bared his uneven teeth, giving him a childish, goofy appearance. Many a fool regarded Staffie as being a bit simple, just because of his expression, and many regretted it. As much as he looked like a bulldog himself, he had a charm that was unmatchable.

‘Good lad,’ said Mike, as he patted Staffie on the shoulder. ‘Right, I want you all to find out as much as you can. I’m gonna pay Izzy Ezra the Jew a visit. That man knows everyone and everything. Besides all that, the bloke needs to know who’s been poking their nose into his little arrangement.’

Eric took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Ya ain’t going alone are ya, Mikey?’

With a cocky wink, Mike replied, ‘Izzy is a ruthless Jew, but, bruv, he has no grief with me. However, Harry Harman, that little grass, will most certainly be in his bad books. Izzy set up our arms racket with the Lanigans. All he asked for was a cut in return, along with no fuck-ups. But now, he’ll see the Harmans as trying to ruin his reputation. That man won’t sit back and take it, not all the while he has a skullcap to pray with.’

Within an hour, Mike was parked up behind the old jeweller’s place just off the Old Kent Road, well away from Izzy’s manor in Tottenham. The shop was just a front; the main business was conducted at the rear of the building. Mike stepped out of his car. He made sure his jacket covered the belt that held his handgun and knocked three times at the back door. He paused and knocked another two times, following the code that Izzy insisted upon.

Slowly, the door opened, and there, taking up the doorframe, was Quasimodo, whose real name was Norman. He acquired his nickname due to his size and an ugly, twisted face that only a blind grandmother could love.

‘All right, Quasi?’

There was no response, apart from a flick of his head to indicate that Mike could go in.

Passing the stacked tatty boxes and a rancid toilet without a door, Mike grinned to himself. He never failed to be amazed that after all the shit and smell from the entrance, there could be such a huge transformation. They went through the secure heavy metal door that led into Izzy’s so-called office. Row upon row of books, housed on highly polished mahogany shelves, surrounded an enormous solid wood antique desk. But the central feature was a Persian rug. Anyone who entered had to remove their shoes before stepping onto it. Mike followed the rule, and with one eye on Izzy, he flicked off his footwear and walked towards the desk. Izzy hadn’t even looked up; he was sitting on a high-backed mahogany chair and staring at a piece of jewellery through an eyepiece. Still ignoring him, he waved his hand for Mike to take a seat.

‘Seventeenth century, this piece. The scag heads around these parts have no idea of the value of what they steal for me.’

He removed the eyepiece from his face and gently placed it on the desk along with the brooch. Clasping his hands together, he leaned back. ‘I was wondering when you were going to visit me. Let me see. It’s been three days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes since the establishment turned over your lock-up.’ His voice sounded relaxed; Mike knew, though, that it was just the calm before the storm.

‘Yes, Izzy, and it’s been forty-eight hours since I’ve discovered the fucking culprit who grassed me.’

Izzy, a middle-aged man with piercing black eyes and thick white hair, in the classic slicked-back style to match his long beard, slowly nodded. ‘You know, Mike, people swear when they have no other word to use. Anyway, I’m assuming you wanted to establish the facts before you showed up at my door?’

Mike sat as cool as a cucumber, not even blinking, his eyes firmly fixed on Izzy’s face, although he knew only too well that Izzy was more than capable of pulling out a shooter and blowing him through the walls into the greengrocer’s next door.

‘No, Izzy, I came because I wanted to pick your brains, not ’cos I owe you or anyone an explanation. You had a business deal with me. Five grand to pair me up with a buyer for my guns, that’s all the deal was. You got your money, and I got the name of the buyers. That, Izzy, is where our business was concluded.’

Izzy slapped his hands on the desk and stood up. Mike looked him over. He was dressed in a suit, complete with waistcoat and collarless shirt. A gold watch hung from his waistcoat pocket and three heavy gold chains swung from his neck. A distorted smirk showed his gold back teeth as he glared at Mike.

‘You, Mike, are forgetting a very important fact. I have a reputation and that means more to me than money.’

Mike laughed out loud. ‘Never, Izzy. I don’t believe it.’

‘You and everybody else think I’m all about money, but you’re wrong. My family and my honour mean far more. So, listen to me.’ He walked around the desk and lowered himself to sit on the corner as he leaned close to Mike’s face. ‘You give me the names of the grasses, and I’ll make sure they don’t see their next bowl of porridge. The Lanigans want more than ammunition. That’s just small fry. I’m in negotiations for bigger wares, and that, dear boy, is why you need to keep me well and truly in the loop. Now, I want names!’

Mike shook his head. ‘Nah, Izzy. Let me deal with it because it’s just got fucking personal. The little firm that grassed me up also killed Staffie’s dog. I assume that was a warning.’

Izzy rose from the desk and pulled a cigar from his top pocket and lit the end, puffing away with his back to Mike. ‘A dog, you say? And a warning? A warning for what?’

Mike realized it sounded stupid, but, nevertheless, like Izzy’s honour, it meant a lot to him. But it wasn’t so much about the dog – that was bad enough – it was the upset it had caused his friend.

Just as Mike was about to explain, the side door opened and in breezed Zara Ezra, Izzy’s daughter. In her early thirties, this tall, slender woman had a swan-like neck accentuated by a wavy multitoned bob. To Mike, she was the epitome of class and grace with an unforgiving, deadly sting in her tail. Her copper, cat-like eyes slowly blinked when she noticed Mike, yet her face remained inscrutable, with not even a trace of a gentle smile. Totally ignoring Mike, she went over to Izzy, pecked him on the cheek and pulled a wad of banknotes from one of the desk drawers.

Mike noticed how Izzy’s face had lit up when she’d walked into the room.

‘Is it all here?’

‘Yes, my darling.’

‘Good. I’ll be back at teatime. Before you say anything, I have Joshua with me.’

Mike watched her every graceful step as she left the room.

‘Nice-looking woman. Is she—’

He never got the rest of the words out of his mouth. Izzy slammed his hands down on the desk. ‘Yes! My fucking daughter.’

Mike couldn’t restrain himself from a slight smirk. He’d definitely got under Izzy’s skin.

‘I didn’t think you swore. Besides, Izzy, I was only gonna pass a compliment.’

Izzy glared with his beady eyes. ‘Anyway, were we talking about a war over a dog?’

Mike nodded heavily. ‘Yep, over a bleedin’ dog. But you and I both know that it’s a statement. So, Izzy, it seems that a little firm run by three brothers, Harry, Vinnie, and Scottie have taken serious liberties, and although we sent them a clear message via their informant, they saw fit to brutalize Staffie’s dog. And in my world, if not in yours, Izzy, that goes against the grain.’

Shaking his head, Izzy smirked. ‘You lot are nuts. Okay, you do what you need to do, but if these Harmans are not found and dealt with in the next forty-eight hours, I’ll take over, and you, Mike, will be owing me … Harmans, you say?’

Mike watched as Izzy’s fingers, which displayed a variety of rings of all shapes and styles, wiggled as if he were about to play the piano.

‘I didn’t, but you knew it was the Harmans all along, didn’t ya, Izzy?’

Izzy gave a slow, deliberate nod. ‘Yes, I just wondered how long it would take you to work that out, Mike. I’m a shrewd man. I watch and listen. I backed off and allowed you to deal with the situation. But I was testing you to see how long it would take you to be upfront and inform me of the issues. You passed that test.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Now, you have forty-eight hours, or you will be working for me.’

Mike huffed. ‘Well, that ain’t gonna happen – ever!’

Izzy leered. ‘Our deal was that if you messed this little arrangement up, then you would be on my firm under my control. Remember, Mike, you are a man of your word. I hope your sidekicks are preparing to be answerable to me.’

Mike got up to leave. He bit his tongue before he said something he would regret because there was no way he would be working for Izzy the Jew – not while he had a pair of balls.

Izzy grinned to himself as he watched Mike leave. He was fully aware of the clout Mike had. He wanted him on his firm, as head honcho if need be, since Mike was gaining a reputation faster than Durex sales during the Aids scare.

Once outside, Mike clocked the tall figure, leaning with her back arched against a newly built brick wall. She was drawing on a long black cigarette holder. For a second, Mike saw her as a flapper girl from the 1920s. Bonnie and Clyde sprang to mind. He stopped and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and flicked open the lid to his engraved silver lighter. Before he put it back into his pocket, he looked at the etched image of his son. He made a mental note to call and make sure Jackie and Ricky had reached Spain safely.

