The Life (35 page)

A young woman in thigh-high boots and tiny hot pants brought them through a bottle of champagne and, slipping the girl a tenner, he opened the bottle theatrically. When they each had a glass in their hands, he said gaily, ‘You’re looking very well yourself, Stephanie. How’s it going here? I hear the money’s good.’

She smiled. ‘It’s all right, but I preferred it when I worked for you. The management here are only interested in the earn, they
don’t really look out for us. Most girls here depend on the private dances, but they also take a percentage of your earn, so it’s not as lucrative as it should be. I’m surprised to see you, to be honest. You couldn’t wait to get shot of me not too long ago.’

Danny and Davey could hear the hurt in her voice, and Danny felt inexplicably bad for her. She was a nice girl as lap dancers went. She had a good sense of humour, and without her kit on she was a fucking young lad’s wet dream. She was naturally stacked, but she had the face of a virgin – a lethal combination in the lap-dancing world. Most of the girls looked just what they were; the Stephanies were few and far between.

‘That was why I wanted to see you. I need you to tell me something, and I want the truth, right? I promise I won’t get annoyed, unless you lie to me.’

She nodded; he could see she was genuinely puzzled, but also frightened. ‘Why would I lie to you, Danny?’ Her voice was quivering with nerves.

‘Did you slip me a roofie, or a couple of Es that last night you saw me, without me knowing?’

He was smiling as he spoke to her, but Stephanie could hear the underlying seriousness in his tone, and she was terrified. What was he accusing her of exactly? He was definitely accusing her of something, she knew that much. She could feel Davey’s eyes boring into her too, and she felt hot and clammy.

‘I ain’t going to do anything to you, Steph, I swear, but if you gave me something for a laugh, then tell me. I just need to know.’

She was shaking her head in denial. ‘I wouldn’t do that, Danny, and I certainly wouldn’t do it to you!’

He could hear the truth in her voice, and he was sorry for scaring her. ‘Listen, Steph, I was with you, we were having a
laugh, and then I was fucked – completely fucked. I wasn’t on anything, and I didn’t drink that much. So someone must have given me a livener. It stands to reason, don’t it?’

She swallowed noisily. Her pleasure at seeing him was gone now, she just wanted to get away. Karim had been especially nasty after that night and suddenly it all made sense. ‘Well, it wasn’t me, Danny. I wouldn’t dare do that to you! Anyway, I just thought you was on it, you and Petey. You were well out of it, don’t you remember? You couldn’t hardly stand, and you kept asking me my name! I was a bit miffed, to be honest. I’d never seen you like that before. But I take oath, Danny, I never gave you nothing. I wouldn’t – I would be too scared. I admit I’ve roofied a few of the punters, but only enough to keep them in line – you know what the city boys can be like. But never would I do it to anyone like you, Danny. I ain’t stupid.’

Davey believed she was telling the truth, and he gulped his glass of champagne quickly. He saw Danny staring into the girl’s white face, as convinced as he was about her innocence.

‘Look, Danny, I told you, I have laced a few punters, I admit that, it makes them easier to handle, and they tend to be a bit more open-handed, you know? But I would never do that to you, I wouldn’t have the front.’

She was nearly in tears now, and Danny felt bad for her. She was only confirming what he had already sussed out. ‘All right, mate, calm down! I believe you.’ He took out a clean white handkerchief and wiped her eyes carefully; her make-up was a work of art like all the girls who worked the clubs, and he didn’t want to ruin it for her – he had ruined her night enough as it was. ‘Now drink up, darling, and I’ll take you out for a meal, eh?’

She sniffed loudly, and nodded her acquiescence. There was something about him that attracted her, even now when he had
scared the shit out of her. She knew she would end up in bed with him before the night was over. She drank her champagne, feeling that somehow she had dodged a bullet. Why did this man have such a hold over her? Because, as nice as he was, she knew he would take her out without so much as a backward glance should the situation warrant it.

