Revenge (6 page)

Chapter Six

‘It’s got to be something you ate, Michael.’

Josephine was genuinely concerned, and Michael hated that he had to lie to her. But ever since he had agreed to take out Terry Gold, he had been throwing up.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right, love.’

Josephine placed a cold flannel on his forehead. It felt good, there was no doubt about that.

‘I’ll get you a cup of weak tea. You lie back and rest.’

He nodded, but as he looked around her bedroom, he fought down the urge to vomit all over again. It was such a girly room with its pink paintwork and flowery wallpaper. Her kidney-shaped dressing table was painted white, and she had made pink satin curtains for it which hung in regimented pleats around the outside.

She had actually done a really good job, but he hated it and the frills and the frippery that she lived with. She loved clutter – that was just one of her little foibles. He wasn’t used to it. His mother was not a feminine woman in that respect – his home had always been clean, unadorned and, in some ways, quite masculine. It had never occurred to him before but, whereas Josephine and her mum could spend hours deciding on a colour scheme or choosing a particular material, his mother had never really bothered herself with anything like that. He thought it might be something to do with the lean years they’d endured when Des was put away. They’d had so little for so long now they seemed never happier than when they were buying new bits and pieces. But it was all a bit much for him.

As much as he hated Josephine’s bedroom in its girly glory, another part of him loved that she cared so deeply about such things. Her femininity was something that she gloried in and was one of the things that had attracted him to her. Josephine was a man’s woman. A natural carer, she wanted nothing more from her life than to be his wife, rear his children, and look after the home he would provide for them.

He closed his eyes tightly, determined not to think about Patrick Costello’s request. It was one thing to kill without realising it – another entirely when you
knew
what you were doing.

He heard Josephine come back into the bedroom. Opening his eyes he looked into her beautiful face, and he knew then and there that if he wanted to provide any kind of a decent life for her and his children, he had to man up and follow the path he had been offered. The path he had chosen.

‘Go and see the priest, Josephine, set a date for the wedding.’

Josephine’s eyes were stretched to their utmost; he could see the joy that was such a huge part of her personality radiating from them. Josephine could find the joy in anything, she could find the good in any situation. She was a girl who always expected the best out of everything and everyone, and he wanted to make sure that was exactly what she would always get.

‘Oh, Michael, are you sure? What about your mum? You know she thinks we should wait.’

Michael laughed. ‘Oh, sod my mum. We know what we want, darling. Sort it for next year. Big as you like, where you like and no expense spared.’

Josephine sat on the bed beside him and, smiling happily, she sipped at the mug of tea that had been meant for him. This wedding was what she had been longing for, and now it was finally happening.

Michael adored her and, as he listened to her chattering on about the dress of her dreams and the cake she had always wanted, he was content. He had burnt his bridges, the decision was made, and he felt much lighter in himself.

Chapter Seven

Ever since Michael Flynn had been given royal status by Patrick and Declan Costello, Terry Gold had been feeling nervous. It was just a matter of time until his nephew’s skulduggery would finally come to light.

The Costellos were men of the world – they knew that an element of skimming was inevitable, that any cash business was open to a bit of creative accounting. It was what made their world go round. But Jimmy had been stronging it. Terry had told him time and again that while a few quid was deemed acceptable, a serious rob would only be frowned upon by the powers-that-be. Jimmy, though, was not a person who took kindly to any kind of criticism; he saw himself as
entitled
to everything. It was his buzz word.

Terry had his own creds where the firm was concerned: he had always been a good earner, always played it straight, more or less. He was a hard man in his own right, and his uncle’s reputation was something Jimmy had played on. And Terry had let him get away with murder, because he was family. He had never envisioned that Jimmy’s gofer would suddenly become the man of the moment. No one could have seen that one coming – not even Doris Stokes – and, according to his old woman,
she
knew everything.

He had been a fool, he could see that now. He had let Jimmy go too far and had even defended him. Until Jimmy had come onboard, though, Terry had never once had his credibility questioned. Not that anyone had actually accused him of anything yet, but he knew that Jimmy’s reputation was a reflection on him. He had brought Jimmy into the fold, and he had failed to keep the boy under control. No one had really given a toss, until that ponce Flynn had been brought in as a worker. Jimmy had loathed everything about him on sight, from the lad’s good looks to his quiet demeanour, and Michael’s rep as a fighter – a fighter to be feared – had not endeared him to Jimmy either.