‘Have you upset Daddy, by any chance, Mikey?’ Her words were cold and oozed confidence. He stepped closer and noticed her milky white skin had just a hint of pink, especially on her bare shoulders.

‘You need sunscreen in this weather, Zara.’

She looked his way, ignoring his comment, and then she turned to blow smoke in his direction, her eyes narrowing in displeasure.

‘How are you?’ he asked, with a smirk across his face.

She pushed herself away from the wall. ‘I’m fine, Mikey. Why shouldn’t I be?’

Removing the cigarette butt from the holder, she threw it to the ground and placed her open-toe shoe over the top, stubbing it out.

She started to walk away, acting as if she had no interest in him, but he knew she rarely smoked and had been waiting for him – maybe just to see if there was still a little spark between them.

‘So, you’re back then?’

She shot him a look of anger. ‘I have been for a while. How’s Julie … Joanne, or whatever her name is?’

‘You mean Jackie? She’s a pain in the arse, a nightmare … but, hey-ho, life’s a bitch, and I certainly married one.’

She searched his eyes for any sign that he still had that sexual hunger for her, knowing she could never read him. ‘Well, you made your bed, Mikey. Your circus, your monkey.’

He sighed and looked her up and down. ‘Yep, Zara, you got that right.’ There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. She assumed he still had feelings, or he would have waved and said goodbye – not stood there, looking her over.

‘Well, Mikey, you bred with her.’

Mike had to bite his tongue. That comment was crass and in fact quite vile. His son was his world, and so the words stuck in his throat.

She clocked his stern expression. ‘Don’t look so offended, Mikey. It’s true. You married her and had a kid, so she must mean something.’ Zara took a step closer with a sneer plastered across her face. ‘Unless, that is, Mikey, she is just an exceptionally good fuck.’

In an instant, he grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her face an inch from his. ‘Nah, Zara. You were that.’ And then he planted his lips on hers. Even though she struggled, he held her there, until he felt her relax and then he let her go.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘You bastard!’

Trying to steady his breathing, he shook his head and walked away. He had to make his head rule his heart – once bitten, twice shy. As much as he felt the surge of excitement and rush of lust, she was still the woman who’d left him. Unable to look back, afraid of his own feelings, he marched on ahead. He shouldn’t have kissed her either, but he wanted to demonstrate his power. Seven years ago, he would never have grabbed her like that – ever.

Zara watched him, her mind all over the place. She was seething, but as soon as he was out of sight, she calmed down and then smiled. There was an upside to this latest encounter: he still wanted her. But would he still, if he knew how much had changed?

* * *

By the time Mike returned home and called a meeting, the lads had done their homework on the Harman family and located the address where each family member lived.

‘How’d it go with Izzy?’ enquired Eric.

Mike raised his brow. ‘As expected, he wants the Harmans dealt with as much as we do.’ Not wanting to concern the lads, he deliberately left out the threat Izzy had made.

‘Was he on his own?’ asked Eric, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably.

Mike stiffened and turned to face his brother. ‘Do you mean was Zara there?’

Eric shrugged. ‘No, not really. I meant anyone.’

‘Yes, Eric, I saw Zara.’

Dying to know what went on, Eric had to bite his lip; he couldn’t appear too eager.

Unexpectedly, Mike snapped at him. ‘You fucking knew she was back, didn’t ya?’

Eric felt his face flush red. He looked at the others who had now almost frozen to the spot in disbelief.

‘Well yeah, I did hear that a while ago, but what does it matter? You’re with Jackie and have Ricky. She’s …’

The uncomfortable atmosphere spurred Lou to quickly change the subject. ‘Listen up. Harry, Vinnie, and Scottie Harman’s pads have all been checked over. It seems they’ve gone into hiding. The only place not accounted for is their ol’ man’s.’

Mike sensed that the Zara discussion should be kept separate from the business at hand. He shot Eric a disparaging glare before calling for action.

‘Right, then. Eric and Willie, you come with me. Get a tool and put on a first-class bastard attitude because we’re paying the Harman family’s home a visit.’

Eric looked away to ensure that his brother couldn’t see the darkened scowl on his face. He wasn’t capable of keeping a steely fixed expression like Mike could. In fact, if he was honest, he knew they weren’t cut from the same cloth. And being riled up because Mike met up with Zara was taking his focus away from the job in hand.

Staffie jumped up. ‘I wanna come, ’cos I have a fucking monkey wrench with the name Harman carved on it.’

Mike shook his head. ‘No! Sorry, mate, but your temper will be a liability.’ He held up his hands. ‘Trust me, Staffie. You’ll get a chance to leave ya mark, so be patient. You stop ’ere with Lou.’

With red-rimmed eyes and a sulky pout, Staffie slumped back into his armchair and gulped back the last of his drink. ‘Yeah, well, if you weren’t such a lump, Mike Regan, I’d tell you to go and fuck yaself.’

Mike grinned and gently tapped Staffie’s face. ‘Yeah, and if I didn’t love ya so much, I’d clump ya for that comment.’

‘I want my time with them, though, Mikey. Don’t you kill ’em before I leave my mark.’

‘Staffie, I’m a man of my word. You go and find that monkey wrench.’ He winked and nodded for Willie and Eric to follow him.

Within the hour, Mike was in Lee Green, driving slowly along the road to Frank Harman’s place. He looked at the house numbers and then clocked all the cars in the street, knowing that Harry and his two brothers all drove black Mercedes with private number plates. Yet this street had no flash cars parked with two wheels over the kerb.

‘Looks like the Harmans are not at home, boys.’

‘What does their ol’ man drive?’ asked Mike.

Eric looked at Willie and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno. I only got the details of Harry, Vinnie, and Scottie. I didn’t think about the ol’ man.’

Mike sighed. He loved his brother, but there were times when he was really irritated by him. Why his brother could be so lax when he should have his mind on the task ahead was beyond him. He thought that perhaps Eric was distracted by the stupid notion that he could surreptitiously go after Zara.

Eric had once had his eye on her years ago, but it was made clear to him that Zara wasn’t interested. In fact, her exact words were, ‘I find him a bit creepy.’

‘So, Eric, now we won’t know what we’re potentially walking into.’ He didn’t raise his voice; he’d made his point.

The pained look on Eric’s face said it all: once again, he felt inferior.

Easing his car into a space just three doors down, Mike paused and looked up to see if the street had any cameras. Then he craned his neck to address both Eric and Willie who were seated in the back.

‘When we go in, I want quiet. No shouting. These neighbours are too close. I want you to act like the fucking SAS, got it? I want whoever is inside that house shitting hot bricks with a shooter in their face, and then I want them away from here, back to the lock-up.’

Willie lit up a cigarette.

‘Put that fucking thing out. I’ve just had me motor valeted! Jesus!’ yelled Mike.

After looking up and down the road, he stepped out of the car, followed by the others, and confidently marched up to the house. He nodded for Willie to accompany him and whispered to Eric to stay out of sight of the window, but to stand by the front door, in case anyone tried to escape.

Mike and Willie hurried up the side of the house and into the rear garden where they noticed the back door was ajar. In a flash, Mike pulled his gun from his belt and pushed the door open. As he walked into the kitchen, he detected the sweet smell of cakes being baked. Then he strained to listen, putting his finger over his lips, indicating to Willie not to make a sound. Slowly, Mike crept along the hallway and opened the front door, flicking his head for Eric to enter.

Once they were all in the hallway, Eric gripped his gun and poked his head into the living room, only to find the television on and no one there – as if the house had suddenly been vacated. He strained his ears again, listening; he could have heard a pin drop. That was until, suddenly, they heard the toilet flush. He held his gun, pointing it to the staircase, awaiting the appearance of a Harman. There was silence for a few minutes until the toilet flushed again. Motionless, they waited. Again, the toilet flushed. Mike nodded and raised his brow for Eric to go and investigate. Gingerly, Eric climbed the stairs and listened at the bathroom door, the only one that was shut; once again, the toilet flushed and made him jump. He rapped hard on the door and waited.

‘I told you, Harry, I’m not leaving this house,’ came a woman’s voice from the other side of the door. ‘Now, please, leave me alone, and if you want to use the toilet, then do so downstairs and do not invade my privacy.’

Mike took the stairs two at a time and knocked himself. Again, the person called out. ‘Harry, I’m busy. Leave me in peace. I’m not going to repeat myself, so go, and don’t bother to come back.’

Mike looked at Eric and whispered, ‘Let’s go.’