Michael O’Toole could scarcely believe his luck. The Bailey family had welcomed him into the business with open arms and, the best part was, he had no responsibility; all that was expected of him was to relay whatever the Baileys told him to his new workforce. It was as easy as having a shit after a hot curry – there was no real effort involved whatsoever, and he was in receipt of over five grand a week.

Now he was convinced that his daughter had done him a favour by getting her claws into Petey Bailey. She’d just better make sure she kept them there. Michael was well aware that Petey’s main attraction to Bernadette was that she looked extremely fuckable, but was still intact. He understood Petey’s reasoning; in the Life there were far too many females who were willing to drop their kecks for a Face. It was half the fun really.

Michael had been against the drugs trade, seeing it as a fucking mug’s game, but now he couldn’t fault it. For the first time in his life, he was on a serious earn, and being treated with the respect he had always craved. That was the real clincher for him. He understood that he was no more than a front for the operation, and that suited him; he had no real idea what the economics of the situation actually entailed, nor did he want to know.

The only bugbear was the Allens;
they
were not so happy about the reversals in fortunes. He was aware that there might
be a retaliation of sorts, if not now then in the future. They were not men to swallow a blatant piss-take, and that was exactly what this was.

The Baileys were untouchable; the Allens might feel the urge to punish them, but they would not have the guts.
He
was a different story – an easier target. Because of that he was keeping an eye on them; if his incarcerations had taught him nothing else they had taught him the value of knowing your enemy. You couldn’t survive for any length of time in top-security jails without learning a little bit about guerrilla warfare, and how to keep yourself safe in the most extreme of violent environments.

He only felt secure in his new position because he was watching them
all
, and none of them gave him credit for having the brains to do that. Another lesson that prison taught you was to never trust anybody. Such was the downside of the Life; too many people vying for the top and no one willing to step away without a fight. It was the way of the world – their world anyway.

As he lit himself an expensive cigar, Michael was feeling very satisfied; he had all the angles covered. But he would not let himself relax too much; after all, his daughter still had to walk that fucker up the aisle and, until she had pulled that off, his position was precarious to say the least.

‘I want to make sure we know what the fuck is going on around us, and I also want to make sure that we are not paying you for a fucking laugh.’

Daniel Bailey was furious, and Detective Inspector Harry Smith was more than aware of that fact. As usual, Peter Bailey was quiet; he was always willing to let his brother do the dirty work, so no change there. In over twenty years of dealing with the Baileys, Harry Smith had never once felt that he was anything other than the paid help. It rankled, there was no doubt about that, but he knew there was nothing he could do about any of it now. Even the sons of these men were the same – ignorant fucks the lot of them. But they were criminals, so what else could he expect?

Inspector Smith sighed heavily, aware that he was expected to make some kind of protest, and more than willing to do just that. He knew
exactly
how to play the game.

‘Listen, Daniel, if I heard anything on the street, you know that you would be the first to know. From what I can see, no one is saying anything detrimental about any of you. Even the paid narks – who I make sure you know about – haven’t said a fucking dicky bird. The Allens are not showing their hand. I can assure you that, if and when they do, you will be the first to hear about it.’

Daniel Bailey was still not satisfied. ‘You get a decent collar from us and, lately, you have given us fuck-all of any real interest.’

Smith smiled. ‘If there’s nothing to tell . . .’

Peter Bailey hated this man with a vengeance, as did his brother. Smith was first and foremost a Filth – never a good thing in their world – but, even worse than that, he had never understood that his willingness to sell out his own was the reason they would not, and could not, ever trust him. They paid him, they tolerated him, but that was as far as it went. To them, he was worse than scum.

He had his uses, and that was why they had cultivated him for so long; he was a part of their world now whether they liked it or not. He was a celebrated Filth, he had his so-called creds, and a penchant for women and money. Both weaknesses had been the reasons they’d recruited him in the first place. He sold out anyone within his orbit for a price, a heavy price admittedly, and he still believed he was one step above them. The man was a cunt, as Daniel Bailey said on a daily basis, and a treacherous cunt at that.