In fairness, Michael Flynn had never retaliated even though Jimmy had treated him like dirt, but Michael’s quiet acceptance of Jimmy’s bad behaviour had only made matters worse. It was an insult in itself, as if Jimmy was beneath his notice. Then, as Jimmy upset more and more people, he wouldn’t take onboard the fact that, in their world, you had to know your own limits.

Eventually the Costellos would be forced to do something about Jimmy. They would have heard whispers already, especially Patrick – he had eyes and ears everywhere. Patrick Costello was the brains of the outfit. Declan had his own creds and was respected and feared by the people who worked for him, but Patrick was in a different league. There was plenty of talk about him and his private band of workers, but no one had any real information. It was all supposition and rumour, but the fact that he had now taken Flynn under his wing meant he had watched him for a good while.

Still, it wasn’t Flynn who he should be nervous of – it was Jimmy. Since Michael Flynn had been catapulted into the big leagues, it was eating at Jimmy like a cancer.

Terry Gold sighed heavily. He could hear his wife chatting away to his sister in the kitchen. He loved his sister dearly, although he wondered how the fuck she had given birth to a no-mark like Jimmy.

As he made his way to the kitchen, he caught the aroma of roast chicken, and he felt a little bit better. He loved his food and, if he had to confront Jimmy, he would be much happier doing it on a full stomach.

Linda Gold smiled at her husband as she busied herself with making the dinner. She was concerned about Terry though. He looked very worried lately, and that wasn’t like him at all. She opened the oven and, as she lifted the chicken out, ready to baste it once more, she said quickly, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, Terry. Declan phoned. I said you’d call him back.’

Chapter Eight

Jimmy Moore was angry, and he wasn’t a man who could hide his emotions. All this questioning of his business practices was getting on his nerves. As far as Jimmy was concerned, he did what the job required, and that was that. He might skim a little on the side, but that was just a perk of the job. At the end of the day, he still managed to deliver a decent wedge every week.

He poured himself a large glass of vodka. It had no real taste or smell, but it did the job required, and that was enough for him. He glanced around his office. It was a real shithole, but why would he care about that? It was no more than a base for him to work out of. His uncle Terry was always on at him to clear it up, make sure that there wasn’t anything that could be seen as incriminating evidence hanging around. As if the Filth were ever going to come near here!

His uncle Terry was turning into a right tart lately. He couldn’t see that it was the 1970s, not the fifties any more. He couldn’t see that the world was changing on a daily basis. He had been Jimmy’s role model all his life, but now Jimmy hated that the man he had tried so hard to emulate was, in reality, no more than a fucking dinosaur.
He
was young, he could see where the world was heading. From the punks to the skinheads, the message was as clear as a fucking bell: you had to look out for number one. There was no other choice.

He lit a cigarette, and pulled on it slowly, savouring the taste of the tobacco. He had a bit of coke in his wallet, and he was sorely tempted to have a quick toot. But his uncle would suss him out and they would end up arguing again.

Jimmy glanced at his watch; his uncle was late. It was after ten, and he had been the one to insist that Jimmy be there by nine-thirty at the latest. He sighed.

Hearing the outer door open, he downed his vodka quickly. It was strange, though – he had not heard a car pull up or seen any headlights. Normally his uncle parked right outside, it was impossible to miss him. The silly old fucker had probably parked up the road. He was paranoid lately, seeing skulduggery around every corner.

The office door opened, and Jimmy was startled to see Declan Costello’s minder, Danny Briggs. Danny was a large man of West Indian origin, with dreadlocked hair, and a body-builder’s physique. He was carrying a large machete and, as Jimmy registered the significance of that, he was too stunned to even try and defend himself.

Chapter Nine

‘It’s awful, isn’t it, Mum?’ Josephine was as shocked as everyone else about Jimmy Moore’s death.

Lana Callahan sighed. ‘Well, he was a fucker, Josephine. I hate to say it because his mum’s lovely. But, be honest, he was a lairy little fucker.’

Josephine didn’t answer; she was still shocked by the brutality of the murder. The local news had reported that he had received over twenty blows from a machete, and that the police were encouraging anyone who had been in the vicinity between nine and eleven p.m. the previous evening to contact them with any information.