They headed back down the stairs and gathered in the kitchen. ‘Well, I can only conclude that the Harmans have made a practical realization that the best move is to run, ’cos they know the bogeyman and his posse are after them. Wanting to get their mum away tells me they know there’s gonna be bloodshed, and they’ve a good idea of what we’re all about,’ stated Mike.

Now that Eric knew there were no men in the house, he felt brave. ‘Let’s kick that door in and drag her out. It’ll give them something to be shitting themselves about.’ Just as he was about to head towards the hallway, Mike’s hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and fiercely yanked him back.

‘What the fuck!’ shrieked Eric.

Willie looked away. He knew Eric had cocked up again, just by the look of anger in Mike’s eyes.

‘What the hell are you doing? Jesus! Eric, since when do we hurt dear ol’ mums? You are one stupid dickhead.’

Red-faced and boiling, Eric glared at Mike. ‘And since when did they abide by the rules, fucking killing Staffie’s dog, eh?’

‘Keep ya bloody voice down. I don’t want the ol’ girl ’aving a bleedin’ heart attack. Now, we’re gonna wait ’cos she’s expecting her boy back. From what she said, it’s my guess that they’ve upped and gone, but they’ll return for her.’ He pointed his finger up at the ceiling. ‘I mean, think about it. If they believe we’re on the rampage, they ain’t gonna leave her behind, are they?’

Still sulking, Eric replied, ‘Who knows, Mikey? You seem to know probably more than they do. So tell me, then, if they left her behind, why would they come back for her?’ he asked, with a knowing smirk on his face. He wasn’t going to let his brother walk all over him.

‘Well, think about it. If I asked our mum to do something and she refused, I’d get you to go in and ask, wouldn’t I, or the other way around?’

Eric was seething; this was getting so personal now. He knew exactly what Mike was getting at. Their mother, Gloria, would do anything Mike asked of her, but she always questioned him, since he was the son who messed up all the time. ‘Why can’t you think more like your brother?’ she would say. And Arthur, their father, was even worse with his comments. One of his favourite pieces of advice was ‘Take a leaf out of Mikey’s book, and you won’t go wrong there.’

Thinking of his mother, he wondered why she had to be so patronizing towards him. When she rubbed his arm or hugged him, she always gave him that sympathetic expression followed by, ‘Something will come along for you, just you see.’ She used that saying for everything: girlfriends, a good lucky earner, or even a bargain motor. But her advice never worked because Mike seemed to have all the luck.

Willie could feel the tension building and decided to intervene. ‘I’m gonna wait in the living room to see if any of the brothers pull up.’

Mike stared at Eric. ‘You go with him. I’ll wait in the kitchen, in case they come in through the back door.’

Eric was still smarting. ‘Why are you doing that? We’ll see them if they pull up, won’t we?’ His tone was airing on sarcasm.

‘Eric, look at the fucking garden.’ He pointed out of the kitchen window. ‘That rear fence has a gate. They could easily come in from the road the other side, yeah?’

Once again, Eric realized he’d been caught out. Another thing Mike was good at was casing a joint. If he hadn’t been a criminal, he would have made a good detective. Just as Eric walked off in a huff, Mrs Harman appeared, standing there in the hallway. Mike quickly held his hands up, showing he was harmless.

Doris had heard all the commotion downstairs and was about to give the person she thought was Harry a piece of her mind. At that moment, she was drying her hands on her pinny and not taking her eyes off the big man.

‘It’s okay, love. Me name’s Mike. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.’ He edged forward as if he was trying to calm a rabid dog. Yet Doris seemed unperturbed.

‘Excuse me, but my cakes need taking out of the oven.’

Willie appeared. Having been so intent on keeping a lookout, he hadn’t heard her come down the stairs or past the living room.

Although this tall man with a deep scar down his face, twisting an ugly jagged knife in his hand, would probably frighten the life out of most people, his presence left her unruffled.

‘Put that away,’ Mike ordered. Willie instantly shoved it in his belt.

Doris calmly turned back to face Mike. ‘I need to get to the oven.’

Mike was almost taking up the doorframe. ‘Oh, sorry, love,’ he said, as he stepped aside.

Doris waddled past, picked up the oven gloves from the small square table in the middle of the kitchen, and opened the oven door, where she removed two trays of fairy cakes.

Meanwhile, the three men looked at each other in confusion. Their mothers would have been screaming blue murder. Unhurriedly, she placed the trays on the table and closed the oven door.

Rarely did anything faze Mike, but, on this occasion, Mrs Harman had completely wrong-footed him. ‘Shall I put the kettle on, Mrs Harman?’

Eric just shook his head in disbelief.

‘Well, how funny is that. I can only assume that you’ve come to take some sort of revenge on one or more of my sons, but there you are, offering to make tea.’ She made a huffing sound. ‘Not even they do that. Well, yes, I suppose I would like a tea, thank you.’

Mike pulled out a chair for her to take a seat, and then he turned to fill the kettle. Willie leaned against the doorframe. ‘Sorry, missus. I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’

Eric was rolling his eyes. ‘I’m gonna wait in the car.’

Mike nodded.

‘So my sons have upset you, I take it?’

‘I’m afraid they have. But, listen, I won’t take it out on you.’

Mrs Harman reminded him of his own mother. They were roughly the same age, although his own mum was always dressed in the latest fashionable clothes. She wore jewellery and never left the bedroom without a coat of pink lipstick.

This lady, though, couldn’t be more different, with her flat grey hair, a thick waist, swollen ankles, and her old-fashioned twinset-and-pearls look. And the sad, tired expression, no doubt from years of being worn down, certainly accentuated the difference.

The kettle boiled, and Mike spotted the teapot and one china teacup and saucer; the scene reminded him of sitting in his grandmother’s kitchen. ‘Tea should only be drunk from a china teacup, or porcelain if ya can afford it,’ she would say. He remembered her dainty cup with the floral pattern and the chip on the side. He also recalled the day he presented her with a whole tea set that he had nicked from Alders. Her eyes lit up and she hugged him. ‘Aw, little Mikey. Now I can have all me mates over for tea.’ She always called him little Mikey, even when he was six feet tall. He poured the tea just how his grandmother liked it and presented it to Mrs Harman.

‘There ya go, love.’

Doris looked at the colour of the liquid and smiled. ‘Lovely, that. It’s just how I like it.’ She gracefully picked up the drink and sipped it. As she gently placed the cup down, she sighed. ‘So, may I ask what the boys have done now? I’m assuming it’s bad.’ She huffed again. ‘But then, it always is, with my lot.’

‘You’ve no need to be involved. It’s just business. I’m sure they know the rules.’

‘The rules? No, they don’t know the rules, love, I can assure you of that. Um … do you make your own mum a cuppa, then?’

Mike gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Of course I do. Why do you ask?’

Doris’s eyes clouded over. ‘Does she do your washing?’

Mike frowned. ‘Of course not.’ Then it dawned on him; she was comparing him to her own sons. ‘I look after my mum. I take her for dinner every Sunday, if I can, and I wouldn’t have my dear ol’ mum lift a finger.’

‘Yeah, well, see, that’s where my boys don’t know the rules. In fact, if I’m brutally honest, they’re all shits, even my daughter. All out for herself, she is. You’d think I’d have had at least one good egg among ’em, but, no, they all take after their father, and he’s a real horrible bastard.’

Mike pulled out a chair and sat opposite; he sensed she needed to get her annoyance off her chest. ‘Do they give you a hard time, then?’

She took another sip of tea. ‘Hard time? Ha, that’s an understatement. D’ya know, Harry told me to go and stay with me sister up in Bath. Obviously, he was expecting trouble. I wanted to hit him with the saucepan. My dear sister has been dead for six months. My only ally, my Tilda, and that fat git didn’t even remember she’d passed away. They’re selfish, my lot. They come in this very kitchen with their bags of washing, their tans glowing from their holidays abroad, and then they slap down their shitty clothes for me to scrub. And as for Scottie, I know he has money, and yet he still goes through my purse and nicks me pension. That ain’t right, is it? You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

Mike had a sudden thought.

‘Don’t they offer to take you on holiday? I always make sure my mum has a good two-week break away somewhere nice.’

‘Ha, my kids have never even offered to take me for a Sunday lunch somewhere nice, let alone a bleedin’ holiday. I ain’t been away since I went to Bath with me sister, what, four years ago now.’

‘That’s not fair, is it?’ He softened his gruff voice.

‘Life ain’t fair, love. I should know,’ she replied, taking another sip of her tea. She looked up at him. ‘D’ya treat ya mum on her birthday an’ all?’