‘The Allen brothers are keeping a low profile; they have done nothing that would warrant a mention from me. All I can tell you is that I made sure your Northern counterparts were left alone. I have a colleague who is now up in Manchester, and he is more than willing to come onboard.’

Peter and Daniel exchanged a look, and Smith knew that he was skating on very thin ice.

Peter Bailey was sitting behind his desk, and Smith could see the deep-seated resentment in his eyes as he said loudly, ‘Would this be a certain DI Brown by any chance?’

Smith was not surprised about the Baileys’ intimate knowledge of the police departments around the country; he knew
better than anyone that they had ears everywhere. He wasn’t the only person they had bought off over the years – they had all sorts on their payroll, from High Court judges, to court-appointed psychiatrists. They recruited from every walk of life – it was why they were still on the outside and also such formidable opponents.

‘Well, it seems you are ahead of me. Why am I not surprised?’

Daniel Bailey fought the urge to smack Harry Smith around the room, and instead he grinned nastily. ‘Well, to be honest, Harry, he had the sense to tell us about your approach within hours of it occurring. Seems he doesn’t fucking trust you either.’

It was a warning, a veiled threat, and Smith was well aware of that. He was also annoyed; despite all the cash he liberally weighed out to his brethren, no one had ever seen fit to tell him that Brown was already on the take. It was a real eye-opener; it just showed him, once again, that the Baileys were one step ahead. He was due to retire in the next eighteen months, which was bothering him. He was too used to the extra cash the Baileys provided – he had seen himself recruiting a few key personnel so he could still be of use to them, still collect his extra bunce, and enjoy his little perks.

Now, though, he wasn’t so sure about that. At the moment he had the protection of the Metropolitan Police; the Baileys had believed that to take him out would do them no good; he was, after all, a senior officer. But it seemed that he might actually be wrong about that – they were already making plans that didn’t include him. He needed to bring them something solid, something important, to prove his worth to them before he finally bowed out. He needed that last big pay-off; he was depending on it. His pension was not enough for a fucking fortnight’s holiday in Benidorm, let alone enough to keep him
and his wife in the manner that, thanks to the Baileys, they had become very accustomed to.

Smith had worked out very early in his career that crime, for a small percentage of the population, really did pay. There were certain people who understood the importance of having the enemy close by, even if you couldn’t control them. With people like the Baileys, who appreciated the significance of having people like him close, and who made sure that their enterprises didn’t impinge on the general public too much, you could at least ensure a degree of safety, know that there would be no civilians caught up in unnecessary violence. That would not be the case, however, if the streets were left to the mercy of anyone who had a shotgun and big ideas. Like the Krays and the Richardsons before them, the Baileys actually policed their own manors; they made sure that nothing untoward went on without their express permission and that everything was within their boundaries and guidelines. In a way, they were as necessary for public safety as the Home Guard in wartime. Families like the Baileys actually made the streets safer for the average person – not that anyone would ever admit that, of course. Without the big crime families taking that control, the pavements would be overrun with wannabes and loose cannons, would be at the mercy of every little crew who felt the urge to go out on the rob; it would be anarchy. The Old Bill all knew that, from very early on in their careers. They hated it but the bottom line was, better the devil you know.

Smith looked at the two men he had been dealing with for over twenty years, and he smiled genially. ‘I have my ear to the ground and, be fair, have I ever let you down?’

Daniel Bailey snorted in derision. ‘There’s always a fucking first time,
Harry
.’

Petey Bailey was sitting at a secluded table in the garden of one of his favourite pubs in Hainault. It had a nice outlook, the garden was very well landscaped and, best of all, there was a little clique of young birds in his eyeline. One of them was already giving him the glad eye, and he was more than happy to return the favour. He knew that his dark good looks, coupled with his expensive apparel, were a real pull for a lot of women. He had the brooding appearance of a young Bob Marley, or so he had been told anyway – not that he really gave a fuck. His old nana said he resembled his granddad more than the others. The way she told it, his granddad was a mixture of Kunta Kinte from
Roots
, and Sammy Davis Jr. A mixed bag admittedly, but as long as it attracted the birds, he was happy.