Josephine’s father had remarked at the end of the news bulletin, ‘Well, that says it all, girls. The plod have more chance of arresting Bill and Ben for smoking Little Weed than catching the fucker responsible.’

‘His poor mum, though.’

Lana lit a cigarette and, pulling on it gently, she inhaled the smoke. As she blew it out, she said honestly, ‘It’s a tragedy, all right. But he upset a lot of people with his bad attitude. Look at how he treated your Michael. He’s a saint, that boy. Let’s face it, Michael can have a row if needs be – and how he kept his hands off that little fucker God only knows. But that’s the point, really, isn’t it? Unlike Michael, Jimmy didn’t have a sense of place, didn’t have the savvy to know when to back off, he didn’t have the brain capacity to realise that the only thing he had in his favour was his uncle. Michael swallowed his knob because he had enough sense to know that, until he earned his own creds, he had to take whatever Jimmy dished out.’

Josephine was staring at her mum now; the turn that the conversation had taken was scaring her. She didn’t like Michael’s name being used like that. She was frightened that Michael might be a suspect.

‘Michael was with us, Mum, you know that as well as I do.’

Lana shook her head slowly in disbelief; sometimes her Josephine really was as thick as shit.

‘No one’s saying that, love. If you listened to me, you’d know that all I was trying to say is that your Michael has self-control. That is very important in his line of work. I think that his ability to keep his emotions in check is why Patrick Costello took him on. The Jimmy Moores of this world never really prosper, Josephine, whereas the people like your Michael are a rarity. They are reliable, dependable, see?’

Josephine smiled then, her relief almost tangible. ‘I see what you mean now. For a minute there I actually thought you were going to say that Michael might have been in the frame.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Josephine, have a day off, will you!’ Lana looked at her lovely daughter – she was a real beauty. But the girl’s propensity for worrying about nothing bothered her mother. Josephine had never really come to terms with her father’s sudden – albeit temporary – disappearance from their life. Though they had visited Des regularly, Josephine had never been comfortable in the prison environment. She had hated visiting him in Parkhurst and, even when Des had been sent to the open prison on the Isle of Sheppey prior to his release, she had still found it difficult to cope with her father’s predicament. Even worse was remembering how rough life had been without him. Oh, they’d managed to keep a roof over their heads, but times had been tight and Lana had had to budget down to the last penny. Now, luckily, their businesses provided the Callahans with guaranteed financial security, but Lana knew Josephine had never forgotten that time. She’d never take the relative luxury they lived in these days for granted.

Now she had fallen head over heels for Michael Flynn. And, if Lana knew anything, young Michael was going to rise up to the highest echelons of the Costello firm. Her daughter needed to understand that, when you tied yourself to men like Des and Michael, you had to accept the possibility that they might be put away, and Josephine could find herself exactly where Lana had been all those years ago.

It was an occupational hazard for them, but it was hard on the woman left behind, alone with kids and an empty bed. You had to learn to deal with it, and that was basically that. Perhaps it was time she opened her daughter’s eyes to the world she had chosen.

Chapter Ten

Michael was tired, and he had to stifle another yawn. It was late; the weather had turned over the last few days, and the night air was heavy with icy fog. It was bitterly cold for early October, and the Indian summer they’d been enjoying had disappeared overnight. The weather report had even said there was snow in Scotland – the best fucking place for it as far as he was concerned. He hated the cold, always had. The long nights depressed him – even as a kid he had dreaded the clocks going back an hour. You got up while it was dark, and it seemed wrong somehow. Days shouldn’t begin like that, days should begin with light and sunshine. Even a weak winter sun was preferable to no sun at all.

But tonight the fog would serve a purpose. He looked around him – all he could see were the dark shapes of the trees, and the muddy track he had driven over an hour earlier.

He had thought he would be nervous, frightened, but now he’d set things in motion he had no real feelings either way. This was something that had to be done, and he had no option other than to get it over with, and get on with his life. He had already killed – a whole fucking family – even though he had not known what he was doing at the time. But he had learnt how to deal with it. Once you accepted something it was so much easier to live with – no matter how bad it might be. He had planned every step meticulously this time and, so far, it had all fallen into place. He hoped that everything else would be as easy.

He was not a fool, and he had made sure that he had every contingency in place. He had pondered this for hours on end, planned every detail, trying to work out as many different scenarios as possible. He was convinced that he was covered, no matter what might happen.