Mike smiled. ‘Yeah, I do, every year. I drive my mum to a place called Rye. It’s beautiful, with cobbled streets and views as far as the eye can see. She loves the little tea shops, the antique shops, and the fish and chip shop. She stays in my seventeenth-century cottage and just enjoys soaking up the atmosphere.’

Doris was staring off into space. ‘Ahh, it does sound wonderful. She must be so proud of you.’

‘Well, I tell ya what. Why don’t you go and pack a little suitcase and I’ll treat you to a nice stay in the very same cottage? Call it a birthday treat, seeing that your own boys haven’t seen fit to spoil ya.’

She blinked and came out of her daydream. ‘What? Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly. Besides, I don’t even know you, and, well, I was just having a moan, really. ’Ark at me, chatting away, and you being all nice, an’ all. Suppose you’re really ’ere to bash me boys? Anyway, what have they done now?’

Mike sighed. He wanted to get the dear old lady away from the potential scene of a bloodbath. ‘Yes, Mrs Harman, I’ll probably give ’em a clump, but, really, I just want a word. They did something unforgivable, I’m afraid. In fact, it was very cruel.’

Doris nodded, genially. ‘Sounds like them.’ She stared at Mike and frowned, as her head slowly tilted to the side. ‘Are you by any chance related to Arthur Regan?’

Mike sat up straight. ‘Why?’

Her eyes seemed to drift off again. Maybe it was her escape to another time or another place. ‘You just remind me so much of him, that’s all. Now, he really was a gentleman, but he was a rogue, all the same.’

‘Knew him well, did you?’

Unexpectedly, the tears in Doris’s eyes welled up. ‘Yes, I did. He was the love of my life, he was, before Frank came on the scene. Oh, ’ark at me. Never mind. It’s all in the past.’

His mind now all over the place, Mike felt his heart beating fast. Could this woman, the mother of his archenemy, have once had a thing with his father? He was dying to know.

‘Was this Arthur married then?’

She smiled and blinked away the tears. ‘Oh no. We were very young. Never mind. Anyway, enough of all this. I don’t think any of my sons will come back. They’re too concerned with saving their own arses. I know you’re probably wondering why I’m not running around frantic, like, or trying to escape to call them, but, the truth is, I really don’t care. I really and truly don’t care what happens to them. They were never my children. They were Frank’s – well, theoretically. I think I was just an oven to cook his evil seeds. There, I’ve said it, now. Look, I’m off to the church. You can stay and wait, but I bet they won’t show their faces.’

Mike grabbed her hand. ‘Listen, Mrs Harman. Please. You deserve better. You’ll love Rye.’ He winked and tapped her hand. ‘Go on, pack a bag, and let me spoil you.’

‘Oh, I dunno.’

She was tugging at his heartstrings, and Mike wanted her away from the potentially violent situation more than ever. ‘The truth is, Mrs Harman, yes, I am related to Arthur. I’m his son.’

Her eyes widened, as she stared. ‘I just knew it. You’re the spit out of his mouth. Oh my God. It’s like looking at him years ago.’ She pulled off the tea towel that covered the cakes and wiped away her tears. ‘He was a cheeky bugger in his younger years, but he had such a kind heart. I can see you are so like him.’

After blowing her nose, she rose from the table. ‘Well, what have I got to lose? Give me a minute, and I’ll take you up on that offer.’

She looked around at the plain boring kitchen that she’d scrubbed clean every day just for something to do. With a sudden spring in her step, she hurried up the stairs and busied herself, throwing all of her best clothes into a small 1950s suitcase.

Willie chuckled. ‘What the fuck was all that about, Mike?’

Mike took one of the cakes and bit into it. It tasted very bitter. Popping open the bin, he spat the mouthful into it.

‘Willie, we’re gonna wreak carnage on the Harmans, and I want her away from ’ere. The poor cow. But I have another plan up my sleeve. I’ll tell ya later.’

He helped himself to a glass of water, swirling it around his mouth before spitting it down the sink. ‘Jesus, she might be a sweet ol’ girl, but she can’t fucking bake.’

He covered the remains of the cakes with the tea towel and waited for Mrs Harman to return. Entering the kitchen with her face flushed and her suitcase in her hand, she reminded him of Mary Poppins. It was her overcoat, hat, and brolly. His heart went out to her.

‘Right, let’s get you that nice holiday break.’ He held open the back door and followed her along the side of the house. ‘Now, you wait here, while I fetch the car.’

Doris looked up and down the road, eager to get away from the drab street. All the years she had lived there and not one neighbour had ever nodded or said ‘Hello’. They always ducked their heads down, afraid of her mouthy kids.

What a life she’d led, what with Frank and his philandering and aggressive ways, and then her demanding sons and her selfish daughter. She sighed. How she would have loved a son like Arthur’s boy. She could have had that life too, if it hadn’t been for Frank worming his way into her affections and then almost raping her. Whilst some memories are best forgotten, she knew that that one never would be, even though it was such a long time ago now.

Chapter 5

Mike tapped on the car window, making Eric jump. ‘Listen, change of plan, we’re going to take Mrs Harman to Rye.’

Lowering the window, Eric screwed up his face. ‘What the fuck for?’

Mike was getting irritated with his brother. He expected Eric to be one step ahead and not have to explain everything. ‘Look. There’s gonna be a fucking war. Firstly, I want Mrs Harman out of the picture, and, secondly, with her on the missing list, it may well drag the Harmans out of their hiding hole. Got me?’ He tapped Eric’s face.

‘It’s a long way, Mikey. Have we got time for all of this?’

‘Eric, you move over. I’m gonna drive you and Willie back to the house, and then I’ll take Mrs Harman down to Rye.’

‘I think, Mikey, you’re best at home putting the plans in place. I’ll take her down to Rye.’

Mike sensed his brother was getting anxious about the violent battle they were planning to have, and he rolled his eyes. ‘No, Eric. Your moody face is pissing me off, and I don’t want her feeling uncomfortable, so just do as I say. Now, move over. I’m driving. Willie, you help her in the back and keep her sweet.’

Eric did as he was told, still with the strops. Mike turned the car around and parked directly outside the Harmans’ house. When Mrs Harman came into view, Willie jumped out, opened the door, and bowed. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

Doris smiled and hurried inside. She took one last look at the house that she’d grown to detest and made herself comfortable, whilst Willie took her suitcase and placed it in the boot.

‘All set, Mrs Harman?’ asked Mike, looking in his rear-view mirror.

‘Please, love, call me Doris.’

‘Okay, Doris. Now, I’m just gonna drop off these two, and we’ll be on our way.’

Once Mike had left Willie and Eric back at his house, Doris joined him in the front, and they headed to Rye. He thought about his own mum. She would never in a million years have sided with the enemy. What had those boys of Doris’s done to her that was so awful? He could only guess she’d been bullied. The house itself spoke volumes: the tired old kitchen that hadn’t been updated since the seventies; the woodchip wallpaper painted time and time again; even the kettle was a bargain-basement one. He would never have let his mum live like that. No, not while he had a penny would his mother live like a pauper.

* * *

Harry had stopped sweating by the time he reached Broadstairs. Paris was asleep, her head tilted to the side and her open mouth dribbling. He was pleased she’d dozed off; he needed to get his thoughts together. He glanced at his phone in the holder and felt anxious. Vinnie was supposed to contact Scottie and make sure his father had got their mother out of the house. Impatiently, he pressed redial, the last call he’d made to his father’s phone. It rang four times and then went over to voicemail. Paris stirred before settling down against the sumptuous leather interior. He then tried Vinnie’s number; luckily, within two rings, it was answered.

‘Harry, what the fuck’s happening? I ain’t heard a word from any of ya. What’s going on?’

Vinnie, a year younger than Harry, was more laid-back. He walked and talked more slowly than Harry. ‘I can’t find Farver. He ain’t at the old slag’s house, and he ain’t in the boozer either. Scottie’s on the missing list. So, I’m now on me way to Muvver’s.’

Harry bashed the steering wheel. ‘For fuck’s sake, what’s the matter with ’em all? Christ, when I get hold of Scottie, I’m gonna wring his scrawny neck. I left a message for him to call me.’

There was a pause before Vinnie muttered, ‘Ya don’t think the Regans have got him, do ya?’

Sweat again trickled down Harry’s nose and he was breathing quite deeply. ‘Nah … I dunno. Look, Vinnie, check Muvver’s okay, will ya? Do whatever it takes to get her outta that house and then try and find Scottie. Call me and let me know what’s going on … Oh, and watch yaself. The Regans may have someone plotted up.’

The phone went dead, and Harry took another deep breath. The vision of Travis popped back into his head, and he shuddered. He just hoped to God they hadn’t captured his youngest brother. He would never forgive Vinnie if they had.

* * *

It wasn’t until Vinnie pulled up outside his mother’s home that he began to have sinister thoughts and dread filled his veins. What he’d done to Staffie’s dog was wrong, and Harry had nearly throttled him when he’d heard. However, Vinnie had believed at the time that it was a smart move. Spotting the dog in the garden, an idea had popped into his head; he would show the Regans what the Harmans were capable of. Reality then kicked him in the teeth when Harry pointed out that if any of the Regans found him, they would no doubt do the same to him as he’d done to the dog.

He stared at his parents’ home and bit down on his bottom lip, drawing blood. Up until now, all he knew about the Regans was what his family had told him. Every member of the Regan firm had a price on their heads – a hefty sum payable to any member of the Harmans who brought a Regan – or anyone else from their firm – to their knees. At the secret family gathering, it was rammed home to them that the Regans and their firm were the enemy.

Vinnie had wanted to impress his uncle and to be the number one son in his father’s eyes. So, high on cocaine, he’d seized the opportunity to make his mark. Now he wished he hadn’t. After all, he couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle. He bit his lip again. This time he winced and shook his head. Every nerve in his body seemed to be on edge. He decided to drive up and down the street to see if there were any unusual cars in the area. Confident there were none, he parked down the road away from the house and hurried back.

As he entered the front garden, his hand gripped the Stanley knife inside his bomber jacket – his old faithful tool and one that he’d used many times to leave a mark on the offending opponent. On high alert, he snuck around to the rear garden and noticed the back door was open.

Without going inside, he scanned the kitchen and clocked the tray of cakes on the side, the smell of baking still lingering. He assumed his mother was still at home, and so he relaxed his shoulders and stepped inside. There was an eerie silence. Entering the kitchen, he suddenly stopped. His nerves spiked his senses, and he heard the faint tick-tock of a clock. Then, as he listened, he realized it wasn’t a clock but a dripping tap from upstairs.

‘Muvver!’ he called out. There was no answer. He called her again and waited. In nervous frustration, he screamed, ‘Doris.’ He often called her Doris – or more cruelly ‘Boris’. Assuming she was ignoring him, as she often did, he marched along the hallway and sharply poked his head into the living room, before he stomped up the stairs. ‘For fuck’s sake, Muvver, are you bleedin’ deaf or what? Answer me, will ya!’

There was silence except for the sound of the dripping tap; it was now really grating on his pricked nerves. In a flash of anger, instead of politely knocking at the bathroom door, he aggressively pushed it open.

Shit! A sudden gasp left his mouth, and he quickly stumbled back as if an invisible hand had pushed him.

‘Oh my God!’ he shouted.

His head was spinning, his stomach automatically heaved, and vomit shot through his mouth and nose. He choked and tried to take deep breaths, but it was impossible. The puke rose again, without giving him a chance to breathe. As he fell to his knees, his hands caked in yellow sick, he heaved again. His mind became so overloaded with images of what he’d just seen that he couldn’t stay in this house of horrors any longer. Yet still, he couldn’t breathe; his legs were now unable to move and his whole body felt an intense tingling sensation like an electric shock. He blinked furiously and shook his head, trying to pull himself together.

There, lying in the bath, with the tap still dripping, lay the mutilated remains of his father. His eyes still wide open, his mouth gaping in a twisted shape. It was an abomination. Large chunks of flesh had been hideously removed. His ears and his nose were missing, and strips of skin lay floating in the shallow pool of water that was not quite red, but obviously filled with blood. His eyes couldn’t take it all in at first. He wondered if he was dreaming or whether this must be a sick joke. For, there, lying neatly on the white cistern was not just the offending weapon – the family’s carving knife – but his father’s finger with the wedding ring still attached, the blood from which was trickling down the side of the cistern, forming a tiny pool on the toilet seat.

The walls around him darkened. Knowing he was going to faint, he tried desperately to hold it together. He kneeled on the floor, away from the grim scene behind him, as he sucked in an enormous lungful of air. He tried to steady himself, but before he’d even reached the top of the stairs, the light-headed feeling got the better of him. Down he tumbled, crashing his forehead against the wall, and there he lay on the bottom tread of the staircase.

Stunned and dazed, he remained motionless; for a split second, he thought all of this had been a bad dream. That was until he heard the tap dripping again and he knew it was for real. Still in a blind panic, and with a lump on his forehead now swelling to the size of a golf ball, he managed to get to his feet and run.

He left the house, knowing that he would never return. Eventually, he reached his car and almost ripped the door handle off trying to get inside. As he drove away like a man possessed, he tried to process the events he’d just witnessed and plan what to do next. His first thought was to phone Harry.

As soon as Harry took the call, he heard the terror in Vinnie’s voice.

‘Jesus, Harry, I’ve just left Muvver’s … Oh my God, Harry.’

‘Slow down, Vinnie. What’s happened?’ Harry heard his brother’s harsh breathing and held his own breath.

‘It’s Farver! Fuck me, he’s dead. He’s fucking dead. They’ve killed him. Jesus, Harry, they’ve fucking cut him up. In the bath, for Christ’s sake. Blood’s everywhere … It’s disgusting …’

Paris stirred, snorted, and fell back to sleep.

‘Are you there, Harry?’ He sounded desperate to keep his older brother on the line.

‘Yes, Vinnie. Christ … they fucking killed our ol’ man? I swear to God, I’ll have every single one of ’em.’

‘Harry, what shall I do?’

Harry was in shock, but then sudden anger surged inside him, working its way up to his head. He felt as though he was ready to explode.

‘You, Vinnie, you can do what the fuck you like. This is all your fault! I knew they wouldn’t let killing the fucking mutt go, and now look what’s happened. You are one useless prick!’

Ignoring Harry’s accusation, Vinnie begged for help. ‘Please, Harry, tell me what to do. They’re gonna come for me. I just know it.’

It was the final straw. This shit-for-brains brother of his had acted recklessly without his say-so, and now Harry hated the pathetic sound of his brother’s voice. ‘Where’s Scottie?’ he growled through clenched teeth.

‘I dunno. I came straight over to Muvver’s, like you said, and I ain’t heard from Scottie. Harry—’

Harry had had enough of his brother. ‘Just find fucking Scottie. Then, once you’ve got him, call me. Don’t fucking call me unless you have anything useful to tell me.’

Harry wiped the gathered beads of sweat before they ran into his eyes and stung him.

He was so focused on what had happened to his father, he hadn’t even contemplated his mother’s safety. He looked in his rear-view mirror and wondered how he was going to break the news to his sister. She loved her father more than anyone. He just hoped she would stay asleep until they reached Broadstairs.

* * *

Doris felt content soaking up the country views. Mike reminded her so much of Arthur that she felt at ease in his company. If he was only half the man Arthur was, then he was all right in her books. There were so many ‘if onlys’ in her life. The biggest regret was not waiting for Arthur when he went to prison. She’d received a message from Teddy Stafford senior that Arthur didn’t want any visitors or letters. She should have known, back then, that Arthur didn’t want her traipsing up to a grotty prison. Unaware that Frank had set him up, and was worming his way into her life, she succumbed to his affections. He got her drunk, had his way, and she was left walking up the aisle with her first-born due in six months.

She remembered seeing Mike as a baby. Arthur had met a woman, married her within the year, and they’d had their first child within eighteen months. There was no need for a newspaper in Bermondsey – the news travelled even faster than the new Eurostar service into London.

She recalled seeing Gloria proudly pushing her son around in a beautiful pram. Doris had been dragging her two sons to the shops, both with wilful minds of their own. Gloria looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. She was wearing a red swing coat, with her hair immaculately bobbed and she’d even put on false eyelashes. With a spring in her step and her head held high, she strolled by, much to the admiration of Doris. Despite the small age gap, she knew Gloria actually looked ten years younger.

Gripped by sadness, Doris knew that if it hadn’t been for the lie Frank told her, she would have waited for Arthur. She loved him so much, and still did, even though he was married to Gloria. There were no hateful feelings towards her though; after all, she had done nothing wrong. They knew each other from the estate, but they weren’t on such friendly terms that they would stand and have a chat. So, they would find themselves nodding politely when they encountered each other – which Gloria did as she passed Doris.