He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, pleased at how calm he appeared. If the police should happen upon him, and ask why he was sitting alone in a car in the middle of nowhere, he had a perfect alibi ready. He had blankets, a flask of soup, and a pair of binoculars. He was a twitcher he’d claim; tell them he often slept in his car so he could get up at the crack of dawn and pursue his hobby. He even had a notebook prepared to show them, if necessary, filled with times, dates, places and what species of bird he had seen. It was probably a step too far, but he had been determined to make sure he had covered every angle. Now he just wanted to get it over with. He was bored, cold, and dying for a decent drink.

As he arched his back to loosen his muscles, and allowed himself a large, noisy yawn, he saw the glare of headlights as a car crawled slowly up the dirt road ahead of him. He relaxed back into his seat, took a long breath, and held it deep inside, until the car pulled up beside his, then he exhaled slowly.

This was it.

He got out of his car quickly, and the cold night air was enough to chase away the last vestiges of tiredness. He smiled amiably as he slipped into the passenger seat of Terry Gold’s Mk IV Cortina. Michael was pleased to see that Terry had used his usual car. That would make things much easier for him.

‘Brass monkeys out there, mate, I’m freezing.’

Terry smiled apologetically. ‘I had a bit of trouble finding this place, Michael. Not exactly the A13, is it?’

Michael smiled, and Terry Gold was impressed at how straight and white Michael’s teeth actually were.

‘You got the gear then, Terry?’

Terry Gold sighed in mock exasperation. ‘’
Course
I have. Be a bit pointless coming all the way out here if I didn’t, for fuck’s sake!’

Michael laughed. Terry Gold had to be as thick as proverbial shit. There was no way in hell he would have fallen for any of this. But greed was a great incentive to so many people. When Michael had told Terry casually that, if he could lay his hands on a couple of keys of coke, he had a buyer who was new to the game, caked up with money, and who wanted the transaction to be as private as possible, Terry Gold had nearly bitten his hand off. Terry had always had one eye on the main chance, it was second nature to him.

It didn’t matter that Terry suspected Michael had had a hand in his nephew’s murder. Jimmy’s death had been overlooked, but everyone in the know was aware that the Costellos had wanted it. Terry Gold had no choice but to swallow – what else could he do? And this was an opportunity he couldn’t turn down.

‘It’s in the boot, Michael.’

They got out of the car together, and Terry lit himself a cigarette. Michael watched as he busied himself opening the boot, pulling up the carpet where he had hidden the three keys of coke in the space where the spare wheel should have been.

Michael shook his head. How fucking predictable could you get? The first place the Filth would look if they were to search your motor was the boot.

As Terry leant into the boot to pull the heavy bundles free, Michael slipped a small lead cosh from his coat pocket. The first blow was enough to subdue Terry and knock him out. The next fifteen blows were just insurance; there was no way this ponce was ever going to recover no matter what might happen in the next couple of hours. Michael pushed the body into the boot and slammed the lid shut. Then, whistling under his breath, he got into the driving seat and started the car. He drove it deeper into the woodland until it was impossible to drive any further.

Getting out of the car, he leant in from the driver’s side and took the handbrake off. Then he used all his considerable strength to push the car, and its grisly contents, into a large, deep and extremely filthy lake. He had to wade into the freezing water and keep pushing until the car finally slipped down and disappeared out of sight into the murky depths.

Satisfied that it was gone, and that no one would know it was in there, Michael finally made his way back carefully in the darkness to his own car. His trousers and shoes were already hampering him and, opening the boot of his BMW, he quickly stripped himself. Once he had dressed in clean clothes and new boots, he got into his car, put the heater on full blast, and drove slowly back through the lanes. When he finally pulled out on to the A2, he put on his radio, and drove home at top speed, feeling good. He had achieved something.

Terry Gold’s disappearance was a nine-day wonder. His nephew’s bloody demise had been a violent lesson to anyone in the firm who harboured similar dreams of getting ahead by skimming. But the disappearance of Terry Gold, a happily married man who adored his family and always put them first, really frightened everyone who knew him.

No one was ever arrested or even suspected of having any involvement in Terry’s disappearance. On the other hand the Costellos didn’t ask around about him either. They didn’t discuss it, let alone speculate as to what might have occurred and that, in itself, spoke volumes. Not that anyone said that out loud, of course, but it didn’t stop people wondering.