Doris remembered that day like it was yesterday because more shocking was what she noticed after the woman had walked by. Doris was admiring Gloria’s new coat and the expensive shoes, and just imagining herself wearing them and parading her son around. Just as Gloria passed the pub, Frank, who was idling in the doorway, pint in hand, stepped out and blatantly flirted with her. Doris watched in horror as Gloria began to walk away but Frank grabbed her arm. Doris saw how difficult it was for the woman to shrug him off. She knew what Frank was like when he’d had a few pints inside him. He was a forceful, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer man. She contemplated walking in the opposite direction to do the shopping, but she couldn’t leave the woman like that.

‘Frank!’ she called out. He responded by letting the woman go and then strolled towards her, veering from side to side. She held her breath; she knew he was pissed and he wasn’t nice when he was drunk. But then, he wasn’t nice anyway.

‘What d’ya fucking think you’re doing, woman? You ain’t no fucking fishwife, so don’t act like one. No wife of mine shouts their ugly mouth off in the street.’

She hurried away before he got really nasty. She didn’t want the boys to witness it – not that it would have made any difference to them. Each of them, like their father, didn’t have a generous soul. All three were like peas in a pod: obnoxious, rude, and unruly. After she’d been to the Co-op and collected her Green Shield stamp-book along with a loaf of bread and a bag of flour, she wandered back along the street towards the pub. But as she approached the building, she could see a couple of the locals gathered outside. A car was parked across the road. There he was: Arthur Regan. He almost towered over Frank. All she could hear was Frank hollering through stupid slurred speech. He was pathetic. Arthur, however, dressed impeccably in a black suit and with his hair neatly cut around his ears, said very little. With ease, he grabbed Frank around the throat with one hand and with the other he punched him square in the face, knocking him across the pavement and into the road. Two of the locals tried to pull Arthur back, but he flipped them aside like he was swatting flies.

‘You ever even look at my wife, and I’ll find you and put you through a mincer.’

Towering over Frank, red-faced and irate, he snatched a pint of beer from one of the onlookers and poured it over Frank’s face. ‘Now, you little creep: keep well away from me and mine.’

As he stepped over the man, Arthur suddenly looked over at Doris. Holding his hands up and with a resigned shrug, he mouthed ‘Sorry.’

She could still picture him mouthing that word. She never did know if he was saying sorry for bashing her husband or apologizing for the life she was now living.

* * *

As they finally drove into the pretty, cobbled street, Doris gazed in wonder. The surroundings were as Mike had described – breathtaking. The row of cottages that nestled in among the stunning twelfth-century church gave the town its character, and the old-fashioned flowers – climbing roses and wisteria – which adorned the brick facades, enhanced the classic English feel of the place.

This would be her first real holiday ever. Her heart was beating fast like an excited child’s. She could just relax and enjoy the fresh air and wander around and do whatever she wanted, instead of having to jump to her husband’s demands or listen to her grown-up children with their foul mouths and brash ways.

Mike opened the boot and retrieved her suitcase. She watched him as he pushed the key in the lock and opened the door to allow her to go ahead. She gave him a smile that made her face come alive. It was then that he saw how pretty she’d once been, before being dragged down by her brood.

The inside of the cottage was much larger than she’d imagined. She stepped from the hallway entrance into a rustic lounge. As she looked around in fascination, she admired the huge open fireplace built in traditional brick, noting with approval the beams on the ceiling and the walls. A sumptuous three-piece suite laden with thick cream fleeces looked inviting. Doris could see herself sitting there in the evening with a cup of tea and her feet up.

Doris followed him to her bedroom, Mike carrying her suitcase. She went over to the window and had to stoop a little to properly view the cobbled street. She didn’t see Mike watching her from the doorway. He noticed how the sunlight was resting on her soft, rosy face. She seemed so much at peace. Sighing silently, he left her and headed downstairs.

He grabbed a pen and paper from the kitchen worktop and quickly wrote down instructions for the cooker and the boiler. He pulled the keys from the drawer and placed them along with a wad of banknotes on the table. The last part of the note read: Enjoy your holiday, treat yourself, and I will see you in two weeks.

Quietly, he left before she had time to thank him.

* * *

Before he reached the M20, he dialled Jackie’s number, expecting a different dial tone. He was surprised to hear the usual English one. The phone rang until it went over to voicemail. He tried again with the same result. His anger heightened.

‘Jackie, call me right away when you get this message!’

He was annoyed she hadn’t picked up the phone, and even angrier that it left him with a worrying thought. He remembered Jackie having the hump, but, surely, she would have followed his instructions? He cursed aloud. ‘Fuck you, Jackie!’

He should never have married Jackie, and if it weren’t for little Ricky, he would never have done so. Her cocky sneers and smart remarks riled him up, and now, by ignoring his calls, she was leaving him raging. He assumed she’d ignored him and gone to the hairdressers, or perhaps the tanning salon. At this very minute, she was probably rinsing the credit card on new clothes for Spain. He bit his lip.

He could still see his little boy’s face before Jackie shoved him into the car; his eyes were almost begging Mike. He hated that look; it made him feel so guilty. He detested his wife’s lack of compassion. She was one of those women who was obsessed with the material trappings of life – the complete opposite to Zara. A sense of guilt momentarily clouded him. In his heart, he knew his relationship with Jackie had been on the rebound.

Gripped by not knowing where his wife and son were, he wondered if the Harmans had followed them. His heart began to race, and he redialled the number. This time, it went straight over to voicemail. He figured she’d turned the damn phone off.

By the time he reached home, it was almost dark. The men were still gathered in his lounge, all except for Eric, who had left shortly after Mike’s departure.

Looking flustered, Mike asked Lou to call the airlines to check if all the planes to Alicante that day were full, because if they weren’t then his wife should definitely have been on one of them.

Staffie noticed Mike was looking anxious. This was a rarity; the only time he’d seen him with vulnerability strapped to his shoulders was when Ricky once had the measles and had been taken to the hospital.

‘What’s going on, Mikey?’

‘Jackie’s phone has a British dial tone – she ain’t in Spain. What’s worrying me is the poxy Harmans. If they followed her and have taken my son …’ His face reddened as he clenched his hands behind his head.

‘Fuck me, mate, that’s a long shot. Think logically. Jackie may have missed the plane or fallen asleep in the hotel. But I don’t think the Harmans are clever enough to kidnap your wife and Ricky.’

Mike took a deep breath. ‘But if they have … I swear to God, I will mutilate each and every one of them. Where’s Eric?’

Staffie looked at Willie. ‘I dunno, mate. Eric said he’d things to do and left.’

‘Things to fucking do? Like what?’ shouted Mike, now almost apoplectic with rage.

Willie shook his head. ‘He didn’t say, but I think he had the hump.’

Mike was about to explode again when his phone rang. He looked at the number. It was Izzy. ‘Hello.’ He sounded abrupt.

‘Mike, I’m just letting you know you now have twenty-four hours to have the Harmans’ heads on sticks, or I will deal with them myself. The Irish firm aren’t happy that their goods didn’t arrive. I’ve had to pacify that situation on your behalf. So, twenty-four hours, and then you, my boy, will be working for me. Just a reminder.’

Mike wasn’t in the mood to reel in his temper, nor to pay homage to the Izzys of this world. Accordingly, he snapped back. ‘You fucking listen to me. Right now, Izzy, you can shove ya threats up your arse. I’ve more pressing things to deal with. I want the Harmans alive and kicking with answers.’

‘Answers?’

‘Yes, Izzy. So, before you go hunting them down and blowing their brains away, I need to question them regarding my son. Now, get off the phone because I ain’t got time for this bullshit.’ Red-faced with anger, he abruptly ended the call.

Willie and Staffie just stared wide-eyed, mouths open. They couldn’t believe that Mike was so staggeringly reckless. No one, absolutely no one, got away with talking to Izzy like that – not if they wanted to live.

As old and small as Izzy was, his facade was merely a front; he gave the impression that he was just an inoffensive Jewish jeweller trying to make a few bob. But buying and selling hooky gear was only a little hobby of his. Really, he could give Mossad a run for their money. His primary business was with the Italians and the Colombians, as well as a few influential firms in Ireland.

Although half of the small firms in London, Manchester, and Hull were under Izzy’s umbrella, Mike had kept his own firm out of Izzy’s organization. That had been the case until the Irish arms deal was arranged. Now, he wished he’d never got involved, nor even clapped eyes on Izzy. He knew full well that if he refused to honour his promise, then the guy had the power to take over his manor and even do away with him.

Without warning, Mike snatched the heavy cut-glass decanter from the sideboard and hurled it across the room. The sound of the glass hitting the wall and splintering in all directions stunned the men into silence.

‘Calm down, Mikey, we’ll find ’em,’ said Willie.

Lou got off the phone and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Mikey, but all the planes that took off today had available seats. None of them were fully booked. She could have got on at least three planes.’

* * *

Zara sat opposite her father, with a deadpan face. ‘So, why do you want Mike Regan on your firm?’

Izzy peered up through his hooded eyebrows. ‘I know, Zara, about you and him.’

Her flushed face was a dead giveaway. All those years she had tried to keep it a secret. Remaining quiet, she hoped her father would elaborate.

He gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I want him on the payroll … for security.’

She frowned. ‘Security? You don’t need that, do you?’

‘No, I don’t, but when you take over, Zara, you will. I know he would be the one man to take a bullet for you.’

Casting a questioning look, she asked, ‘Why act like you never knew? Why let me carry on stealing secret moments with him?’

Izzy was about to answer her, but she threw her hands in the air. ‘Oh, forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s married now and I …’ She paused, the words trapped in her throat. ‘I have a business to run.’

Izzy allowed a wide crooked smile to adorn his face. ‘Yes, my child. But you will need Mike Regan, because I will not always be around. And some people have bigger grudges than others.’

* * *

Mike’s phone rang; it was a number he recognized. He stared for a few seconds before he answered and wandered away from the men.

‘Zara?’

‘Yes, Mikey, it’s me, with a message from Izzy. I hope you realize that you only have twenty-four hours, or he’ll be on the case.’ Her voice was unintentionally cold and made Mike want to laugh.

The once sweet woman was now turning into a clone of her father. Unbeknown to Mike, the cold stares and the stern tone were gaining her a reputation in the underworld – she was Izzy’s daughter all right.

‘I told Izzy to leave off, and Zara, me little princess …’ His words were sarcastic. ‘You tell him, if he interferes and the Harmans go missing before I get a chance to find out what they have fucking done with my son, I’ll rip his insides out with a rusty fucking claw hammer.’

There was silence. ‘Mikey—’

He didn’t give her a chance to get a word in. ‘Zara, acting like some cool gangster doesn’t suit your sweet arse. Leave this shit to the big boys, honey. And didn’t you just hear me? These Harmans, they have my son. So now you can understand why I ain’t afraid to wage war on whoever stands in my way. So, if you’re the go-between, then tell Izzy that.’

A sudden feeling of hurt whipped through her, followed by annoyance. How dare he have a go at her? She was only trying to calm the situation between her father and Mike, but he had just made it clear how he felt about her. Feeling hurt and belittled, she retaliated.

‘And, Mikey, having an unchartered temper doesn’t suit your sweet arse either. I’m sorry about your son, but I would take Izzy’s words seriously, if I were you.’

Mike was about to have another go when the phone went dead.

She was right: he did have a temper. And, deep down, he knew he wouldn’t be able to control it, not while he believed the Harmans had his son.

He stormed back into the lounge. ‘Right, call the men. I want them plotted outside all the homes of the Harman brothers. I want someone in the Three Palms, the Cedars Arms, and the Jolly Roger. I want all of fucking South-East London hunting down these bastards.’

Willie, having snorted a line of charlie, stepped forward, his foot tapping and his eyes wide. ‘I’ll go and show me face in the Cedars. That’s their main drinking hole. I can’t stand the fucking landlord, the sly fucker. He may have the little scrotes hidden upstairs.’

Mike could see he was fired up; he was always the same. The cocaine was a great motivator, and Willie was lethal, once he’d had a toot. He could also be a touch too reckless at times, but Mike could always be relied upon to reel him back in if required. However, right now, Mike had no intention of reeling anyone in. When needs must the devil drives, he thought. He was going to do whatever it took to get his son, and if that meant hurting people in the process, then so be it. He was blinded by his need to find Ricky and couldn’t give a shit how he did it.

‘Mikey, ’ave ya checked Jackie’s muvver’s? Maybe, she’s gone there,’ Staffie said. He could see Mike needed to focus on the positive.

The clock was ticking. He knew that the longer the Harmans had his boy, the more likely they were to kill him. But if they did have him, surely they would have sent a message by now, with some form of a deal? With his hands together and two forefingers resting on his lip, Mike broke out of his thoughts.

‘She doesn’t get on with Gilly.’ He let out a deep sigh and sat down heavily on the sofa. ‘I dunno. I can’t think straight.’

Staffie knew he had to take charge. ‘Willie, you go and round the boys up, check out the pubs, and go and visit that landlord. Call us if ya hear anything. Lou, call Eric and tell him to get his arse back ’ere.’

Mike felt sick. Every nerve at the back of his head was on end; it was like a numbing sensation he’d never experienced before. He wasn’t in control, and he knew if he didn’t get a grip soon, he would lose it.

‘Mikey, where does Gilly live?’

Mike rubbed his face in deep contemplation. ‘Just up the road, ten minutes away …’ He stood up, towering over Staffie. ‘I’ll pay her a visit. If the Harmans don’t have my boy, then it means that Jackie has just fucked off. Jesus, give me strength if she has. I’ll throttle her, the bitch.’

* * *

Driving once more like a lunatic, Mike arrived outside Gilly’s house. He stared for a while at the patchy old pebbledash walls, the overgrown lawn, and the cracked front window held together with gaffer tape. It wasn’t until he’d married Jackie that he found out where she came from. She was too embarrassed to take him to her house, always keeping up the pretence that she was from a good home. Jackie’s inferiority complex often proved to be her own undoing. With her nose in the air, she would look down on people – and take enormous pleasure in doing so.

He knocked on a door which had seen better days. A croaky voice called out, ‘Who is it? I ain’t properly dressed!’

‘Gilly, it’s me, Mikey. Open up, love.’

He heard her rattling a key in the lock and struggling to slide back two bolts, before, finally, she pulled the door ajar. Through the small crack, where he could see her beady eye, the smell hit him: the whole place reeked of dogs, fags, and piss.

‘Let me in, Gilly, please. I need a word.’

She undid the security chain and stepped aside, allowing her huge son-in-law to enter.

As he wandered from the passageway straight into the living room, she waddled in behind him, her worn-out features on a par with the equally antiquated Dralon sofa, onto which Mike slumped.

He looked her over and shook his head. Gilly was a state and a half. Her once thick hair was thin and straggly; it was held away from her wrinkled face by two hair clips. A bright-green velour tracksuit with ‘Juicy Couture’ embroidered on the back was her attempt at looking trendy. But the colour didn’t do anything for her muted complexion, and the loose material around the knees and backside made her look even thinner than she was. He wondered if she’d ever been attractive in her younger years. Stick-thin and gaunt, she looked who she was, a typical junkie. ‘What’s up, Mikey? Ya never visit …’ She noticed his white face. ‘Mikey, love?’

‘Jackie and Ricky have gone missing.’ It hurt him even to say those words. A lump idled in his throat.

‘They ain’t ’ere, Mikey … and what’s she doing? If I know my Jackie, and if she did do the off, she wouldn’t take the boy. She loves herself too much, that one. Bastard of a mother she is …’ She realized she’d just spoken out of turn. But there was no love lost: she hated her daughter. Not that she always had; in fact, she’d absolutely doted on her until the day her daughter found herself a Saturday job and started spending money on doing herself up. That was the time she turned on her mother, starting with all the bitchy comments and ending with violence.

‘Gilly, where would she go? Who are her friends?’

Gilly took a seat. Mike noticed how thin she’d become; her bony mottled red feet were like those of a chicken. He looked at her shaky hands and assumed she was back on the drugs.

‘Friends? You gotta be bleedin’ joking, ain’t ya? Don’t make me laugh. The girl only uses people. How you put up with her, I’ll never know. Ya must have the patience of a saint. It’s Ricky I feel sorry for.’

His jaw tightened; just hearing his son’s name made him feel sick with worry.

‘Look, Gilly, can’t ya think of anyone she may have gone to?’

Looking up at the ceiling, Gilly tried to think if Jackie had mentioned anyone from the past, but the reality was Jackie never spoke to her. Not about anything personal, anyway. With her, it was all just snide remarks. ‘Oh, Mikey, I wish I could help, but ya see, I can’t. Jackie, she’s such a sly one. She’s too many secrets, that girl.’

Mike jolted. ‘Like what?’

Gilly was still a little stoned. She realized she’d just said far too much. She knew a lot about Mike. He could be like a rottweiler when it suited him. He certainly wouldn’t rest until she told him.

‘Well?’

Gilly felt uncomfortable. She rubbed the front of her thighs with her arthritis-crippled fingers. Mike suddenly noticed that the room still had the threadbare carpets, the peeling 1970’s wallpaper, and the former cream-coloured suite – now a dirty grey – that he’d seen on his last visit a year ago. A frown etched its way across his forehead.

She watched him scan the room. Then, without a word, he jumped up from his seat and headed towards the hallway and directly into the kitchen.

He glared with scornful eyes at the original council kitchen, made of cheap melamine, that over the years had bubbled and split. The worktops had no edging on them and were sharp at the corners, to say the least. The linoleum tiles were an odd assortment and partly missing. He then focused on the dripping tap and the build-up of limescale on the sink. Everything in the room was old and rotten. The space in the corner, where the dog bed had once been, had a dirty brown stain on the walls.

He spun around to face Gilly and realized that he hadn’t noticed until now how she was holding herself up with a walking stick. His worn, worried face was all too much for Gilly. ‘What is it Mikey?’ she asked, her voice soft and now very much concerned. She hoped the look on his face was because he was worried about her. But she got that wrong.

‘You fucking scag head! All the money I gave you to have this shit-hole done up, so when my Ricky comes to visit he wouldn’t scratch his face on this disgusting worktop, or crawl around in the filth. I bet you just snorted the fucking lot.’ He expected Gilly to look suitably contrite. Instead, and to his utter amazement, he was met with a look of sheer horror – and disbelief – on her face.

‘What money?’

‘The fucking money Jackie took off me, to get this house cleaned up.’

Now it was Gilly’s turn to frown. ‘I saw no money, Mikey. As Gawd is my witness, I ain’t ’ad a penny off neither of youse.’

Mike detected a slight gypsy tongue. ‘You’re a fucking liar! I bet you spent every tenner on drugs, didn’t ya?’

Gilly felt her limbs trembling; she needed to sit down. Slowly, she trudged over to the small rickety table where she sat uncomfortably. Taking a few deep breaths, she looked him squarely in the eyes as she replied, ‘I ain’t taken drugs in over ten bleedin’ years. I only smoke the smallest amount of weed for me pain. And I’ve never touched it when I’ve been babysitting little Ricky, love his heart. As for money, don’t you think if I’d had any, I’d have tried to make me poxy, flea-ridden home ’alf decent?’

Mike sighed. This evening was getting worse by the minute. ‘So, you mean to tell me that Jackie never gave you a penny for a new kitchen, a sofa, even carpets, and, let me think, a swing set for the garden?’

‘Swing set? Are you ’aving a laugh, Mikey? No, she never gave me fuck all.’ Gilly looked around and felt embarrassed by the state of the place. ‘Mikey, look, I never was this untidy. I do try me best, but I can ’ardly move me fingers, and the quack reckons I need two new knees. I know it looks terrible, but I do try to take Ricky to the park when I babysit every week … Mikey, you will still let me see him, won’t ya? I mean, I love that baby, I do. He’s all I’ve got to look forward to.’

Mike closed his eyes and took a gulp of air, trying to clear his mind. ‘What d’ya mean by “every week”? I thought it was once a month you babysat?’ He looked at her now with some compassion, and his voice softened. He might have known Jackie would have kept the money. She was all about the bees and honey. He knew she would take far more than she needed, and what she spent it on, he didn’t bother to ask – it would only end in another row.

Gilly sensed his calmer tone and looked up. ‘Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other Saturday, when Jackie gets her hair and nails and stuff done. She brings him to me after school or drops him off on a Saturday morning. I thought you knew? I mean, I’d never hurt little Ricky. I try me best to play games and read with him if it’s raining. I don’t cook in that kitchen. I always buy in little ready-made meals and cakes, so you don’t have ta worry.’

Mike was trying to keep his breathing shallow, but his huge chest was puffing in and out, raising his whole torso by a good five inches.

‘Sorry, Gilly. Of course I know you babysit Ricky, but let me get this clear. Jackie drops him off to you every other Saturday for the day and also on a Tuesday and Thursday after school for a couple of hours? And she never paid or organized for your house to be done up? Is that right, Gilly?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, and I don’t take drugs, apart from a small puff on a joint afore I goes ta bed. It’s just for me pain, like.’

With flared nostrils, Mike chewed the inside of his lip. ‘Where does she really go? ’Cos you women know if someone’s just had their hair and nails done. I’m guessing she’s been pulling a fucking fast one.’

Gilly had nothing to lose; she had to be honest. ‘Nah, Mikey, I don’t think she’s getting her hair done. See, that’s what I mean. That gal ’as bleeding secrets. I dunno why, though. She has what we all want – a nice home, food on the table, and holidays abroad. I would’ve given my right arm ta ’ave that. Still …’

Mike once again noticed a twang in her accent. He’d never noticed it before. ‘I thought you’d have preferred a caravan anyway, Gilly?’

She looked sharply up at him, wondering if he was being spiteful. ‘No point in keeping up a pretence, living a lie, is there? Yeah, I’m a traveller. So’s my Jackie, if the truth be told. But, fair enough, she wanted to ditch that life, and, sadly, she wanted me to pretend I was a gorger. She made me swear down that I never told you that truth. With her new look and her money, the selfish cow wanted me to keep quiet and not let on. I did say to her that you would love her either way, if ya really loved her. But she was incensed. She swore, if I ever told ya, it would be the last time I’d see little Ricky, and I couldn’t bear that. Ya won’t stop me though, Mikey, will ya? Little Ricky-boy loves me, I knows he does. I wouldn’t bring him up in the gypsy way, I swear.’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, ’course not, Gilly. You’re his granny, gypsy or not. You love him, and yeah, he does love ya. In fact, he loves the bones of ya. Do you have any idea where she would have been going on these Saturdays, or any other time?’

Now feeling more comfortable in Mike’s company, she at last let her tongue talk freely. ‘She’s a go-getter, Mikey, always ’as been, like, since a teenager. She has no morals, not like a woman should ’ave, if ya know what I mean?’

‘A tart?’

She pursed her thin lips together. ‘Yeah, Mikey, a real slapper. Sorry to say it, mate, and her being my gal an’ all, but, well, she is what she is. There ain’t no changing her.’

Mike pondered for a moment. ‘Gilly, I told Jackie to take Ricky on the next plane to our villa in Spain. I’ve got a bit of business to attend to, and I wanted them away, so no harm could come to them, and she knew that. D’ya think she would have ignored me, even knowing how serious it was?’

Gilly scratched her forehead and shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t think so, Mikey, ’cos she’d do anything to save her own skin. Yeah, I believe she would’ve gone to Spain.’

She could see Mike visibly shrink, his great big lintel-like shoulders now slumped.

‘She never went to Spain.’

Gilly put her hands to her mouth. ‘Jesus, this business. It wouldn’t lead to our little Ricky getting hurt, now, would it?’

Mike looked at the worry that suddenly cast a pall on Gilly’s face. Her eyes were alive with fear.

‘No, Gilly, ’course not.’ He didn’t really believe his own words, despite trying to put her mind at rest.

He took one more look around the tired kitchen. ‘It’s late, Gilly, so I’ll be off. Call me, if you can think of anywhere she may have gone, just in case she decided to find a place of her own instead of jumping on a plane to Spain.’

She struggled to stand up. For the first time, Mike had a very clear picture of his mother-in-law and not the crap that Jackie had been telling him. ‘Are you really in a lotta pain, Gilly?’

She gave a sad smile, showing her missing tooth. ‘Yeah, but old age gets to us all.’

The sad thing about it all was that Gilly wasn’t old at all. She was a woman in her early fifties who could have passed for seventy.

‘Once all this business is sorted out, I’ll come back and organize a bit of help. I’ll get you a new kitchen and freshen this place up. I’ll pay for a cleaner as well. I can’t have Ricky’s granny living like this.’

Her bony fingers clutched his arm. ‘You’re a good lad, Mikey. Ya muvver must be proud. It’s just a shame I can’t say the same about Jackie. But for me little grandson, I can, and I will. He’s a chip off the ol’ block, a mini you, if ya don’t mind me saying.’

He quickly pecked her on the cheek and was gone.

Chapter 6

Jackie woke up feeling groggy. A bottle of vodka and a line of charlie had kept her up until the small hours. Now she lay with the sun streaming in through the window of the tidy little house close to Ely, Cambridgeshire. She didn’t move her banging head but looked up at the small ceiling chandelier and smiled. As her hands slid across the warm empty space beside her, the smell of bacon tantalizing her taste buds, she closed her eyes. This was it: a new life. It was a future plan, but, considering the circumstances, it was now or never.

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